Personal Reminiscences Of Great Climbs

By C. E. Mathews

(A Lecture delivered to the Yorkshire Ramblers’ Club in the Philosophical Hall, Leeds, April 11th, 1902)

One of the disadvantages of being an old Mountaineer lies in the fact that one is often called upon to give some account of one’s experiences, to recall so many past adventures, to give, let us hope, some useful advice to young aspirants for mountaineering honours.

So here am I – fast falling into the sere and yellow leaf – beginning to be debarred from the practice of those mountaineering feats, which were the passion of my youth, and the solace and recreation of my middle age, and yet, thanks to Providence, with a climbing record such as is possessed, I believe, by few of my contemporaries, heartily at the service of the President and Members of the Yorkshire Ramblers’ Club.

About three years ago I published a book known as “The Annals of Mont Blanc,” and many of my reviewers (whose courteous appreciation of that particular volume I can never too gratefully acknowledge) took me to task for not having included in that work any personal reminiscences of my own.  But such was not my intention.  All personal reminiscences are purely ephemeral – are not for the most part of public interest, and the bulk of them in my judgment would have been better left unwritten.  Every great mountain has its peculiar individuality, and its own history, and my object was to write a book which I hoped might in time become a classic; in which men now living, and in which their successors “far on in summers which we shall not see,” might find recorded whatever is known in connection with one of the most famous mountains in the world

To-night, however, I have set myself a different task – I have undertaken to talk to you for an hour, about a few ascents of my own, of mountains that have since acquired a great reputation; ascents made for the most part in the early annals of mountaineering when climbing was more laborious, and far less luxurious than it is now, but when there was a glamour and a charm about peaks hitherto but little known and seldom or never climbed, such as can never be experienced by climbers of this generation.  I have no adventitious aids in the shape of photographic slides.  I shall ask you to believe that you are listening to an old friend, telling you a few simple stories on subjects in which all of you are more or less interested; and if I can induce you to take as much interest in listening as I shall take in narrating, then I shall “lay the flattering unction to my soul” that neither listener or narrator will have spent an evening altogether in vain

We must begin, if you please, by going back to the year 1860 – forty-two years ago.  At that time the most celebrated peaks in the Alps were all unclimbed.  The great ambition then was to be the first upon a mighty summit, to find out something about the unknown; and let me tell you that between the first and second ascent of any mountain, either in the way of difficulty, or interest, or charm, there is always “a great gulf fixed.”

The Weisshorn

At that time the two mountains which were most attractive to me were the Matterhorn and the Weisshorn.  I had a passion for the latter peak, and if I could have been the first on its summit I should have had far more joy – though less material compensation – than if I had been made Lord Chancellor, or Archbishop, of Canterbury.  I had then had five years Alpine experience and I was of the golden age of twenty-five.  The mountain had been tried the previous year by that giant of old days, Mr. Leslie Stephen, who was accompanied by Melchior Anderegg, of Meyringen, the greatest all-round guide whom the love of mountaineering ever produced.  His co-adventurers were Messrs. Ormsby, Liveing, and Bruce.  They slept at the little châlet below the Schallenberg Alp, but their excursion was made late in the season.  The party was too large for rapid walking, and they did not start till four _ o’clock in the morning; they tried by the Randa aréte but they did not succeed in getting half way to the top.  Early in 1860 I wrote to Mr. Stephen, asking him if he would have any objection to my making an attempt upon his mountain.  He was a climber who never had a trace of ignoble jealousy, and he bade me “go in and win.” I engaged Melchior Anderegg, then a young man of 33, who had been with Mr. Stephen, and one of the blessed results of that expedition was that Melchior and I became fast friends.  He has been my guide for 42 consecutive years, and I have had elsewhere the pleasure of recording that having been out with him for all those years in every conceivable variety of sunshine and storm, I never once heard him use an expression to which the gentlest woman might not have listened, and that I never once found him unequal to any kind of emergency

Well, on the 30th of June, 1860, I walked up the old track from Visp to Zermatt, my young wife riding upon a mule.  We got to the Monte Rosa Hotel in good time in the afternoon, and whilst we were dining Melchior procured the additional services of Johann Kronig, and got together the necessary provisions for the excursion.  Leaving my wife with a very agreeable lady, who remarked to her upon the unusual charm of my (then) complexion (I mention this of set purpose), we walked back to Randa and then climbed up to the Schallenberg châlet, where we were fairly comfortable.  The night was brilliantly fine.  Was it possible that we were going to be successful?

