My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus (1908)/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
THE GRÉPON.
An inaccessible peak—The most difficult climb in the Alps—An easy day for a lady.
WHILST on the summit of Charmoz in 1880, the Grépon had struck me as rivalling the Géant itself in the wild grandeur of its cliffs. The ridge from that point looked wholly impassable; great towers, rising a hundred feet or more in single obelisks of unbroken granite, seeming to bar all possibility of progress. We had previously examined the cliffs of the Nantillon face with a telescope, and seen that they were nearly, if not quite, perpendicular, and of that peculiarly objectionable formation known to the German guides as "abgeschnitten." Feeling none the less certain that there must be a way somewhere, we were led by the process of exclusion to infer that it would be found on the Mer de Glace face. We decided, in consequence, to deliver our first assault from that side.
On the way up the Verte from the Charpoua glacier, Burgener and I had utilised our halts for the careful study of this eastern face. We discovered excellent gullies at the top, convenient snow couloirs below, and the eye of faith was able, with some effort, to discern pleasing cracks, ledges, and traverses which connected the one system with the other. Having thus worked out a most excellent route—assuming that the eye of faith was to be depended on—we determined to put it into execution. Accordingly, on the 1st of August, 1881, we assembled in the salon of the Montenvers Hotel at 1 a.m. Burgener, unluckily, proved to be very unwell, and had to be dosed with chartreuse and brandy before he could be got under weigh. Somewhat delayed by this, it was 2 a.m. before we started. We spent the rest of the night miserably floundering amongst endless stones and moraine-choked crevasses. Having turned the promontory of Trélaporte, we left the Mer de Glace and worked up to some grass ledges. These we followed, bearing always to the left, till we got on to the little Glacier de Trélaporte. From this glacier we had seen, on our previous inspection from the Verte, that three couloirs lead up into the mountain. Our affections had been fixed on the middle one, which had appeared from every point of view the most suitable to our enterprise.
On reaching its base, we found it open to the serious objection, that it was wholly and totally impossible to get into it. The Bergschrund was without a bridge, its upper lip was twenty or thirty feet above the lower, and more than a hundred feet above a mass of broken débris on which the chasm could alone be crossed. The rocks on either hand were smooth and quite unassailable, so we were compelled to abandon the couloir of our choice. We accordingly traversed to the left to see whether the next gully would be more favourable. We found that while the upper lip of the Bergschrund was equally hopeless, the ice in the gully had so shrunk from the rock that a sort of precipitous chimney was left, up which, Burgener thought, a way might be forced. Venetz was accordingly lowered into the Bergschrund, and, having got across on a bridge of ice débris, attacked the chimney. He had not climbed more than ten feet when he found himself pounded and unable to move up or down. The débris bridge did not run quite home to the foot of the chimney, but left a yawning chasm very conveniently placed for him to fall into, and his position appeared extremely critical. Burgener, seeing the necessity for instant action, laid hold of the spare rope, and without waiting to tie on, let me lower him into the Schrund. He promptly scrambled across the confused heap of rickety ice-blocks and was soon able to lend Venetz the requisite aid. The latter, after a short halt on Burgener's shoulder, succeeded in wedging his axe between the rock and ice, and, subsequently using it as a footing, was able to gain tolerable standing ground on a shelving rock. I then threw the end of the rope on which Venetz had been climbing across to Burgener, who, as soon as he had tied on, went up to the shelf. Meanwhile I had fixed one of our axes in the snow, and having fastened a short length of rope to it, slid down on to the bridge and crossed to the foot of the chimney, where the rope was already waiting for me. The rock was painfully cold, and it was with great satisfaction that I reached the top of the chimney and could join the men in the endeavour to rub a little life into our fingers.
Fairly easy rocks now enabled us to make rapid progress. A little stream which also used these rocks as a pathway, though in the opposite direction, submitted us to an occasional douche. After a time it struck us that even the pleasures of a shower-bath may be overdone, and we turned to our right and got on to the snow of the couloir. We followed this till its walls began to close in on either side in such grim sort, that we feared we should find no way out if we ascended it any further. Turning to our left we effected, after much difficulty, a lodgment on the cliff, and were able to ascend with tolerable ease for a few hundred feet. We were then confronted by an impassable slab that blocked, or rather terminated, the gully we had been climbing, and we were compelled to escape by traversing to our left along its lower overhanging edge. We were supported mainly by gripping the lower edge of this slab between our fingers and thumbs, whilst our legs sprawled about on the next slab below in a way which suggested that such useless appendages would have been better left at home. Having surmounted this difficulty, a few yards of pleasant scrambling brought us to the top of the great red tower that forms a fairly conspicuous object from the Mer de Glace.
It was obvious that though we had been going eight hours we had hardly begun the real climb, and we halted with one consent to see whether the attempt was worth further effort. The col between the Grépon and Charmoz appeared accessible, and it also looked as if a way might be forced to the gap between the summit and the tower which is now known as the Pic Balfour. Each of these points, however, was, we knew, more easily reached from the Nantillon glacier. Our object had been to force an ascent straight up the face, and thus avoid the difficulties of the ridge. This we now saw was nearly, if not quite, out of the question. Burgener expressed his willingness to go on, but added that it would, of necessity, involve our sleeping on the rocks. The provisions were too scanty for this to be desirable, and after an hour's halt public opinion clearly favoured a descent.
We returned by the way we had ascended, only varying our route when we reached the Glacier de Trélaporte. Instead of going down the glacier and the slopes below to the moraine of the Mer de Glace, we kept to our left and used the great gap (Professor Tyndall's cleft station) as a pass, thus materially reducing the number of loose stones we had to traverse before reaching the Montenvers.
