Clinton Dent - Above the Snow Line - Mountaineering Sketches Between 1870 and 1880

It is a grand moment that, when the difficulty of an expedition opens out, when you grasp the axe firmly, settle in to the rope, and brace up the muscles for the effort of the hour: a moment probably the most pleasurable of the whole expedition, when the peak towers clear and bright above, when the climber realises that he is on the point of deciding whether he shall achieve or fail in achieving a long wished for success, or what it may be perhaps allowable to call a cutting-out expedition (for even mountain climbers are prone to small jealousies). The excitement on nearing the actual summit often rather fades away than increases, and the climber lounges up the last few steps to the top with the same sort of nonchalance that a guest invited to drink displays in approaching the bar.

Falling stones in the gully

Dividing into two parties, we passed rapidly along the snow ridge which abuts against the east face of the mountain. The cliffs of the Rothhorn seem almost to overhang on this face, and were from our point of view magnificent. On the right, too, the precipice is a sheer one, to employ a not uncommon epithet. Without much difficulty we clambered up the first part of the face of the mountain, taking a zigzag course towards the large gully which is distinctly visible from the other side of the valley, and which terminates above in a deep jagged notch in the ridge not far below the summit. Gradually the climbing became more difficult, and it was found necessary to cross the gully backwards and forwards on several occasions. In so crossing we were exposed to some risk from falling stones; that is to say, some chips and bits of rock on a few occasions went flying by without any very apparent reason. In those days mountaineers were in the habit of considering these projectiles as a possible source of risk. A later generation would pass them by as easily as the stones passed by us, and it is not now the fashion to consider such a situation as we were in at all dangerous. It is difficult to see the reason why. Perhaps people’s heads are harder now than they were then. For the greater part of the time we kept to the left or south side of the gully, and reaching the notch looked right down upon the commencement of the Glacier du Durand, a fine expanse of snowfield, singularly wild-looking and much crevassed. Turning to the right, we ascended a short distance along the ridge, and then a halt was called. The guides now proceeded to arrange a length of some hundred feet of rope on the rocks above to assist in our return. The process sorely tried our patience, and we were right glad when the signal was given to go on again. We had now to leave the arête, to descend a little, and so pass on to the west face of the mountain, and by this face to ascend and gradually work back to the ridge. No doubt during this part of the climb we made much the same mistake in judgment as had previously been made on a memorable ascent of the Matterhorn, and crossed far more on to the face than was really necessary or advisable. The mountain has since the time when these lines were originally written passed through the regular stages of gradual depreciation, and it is more difficult now to realise that we considered it at the time very difficult. Probably, however, subsequent travellers have improved considerably on the details of the route we actually followed; at any rate the ascent is now considered quite proper for a novice to attempt, at any rate by the novice himself. We worked ourselves slowly along in the teeth of a biting cold wind, and without finding the fixed rope necessary to assist our progress. Reaching the ridge again, the way became distinctly easier, and we felt now that the peak was at our mercy. Presently, however, we came to a huge inverted pyramid of rock that tried rather successfully to look like the summit, and we had some little difficulty in surmounting it. By dint of strange acrobatic feats and considerable exertion we hoisted our leading guide on to the top. It was fortunate for him perhaps that the seams of his garments were not machine-sewn, or he would certainly have rent his raiment. Finding, however, that the only alternative that offered when he got to the top of the rock was to get down again on the other side, the rest of us concluded that on the whole we should prefer to walk round. The last few yards were perfectly easy, and at 1.30 P.M. we stood on the summit enjoying a most magnificent view in every direction.

Effects of reaching a summit

It is a somewhat curious phenomenon, but one frequently remarked, that the mountaineer’s characteristics seem abruptly to change when he reaches the summit of a peak. The impressionable, excitable person instantly becomes preternaturally calm and prosaic, while those of lymphatic temperament have not unfrequently been observed to develop suddenly rather explosive qualities, and to yell or wave their hats without any very apparent incitement thereto. Individuals whose detractors hold to be gifted with poetic attributes have been heard to utter quite commonplace remarks, and I have even known a phlegmatic companion so far forget himself, under these modifying circumstances, as to make an excessively bad pun and laugh very heartily at it himself, quite an unusual occurrence in a wag. Others find relief for their feelings by punching their companions violently in the back, or resorting to such horse-play as the area of the summit allows scope for. Directly, however, the descent commences the climber resumes his normal nature. The fact is, that in most cases, perhaps, the chief pleasure of the expedition does not come at the moment when the climber realises that he is about to undo, as it were, all his work of the day. There is no real climax of an expedition, and, as has been said, it is quite artificial to suppose that the enjoyment must culminate on reaching the top. But still it is considered proper to testify to some unusual emotional feelings. Some of the most enjoyable climbs that the mountaineer can recall in after life, are not those in which he has reached any particular point. Guides consider it becoming to evince in a somewhat forced way the liveliness of their delight on completing an ascent. But such joy as they exhibit is usually about as genuine and heartfelt as an organ-grinder’s grin, or a Lord Mayor’s smile on receiving a guest whom he does not know and who has merely come to feed at his expense.

The wind was too cold to permit of a very long stay on the summit, and having added a proper number of stones to the cairn, a ceremony as indispensable as the cutting of a notch in the mainmast when the traditional fisherman changes his shirt, we descended rapidly to the point where it was necessary to quit the ridge. Down the first portion of the steep rock slope we passed with great caution, some of the blocks of stone being treacherously loose, or only lightly frozen to the face.

A narrow escape

We had arrived at the most difficult part of the whole climb, and at a rock passage which at that time we considered was the nastiest we had ever encountered. The smooth, almost unbroken face of the slope scarcely afforded any foot-hold, and our security almost entirely depended on the rope we had laid down in our ascent. Had not the rope been in position we should have varied our route, and no doubt found a line of descent over this part much easier than the one we actually made for, even without any help from the fixed cord. Imseng was far below, working his way back to the arête, while the rest of the party were holding on or moving but slowly with faces turned to the mountain. Suddenly I heard a shout from above; those below glanced up at once: a large flat slab of rock, that had afforded us good hold in ascending, but proved now to have been only frozen in to a shallow basin of ice, had been dislodged by the slightest touch from one of the party above, and was sliding down straight at us. It seemed an age, though the stone could not have had to fall more than ten feet or so, before it reached us. Just above me it turned its course slightly; Franz, who was just below, more in its direct line of descent, attempted to stop the mass, but it ground his hands against the rock and swept by straight at Imseng. A yell from us hardly awoke him to the danger: the slab slid on faster and faster, but just as we expected to see our guide swept away, the rock gave a bound for the first time, and as, with a startled expression, he flung himself against the rock face, it leapt up and, flying by within a few inches of his head, thundered down below. A moment or two of silence followed, and then a modified cheer from Imseng, as subdued as that of a “super” welcoming a theatrical king, announced his safety, and he looked up at us with a serious expression on his face. Franz’s escape had been a remarkably lucky one, but his hands were badly cut about and bruised. In fact it was a near thing for all of us, and the mere recollection will still call up that odd sort of thrill a man experiences on suddenly recollecting at 11 P.M. that he ought to have dined out that evening with some very particular people. Had not the rock turned its course just before it reached Franz, and bounded from the face of the mountain over Imseng’s head, one or more of the party must unquestionably have been swept away. The place was rather an exceptional one, and the rock glided a remarkably long distance without a bound, but still the incident may serve to show that falling stones are not a wholly imaginary danger.