We started a little after one on the morning of the 1st of July, carefully picking our way by the bright starlight along the ridges which extend from the chalet to the edge of the glacier.  Crossing the moraine we walked steadily on till we reached a steep and rugged portion of the glacier which hid the mountain from our view; rounding this obstruction with some difficulty we reached the upper portion of the glacier about five o’clock and contemplated the work before us.  The prospect was not particularly cheering.  We were directly opposite the magnificent peak, with the southern and eastern arêtes on either hand.  It was early in the season.  On these arêtes hardly any rocks of any kind were visible.  Every projection was thickly coated over with fresh snow, and except a little patch of rock, some 700 or 800 ft. below the summit, the whole mass was of brilliant and dazzling whiteness.  We at once abandoned all idea of the Randa arête.  Melchior at first thought of trying the southern ridge, but on reflection we were both convinced that as there was so much snow, we might work our way up the south face of the mountain, and if we found the snow in good order, get on to the Randa arête very near the summit.  For six mortal hours we toiled up the steep face of the mountain – during the first four there was no danger, it was simply plodding up a slope inclined at an angle of 45°.  A great may steps had to be cut, but for the most part we were able to tread out our footholds in the snow.  About half-past seven the difficulties became much greater – ten to twelve inches of snow rested upon the ice.  It was not easy to get a safe footing’ upon it, and my clinometer indicated 49º.  The necessity of clearing away the snow before the steps could be cut in the ice beneath it made Melchior’s work very arduous, and the higher we got the greater the difficulties became.  The sun was extremely hot, and there was no cloud in the sky.  Melchior made me take off my veil and spectacles; “the footholds are not secure” he said, “and you must use all your eyes.”  Suddenly the heat of the sun loosened some snow just above us, and down came a little avalanche, quite near enough to be decidedly unpleasant.  This was too much for Kronig who begged me in the most abject manner to give up the expedition.  Melchior with a grim smile called my attention to Kronig; his knees were positively knocking together with fright.  It was a cruel blow, as we were not half-an-hour from the arête, from which the final ascent would be easy.  I appealed to Melchior and he said he would go to the little patch of rocks of which I have spoken, and then determine what to do.  We slowly reached this point, cutting every step of the way; but the rocks afforded neither sitting nor standing room, and crumbled away at the touch.  I was dreadfully unwilling to return, but the condition of Kronig was hopeless.  While we were considering the position another of those disagreeable little snow avalanches fell, and slid down the face of the mountain close to us.  It was no use holding out any longer.  The batteries of the Weisshorn were too deadly for us, so we turned and fled.  As we came down, large patches of snow detached themselves from the mountain, ourselves being in the centre.  It was not really dangerous but we were three times off our feet, and covered up to our shoulders with fresh snow.  At 8 p.m. we reached Zermatt after nineteen hours of perhaps the hardest walking I ever experienced. It was a failure, but that kind of failure which is not without its reward.  “Some men labour and other men enter into their labours.” Professor Tyndall made the ascent the following year, not, I fear, without some little envy on my part

During the night I woke up in great pain.  My face was burnt and blistered in the most gruesome manner, and I was nearly blind.  For three days I went about with my face tied up in a veil, and will you believe it – oh,
vanitas vanitatum – the one person nothing would induce me to see was that agreeable lady who had remarked to my wife upon the beauty of my complexion

Last August I was sitting with my dear old Melchior, then a hale old man of 74, on the top of the Mettelhorn.  We looked across to the great Weisshorn, from that faultless point of view.  We indentified the little patch of black rocks where we so unwillingly turned, and recalled all the details of that memorable expedition

The Matterhorn, From Breuil

I now turn from the Weisshorn to the Matterhorn – a mountain easy enough to ascend now, at least on the Swiss side, but once the object of special dread and apprehension

Everyone knows the external appearance of this stupendous pinnacle.  We are as familiar with its outlines as with the forms and faces of our personal friends.  But familiarity will never breed contempt for it, huts will never render it uninteresting, ropes and chains will not vulgarise it, “age cannot wither or custom stale its infinite variety.” The mystery which once surrounded it is gone, the evil spirits once believed to haunt it, have been frightened away; but greater knowledge of it brings only an increased admiration.  Lightning may smite, and suns burn, and frosts disintegrate, but

“Each in passing touch’d with some new grace
Or seem’d to touch her, so that day by day,
Like one that never can be wholly known,
Her beauty grew.”

Early in August in the year 1871, Melchior met Mr. Morshead and myself at Innsbruck.  He informed us that a few days previously he had made the ascent from Zermatt, and urged us to try it from the Breuil or south side.  Professor Tyndall, with whom we had subsequently passed a few pleasant hours at Pontresina, was good enough to give us the same advice, and urged us to follow the example he set in 1868, and pass from Breuil to Zermatt over the summit of the mountain.  He told us, as we were indeed aware, that no rock scenery in the whole Alps was equal to the south-western arête of the Matterhorn, and he added that of all the guides of the Val Tournanche there were only two, Jean-Antoine Carrel and Joseph Maquignaz, with whom we were likely to be contented, “and I cannot,” added the Professor, “recommend the one more highly than the other.” Before we had left England, however, we had read and noted the tribute paid by Mr. Whymper to the former of these accomplished guides.  “He was the only man,” says Mr. Whymper, “who persistently refused to accept defeat, and he is the finest rockclimber I have ever seen’ A few days later we had ample opportunity of bearing our testimony to the accuracy of this description

On Wednesday, August 16th, in rude health and excellent training, we were discussing our plans over the dinner table at Ivrea.  It was a beautiful afternoon, and Morshead, who had been wasting, as he said, three golden days in the heat and luxury of Como and Milan, was sighing for the purer air and simpler food of the Val Tournanche.  We wanted to reach Châtillon on the night of the 16th, and were soon en route for that village in a rickety carriage drawn by a pair of withered and melancholy steeds

Clouds gathered thick as we left the old town of Ivrea, and before we were half-way to our journey’s end, a tremendous thunderstorm broke over the valley, accompanied by torrents of rain.  Our horses were utterly unable to make head against it, so we put up for the night at a roadside inn, and starting again early in the morning, reached Châtillon to breakfast.  The heavy rain that had fallen during the night had cleared the air, but there were heavy clouds about and our prospects looked gloomy and threatening