The idea that the Mer de Glace face was the true line of attack did not survive this expedition. We once more determined to turn our attention to the Nantillon side, and, as a beginning, to attempt to get along the ridge from the Charmoz-Grépon col. It did not occur to us that the easiest way to the Nantillon glacier would be to traverse the lower buttresses of the Little Charmoz from the Montenvers inn, the route which is now invariably taken, but, in our ignorance, we went down to Chamonix as a preliminary to the assault.
On August 3rd, accordingly, I was remorselessly ejected from my bed at 1.30 a.m., and informed that there was not a cloud or even a rag of mist for laziness and a love of slumber to modestly shelter beneath, so, reviling guides, mountains, and early starts, I got into my clothes and came down to the chill and comfortless salon. I then found that neither hot tea for the Monsieur nor breakfast for the guides was forthcoming. Doubtless the just retribution awarded by Providence (or M. Couttet) to those who bring Swiss guides to Chamonix.
We got on very slowly at first, our progress being much hindered by a bottle lantern. Happily, before the loss of time became really serious, Venetz took advantage of a smooth rock and some interlaced brambles, and went head-over-heels, no one exactly knew where, though, from some remarks he let fall, I gathered that it was one of the less desirable quarters of Hades. When he reappeared the lantern was no more, and we were able to make better progress, till, after a weary grind, we reached the Nantillon glacier.
We did not much like the idea of repeating the traverse by which we had reached the upper slopes on our way to the Charmoz. We therefore halted and looked for a better method of turning the ice fall. A steep tongue of glacier between the cliffs of the Charmoz and the buttress of rock which projects from the Blaitière seemed to offer an easy and fairly safe line of ascent, and we unanimously decided in its favour.
Having settled this preliminary to our day's work we strolled up to the foot of the tongue. We kept straight up it, and found that it was just steep enough to require step cutting the whole way. The process was tedious, and, much to Burgener's chagrin, a party bound for the Blaitière were catching us up, hand over hand, on the easy rocks to our right.[1] Our leader exerted his utmost strength, and by herculean efforts managed to reach the upper glacier simultaneously with the other party. He found them to be led by a well-known Oberland guide, who was not a little elated by his judicious lead. We kept together as far as the foot of the couloir running up to the Charmoz-Grépon col. Here our ways diverged, so with mutual good-byes, and wishing each other all sorts of luck and success, we parted company, the Oberlander first giving Burgener much good advice and ending by strongly advising him to abandon the attempt, "for," said he, "I have tried it, and where I have failed no one else need hope to succeed." Burgener was greatly moved by this peroration, and I learnt from a torrent of unreportable patois that our fate was sealed, and even if we spent the rest of our lives on the mountain (or in falling off it) it would, in his opinion, be preferable to returning amid the jeers and taunts of this unbeliever.
Having found a rock which protected us from falling stones, we halted for a second breakfast. Turning once more to the ascent we found that the couloir, though not absolutely free from falling stones, is fairly easy, and it was not till about seventy feet below the col, when we had traversed to the right and assaulted a great slab, that we met with our first serious difficulty, and found it necessary to put on the rope. Both Venetz and I made sundry attempts, but, as soon as we got beyond the sure and certain support of Burgener's axe, progress upwards became impossible, and though we reached points within a few feet of broken and fairly easy rock, we were forced on each attempt to return. Whilst still doubtful whether a yet more determined attack might not conquer our enemy, Venetz wisely climbed back into the couloir and up to the col to see if any more convenient line could be discovered. He soon called on us to follow, and, leaving Burgener to pick up the rope and knapsack, I scrambled round and found Venetz perched some ten feet up a huge slab. This slab rests like a buttress against the great square rock, which shuts in the col on the Grépon side with a perpendicular wall. Its foot, accessible by a broad and convenient ledge, is about twenty feet below the col, whilst its top leads to the foot of a short gully, at the top of which is a curious hole in the ridge dubbed by Burgener the "Kanones Loch."[2] From this, once attained, we believed the summit was accessible.
So soon as Burgener had brought round the rope and knapsack, Venetz tied up and set to work. At one or two places progress was very difficult, the crack being in part too wide to afford any hold, and forcing the climber on to the face of the slab. I subsequently found that at the worst point my longer reach enabled me to get hold of a small protuberance with one finger, but how Venetz, whose reach is certainly a foot less than mine, managed to get up has never been satisfactorily explained. At the next stage the crack narrows, and a stone has conveniently jammed itself exactly where it is wanted; beyond, the right-hand side of the crack gets broken, and it is a matter of comparative ease to pull oneself on to the top. This top then forms a narrow, but perfectly easy and level, path to the gully leading up to the hole in the ridge. We found this hole or doorway guarded by a great splinter of rock, so loose that an unwary touch would probably have been resented with remorseless severity, and the impertinent traveller hurled on to the Nantillon glacier. Squeezing through, we stepped on to a little plateau covered with the débris of frost-riven rock.
Burgener then proposed, amid the reverent and appreciative silence of the company, that libations should be duly poured from a bottle of Bouvier. This religious ceremony having been fittingly observed (the Western form, I take it, of the prayers offered by a pious Buddhist on reaching the crest of some Tibetan pass), we proceeded to attack a little cleft overhanging the Mer de Glace, and cleverly protected at the top by a projecting rock. Above this we found ourselves in a sort of granite crevasse, and as this, so far as we could discover, had no bottom, we had to hotch ourselves along with our knees against one side, and our backs against the other. Burgener at this point exhibited most painful anxiety, and his "Herr Gott! geben Sie Acht!" had the very ring of tears in its earnest entreaty. On my emergence into daylight his anxiety was explained. Was not the knapsack on my shoulders, and were not sundry half-bottles of Bouvier in the knapsack?
