Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860-69
By Edward Whymper.
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Preface
In the year , shortly before leaving England for a long continental tour, a certain eminent London publisher requested me to make for him some sketches of the great Alpine peaks. At that time I had only a literary acquaintance with mountain-climbing, and had not even seen—much less set foot upon—a mountain. Amongst the peaks which were upon the list was Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphiné. The sketches that were required of it were to celebrate the triumph of some Englishmen who intended to make its ascent. They came—they saw—but they did not conquer. By a mere chance I fell in with a very agreeable Frenchman who accompanied this party, and was pressed by him to return to the assault. In we did so, with my friend Macdonald—and we conquered. This was the origin of my Scrambles amongst the Alps.
The ascent of Mont Pelvoux (including the disagreeables) was a very delightful scramble. The mountain air did not act as an emetic; the sky did not look black, instead of blue; nor did I feel tempted to throw myself over precipices. I hastened to enlarge my experience, and went to the Matterhorn. I was urged towards Mont Pelvoux by those mysterious impulses which cause men to peer into the unknown. This mountain was reputed to be the highest in France, and on that account was worthy of attention; and it was believed to be the culminating point of a picturesque district of great interest, which was then almost unexplored! The Matterhorn attracted me simply by its grandeur. It was considered to be the most completely inaccessible of all mountains, even by those who ought to have known better. Stimulated to make fresh exertions by one repulse after another, I returned, year after year, as I had opportunity, more and more determined to find a way up it, or to prove it to be really inaccessible.
A considerable portion of this volume is occupied by the history of these attacks on the Matterhorn, and the other excursions that are described have generally some connection, more or less remote, with that mountain or with Mont Pelvoux. All are new excursions (that is, excursions made for the first time), unless the contrary is pointed out. Some have been passed over very briefly, and entire ascents or descents have been disposed of in a single line. If they had been worked out at full length, three volumes, instead of one, would have been required. Generally speaking, the salient points alone have been dwelt upon, and the rest has been left to the imagination. This treatment spares the reader from much useless repetition.
In endeavouring to make the book of some use to those who may wish to go mountain-scrambling, whether in the Alps or elsewhere, undue prominence, perhaps, has been given to our mistakes and failures; and it will doubtless be pointed out that our practice must have been bad if the principles which are laid down are sound, or that the principles must be unsound if the practice was good. We were not immaculate. Our blunders are not held up to be admired, or to be imitated, but to be avoided.
These Scrambles amongst the Alps were holiday excursions, and as such they should be judged. They are spoken of as sport, and nothing more. The pleasure that they gave me cannot be transferred to others. The ablest pens have failed, and I think must always fail, to give a true idea of the grandeur of the Alps. The most minute descriptions of the greatest writers do nothing more than convey impressions that are entirely erroneous—the reader conjures up visions, it may be magnificent ones, but they are infinitely inferior to the reality. I have dealt sparingly in descriptions, and have employed illustrations freely, in the hope that the pencil may perhaps succeed where the pen must inevitably have failed.
About fifty of the subjects were drawn on the wood by the late Mr. James Mahoney, and I am much indebted to that artist for the care and fidelity with which he followed my slight memoranda, and for the spirit he put into his admirable designs. Most of his drawings will be identified by his monogram. Twenty of the remainder are the work of Mr. Cyrus Johnson.
It is now my pleasant duty to acknowledge assistance rendered, directly or indirectly, by friends and strangers, at home and abroad. First of all, my thanks are due to my companions for having placed their journals and sketches freely at my disposal. I am particularly obliged to Mr. J. Longridge, to Mr. T. F. Mitchell, and to Mr. W. Cutbill, for the facilities that they granted me when examining the Fell railway in . From Prof. T. G. Bonney, F.R.S., and Mr. Robert H. Scott, F.R.S., I have received many friendly hints and much valued criticism; and aid, in a variety of ways, from Mr. Budden, Prof. Gastaldi, and Sig. Giordano, in Italy; from M. Emile Templier and the Maréchal Canrobert, in France; and from Mr. Gosset of Berne. I am indebted to the Messrs. Longman for the use of a portion of their Map of the Western Alps. The other Maps are original.
