CHAPTER IX
THE MOST TERRIBLE OF ALL ALPINE TRAGEDIES

There is no great mountain in the Alps so easy to ascend as Mont Blanc. There is not one on which there has been such a deplorable loss of life. The very facility with which Mont Blanc can be climbed has tempted hundreds of persons totally unused to and unfitted for mountaineering to go up it, while the tariff for the guides—£4 each—has called into existence a crowd of incapable and inexperienced men who are naturally unable, when the need for it arrives, to face conditions that masters of craft would have avoided by timely retreat.

The great danger of Mont Blanc is its enormous size, and to be lost on its slopes in a snow-storm which may continue for days is an experience few have survived. On a rocky mountain there are landmarks which are of the utmost value in time of fog, but when all is snow and the tracks are obliterated as soon as made, can we wonder if the results have been disastrous when a poorly equipped party has encountered bad weather?

Of all the sad accidents which have happened on Mont Blanc, none exceeds in pathos that in which Messrs Bean, M'Corkindale, Randall, and eight guides perished. None of these gentlemen had any experience of mountaineering. Stimulated rather than deterred by the account given by two climbers who had just come down from the mountain, and had had a narrow escape owing to bad weather, these three men, with their guides, who were "probably about the worst who were then on the Chamonix roll," set out for the Grands Mulets. The weather was doubtful, nevertheless the next morning they started upwards, leaving their only compass at their night quarters.

During the whole of that 6th of September the big telescope at the Châlet of Plan-Praz above Chamonix was fixed on their route, but they could only be seen from time to time, as the mountain was constantly hidden by driving clouds. At last they were observed close to the rocks known as the Petits Mulets not far below the summit. It was then a quarter past two o'clock. There was a terrific wind, and the snow was whirled in clouds. The party could be seen lying down on the ground, to avoid being swept away by the hurricane.

The Chamonix guide, Sylvain Couttet, had gone to the châlet of Pierre-Pointue, where the riding path ends, to await the return of the climbers. On the morning of the 7th, as there was still no sign of them, Sylvain became uneasy, and mounting to an eminence not far off, from which he could see nearly all the route to the Grands Mulets, he carefully searched for tracks with the aid of his telescope. Snow had fallen during the night, yet there was no trace of footsteps. Seriously alarmed, Sylvain hurried back to Pierre-Pointue, sent a man who was there to Chamonix in order that a search party might be held in readiness, and accompanied by the servant of the little inn he went up the Grands Mulets. Sylvain had arranged that if no one was there he would put out a signal and the search party would then ascend without delay. On reaching the hut at the Grands Mulets his worst fears were realised—it was empty. He now quickly regained Chamonix from where fourteen guides were just starting. He remounted with them immediately. By the time they got a little way above Pierre-Pointue, the snow was again falling heavily, it was impossible to go further. Next day the weather was so bad that the party had to descend to Chamonix, and for several days longer the rain in the valley and the snow on the heights continued.

On the 15th the weather cleared, and Sylvain went up to Plan-Praz to see if from there any traces of the lost ones could be discovered with the telescope. The first glance showed him five black specks near the Petit Mulets, which could be nothing else but the bodies of some of the victims. On the 16th, with twenty-three other guides, Sylvain spent the night at the Grands Mulets. The 17th, they mounted to the spot they had examined with the telescope, and there they found the bodies of Mr M'Corkindale and two porters. Three hundred feet higher was Mr Bean, with his head leaning on his hand, and by him another porter. These were in a perfectly natural position, whereas the others appeared to have slipped to where they were, as their clothes were torn, and the ropes, knapsacks (still containing food), sticks, and so on, lay by the others above.

The five bodies were frozen hard. As complete a search as possible was now made for the remaining six members of the party, but without success. Probably they fell either into a crevasse or down the Italian side of the mountain.

It is no wonder that Mr Mathews calls this "the most lamentable catastrophe ever known in the annals of Alpine adventure."

But the most pathetic part of the story is to come.

