MY HOME IN THE ALPS.

Ballantyne Press
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON

My Home in the Alps.

BY

MRS. MAIN,

AUTHOR OF
“THE HIGH ALPS IN WINTER; OR, MOUNTAINEERING IN SEARCH OF HEALTH,”
AND “HIGH LIFE AND TOWERS OF SILENCE.”

LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, AND COMPANY
LIMITED,
St. Dunstan’s House,
Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.C.
1892.

[All rights reserved.]

PREFACE.

In this little volume, much of the matter in which first appeared in the St. Moritz Post, or, as it is now called, the Alpine Post, I have jotted down a few things of interest to the ordinary traveller in Switzerland. To climbers, my notes will be but a thrice-told tale, and one which, doubtless, many of them could tell far better, while not a few of them have already told it elsewhere. The idea of publishing these trifling papers came to me through the necessity of replying to many questions on the subjects to which I refer; for, living as I do in Switzerland, I naturally am supposed to be more familiar with the peculiarities of the country and people than is the ordinary tourist. It thus seems to me that a small book, dealing with some of the various objects of interest usually met with during a summer’s tour in Switzerland, might find a corner in a traveller’s portmanteau, and so, asking indulgence for the errors into which I am sure I have fallen from time to time, I commend the following pages to whoever does me the honour to glance at them.

E. MAIN.

Engadiner Kulm,
  Switzerland.

CONTENTS.

MY HOME IN THE ALPS.

CHAPTER I. ON ALPINE GUIDES.

Beyond the comparatively small circle of climbers, very few travellers in Switzerland seem to have a clear idea to what class of man a good Alpine guide belongs. Many persons picture to themselves a typical guide as an individual whose garments are in as shocking a state of disrepair as are the summits of most of his native peaks; who bears visible and invisible evidence of an entire ignorance of the use of soap in combination with water; to whom Truefitt is embodied twice a year in his wife, unless perchance his youngest born is allowed as a treat to wield the shears; whose manner is boorish, whose gait is too strong a mixture of a roll and a limp to be classified even as a slouch, and whose chief aim in life is the extraction of the largest possible number of francs from his employer’s pocket in return for the smallest possible amount of work. Furthermore, these people have curious ideas as to “the whole duty of” a guide. They think that he is bound to obey, without remonstrance on his part, any orders, however unreasonable, that his employer may give him. They expect no common-sense, education, or knowledge of the world from him, so they treat him as if he were a clumsily constructed machine, capable of running in the groove of an oft-traversed track, and of nothing else.

Now, it is a pity that such ignorance should prevail on the subject, and I propose to do my humble share in dispelling some of it by pointing out the chief characteristics of a first-rate Alpine guide, and backing up my opinion by anecdotes of the behaviour of some of the masters of mountain-craft when confronted with exceptionally strong calls on their capacity.

Before going further, I should like to say something of the early training of a guide. He usually makes acquaintance with climbing when very young, his first scrambles being often undertaken in the company of the goats. In time he gains confidence, steadiness of head and foot, and a knowledge of the limit of his powers. As years go on, he is perhaps taken out chamois-shooting by his father, and in summer he obtains an occasional engagement as porter on an ascent of more or less difficulty. If he has definitely resolved to be a guide, he will do his best to get work of this sort, and it often happens that an active young porter, who has carried one’s rugs and firewood to a bivouac over-night, begs to join the expedition in the morning, “just to learn the way.” In reality, his chief object is to secure a few lines of commendation in his book, which will help him to future engagements, and will also be so much to the good when he puts forward his claim to a certificate as guide. When ascending the Jungfrau some years ago, our porter, at his urgent request, came on with us to the top, and it was interesting to notice the careful teaching which my two veteran guides, old Peter Baumann and old Peter Kaufmann, bestowed on him. It was the youth’s first mountain, and I could see that he strained every nerve to avoid a slip and to gain my good opinion, in which he certainly succeeded, for he went very well, though he was, not unnaturally, scared at the huge crevasses below the Bergli, the glacier being just then in a particularly bad state. Very different was the behaviour of another porter, chartered to carry my camera on any easy snow-ascent. He, too, had never before set foot on a mountain, and he commenced his antics at the snout of the Forno glacier, which he mounted on all-fours. Farther on he objected to the crevasses, and when we reached the arête, he was so formidable an appendage on the rope that we untied, and went up the last rocks in two parties, on two ropes, another lady, an Eton boy, and I leading, and the porter and the two guides following!

A porter, if he shows good climbing capacity, will often be taken in the height of the season, when guides are scarce, to accompany a guide and a traveller in the less difficult ascents, in order that there may be three on the rope, an important matter on snow. He will probably undertake most of the carrying, for the simple reason that the guide leads and cuts the steps, and, in descending, comes down last, in both of which cases it is well for him not to be burdened with a knapsack, but to give his full powers to his work in ascending, and in coming down to be the more secure in his responsible position of “last man.”