We were anxious that no one should be acquainted with our plans, and simply announced our intention of crossing to Zermatt by the hackneyed pass of the Théodule.  We had not arrived ten minutes when a tall and resolute man, with a Solferino medal on his coat, came up and spoke to me.  “You are Mr. Mathews,” he said, “and your friend’s name is Morshead.” I admitted the facts, and told him we thought of crossing the Théodule.  He smiled, and said “Oh no, I think you are mistaken; you are going to Zermatt over the top of the Matterhorn.  You want a Val Tournanche guide.  I am Jean-Antoine Carrel” He produced his credentials – one or two chapters of Mr. Whymper’s charming volume, on one of the pages of which is a most excellent portrait of this well-known guide.  It was the same Carrel, the ambition of whose life was to be the first to set foot upon the Matterhorn, and who spent seven years in the earnest endeavour to find out a way to the summit from the side of his native valley.  He tried it in 1858 and 1859, with local friends, and reached a spot now known as “the Chimney,” above the Col du Lion, and between 12,000 and 13,000 ft. above the level of the sea.  He made another attempt in 1860, with Professor Tyndall and Mr. Vaughan Hawkins, and reached the foot of what is now known as the Great Tower – a height of a little more than 13,000 ft.  He tried again in 1861, reaching a point known as the Crête du Coq, some 200 ft. higher than his ascent of the previous year.  He tried again in 1862, twice with Mr. Whymper, on neither of which occasions, however, did he quite reach the point previously attained, and again in the same year with Professor Tyndall, when after a gallant fight the party reached the shoulder at the foot of the final peak, some 14,000 ft. in height; and finally, in 1865, he first reached the summit from the Italian side after a desperate climb, three days after Mr. Whymper’s party had made their memorable and disastrous expedition from the northern or Zermatt side.  He was the man we wanted and we immediately engaged him, leaving him to hire two porters to carry our luggage up to Breuil, and to accompany us on the following day as far as the hut where we hoped to pass the night, some 1,500 ft. below the summit of the mountain.  ‘As we walked up the lovely Val Tournanche not one of us had even a hope that our enterprise would be successful.  There was a little rain, and as we reached the spot from which the majestic peak is first visible, nothing confronted us but impenetrable clouds.  At the village of Val Tournanche, however, the prospect became brighter, and on our arrival at Breuil, though we could not even see the form of the mountain the keen cold air gave us a little hope.  Morshead, who was never known to be depressed, announced in a cheery voice that at three o’clock in the morning the weather would be superb; and having made our arrangements, and specially warned our guides to give no hint to anyone of our intentions, we retired

At two o’clock on the morning of the 18th, Melchior called us.  We were up in an instant, for he said “the sky is cloudless, and there is no snow upon the mountain.” The good news was perfectly true, the recent storms had been partial, and apparently had not touched the stupendous mass that loomed darkly at us through the early dawn.  Our plan was to climb the southwestern arête till we reached the cabane; to sleep there, and on the following day to gain the summit and descend to Zermatt.  We were ready to start at three o’clock, and the porters left at that hour, but we had to wait for nearly an hour before there was light enough to enable us to pick our way.  At five minutes to four we started, and eager to be off, walked rapidly over the gentian-studded slopes which stretch from Breuil to the foot of the well known Col du Lion.  We soon overtook the porters, and our party of six tramped up the hard snow with great rapidity and ease till we reached the rocks a little below the Col.  Here the scenery is exceedingly impressive.  Just above us was the slight snow Col overlooking the great basin of the Z’mutt Glacier.  To the left were the steep rocks of the Téte du Lion, and immediately on our right was the savage arête of the Matterhorn, pointing directly to the wished-for goal.  It was a difficult scramble to get from the snow gully on to the rocks, but we were soon on the arête, looking down upon the gorgeous ice-fields of the Z’mutt basin.  The weather was absolutely perfect.  The sun had risen.  There were no clouds in the sky.  We were at last, under the most favourable circumstances, climbing the ridge for which we had so often longed.  The rocks, although by no means easy, did not disintegrate, there was no ice upon them, and there were no falling stones.  The guides of the Val Tournanche had fixed ropes in some of the most difficult portions of the climb.  When I was satisfied, which was not always the case, that the ropes would hold, I was glad to avail myself of their undoubted assistance.  Morshead, however, regarded them with loathing, would never touch them if he could help it, and repeatedly suggested that if the Matterhorn could not be climbed without such aids it ought not to be climbed at all.  After some hours of steady, and, considering the nature of the work, exceedingly rapid climbing, we reached the extraordinary obelisk of rock known as the Great Tower.  The sky was still cloudless; we were in tremendous spirits, and we rested for a few minutes to take food, and to admire “those wild and wonderful rock-towers into which the weather of ages has hewn the southern ridge of the Matterhorn.” We were now climbing up that portion of the ridge which leads from the Great Tower to a point which from Breuil looks like a second and lower summit of the mountain, when an unexpected difficulty arose.  We found the rocks ice-covered, to a small extent at first, but as we got higher, to an extent which damped our energies and seriously impeded our progress.