Notes to the Preface of the Fifth Edition
The First Edition of Scrambles Amongst the Alps appeared in the summer of , and the Second Edition in the autumn of the same year. In , a Third (condensed) Edition was published, under the title The Ascent of the Matterhorn. The book then remained out of print for twelve years. In the Fourth Edition () the matter which was omitted in the Third one was restored; the text was revised generally; corrections which had become necessary in consequence of the lapse of years were made; and, in the Appendix, the History of the Matterhorn was brought down to date.
Amongst changes and developments which are not noted in the narrative, it may be mentioned that an Inn at Lognan has replaced the chalets, and that there is another one at Prerayen, in addition to the old buildings. A cabane has been opened at Chanrion. A new Inn (Hôtel des Jumeaux) has been put up at Breuil, and the Albergo del Monte Cervino at Giomein has been enlarged. The building on the summit of the Col Théodule, which was formerly termed “the hut,” is now called Pavillon du Col St. Théodule.
The Maps have been re-engraved, on copper. That of the Matterhorn and its Glaciers is after the Siegfried Map of Switzerland, with such additions as are needful to adapt it to the text. The Map of the Chain of Mont Blanc is based on the Survey of Capt. Mieulet, the map by Mr. Adams-Reilly, and the Carte Dufour, but numerous corrections and additions have been made from personal observation. The Map of the Valley of Valpelline, etc., has been constructed from the new Italian Official Map, the survey by Mr. Reilly, and the Carte Dufour.
Early Ascents of the Aiguilles d’Arve
In the Annuaire of the Club Alpin Français published in there is an article by Dr. Fodéré upon the Aiguilles d’Arve. Dr. Fodéré has ascended both the Southern and the Central Aiguilles, and says he found by levelling that the Southern Aiguille is the higher of the two. He also gives the name of a person (Célestin Bellet) who made an ascent of the Central Aiguille in , and the name of another person (Elie Savoye) who did the same before . In the Alpine Journal, vol. XVIII, pp. 165–8, there is a reference to an ascent of the Central Aiguille which was made in . These were probably the excursions which were referred to by Mons. Ad. Joanne, about which both I and my companions were perhaps unduly sceptical. See Chapter VIII. Dr. Fodéré’s article came under my notice after the sheets of Chapter VIII were worked off.
The Death of Christian Almer
Most of the characters mentioned in Scrambles have now departed. One of the last to go was my old Guide and Friend Christian Almer. This ideal mountain-guide celebrated the 70th anniversary of his birthday by making an ascent of the Wetterhorn along with his wife, who was then aged 72; and from this display of vigour when threescore and ten he might have been expected to have lived much longer. To my great regret, he died on , aged 72. See the illustration in Chapter XIIX, and the Alpine Journal, vol. XVIII, pp. 185–6.
Changes on the Southern Side of the Matterhorn
In , I ascended the southwest ridge as far as the base of the Great Tower, to photograph places in which I was interested. More than thirty years had elapsed since my last visit, and I found that great changes had taken place in the interval. The summit of the Col du Lion was lower than it was formerly, from diminution of the snow; and the passage across it was shorter than it used to be. For the next 150 feet or so of ascent there was little alteration, but thence upwards the ridge had tumbled to pieces, and many familiar places were unrecognizable. No spot on this ridge is more firmly fixed in my recollection than “the Chimney.” (See the illustration in Chapter V.) Only a remnant of it was left—more than half of the Chimney had disappeared; and from that point upwards everything was altered. Difficult places had become easy, and easy places had become difficult. The angle in which a thick knotted rope is now dangling, which is one of the steepest bits of the ascent, did not exist in .
The first refuge on the southern side of the Matterhorn was made on the ledge called the “cravate” (see Appendix C). Later on, a cabane was built close to the base of the Great Tower. Its life seeming precarious, a third refuge, another cabane, was erected in about 160 feet lower down, and came into use in . This latter hut occupies very nearly the position of my third tent-platform. A view of it is given in Chapter II of my Guide to Zermatt and the Matterhorn, after photographs taken in .
In Chapter V, I characterize the Great Tower as “one of the most striking features on the ridge.” In , there were no signs of decay about the base of this huge pinnacle. In it seemed to me that it would not be long before it would collapse. Woe betide those who may be beneath the Great Tower when it falls.
Carrel’s Gallery
By reference to this section in Appendix C, it will be seen that Jean-Antoine Carrel, upon his descent of the Matterhorn, on , came down at one part of the way by a somewhat easier route than that which was taken upon the ascent. The opinion of Mr. Craufurd Grove about this “somewhat easier route” will be found later in Appendix C. Mr. Grove was the first tourist to ascend the Matterhorn on the Italian side; and, so far as I am aware, no one again went that way until , when Mr. W. E. Davidson, with the guides Daniel Maquignaz and Christian Klucker, made an ascent by what was generally, though perhaps not exactly, the route taken by Mr. Grove. Mr. Davidson strongly endorses Mr. Grove’s opinion. Traces of the two previous ascents were observed by Mr. Davidson.
Exploration of the Furgg Ridge
In , Sig. Guido Rey, of Turin, undertook a very bold and enterprising exploration of the Furgg Ridge—that which leads from the Furgggrat towards the summit of the Matterhorn. The information that Sig. Rey communicated to me arrived too late to be incorporated in Appendix C.
“I started from Breuil with Antoine Maquignaz and a porter on , at one o’clock in the night, and went to the Breuiljoch, and thence directly up the Furgg Ridge, as far as the point reached by Mummery—which may be called ‘l’Épaule de Furgg’ At this point real difficulty begins.
Meanwhile Daniel Maquignaz, with two porters and a large amount of rope, had reached the summit of the Matterhorn by the usual way; and descended about 85 metres” (280 feet) “down the Furgg Ridge, until he came to a place where the rocks became overhanging. There he stopped, and fixed a rope, and let the same down to the spot where we were standing, which was about 10 metres higher than l’Épaule de Furggen. By means of this rope, I and my men ascended about 80 metres, with great difficulty, the rocks being smooth and nearly vertical. After two hours of grimpade” (scrambling) “we thus arrived at the base of some overhanging rock upon which stood Daniel and his men. We were separated 12 or 15 metres from Daniel, and tried to pull ourselves up; but this was impossible on account of the great oscillation of the rope, and from there being no means of laying hold of the rock either with hands or feet. At 5 p.m. we gave up our attempts, and returned the way we had come; and, walking down the whole night, arrived at Breuil on the morning of the . The point reached on this attempt was distant from the summit about 105 metres” (344 feet).
“I again left Breuil on the , and ascended the Matterhorn by the usual Italian route. Daniel, Antoine, and porters were with me, carrying a rope ladder about 15 metres long. I descended from the summit to the Furggen Ridge as far as the point previously attained by Daniel’s party, and found means of getting a few metres lower. There I fixed the ladder, and let it down the overhanging wall. Descending it, I reached the point where we arrived on the . Having completely explored the ridge, and touched every part of it, I returned immediately to the summit, and descended, in very bad weather, by the Hörnli route.”
Toil and pleasure, in their natures opposite, are yet linked together in a kind of necessary connection.
Livy
“The Taugwalders thought that it had some connection with the accident.”
Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860–69
I
Introductory
On the , I started for my first tour in the Alps. As we steamed out into the Channel, Beachy Head came into view, and recalled a scramble of many years ago. With the impudence of ignorance, my brother1 and I, schoolboys both, had tried to scale that great chalk cliff. Not the head itself—where seabirds circle, and where the flints are ranged in orderly parallel lines—but at a place more to the east, where a pinnacle called the Devil’s Chimney had fallen down. Since then we have been often in dangers of different kinds, but never have we more nearly broken our necks than upon that occasion.
In Paris I made two ascents. The first to the seventh floor of a house in the Quartier Latin—to an artist friend, who was engaged, at the moment of my entry, in combat with a little Jew. He hurled him with great goodwill, and with considerable force, into some crockery, and then recommended me to go up the towers of Notre Dame. Half-an-hour later I stood on a parapet of the west front, by the side of the leering fiend which for centuries has looked down upon the great city, and then took rail to Switzerland; saw the sunlight lingering on the giants of the Oberland; heard the echoes from the cow-horns in the Lauterbrunnen Valley and the avalanches rattling off the Jungfrau; and crossed the Gemmi into the Valais, resting for a time by the beautiful Oeschinen See, and getting a forcible illustration of glacier-motion in a neighbouring valley—the Gasteren Thal. The upper end of this valley is crowned by the Tschingel Glacier, which, as it descends, passes over an abrupt cliff that is in the centre of its course. On each side the continuity of the glacier is maintained, but in the centre it is cleft in twain by the cliff. Lower down it is consolidated again. I scrambled on to this lower portion, advanced towards the cliff, and then stopped to admire the contrast of the brilliant pinnacles of ice with the blue sky. Without a warning, a huge slice of the glacier broke away, and fell over the cliff on to the lower portion with a thundering crash. Fragments rolled beyond me; although, fortunately, not in my direction. I fled, and did not stop until off the glacier; but before it was quitted learned another lesson in glacial matters. The terminal moraine, which seemed to be a solid mound, broke away underneath me, and showed that it was only a superficial covering resting on a slope of glassy ice.
On the steep path over the Gemmi there were opportunities for observing the manners and customs of the Swiss mule. Though it is not perhaps in revenge for generations of ill-treatment that the mule grinds one’s legs against fences and stonewalls, and pretends to stumble in awkward places (particularly when coming round corners and on the brinks of precipices), their evil habit of walking on the outside edges of paths (even in the most unguarded positions) is one that is distinctly the result of association with man. The transport of wood from the mountains into the valleys occupies most of the mules during a considerable portion of the year. The faggots into which the wood is made up project some distance on each side of the beast, and it is said that they walk intuitively to the outside of paths having rocks on the other side to avoid the collisions which would otherwise occur. When they carry tourists they behave in a similar manner; and, no doubt, when the good time for mules arrives, and they no longer carry burdens, they will still continue to do the same. This habit frequently gives rise to scenes. Two mules meet; each wishes to pass on the outside, and neither will give way. It requires considerable persuasion, through the medium of the tail, before such difficulties are arranged.
I visited the baths of Leuk, and saw the queer assemblage of men, women, and children, attired in bathing-gowns, chatting, drinking, and playing at chess in the water. The company did not seem to be perfectly sure whether it was decorous for elderly men to chase young females from one corner to another, but it was unanimous in howling at the advent of a stranger who remained covered, and literally yelled when I departed without exhibiting my sketch.
I trudged up the Rhône Valley, and turned aside at Visp to go up the Visp Thal, where one would expect to see greater traces of glacial action, if a glacier formerly filled it, as one is said to have done.
I was bound for the Valley of Saas, and my work took me high up the Alps on either side; far beyond the limit of trees and the tracks of tourists. The view from the slopes of the Weissmies, on the eastern side of the valley, 5,000 or 6,000 feet above the village of Saas, is perhaps the finest of its kind in the Alps. The full height of the three-peaked Mischabel (the loftiest mountain in Switzerland) is seen at one glance; 11,000 feet of dense forests, green alps, rocky pinnacles, and glittering glaciers. The summits seemed to me then to be hopelessly inaccessible from this direction.
I descended the valley to the village of Stalden, and then went up the Visp Thal to Zermatt, and stopped there several days. Numerous traces of the formidable earthquake-shocks of five years before still remained, particularly at St. Nicholas, where the inhabitants had been terrified beyond measure at the destruction of their churches and houses. At this place, as well as at Visp, a large part of the population was obliged to live under canvas for several months. It is remarkable that there was hardly a life lost on this occasion, although there were about fifty shocks, some of which were very severe.
At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather was bad, and my work was much retarded. One day, after spending a long time in attempts to sketch near the Hörnli, and in futile endeavours to seize the forms of the peaks as they peered out a few seconds above the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined not to return to Zermatt by the usual path, but to cross the Gorner Glacier to the Riffel hotel. After a rapid scramble over the polished rocks and snow-beds which skirt the base of the Théodule Glacier, and wading through some of the streams which flow from it (at that time much swollen by the late rains) the first difficulty was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice about three hundred feet high. It seemed that it would be easy enough to cross the glacier if the cliff could be descended; though higher up, and lower down, the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to be impassable for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was nearly perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was little difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another. At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixed at an angle of about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock. Nothing, except the glacier, could be seen below. It was an awkward place, but being doubtful if return were possible, as I had been dropping from one ledge to another, I passed it at length by lying across the slab, putting the shoulder stiffly against one side, and the feet against the other, and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly crack was seen, into which the point of the baton could be stuck, and I dropped down to the next piece. It took a long time coming down that little bit of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory to see the ice close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty presented itself. The glacier swept round an angle of the cliff, and as the ice was not of the nature of treacle or thin putty, it kept away from the little bay, on the edge of which I stood. We were not widely separated, but the edge of the ice was higher than the opposite edge of rock; and worse, the rock was covered with loose earth and stones which had fallen from above. All along the side of the cliff, as far as could be seen in both directions, the ice did not touch it, and there was a marginal crevasse, seven feet wide, and of unknown depth.
