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.

CHAP.                                                 PAGE
  I. ON ALPINE GUIDES                                    1

  II. THE CAUTION AND DETERMINATION OF GUIDES            8

 III. SOME MORE CHARACTERISTICS OF FIRST-RATE GUIDES    14

  IV. MORE ABOUT GUIDES                                 20

   V. FURTHER ANECDOTES OF GUIDES                       32

  VI. ALP LIFE                                          40

 VII. THE CHAMOIS                                       48

VIII. ON GLACIERS                                       59

  IX. ON MORAINES                                       69

   X. ON AVALANCHES                                     76

  XI. THE BERNINA-SCHARTE                               90

 XII. IN PRAISE OF AUTUMN                               98

XIII. THE “MAIDEN” AND THE “MONK”                      113

APPENDIX                                               127




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--


     ‘Chalanda Mars, Chaland Avrigl,
     Lasché las vaschas our d’nuigl,
     Cha l’erva crescha
     E la naiv svanescha,’


which means,


     Beginning of March, beginning of April,
     Bring forth the cows from their stables,
     For the grass is growing,
     And the snow is going.


“During their procession through the village, the youngsters collect
chestnuts, or any other dainty offered by the listeners to their music,
and on the Sunday following these treasures are placed on a gorgeous
sort of ‘buffet,’ and all the village children, even the babies, are
invited to help themselves. After supper, a dance helps to further
enliven matters, and to make the little folk look forward impatiently
to next year’s ‘Chalanda Mars.’”

The herd, consisting perhaps of animals belonging to twenty or more
different persons, on its departure for the mountains, is headed by
the largest and finest of the cows. She is decorated with the best and
deepest-toned bell, and at every march she never fails to place herself
in front of all her companions, and when, through old age or sickness,
she loses her superiority, and her bell is transferred to the neck
of another animal, she sometimes abandons herself to such lowness of
spirits as seriously to impair her health.

Tschudi relates that on one occasion, when the herds were preparing for
the descent from the upper alp of Bilters, he noticed a furious combat
between two cows, and on his inquiring the reason, the herdsmen told
him that one of the cows had borne the great bell during the ascent,
but that it had been transferred from her neck to that of a still finer
animal during their sojourn on the alp. The first cow, having heard
the tones of her old bell, had come from a great distance, and on her
arrival had immediately shown fight, in revenge for the loss of her
former privilege.

After the leader of the troop follow those of next importance, and it
is said that every time the purchase of a new animal adds to the herd,
the last arrival engages each of the cows in turn in battle, and the
result of the fights determines her position amongst her companions.
The bells carried by the cows are sometimes so large as to measure a
foot in diameter, and cost in some instances as much as eighty or a
hundred francs.

The cows are accompanied to their summer quarters either by a girl, who
is known as a _Sennerin_, or by a cowherd, or _Senner_. It is often
imagined that these peasants enjoy a life of romantic idleness, lying
on the emerald-green turf, surrounded by snow-clad glittering peaks,
and making the cliffs re-echo to their jodels or the “Ranz des Vaches.”

I may here add, that, according to Dr. Forbes, the name of the “Ranz
des Vaches” is derived from the “rang” or range in which the cows stand
to be milked, the “Ranz des Vaches” being usually sung by the peasants
on their departure for the alps. However, in a work by H. Szadrowsky
entitled “Music and the Musical Instruments of the Dwellers in the
Alps” (1868), the derivation of _Ranz_ is said to be from _ranner_,
to shout (Swiss-Romansch), and the “Ranz des Vaches” from _Reihen_ or
_Reigen_, a song. In truth, the existence of the peasants who inhabit
these alps is by no means a lazy one. Up before break of day--I have
often seen them astir by 3 A.M.--they must let their cows out of the
shelter in which they have passed the night. If any of the animals are
ill, they must be attended to. Twice daily they must be milked, and
cheese-making is an important and arduous portion of the day’s routine.

In the Engadine, and, in general, all over the Grisons, the alp huts
are built of wood or solid stone, and are comfortable and commodious,
and good shelter is provided for the cattle. In many parts of Valais,
on the contrary, the rough stone huts of the cowherds, so low that
an upright position cannot, in some cases, be maintained, are but
miserable, hastily-built hovels, the walls consisting of stones piled
one on another, regardless of intervening gaps, and a roof of rocky
slabs covering the wretched structure. The cows are entirely unprovided
with shelter on many such alps, and often when passing through mountain
pastures at night, I have been startled by suddenly stumbling over a
warm mass slumbering in the long dewy grass.

The highest pastures are usually to be found at about 7500 feet, but
at the Riffel above Zermatt, cows are to be seen grazing above 8000
feet, and on the south slopes of the Italian side of the Alps they go
still higher. In several parts of Switzerland, the cows, in order to
gain their summer quarters, must cross the ice of the glaciers, and
at Montanvert, above Chamonix, they may be seen in June and October
traversing the Mer de Glace.

Two distinct kinds of cattle are found in Switzerland. The one is to
be seen in the districts between the Lake of Constance and the east
boundary of Valais, while the west is occupied by a different sort. The
former is easily distinguishable, being of a uniform brown, sometimes
dark in shade, sometimes light, while the other is white with black
or yellow patches, sometimes being entirely red or black, with only
a white mark on the forehead. The first of these two varieties, it
has been noticed, is heavier or lighter, according as it inhabits the
lowlands or the higher valleys.

The heaviest and finest of these animals are to be found in the Canton
of Schweiz, and attain a weight of twenty to twenty-five quintaux. Of
the latter sort, the best specimens inhabit Bulle, Romont, and Eastern
Switzerland in general. These animals are the heaviest of all.

For further information on “Alp Life,” I refer my readers to Tschudi’s
“Monde des Alpes.”




CHAPTER VII.

_THE CHAMOIS._


Amongst the animals met with in the Alps, there is none so interesting
to the traveller as the chamois. The reason for this is not far to
seek, for the animal is sufficiently rare to excite both the curiosity
and the imagination, while its pursuit is known to be so difficult
and often dangerous, that it has frequently been described as
“mountaineering without a rope.” Thus a glamour of romance is thrown
over the whole subject.

Chamois-shooting in Switzerland is only allowed during one month of
the year, September. It is seldom indulged in, in this country, by
foreigners, as there is a great deal of difficulty in obtaining a
license. Indeed, it can only be had after the stranger has taken out
a _Niederlassung_ (which gives many of the rights of naturalisation
without loss of those of the free-born Briton), and this is both a
troublesome and a tedious process, besides entailing a residence of
some time in Switzerland.

There are several other plans, however, by which the ardent sportsman
works his will. One of these is simply to go and shoot, and,
disregarding all monetary considerations, pay a heavy fine for each
chamois secured. At what period, however, the Swiss authorities would
pronounce the offender against their laws incorrigible, and introduce
him to the interior of one of their prisons, I do not know.

A third course, and the one usually followed, is for the foreigner to
accompany a native who is armed with a license and a gun for his own
use. I will not affirm that in the excitement of the chase the latter
does not sometimes change hands.

Hampered by a rifle, and minus the help of the trusty rope and ice-axe,
chamois-hunting calls for exceptional activity and endurance. Most
Englishmen who go in for the sport make their headquarters in the
Italian Alps, where the Government regulations are less stringent than
in this country.

The Engadine contains large herds of chamois, and one can see thirty
or forty almost every day in summer feeding on the slopes of Piz
Tschierva, opposite the Roseg restaurant. This is no doubt because that
part of the Engadine has been strictly preserved for some years.

For the benefit of such of my readers as have never seen a chamois,
I extract the following description of one from Mr. Baillie Grohman’s
brightly written little work, “Tyrol and the Tyrolese.”

“Somewhat larger than a roedeer, a chamois weighs, when full grown,
from forty to seventy pounds. Its colour, in summer of a dusky
yellowish brown, changes in autumn to a much darker hue, while in
winter it is all but black. The hair on the forehead and that which
overhangs the hoofs, remains tawny brown throughout the year, while
the hair growing along the backbone is in winter dark brown and of
prodigious length; it furnishes the much-prized ‘Gamsbart,’ literally
‘beard of the chamois,’ with tufts of which the hunters love to adorn
their hats. The build of the animal exhibits in its construction a
wonderful blending of strength and agility. The power of its muscles
is rivalled by the extraordinary facility of balancing the body, of
instantly finding, as it were, the centre of gravity.”

Most districts of the Alps have their famous chamois-hunters; but,
according to Tschudi, the most celebrated of all was Jean-Marie Colani
of Pontresina. It is said that he kept about 200 chamois, half-tamed,
on the hills near his home. Each year he shot sixty males or so,
calculating on about the same number of young ones being born every
season. He would not tolerate any strangers in the district, and the
Tyrolese especially suffered much at his hands. It was popularly
related at Pontresina that he had a room in his châlet decorated with
foreign hunting implements, which he had taken from those whom he had
killed, the number of his victims being estimated at thirty. Of course
this was a gross exaggeration, and A. Cadonau, an old chamois-shooter
of Bergün, asserted that Colani only killed one Tyrolese hunter whom
he found on Swiss ground near Piz Ot; but he tells that one day he met
Colani unexpectedly, and the latter took deliberate aim at him, only
lowering his weapon when he recognised his friend.

It is said that on one occasion Colani killed three chamois grouped
together with one shot, and many anecdotes are told of him, most of
which are by no means to his credit. From the time he was twenty years
of age till his death, Colani killed 2600 chamois. This figure has
never been reached by any one else. Colani’s death in 1837 was caused
by over-exertion, he having undertaken for a bet to mow a piece of
land in the same time that it would take a couple of the best Tyrolese
mowers to accomplish a like amount.

The Grisons have had other famous chasseurs, amongst whom may be
mentioned J. Rüdi of Pontresina and Jacob Spinas of Tinzen. The latter
began to hunt at twelve years old, and, in a career of twenty-two
years, shot 600 chamois, besides securing every season forty to fifty
hares, about sixty marmots, some hundred or more partridges, a dozen
foxes or so, and in a single day catching trout to a weight of fifteen
to twenty pounds.

The largest herd of chamois Spinas ever saw numbered from sixty-five
to sixty-eight head. Spinas contested that he was only surpassed as a
hunter by one other man in the canton, namely, B. Cathomen of Brigels.

Other noted chamois-hunters, inhabiting Val Bregaglia and the
neighbouring valleys, are Giacomo Scarlazzi of Promontogno, who has
shot as many as five chamois in a day and seventeen in a week, and
Pietro Soldini of Stampa. The latter, up to 1887, had killed 1200 to
1300 chamois, of which he shot forty-nine in one autumn. J. Saratz of
Pontresina was also a famous chasseur, and the three brothers Sutter
of Bergün must not be forgotten. Amongst them they shot 1700 head, in
addition to which Mathew Sutter has killed a bear, a læmmergeier, and
often in a day eight to ten ptarmigan. He has only seen three lynx,
but has never shot one.