On most mountains, even where there are real difficulties, there is so much that is comparatively easy, that the mind is not fully occupied, but now the work became so seriously difficult that our entire bodily and mental energies were devoted to it.  The rocks became worse and worse.  We tied our axes over our arms, and climbed hand over hand.  Carrel led us with indomitable energy, and it was a mountaineering treat to watch the skilful manner in which he worked.  I followed him, Morshead came next, and Melchior brought up the rear, the two porters being on a rope of their own.  After some very severe climbing we reached a patch of snow known as the Cravate, a height of 13,400 ft. and about 1,400 ft. below the summit of the mountain.  But to our inexpressible consternation one of those sudden changes took place for which the Matterhorn is so notorious.  A cold wind began to blow.  A few minutes before there was no apparent vapour in the atmosphere; now sudden wreaths of whirling mist seemed to form under our feet, the blue sky was blotted out, and then snow began to fall.  It was a bitter moment, but in an instant we changed our plans.  We dreaded a break up of the weather, and felt that if we were to reach the summit at all not a moment was to be lost.  Instead of sleeping at the hut, which we had nearly reached, we would send back our porters, load ourselves with such food or clothing as was absolutely necessary, make an immediate push for the summit, and get over to the cabane on the Zermatt side the same evening.  It was now half past twelve.  The porters climbed with us to the lower summit, known as the Pic Tyndall, where we arrived shortly after one o’clock, and found the flagstaff planted by Tyndall and Bennen in 1862.  Here we rapidly relieved our porters of part , of their load, and sent them back to Breuil.  In light marching order, but with heavy hearts, we attacked the long horizontal ridge which stretches from the Pic Tyndall to the base of the final peak.  Imagine a saw many hundreds of feet long, with jagged teeth of various heights and size; imagine gigantic precipices on either side; imagine these teeth, coated many of them with thin ice, rapidly being concealed by falling snow; and imagine four men struggling up these teeth one after the other, at a rapid pace, up one, and down again, and up another.  Melchior had promised to take us over on to the Zermatt side if we could gain the summit before three o’clock.  It was after two before we got to the end of the ridge and stood face to face with the 600 ft. of final precipice which still towered above us, most of it ice-covered, and rapidly being whitened with fresh snow.  This was the spot which dazed Professor Tyndall in 1862, and which he sat down to inspect whilst his guides exclaimed ” It is impossible.” Melchior had become exceedingly grave and began to mutter the ominous word “dummheit.” Morshead and I had agreed to abide by his decision in any event, but we all determined not to give up without a struggle; and still more that whatever conference took place should be in the act of climbing and not of standing still.  To have stopped would have been to have turned back.  I looked up and saw about half way up the peak a rope-ladder fixed in the rocks.  I felt certain that if we could pass this ropeladder, we should, in spite of all difficulties, reach the summit.  The wind howled, and the hail and snow drove into our eyes and ears, but we got to the ladder.  It seemed to me to be fixed at the top and bottom of an absolutely overhanging rock.  We got up the ladder very quickly, but the effort was so great that we had to wait a few seconds to regain our breath

Melchior now began loudly to expostulate ; it would take us, he said, another hour to get to the summit, and it was folly to proceed.  We admitted the folly, but as he did not turn back, we climbed harder and harder, Carrel pulling at the rope with tremendous energy.  At a quarter past four, panting and breathless, with quivering muscles and bleeding hands, we arrived at the highest point.

It was bitterly cold; we had been climbing hard for over twelve hours; we were not fatigued, but we were covered with snow, our whiskers were icicles, and ice clogged our eyelashes and our hair.  Carrel laughed, but Melchior, who looked like a representation of Father Christmas at a pantomime, persisted in saying “dummheit” and was anything but pleased.  We could see nothing.  Instead of the old familiar faces of the great peaks of the Pennines, towering above the smiling fields of Zermatt, we could barely see the ridge we were standing upon, so in the drifting snow-clouds and bitter cold we shook hands solemnly over Mr. Whymper’s cairn.

We did not stay five minutes on the summit.  It was far too late to try and reach the cabane on the Zermatt side.  Melchior secured me the usual trophy, a bit of the highest rock, and telling us he hoped we might not be frozen, drove us rapidly down

It would require the pencil of Gustave Dore to do justice to the scene.  The storm raged about the peak.  Carrel was leading, Morshead followed, securing the leader from time to time, by the rope, carefully held over every available projecting rock; I, close to Morshead, and Melchior last of all, holding a firm rope, but shouting perpetually “Schnell! Schnell!”

Our only serious difficulty, however, was in descending the rope-ladder.  The cords and wooden rungs were coated with ice; and when I put my hands upon it, I found that I had no feeling in any of my fingers.  I had no notion until then that the rocks had cut my snow-gloves, and that all my fingers were exposed.  I made hooks of my arms and so got down the ladder, though not, as Mr. Sapsea observes, without “some fever of the brow.” The rock over which this ladder is fixed does overhang, and to be suspended by the arms on a frozen rung, with one’s feet dangling over an abyssmal precipice, may be exhilarating, but it is not climbing properly so called.  We got down to the saw, repeated our acrobatic performances on its jagged teeth, gained the Pic Tyndall, and, skirting the Cravate, reached the hut at half past eight, just as it got dark.

We passed a miserable night.  Carrel attempted to enliven us by relating the experiences of Signor Giordano, who passed five nights there, unable, from the bad weather, to go up or down.  We had no fire; but the courtesy of the Italian Alpine Club has placed an india-rubber mattress and two sheepskins at the disposal of visitors to that elevated spot, We boiled some coffee with the aid of some spirits of wine and wrapped ourselves up in the frozen sheepskins.  Morshead was not much the worse for wear; but I knew that all my fingers were more or less frost bitten, and all night long I saw Melchior driving us down those ghastly rocks and heard his constant exclamation “Schnell! Schnell!”