Occasionally the boy becomes a guide without passing through the intermediate state of a porter. Here is an account of Joseph Imboden’s experiences. I had the details from the guide himself, but the account is also to be found in the biographical notice written by Mr. G. S. Barnes in “The Pioneers of the Alps.”[1] “When I was a boy,” Imboden began, “my father wished me to take up shoemaking as a trade, and at fifteen he apprenticed me to a man in the Rhonethal. But I hated the life, and as soon as I had saved twenty francs I ran away to the Riffel, where I stayed, and spent my time in asking people to let me take them up mountains. They, however, always said to me, ‘Young man, where is your book?’ I replied that my book was at home, but they would not believe me. At last, when my twenty francs were nearly gone, I contrived to persuade a young English gentleman to allow me to take him up the Cima di Jazzi. He was pleased with the way I guided him, and the day after we went up Monte Rosa alone. He then offered to take me to Chamonix by the Col St. Théodule and the Col du Géant, and I was very glad to go; but first I told him the whole truth. I said, ‘All I have told you up to now was lies; I had never been up a mountain till I went with you; but if you will trust me now, I am sure I can satisfy you.’ He said he would, and we went to Chamonix and did some climbs there. I bought a book, and he wrote a good account of me in it. Since then I have never been in want of employment.” Such is Joseph Imboden’s early history, and his friends will admit that it is thoroughly characteristic of the since famous guide.

A porter desiring to become a guide must generally pass an examination in a variety of subjects which are not of the slightest importance to him in his future profession. The occasion is dignified by the presence of the guide-chef (or head of the Society of Guides) and other local magnates, before whom the guides-aspirants, as they are called, are put through their facings. After questions are asked in arithmetic, geography, history, &c., the examination at which I “assisted” went on to deal with mountain-craft, on which subject the porters’ ideas were even more peculiar than on other matters. One young man asserted, in perfect good faith, that if his Herr did not obey him, he should consider it his duty to beat him, while another calmly said that if he met with an obstacle on an ascent, the right course to pursue was to return home! At the conclusion of the examination, which all contrived in one way or another to shuffle through, the guide-chef made a little speech, in which he exhorted the new guides to be an honour to their profession. I made notes at the time of the more amusing questions and answers, and these I have published in a former work.[2]

Having now considered the technical conditions which, combined, form a duly qualified guide, let us see what characteristics are required to place him in the front rank of his profession.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] “The Pioneers of the Alps,” by C. D. Cunningham and Captain Abney, F.R.S., published by Messrs. Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington.

[2] “High Life and Towers of Silence,” by Mrs. Main, published by Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington.

CHAPTER II. THE CAUTION AND DETERMINATION OF GUIDES.

Amongst the qualities required in a first-class guide, I am inclined to rank caution as the chief. Many other characteristics are also necessary, such as a strong will, enabling the guide to compel those in his care to obey him; dash and courage, by which he overcomes obstacles; skill in climbing, as well as in forming an opinion of the condition of snow; ability in finding his way up or down a mountain, whether he has ever previously ascended it or not; coolness in moments of danger, promptness of action in a sudden emergency, resource in difficulties of whatever nature that may arise; strength of muscle, sound health, good temper, unselfishness, honesty, and great experience. What a catalogue! And yet I do not know one guide of the first order who does not possess something of all, and a large amount of several, of the many qualities which I have enumerated above, to say nothing of others which I have doubtless overlooked.

I should like first to tell you of some instances where guides have displayed a praiseworthy caution under strong inducement to overstep the bounds of prudence. One example, which I extract from “The Pioneers of the Alps,” that mine of information on guide-lore, is very characteristic of the great guide Melchior Anderegg. Mr. Mathews writes: “He knows when it is right to go on, and when it is the truest bravery to turn back. ‘Es geht, Melchior,’ said a fine climber once in my hearing when we came to a dangerous spot. ‘Ja,’ replied Melchior, ‘es geht, aber ich gehe nicht;’ or, in other words, ‘It goes, but I do not go.’”

Edouard Cupelin of Chamonix, a guide with whom in former years I made many ascents, has frequently shown me that he possesses his right and proper share of this brave caution. Once in winter, when within an hour of the summit of Mont Blanc, he made us turn back, considering the danger of persisting in the face of a snow-storm unjustifiable, though the difficulties were all behind us. Once, too, I had hankerings after the Schreckhorn on a windy morning in October, but my guide reminded us of what the action of the storm on the friable rocks below the Saddle was likely to be, and refused to have anything to do with the peak, which showed up every now and then in a tantalising way against a patch of blue sky.

But the caution of a good guide does not need to be proved by any collection of anecdotes. It is seen every time he prods for the hidden crevasse in crossing a snow-field. It is noticeable whenever he begs his companions (probably for the tenth time at least that day) to keep the rope taut. It is shown when he refuses to take a self-opinionated amateur up a difficult mountain in bad weather, or to allow the amateur’s friend, attired in tennis-flannels, to join the expedition at the last moment, because “’Pon my word, I must do the Matterhorn some time or another, you know!”

A guide who has not a strong will can never hope to be quite at the top of the tree in his profession. Some guides, however, are, of course, more determined than others.