All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I could not jump the crevasse, and began to try along the cliff lower down; though without success, for the ice rose higher and higher, until at last further progress was stopped by the cliffs becoming perfectly smooth. With an axe it would have been possible to cut up the side of the ice; without one I saw there was no alternative but to return and face the jump.
Night was approaching, and the solemn stillness of the High Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling rocks. If the jump should be successful—well; if not, I fell into that horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that gurgling, rushing water. Everything depended on that jump. Again I asked myself, “Can it be done?” It must be. So, finding my stick was useless, I threw it and the sketchbook to the ice, and first retreating as far as possible, ran forward with all my might, took the leap, barely reached the other side, and fell awkwardly on my knees. Almost at the same moment a shower of stones fell on the spot from which I had jumped.
The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel,2 which was then a very small building, was crammed with tourists, and could not take me in. As the way down was unknown to me, some of the people obligingly suggested getting a man at the chalets, otherwise the path would be certainly lost in the forest. On arriving at the chalets no man could be found, and the lights of Zermatt, shining through the trees, seemed to say, “Never mind a guide, but come along down, I’ll show you the way;” so off I went through the forest, going straight towards them. The path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered. I was tripped up by pine-roots, tumbled into rhododendron bushes, and fell over rocks. The night was pitch dark, and after a time the lights of Zermatt became obscure, or went out altogether. By a series of slides, or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent through the forest was at length accomplished; but torrents of formidable character had still to be passed before one could arrive at Zermatt. I felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly; by an exhaustive process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight, covered with dirt and scratches, reentered the inn which I had quitted in the morning.
Others besides tourists get into difficulties. A day or two afterwards, when on the way to my old station, near the Hörnli, I met a stout curé who had essayed to cross the Théodule pass. His strength or his wind had failed, and he was being carried down, a helpless bundle and a ridiculous spectacle, on the back of a lanky guide, while the peasants stood by with folded hands, their reverence for the church almost overcome by their sense of the ludicrous.
I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to mount the slopes of the Dom,3 in order to see the Weisshorn face to face. The latter mountain is the noblest in Switzerland, and from this direction it looks especially magnificent. On its north there is a large snowy plateau that feeds the glacier of which a portion is seen from Randa, and which on more than one occasion has destroyed that village. From the direction of the Dom—that is, immediately opposite, this Bies Glacier seems to descend nearly vertically. It does not do so, although it is very steep. Its size is much less than formerly, and the lower portion, now divided into three tails, clings in a strange, weird-like manner to the cliffs, to which it seems scarcely possible that it can remain attached.
Unwillingly I parted from the sight of this glorious mountain, and went down to Visp. A party of English tourists had passed up the valley a short time before with a mule. The party numbered nine—eight young women and a governess. The mule carried their luggage, and was ridden by each in turn. The peasants—themselves not unaccustomed to overload their beasts—were struck with astonishment at the unwonted sight; and made comments, more free than welcome to English ears, on the nonchalance with which young miss sat, calm and collected, on the miserable beast, while it was struggling under her weight, combined with that of the luggage.
Arriving once more in the Rhône Valley, I proceeded to Viesch, and from thence ascended the Eggischhorn; on which unpleasant eminence I lost my way in a fog, and my temper shortly afterwards. Then, after crossing the Grimsel in a severe thunderstorm, passed on to Brienz, Interlaken, and Bern; and thence to Fribourg and Morat, Neuchâtel, Martigny, and the St. Bernard. The massive walls of the convent were a welcome sight as I waded through the snow-beds near the summit of the pass, and pleasant also was the courteous salutation of the brother who bade me enter. He wondered at the weight of my knapsack, and I at the hardness of their bread. The saying that the monks make the toast in the winter that they give to tourists in the following season is not founded on truth; the winter is their most busy time of the year. But it is true they have exercised so much hospitality, that at times they have not possessed the means to furnish the fuel for heating their chapel in the winter.4
Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned aside into the Val Pelline, in order to obtain views of the Dent d’Erin. The night had come on before Biona was gained, and I had to knock long and loud upon the door of the curé’s house before it was opened. An old woman, with querulous voice, and with a large goitre, answered the summons, and demanded rather sharply what was wanted; but became pacific—almost good-natured—when a five-franc piece was held in her face, and she heard that lodging and supper were requested in exchange.