During those terrible, hopeless hours Mr Bean had made notes of what was happening, and they tell us all we shall ever know about the disaster:

"Tuesday, 6th September.—I have made the ascent of Mont Blanc with ten persons—eight guides, Mr M'Corkindale, and Mr Randall. We arrived at the summit at half-past two o'clock. Immediately after leaving it I was enveloped in clouds of snow. We passed the night in a grotto excavated out of the snow, affording very uncomfortable shelter, and I was ill all night. 7th September, morning.—Intense cold—much snow, which falls uninterruptedly. Guides restless. 7th September, evening.—We have been on Mont Blanc for two days in a terrible snowstorm; we have lost our way, and are in a hole scooped out of the snow at a height of 15,000 feet. I have no hope of descending. Perhaps this book may be found and forwarded. We have no food. My feet are already frozen, and I am exhausted. I have only strength to write a few words. I die in the faith of Jesus Christ, with affectionate thoughts of my family—my remembrance to all. I trust we may meet in heaven."

CHAPTER X
A WONDERFUL SLIDE DOWN A WALL OF ICE

Twice at least in the Alps climbers have lost their footing at the top of a steep slope, and rolled down it for so long a distance that it seemed impossible they could survive. The two plucky mountaineers who have competed in an involuntary race to the bottom of a frozen hillside are Mr Birkbeck, in his famous slide near Mont Blanc, and Mr Whymper, when he made his startling glissade on the Matterhorn.

It was in July 1861 that a party of friends, whose names are well known to all climbers, set out to cross a high glacier pass in the chain of Mont Blanc. The Revs. Leslie Stephen, Charles Hudson, and Messrs Tuckett, Mather, and Birkbeck were the travellers, while in addition to the three magnificent guides, Melchior Anderegg, Perren, and Bennen, there were two local guides from the village of St Gervais.

Let me give the account of the accident in Mr Hudson's own words. How sad to think that, only four years later, this capable and brave mountaineer himself perished on the grim north slopes of the Matterhorn!

The Col de Miage is reached by a steep slope of ice or frozen snow, and is just a gap in the chain of peaks which runs south-west from Mont Blanc. Col is the word used for a pass in French-speaking districts.

"On the morning of the 11th, at 3.30, we left the friendly rock on or near which we had passed the night, and at 7 o'clock we had reached the summit of the Col de Miage. Here we sat down on a smooth, hard plain of snow, and had our second breakfast. Shortly afterwards Birkbeck had occasion to leave us for a few minutes, though his departure was not remarked at the time. When we discovered his absence, Melchior followed his footsteps, and I went after him, and, to our dismay, we saw the tracks led to the edge of the ice-slope, and then suddenly stopped. The conclusion was patent at a glance. I was fastening two ropes together, and Melchior had already bound one end round his chest, with a view to approach or even descend a portion of the slope for a better view, when some of the party descried Birkbeck a long way below us. He had fallen an immense distance.

"My first impulse led me to wish that Melchior and I should go down to Birkbeck as fast as possible, and leave the rest to follow with the ropes; but on proposing this plan some of the party objected. For a considerable time Birkbeck shouted to us, not knowing whether we could see his position. His course had been arrested at a considerable distance above the bottom of the slope, by what means we know not; and just below him stretched a snow-covered crevasse, across which he must pass if he went further. We shouted to him to remain where he was, but no distinguishable sounds reached him; and to our dismay we presently saw him gradually moving downwards—then he stopped—again he moved forwards and again—he was on the brink of the crevasse; but we could do nothing for him. At length he slipped down upon the slope of snow which bridged the abyss. I looked anxiously to see if it would support his weight, and, to my relief, a small black speck continued visible. This removed my immediate cause of apprehension, and after a time he moved clear of this frail support down to the point where we afterwards joined him. Bennen was first in the line, and after we had descended some distance he untied himself and went down to Birkbeck. It was 9.30 when we reached him. He told us he was becoming faint and suffering from cold. On hearing this, Melchoir and I determined to delay no longer, and, accordingly, unroped and trotted down to the point where we could descend from the rocks to the slope upon which he was lying. Arrived at the place, I sat on the snow, and let Birkbeck lean against me, while I asked him if he felt any internal injury or if his ribs pained him. His manner of answering gave me strong grounds for hoping that there was little to fear on that score."

Mr Hudson gives a graphic description of poor Mr Birkbeck's appearance when he was found on the snow. "His legs, thighs, and the lower part of his body were quite naked, with his trousers down about his feet. By his passage over the snow, the skin was removed from the outside of the legs and thighs, the knees, and the whole of the lower part of the back, and part of the ribs, together with some from the nose and forehead. He had not lost much blood, but he presented a most ghastly spectacle of bloody raw flesh. This, added to his great prostration, and our consciousness of the distance and difficulties which separated him from any bed, rendered the sight most trying. He never lost consciousness. He afterwards described his descent as one of extreme rapidity, too fast to allow of his realising the sentiment of fear, but not sufficiently so to deprive him of thought. Sometimes he descended feet first, sometimes head first, then he went sideways, and once or twice he had the sensation of shooting through the air.