I remember an amusing tale à propos of this characteristic, which a friend told me of Joseph Imboden. The incident occurred on the Breithorn, an easy though fatiguing snow-peak in the Zermatt district. One cold day, Imboden had a leaden-footed, pig-headed Englishman in tow. This sagacious gentleman, when half-way up the mountain, observed that he was tired, and intended to refresh himself by a snooze on the snow. Imboden naturally objected to the proceeding, explaining that it was extremely dangerous, and drawing vivid word-pictures of ill-starred persons who had been frozen to death. However, the traveller persisted, and finally, in reply to Imboden’s repeated refusals to allow him to carry out his wishes, exclaimed indignantly, “I pay you, and you are my servant, and I shall do as I please!” The situation had become critical. Imboden saw that the time for strong measures had arrived. He said to his Herr, “That is quite true. Now you do as you choose, and I shall do as I choose. You lie down and sleep, and as surely as you do so I shall give you a box on the ear that you won’t easily forget!” “What!” cried the irate tourist; “no! you would not dare!” “Oh, yes,” said Imboden quietly, “and a thoroughly good box on the ear too!” The Herr, in a furious temper, plodded on to the top, and made no further suggestions for repose, but the whole way down he sulked and growled and would not be coaxed into good-humour. However, after dinner at Zermatt and a chat with his friends, things began to look different, and the same evening he sought out his guide, and shaking him by the hand, thanked him warmly for his conduct.

This recalls to my mind another little scene which took place on the same mountain, the account of which I had from an eye-witness. A guide, unknown to fame, but evidently resolute and determined of spirit, was hauling a panting, expostulating German up the snow-slopes between the Col St. Théodule and the Breithorn. When my friend, who was descending, met them, the German was piteously entreating to be taken home, declaring that he was nearly dead and had seen all that he wanted to see. “Why don’t you turn back?” my friend inquired of the guide. “Herr,” said that individual, “er kann gehen, er muss gehen—er hat schon bezahlt!” (Sir, he can go, he must go—he has paid in advance!)

Here is another little tale. Once upon a time a certain well-known guide was taking a traveller up the Weisshorn. The weather was abominable. In addition, the mountain was in very bad order, covered with ice and soft snow. The ascent had been long and tiring, and during the descent the gentleman (whose first season it was), worn-out with fatigue, completely lost his nerve. At last he exclaimed, “I cannot go on, I simply cannot.” “You must,” the guide said. “Indeed, I cannot go one step farther,” the traveller replied. “Sir,” the guide continued, “if we don’t go on we shall be benighted on this ridge and be frozen to death, and that must not happen.” Still the gentleman stood still as though turned to stone. The guide saw that his words had no effect; so making himself firm, he called out to the porter, “Pull down the Herr by his feet.” The wretched Herr feebly glared at the porter, who demurred, saying, “I dare not, he will be so angry; besides, if I did, we should all slip together.” “Very well, come up here, and I will take your place. See to yourself; I will be responsible for the rest,” answered the guide, and he and the porter changed places. Now came the tug of war. Standing near the gentleman, the guide seized him by the collar of his coat and dropped him down a step. This he repeated two or three times, till the traveller, reassured by the firmness of the grasp and the decision of the act, gradually recovered his mental as well as his bodily balance, and before long he was able to help himself.

CHAPTER III. SOME MORE CHARACTERISTICS OF FIRST-RATE GUIDES.

Though it is a platitude to say that all good guides are plucky, yet some are more noted for “dash” than others. The names which at once come to the minds of most persons in connection with this characteristic would probably be those of, in the past, Michel Croz, Jean-Antoine Carrel, Johann Petrus, and a few others, and, in the present, Alexander Burgener, Emile Rey, Christian Jossi, and to mine, Martin Schocher. The three last names but one in my list are well known; that of Martin Schocher is less so. I must here make a slight digression in order to undertake a pleasant duty. In a former work, referred to before, I made some uncomplimentary remarks concerning Engadine guides.[3] Since then, however, Martin Schocher has come to the front, and has gained an amount of experience which no other Pontresina man can pretend to. Few expeditions of first-rate difficulty in the district have been made which were not led by him. On the three first occasions when the formidable ridge between Piz Scerscen and Piz Bernina was traversed, Schocher headed the party. The only time that the central west arête of Piz Palü was taken, he again led; and on the single occasion when Piz Morteratsch was climbed from the saddle between that peak and Piz Prievlusa, the party consisted of Schocher and Mr. Garwood only. Of this ascent Schocher declares that it was the hardest piece of work he ever undertook, consisting as it did of smooth rocky slabs, steeply inclined, and narrowing very often to the merest knife-edge.

During the past autumn Schocher for the first time left his native district, and went to the chief climbing centres of the Alps (the Oberland and Dauphiné excepted). The party were fortunate in their weather, and ascended the Dent Blanche, the Aiguille de la Za, and several other first-class peaks. If Schocher were to travel for another season or two, he would gain enough experience to place him on a par with some of the best men in the Oberland.

A fine rock-climber, a marvellously good and rapid step-cutter (his steps being large, well shaped, and exactly in the right place), of powerful build, and very willing and cheerful, Schocher is an ideal guide, and a credit to Pontresina. There are one or two young guides in the place who show promise, and Klucker of Sils is a host in himself; so the Engadine may fairly be congratulated on its progress in this respect during the last six or eight years.