October 1852 was a fatal time for chamois-hunters, three of whom,
including the famous guide Hans Lauener, were killed during that month.
The saying that more chamois-hunters are killed while engaged in their
favourite sport than die a natural death has, unfortunately, a good
deal of truth in it. Sometimes the chasseur, overcome by fatigue, falls
asleep in some cold and exposed spot, never to wake again. Sometimes
he is mortally wounded by falling stones, or struck by lightning in
a thunderstorm. Often he is killed by avalanches, and if, when on
difficult ground far from home, he is overtaken by a thick fog, his
position becomes most perilous. He may wander for hours without nearing
the valley; he may slip down a precipice concealed by the mist; he may
give in to utter exhaustion. The diminution of the chamois within the
last fifteen or twenty years also makes his task much harder, and he
may spend days without being able to approach, or perhaps even without
seeing one.

A pretty anecdote of a chamois is told by Dr. John Forbes in his work
“A Physician’s Holiday.” He says that in the year 1843 the proprietor
of a large flock of goats on the Great Scheideck had rendered a
chamois so tame, by training it almost from its birth, as to get it to
mingle in the herd with its more civilised cousins, and to come and go
with them to and from the mountains with perfect docility and seeming
content. Like most of its companions, it was decorated with a bell
suspended round its neck. After following for three successive seasons
this domestic course, it all at once forgot the lessons it had learnt,
and lost its character as a member of civilised society for ever. One
fine day, when higher up the mountains than was customary for the
flock, it suddenly heard the bleat of its brethren on the cliffs above,
and pricking up its ears, off it started, and speedily vanished amid
the rocks, whence the magical sounds had come. Never from that hour
was the tame chamois seen on the slopes of the Scheideck, but its bell
was often heard by the hunters ringing among the wild solitudes of the
Wetterhorn.

It is only when the chamois has lost, through disease, that amount of
intelligence with which it is gifted by nature that it will abandon
its mountain home and seek the haunts of man. Johann Scheuchzer of
Zurich tells us that in the year 1699, only four years before the
date of his journey, a chamois suddenly descended into the valley of
Engelberg in Unterwalden, and not only mixed with the horses and cows,
but could not even be driven from them by stones. It was at length
shot, and on its body being examined after death by one of the fathers
of the neighbouring monastery, a sac containing watery serum and sandy
particles was found pressing on the brain. Some ten years ago a chamois
appeared in the streets of Bonneville (Haute-Savoie), and walked
calmly in at the open door of a restaurant, where it was captured. The
Chamonix hunters say that there is a certain herb which, on being eaten
by chamois, maddens them, and that they consequently wander down into
the valley.

On September 1, 1887, a chamois was seen by an Englishman who was
driving on the high-road at Frauenkirch, near Davos-Platz. The coachman
also saw it, and the distance from the road to the right bank of
the Landwasser, where it was first perceived, was so short that an
excellent view of the animal was obtainable. It swam vigorously across
the river, and disappeared in the forest beyond. Perhaps as September
1st is the date on which chamois-hunting commences, it had been driven
down the valley by terror.

Chamois take freely to the water, and several instances are on record
of their having been enabled by swimming to elude their pursuers.

Many hunters look upon one particular animal in the district they
inhabit as a pet, and refrain from shooting it themselves, or allowing
it to be shot. These favoured beasts are sometimes so tame that they
linger round the alps where the chasseurs live, and allow them to
approach to within a distance of a few feet.

In common with many other animals, chamois dearly love salt, and in
certain districts where the rocks are flavoured with a saline taste,
the animals come in flocks to lick them. The hunters sometimes put down
salt for the benefit of the chamois, refraining, however, from shooting
them when they come to eat it, as they might thus frighten them away
from that part of the country.

There are several ways of hunting chamois. Sometimes they are driven,
either as in the great preserves of the Duke of Coburg near the
Achensee, that of the Archduke Victor near Kufstein, and others in
Tyrol and Germany (it is needless to add that there are no private
preserves in Switzerland), or in a more sportsmanlike manner, when
three or four hunters drive the chamois down from their pastures
at dawn, and, later on, remounting the slopes, drive them up again,
often imitating the barking of a dog, towards their retreat. Here
several chasseurs are lying hidden, and as soon as the animals arrive
within range, they shoot. It is, of course, often difficult to drive
the chamois in the right direction, but the knowledge of their haunts
displayed by the hunters is frequently most astonishing in its
exactitude.

The most usual way of hunting chamois is to stalk them, and I think
there can be no question as to the infinite superiority of the sport
thus obtained. I would here add, in the words of a sportsman, that “the
wholesale slaughter of an animal that Nature herself has placed in the
most sublime recesses of her creation, and endowed with such noble
qualities and wonderful organisation, is a proceeding which a true
sportsman ought not to countenance.”

It is supposed that there are as many as 2000 head of chamois in the
Grisons alone. The oldest chamois ever shot was believed to have
reached the age of forty years. It was killed in the Engadine in 1857,
but its age is probably much exaggerated. As for the heaviest chamois,
one weighing 125 Swiss pounds was shot on the Tschingel (Bernese
Oberland). I can find no record of a chamois of greater weight than
this.

It has been estimated, from measurements made on Monte Rose, that a
chamois can jump crevasses sixteen to eighteen Swiss feet in width,
while it can jump down twenty-four feet or so.

Every year the number of chamois shot in the Grisons exceeds 500, and
in December a corresponding number of skins are offered for sale at St.
Andrew’s market at Chur.

It has often been a matter for speculation as to whether the chamois
will ever become extinct in this country. I cannot think it likely
that it will. It is carefully preserved in the closed districts, and
as the wild valleys of the Alps are more and more opened up, poaching
will become more difficult and the animals consequently freer from
molestation. The more, too, that habitations increase in the higher
valleys, the wilder will the chamois probably become, and the more
difficult, therefore, to shoot; so that I do not think that we need
fear the dying out of the race.




CHAPTER VIII.

_ON GLACIERS._


The _Alpine Journal_ for November 1868 concludes with these words, “If
anybody thinks that Alpine science has been already too thoroughly
drilled into the public mind, we would refer him to a recent ridiculous
letter which the editor of the _Times_ did not think it beneath him to
publish, and in which the writer said that a ‘puff of smoke,’ as it
appeared on the mountain, ‘raised the cry that the Glacier des Pélérins
had burst, carrying with it part of the moraine which kept it within
bounds!’”

If any one had told the climbing world in those days that in 1891 the
ordinary traveller would be nearly as ignorant of the behaviour of
glaciers as was the _Times_ correspondent referred to above, I fancy
the prophet would have been received with derision. Such, however, I
know to be the case; and only last year, while walking up Piz Languard
with a party of friends, I was asked if the medial moraine of the
Morteratsch glacier was a carriage road or only a bridle-path! This
is my excuse for entering at some length into a subject which has
been already written about in so able a manner and in much detail by
Professors Tyndall, Forbes, Heim, Forel, and others.

Now, let me tell you something about those great icy masses which,
under the name of glaciers, thrust their cold forms far below the
region of perpetual snow, and in some cases, as, for instance, that of
the Glacier des Bossons at Chamonix, even push down their frozen waves
amongst the meadows and forests in the very trough of the valley.

I am constantly asked by those who are only acquainted with the lower
end of the glaciers how it is that they are continually and rapidly
melting at their lower extremity, and yet their general features
are but slightly altered from year to year. The obvious answer is,
that they are constantly replenished from above, and that glacier
ice has formerly been snow, which, for a considerable period, has
been subjected to enormous pressure. The common illustration of a
snow-ball, squeezed in the hand till it becomes hard and icy, explains
this transition of snow to ice in a manner easily understood by all,
and if we remember that the warm hand, in addition to the pressure,
also tends to produce the above result, we have a parallel to the
heat of the sun acting on the cold, dry snow of the upper regions.
Now, every one knows that when it rains in the valleys it snows on
the mountains, and that even during the heat of summer it very seldom
rains above a height of 11,000 to 12,000 feet. In consequence of this,
the accumulation of snow on the higher peaks is very great, and the
pressure which is exerted by its weight is enormous.

As a natural result, a portion of the ice-caps or snow-beds gravitates
downwards, and where the upper snows are of great extent and the
shape of the channel suitable, a large glacier is found, as is the
case near Pontresina, where the huge Morteratsch glacier pursues its
lengthy course, fed by the snows of the Bernina and Bellavista. The
first to speak clearly and positively on the since well-proven theory
that a glacier moves like a river was Monseigneur Rendu, a native of
Savoy. “Between the Mer de Glace and a river there is a resemblance so
complete, that it is impossible to find in the latter a circumstance
which does not exist in the former,” he writes, and Professor Tyndall
sets forth in an admirable manner the reason why a glacier moves more
quickly in the centre than at the sides. I cannot do better than quote
his own words.

“A cork, when cast upon a stream near its centre, will move more
quickly than when thrown near the side, for the progress of the stream
is retarded by its banks. As you and your guide stood together on the
solid waves of that Amazon of ice, you were borne resistlessly along.
You saw the boulders perched upon their frozen pedestals; these were
the spoils of distant hills, quarried from summits far away, and
floated to lower levels like timber blocks upon the Rhone. As you
advanced towards the centre you were carried down the valley with an
ever-augmenting velocity. You felt it not--he felt it not--still you
were borne down with a velocity which, if continued, would amount to
1000 feet a year.”

Many glaciers descend in curves, pursuing a sinuous course towards the
valley, and the convex side of the curve must, of course, hurry up very
considerably in order to keep pace with the rest. Now, as the ice thus
moves faster on the one side than on the other, the result is that the
convex side is rent and torn asunder, and splits up into those cracks
and chasms known as crevasses. Consequently, a glacier which flows
downwards in a straight direction and at a gentle incline presents a
comparatively unbroken surface, while a glacier which descends in leaps
and bounds over a steep bed and dashes round sharp corners will exhibit
all the features of an impassable ice-fall.

Striking examples of the former class of glaciers are the Aletsch
glacier, the upper portion of the Gorner glacier, the Miage glacier,
the Roseg glacier, the Pasterzen glacier, &c., and of the latter the
Bies glacier, the Brenva glacier, the Géant glacier, the Pers glacier,
and many others. The exact point at which the snow of the heights
passes into glacier ice has never been definitely determined, but each
winter’s snowfall is distinctly traceable by a band of differently-hued
snow wherever above the snow-line a glacier is much split up.