"The slope where he first lost his footing was gentle, and he tried to stop himself with his fingers and nails, but the snow was too hard. He had no fear during the descent, owing to the extreme rapidity; but when he came to a halt on the snow, and was ignorant as to whether we saw, or could reach him, he experienced deep anguish of mind in the prospect of a lingering death. Happily, however, the true Christian principles in which he had been brought up, led him to cast himself upon the protection of that merciful Being who alone could help him. His prayers were heard, and immediately answered by the removal of his fears."

The account of how the injured man was brought down to the valley is very exciting. Mr Hudson continues:—"The next thing was to get him down as fast as possible, and the sledge suggested itself as the most feasible plan. Only the day before, at Contamines, I had had the boards made for it, and without them the runners (which, tied together, served me as an alpenstock) would have been useless. Two or three attempts were made before I could get the screws to fit the holes in the boards and runners, and poor Melchior, who was watching me, began to show signs of despair. At length the operation was completed, and the sledge was ready. We spread a plaid, coats, and flannel shirts over the boards, then laid Birkbeck at full length on them, and covered him as well as we could.

"Now came the 'tug-of-war,' for the snow was much softened by the sun, the slope was steep, and there were several crevasses ahead; added to this, there was difficulty in getting good hold of the sledge, and every five or six steps one of the bearers plunged so deeply in the snow that we were obliged to halt. Birkbeck was all the time shivering so much that the sledge was sensibly shaken, and all the covering we could give him was but of little use.

"I was well aware of the great danger Birkbeck was in, owing to the vast amount of skin which was destroyed, and I felt that every quarter of an hour saved was of very great importance; still the frequent delay could not be avoided."

So matters continued till the party was clear of the glacier. Then Mr Tuckett went ahead to Chamonix, a ten hours' tramp or so, in search of an English doctor, and on the way left orders for a carriage to be sent as far as there was a driving road, to meet the wounded man, and more men beyond to help in carrying him. The chief part of the transport was done by the three great guides, Melchoir, Bennen, and Perren, and was often over "abrupt slopes of rock, which to an ordinary walker would have appeared difficult, even without anything to carry. We had so secured Birkbeck with ropes and straps, that he could not slip off the sledge, otherwise he would on these occasions at once have parted company with his stretcher, and rolled down the rocks."

At last, after incredible toil, they reached the pastures, and at about three o'clock in the afternoon eight hours after the accident, they got to the home of one of the guides, where they were able to make poor Mr Birkbeck more comfortable before undertaking the rest of the journey, warming his feet and wrapping him in blankets. For two hours more the poor fellow had to be carried down, and then they met the carriage, in which he was driven to St Gervais, accompanied by the doctor from Chamonix.

Thanks to the skilful treatment and excellent nursing he received, Mr Birkbeck made a good recovery, though, of course, it was weeks before he could leave his bed.

Mr Hudson ends his wonderfully interesting narrative with an account of a visit he paid later in the season to the place where the accident happened. He says "The result of our observations is as follows: 'The height of the Col de Miage is 11,095. The height of the point at which Birkbeck finally came to a standstill is 9328 feet; so the distance he fell is, in perpendicular height, 1767 feet." As part of the slope would be at a gentle angle, one may believe that the slip was over something like a mile of surface! Mr Hudson continues:—"During the intervening three weeks, vast changes had taken place in the glacier. The snowy coating had left the couloir in parts, thus exposing ice in the line of Birkbeck's course, as well as a rock mid-way in the slope, against which our poor friend would most likely have struck, had the accident happened later.

"This is one of that long chain of providential arrangements, by the combination of which we were enabled to save Birkbeck's life.

• (1) The recent snow, and favourable state of the glacier, enabled us to take an easier and much quicker route, if not the only one possible for a wounded man.
• (2) We had a singularly strong party of guides, without which we could not have got him down in time to afford any chance of his recovery.
• (3) If we had not had real efficient men as travellers in the party we should not have got the telegram sent to Geneva; and a few hours' delay in the arrival of Dr Metcalfe would probably have been fatal.
• (4) The day was perfectly calm and cloudless; had there been wind or absence of sun, the cold might have been too much for such a shaken system to bear.
• (5) We had with us the very unusual addition of a sledge, without which it would have been scarcely possible to have carried him down.

"One thing there was which greatly lessened the mental trial to those engaged in bringing Birkbeck down to St Gervais, and afterwards in attending upon him, and that was, his perfect calmness and patience—and of these I cannot speak too highly. No doubt it contributed greatly to his recovery."

CHAPTER XI
AN ADVENTURE ON THE TRIFT PASS

Few passes leading out of the Valley of Zermatt are oftener crossed than the Trift. It is not considered a difficult pass, but the rocks on the Zinal side are loose and broken and the risk of falling stones is great at certain hours in the day. The Zinal side of the Trift is in shadow in the early morning, and therefore most climbers will either make so early a start from the Zermatt side that they can be sure of descending the dangerous part before the sun has thawed the icy fetters which hold the stones together during the night, or else they will set out from the Zinal side, and sleep at a little inn on a patch of rocks which jut out from the glacier at the foot of the pass, from which the top of the Trift can be reached long before there is any risk from a cannonade.

One of the earliest explorers of this pass, however, Mr Thomas W. Hinchliff, neglected the precaution of a sufficiently early start, and his party very nearly came to grief in consequence.

He has given us an excellent description in Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers of what befell after they had got over the great difficulties, as they seemed in those days, of descending the steep wall of rock on the Zinal side. I will now begin to quote from his article:

"Being thoroughly tired of the rocks, we resolved as soon as possible to get upon the ice where it swept the base of the precipices. The surface, however, was furrowed by parallel channels of various magnitudes; some several feet in depth, formed originally by the descent of stones and avalanches from the heights; and we found one of these troughlike furrows skirting the base of the rocks we stood upon. One by one we entered, flattering ourselves that the covering of snow would afford us pretty good footing, but this soon failed; the hard blue ice showed on the surface, and we found ourselves rather in a difficulty, for the sides of our furrow were higher here than at the point where we entered it, and so overhanging that it was impossible to get out.

"Delay was dangerous, for the débris far below warned us that at any moment a shower of stones might come flying down our channel; a glissade was equally dangerous; for, though we might have shot down safely at an immense speed for some hundreds of feet, we should finally have been dashed into a sea of crevasses. Cachat in front solved the puzzle, and showed us how, by straddling with the feet as far apart as possible, the heel of each foot could find pretty firm hold in a mixture of half snow and half ice, his broad back, like a solid rock, being ready to check any slip of those behind him.

"We were soon safe upon a fine open plateau of the névé, where we threaded our way among a few snow crevasses requiring caution, and then prepared for a comfortable halt in an apparently safe place.

"The provision knapsacks were emptied and used as seats; bottles of red wine were stuck upright in the snow; a goodly leg of cold mutton on its sheet of paper formed the centre, garnished with hard eggs and bread and cheese, round which we ranged ourselves in a circle. High festival was held under the deep blue heavens, and now and then, as we looked up at the wonderful wall of rocks which we had descended, we congratulated ourselves on the victory. M. Seiler's oranges supplied the rare luxury of a dessert, and we were just in the full enjoyment of the delicacy when a booming sound, like the discharge of a gun far over our heads, made us all at once glance upwards to the top of the Trifthorn. Close to its craggy summit hung a cloud of dust, like dirty smoke, and in few seconds another and a larger one burst forth several hundred feet lower. A glance through the telescope showed that a fall of rocks had commenced, and the fragments were leaping down from ledge to ledge in a series of cascades. The uproar became tremendous; thousands of fragments making every variety of noise according to their size, and producing the effect of a fire of musketry and artillery combined, thundered downwards from so great a height that we waited anxiously for some considerable time to see them reach the snow-field below. As nearly as we could estimate the distance, we were 500 yards from the base of the rocks, so we thought that, come what might, we were in a tolerably secure position. At last we saw many of the blocks plunge into the snow after taking their last fearful leap; presently much larger fragments followed; the noise grew fiercer and fiercer, and huge blocks began to fall so near to us that we jumped to our feet, preparing to dodge them to the best of our ability. 'Look out!' cried someone, and we opened out right and left at the approach of a monster, evidently weighing many hundredweights, which was coming right at us like a huge shell fired from a mortar. It fell with a heavy thud not more than 20 feet from us, scattering lumps of snow into the circle."

Years afterwards a very sad accident occurred at this spot, a lady being struck and killed by a falling stone. In this case the fatality was unquestionably due to the start having been made at too late an hour. An inn in the Trift Valley makes it easy to reach the pass soon after dawn.

THE PERILS OF THE MOMING PASS.

In 1864 many peaks remained unsealed, and passes untraversed in the Zermatt district, though now almost every inch of every mountain has felt the foot of man. Yet even now few passes have been made there so difficult and dangerous (if Mr Whymper's route be exactly followed) as that of the Moming, from Zinal to Zermatt. Mr Whymper gives a most graphic and exciting description of what befell his party, which included Mr Moore and the two famous guides Almer and Croz. Having slept at some filthy châlets, the climbers, first passing over easy mountain slopes, gained a level glacier. Beyond this a way towards the unexplored gap in the ridge, which they called the Moming Pass, had to be decided on. The choice lay between difficult and perhaps impassable rocks, and an ice-slope so steep and broken that it appeared likely to turn out impracticable. In fact it was the sort of position that whichever route was chosen the climbers were sure, when once on it, to wish it had been the other. Finally, the ice-slope, over which a line of ice-cliffs hung threateningly, lurching right above the track to be taken, was decided on, and the whole party advanced for the attack. Mr Whymper writes:

"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.[4]

"'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 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 thirty 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.

"It was inexcusable to follow such a perilous path, but it is easy to understand why it was taken. To have retreated from the place where Croz suggested a change of plan, to have descended below the reach of danger, and to have mounted again by the route which Almer suggested, would have been equivalent to abandoning the excursion; for no one would have passed another night in the châlet on the Arpitetta Alp. '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.[5] A steep wall of snow was upon the Zinal side of the summit; but what the descent was like on the other side we could not tell, for a billow of snow tossed over its crest by the western winds, suspended o'er Zermatt with motion arrested, resembling an ocean-wave frozen in the act of breaking, cut off the view.[6]

"Croz—held hard in by the others, who kept down the Zinal side—opened his shoulders, flogged down the foam, and cut away the cornice to its junction with the summit; then boldly leaped down and called on us to follow him.

"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 descent in a dense mist; and Croz himself would have done right to pause had he been less magnificent in 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 point was reached where the width of the chasm was not too great for us to drop across. Before we had done, we got quite accustomed to taking flying leaps over the 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.')"

From here, in spite of many further difficulties necessitating a long detour, the party safely descended to Zermatt by the familiar Trift path.

CHAPTER XII
AN EXCITING PASSAGE OF THE COL DE PILATTE

Even now the valleys and mountains of Dauphiné are neglected in comparison with the ranges of Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, and other famous mountain chains of the Alps. In 1864, when Mr Whymper with his friends Messrs Moore and Walker undertook a summer campaign there, it was practically unexplored from the climbers' point of view. The party was a skilful and experienced one, the guides, Almer and Croz, of the highest class, and the esprit de corps in the little army of invasion most admirable. Thus it is no wonder that peak after peak fell before them, passes were accomplished at the first assault, and no accident or annoyance spoilt the splendid series of expeditions which were so successfully accomplished. Of these I have taken the account of the crossing of the Col de Pilatte, a high glacier pass, for, though it was excelled in difficulty by other climbs, yet it is so wittily described by Mr Whymper in his Scrambles in the Alps, and gives so excellent an idea of the sort of work met with on glaciers, and the ease with which a thoroughly competent party tackles it, that it cannot fail to be read with interest.

The three Englishmen had been joined by a French friend of theirs, Monsieur Reynaud, and had left their night quarters at Entraigues at 3.30 A.M. on the morning of 27th June. Their course was prodigiously steep. In less than two miles difference of latitude they rose one mile of absolute height. The route, however, was not really difficult, and they made good progress. They had reached the foot of the steep part when I take up the narrative in Mr Whymper's own words:

"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.[7] So far the route had been nothing more than a steep grind in an angle where little could be seen, but now views opened out in several directions, and the way began to be interesting. It was more so, perhaps, to us than to our companion M. Reynaud, who had no rest in the last night. He was, moreover, heavily laden. Science was to be regarded—his pockets were stuffed with books; heights and angles were to be observed—his knapsack was filled with instruments; hunger was to be guarded against—his shoulders were ornamented with a huge nimbus of bread, and a leg of mutton swung behind from his knapsack, looking like an overgrown tail. Like a good-hearted fellow he had brought this food thinking we might be in need of it. As it happened, we were well provided for, and, having our own packs to carry, could not relieve him of his superfluous burdens, which, naturally, he did not like to throw away. As the angles steepened, the strain on his strength became more and more apparent. At last he began to groan. At first a most gentle and mellow groan; and as we rose so did his groans, till at last the cliffs were groaning in echo, and we were moved to laughter.