Though Chamonix guides have deservedly acquired a reputation for their skill on ice and snow, yet, oddly enough, it is a St. Nicholas man who is said to most excel in this branch of mountain-craft. In the biography of Joseph Imboden in “The Pioneers of the Alps” Mr. Barnes writes: “His (Imboden’s) judgment as to the state of the snow is excellent, and may be implicitly relied on.” Sometimes, when climbing with this guide, I have expressed my fears of possible avalanches, and he has invariably, by a joke or one of those biting sarcasms which his soul loveth, banished my fears; for his wonderful quickness in noting exactly when and where the snow is safe, and when or where it begins to show a tendency to slip, would restore confidence to any one, however timid.

I have many times watched, with ever-increasing admiration, how a couple of first-class Chamonix guides will work their way through a perfect maze of séracs and crevasses and other obstacles incident to the wild chaos of an ice-fall. I have twice been through the séracs of Géant at night, starting at 11 P.M. from Montanvert, and accompanied by Michel Savioz, then a porter. He threaded his way round crevasses, over snow-bridges, and up and down séracs as if he was accustomed to going backwards and forwards nightly over the pass; and, on many other occasions, it has been a real delight to me to watch from the rear of the caravan the perfect confidence and ease with which these masters of their art grapple with the difficulties of a broken glacier. I was particularly struck some years ago by the skill and “dash” displayed by two of my guides, Auguste Cupelin and Alphonse Payot, in forcing a passage across the upper plateau of the Glacier de la Brenva. We had mounted in the morning to a bivouac on the moraine of the glacier, where, under a large boulder, we hit upon the remains of an old encampment, which had probably been the sleeping quarters of the three or four parties who had made or attempted different excursions from this point. We deposited our knapsacks and rugs, lit a fire with the wood which we had collected lower down, and then, after despatching a hasty meal, the two guides set out to make tracks across this formidable glacier. Our object, on the morrow, was to attempt the ascent of the Aiguille Blanche de Peuteret, but as some of the previous parties had spent hours in getting over the glacier which lay between our bivouac and the peak, my guides wisely decided to make a track over it that very afternoon, and thus, by having our way mapped out in advance, to save several hours in the morning. The reader may wonder why, in order to gain time, we did not shift our night-quarters to the other side of the glacier. This we should certainly have done if we could have found even the smallest piece of rock to take up our abode on, but snow was over everything, and therefore we had no choice but to remain on the left bank of the glacier. As I sat on a huge stone overlooking the ice, armed with a telescope, I could watch all my guides’ movements. One moment Auguste would make a rush at a great lurching sérac, the next he would have scrambled to the top, and be ready to step down the other side whilst Alphonse tightened the rope. Then I would see him clear, with a frantic spring, a yawning chasm, and turn and draw in the cord as Alphonse followed his example. Now both would disappear, soon to come into sight again, and seeming to rise out of the depths of the glacier, and Auguste would fall to work with his axe, hacking steps up a glassy wall until he conquered it. And so they worked on, ever progressing towards their goal, whilst I sat engrossed in watching such a brilliant display of ice-craft. It was dark before they returned, and I am sure my reader will sympathise when I tell him that, in spite of all this toil, we were unable to do the Aiguille (then an untrodden peak) the next day. We started about 1 A.M., traversed the glacier, and mounted the steep snow-slopes beyond; but the weather, which was slightly cloudy when we set out, grew gradually worse and worse, till at last heavily falling snow compelled us to abandon our attempt, and in terribly low spirits we retraced our steps to our bivouac, gathered together our baggage, and sulkily descended to the valley. We crossed the Col de la Seigne that afternoon, and next morning, in lovely weather, but through a sprinkling of lately fallen snow, went over the charming little snow-pass of Mont Tendu to St. Gervais, and thence by Chamonix home to Montanvert.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] In any remarks I have ever made which reflect on the Pontresina guides as a body, I need hardly say that those fine old men, the brothers Hans and Christian Grass, were quite outside my subject. They have now given up climbing; but only three years ago Christian made his hundredth ascent of Piz Bernina, which he took by the “Scharte,” reaching the Fuorcla Prievlusa by a new and extremely difficult route from Boval.

CHAPTER IV. MORE ABOUT GUIDES.

It has often been a matter for discussion whether the talent of path-finding, or, more often, of discovering a possible route when no semblance of a path exists, comes from instinct or from training. It seems to me that it usually proceeds from something of both, though especially from the latter. Those who would confine this power to instinct pure and simple, bring forward as an argument on their side the fact that hardly any amateurs possess it to a great degree, and none to the extent exhibited in a first-rate guide. But they forget that people in our own class cannot by any possibility have the early experience of Swiss peasants, many of whom are accustomed from childhood to scramble about in all sorts of difficult and perilous places, and are often taken by their fathers and neighbours for lengthened excursions on mountains and glaciers, either during hunting expeditions, or sometimes, with the kindly permission of a traveller, as porters. I remember, on one occasion, Peter Taugwalder asking me to allow his son, then aged fourteen, to go with us up the Breithorn, and most efficient did the little fellow prove himself, insisting on carrying my camera a good part of the way. Imboden’s eldest son, Roman, had at fifteen made quite a number of first-rate ascents with his father, including the passage of the Ried Pass (twice), of the Alphubel, the ascent of the Balfrinhorn, Brunegghorn, and other big peaks. When, in 1887, I took him up Piz Kesch, I noticed that his “form” had already attained to a point which few amateurs could beat. The manner in which a first-rate guide will find the way in darkness, a thick fog, or a snowstorm is really marvellous. In descending Mont Blanc in January, we were in a thick fog from the moment we turned at the top of the Mur de la Côte, and it was pitch-dark before we were fairly off the Grand Plateau. Yet on the guides went, with a cheery, confident air about them, never hesitating for a moment, and only halting twice, the first time to root out a knapsack of provisions, left on the Grand Plateau that morning, and since buried in the thickly falling snow, and the second time, at my request, to light the lanterns when, within half an hour of the Grands Mulets, I awkwardly walked into one of the crevasses across which we had to pass. Again, in coming down at the end of November from the Aiguille du Tour to the Cabane d’Orny, darkness overtook us. Before beginning the descent of the Glacier d’Orny, I suggested that our lantern should be made use of; but the guides laughed, and breaking into one of the songs of the district, trotted unhesitatingly down the ice, in and out amongst the crevasses, and at last up to the door of the hut, which was so deeply buried in snow as to be hardly distinguishable. Indeed, the little cabin is at all times hard to find, and Chamonix sometimes confidentially whispers how an ex-guide and a friend, after crossing the Col du Tour, entirely failed to discover the hut, and, after much poking about, returned over the pass to Chamonix!