High glacier-clad mountains are covered with what is known as
_névé_--_névé_ being the finely crystallised snow of the upper regions,
which remains unmelted all the summer. The glacier ice which is formed
by pressure of this _névé_ is quite different to the ice which results
from freezing water, and is found to consist of round crystals, varying
in size from that of a hen’s egg to that of the head of a pin. Any
observant person will have noticed the ice usually supplied at Swiss
_tables-d’hôtes_, and the curious way in which it behaves as compared
with ordinary ice; for while the latter melts uniformly from the
outside, the former is honeycombed with air and water, and after a time
its peculiar structure, composed of numerous particles, is noticeable.
These crystals or particles are known as _glacier granules_ or _glacier
corn_.

The whiteness of a glacier, as compared with the blackness of a frozen
lake, is a feature which I have known to puzzle many. It is simply
owing to the presence of this glacier corn, which allows a great
quantity of air to permeate the whole mass of the ice. The beautiful
blue veined or ribboned structure, first observed by Forbes on the
Unter-Aar glacier, is due to the absence of air-bubbles, and represents
bruises in the ice where, by melting, strain, and pressure, certain
parts have had the air driven out.

We will now notice several of the peculiarities which are conspicuous
on the surface of one of these great rivers of ice. As we walk up from,
say, the Morteratsch restaurant towards the glacier of that name, we
must cross part of the stony and earthy mass known as the terminal
moraine. Now the subject of moraines is a very large one, so much so,
that we shall probably devote nearly the whole of a future chapter
to it. For the present, we will merely walk over it, and get on to
the very dirty ice of which the snout or lower end of the Morteratsch
glacier is composed. As one of the party hews out the steps by which
you mount, you have time to observe the ice crystals or glacier corn
which we have already spoken of.

Before you have gone far on the level surface of the glacier, you will
see several boulders which are resting on ice pedestals supported at
some height. These are called _glacier tables_, and result from the
presence of a block of stone which protects the ice beneath it from
the heat of the sun, thus preventing it from melting. In consequence,
while the glacier all round has been dissolving and sinking, the ice
under these boulders has but slightly melted, and gradually a pillar
of sometimes as much as four feet or more in height is formed under
each erratic block. The sun is, of course, able to reach these ice
pedestals more freely on the south than on the north side, and thus we
observe that the boulder is not balanced evenly on the top, but always
inclines downwards towards the south side; it thus has been known to
render valuable aid to the mountaineer who has lost his way in a fog or
in the dark without a compass on a glacier, as he can, by observing the
position of a glacier table, easily inform himself of the direction
in which he is walking. Small stones have a different effect, as
they sink into the ice, leaving little holes. You will also probably
notice a line of sand-covered mounds, about four or five feet high,
and culminating in a sharp point or ridge. Scrape off a little of the
sand and earth, and you will find that the mound is composed of ice,
which looks quite black where you have uncovered it. The reason for
the existence of these dirt cones is obvious; the sand has protected
the ice, which has thus remained unmelted, and being heaped up thickly
in the centre and thinning off towards the sides, has thus taken its
sharply-pointed shape.

Continuing our walk up the glacier, we hear, gradually becoming louder
and louder as we approach, the roar of falling water, and soon we reach
a point where a bright, dancing stream leaps down a shaft in the ice
and is lost to sight. Be careful how you approach this deep hole (or,
as it is called, _moulin_), for one false step on your part would take
you down far beyond all human aid. Various persons have endeavoured to
gauge the thickness of a glacier at a given point by taking soundings
down a moulin, and Agassiz found no bottom at 260 metres in one on the
Unteraar glacier; he estimated the thickness of the ice to be 1509 feet
near the Abschwung. On Piz Roseg, where the hanging glaciers end in
abrupt ice-cliffs, a thickness of 250 feet has been observed. You are
now at the foot of the lower ice-fall of the Morteratsch glacier. We
will not go farther to-day, and we have already learnt how it is that
the tottering ice masses and grim crevasses are formed. We know that
the glacier on which we are standing is slowly moving downwards (by
its weight, and by sliding in its bed, especially facilitated by its
granular structure) at, roughly, the same rate as the _hour_-hand of an
ordinary watch. It has been estimated--I believe by Mr. Tuckett--that
a grain of snow would take 450 years to travel from the summit of the
Jungfrau to the termination of the Aletsch glacier. A most painful
illustration of the rate of motion of glaciers was furnished by the
descent in the ice of the Glacier des Bossons of the bodies of Dr.
Hamel’s three guides, who lost their lives on Mont Blanc in 1820, being
carried down the _Ancien Passage_ in an avalanche, and swept into
the _bergschrund_ at its base. On August 15, 1861, Ambrose Simond, a
Chamonix guide, who was accompanying a party of tourists to the lower
extremity of the Bossons glacier, noticed in one of the crevasses torn
pieces of clothes and some human bones. He brushed off the sand with
which they were covered, and brought them to Chamonix. Five men at
once started on hearing what he had found, and they discovered other
remains at a distance of some twelve or fifteen metres lower down. From
that day, the glacier continued to give back the remains of what it
had swallowed up forty-one years before, and what was found was beyond
doubt the bodies and belongings of Dr. Hamel’s guides. All that they
had carried with them, the scientific instruments, knapsacks, gloves,
&c., were gradually set free from their icy fetters. A gauze veil came
out untorn and not much faded; and the knapsack of Pierre Carrier
contained a leg of mutton perfectly recognisable. More remarkable than
anything else was the condition of a cork, which was not only still
stained by the wine, but also possessed a perceptible odour of the
contents of the bottle in which it had been fixed. (“Le Mont Blanc,” by
Charles Durier.)

But it is time to descend, and in the next chapter I will make a few
observations on _moraines_ and the power of a glacier in planing down
or removing whatever object it meets with; this power, as a matter of
fact, being very much more limited than is popularly supposed.




CHAPTER IX.

_ON MORAINES._


Now, in order clearly to understand the formation of moraines, I must
first say a little more about the movement of glaciers and the _débris_
which they bring down.

I have sometimes heard unthinking persons remark that the snowfall
of each winter must tend to increase the height of snow-peaks. This
observation shows that such people entirely overlook the four great
factors in the maintenance of a uniform height on mountain summits,
namely, melting, evaporation (which, in the dry air of the heights, is
a very powerful factor in causing the disappearance of snow), glaciers,
and avalanches. It is to the two latter of these that we must look for
the construction of moraines, in which work they are very largely aided
by two other factors, frost and rain. The glacier, starting in its
infant purity from some white, unsullied peak, loses, before many years
have past, its spotless character. The wintry frosts, gathering into
iron bonds the streams which trickle down the mountain-sides, expand
the water in freezing, and shatter the rocks with a force that the most
solid cliffs cannot resist. Broken and weathered fragments are washed
down from the slopes on every fall of rain, and dropping on to the once
unspotted bosom of the glacier, swell the burden which is gradually
laid upon it with advancing years. Spring after spring, furious
avalanches rush down, laden with earth and stones, which they fling
recklessly upon the now begrimed edges of the icy stream. The winds
and storms, too, contribute their share of dust and sand, and as the
glacier still flows on, shrunken in size and laden with heaps of earth
and rocks, at length it lays itself to rest, a mass of dirty ice and
stones, in the valley towards which it has been ceaselessly progressing.

The glacier of the Alps which comes farthest down into the lower
regions is the Grindelwald glacier, which descended to 1080 metres
above sea-level in 1870, while that which presents the largest surface
is the Aar glacier, and the longest is the Aletsch. Heim gives an
estimate, in his valuable work on glaciers, of the number of glaciers
existing in Europe, dividing them into those of the first and second
order.

The list is as follows:--


                    1st Order.  2nd Order.  Total.
     Switzerland       138        333         471
     Austria            71        391         462
     France             25        119         144
     Italy              15         63          78
                       ---        ---       -----
                       249        906       1,155


Glaciers have regular periods during which they advance or retreat.
Many persons who visited the Mer de Glace some twenty or more years
ago remember that it then came down nearly to the level of the valley
of Chamonix, while the Rhone glacier reached almost to where the lower
hotel now stands. In old days, too, the two arms of the Fee glacier
united below the Gletscher alp, so that the cows had to pass across the
ice in order to reach their summer pastures. A period of advance is
always preceded for some years by a noticeable swelling of the upper
portions of glaciers; this, of course, is quite what one would expect.
A succession of cold, rainy summers and exceptionally snowy winters
eventually causes an increase in the glaciers, and the reverse has
naturally the contrary effect.

You have learnt that a moraine is a mixture of earth and stones which
is borne down by a glacier, and you know how all this _débris_ has
accumulated on the ice, chiefly by means of the shattering power of
frost on the rocks. Now let us notice the position which moraines
assume on a glacier like, say, the Morteratsch. As I have said, persons
unaccustomed to the mountain world, and thus unable to estimate the
relative sizes of objects seen at a distance, have been known to
inquire, when ascending Piz Languard, if the dark streak down the
centre of the Morteratsch glacier is a path. They are astonished to
learn that it is about fifty feet or more broad, and perhaps twenty
feet high in the centre. It is, in fact, neither more nor less than
a moraine, and belongs to that class known as medial moraines. Each
glacier has a moraine on either side of it, and when two glaciers
unite, their lateral moraines join and form a medial moraine. The
moraine at the end of a glacier (terminal moraine) is almost entirely
formed of the earth and stones which fall off the end of a glacier, and
not, as used to be supposed, by any pushing or scooping of the base of
the glacier.

In fact, the erosive power of a glacier is infinitesimal as compared
with that of water. Dr. Heim cites various examples to show that a
glacier leaves undisturbed much of what it finds in its way, and he
says that the Forno glacier, which some years ago greatly retreated
and left blocks of itself covered with _débris_ behind, rapidly
advanced once more in 1884 over the old accumulations at its base, but
did not disturb them in any way. Many of our readers will have noticed
the many glacier-worn rocks in the Engadine valley; they are especially
abundant near Maloja.

Now it will be seen, on near examination, that these rocks have been
gently polished by the ice constantly slipping over them, and that they
have not those deep smooth hollows which are formed by rushing, eddying
water.

The great glaciers which, in the glacier period, flowed down from
Mont Blanc to the Jura have left ample proof of their origin in the
huge blocks of granite which were transported by the ice, and now lie
stranded on the hill-sides at a distance of sixty miles and more from
the rocks out of which they were quarried. The size of some of these
erratic blocks is very remarkable. The biggest boulder in the Alps is
in Val Masino (one of the Italian valleys near the Bernina district).
Its dimensions, according to the late Mr. Ball, are--length, 250 feet;
breadth, 120 feet; height, 140 feet; in fact, as Mr. Douglas Freshfield
remarks, “as tall as an average church tower, and large enough to fill
up many a London square.” Many of my readers will remember the great
serpentine boulder in front of the little inn at Maltmark, which was no
doubt brought down by the glacier which must have originally filled the
basin of the lake. The ancient moraines near Aosta are also remarkable
evidences of the glacial epoch.

