“It is evident that winter climbers who wish to use skis must carry their lives in their own hands, and perhaps the safer plan for future expeditions of this kind will be to make the ascent roped in the usual way on snow racquettes carrying the skis on the back. On the descent the risk of breaking through the snow covering during the rapid progress on skis would of course be very much less than on the ascent.”

One of the most fruitful causes of accidents on mountains is the underrating of difficulties by ignorant persons who, having been hauled up and let down precipices by a couple of sturdy guides in fine weather, proceed to inform their friends and acquaintances that “Nowadays the Matterhorn is mere child’s play, don’t cher know.”

A sorry tale is told by the famous climber, Mr Cecil Slingsby, who, himself accustomed to undertake the hardest climbs without guides, would be the first to discourage imitation in any unfit to follow in his steps.

Writing of Skagastöldstind, in Norway, of which he made the first ascent, and which is still considered the most difficult of the fashionable climbs in that country, he says in The Alpine Journal:

Referring to an expedition from Mouvoison, which began, as do most climbs, over grass slopes, Mr Clinton Dent remarks in Above the Snow Line:

The following accounts of adventures on grass slopes, taken from The Alpine Journal, may serve to bear out the truth of Mr Dent’s remarks:

Another writer gives an account of an adventure on a grass slope which, happily, had a less serious ending. He also attempted to make a short cut.

To turn now to Mr Slingsby’s narrative. His party had reached the arête of the Dent Blanche without incident, and he writes:

“The rocks on the crest of the ridge were in perfect order. The day was magnificent, and there was not the remotest sign of a storm. Climbers who were on neighbouring mountains on this day all speak of the fine weather. My friend, Mr Eric Greenwood, who was on the Rothhorn, told me that that peak was in capital condition, but that there was a strong N.W. wind blowing at the top. We had perfect calm. Mr Greenwood stopped on the snow arête till a late hour in the afternoon, taking photographs, and neither his guides nor he had the slightest expectation of a thunderstorm.

“We stuck faithfully to the ridge, and climbed up, and as nearly as possible over, each point as we reached it, because of the ice which shrouded the rocks almost everywhere on the west face.

“We were forced on to the face of one little pinnacle, and had to use the greatest care.

“A few days later I met Mr Conway at Breuil, and I asked him what he meant in this case by the term, ‘following the arête.’ His interpretation, which is rather an elastic one, is this: ‘Climb over the pinnacles if it is convenient to do so. If not convenient, shirk them by passing below their western bases.’ This latter method was most probably impracticable on the occasion of our ascent, which fully accounts for the great difference between Mr Conway’s ‘times’ and our own, as we certainly climbed at least as quickly as an average party on the Dent Blanche during the whole of our ascent.

“The time sped merrily and quickly by, and the difficulties decreased as we hastened onward. Just as we left the last rocks a light filmy cloud, sailing up from the north, hovered for an instant over the top of the mountain, and then settled upon it; otherwise, though it had then become exceedingly cold, the sky was clear and the day perfect, and we could not help comparing our good fortune with that of those early climbers who fought their way upwards, step by step, against most ferocious gales.

“Under ordinary circumstances we should have put away our axes until the storm should had passed away. Of course we did not do this, nor indeed would any other member of the Alpine Club have done so if he had had the good fortune to be with us. We wished to get across the 150 feet which was the only difficulty yet remaining before us. Each one of us was quite capable of undertaking the work, and, in spite of the unusual darkness, we had sufficient light for the purpose.

“Now the matter was serious enough, as we had only one axe, and we felt that we had had a most providential escape. There is little doubt that, if this had occurred upon the crest of the ridge above us, the electric current would have been much stronger, and the consequences much worse.

“My two companions then climbed up to the little ledge where I was sitting, to wait at least until the storm should pass away. Whilst Solly was doing this, a tremendous gust of wind swept up from the N.W., and nearly carried him off his feet.