Another example of path-finding which greatly struck me was during a descent in the dark of the Italian side of the Matterhorn. We had the moon a good part of the time, but often, owing to the conformation of the rocks, we were in utter darkness, and Alexander Burgener would rummage about for a bit, then seize on the commencement of one of the fixed ropes, and, with a series of his characteristic grunts and snorts, work his way down it. He never missed the right route for an instant, though the mountain was in a very bad state from the amount of ice and snow on it. One more incident before we pass on to the consideration of the next of the qualities which I have noted. Some years ago, during the month of January, I found myself with Edouard Cupelin (of Chamonix), and a couple of local guides, in the long couloir which leads from the Sella Pass towards the first peak of Piz Roseg. A discussion arose as to the best route to take, the local guides advising our bearing to the left, and Cupelin recommending keeping to the right. The latter’s opinion, as leader, of course prevailed, and though he had never been in the Engadine till the day before, we cheerfully followed him. On reaching the plateau above, it became obvious that we had saved both time and trouble by selecting this route, which, indeed, we afterwards found was the one usually taken.

Pontresina guides have gone rapidly ahead since then, and it would now be hard to beat, say, Martin Schocher as a rising guide.

Now let us travel from the Engadine to the Bernese Oberland, and I will tell you of an occurrence there which made much stir amongst the few who heard of it, but an account of which did not, as far as I know, reach the ears of the Alpine world.

Again Joseph Imboden must come to the front, and never did he more deserve applause than on this occasion.

One morning in August, two parties set out from the Eggischhorn to cross the Mönch Joch to Grindelwald. One of them consisted of an Englishman accustomed to climbing, accompanied by Imboden and a good, steady porter. The second party comprised two Englishmen and a guide and porter, all of whom were more or less lacking in the qualities so conspicuous in party the first. In descending the slopes above the Bergli Hut, the second party was leading, and the position was as follows. Just below was a deep bergschrund, or large crevasse, approached by a slope of ice, down which the guide was cutting steps. Behind him was one of the travellers, then came the other, and last on the rope, and in a desperate state of apprehension at the sight of the horrors beneath, was the porter. The other party, in which, most providentially, Imboden was first on the rope, was close behind—in fact, Imboden himself was only separated by a distance of about a couple of feet from the other party’s porter. At this particularly auspicious moment, it occurred to the gentleman on the ice-slope to stick his axe into a neighbouring patch of snow, nearly out of his reach, and to take off his spectacles for the purpose of wiping them. Hardly had he commenced this operation, than, to his horror, the guide, who was cutting below, slipped. The gentleman of the spectacles followed suit, so did his companion behind, and so, with a wild cry of “Wir sind alle verloren!” (We are all lost!) did the porter. But hardly had he lost his footing when, in calm, clear tones, came the remark from behind him, “Noch nicht!” (Not yet), and he felt himself arrested and held back. What actually occurred was this (I had it from the gentleman whom Imboden was guiding, and who, from his position behind and above him, had the best possible view of the situation). When Imboden saw the spectacle-wiping begin, he instinctively scented danger, and hooked the cutting point of his axe through the rope which was round the porter’s waist. Immediately after, if not simultaneously, the slip took place, and the whole strain of the weight of the foremost party came on Imboden. However, he was firmly placed, and held without difficulty till they recovered their footing. But for Imboden’s coolness and quickness, a very serious, and most likely a fatal accident would have occurred. Two or three days afterwards, while ascending the Eiger with Imboden, I questioned him about this incident. He took his extraordinary performance entirely as a matter of course, and declined to admit any merit in it. I fear that the two Englishmen (or rather the spectacle-man) hardly realised the escape they had. Well, it is not for a mere matter of thanks or reward that men do deeds such as this, though I can vouch for it that a few warm words of gratitude are far more valued than a mere pecuniary manifestation of the same.