One word here as to the shape of a moraine. It rises, as you know, to
a ridge in the centre, and slopes down like the roof of a house at the
sides. This is because the heaping together of the earth and stones
in the middle has protected the ice from melting as rapidly there as
towards the sides; in fact, the same cause brings about the shape of
moraines as applies in that of sand cones.

I will close this chapter by a brief explanation of an appearance
which many of my readers who have visited Montanvert may have noticed,
especially on cloudy, dull days and after sunset. I refer to _dirt
bands_, which are especially noticeable on the Mer de Glace. I observed
them under peculiarly favourable circumstances from the summit of the
Grandes Jorasses, when a cloudy sky showed them up most distinctly.
They are often seen from the Montanvert hotel, however, and take the
form of dark bands across the glacier, the convex side of the curve
of each being in the direction of the motion of the ice. These dirt
bands are very simple in their origin, which is as follows:--At the
foot of an ice-fall the tottering blocks reunite and freeze together,
presenting a tolerably smooth surface with gentle undulations. The
glacier streams sweep dust and small _débris_ into the depressions,
which gradually form themselves across the glacier. This dust finally
freezes into the ice, and lower down presents the appearance of the
famed dirt bands.

Sometimes a photograph will give dirt bands with great distinctness;
they are very clearly seen in a view of the Mer de Glace from the
Aiguilles Rouge, taken by the late Mr. W. F. Donkin.




CHAPTER X.

_ON AVALANCHES._


Those who during the summer of 1888 visited Switzerland had very
unusual opportunities for studying both the appearance and the effect
of avalanches. It is, indeed, rare to see a huge mass of winter snow
lying in the Rosegthal in mid-summer, and the remains of numerous other
avalanches were that year still unmelted in many high-lying Alpine
valleys. I wonder if the crowds who, out of curiosity, visited the
snowy _débris_, knew anything of the various causes which formed the
avalanche and launched it down the hill-side, or if they could tell to
what class of avalanche it belonged, and at what time of year it is
likely to have fallen.

Avalanches vary immensely in their characteristics, and can be
classed under three headings according to their peculiarities. The
different kinds of avalanches are as follows:--_Staublawinen_, or dust
avalanches; _Grundlawinen_, or compact avalanches; _Eislawinen_, or
ice avalanches. Dust avalanches are the most to be feared of any,
for while the others fall according to certain well-known rules and
at particular times of the year, the dust avalanches are erratic in
their movements, uncertain in the periods at which they come down, and
most terrible in their results. Dust avalanches consist of cold, dry,
powdery snow, which falling on a slope of ice or hard snow, or even on
a steep slope of grass, slides off on the slightest provocation.

Often, if a bit of overhanging snow falls on the upper part of the
hill-side, or if an animal disturbs the newly fallen mass, or perhaps
if a gust of wind suddenly detaches it from the surface on which it
rests, the whole accumulation begins to move down, gently and quietly
at first, and then with ever-increasing power and a deafening roar,
uprooting trees, carrying away châlets and whatever happens to be in
its course, and leaping like a huge stream of spray-covered water
from precipice to precipice, till it makes one final bound across the
valley, the impetus of its course frequently carrying it up for some
distance on the opposite slope. The wind which accompanies such an
avalanche is far more powerful than a raging hurricane, and it often
levels trees and buildings, forces in windows and doors, and carries
heavy objects to an incredible distance. One of the most remarkable
performances I know of in connection with dust avalanches took place in
the Engadine, when the wind preceding a huge mass of snow, rushing down
the hill-side, blew five telegraph posts flat down, although the snow
itself did not come within 500 feet of them.

“Constant readers” of the _St. Moritz Post_ will remember that in an
account of the avalanches of the winter of 1887-88 which appeared
in the first number of the summer issue, it was stated that, on the
occasion of the fall of two great avalanches into Saas-Grund, most of
the windows and doors in the village were forced in from the pressure
of air. While dealing with the subject of dust avalanches and the
effects of the powerful wind which accompanies them, I may mention that
Tschudi relates in his “Monde des Alpes” that such avalanches will
sweep châlets and trees from the ground, and carry them, whirling like
straws in a storm, through the air, dropping them at a distance of 400
feet. Châlets, filled with hay, and quite uninjured, have been found,
it is said, some two hundred yards and more from the termination of the
_débris_ of an avalanche, the wind preceding which had blown them right
across the valley.

In the year 1689 an enormous avalanche, which in the annals of the
Grisons is spoken of as the most fearful one on record in the canton,
came down from the heights above the village of Saas, in the Prättigau,
and demolished 150 houses. Amongst the _débris_, which had been swept
by the avalanche to a considerable distance, a rescue party discovered
a baby lying safe and sound in his cradle, while six eggs were found
uninjured in a basket close at hand.

Another sort of avalanche which can be roughly classed under the
above heading is formed by the sudden descent of an overhanging mass
of snow. The slightest movement in the air will often suffice to
break the cornice, and it straightway comes rolling down the slope.
Such avalanches are not usually much to be feared, though a notable
exception to this fact was furnished on the Bernhardino Pass, when
the mass of falling snow, overtaking the post in its passage, carried
thirteen persons and a number of sledges over the precipice into the
gorge beneath.

Dust avalanches are very frequently met with in summer after fresh snow
by climbers amongst the higher peaks of the Alps-. It was an avalanche
of this kind which caused the Matterhorn accident of 1887, and the
account which Herr A. Lorria has given of the event is so realistic,
and conveys so exactly to the mind what the nature of such an
avalanche is, that I extract the following from the _St. Moritz Post_
of January 28, 1888, for the benefit of my readers:--

“Gently from above an avalanche of snow came sliding down upon us;
it carried Lammer away in spite of his efforts, and it projected me
with my head against a rock. Lammer was blinded by the powdery snow,
and thought that his last hour was come. The thunder of the roaring
avalanche was fearful; we were dashed over rocks laid bare in the
avalanche track, and leaped over two immense _bergschrunds_. At every
change in the slope we flew into the air, and then were plunged again
into the snow, and often dashed against one another. For a long time it
seemed to Lammer as if all were over, countless thoughts were thronging
through his brain, until at last the avalanche had expended its force,
and we were left lying on the Tiefenmatten glacier. The height of our
fall was estimated by the engineer Imfeldt at from 550 to 800 feet.”

In winter, when a fall of snow takes place on steep mountain-sides,
scores of such avalanches may be seen dropping like shining threads
down the cliffs. The face of the Eiger seen from Grindelwald in early
spring is often fringed with tiny cascades of snow, while the rocks of
the Wetterhorn[4] send down avalanches almost incessantly on the first
sunny March morning after a snowfall.

The huge avalanches which, after a severe winter, summer visitors to
Switzerland see lying in high Alpine valleys, covered with dust and
stones, and with great trunks and branches of trees frozen into them,
belong to the class of avalanches known as _Grundlawinen_, or compact
avalanches. They usually fall from year to year in the same track, and
come down, according to the warmth or severity of the season, during
February and March. One year I saw a very large one fall in the Züge,
near Davos-Platz, as late as the 3rd May.

In order for a really large compact avalanche to form, something more
than the steep slope which is the birthplace of dust avalanches is
necessary. The most dangerous formation of a hill-side, as regards
compact avalanches, is the following. First, there must be, high up on
the mountain, a collecting basin or valley, sloping somewhat downwards,
in which a large amount of snow can accumulate. Secondly, leading from
this basin must be a treeless slope, not too steep, on which snow will
lie unless urged down by a considerable disturbance from above. In
some seasons, when but little snow falls, no avalanche will take place
under the conditions described. In others, when storm after storm has
piled tons of snow in the upland valley, the warm, dry _föhn_ wind will
cause the mass to become detached from the earth on which it rests, and
suddenly the entire winter’s store will come dashing down towards the
valley, forming an avalanche such as visitors to the Engadine in the
summer of 1888 saw in the Rosegthal and Beversthal.

These compact avalanches are composed, by the time they reach the end
of their course, of stones, earth, roots and branches of trees, all
frozen together by the heavy, wet snow in which they are encased. A
story is told of a man who was overtaken on the Splügen by such an
avalanche, and though he escaped from death, part of his coat was so
firmly frozen into the icy mass, that he could not get it away. It is
very remarkable that a person buried at a great depth in an avalanche
of this kind can distinctly hear every word that those who are trying
to find him may utter, though it is impossible for them to hear his
cries.

The snow of an avalanche has the same power as the ice of a glacier
in the preservation of whatever animal matter may be embedded in it.
On one occasion the bodies of a chamois and her young one were found
in an avalanche in Tyrol in a fit condition for food, on its melting
two years after it came down, its huge size having prevented its
disappearance the first summer.

These huge _Grundlawinen_ come down, as I have already said, in
the same track season after season; it is therefore reasonable to
suppose that the inhabitants of districts peculiarly exposed to such
avalanches would try and control their snowy invaders by every means
in their power; and, in truth, this is just what is done to a certain
extent, though a neglect of the most obvious precautions prevailed
in the country till quite within recent years. Even now one is often
astonished at the amount of unnecessary damage which the Swiss will
calmly allow an avalanche year after year to do, till they suddenly
awake to the fact that a wall or two across the _couloir_ (or avalanche
track) may make the whole difference between their being able or not
to cultivate a certain sunny meadow in the valley, which has hitherto
been plentifully strewn with stones and other _débris_ regularly every
spring.

It is a well-known fact that by far the best preservative against
avalanches is a thickly wooded slope, and the Swiss authorities, fully
recognising this, have of late years caused a very large amount of
replanting to be carried out, and are most stringent in their rules
regulating the cutting of trees. By great trouble and care being taken
concerning the forests, Switzerland could be freed to a large extent
from the destruction wrought by avalanches.

In many places travellers will notice avalanche-breakers, in the
form of triangular stone walls, which have been erected to protect
whole villages, or individual houses or churches. There is an
avalanche-breaker of this sort at Frauenkirch, near Davos-Platz,
where the north wall of the church is constructed so that, should
an avalanche sweep down upon it, the surface exposed to its full
fury being pointed in shape, tends to divide and turn aside the snow
directly the point comes in contact with the avalanche. Similar
breakers may be seen attached to several houses in the same and
other neighbourhoods. Fences or stone walls across steep slopes, or
stakes driven into the ground at intervals, are also a very efficient
hindrance to the descent of avalanches. Visitors at St. Moritz have
doubtless noticed the contrivances of this sort on the slope descending
from the Alp Laret to the Cresta Fussweg; they are well seen by
any one standing on the high-road near the Bär Inn (famed for the
quaint caricature fresco portraits on its exterior of the late Lord
Beaconsfield and Mr. Gladstone).

It is marvellous to notice how weak an obstacle will hold back the
largest avalanche before the snow is set in motion, and yet once the
great mass is launched down on its destructive career, it sweeps all
before it.