“The storm lasted much longer than we expected it to do, and by the time it had vanished it was quite dark. All climbers will readily agree with me when I say that the storm, seen from such a point of view, where the mountain forms are so wild, and their guardian glaciers so vast and glittering, was indescribably grand—so much so that, even under our circumstances, there was a kind of grim enjoyment which we could not help feeling.

“Haskett-Smith, who is a marvellous man for making all sort of hitches, knots, and nooses, managed to get a capital hitch for our rope, and lashed us to the rock most skilfully. The ledge was steep, and varied from 1½ to 2 feet wide. As we could not sit back to back, which is the best plan when possible, we did the next best thing, and sat, squatted, or leaned, face to back. Solly, who sat at the bottom, had a loose piece of friable rock which supported one foot. I was in the middle, with my knees up to my chin, on a steep slope, but was supported by Solly’s back and by a singularly sharp little stone on which I squatted. Haskett-Smith leaned with his back against a corner, and with his knees against my back. Each of us had a rücksack, which helped to keep out the cold. We made a good meal of potted meat, bread, chocolate, and an orange, and left a box of sardines and other food for the morning.

“Our greatest trouble during the night arose from the consciousness that Mr Schuster, Herr Seiler, and other friends at Zermatt would be very anxious about us, and we often spoke of it with regret.

“Shortly before 5 A.M. we opened our sardine-box, which was no easy task, as our outer gloves were like iron gauntlets. We made a good meal of petrified fish, frozen oranges, and bread. We avoided our brandy-flask like poison on the whole expedition.

“When on the snow ridge between points 3912 mètres and 3729 mètres we heard voices far below us on the west, and soon saw what we knew afterwards to be Mr Aitkin, Imboden, and a porter. They had abandoned their intention of climbing the Dent Blanche ‘on account of bad weather.’ Indeed, Miss Richardson, who had spent the night at the Stockje, was told by Imboden that ‘in such weather it would be impossible, and probably would remain so for a day or two; therefore, they might as well go to Ferpécle and do another col the next day.’

“Seeing that the party were above the route to Ferpécle, we knew at once that they were looking for us. Imboden shouted out to us, ‘Where do you come from?’ We pointed to the Dent Blanche, and they immediately turned towards Zermatt, and we only missed them by about five minutes at the usual breakfast place.

“On crossing the glacier to the Wandfluh rocks our axes and rücksacks hissed like serpents for a long time, while we saw in the distance the storm which overtook Mr Macdonald on the Lyskamm that very morning; and none of us liked the renewal of electric energy, which may well be believed. A heavy mist also threatened us. Mr Aitkin had a similar experience to ours.

“We descended by way of the Wandfluh, and above the Stockje untied the rope which we had had on for thirty-eight hours; and such is the virtue of the Alpine knot that we were as firmly tied at the end of this time as we were when we first put on the rope.

“On the Zmutt Glacier we bathed our hands repeatedly in the glacier pools as a safeguard against possible frost-bites with entirely satisfactory results. On the glacier we were delighted to meet Mr E. T. Hartley, who welcomed us most warmly, and told us of the anxiety of our friends; he, however, and one good lady in Zermatt said all the time that we should return safe and sound again. Just off the glacier we met three porters provided with blankets and provisions sent by the kind thoughtfulness of Mr Schuster and Herr Seiler.

I AM indebted to Mr Harold Spender, the author of a fine description of the accident in 1899 on the Dent Blanche, for permission to reprint the greater portion of it, and also to the proprietors of McClure’s Magazine and of The Strand Magazine, in which publications it first appeared. The safe return of one of the party is alluded to in The Alpine Journal as one of the most wonderful escapes in the whole annals of mountaineering.

“Mr F. W. Hill, whose narrative in The Alpine Journal necessarily forms the best evidence as to the incidents, says that it was Glynne Jones who wanted to climb the Dent Blanche by its western arête—a notably difficult undertaking, and one that has probably only twice been achieved.

“As they progressed up and along the ridge the climbing became more and more difficult. They had to go slowly and with extreme caution, and often they were in doubt as to the best way to proceed. Sometimes, indeed, there seemed no possible route. In these places Furrer, who seems to have been accepted as the leader of the party, would detach himself from the rope and go forward to find a passage.

“On entering upon this part of the climb the two parties had joined ropes, and were now advancing as one, and roped in this order—Furrer, Zurbriggen, Glynne Jones, Vuignier, and Hill.

“Yet no one must imagine for an instant that the party was in the least degree puzzled or vexed. There is nothing so exhilarating as the conflict with danger, and it generally happens in climbing a mountain that the party is merriest at the most difficult places. Mr Hill, indeed, tells us that they were in the ‘highest spirits.’ ‘Climbing carefully,’ he says, ‘but in the highest spirits, we made good progress, for at ten o’clock it was agreed we were within an hour of the summit.’ It was at this point and time that the accident occurred.

“In a party of five roped together, with 30 feet of rope between each member, the amount of space covered by the party will obviously be 40 yards; and it frequently happens that those who are roped last cannot see the leaders. Mr Hill, as we have seen, was roped last, and by the time he reached the level of the other climbers Furrer had already turned away from the gully and was attempting to climb to the ridge by another route. To the left of the gully in front of them was a vertical rock face stretching for about 30 feet. Beyond this was a smooth-looking buttress some 10 feet high, by climbing which the party could regain the ridge. When Hill came up with the rest, Furrer was already attempting to climb this buttress.

“‘Apparently,’ says Mr Hill, ‘he did not feel safe, for he turned his head and spoke to Glynne Jones, who then went to hold the axe steady.’

“From Mr Hill’s own explanations the situation was as follows: The leading climber, Furrer, was grasping the rock face, standing on an ice-axe held vertically by Zurbriggen and Glynne Jones. These two were forced, in order to hold the ice-axe securely, to crouch down with their faces to the ground, and were, therefore oblivious of what was going on above them. But the important point is, that their four hands were occupied in holding the ice-axe, and that as they were standing on a narrow ledge, with a very sharp slope immediately below, these two men were in a helpless position. They were unready to stand a shock. Thus, at the critical moment, out of a party of five climbers, three had virtually cast everything on a single die!

“It was not very promising. He was without food, drink, or warm clothing. No man alone could climb down by the ridge up which those five experts had climbed in the morning. And in front lay a difficulty which had already destroyed his friends when attempting to overcome it by mutual help. It seemed impossible.

“It must have been, at this time, past mid-day on Monday, 28th August.

“The storm lasted all that Monday, and Monday night, and Tuesday morning. All through those dreadful hours of darkness Hill sat in the cleft of rock, sleeping most of the time, but always half-frozen with the cold, and whenever he awoke obliged to beat himself to regain his natural warmth. Happily, he was well protected against the falling snow by the eave of the overhanging rock, but it covered his knees and boots, causing him intense cold in the feet.

“At last, at mid-day on Tuesday, the mist cleared and the sun shone again in a sky of perfect blue. He could now resume his descent. To climb over snow-covered rocks in a roped party is difficult enough, but to do it alone is to risk your life many times over. But there was no alternative.

“Here at last his marvellous strength began to fail him. He had no snow-glasses, and his eyes were suffering from the prolonged glare of the snow. A sort of waking trance fell on him. As he stumbled forward, over the stones of that horrible moraine, he imagined that his companions were still alive and with him. He kept calling to them to ‘come along.’ ‘It is getting late, you fellows,’ he shouted; ‘come along.’

“At last he was brought up by a great rock. In the darkness he had wandered below the path. The rock entirely barred his way. He had a vague illusion that it was a châlet, and wandered round it searching for a door. At last he settled down by it in a semi-conscious condition. Then he must have fallen asleep, probably about ten o’clock. The sleep lasted about twelve hours, and was better than meat and drink. To most men it would have ended in death.