A good guide is usually able to turn his hand to most things, and has generally plenty of resource in unforeseen difficulties of all kinds. In short, he is ever ready to rise to the occasion, no matter what it may show of the unexpected. Many a guide with whom I have travelled has combined the qualities of an excellent cook, a lady’s-maid (!), a courier, and a first-rate carpenter, with those of a pleasant companion and the special characteristics of his profession. In proof of the above, I may remark that a little dinner in a hut is often a meal by no means to be despised, the ingenuity displayed in cooking with next to no appliances being really wonderful. As to the packing of one’s garments, I have been more than once informed that the way in which I fold dresses leaves much to be desired, while an incident connected with this subject, which took place some years ago, is still vividly impressed on my mind. When paying my bill at a certain hotel, an item of 150 francs for a broken piano-string had aroused my indignation. In the first place, the string had been broken by the frost; secondly, 150 francs was a preposterous charge. I promptly left the hotel in disgust, and accomplished my departure in a very short space of time, thanks to my guide, who valiantly helped by packing dresses and hats, boots and shoes, with unhesitating rapidity, and, what is more, they were as wearable when they emerged from my trunk as when they went into it. I was much amused, during an ascent some years ago, to see my porter produce a needle and thread and solemnly commence to repair a rent in my climbing skirt. I cannot say that the work was very fine, but it held together as long as ever that garment lasted.

There are several incidents which I should like to mention in connection with that strength of muscle with which nature and training have supplied some guides to a very remarkable extent.

Perhaps one of the most notable instances of great strength being put forth at exactly the right instant was the following, which was described to me by Miss Lucy Walker as having happened to her brother, Mr. Horace Walker.

The latter, accompanied by Peter Anderegg, was ascending a steep wall of ice. The guide went first, cutting steps. The way was barred by a big piece of rock, apparently firmly frozen into the ice-slope. While Mr. Walker stood just below the boulder, Anderegg worked to the side round it. Beaching its upper level, he placed one foot on the great mass, which, to his horror, at once began to move. To cry out and warn his companion below would have been to expend far too much time; there was but one way of saving Mr. Walker’s life, and that he promptly took. In an instant he had stepped back on to his last foothold, and with a terrific jerk had swung Mr. Walker out of his steps and along the slope. Immediately after, the huge stone thundered down the slope, across the place occupied till a moment before by Mr. Walker. This, I think, is the most wonderful thing of the kind I ever heard of.

Another very striking instance of strength promptly put forth took place on Piz Palü, a mountain in the Bernina group, during an ascent by Mrs. Wainwright, Dr. Wainwright, and the guides Christian and Hans Grass. I extract the following from Dr. Ludwig’s capital little book, “Pontresina and its Neighbourhood.”

“In 1879 an accident happened on Piz Palü, which had a similar cause, and nearly had a similar fatal ending, with the accident on the Lyskamm two years before. The middle and the western summits are joined together by a narrow ridge; on the side of the Pers Glacier (the north) the frozen snow (firn) forms, in parts, an overhanging cornice. Mr. W. and his sister-in-law, Mrs. W., with the two veteran guides, Hans and Christian Grass, had ascended the highest summit, and were on their return; Christian Grass leading, then Mr. W., Mrs. W., and last, Hans Grass. There was a thick fog. The first three of the party stepped on to the cornice; it gave way suddenly, and all four would have been dashed down the face of the ice-wall, which there falls sheer some two thousand feet, had not Hans Grass had the presence of mind and the bodily activity and strength to spring at once to the opposite side of the ridge and plant his feet firmly in the snow. Fortunately Mr. W. had not lost his axe; he gave it to Christian Grass, who in this awful situation untied himself from the rope, and cut his way up on to the ridge, where his brother and he, joining forces, were able to bring Mr. and Mrs. W. into safety.”

What a fearful moment of suspense it must have been when Mr. W. dropped his axe to the guide below, who, if he had failed to catch it, would have lost the last chance of saving the party.

An accident very much resembling that on Piz Palü occurred on August 18, 1880, on the Ober-Gabelhorn, near Zermatt. In this case, as on the Palü, no lives were lost, thanks to the prompt action of one of the guides, Ulrich Almer. I extract the following account of the event from Ulrich’s book:—

“We attacked the mountain direct from the Trift Alp, and had scaled the steep rocks and reached the eastern arête, along which, at a distance of about twelve yards from the edge, we were proceeding, when a huge cornice fell, carrying with it the leading guide, Brantschen, and the two voyagers. Almer, who alone remained on terra firma, showed extraordinary strength and presence of mind. Instantly on hearing the crack of the cornice, he leaped a yard backwards, plunged his axe into the snow, and planting himself as firmly as possible, was thus enabled to arrest the fall of the entire party down a precipice of some 2000 feet. Joseph Brantschen, who fell farthest down the precipice, dislocated his right shoulder, and this mischance involved a long, and to him most painful descent, and the return to Zermatt took us eight hours, the injured man being obliged to stop every two or three minutes from pain and exhaustion. It should be mentioned that the mass of cornice which fell measured (as far as we can judge) about forty yards long by thirteen yards broad.

“Mr. C. E. Mathews, president, and other members of the Alpine Club, went carefully into the details of the accident, and gave their verdict that, according to all the hitherto accepted theories of cornices, we were allowing an ample margin, and that no blame attached to the leading guide, Brantschen.... There can be no doubt whatever that it is owing solely to Ulrich Almer’s strength, presence of mind, and lightning-like rapidity of action that this accident on the Gabelhorn did not terminate with the same fatal results as the Lyskamm catastrophe.