The balled structure of a compact avalanche, which those who visit
it within a few weeks of its fall will have remarked, is caused by
the damp snow having rolled over and over till the circular form of
its particles resulted. I remember an enormous avalanche of this kind
which fell near Bouveret (Vaud) at the end of March 1886. It came from
the Gramont, and rushing some 4000 feet down the mountain, dashed
across the railway and the road, and ended its course in the lake. It
fortunately came down at night--which seems odd, till one remembers
that the slope from which it descended faced north--so no accident
resulted, and the following afternoon all Montreux flocked across the
lake, to wonder at the high walls of the cutting which had been made to
allow the trains to pass, and to pelt each other with the snowy balls
which had rolled hither and thither amongst the violets and primroses
of spring.

_Grundlawinen_ often attain a mass of 100,000 cubic metres (Heim,
“_Gletscherkunde_”). The great “_Raschitsch_” avalanche near Zernez
(Lower Engadine), which fell on April 23, 1876, across the high-road
into the river, was 168 metres wide, 12 metres thick, and 300 metres
long, 600,000 cubic metres in bulk, and the tunnel cut through to allow
the traffic to be carried on was 75 metres long. This avalanche was
much exceeded in dimensions by the one which fell in February 1888 near
Glarus-Davos, of which the snow-tunnel was upwards of three hundred
feet in length, and over twelve feet high. This avalanche is noted
throughout Switzerland, and is known as the “_Schwabentobellawine_.” It
only falls in very snowy seasons, but when it does come down, it is of
enormous size.

In the year 1888 it carried away a road-mender, whose body was only
discovered some three months later; it was found on the right bank of
the Landwasser, having evidently been blown across the river by the
wind preceding the avalanche.

Avalanches have sometimes caused disastrous floods by falling into the
beds of rivers and damming up the water. On January 29, 1827, Süs
suffered from a similar occurrence, the Inn being completely blocked
up for several hours during the night, and the water flooding the
village in consequence. It would be wearying to give more than these
few examples of the effects of _Grundlawinen_, we will therefore pass
on to the subject of ice-avalanches. These must be a tolerably familiar
sight to most persons who have travelled in Switzerland, judging by
the crowds who, day after day throughout the summer, sit outside the
little inns of the Wengern Alp or Kleine Scheideck, dividing their
attention between their luncheons and the thundering falls of ice from
the glaciers of the Jungfrau.

Ice-avalanches are quite different to both the other kinds, inasmuch as
they always fall from glaciers.

As my readers doubtless know, a glacier moves downwards day by day,
sometimes an inch or two, sometimes as much as two feet. Well,
many glaciers, after quitting the snow-beds by which they are fed,
suddenly find themselves at the top of a precipice. Under these
circumstances, as they are unable to stand still, there is but one
thing for them to do, viz., go over; and as ice, though plastic, is
by no means so to the extent that treacle--to which glacier ice has
so often been likened--is, it is obvious that a slice will break
off the advancing tongue of the glacier, and come thundering down
the rocks, to form material for another glacier below, or, if the
quantity is insufficient, to melt gradually away. Now, this form of an
ice-avalanche is known in endless varieties to the mountain-climber,
but perhaps the most frequent thing of the kind which he meets with is
the fall of _séracs_ (or icy pinnacles) during his passage through an
ice-fall.

Those who have visited the upper part of the Morteratsch glacier will
recollect ice-falls such as I have referred to; the one, that of the
Pers glacier, the other, the so-called Labyrinth, coming down from
Piz Bernina; and fine ice-avalanches are often seen falling from the
ice-cap of Piz Morteratsch. The _séracs_ passed through in making the
passage of the Col du Géant from Chamonix or Courmayeur are also apt
to tumble about at inconvenient times, and many other glaciers are
conspicuous for these particular features.

Perhaps the best position in Switzerland from which to view
ice-avalanches is the Wengern Alp, from whence the glaciers which cling
to the Jungfrau can daily be seen dropping tons of ice down the scarred
slopes, a white cloud hanging for several minutes over the spot where a
great piece of ice has been ground to powder by its fall.

Even the proverbially safe Mont Blanc contrives occasionally to
allow one or two of the ice-pillars which fringe the Dôme du Gôuter
to overbalance and dash right across the Petit Plateau below, over
the very track by which parties make the ascent. It is odd that this
bombardment has never hitherto caused an accident on Mont Blanc, though
when one bears in mind the hundreds of stones which are annually kicked
down the Matterhorn regardless of the number of people on whose heads
they may descend, and that there, too, no fatal accident has resulted
from that cause, one feels sure that a special providence watches over
the inexperienced class of _intrépides_ who throng Mont Blanc and rush
in scores up the Cervin.[5]

Ice-avalanches have occasionally done immense damage when large falls
have taken place into inhabited valleys, as, for instance, when part of
the Bies glacier came down, and the wind preceding it overthrew Randa.
This circumstance is so well known, being so often referred to in
guide-books, that I will not enter into details here. Full particulars
can be found in Dr. Forbes’s work, “A Physician’s Holiday.”

FOOTNOTES:

[4] In October 1891, I was fortunate enough to secure a photograph of
an avalanche in the act of falling from the Wetterhorn. This may now be
seen at Messrs. Spooner’s, 379 Strand.

[5] Since writing the above, an accident resulting in the death of a
traveller and a guide took place on the Petit Plateau.




CHAPTER XI.

_THE BERNINA-SCHARTE._


The general reader may perhaps find the following description somewhat
dry; the climber may share his opinion. Having fairly warned both, and
promising to make my account as short as possible, I will now embark
upon it.

Piz Bernina is the highest mountain in the Grisons, a canton in which
climbing is rather neglected. It is a pity that more members of the
A.C. do not go there, especially now that several good guides are
available; but I am digressing already, so _revenons au Piz Bernina_.
This peak is frequently ascended by the ordinary route, but until last
summer seldom by any of the other lines of attack. The time has now
come, however, when the route by the “Scharte” is the most popular.

The first ascent of Piz Bernina by the “Scharte” was made in 1879 by
Dr. Güssfeldt, who considered it so difficult that he left a bottle
in the gap, with a notice inside it to the effect that he defied
any one to bring it down. But on August 6, 1883, Dr. Schultz, with
Alexander Burgener and C. Perren, repeated the expedition, and brought
Dr. Güssfeldt’s bottle back with them. Commenting on this, the _Alpine
Journal_ says: “We regret to say that this most dangerous expedition
was effected a fourth time in August 1884 (by Herren Zsigmondy and
Purtscheller without guides, who slept two nights on the way), and that
there is some talk of building a hut to facilitate the climb, though
we trust the scheme will never be carried out.” From this reputation
the route by the “Scharte” has gradually fallen--or risen, as I prefer
to call it--to what it is at present. In 1889 Mr. W. E. Davidson
wrote, “The Scharte is easy, the _arête_ a fine climb;” and now we
find that the excursion has been undertaken twelve times alone under
Martin Schocher’s guidance. The route having now lost its terrors, an
account of an ascent may interest that section of our country-folk who
propose following in our footsteps. I had often thought of making the
expedition, but had taken no definite steps towards accomplishing it,
till one day I heard that a party had just returned from descending
Piz Bernina by this route. “Now,” thought I, “here is my opportunity.
The steps are made, the mountain is known to be in good order, why
not start at once?” But the elements were against me. No sooner did we
reach the Misaun Alp than a terrific thunderstorm burst upon us, and
farther advance was impossible. Nor could we renew our attempt, for
heavy snow fell, and climbing was at an end for that season. But the
following year I returned to the attack, and though the weather nearly
checkmated me again, we contrived to carry our plans through with
success.

On this occasion we took up our quarters for the night under a boulder
about an hour and a half farther than the Roseg restaurant. We set out
in perfect weather, but towards evening clouds drifted up, and as the
sky gradually became more and more obscured, our spirits sank lower and
lower, till at midnight, when the guides relit the fire, an ominous
drip-drip-drip on the boards which we had propped up against the
boulder as a shelter from the wind, caused a feeling akin to despair to
steal over us. Weibel indulged in a few forcible expressions towards
the elements, while Schocher and I made tea and gloomily discussed the
situation. Of course, the Bernina by the Scharte in bad weather was out
of the question for prudent people like ourselves; still we did not
wish to return whence we came. We had almost resolved, “if the worst
came to the worst,” to stretch our limbs by crossing Piz Morteratsch
to the Boval hut, when a brilliant idea came to me. “Schocher,” I said,
“let us go up Piz Prievlusa!” Now, I must here state that the route for
this peak (which up to now has been but once ascended) is the same for
a considerable distance as that for the Prievlusa Saddle, and to the
Prievlusa Saddle we had to go for the Bernina-Scharte. Schocher jumped
at my suggestion, and no sooner was our plan decided on than the rain
saw fit to stop. The sky, however, was still darkened by clouds, though
every now and then a star shone out from a ragged hole in the mists.

We collected our baggage, put the rugs and saucepan in a heap for the
porter to fetch down later in the day, and at 1.15 A.M. were off. I
must say that my hopes of getting up the Bernina were at a low ebb,
the only feeling I associate with the occasion being one of drowsy
stubbornness--in fact, a sensation of walking as in a dream, I knew not
whither.

As we neared the mountain, and dawn came on apace, cloud-banners were
seen drifting wildly from the sharp and jagged crest. Weibel pointed
to them, exclaiming that we could never pass along the ridge in such
a wind; but Schocher, after examining the flying clouds with care,
pronounced them of no importance, as they were blowing down, and
not across the ridge. I was much struck with the skill he showed in
coming to this conclusion, which, later on, turned out to be perfectly
accurate.

By daybreak we had a large expanse of blue over our heads, and though
fleecy clouds clung to most of the neighbouring summits, the Bernina
remained persistently clear, save for an occasional shred of mist
streaming from the upper rocks. At 5.30 we gained the pass between Piz
Prievlusa and Pizzo Bianco, known as the Fuorcla Prievlusa. Making our
way to the Morteratsch side, we sat in the welcome rays of the sun on a
rocky ledge at the top of a grand wall, up the face of which the pass
is reached from the Boval side. Here we breakfasted, and then continued
our way towards Piz Bernina. The first bit of the ridge, until the
rocks were gained, was the most unpleasant piece of work we encountered
during the whole climb. The snow here was in bad order, the step from
it on to the rocks was awkwardly steep and long, and I, for one, was
glad to get my foot on to a more solid surface, and to profit by the
good handhold available. The rock _arête_ affords pleasant climbing,
but from the point where it ceases to the summit of Pizzo Bianco
is a long grind over snow. Every step had to be cut, and Schocher
hacked almost without ceasing till we reached the Pizzo Bianco, from
where the really interesting portion of the ascent commences. An hour
or so earlier we had seen another party rapidly mounting the snow
slopes below the Fuorcla. It consisted of Messrs. Scriven and West,
accompanied by Peter Dangl of Sulden and a local guide, by name Joos
Grass. The latter, oddly enough, I had met on a previous ascent of the
Bernina by the ordinary route; both on that occasion and the climb I
am now writing of he impressed me favourably. This party had spent the
night at the inn in the Rosegthal, which they had not left till 3 A.M.