It snowed all night but cleared about seven in the morning.  We thawed our frozen boots by burning paper inside them, and descended the mountain with extreme care, for the ice-bound rocks were now covered with six or seven inches of fresh snow.  By three o’clock we were off the aréte, descended the snow couloir of the Col du Lion, skirted the interminable moraines at the base of our vanquished mountain, crossed the Théodule late in the evening, and arrived at Zermatt a few minutes after ten p.m. where we received from M. Seiler our usual kindly welcome.  This was the first time that the Matterhorn had been climbed from base to summit in one day.

An amusing incident occurred on our return.  We arrived, as I have said, after ten p.m.  I asked Seiler if he had any beds and he said “No; the Hotel is quite full.” I was vexed, when Seiler said, “Is there any room in the house you would prefer to any other?” I smiled and thought it expedient to retire.  By-and-by an excellent room was placed at our disposal, and by the number of female garments left behind, I was bound to assume that some deserving ladies had been dispossessed.  In those days the older members of the Alpine Club had special privileges both at Chamonix and Zermatt.  I know that for years Couttet used to call one room at his hotel ” La Chambre de M. Mathews,” and it was allotted subject to the condition that I did not require it myself.  I am afraid that the position of the room varied from time to time.  Alas! times are changed.  New men and women have arisen to whom Joseph is unknown, and the happy privileges we used to enjoy we enjoy no more.^[1]

The Dent Blanche

I have told you of the failure of a first ascent, of the success of another difficult climb under adverse circumstances.  I now propose to tell you something of a climb up a great mountain, made under the most favourable conditions of weather, wind, and snow, and I choose an ascent of the Dent Blanche made 30 years ago, because it will enable me to tell those of you who are not familiar with the subject, what kind of work is involved in the successful ascent of a great mountain, and to try and make you feel something of the charm of a first rate expedition.

The Dent Blanche is nearly 15,000 ft. in height, and one of the stiffest rock-climbs I know.  The great mountains as a rule take two days.  You start from Zermatt with an old and tried friend.  You have a couple of guides you have worked with for years.  Madame Seiler has carefully sorted your provisions, but being a prudent man you have them paraded before starting, to see that nothing is forgotten.  You have a fowl or two, and potted meats; bread, butter, and cheese; tea, coffee, and sugar; half-a-dozen bottles of red wine in cans, a bottle of champagne for the summit, and some brandy in case of need; dried fruits and preserves are added by the luxurious.  At two o’clock you give the order to start.  The ropes hang round the shoulders of the guides, the provisions are in knapsacks on their backs.  The traveller has a plaid strapped on his shoulders containing a very limited assortment of dry clothes; gaiters, comforters, and snow-gloves are not forgotten, and each man has a trusty axe in his hand.  March! You file through the little village in heavy marching order, the Church bell sounds thin and clear in the mountain air.  You pass the roaring torrent by the wooden bridge, meeting stray tourists descending from the Riffel.  “Where bound?” “Dent Blanche.” “Bon voyage.” Then across the smiling meadows, rich with the autumnal crocus, and into the forest glades which stretch for many a mile towards the great glacier of Z’mutt; and through the forest into the mountain pastures as the afternoon wears on, and then the sound of the cow bells.  A warning voice from Melchior, chief of guides, and his second in command produces an empty bottle which is filled with milk at the chalet for use at the evening meal, and then away through the upper pastures and along the barren ridges above them; here rounding at rock, and there leaping a stream, and then by a rugged descent into the most practicable part of the glacier.  After an hour on the ice you begin to feel that life is not altogether a mistake, for the glacial air plays through your veins, and fills you with at strange vitality and strength, which will stand you in good stead for many a day to come, and then the glacier getting more crevassed and difficult, a little care, leaping one crevasse and turning another, and still higher and higher till you scramble up a wall of rock and find a little plateau with tufts of grass and flowers and a substantial little stone hut – your sleeping quarters for the night. This was the Stockje, but since destroyed by an avalanche and the ruins only existing now.

First, dry clothes and a plaid over your shoulders for it is seven o’clock, the sun is sinking behind the Matterhorn and there is an eager and a nipping air. A great fire is made, for we have all gathered dry wood as we came through the forest. The kettle boils; the soup is hot; the banquet is prepared; we discuss the chances of the morrow; we recall former experiences; we plan new expeditions as we sit over our mountain meal; and then a brew of mulled wine. The jest passes round in middling French or worse German, the rocks re-echo with our laughter; the sun has gone down ; the great mountain tops are flushed with rosy hues, and then all is a cold grey, and then :-
“The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.”

It is worth a journey to the Alps to have one night’s bivouac on a glacier.

Well, you roll yourself up on a bunk in the hut, and as you are an old campaigner you are instantly asleep. About one o’clock you hear the click of a match. It is time to get up ; the fire is being lighted inside the hut. “What weather, Melchior?” – always the first question. ” Very fine.” “That is right. Where are my boots?” and you struggle into them. You sometimes think what a fool you are for going through so much trouble, while at a fourth of the expense you might be in bed at Zermatt, warm and comfortable. You go outside. The air is keen ; the ground is hardened with the night’s frost. The stars are dazzling; a hasty breakfast and very little of it. The rope secures us all four together. At two a.m. we are en route by the rocks of the Stockje. For an hour or so we make slow progress, using the moon if there is one, or a lantern if there is not. We are all rather sulky and not at all communicative, but about four o’clock the whole eastern horizon has a strange unearthly light, yellow, green, and purple fading into one another; this is the rose of dawn. Off the rocks on to the open plateau of the upper glacier. The snow is so hard we leave scarcely perceptible footmarks; we trail our axes behind us – a well remembered sound. Suddenly a crimson flash on the highest peak, and soon another and another; then comes the sun. Off go the gloves and the comforters, for it has been bitterly cold. We then really awake and spirits rise enormously. No I after all it is better to be here than to be fast asleep like those poor people in the hotel at Zermatt. At six o’clock the first halt is called. You have been walking for four hours without a break, and for a quarter-of-an-hour the mountain appetite grapples with the contents of the knapsack. Again en route. New peaks come into sight far and near, and amazing stretches of distant views. A halt is called. The snow changes colour. We have many steps to cut before we reach yonder ridge of rocks. This ts unlucky; it will cost us half-an-hour. But the axe is freely used. The chips of blue ice begin to fly; steadily we mount step by step ; at last we are on the rocks. The sun is getting warm. Now for the dark spectacles to protect our eyes; then hard rock-climbing – sometimes wanting a hand but being too proud to ask for it; sometimes pulling at the rope; sometimes getting pulled; sometimes on hands and knees. Halt! A cup of wine all round, for here we must leave the ridge, which is impassable, and get on to the face of the mountain, climbing with extreme care, for here is the great danger of the Dent Blanche – continuing till we can again reach the ridge; here skilled climbing comes into play. The rocks are dangerously steep, and though hard and reliable there is but little hand-hold. One only of the four moves at a time, the other three always keeping a tight rope lest the moving man should slip-safely passed-we are on the edge once more. Another halt-an egg and another glass of wine – again en route. More climbing, more struggling. We tie our axes on our wrists to be able to use both hands. We get higher and higher. No idea of fatigue occurs to us; another struggle or two and the ridge narrows out into a thin snow line · a few steps across this and a run up more easy rocks, a shout from the leader, and we are on the highest point of one of the greatest rock towers in the Alps. How long has it taken us? nine hours. Well, that is not, bad considering that we lost half-an-hour in stepcutting. We take off the ropes. The whole atmosphere is clear. Every peak around us is an old friend. There is the peerless Weisshorn. There is the savage Matterhorn. There are the Lyskamm and Monte Rosa. There is the Jura range trending to the distant north. There is France. There is the Lombard plain. There the distant Apennines. There so close to us (though 60 miles away) is Mont Blanc, and beneath white glaciers and endless plains of snow, and far away the tender distance, and over all the infinite blue. You stay there for an hour taking in pictures never to be forgotten; and then back to Zermatt; the expedition taking some 18 hours – a day ever to be marked with a white stone.

Believe me, the American ladies who ‘do’ Switzerland by flitting from hotel to hotel on the Lake of Geneva, or at most go on mules to Mont St. Bernard, do not know the Alps. The humbler tourist who walks along the dusty high-roads with a knapsack on his back does not know the Alps. The Cockney tourists who fill Chamonix and Grindelwald do not know the Alps. These know nothing of the impressive scenes that startle the traveller in the waste upper world. Language is too feeble to convey even a glimmering of what is to be seen to those who have not seen it for themselves. “The glories in which the mountain Spirit reveals himself to his true worshippers ” – says Leslie Stephen, “are only to be gained by the appropriate service of climbing into the furthest recesses of his shrines, and without seeing them no man has really seen the Alps.”

I do not suppose that I ever had a more successful expedition than that which I have described. The weather was superb throughout. There was not a fleck of vapour in the sky. The air was so serene and calm that on the summit the lighted match never flickered. We enjoyed the mountain glory under the most favourable circumstances, and yet I think there is no more dangerous mountain in the Alps. The slabs of rock over which the traveller has to climb are possible in ascending because you can see the cracks in which you can insert your fingers or your toes. It is very different in descending. It was in coming down these rocks that Mr. Gabbett and the Lochmatters were killed. A cruel mountain is the Dent Blanche. Naturally, we get more prudent as we get older, but looking back over 45 years of past experience, I do not hesitate to say that this is the only one of the great Alps that I have no ambition to climb again.

The Dent D’Hérens

I am now going to give you the details of another climb in which we had an accident, and very nearly a catastrophe. The Dent d’Hérens is a most interesting mountain, which really forms part of the Matterhorn range. It was first climbed by Messrs. Hall, Grove, Macdonald and Woodmass in 1863, from the side of the Valpelline. I tried it a few years later from the Swiss side, sleeping at the Stockje hut. And here let me say that in the experience of every climber there is always one particular mountain which seems fated to cause him infinite trouble and annoyance. The Dent d’Hérens treated me in this way. Five times did I sleep out for it before it ultimately succumbed. The first time we got to the top of the Tiefenmatten Joch, but bad weather came on, and as that particular pass is too dangerous to cross in the afternoon we had to get back to Zermatt over the Valpelline.

The second time Mr. Morshead and myself tried it under very favourable circumstances, and we attempted a new way up. The weather was superb, but the rocks we tried to negotiate turned out impossible between the Tiefenmatten Joch and the summit. Again we were beaten back to Zermatt over the Valpelline. The third time we again were foiled by bad weather, and for the third time got back by the Valpelline.

On the fourth occasion, in 1883, we again slept in the Stockje hut; the weather was superb, and we thought at last our mountain was secured, but unhappily Melchior was taken ill during the night and we returned to Zermatt, utterly disappointed, the next morning.

A few days later we started for the fifth time. Our party consisted of Mr. J. F. Wills and myself, with Melchior Anderegg, Ulrich Almer, and a porter – five in all. We again slept at the Stockje hut. We left early in the morning, in glorious weather, got to the top of the Tiefenmatten Joch, and made straight for the rocks. In due time we were all happily on the top, under a cloudless sky, and I well remember the superb view of the summit of the Matterhorn as seen from the top of the Dent d’Hérens. “Everything comes to the man who can wait,” and at last we had gained the victory which we both desired and deserved. We descended in high spirits. Within half-an-hour a large stone fell from near the summit, and, describing its proper parabola, passed within three feet of my head, and struck poor Ulrich Almer with enormous force on the back. For a few seconds we felt a tremendous shock. Almer was lying down bleeding; we were mostly on our knees. It does not take long to understand the meaning of a situation like that. Almer’s face was greenish-white, and I thought that he was dead. We were at a height of 13,000 feet. I remember saying to Wills, “Jack, this is an emergency, and we must so act that no one can ever say we have done the wrong thing.” Our wounded guide was unable to speak or move; his hands were much injured, and blood was running from his head. We tore our handkerchiefs into strips and bound up his wounded hands. We then, with large patches of snow, staunched the wounds on his head. I had a flask of Chartreuse in my pocket and I poured some of the precious fluid down his throat; he then revived, and sat up. “Never mind my head,” he said, “look at my back.” We got his clothes off, and I saw one of the most muscular torsos that was ever developed. Having some little knowledge of surgery, I felt him carefully, and found that two if not three ribs were broken. Fortunately we had a large, strong silk scarf with us. We bound this tightly round our wounded guide and fastened it with safety pins, and then got his clothes on him again. This took a long time, but how on earth were we to get him down the rocks; and should we try and work our way back to Zermatt, or, far easier, try and descend to Prerayen. We at once decided against the latter plan. On the Italian side probably no medical aid could be obtained nearer than Aosta. Again, Zermatt would be alarmed if we did not return, and search parties would be sent out. We determined to get to Zermatt at any hazard. I wanted to return by the Tiefenmatten Joch, but Melchior said “No! It is dangerous with a quick party. It is out of the question with a slow one.” There was no alternative but to descend to the Za-de-Zan Glacier and make the dreary round of the Valpelline once more.

The accident happened at eleven o’clock in the morning. Ulrich was getting a little better, and he had indomitable pluck. We fortunately had two ropes, and we made a loop in one in which the guide could sit, more or less – chiefly less. Two of the party paid him out, and two preceded him, and. after many hours of infinite toil we reached the Za-de-Zan Glacier. We put Almer on a plaid, and dragged him quietly down the snow to the foot of the  upper slopes of the Valpelline, and then he must walk or be carried. By putting a rope round his thighs we were able to drag him up, and at ten at night, after eleven hours of unremitting labour, we got to the top of the Valpelline. Here we were comfortably benighted. There were some loose rocks about, so like Balbus, we built a wall and put Almer under the lee of it. He was in considerable pain, but never uttered a word of complaint. We had plenty of food, but sometimes it is cold on the snow after eleven p.m. at a height of 11,000 ft. After an hour or two, Melchior found that Almer was very chilly. H e took off his own coat, fastened it carefully round the neck and chest of our poor patient, and sat out the night in his shirt sleeves. We then sat huddled together like worms, smoked and talked, and tried to imagine that we were warm and comfortable. It was brilliant starlight, and I well remember the extraordinary brightness of the Pleiades as they swung above the range of Monte Rosa. About four the dawn came; we descended to the Stockje hut, and put Almer to sleep, previously giving him a jorum of mulled red wine. We also had a sleep ourselves for two or three hours, and then Wills and I set off together to Zermatt, and sent up some Oberlanders with a chaise-a-porteurs to bring Almer down. At six p.m. on Saturday (the accident having happened at eleven a.m. on Friday morning) Almer was in the hands of two English surgeons at the Monte Rosa Hotel. Well! that was over thirty hours of stress and strain, and I was delighted to think that I was able to render to a Swiss guide, in the time of difficulty or trouble, something at any rate of that kindly care and attention which, if I had been  the sufferer, he would most generously and unselfishly have rendered to me.

Last year I crossed the Valpelline from Zermatt to Prerayen, and breakfasted on the summit of the Col. The whole details of that memorable night came back to me. The fragments of the wall we built were still there, and I almost saw Almer lying behind them; and the recollection of the manliness and tenderness of Melchior in sacrificing himself for his sick friend brought the mist into my eyes, after an interval of nearly 20 years.

The Aiguille Vert

We will now transport ourselves to Chamonix.

In the year 1862 I made my first ascent of Mont Blanc, in company with the late Mr. R. S. Macdonald of the Colonial Office. As we left Chamonix on a cloudless day and walked up the then mule track from Argentière in the direction of the Tête Noire – from the top of the steep zig-zags – we had a glorious view of the Aiguille Verte, a mountain for which I have always had a great respect and regard. Mr Macdonald urged me to add two or three days to my holiday and to join him in an attack upon this fascinating mountain, but this was not possible.