(Signed)

H. H. Majendie, A.C.
Richard L. Harrison.”

As a practical proof of their gratitude to Almer, I understand that these gentlemen gave him a cow.

CHAPTER V. FURTHER ANECDOTES OF GUIDES.

Endurance is absolutely necessary in a guide undertaking first-class ascents. It is simply astounding how much fatigue a guide will go through without any symptom of giving in. One one occasion, Alexander Burgener, having returned to Zermatt after fourteen hours’ climbing, left with me the same evening, and put in another forty-three hours’ exertion (relieved by one halt of two hours on an exposed ledge while waiting for the moon), almost “without turning a hair.” The porter, too, had participated in both ascents, and though certainly fatigued on our reaching Zermatt, was still far from prostrate.

I have known Martin Schocher go up Piz Bernina five times in one week, taking an “off day” on Piz Palü on the other two days; and amongst the long excursions which I have made with guides who, on their return, declared that they felt quite fresh, may be mentioned the Dent du Géant, twenty-three hours; Aiguille du Midi (winter), twenty hours; Col d’Argentine (winter), twenty hours; Finsteraarhorn, up and down by Agassiz-joch (following an ascent of the Schreckhorn the day before), twenty-three hours.

It is when a party encounters bad weather or is benighted in an exposed situation that the endurance of a guide is most put to the test. Some years ago a party consisting of Mr. Howard Knox and a German gentleman, with Peter Dangl of Sulden and Martin Schocher of Pontresina, were benighted on the arête of Piz Scerscen. The German was almost unconscious from cold and fatigue, and Mr. Knox, too, was worn-out from want of sleep. The guides during the entire night never ceased rubbing and attending to the German, and from time to time Schocher took Mr. Knox in his arms and allowed him three or four minutes’ sleep, which refreshed him much more than would be expected from the short time during which it was safe for him to indulge in it. At daybreak, Schocher led the party in magnificent style down an entirely new route to the Scerscen glacier, and brought them all safe and sound home to Pontresina the same afternoon. The final splendid piece of guiding of Jean-Antoine Carrel in 1890, when, after two days’ confinement by bad weather in the upper hut on the south side of the Matterhorn, he, after twenty hours’ fearful toil, got his party safely out of all their difficulties, and then laid down and died, is one of the most pathetic incidents in Alpine history.

Referring to this, Mr. Whymper wrote in the Alpine Journal, “It cannot be doubted that Carrel, enfeebled though he was, could have saved himself had he given his attention to self-preservation. He took a nobler course, and, accepting his responsibility, devoted his whole soul to the welfare of his comrades, until, utterly exhausted, he fell staggering on the snow. He was already dying; life was flickering, yet the brave spirit said, ‘It is nothing.’ They placed him in the rear to ease his work; he was no longer able even to support himself; he dropped to the ground, and in a few minutes expired.”

An extraordinary case of endurance came to my notice a short time ago, when turning over the leaves of some old numbers of the Alpine Journal. It is not connected with guides, and thus is perhaps out of place here. Still, as my object in this little work is rather to interest my readers than to aim at a careful classification of subjects, I shall quote the account for their benefit.

“The same number of the same work (i.e., the Bulletino Trimestrale, Nos. x. and xi.) relates an Alpine misadventure so extraordinary as to deserve notice, and so incredible as hardly to seem worthy of it. But it is equally out of the question to suppose that the organ of the Italian Alpine Club is itself guilty of a hoax, or that it could be hoaxed in a matter verified by the signature of three Italian gentlemen of station, by a public subscription, and by an official document. This premised, we give the following narrative, greatly condensed from the Italian.

“A party of young men, who had been employed on the Fell railway over the Mont Cenis, took their way home, about the middle of October 1866, over the Col du Collarin to the Piedmontese valley of Ala. Near the top, still on the Savoy side, one of them, named Angelo Castagneri, slipped, apparently on the edge of the bergschrund, and disappeared. His companions, instead of returning for help to the village of Averolles, little more than an hour distant, seem to have been possessed with the notion that a man down in a glacier was past help, and crossed the col to Balme, the first village where Castagneri’s parents lived. They took it coolly, for it was a week before anybody went to look for him, and then the father, descending by help of a ladder, found him lying on the wet earth beside a clot of blood, which had flowed from a wound in his head, and still alive. It took nine or ten hours to get him home, using the ladder as a litter, and many days elapsed before he was seen by a medical man.” The account goes on to say that it was nine months before he was taken to Turin and placed in a hospital there, where his legs, from which he had lost his feet from frost-bite and subsequent mortification, were healed, apparently without amputation. Castagneri says that he had no recollection of anything from the time of his fall until aroused by his father’s voice and touch. In that case he lay senseless between eight and nine days, and probably owed his life to his insensibility.

The subject of the manifold kindnesses and acts of unselfishness shown by guides, both to their employers and also to each other, is so wide a one that I can only touch on it in a most superficial manner. I well remember, some years ago, hearing of a very kind act of Melchior Anderegg’s. The party had ascended the Dent d’Heréns, and, in returning, Ulrich Almer was struck and badly hurt by a stone. It was impossible to get him down to Zermatt that night, and several hours had to be spent, while waiting for daylight, sitting on the rocks. It was extremely cold, and Melchior took off his coat and wrapped the wounded man in it, remaining all night in his shirt-sleeves.

In my work “The High Alps in Winter,” I have related how my guides, while I was asleep in the Cabane d’Orny (near the Orny Glacier), took off their coats and covered me with them, so that I might not feel cold, while they sat up all night brewing hot tea, and vying with each other in stories of chamois hunts.

Experience every good guide must have. Here is an anecdote showing how one member of the profession acquired it. This guide, now well known and in the first rank, began his career with two Germans as his victims. The party were bound for, I believe, the Cima di Jazzi, and when the ice of the Gorner Glacier gave place to snow, the moment came for putting on the rope. The guide felt greatly puzzled; and he was slow of thought. Meanwhile the two gentlemen, as ignorant of mountain-craft as their guardian, stood by and watched the cord being slowly uncoiled. At last the guide took a sudden resolution, and making a loop at each end of the rope, he slipped it round the necks of his two charges, and taking the cord in the centre, held it in his hand, having just enough native wit not to tie it round his own neck! In this frightfully dangerous condition they remained during the entire ascent. When returning, another party was seen approaching. The guide halted on finding that it was led by a friend of his. He took him aside and said, “Tell me, how ought people to be roped? Have I not done it correctly?” The other guide replied, with inward merriment, “Oh, yes, it’s quite right!” Whereupon his friend exclaimed, “And yet I assure you the gentlemen have sworn at me all day!” So much for that pleasing operation known as “buying experience.”

The guide who has had the greatest amount of experience in the Alps is, I think, Christian Almer, if by experience we mean making a large number of different ascents and excursions. The Oberlanders travel out of their own district more than any other guides; next to them probably the Saas and St. Nicholas men; then some of the Chamonix guides (though not many). Peter Dangl of Sulden, Tyrol, and several of the Valtournanche men are also to be met with en voyage, the former very frequently.

In closing the subject of guides, I will only add that I trust these little details of my experience of them and that of others may have helped some to better realise what a splendid body of men they are, and how much may be learnt in knowing them well, and in the constant intercourse with them which every climber enjoys. I have tried to show that the upper grades of the profession are not a number of self-seeking, ignorant, unprincipled peasants, who regard all travellers as their lawful prey, but a set of courageous, noble-minded men, often conspicuous in intellectual qualities, and in many ways unique as a class.

CHAPTER VI. ALP LIFE.

Do you know, my readers, what an alp is? Perhaps the question seems trivial to you, and you feel inclined to reply indignantly, “Of course!” Well, perhaps you are right; but still I am going to describe an alp, for it is also very possible that you are wrong. As to what an alp is not, I will begin by stating most emphatically that it is not a mountain, that it is not snow-covered in summer, and that it has nothing whatever to do with those incidents of nature spoken of in guide-books as “the Alps.” An alp is written with a small a—this is one distinction. It is a pasture tenanted in summer by cows, goats, and huge black pigs, and young men and maidens to look after the same, consequently it is not snow-covered except in winter, and as it supplies the animals with beautiful and nourishing grass, it presents a very different aspect to the rocky and ice-clad sides of the Alps (with a large A).

During the long winter months, the cows, which are of such value to the Swiss, are kept in hot, often stuffy, stables in the villages, and only taken out every day for water. It is a familiar sight to winter visitors in the Alps to meet these animals in the village street, plunging and galloping about in the enjoyment of a few breaths of fresh air on their way to drink at one of the many troughs with which even the smallest of Alpine hamlets is so liberally supplied.

Towards the beginning of May, the cows are taken from their stables and driven to the lower alps. These alps constitute a great source of wealth to the country. Many owners of large herds of cattle have as many as three, situated at different altitudes on the mountain-side. It is to the lowest that the cows first go, and by the time its rich pasturage has been fully enjoyed and considerably diminished, the snow will have melted from the slopes above, and thither the herd pursues its way. By the middle of June, or later, the highest alp is gained, and there the animals remain till the early autumn approaches. Then they descend, halting for a month or so at the intermediate stations, till the end of October sees them once more established in the valley for the winter.

The day on which the cows depart for the alps is fêted with great rejoicings in most Swiss villages, and doubtless in olden days it must have occurred earlier in the season than is now the case, for the 1st March is still kept as a festival dedicated to the turning out of the cows into the meadows, and if the valley was clear of snow by March 1st, the lower alps must surely have been habitable by April.

An interesting account, by Herr Bavier, of the 1st March rejoicings, appeared in the St. Moritz Post for March 10, 1888, and I think that my readers will wish me to reprint some of it. Herr Bavier, under the heading of “Chalanda Mars,” writes:—

“What is the Chalanda Mars? almost all my readers will ask. Here it is the children’s greatest fête, and in every village, no matter how small, the Chalanda Mars is celebrated with as much splendour as possible. For hundreds of years it has been the custom for heads of families to contribute a certain sum, which is put at the disposal of the schoolmaster, and with it he procures a supply of cream, cakes, sweets, and other things dear to the youthful palate. On March 1st (Chalanda, viz., ‘beginning’), the principal scholars of the village school go about the streets, ringing big cow-bells, cracking whips, and singing—