After nearly an hour’s halt on Pizzo Bianco, we once more got under
weigh, and, as we were starting, the others joined us, and paused in
their turn for a meal on the point we were quitting. I had thus the
pleasure of traversing a narrow rock ridge with four critical pairs of
eyes watching my awkward movements from a first-rate point of view.
Fain would I have clung on with my hands; my pride obliged me to walk
uprightly whenever such a mode of progression was at all possible. I
had a sneaking conviction that there was hardly a single place where,
not only was it possible, but even tolerably easy, and that the sense
of obligation was good discipline in forcing me to strive after better
“form” than usual.

The descent into the “Scharte” (or cleft in the _arête_) proved simple
enough, with the knowledge that until I reached the bottom Schocher
was bestriding the ridge above, and was “_ganz fest_.” He followed
with ease and rapidity, and turning the party the other way on, began
to cut steps round the great rocky tower which here bars the ridge.
The _couloir_ was ice throughout, and we spent a lot of time before we
were clear of it at the foot of the final peak of the Bernina. Climbing
up this without difficulty, though delayed somewhat by the fresh snow
overlying the rocks, we reached the top at 10.30, the other party
following immediately in our wake.

The weather, which had behaved better than we had dared to hope, now
gave up the paths of virtue, and a thick mist, with lightly falling
snow, hid everything at more than a few yards’ distance from our view.
However, we had reached our goal, and the clouds could now do their
worst without endangering our return. So after half an hour’s halt, we
started off in a cheerful frame of mind for Boval. How we scrambled
down the _arête_, glissaded over the snow-fields, and raced through the
Labyrinth, need not be told. We got to Boval early in the afternoon in
steady and soaking rain, and astonished the people at the restaurant by
dropping down upon them out of the clouds from Piz Bernina. So ended
our day’s excursion.




CHAPTER XII.

_IN PRAISE OF AUTUMN._


I am one of those eccentric persons who consider autumn better than
summer for climbing. “One of those,” did I say? Perhaps it would be
nearer the mark to say that I have often been the sole representative
of the scrambling fraternity haunting mountain centres from choice
at that season. You suppose I have a reason for my partiality for
that time of year? Yes; in fact, I have several. First, I am a
coward, and to encounter a thunderstorm on a peak, and have my axe
go _ziz-ziz-ziz_, while my hair stands straight up on my head, would
terrify me into fits. Now, in autumn one seldom has thunderstorms.
Then I have an aversion to tourists. In autumn there are few tourists;
again, I hate to be roasted for thirteen or fourteen hours and to wade
through deep snow. In autumn the days are short, the air is fresh,
the snow is usually in first-rate order. Once more, I do not love
sleeping in huts which, being built for eight persons, have to supply
shelter--it is little more--for perhaps twenty-four. In autumn one has
the huts to oneself.

Now, have I not made out a pretty strong case? Can you wonder that I
have prowled round the Pennine Alps and the Oberland in September and
October rather than in July and August?

To prove that one can climb as well in autumn as in summer, I will give
a short account of some excursions made in past years at that season.
They will be, alas! unexciting reading, like most things “written for
a purpose.” Many climbers are fully aware of the truth of what I urge,
but numerous beginners in mountain-craft lose heart when a heavy fall
of snow occurs at the end of August or the beginning of September,
and, packing up their traps, leave the Alps in disgust. In addition
to the expeditions described below, I have been up the Dent Blanche,
Zinal-Rothhorn, Ober-Gabelhorn, Trifthorn from Triftjoch, Mont Collon,
Rimpfischhorn, Eiger, Wetterhorn, and other peaks, and (herein lies the
gist of the whole matter) found most of them in first-class order at
that season.

One evening in September, I found myself, with Ulrich Kaufmann and
“Caucasus” Jossi, the sole occupants of that very comfortable hut, the
Schwarzegg. For some time this hut has been in Jossi’s charge, and
consequently neatness reigns supreme. We were a cheery party. The sky
was cloudless, the moon would be full for our start, the great, solid
crags of the Schreckhorn, ruddy in the glow of sunset, hung invitingly
over us. We had slept out for the same peak a week earlier, but bad
weather had driven us down to the valley without our having taken one
step beyond the hut. Now all was changed, and we felt no doubt as to
the success of our coming excursion.

At 2 A.M., in moonlight clear as the light of the sun, we were off.
The Schreckhorn, it seems to me, has not received its due measure of
praise. It has much to recommend it. There is no moraine. An easy path
leads in ten minutes or so to the snow. Then a steady ascent, varied
by rocks, brings the traveller by breakfast-time to the base of the
upper glacier. It was at some distance below this place, in the snow
_couloir_, that Mr. Munz was killed by falling ice.[6] I could not at
all understand this accident, for on no part of our route was there
danger from this source.[7] But the guides explained that that season,
and for some years before, the top of the _couloir_ had been filled up
by a small hanging glacier. Peter Baumann, shrewd old man, had always
urged the knocking down of this glacier, which would have been a simple
piece of work. But the matter was allowed to slide, till one fine day
the whole mass of ice broke away and dashed down the slope. The death
of Herr Munz, who was struck by some of the falling fragments, was the
result.

The upper _couloirs_, by which the mountain is seamed, were ice, but my
guides, with their usual judgment, kept as clear as possible of them,
and we mounted by a rib of rocks. Twice we crossed the _couloir_, but
at that early hour there was no danger, and Kaufmann made great steps,
like miniature arm-chairs, so that we could get over very rapidly
coming back.

From the Saddle we saw, somewhat to our disgust, that there was a
considerable amount of snow on the _arête_. This made our progress
rather slow, so that it was not till 9.15 that we found ourselves
on the summit, a dome of snow. The view was exquisite; but that day
week, when, in equally beautiful weather, I found myself on the top
of the Lauteraarhorn, I had to confess that the view from that peak
is infinitely finer. In the first place, the Schreckhorn, seen from
so near, and from a peak less than 150 feet lower, is a grand object,
and its noble proportions and bare cliffs impressed me as few, if any,
mountains have done before, while I almost trembled to think that
but seven days earlier we had ventured up its precipitous sides, so
deceptive and complete is the idea conveyed of its excessive steepness.
Then, the Lauteraarhorn is much better placed with regard to that
most graceful of Oberland peaks, the Finsteraarhorn--the “dark dove
horn!” and from it, too, the beautiful curves of the Aar glacier,
winding away towards the Grimsel, are seen to perfection. But here am
I, describing the view from the Lauteraarhorn, while all the time I am
on the Schreckhorn. One glimpse they both give--that of the Lake of
Thun, with the white spire of the church of Spiez nestling among trees
close to the blue water’s edge, while behind roll range upon range of
purple hills, lost far away in a warm haze which mingles with the soft
tints of the cloudless sky. These Oberland views can indeed boast of
the ever-attractive charm of contrast; on the one side, ice, snow,
precipices of naked rock, utter sternness and absence of vegetation;
on the other, blue lakes, white villages, deep green meadows, abundant
evidences of human life and industry.

But I become insufferably tedious. Let me hasten away from
mountain-tops and descend to less romantic regions. We got down to
the saddle very pleasantly, and from there to the hut more or less
uncomfortably, exchanging nasty sharp, loose rocks for waist-deep
snow, with anything but complimentary remarks on both. We were safely
in the Schwarzegg by 2 P.M., and discussing an elaborate tea, the
guides’ chief idea of that beverage being to put in as little of the
chief ingredient, and as much sugar as supplies admitted of. Tea being
concluded, and supper in course of preparation, we looked out for our
porter, who had orders to bring up our stock of provisions for the
ascent of the Finsteraarhorn the next day. Presently we noticed two
figures crossing the ice, who, on approaching, turned out to be Herr
Theophile Boss and the porter. The former had made an attempt on the
Finsteraarhorn the previous week, and had been driven back by bad
weather, so I had asked him to join us on our ascent.

During our evening meal, Kaufmann staggered us by remarking in his
quiet way that we had better go to bed early, as he proposed calling
us at 11 P.M. We protested loudly, but he only added in his calm
tones, “Or perhaps half-past ten.” So, still grumbling, we hastily
crept to our straw, and I, for one, can answer for it that I did not
know much more till Jossi began to light the fire, when I turned over
and had another sleep. No doubt our reluctance to shorten our night’s
rest caused the preparations for departure to take longer than usual.
Anyhow, it was 12.40 before I found myself, in a very bad temper,
trying to keep awake at the door of the hut, while the final look round
for articles possibly forgotten was being given by the guides.

We anticipated a lot of step-cutting, so the porter came with us in
order to give the guides less to carry. As before, it was a cloudless,
moonlight night, and so far windless. We made rapid progress to the
Finsteraarjoch, reaching the foot of that vile place, the Agassiz-joch,
while it was still dark. Here we paused for food, and just as the grey
light of dawn was stealing over the sky, we began to go up, and up, and
up, till we felt like the poor wretches who climb the tall chimneys of
factories. At last we took to a rib of rock, very steep and planted in
ice, to say nothing of various embellishments of the same substance
at intervals along the surface. It was heart-breaking work. There
was the pass close at hand, and yet we never seemed to get any nearer
to it. But after what seemed ages, Jossi gave a sigh of satisfaction,
and quitting the rocks, began to traverse the snow. Soon we reached a
warm and sheltered spot, where we suggested a halt for luncheon in the
genial rays of the sun. But no; it was not the usual luncheon-place;
people always had lunch on the Saddle (five minutes farther), and
therefore we must have lunch on the Saddle. Theophile ventured to
protest, and was promptly sat upon; so to the Saddle we went. There we
had our appetites interfered with by various things. First, we were
disquieted by the aspect of the ridge, now first completely seen,
which had put on an entire and apparently not too closely fitting suit
of ice and powdery snow. Of rocks one hardly saw a trace. The guides
munched very fast, nodded their heads, addressed warm expressions
of disapprobation to the ridge, and seemed very jolly on the top of
everything. The wind blew, our teeth chattered, the eatables nearly
froze, and we, too, pretended we were having an awfully good time.
But the happiest moments come to an end, and so did our luncheon,
after which, blue of nose and hand, we struggled along in the face
of a driving mist. Well, it was not so bad as it looked. The guides
spared no trouble, and dug out the buried rocks like terriers after
a field-mouse. Progress was necessarily slow, and we did not seem to
make much way. At last the Hugi Saddle was reached, and the work became
easier. The snow was now firmer, we could kick out good steps without
difficulty. Finally the slope eased off, and in a few minutes we stood
by the stone man on the summit. The view was fine, the mist having
cleared off just as we reached the top. But it was already eleven
o’clock, so we did not stay long, but began the descent after about
ten minutes’ halt on the summit. The climb down to the Agassiz-joch
was long; it took us nearly four hours, including half-an-hour for
lunch, to get there. It was thus almost 4 P.M. when we embarked in
that charming slope. Tedious as had been our ascent of it, our descent
was much worse; and there are stones, and when stones make descents,
they do it pretty quickly. But we won’t talk of the stones; none of us
got our heads broken. Well, we came down that nice lively slope and
the icy rocks, and got into the _couloir_, and came down that; and at
last--being late in the year--it grew dusk. We were beginning to think
that we must be somewhere near the first of the _bergschrunds_ (I
cannot conscientiously say that they were more than a couple of inches
wide), when suddenly the porter exclaimed, “I can’t find the track!”
We could not make this out. The steps had been easily felt a moment
before. He fumbled about for a bit, but still without success; so
Theophile, who was just behind, went down a few steps and put out his
hand to feel for them. Instantly he drew it back, and said in rather
an awed voice, “There has been an avalanche.” Jossi at once untied
from the back, sprang down to the front, put himself in the porter’s
place, and led away in the dark in such splendid style, that in fifteen
minutes or less we were down on the plateau of the Finsteraarjoch.
Here the lantern came into use, and we carefully threaded our way
through the icefall of the glacier. Our tracks of the morning were of
the utmost value, and thanks to them we encountered no difficulties
whatever.