Mr. Whymper first climbed it in 1865, and I determined to succeed him at the earliest possible opportunity. But the Aiguille Verte was one of those mountains which put every kind of difficulty in my way. On the left bank of the Glacier de Talèfre, at the top of the moraine, is a huge stone known as the Pierre à Berenger, and under this stone is a kind of cave, which for a
hundred years or so has formed a night refuge for hunters after chamois and crystals. On three occasions between 1865 and 1870 l slept in that accursed hole either with Mr. Frederick Morshead or my dear friend the late Mr. Adams-Reilly, but on each occasion we failed from bad weather. At length, it was in 1871 or 1872, Mr. Morshead and myself were again in the cave, accompanied by Melchior Anderegg and another guide. It was a fine night, but I heard more than once a sough of wind, the meaning of which I understood only too well. However, we started on a brilliant morning, crossed the glacier and had our first breakfast at the well-known Jardin. When we reached the upper snow fields at the foot of the great couloir we carefully deposited a bottle of champagne in the snow, that we might find a comforting object awaiting our return. We worked up this great couloir for some hours, sometimes taking the steep but excellent rocks on one side and sometimes on the other. As we neared the top of the couloir an ominous cloud gathered over the Verte and shortly the snow flakes began to fall quickly. We made a rush for the top. Whether we actually reached it or not I shall never know, for the storm burst upon us with great violence. We turned and rapidly descended, but the cold became intense and we had to take extreme care. The snow drove into our faces, clogged our eyes, filled up the footsteps we had carefully cut a few hours before, and made progress extremely difficult and not a little dangerous. About midway down the couloir I had an ugly slip. Melchior, who was last on the rope, easily held me up, but I had fallen heavily, and suffered intense pain in the left shoulder. I believed that my collar bone was out. I sat down and worked my arm about till the difficulty, whatever it was, was overcome and the pain at once abated.

I put my arm in a sling and proceeded downwards in the raging storm. The pace was necessarily extremely slow. It would have been hard work enough to have got down with both arms free-with one arm useless I was a helpless cripple. My comrades gave me the utmost attention, but before we reached the bottom of the couloir, I fell again four times, on each occasion suffering the same – as I thought – dislocation, and certainly the same pain. We looked out eagerly for our bottle of champagne, but so much snow had fallen that the bottle was invisible. I should like to know who ultimately had the benefit of it.

At ten p.m., after an absence of exactly eighteen hours, we regained our lair under the great stone. It poured with rain during the night, but we were tired with our labour and slept the sleep of the just. To my great surprise I had no pain, and in the morning there was no mark upon my shoulder, but a large bruise. My arm seemed to work all right. What could it have been that caused me so much agony?

The next morning we descended easily to Chamonix and I sent to the various hotels in search of a doctor. By-and-by a gentleman appeared, and I was about to strip and shew him my wound when he said, “Sir, I think there must be some mistake. I am a Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Bonn.” Sometime later another gentleman appeared who turned out to be the principal surgeon of a Paris Hospital. He examined me carefully and told me there was no dislocation. “What then is my ailment?” I inquired. After further examination he found it out, and it appeared that I had sprung the biceps muscle at the point where it joins the shoulder. It will take two years he said, before you are quite free from a recurrence, but, he went on to say, you may still climb if you will under no circumstances use the left arm. He was a charming fellow and would take no fee but a cigar.

I afterwards went to Zermatt when Mr. Morshead arranged for some big expedition. I begged to be allowed to join them, but Melchior was inexorable. So my friend started and left me in the lurch. As soon as his back was turned, however, I remembered the advice of my Paris doctor, I engaged Peter Rubi and we went up the to Old Riffel. I procured a porter to walk behind me and to see that I never used my left arm, and the next day we ascended Monte Rosa by the Grenz Glacier and returned to Zermatt. My friend soon after came back from his expedition and condoled with me upon my enforced leisure. “Thank you,” was my reply, “I have been sufficiently well employed.”

Such are some of the more interesting of the reminiscences of high climbs which I can recall in a mountaineering experience which now extends over a period of 46 years. It is not unnatural that at my time of life so many conversations should commence with the words,” Do you remember?” Well! thank God, I can remember a good deal; of that successful endeavour, of that transcendant beauty, and of those priceless friendships which have added health, and sweetness, and happiness to life.

To this hour the thrill of joy I feel in starting for the Alps is just as keen as it was in the days of my youth; and the regret of having to come back to work is just as poignant as it was when the agreeable lady at Zermatt commented to my wife on the nature of my complexion.

Let us try to realise what coming back means. You have had six weeks, say of alternate sunshine and storm. You have had your fair average of successful expeditions, say three or four a week. You are a new man. The glacial air has filled your lungs, the sun and snows have burnt your cheeks, you are in grand health and training. But your ticket-of-leave is up, and your face must be turned towards England. This is the moment, when, I confess, I am the least enamoured of the pleasures of home. You are like a boy after all when you have to leave the playground and go back into school. You pay off your guides with a keen regret, you can scarcely let go their hands. You look with anger upon men who are coming out when you are going home. You have one final dinner, say at the great Hotel at Berne, more sorrowful than merry, and then in words not my own, but the truth of which I have realised many and many a time, “You sit out upon the Cathedral Platz and take your last look at the great Oberland giants, and waft across to them your ineffectual farewells. The unsympathetic Aar rushes beneath, and the snow peaks, whom we love like friends, abide untroubled by the coming and going of the world. The clouds drift over them. The sunset warms them with a fiery kiss. Night comes and you are hurried far away, to wake up on the shores of unfamiliar Seine, remembering with a pang of jealous passion that the flowers in Alpine meadows are still blooming and the rivulets still flowing with a ceaseless song, while Paris shops are all we see, and all we hear is the dull clattering of a Parisian crowd.”