"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; but just 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 one of the highest passes 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, and the huge fissure which had thus been formed extended, on each hand, as far as could be seen. We, on the slope above, were separated from the slope below by a mighty crevasse. No running up and down to look for an easier place to cross could be done on an ice-slope of 54°; the chasm had to be passed then and there.

"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 scarcely know. We saw a toe—it seemed to belong to Moore; we saw Reynaud a flying body, coming down as if taking a header into water; with arms and legs all abroad, his leg of mutton flying in the air, his bâton escaped from his grasp; and then we heard a thud as if a bundle of carpets had been pitched out of a window. When set upon his feet he was a sorry spectacle; his head was a great snowball; brandy was trickling out of one side of the knapsack, chartreuse out of the other—we bemoaned its loss, but we roared with laughter.

"I cannot close this chapter 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 seldom 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 50 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, over 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."

CHAPTER XIII
AN ADVENTURE ON THE ALETSCH GLACIER

Mr William Longman, a former Vice-President of the Alpine Club, has given us an interesting account in The Alpine Journal of an exciting adventure which happened to his son in August 1862.

The party, consisting of Mr Longman, his son, aged fifteen, two friends, two guides, and a porter, set out one lovely morning from the Eggischhorn Hotel for an excursion on the Great Aletsch Glacier. The names of the guides were Fedier and Andreas Weissenflüh.

Mr Longman writes:—"We started in high spirits; the glacier was in perfect order; no fresh snow covered the ice; the crevasses were all unhidden; and no one thought it necessary to use the rope. I felt it to be a wise precaution, however, to place my son, a boy of fifteen years of age, under the care of the Eggischhorn porter. It was his second visit to Switzerland, and he could, I am sure, have taken good care of himself, but I felt it was my duty to place him under the care of a guide. I have no wish to throw undeserved blame on the guide; but his carelessness was unquestionably the cause of the accident. He began wrong, and I ought to have interfered. He tied his handkerchief in a knot, and, holding it himself, gave it to my son to hold also in his hand. This was worse than useless, and, in fact, was the cause of danger, for it partly deprived him of that free and active use of his limbs which is essential to safety. It threw him off his guard. Except at a crevasse, it was unnecessary for the boy to have anything to hold by; and, at a crevasse, the handkerchief would have been insufficient. The impression that there was no real danger, and that all that was required was caution in crossing the crevasses, prevented my interfering. So the guide went on, his hand holding the handkerchief behind him, and my son following, his hand also holding the handkerchief. Many a time I complained to the guide that he took my boy over wide parts of the crevasses because he would not trouble himself to diverge from his path, and many a time did I compel him to turn aside to a narrower chasm. At last, I was walking a few yards to his left, and had stepped over a narrow crevasse, when I was startled by an exclamation. I turned round suddenly, and my son was out of sight! I will not harrow up my own feelings, or those of my readers, by attempting to describe the frightful anguish that struck me to the heart; but will only relate, plainly and calmly, all that took place. When my son fell, the crevasse, which I had crossed so easily, became wider, and its two sides were joined by a narrow ridge of ice. It was obviously impossible to ascertain exactly what had taken place; but I am convinced that the guide went on in his usual thoughtless way, with his hand behind him, drawing my son after him, and that, as soon as he placed his foot on the narrow ridge, he slipped and fell. I rushed to the edge of the crevasse and called out to my poor boy. To my inexpressible delight he at once answered me calmly and plainly. As I afterwards ascertained, he was 50 feet from me, and neither could he see us nor we see him. But he was evidently unhurt; he was not frightened, and he was not beyond reach. In an instant Weissenflüh was ready to descend into the crevasse. He buckled on one of my belts,[8] fixed it to the rope, and told us to lower him down. My two friends and I, and the other two guides, held on to the rope, and slowly and gradually, according to Weissenflüh's directions, we paid it out. It was a slow business, but we kept on encouraging my son, and receiving cheery answers from him in return. At last Weissenflüh told us, to our intense joy, that he had reached my son, that he had hold of him, and that we might haul up. Strongly and steadily we held on, drawing both the boy and the guide, as we believed, nearer and nearer, till at length, to our inexpressible horror, we drew up Weissenflüh alone. He had held my son by the collar of his coat. The cloth was wet, his hand was cold, and the coat slipped from his grasp. I was told that when my boy thus again fell he uttered a cry, but either I heard it not or forgot it. The anguish of the moment prevented my noticing it, and, fortunately, we none of us lost our presence of mind, but steadily held on to the rope. Poor Weissenflüh reached the surface exhausted, dispirited, overwhelmed with grief. He threw himself on the glacier in terrible agony. In an instant Fedier was ready to descend, and we began to lower him; but the crevasse was narrow, and Fedier could not squeeze himself through the ice. We had to pull him up again before he had descended many feet. By this time the brave young Weissenflüh had recovered, and was ready again to go down. But we thought it desirable to take the additional precaution of lowering the other rope, with one of the belts securely fixed to it. My son quickly got hold of it, and placed the belt round his body, but he told us his hands were too cold to buckle it. Weissenflüh now again descended, and soon he told us he had fixed the belt. With joyful heart some hauled away at one rope and some at the other, till at length, after my son had been buried in the ice for nearly half an hour, both he and the guide were brought to the surface.... Let a veil rest over the happiness of meeting. My boy's own account of what befell him is, that he first fell sideways on to a ledge in the crevasse, and then vertically, but providentially with his feet downwards, till his progress was arrested by the narrowness of the crevasse. He says he is sure he was stopped by being wedged in, because his feet were hanging loose. His arms were free. He believes the distance he fell, when Weissenflüh dropped him, was about three or four yards, and that he fell to nearly, but not quite, the same place as that to which he fell at first, and that, in his first position, he could not have put the belt on. His fall was evidently a slide for the greater part of the distance; had it been a sheer fall it would have been impossible to escape severe injury."

A LOYAL COMPANION

The following is taken from The Times of 23rd July 1886.

"On Tuesday, 13th July, Herr F. Burckhardt, member of the Basel section of the Swiss Alpine Club, accompanied by the guides Fritz Teutschmann and Johann Jossi, both from Grindelwald, made an attempt to ascend the Jungfrau from the side of the Little Scheideck. After leaving the Guggi cabin the party mounted the glacier of the same name. The usual precautions were of course taken—that is to say, the three men were roped together, Herr Burckhardt in the middle, one of the guides before, the other behind him. When the climbers reached the séracs, at a point marked on the Siegfried Karte as being at an elevation of 2700 mètres, an enormous piece of ice broke off from the upper part of the glacier, and came thundering down. Although by good fortune the mass of the avalanche did not sweep across the path of the three men, they were struck by several large blocks of ice, and sent flying. Jossi, who was leading, went head first into a crevasse of unfathomable depth, dragging after him Herr Burckhardt, who, however, contrived to hold on to the edge of the crevasse, but in such a position that he could not budge, and was unable to help either himself or Jossi. Their lives at that moment depended absolutely on the staunchness of Teutschmann, who alone had succeeded in keeping his feet. It was beyond his power to do more; impossible by his own unaided strength to haul up the two men who hung by the rope. If he had given way a single step all three would have been precipitated to the bottom of the crevasse. So there he stood, with feet and ice-axe firmly planted, holding on for dear life, conscious that the end was a mere question of time, and a very short time; his strength was rapidly waning, and then? It would have been easy for the two to escape by sacrificing the third. One slash of Burckhardt's knife would have freed both Teutschmann and himself. But no such dastardly idea occurred to either of them. They were resolved to live or die together. Half an hour passed; they had almost abandoned hope, and Teutschmann's forces were well-nigh spent, when help came just in time to save them. The same morning another party, consisting of two German tourists, and the two guides Peter Schlegel and Rudolph Kaufmann, had started from the Little Scheideck for the Jungfrau, and coming on traces of Burckhardt's party had followed them up, and arrived before it was too late on the scene of the accident. Without wasting a moment Schlegel went down into the crevasse and fastened Jossi to another rope, so that those above were enabled to draw him up and release Burckhardt and Teutschmann. Jossi, although bruised and exhausted, was able to walk to the Scheideck, and all reached Grindelwald in safety."