It was late when we reached the Schwarzegg hut, so we decided to sleep
there once more, and the sun was high in the heavens next morning
before we sat down to our coffee.

Here is another autumn experience, in which, as a nice, cheering
introduction to our day’s climbing, we got asphyxiated. “Were we
smothered, then? Were we suffocated?” asks the unthinking reader.
No, we were not “asphyxiated dead,” as an Irishman would say; we were
merely put to sleep at inconvenient periods during the day, after being
put to sleep with greater soundness than usual during the preceding
night.

But this fragmentary style and absence of all precise information
points to something like present asphyxiation; so I must beg leave
to say that though I date this from a health resort, I am not a
“head-patient,” as I once heard those persons classified who were in
a particular sanatorium for something or other that was not lungs. It
was an enlivening place, that particular health resort. If a youth
was ill-mannered, he could not be kicked, because “one can’t kick an
invalid, you know;” or else the excuse was, “Poor fellow! he doesn’t
mean it; he’s off his chump--_head-patient_, you know.” My impression
is, that that health resort was as fine a school for self-restraint
in the naturally self-restrained, and for downright uncompromising
selfishness in those who already were accustomed to look after No. 1,
as I know of.

Still I am a long way from our starting-point. Let me make an effort,
cross the Lauteraarjoch from Grindelwald, walk down the level glacier
beyond, and get to it--“it” being the sumptuous dwelling known as the
Dollfus Pavilion.

Why the good gentleman who built this hut should have constructed it
at a distance of three miles from water, was the problem which puzzled
our heads while we lay in the sun near the young forests growing up on
every side. It was lucky that some eyes, sharper than mine, saw these
specimens of Alpine timber, as otherwise we might have stretched our
weary limbs on the top of them. Later it transpired that an experiment
had been tried in forestry on these slopes, and the poor little twigs
had been carefully planted with the idea that, in time to come, they
might grow.

As evening drew on, we retired to the hut and made up a glowing fire,
destined a few hours later to reduce us to that comatose state I have
hinted at above. Perhaps the sluggish condition of mind and body which
we experienced next morning was also in part owing to three out of the
four members of the party having consumed six basins of very thick
soup apiece and twelve large potatoes. The soup, of course, could not
be wasted, though personally I would have rather lived on it for three
days than have had to swallow it all in one.

After waking with some trouble, and consuming the above-mentioned
soup, we tumbled out of the hut, floundered all in a heap down to the
glacier, and began to go along it in a dreamy stagger, varied by a
rude awakening, as, from time to time, one or another walked into a
crevasse, rubbed his eyes, got out again, and proceeded on his way.
Those great-great-great-great-etc.-grandfathers of ours were wise
people to keep off glaciers in their generation. Think what choice
language the modern mountaineer finds all ready to his tongue after he
has walked for three hours up or down (if there is an up or a down)
the Aar glacier, and then discovers that he is no farther. Imagine
for an instant what that glacier must have been when it came to the
piled-up moraine across the Haslithal near Meiringen. Next time you
find yourself pacing the Aar glacier (I have no doubt that you vowed on
the last occasion you never would again, but you surely will), think
of what it was in the olden time, even when it reached only to the
Grimsel, and be thankful that you climb in the nineteenth century.

At last, as we began to think that the Strahlegg Pass really was rather
nearer than it had been some hours earlier, we halted and attempted to
rouse each other. A warm wind swept up in our faces; our limbs were
like lead, our minds in a condition of placid imbecility. But when,
after some trouble, we dug a little cold water out of the glacier,
the effect was magical, and emboldened by the sense of our returning
faculties, we promptly decided to have breakfast under a great tower of
ice which had rolled down from a glacier clinging to the slope above.

We were now equal to all emergencies, and ready to cope with the
largest and most varied collection of loose stones I ever saw in
my life. The Saddle (which we struck just beyond the drop referred
to on page 5, vol. ii. of the second series of “Peaks, Passes, and
Glaciers”--at least I should imagine that this gap is the one therein
described) and the fine _arête_ beyond were a welcome change from the
“shocking state of disrepair” of the face. The entire ridge gives as
good a scramble as any one fond of rock-climbing can wish for. Nowhere
excessively difficult, it is always sensational, and the rocks are big
and firm. Most of the time the party is right on the crest, and can
glance straight down to the Lauteraar glacier on the one hand or to the
Strahlegg on the other. The Lauteraarhorn is seldom taken; probably
on account of the trouble of getting at it. People also seem to think
that if they have been up the Schreckhorn, they have seen everything
of interest in that direction. In this idea they are, in my opinion,
quite mistaken. I have already referred to the view of the Schreckhorn
and Finsteraarhorn as well as to that of the Lake of Thun to be
obtained from the Lauteraarhorn, and I think that it is very much finer
than anything one sees from the Wetterhorn, Jungfrau, or any other of
the Oberland peaks with which I am acquainted.

After an hour spent on the summit, we reluctantly began the descent,
and at 4 P.M. were on the Strahlegg, while at 5.30, just as the peaks
around began to glow with the rosy hues of sunset, we were nearly off
the Zasenberg. From here one enters on the preserves of the Interlaken
“tripper,” so I will abruptly close.

In the next chapter I will give the last of my experiences at my
favourite time of year, and talk to you about two old friends--not,
alas! with new faces.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] I am aware that the _Alpine Journal_ (vol. xiii. p. 113) states
that Herr Munz was killed by falling snow, not ice, which fell from the
rocks. I talked to the brothers Boss, and also to several of the guides
on the subject, and they all affirmed that it was ice from the little
hanging glacier. Which explanation of the disaster is correct, I am,
of course, unable to say. One of the guides, Meyer, succumbed to his
injuries the day after the accident.

[7] In September 1891, Ulrich Kaufmann was struck on the knee, and
bowled over, by a block of falling ice at this same spot.




CHAPTER XIII.

_THE “MAIDEN” AND THE “MONK.”_


A REMINISCENCE.


     “Over the ground white snow, and in the air
     Silence. The stars, like lamps soon to expire,
     Gleam tremblingly; serene and heavenly fair,
     The eastern hanging crescent climbeth higher.
     See, purple on the azure softly steals,
     And Morning, faintly touched with quivering fire,
     Leans on the frosty summits of the hills.”
     --WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE.


Time, nine o’clock on a cloudless evening some years ago; place, the
Bär Hotel at Grindelwald; season of the year, the middle of September,
the most enjoyable month in the higher Alps, given fine weather, of
all the twelve. Grindelwald lies in well-earned repose this lovely
night. No more do tourists in their thousands infest village, hotel
salons, and dining-rooms. No throng of touting guides and mule-drivers
lingers in the courtyard; no crowd of aspiring travellers makes noisy
preparation for the morrow’s excursions.

To me this tranquillity is very pleasant, as on the evening in
question, before the age of railways in that district, I drive up the
familiar valley, overshadowed by the huge walls of the Eiger, rising
amid myriads of twinkling stars, and as I alight at the doors of the
Bär, I congratulate myself upon many things.

“Now, Herr Fritz, hunt out my guide from the supper-room for me,
please. What! he is not here? Is there no telegram from him? Well, this
really is too bad! and the weather is magnificent! However, as he’s not
here, I certainly won’t sit and wait for him; so get me a couple of
guides, and to-morrow I will go for a walk amongst the mountains.”

Dinner over, enter the “couple of guides.” Here is sturdy old Peter
Baumann, and there, at the door, stands old Peter Kaufmann. “Well, what
shall we do to-morrow? where shall we go?” “All is good,” they say;
“we will go where you like.” “Very well; then let the Jungfrau be our
goal. I can start for it at 1 A.M., if you wish.” They smile pityingly
and remark, “It is nine hours to the Bergli hut, so we shall have quite
enough if we go there to-morrow, and up the mountain next day.” I don’t
believe them, and consult Boss; he says eleven hours. That settles the
question; so I retire to bed. I leave word with the guides to order
provisions, and to have me called at as late an hour as is consistent
with reaching the Bergli before nightfall. Result--they lay in a store
of meal-soup, and other atrocities, and arouse me from slumber at 6
A.M. By eight o’clock we are well on our way to the Bäregg, and have
overtaken another Jungfrau party--two Austrian gentlemen, with cheery
“English” Baumann and old Christian Almer. They progress upward at a
measured pace, but at the Bäregg restaurant we meet again, and spend
an idle hour, while our respective guides tie up emaciated pieces of
white wood into bundles of such extraordinary neatness, that they might
be “property” faggots appertaining to an amateur theatrical company.
Then on again, down rickety ladders, over swelling waves of ice, and
up a narrow track, with the sun beating on our backs, and never a drop
of water to be had. At last we all sink in a melting condition on a
grassy knoll, and insist on the production of drinkables. The guides,
in response, wriggle into sundry fissures of the earth, and extract
therefrom cupfuls of icy water, which they dole out in niggardly
quantities, exhorting their charges to be sparing in its use.

On again and up, till, with a desperate spurt, we assault the slippery
slopes of the glacier, and deposit ourselves in a panting heap on some
rocks facing the Bergli.

“How far to the hut, Baumann?” “Oh, two hours or so!” And it is now
11.30 A.M.! For this were we dragged from our downy couches and made
to walk up burning slopes under the rays of the autumnal sun! For this
were we hurried away from the seductive, though backless, benches of
the Bäregg! For this were we denied our second breakfast in three and a
half hours, on certain stony pathways where we would fain have halted!

11.30! Very well; here we shall remain and repose ourselves till 3 P.M.