We now boldly struck out on to the Nantillon face, where a huge slice of rock had been rent some sixteen inches from the mass of the mountain, leaving a sharp, knife-like edge, destructive of fingers, trousers, and epidermis, but affording a safe and certain grip. This led us on to a spacious platform, whence a scramble of some twenty feet brought us to the sharply-pointed northern summit. Burgener self-denyingly volunteered to go down and send me up a stone wherewith to knock off the extreme point of the mountain, but the pleasing delusion that I was to occupy the convenient seat thus afforded was quickly dispelled. Stones were hauled up by Venetz in considerable quantities, and the construction of a stone man—or, having regard to its age and size, I ought, perhaps, to say a stone baby—was undertaken. A large red handkerchief was then produced, and the baby was decorously draped in this becoming and festive attire. These duties finished, we partly scrambled and partly slid back on to the big platform, and proceeded to enjoy ourselves, feeling that our work was over, our summit won, and that we might revel in the warm sunshine and glorious view.
That night my dreams were troubled by visions of a great square tower—the great square tower that at the other end of the summit ridge had thrust its shoulders above the snows of the Col du Géant, and though the men had stoutly maintained that our peak was highest, I felt that the delights of an untroubled mind and a conscience void of offence must be for ever abandoned if up that tower I did not go. After breakfast, I sought for Burgener, but I found that he was invisible, an essential portion of his clothing being so terribly damaged that the protracted exertions of the local tailor were requisite to his public appearance. However, in response to my urgent entreaties, Venetz retired to bed, and Burgener emerged resplendent in the latter's garments.
It turned out that Burgener had to be in Martigny the next morning but one, so, to give him time on our return from the Grépon to drive over the Tête Noire, we resolved to go up to Blaitière-dessous that evening and make an early start. The tailor duly accomplished his labours and released Venetz, and about four o'clock, with the addition of a porter, we strolled up to the châlet.
We got under weigh at two o'clock the next morning, and, following the route just described, reached the base of the first summit. Passing to the right of this we dropped down a fifteen-feet step and crawled up a smooth rock to the edge of the great cleft which divides the summit ridge into two equal sections. After a careful examination, as there did not appear any other method of descent, we fixed our spare rope, having first tied two or three knots at suitable intervals. Venetz went down first, and after he had made a short inspection he called on us to follow. Burgener descended next, and I brought up the rear in company with the knapsack and an ice-axe. I found the first twenty feet very easy, then I began to think that the Alpine Club rope is too thin for this sort of work, and I noted a curious and inexplicable increase in my weight. To add to these various troubles the axe, which was held by a loop round my arm, caught in a crack and snapped the string. Luckily, by a convulsive jerk, I just managed to catch it in my left hand. This performance, however, greatly excited Burgener, who, unable to see what had happened, thought his Herr and not merely the ice-axe was contemplating a rapid descent on to the Mer de Glace. Having restored our spirits by a quiet consideration of the contents of a certain flask, we set off in pursuit of Venetz, who had carried away our only remaining rope. A convenient flake had split from the mountain on the Nantillon side and offered a fairly easy zigzag path to the top of the tower, which shuts in the great cleft on this side.
We here found one of the many excellences of the Grépon peculiarly well developed. On the Mer de Glace face, from ten to twenty feet below the ridge, a broad road suitable for carriages, bicycles, or other similar conveyances, led us straight along to an obvious chimney by which the last gap was easily attained, thus obviating the necessity of following the ridge and climbing up and down its various irregularities. It is true that this desirable promenade was only to be reached by rounding a somewhat awkward corner, which my companion professed to think difficult, and its continuity was interrupted at another point by a projecting shoulder, which pushed one's centre of gravity further over the Mer de Glace than was wholly pleasant; but, the passage of these minor obstacles excepted, we were able to walk arm in arm along a part of the mountain which we had expected to find as formidable as anything we had encountered. Reaching the last gap, we rejoined Venetz and proceeded to examine the final tower.
It was certainly one of the most forbidding rocks I have ever set eyes on. Unlike the rest of the peak, it was smooth to the touch, and its square-cut edges offered no hold or grip of any sort. True, the block was fractured from top to bottom, but the crack, four or five inches wide, had edges as smooth and true as a mason could have hewn them, and had not one of those irregular and convenient backs not infrequently possessed by such clefts. Even the dangerous helm of a semi-loose stone, wedged with doubtful security, between the opposing walls, was lacking. Added to all this a great rock overhung the top, and would obviously require a powerful effort just when the climber was most exhausted.
Under these circumstances, Burgener and I set to work to throw a rope over the top, whilst Venetz reposed in a graceful attitude rejoicing in a quiet pipe. After many efforts, in the course of which both Burgener and I nearly succeeded in throwing ourselves over on to the Mer de Glace, but dismally failed in landing the rope, we became virtuous, and decided that the rock must be climbed by the fair methods of honourable war. To this end we poked up Venetz with the ice-axe (he was by now enjoying a peaceful nap), and we then generally pulled ourselves together and made ready for the crucial struggle.
Our rope-throwing operations had been carried on from the top of a sort of narrow wall, about two feet wide, and perhaps six feet above the gap. Burgener, posted on this wall, stood ready to help Venetz with the ice-axe so soon as he should get within his reach, whilst my unworthy self, planted in the gap, was able to assist him in the first part of his journey. So soon as Venetz got beyond my reach, Burgener leant across the gap, and, jamming the point of the axe against the face of the rock, made a series of footholds of doubtful security whereon Venetz could rest and gain strength for each successive effort. At length he got above all these adventitious aids and had to depend exclusively on his splendid skill. Inch by inch he forced his way, gasping for breath, and his hand wandering over the smooth rock in those vague searches for non-existent hold which it is positively painful to witness. Burgener and I watched him with intense anxiety, and it was with no slight feeling of relief that we saw the fingers of one hand reach the firm hold offered by the square-cut top. A few moments' rest, and he made his way over the projecting rock, whilst Burgener and I yelled ourselves hoarse.[3] When the rope came down for me, I made a brilliant attempt to ascend unaided. Success attended my first efforts, then came a moment of metaphorical suspense, promptly followed by the real thing; and, kicking like a spider, I was hauled on to the top, where I listened with unruffled composure to sundry sarcastic remarks concerning those who put their trust in tennis shoes and scorn the sweet persuasion of the rope.
The summit is of palatial dimensions and is provided with three stone chairs. The loftiest of these was at once appropriated by Burgener for the ice-axe, and the inferior members of the party were bidden to bring stones to build it securely in position. This solemn rite being duly performed, we stretched ourselves at full length and mocked M. Couttet's popgun at Chamonix with a pop of far more exhilarating sort.
The aged narrative from which I have been quoting ends abruptly at this point.[4] Before, however, quitting the summit of one of the steepest rocks in the Alps, I may perhaps be permitted to ask certain critics whether the love of rock-climbing is so heinous and debasing a sin that its votaries are no longer worthy to be ranked as mountaineers, but are to be relegated to a despised and special class of "mere gymnasts."
It would appear at the outset wholly illogical to deny the term "mountaineer" to any man who is skilled in the art of making his way with facility in mountain countries. To say that a man who climbs because he is fond of mountaineering work is not a mountaineer, whilst a man who climbs because it is essential to some scientific pursuit in which he is interested, is a mountaineer, is contrary to the first principles of a logical definition, and I trust will never become general. It may be freely admitted that science has a higher social value than sport, but that does not alter the fact that mountaineering is a sport, and by no possible method can be converted into geology, or botany, or topography. That the technique of our sport has made rapid progress is alleged against us as a sort of crime, but I venture to say, in reality, it is a matter, not for regret, but for congratulation. To emulate the skill of their guides was the ideal of the early climbers, and I trust it will still be the ideal that we set before ourselves. A terminology which suggests that as a man approaches this goal, as he increases in mountaineering skill he ceases to be a mountaineer, stands self-condemned, and must be remorselessly eliminated from the literature of our sport.
Probably most mountaineers would agree that the charm of mountain scenery is to be found in every step taken in the upper world. The strange interfolding of the snows, the gaunt, weird crags of the ridges, the vast, blue, icicle-fringed crevasse, or the great smooth slabs sloping downwards through apparently bottomless space, are each and all no less lovely than the boundless horizon of the summit view. The self-dubbed mountaineers, however, fail to grasp this essential fact. To them the right way up a peak is the easiest way, and all the other ways are wrong ways. Thus they would say, to take an instance from a well-known peak, if a man goes up the Matterhorn to enjoy the scenery, he will go by the Hörnli route; if he goes by the Zmutt ridge, it is, they allege, merely the difficulties of the climb that attract him. Now, this reasoning would appear to be wholly fallacious. Among the visions of mountain loveliness that rise before my mind none are fairer than the stupendous cliffs and fantastic crags of the Zmutt ridge. To say that this route with its continuously glorious scenery is, from an æsthetic point of view, the wrong way, while the Hörnli route, which, despite the noble distant prospect, is marred by the meanness of its screes and its paper-besprinkled slopes, is the right, involves a total insensibility to the true mountain feeling.
The suspicion, indeed, sometimes crosses my mind that the so-called mountaineer confounds the pleasure he derives from photography or from geological or other research, with the purely æsthetic enjoyment of noble scenery. Doubtless, the summit of a peak is peculiarly well adapted to these semi-scientific pursuits, and if the summit is the only thing desired, the easiest way up is obviously the right way; but from a purely æsthetic standpoint, the Col du Lion, the teeth of the Zmutt ridge, or Carrel's Corridor, whilst affording as exquisite a distant prospect, combine with it the dramatic force of a splendid foreground of jagged ridge, appalling precipice, and towering mist-veiled height.
The importance of foreground cannot, I think, be overrated, and it is obvious that the more difficult an ascent the bolder and more significant will usually be the immediate surroundings of the traveller. In other words, the æsthetic value of an ascent generally varies with its difficulty. This, necessarily, leads us to the conclusion that the most difficult way up the most difficult peaks is always the right thing to attempt, whilst the easy slopes of ugly screes may with propriety be left to the scientists, with M. Janssen at their head. To those who, like myself, take a non-utilitarian view of the mountains, the great ridge of the Grépon may be safely recommended, for nowhere can the climber find bolder towers, wilder clefts, or more terrific precipices; nowhere, a fairer vision of lake and mountain, mist-filled valleys, and riven ice.
A variety of attempts were made to repeat the ascent of the Grépon, but the mountain defied all attacks till the 2nd of September, 1885, when M. Dunod, cifter a month of persistent effort, succeeded in forcing the ascent by the southern ridge. Curiously enough, though he twice reached the Charmoz-Grépon Col, he failed on each occasion, not merely to hit off my crack, within six yards of which he must have passed four times, but also to strike the variation of this route which leads up some slabs on the Mer de Glace face. This latter was invented by some unknown party, whose existence is only deduced from numerous wooden wedges driven into a crack. These wedges were certainly not there when we ascended in 1881, but seven years later Mr. Morse, who, with Ulrich Almer, reached the first summit by this route, found them securely fixed and of great use. Unluckily, owing to lack of time (he was taking the Grépon on his way down from the Charmoz traverse!), it was impossible to complete the ascent, and he had perforce to remain content with the lower summit.
In 1892, therefore, the ascent had never been fully repeated by my route, and had only been twice effected by the southern ridge. In each of these latter ascents F. Simond had been leading guide. Early in August of that year, a party consisting of Messrs. Morse, Gibson, Pasteur, and Wilson, without guides effected the ascent by this same route, and left an ice-axe, with a fluttering scarf attached, as a challenge to the habitués of the Montenvers. A few days later, Hastings, Collie, Pasteur, and myself made up our minds to recover the derelict property. We intended to ascend from the Charmoz-Grépon Col and descend by the south ridge, and as the step known as C. P.[5] was reported to be absolutely inaccessible from the Grépon side—previous parties having always left a rope, on their way to the peak, hanging down the precipitous step so as to help them on their return—we chartered two porters to go up to C. P. and fix the rope; we also provided such provision and refreshment for them to carry as would, we thought, add to our comfort and happiness.
At 2 a.m. on the 18th of August, Simond gave me the unpleasant intelligence that the very name of Grépon had so frightened the porters that they had surreptitiously left their beds and fled to Chamonix. The difficulty appeared very serious. Two a.m. is usually an inconvenient hour to charter porters, and Simond was quite sure that C. P. was impassable from the Grépon side without a rope previously fixed. It appeared, then, likely, that if we reached the gap leading to it we should have to retrace our steps all the way along the ridge. After much talk, Simond offered to lend us the herd-boy attached to the establishment, and also to wake and interview a one-eyed guide, who was sleeping in the hotel, and who had been with M. Dunod on some of his unsuccessful attempts.
This guide, Gaspard Simond,[6] proved willing, and with the herd-boy as second man we started gaily for the valley of stones. Each amateur member of the party was quite sure that the route taken along the detestable slopes of the stone man ridge was far inferior to the line that such amateur had worked out and was prepared to lead us on; but I noticed that none the less we carefully kept to the herd-boy's lead, and for the first time we reached the moraine of the Nantillon glacier without feeling the need of any seriously bad language. Concealing our lanterns beneath a stone, we struck up the glacier just as the soft lights of morning were silhouetting the rugged limestone ridges of Sixt.
At this point Gaspard indulged in some very depressing statements. He told us that he had recently been up the Charmoz, and with true prophetic insight had devoted his time whilst there to an examination of the particular slab up which our route lay. This slab, he had been able to see, was coated with "verglas," and most ingenious defences of snow, rock, and ice had been skilfully erected at the top; in short, it was simply courting defeat to go on with our attempt. It appeared to us, however, that these complicated defences were likely to be merely the products of our guide's imagination, and were, perhaps, in part referable to an objection to carrying a heavy knapsack up to C. P. We therefore proceeded; but on reaching the top of the rocks known as the "breakfasting station," Gaspard gave us further details; this very slab had, it appeared, fallen, crashing down to the glacier several years since, leaving a blank, unbroken wall that could by no manner of means be ascended. We were struck dumb by this accumulation of difficulties; not only was the slab impassable by reason of the accumulated ice, but it was not even there! A state of affairs recalling to our minds the celebrated legal pleas entered relatively to the cracked jar—"We never had it. It was cracked when we had it. We returned it whole!"
Pasteur, however, by an interesting deductive argument, reached an equally gloomy conclusion. "It was," said he, "extremely unlikely that I should have the luck to get up the Grépon at all this year; now having been up once, it is absurd to suppose I shall get up a second time." He suggested we should tell the porters to halt at the foot of the couloir till we got to the col, and, if we found that we could not storm the Grépon ridge, we would shout to the guides and they could then deposit the baggage and return as fast as they liked. This suggestion was duly accepted by the party. Indeed, a telescopic examination of the peak had not enabled me to trace my old route—for the excellent reason, as I subsequently discovered, that it is not visible from this point of view. This, and the wide prevalence of a rumour that a great crag really had fallen from this part of the mountain, led me to fear that it might be all too true, and that the peak was closed for ever from this side. We started up the couloir, with chastened feelings and hopes little higher than the Charmoz traverse backwards. On reaching the neighbourhood of the col, I looked around for my old route to the "Kanones Loch," but I could not recognise it, and the col itself did not seem familiar to me. The furious wind whistling and howling through the crags did not help to awaken my memory, and it was only when I had climbed round a crag on the Charmoz side of the col that I recovered my bearings and recognised the cleft up which we had to go.
Possibly the knowledge that I was going to try to lead up to it made it look worse than it really was, but for the moment I was startled at its steepness. With the exception of two steps where the rock sets back slightly (to the extent, perhaps, of two feet in all), the whole is absolutely perpendicular. In this estimate I exclude a preliminary section of seven or eight feet, which bulges out and overhangs in a most painful manner. On the other hand, it was distinctly more broken than I had expected, and the longer we looked the better we liked it, till with fair hopes of success I climbed down to the foot of the crack, scrambled on to Hastings's shoulders, and tackled the toughest bit of rock climbing I have ever attempted. For the first twenty feet or so the climber is to some extent protected by the rope, which can be hitched round a great splinter close to the col; beyond that point the rope is simply worn as an ornament, though doubtless it supplies one's companions with pleasing sensations whenever a slip seems imminent. About half-way up is an excellent step on which one can take breath. When I say excellent, I only mean relatively to the rest of the crack, not that it is suitable for lunch, or even that one can balance on it without holding on; indeed, on the first occasion that I ascended, my meditations at this point were rudely interrupted by my foot slipping on the shelving rock, and I was launched into thin air. Wiser by this memory, I hung on with my fingers as well as the absence of anything to hang on to would permit, and then, having somewhat regained my wind, began the second half of the ascent. This section was, by the general consent of the party, voted the hardest. There is really very little hold for the hands, and nothing at all for the feet, the climber proceeding chiefly by a pious reliance on Providence, eked out at intervals by loose stones wedged with a doubtful, wobbling sort of semi-security into the crack. Above, the need for piety is replaced by excellent hand-hold on the right, though the gasping and exhausted climber still finds it difficult to propel his weight upwards. Ledges then become more numerous, and at length one's arms and head hang down the Grépon side of the slab, whilst one's legs are still struggling with the concluding difficulties of the other side. At this juncture wild cheers broke from the party below, and awoke in me the dread that the porters would regard them as the wished-for signal and fly incontinently to Chamonix. In the intervals of gasping for breath I suggested these fears to my companions, and a silence, as of death, instantly showed their appreciation of the danger.
In order to prevent the remainder of the party scrambling up with undue facility and thus exposing the Grépon to scorn, I judiciously urged them not to waste time by sending up the axes and luggage on the rope, but to sling the axes on their arms and distribute the luggage amongst the rest of the party. I found this eminently successful, and a most material aid in impressing my companions with a due respect for the crag.
We then scrambled up the gully and through the "Kanones Loch," and with our hopes rising at every advance, we followed my old route to the top of the great gap. Here we fixed a hundred feet of rope, and the party went down one by one. As I was descending last, having just passed a perfectly smooth and precipitous section of the cliff relying exclusively on the rope, I rested a moment on a trifling irregularity in the rock. When I essayed to continue the descent, the rope came to me as I pulled. With a great effort I succeeded in keeping my balance on the insecure footing where I had been resting, but for a moment I felt supremely uncomfortable. The rope was apparently quite loose above, and there appeared to be no means of climbing down the rock to the gap without its aid. However, after about ten feet of it had been hauled in, no more would come, and it resisted the united efforts of my companions in the gap. Collie also managed to see an apparently possible line of descent, and skilfully coached by him, keeping the rope in my hand merely as a dernier ressort, I succeeded in reaching the welcome security of Hastings's grip and was landed in the gap.
So far as we could see, the rope had slipped off the top of the tower on to the Nantillon face, and caught in a hitch some ten feet down. We could not see whether this hitch was reliable or not, but we all agreed that the first man to go up from our present position would have an unpleasant task. As it was still doubtful whether we could scale the final peak, and thus get on to the C. P. route, this was not an impossible contingency, and we hastened forward to set the question at rest.
This final peak had nearly baffled Burgener and Venetz, and we scarcely hoped to be able to climb it by fair means. We had determined, in consequence, to try and win the summit by throwing a rope over the top. It is true Burgener and I had failed signally in so doing, but on this occasion we had a light rope with us, far better adapted for that purpose than the ordinary Alpine Club rope we had used in 1881. Collie, on the way along the ridge, selected two excellent stones wherewith to weight the rope and give it some chance of facing the furious gale. With much discomfort to himself and grave damage to the pockets of his coat, he conveyed these murderous weapons through various difficulties to the very foot of the final climb.
The preparations for a preliminary assault by fair and legitimate methods were in progress, when Pasteur joyfully shouted that we had already joined the C. P. route, and could ascend by a perfectly simple and fairly easy line. The crack, by which Venetz had climbed, is not the only one leading to the top. To the right, and rather on the Nantillon face, is a second cleft, precipitous at the bottom, where a friend can conveniently give you a shoulder, but quite practicable above. M. Dunod, ascending from C. P., reached the base of this crack, and naturally utilised it for the ascent. We, in 1881, reached the base of the other crack, and Burgener dismissed the alternative line with a contemptuous "Es ist schwerer als dieses." He was, however, wrong. Pasteur gave me a shoulder, and in a few minutes we all crowded round the ice-axe and its fluttering flag.
The wind was howling across the ridge with such fury that we could only crouch under one of the stones, and we soon determined to go down to warmer quarters. We scrambled off the summit, and, sheltering under its lee, rejoiced in victory and lunch. Pasteur, who had been previously on this side of the mountain, now took the lead. He slipped a spare rope through a "piton" left by M. Dunod, and we all quickly slid down to a broad shelf. When I say all, however, I must except Hastings, who unluckily inserted his foot into a tempting crack, and found that no effort could subsequently release it. All hands heaved on the rope, but it was of no avail, and he bid fair—save for the dearth of eagles—to rival Prometheus. Some one at last suggested that he should take off his boot. The idea was hailed with approval, and we all shouted and yelled the advice. When, however, one is supported on a steep, not to say perpendicular, slab by one foot jammed in a crack some twelve inches from the surface, it is a problem of no slight complexity to unlace and remove an offending boot. The task was, however, accomplished; but then a second difficulty arose, what was to be done with it? Happily a pocket was discovered large enough to contain the property, and the ledge was soon reached in safety.
A short ascent by an easy gully led us to the gap between the Pic Balfour and the summit. From thence easy ledges brought us down to the C. P. cleft. Our porters greeted us with shouts, and let down a rope for our help. It was obvious, however, that a rock bridge, not, perhaps, wholly easy of access, would have enabled us to turn the obstruction without extraneous aid. Since, however, the porters were at hand, we thought they might as well have the privilege of pulling us up. Safely arrived in the neighbourhood of the knapsack, we "lay beside our nectar" till such time as the nectar was consumed. We subsequently raced down to the breakfasting rocks, descended to the lower glacier, and finally got back to the Montenvers about 5 p.m. Kind friends, who saw our approach, welcomed us with a vast pot—the pride and joy of the Montenvers Hotel—full of tea, and under its stimulating influence the crags became steeper and more terrible, until it seemed incredible that mere mortals could have faced such awful difficulties and perils.
A year later I was again at the Montenvers, and was taught the great truth that in mountaineering, as in all the other varied affairs of life, "l'homme propose mais femme dispose," and consequently a desperate assault on the Aig du Plan, that we had been contemplating for a week or more, had to give place to yet another ascent of the Grépon.
The horrors of the valley of stones on a dark night were vainly conjured in their most hideous form. The utmost concession that aged limbs could obtain was permission to gîte high on the rocks above the lower fall of the Nantillon glacier. I am aware that youthful climbers scorn gîtes, and regard a night spent in plunging head first into deep and gruesome holes as an excellent restorative previous to a difficult ascent. With this view I was once in full accord, but the rolling years have given strength to the arguments in favour of camping out; and now a shelter tent, a sheepskin mattress, and an eiderdown bag are resistlessly attractive, when compared with an early start, interminable stones, and the tortures of a folding lantern—that instrument from which "no light, but rather darkness visible," is shed.
Like everything else in the Alps, a night out is in itself a great pleasure. In no other way can one see such gorgeous sunsets, such "wind-enchanted shapes of wandering mist," such exquisite effects of fading light playing amongst fantastic pinnacles of tottering ice. To watch the night crawling out of its lair in the valley and seizing ridge after ridge of the lower hills till the great white dome of Mont Blanc towers alone above the gathering darkness, is a joy that is hidden to dwellers in inns, and is never dreamt of amidst the riot of the table d'hôte.
Few places can rival the narrow ledge of rock, with a precipice in front and an ice slope rising behind, where our tiny tent was pitched, and few setting suns have disclosed more gorgeous contrasts and tenderer harmonies than that which heralded the night of August 4, 1893.
Our party consisted of Miss Bristow, Mr. Hastings, and myself. Warmly wrapped in sleeping bags, we sat sipping hot tea till the smallest and laziest of the stars was wide awake. Only when the chill breeze of night had dried up the rivulets, and the roar of the torrent five thousand feet below alone broke the solemn silence of the night, did we creep into the shelter of our tent. Hastings then tightened the ropes, and ingeniously arranged the cooking stove and the various provisions required for breakfast, in places where they were conveniently accessible from the tent; and having crawled in, shut the door, and we settled ourselves amongst our luxurious mattresses and bags.
By 5 a.m. the next morning a sumptuous meal was ready. From rolls to hot bacon, from jam to tea and fresh milk, the all-producing bag of Hastings had sufficed, and we feasted in a "regular right down royal" style till six o'clock, by which time the rest of our party, Slingsby, Collie, and Brodie, had arrived. A second edition of breakfast was promptly provided, and, whilst it was being duly attended to, Miss Bristow and I started up the ice, hewing such steps as were necessary. We went extremely slowly, but the excellence of Hastings's culinary efforts so delayed the rest of the party, that it was not till we had halted ten minutes or more on the rocks at the foot of the couloir, that they caught us up. Slingsby then unroped and came with us, whilst the rest of the party swung to the right to attempt the ascent by the southern ridge, more commonly known as the C. P. route. Their object was to effect the climb, if any way possible, without the elaborate rope-throwing operations which have hitherto always been found essential on this side. In the event of failure they were to accept a helping hand from us, so soon as we should have reached the foot of the final peak and were in a position to give them one. As the only serious difficulty by the C. P. route is a section of about thirty feet, immediately below the platform underneath the summit rock, it was obvious we should be able to do this without much trouble.
Five consecutive days of evil weather had sufficed to plaster the couloir with ice and loose snow. We were, in addition, altogether over-weighted with luggage—a half-plate camera and a spare sixty feet of rope, in addition to food, &c., sufficing to bulge out the knapsack in a most obese and uncomfortable way. I also distinguished myself by getting too much to the right in the couloir, and, to avoid descending, we had to make a traverse which involved climbing of a merit fully equal to anything required above.
On reaching the point where the Grépon route diverges from that to the southern pinnacle of the Charmoz, we found the couloir in a most unsatisfactory condition. Not merely were the rocks as rotten as usual, but they were decorated with great frills and tassels of brittle ice, the interstices being filled up with the loosest and most powdery snow. It was impossible to tell what was sound and what was loose, though we found it a good working hypothesis to regard everything as loose. After a time the process of raking out the snow and testing the stones became so intolerably chilling to our fingers, that Slingsby and I agreed we had better traverse directly to the lowest of the gaps dividing the Charmoz and Grépon. It was tolerably easy to get along a big slab of rock, but the ascent of a vertical crack, perhaps fifteen feet high, required prolonged and severe effort. I ought, however, to add that my companions appeared to scramble up without difficulty, Slingsby even bringing my axe, which I had left forlorn, wedged in a crack, in addition to his own.
The Mer de Glace face was in full sunshine, and was delightfully warm after the bitter cold of the shaded western rocks. We traversed by easy ledges, amongst the slush of melting snow, to a broad-topped crag, that projected far over a precipitous gully, plunging down towards the Glacier de Trélaporte. On the top of this rock we unpacked our provisions, and made our first long halt. We excused our laziness, for it was getting late, by saying the "crack" cannot be ascended till the day is further advanced and the shadows less bitterly cold. Our ledge was of the most sensational character. The cliff above overhung, and the tiny streams from the melting snow on the ridge fell far outside us in sheets of sunlit rain. Below, the cliff still receded, so that the stones dislodged by us fell four or five hundred feet before they touched the grim walls of the gully. My seat was at the extreme end of the projecting crag, and somewhat destitute of foothold. I will own that, at moments, the appalling precipice exerted such an effect on my brain, that the very stability of our perch itself seemed doubtful, and I almost seemed to feel it rock as if it were starting on its tremendous plunge through space.
After three-quarters of an hour, we packed the knapsack and scattered ourselves over the mountain, seeking for a suitable place for the camera. A little ledge, barely wide enough to squeeze along, led to the flat-topped tower which forms the Charmoz wall of the cleft, and which, from the Mer de Glace, looks like a hole through the ridge. It is not in actual fact a hole, as the key-stone of the arch above has fallen out, leaving a narrow gap. The camera was brought round to this point and Miss Bristow promptly followed, scorning the proffered rope. On this aerial perch we then proceeded to set up the camera, and the lady of the party, surrounded on three sides by nothing and blocked in front with the camera, made ready to seize the moment when an unfortunate climber should be in his least elegant attitude and transfix him for ever.
Slingsby and I then returned to the col, and, putting on the rope, I went down the couloir and traversed to the rock known as the "take off." My first attempt failed, owing partly to the cold, which, the moment we got into the shade, was still excessive, and partly to the fact that the first reliable grip, some ten feet above the base, was glazed with ice and more or less masked with frozen snow. By the time this latter had been pulled off, my fingers were so chilled and so inclined to cramp that I was glad to get safely down again.
It being undesirable to repeat this performance, Slingsby left the hitch and scrambled on to the "take off." His shoulder enabled me to do without the ice-glazed holds, and to reach the perpendicular, but happily dry, part of the crack above. On reaching the shelving ledge midway up, I saw that a good deal of snow had drifted into the crack and frozen on to the two wedged stones which are more or less essential to progress. It is needless to say that the removal of this frozen snow was a matter of great difficulty, and was only effected by using my elbow as an ice-axe—a painful process and one, moreover, apt to be injurious to the joint. However, after many efforts and much gasping for breath, I reached the top of the rock, and Miss Bristow then came round from the Camera tower and ascended the crack. I did not notice that she had two ropes on, and carelessly untying her, I let the end slip, thinking that the other end of it was round my own waist. Unluckily it was the rope connecting her with Slingsby, and my carelessness thus cut him off from us. In consequence, the axes, camera, and other baggage, could not be hauled up direct from the col, but had to be carried round to the "take off," to which alone my rope could be lowered.
These rocks are, at the best, none too easy, and for a very heavily-laden man are hardly practicable. However, Slingsby proved equal to the difficulty, and in some extraordinary way managed to carry the piled-up baggage, including my coat, to the ledge below the crack. When the whole mass was duly tied on to the rope, and I had to pull it up, I was a good deal impressed with the weight.
The next stage in the ascent is usually easy, and I took the knapsack and proceeded to attack it, but on reaching the little gully that leads up to the "Kanones Loch," I found it plastered with ice. The walls are so narrow, and the gully itself is so precipitous, that it is scarcely possible to use the axe with effect, and I found the knapsack must be discarded. Free from its encumbrance, the obstacle was overcome, and stepping through the hole I reached glorious sunshine. The knapsack and other luggage were then hauled up, and the rest of the party followed. The ice-glazed ledges and wrinkles of the gully, to say nothing of having to constantly handle the snow-covered rope, had reduced our fingers to a degree of cold that was positively excruciating. We sat down on the warm sunny rocks, and bent and twisted ourselves into the various attitudes which seemed most conducive to mute suffering. Gradually the sensation of having one's fingers slit by a blunt knife, from the tips upwards, was replaced by a warm glow, and as we had no longer to deal with ice-glazing and the other similar abominations which render gloves an inadmissible luxury, we put them on and proceeded happily. Of one thing we felt satisfied, our sloth and laziness were justified; had we attempted to grapple with this part of the mountain earlier in the day, we must have been driven back by the cold.
From this point onward the sun was blazing on the ridge, and our spirits rose to the highest pitch. Miss Bristow showed the representatives of the Alpine Club the way in which steep rocks should be climbed, and usually filled up the halts, during which the elder members of the party sought to recover their wind, by photographic operations.
Reaching the foot of the final tower, we slung a rope down to the C. P. section of the party. They had been so overcome by sleep, tobacco, and a love of ease, that the ascent of the mauvais pas had not even been attempted! We then scrambled on to the highest point. We shouted to friends, who, we thought, might be watching us from the Mer de Glace; we congratulated the first lady who had ever stood on this grim tower: and then we listened to the voice of the charmer who whispered of hot tea and cakes, of jam and rolls, of biscuits and fruit, waiting for the faithful in the Pic Balfour gap. There we feasted sumptuously, and having bundled the cooking-stove and other luggage into the knapsacks, we hurried down the easy ledges to C. P., and were finally chased off the mountain by wind, rain, and hail.
It has frequently been noticed that all mountains appear doomed to pass through the three stages: An inaccessible peak—The most difficult ascent in the Alps—An easy day for a lady.
I must confess that the Grépon has not yet reached this final stage, and the heading of the last few pages must be regarded as prophetic rather than as a statement of actual fact. Indeed, owing to the great accumulation of ice and snow on the mountain, the ascent last described will always rank as amongst the hardest I have made. None the less, its chief defence—the sense of fear with which, till lately, it inspired the guides—has gone, and a few of them have actually screwed their courage to the "sticking point" and reached the summit. Last season another lady, well known in climbing circles, traversed the mountain in the opposite direction, and it bids fair before very long to become a popular climb.
- ↑ This is the proper route and is, I believe, now invariably taken by parties on their way to the upper slopes of the Nantillon glacier.
- ↑ I am not responsible for Saas Thal grammar.
- ↑ M. Dunod heard at Chamonix that I took three ladders of ten feet each on this ascent ("Annuaire Club Alpin Français," 1886, p. 99); it is needless to say that this is a Chamonix myth. It, however, led him to encumber himself with three ladders of twelve feet each.
- ↑ Portions of this chapter were written for the Alpine Club some years since, and though the following paragraphs are not perhaps very well adapted to a wider audience, old associations have made me unwilling to excise them.
- ↑ An early explorer having ascended the southern ridge to this point, and not liking its appearance beyond, painted his initials on the rock, and it is now always known by them.
- ↑ A few days later this same guide lost his way on the Dôme du Gouter in a snowstorm, his employer, Mr. Nettleship, losing his life in consequence. The guides, thanks to the thickness of Chamonix clothes, survived the cold and escaped.