We don’t, however. Two hours of gazing at the Eiger, the Mönch, and
the Schreckhorn produce an unpleasant stiffening of the joints; so
shortly after discovering this we collect our baggage--scattered over
about an acre of ground--and proceed across the level glacier towards
the steep snow slopes coming down from the Mönchjoch. After an hour or
two of threading our way amongst huge chasms, varied by passages in
tight-rope style over knife-edges of ice, we reach our hut. From here
we witness an acrobatic performance without having to undergo the
expense of an entry fee; indeed, the accommodation of the front row
of stalls is too shamefully bad for any one to suggest that we should
pay for it. Far down below us on the snow toil our fellow-travellers.
From time to time one of them, who, at starting, had declared himself
to be “no mountaineer,” casts himself on the white surface. The guides
and his friend haul. He slithers along a little; then suddenly rights
himself like a gutta-percha figure with a weight inside. On again--down
again--up again, so does the party advance.

Of the supper the less said the better; and yet I have heard of
Englishmen who like meal-soup!

Now to bed. Pleasant dreams, sweet repose. _Repose!_ Yes! Audible
repose for the Austrian after his gymnastic feats; for his friend, for
me, even for the guides, none. Well, we count to a hundred, to two
hundred, to two hundred backwards. We light lucifer-matches and examine
our watches. We even contemplate cutting the cords of the ambulance
arrangement, so that it may come down with a run on our slumbering
companion. We are fairly worked up to a murderous state of mind, and
almost of body, when--“Zwölf Uhr!” resounds in stentorian accents,
and we spring from our hay, and viciously shake the source of all our
discomfort. “What?” he says sleepily. “Twelve o’clock? No, thanks; no
Jungfrau for me!” and thereupon turns over and loses himself once more
in the land of dreams.

More meal-soup, followed by coffee, buttoning up of gaiters, packing
up of all the things we ought to have left behind, uncoiling of ropes,
jodeling of guides, and off we go.

What a joy to swing along over the frozen snow, from which countless
ice-crystals gleam up to us with bright innocent eyes, nowise resentful
that at every step they go crunch, crunch under our great clumsy
boots. The glacier streams down in a silver flood to our right. The
mountain-tops, bathed in brilliant moonbeams, seem to hang in the sky.
The radiant beauty of the night, the still, keen air, the silence of
the surroundings, all combine to make the seventeen minutes which it
takes us to reach the Mönchjoch, pass like so many seconds. From here,
dazzled by the startling loveliness of the view, and looking anywhere
but at my feet, I carelessly slip into the _bergschrund_. I am pulled
out, and in twenty-five minutes more we cross the Ober-Mönchjoch, and
see in front of us the shining robes of our “Maiden.” A jodel from the
guides, and we are running wildly down the snow slopes, across the
plateau, and on to the very mountain itself. It is now very cold, with
the chill of early dawn in the air. We have not gone far above the
Roththal Saddle when the purple of the sky grows warmer and warmer,
till at last the peak above us blushes in the rays of the rising sun.
A short half-hour more, and we cluster on our goal, pitying our friend
below in the hay of the Bergli.

It is early yet, and Baumann, good old sportsman that he is, says,
“Now we will go up the Mönch.” “No,” I reply, “I am out of training,
and to-morrow I must cross the Strahlegg. We will now go home.” But
Baumann blinks his eyes, and when we reach the plateau, makes a dead
halt. “The Bergli or the Mönch?” he inquires. The Mönch looks near,
and I weakly give in. Our fellow-travellers here leave us. We get on
to the ridge running up from the Ober-Mönchjoch. All goes swimmingly.
We reach the final crest. Alas! it is shining ice from end to end.
Old Kaufmann is awfully done; from time to time he crawls on to the
cornice. Baumann, from behind, shouts warningly. We seem to make no
progress. An hour passes. We are not half-way along the _arête_. “Now,
then,” I say, “let me get right on to the ridge and see the view; then
I am going home.” The guides protest, but I am obdurate; the cornice
and the great fatigue of Kaufmann have decided me. Eventually we go
down. Hurrying along the level snows, halting for as short a time as
possible at the Bergli, sliding and running where we can, at last we
reach the Grindelwald glacier. By now it is pitch-dark; our lantern
won’t behave properly; our candle continually goes out, and we wander
for an interminable time over ice and moraine. Finally, by a process
akin to that of “the survival of the fittest” (having tried about every
route on the glacier), we strike the Bäregg ladders, and thence hasten
down to the valley.

Having described the pleasures of climbing in autumn, it is but
fair that I should not ignore the single occasion on which I have
experienced bad weather at that season. It was on October 2nd, a year
later, that, with Ulrich Almer, Christian Jossi, and Herr Theophile
Boss, I set out from the Roththal hut to cross the Jungfrau. The
weather had been perfect for several days past, but on the previous
evening the sunset gave signs of a change, while the lightning, which
trembled along the western horizon, was another indication that a storm
was imminent.

It being, therefore, doubly important to make an early start, the
guides commenced by over-sleeping themselves, and it was nearly 5.30
A.M. before the hut was quitted. A lot of step-cutting retarded our
progress, and it was 11.35 A.M. before we halted, three or four minutes
below the summit, for our second breakfast since starting. Clouds
were now drifting up on all sides; but the more serious part of the
business was done, so the weather could not matter greatly to us. We
remained but a moment on the top, and then amidst shrieks of “Schnell!
Vorwärts!” from Jossi, we turned to descend in the teeth of a blinding
snowstorm. Well, it was cool; certainly it was not cold, for we wore
our gloves in our pockets. We had excellent steps, too, thanks to a
party who had ascended from the Bergli a couple of days previously.
The walk to the Mönchjoch was deadly dull, the only objects visible
being our noble selves. Under the leadership of such guides as ours,
however, we never deviated from the right direction for an instant,
though the tracks were, of course, by this time entirely obliterated. A
comfortable night at the Bergli was a good preparation for the descent,
through waist-deep snow, to the valley.

During the evening the guides had discoursed at much length on a
feature of the morrow’s route, which, with all the picturesqueness of
inaccuracy, they described as an ice-wall. Now, an _Eiswand_ conveyed
to my imagination a green cliff, shiny of surface, slippery to the
touch, and perpendicular in formation. All these features were,
however, absent. The “wall,” which was about 170 feet in height, was
certainly of ice, but the ice was coated with firm snow to a depth
of several inches. I am not learned in angles, but I should say that
seventy-five degrees was somewhere near the slope of the first five
steps, after which the steepness steadily decreased. The last man,
assisted by a bit of whipcord doubled round a piece of firewood driven
in at the top, took seven minutes to come down, so the difficulties of
the way were not unduly great. I am obliged to enter into these details
because the character of this highly inoffensive slope was cruelly
maligned by the party previously referred to, and on our return to the
village, after a descent over the Zäsenberghorn, monotonous by reason
of its entire simplicity, we were questioned by a curious crowd as to
the horrors of the ice-wall. Our predecessors had already left the
place, so we could but fight the united army of credulous persons whom
they had left behind, and in whose imaginations the ice-wall of the
Mönchjoch no doubt lives even to the present day as one of the terrors
of mountaineering.

I have now told the worst of my experiences of autumn in the Alps. How
easily hundreds of climbers could cap it with their accounts of summer
in those regions!




APPENDIX.


As I put forward no claim whatever for originality in this little work,
I shall perhaps escape blame from climbers, and earn some thanks from
the general public, if I place in the way of the latter a poem, the
greater part of which appeared in the _Alpine Journal_ (volume xiv.,
page 64), and which consequently was not likely to have attracted the
attention of the non-mountaineering traveller. Through the courtesy
of the author, I am enabled to reprint it in full in these pages. We
who spend much of our time amongst “Heaven’s nearest neighbours,” grow
to love our surroundings more and more. It is often said that people
ascend peaks in order to boast of their achievements. Of some, no
doubt, this is true. But I cannot give better proof of how such persons
are looked upon by the true mountain-climber than by quoting the lines
I have referred to, with the spirit of which I, and thousands more,
are entirely in sympathy. The poem, entitled, “Mountain Midgets; or,
Thirty Years After,” is supposed to have been copied from a stranger’s
book in a well-known mountain resort, and is headed:--


TO MY FELLOW-GUESTS.

(_An Original Member of the Alpine Club speaks._)


I was with the men who conquered all the Alps, and climbing higher
Watched, from Caucasus or Andes, Phosphor soaring like a fire;

But, successors of De Saussure! You, presumably with souls,
Who treat Heaven’s nearest neighbours as the pit-bear treats his poles,

Show your foolish “forms” upon them, “cutting records” as you run,
Craving of a crowd that jeers you, notoriety--your bun!

You, who love an “Alpine centre” and an inn that’s full of people,
Where the tourists gape in wonder while their Jack beflags his steeple;

Stars, who twinkle with your axes, while girls “wonder what you are,”
Through a village, that’s the image of a Charity Bazaar;

Stars, who set beneath the wineshop, where “the men must have a drink”:
So the idler leads the peasant down the path where he will sink,

Till discredited, discarded, game for snobs who “stand a treat,”
The old guide of twenty summers touts for custom in the street!

Lads, whose prate is never-ceasing, till the _table d’hôte_ is crammed
With the _gendarmes_ you have collared, and the _cols_ you’ve
   _spitzed_ or _kammed_!

Not for you the friendly _Wirthshaus_, where the _Pfarrer_ plays
   the host,
Or the vine-hung _Osteria_, where the bowls go rattling most;

Not for you the liquid splendour of the sunset, as it dies,
Not for you the silver silence and the spaces of the skies,

Known of men who in the old time lodged in hollows of the rocks,
Ere those Circe’s styes, the Club-huts, harboured touristdom in flocks.

There you lie beside your porters in tobacco fumes enfurled,
And think more of cold plum-pudding than “the glories of the world”;

There you ponder with your fellows on the little left “to do,”
Plotting darkly Expeditions that may, partially, be New;

Boasting lightly, while the brightly-beading Bouvier brims the glasses,
How you’ll “romp up” avalanche tracks and you’ll rollick in crevasses;

Dreaming fondly of the glory that such “azure feats” must get,
When your guide narrates the story in the _Grindelmatt Gazette_;

Gloating grimly on the feelings Hobbs and Nobbs will strive to smother,
When they learn the Gross Narr Nadel has been just “bagged” by another:

Hobbs and Nobbs, who, slily stealing to our Grün Alp telescope,
May find solace in revealing how you faltered on the rope.

Mountain Midgets--thus I hail you, who to littleness your own
Fain would drag down Nature’s Greatest, leave earth’s minster-spires
   alone!

Yet in vain an old man preaches. What is brought shall still be found,
Still the raw, relentless athlete make the Alps his running-ground;

Still the Greater breed the Lesser on through infinite degrees,
And the mountains have their Midgets--as the glaciers have their fleas.


PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON.