CHAPTER VIII

A WINTER’S NIGHT ON THE TÖDI

BY MAXWELL B. I. FINCH

Bad weather and unfavourable conditions had too often caused the postponement of several winter climbs, among them a long-planned ascent of the Tödi on skis. At length, towards the end of the winter term of 1911, a week-end arrived, sunny and bright, heralding the approach of spring. On the fourth eager inquiry the Meteorological Office gave a not too dismal reply, with the result that the laboratories and drawing-boards of Zürich’s Polytechnic suddenly seemed very unattractive. The reply came at 11 a.m. on Saturday, March 11. After rapid preparations and a hurried lunch, a party of five, consisting of Obexer, Morgenthaler, Weber, Forster, and myself, boarded the 1.30 p.m. train for Linthal. George was unable to join us, being in the throes of his final examinations. At Zürich-Enge, the first stop of the train, we were reduced to four, since Forster left us to chase after a porter to whose care he had entrusted his skis and rucksack, and who, of course, failed to put in an appearance at the right moment. Just beyond the village of Linthal, the terminus of our journey by rail, we put on the skis, the heavy snowfalls of the previous week having lowered the snow-line far down into the valleys. At Tierfehd, an hour beyond the village, the road ends. At the foot of the steep path which leads thence over the Panten bridge we adjusted seal-skins. At 11 p.m. we arrived at the alp-huts of Hintersand (4,285 ft.), where a halt of half an hour was made for supper. The following steep rise up to the Tentiwang showed various traces of avalanches, but was certainly safe at that hour of the night. Two members of our party were comparatively inexperienced mountaineers; Obexer and I were, therefore, disturbed when Weber, one of the two novices, led up this part rather too energetically, for a killing pace on the first day often means a winded man on the morrow. At one spot before reaching the Tentiwang pastures, a short but steep slope of ice-covered rocks cost us much hard labour and time. We had to replace the skis by crampons, cut steps and finally pull up rucksacks and skis on the rope.

From the Tentiwang (5,250 ft.) the usual summer route towards the Bifertenalpeli was chosen, the snow being firmly frozen and quite safe. Had the snow been unsafe, we should have mounted straight up to, and over, the end of the glacier which is generally the better and safer way to the hut in winter. At 3 a.m. we stepped into the St. Fridolin’s club-hut (6,910 ft.). Nowhere during the whole ascent had a lantern been required, as the full moon lit up the snows with almost dazzling brilliancy.

Much snow had to be cleared out of the hut, especially off straw on the bunks, before it became habitable. The woodshed was choked with snow, and we had great difficulty in lighting a fire. Unfortunately, none of us had brought a spirit lamp or cooking apparatus, so it was 5 a.m., nearly dawn, when we turned in.

[Illustration: _The Tödi._

“King of the Little Mountains.”

_Facing page 108._ ]

Somewhat after 9 a.m. we awoke. Preparations for our departure proceeded unusually slowly, owing to the trouble again experienced in lighting the stove. Although it was noon when we at length started off, we were fully determined to accomplish the climb that day. The weather was perfect, clear and calm, the temperature being well below freezing-point. In summer the ascent would take some six hours. We reckoned rather more now, because in winter one must as a rule follow a different route, discovered by Mr. D. W. Freshfield, which passes through the two great icefalls of the Biferten Glacier. Therefore, allowing eight, or at the outside ten hours, in which to gain the summit, we counted on re-entering the hut not later than 3 a.m. Even should this not be the case, the moon would give us ample light till 5 a.m., and at 6 a.m. dawn would follow after a solitary hour’s darkness. All things considered, we looked forward to the climb in the light of a pleasant adventure and thanked the fate which had led us into making a midnight ascent.

Gaily rejoicing in the excellent weather and conditions, we broke trail in the deep snow from the hut across and up the glacier towards the Grünhorn icefall. The weakest spot in this obstacle is an almost crevasseless ledge which commences near the right bank of the glacier and, sloping towards the walls of the Tödi, leads to the next plateau of the glacier. Following this line of least resistance, we made slow but steady headway till close under the greater, steeper, and far more seriously broken icefall hard by the Gelbe Wand. The year before, in the spring, without skis, George had led a party up this icefall without encountering any real difficulty. Some distance below the base, and in clear view of the icefall, we called rather a lengthy halt in order to spy out the best line of ascent. After some deliberation, we decided to deliver an attack more or less at the same place as last spring. However, from the distance, we had our doubts about one step, where a wall of upright and partly overhanging ice stretched right across the glacier. This wall was probably the upper edge of a bridged-over crevasse and appeared to be some twelve feet high at the lowest point where we intended to launch our attack. Above it lay a very steep slope of ice terminating on the lower edge of another great crevasse. It must have been about 4 p.m. when we tackled the Gelbe Wand icefall. Using skis, we mounted with little difficulty as far as the foot of the ice wall; there, however, we had to replace the skis by climbing irons. A human ladder was out of the question, as the foot of the obstacle was a none too stable bridge over a crevasse. Deep holds for both hands and feet had to be cut, as the lower part of the ice overhung. It was a lengthy proceeding, for the ice was extremely hard and brittle. Some delicate balancing, aided by a crampon grasped in one hand, eventually landed me above the wall. On the lower lip of the next crevasse, behind a fallen block of ice, I found a firm position, whence the next man could be assisted up on the rope. Rucksacks and skis were then hauled up, and, finally, already after sunset, the whole party was gathered above the ice wall which had given so much trouble. On replacing the skis on our feet, a series of circumventing manœuvres was necessary to pass over bridges or round huge, open chasms.

Once more a steep slope necessitated the use of the crampons and even then a few steps had to be cut. The moonlight was ample; the smallest detail was as well lit up as if in broad daylight. All of us now looked forward to the march up the gentle slopes of the upper parts of the glacier, the so-called lower, middle and upper “Boden,” and we were confident of success. None of us inquired after the time, and no one even glanced at a watch; our surroundings and the novelty of the situation were too absorbing. Probably it was well on for 8 p.m. when the gaunt yellow crags of the Gelbe Wand became visible on our right above the icefall. Gradually the crevasses became less troublesome, and soon the lower Boden, a great expanse of gently-rising glacier, stretched before us, forming a natural line of ascent towards the foot of the Gliemspforte (10,800 ft.). On approaching the pass we took a sharp turn to the right, in the direction of Piz Rusein, the highest of the three summits of the Tödi, and were soon embarked on the ascent of the steep slopes separating the lower from the upper Boden. Here, where in summer a regular icefall is sometimes met with, we encountered some huge crevasses. The skis, however, carried us to the small bergschrund close under the south ridge of the Piz Rusein. Obexer glanced at his watch. The moonlight lit the hands at something after 11 p.m. Once more wearing climbing irons, and leaving sacks and skis by the bergschrund, we commenced the final ascent over the ridge to the summit. Some step-cutting was required. A stiff, cold breeze was blowing; the thermometer hanging from a rucksack marked 30° F. frost. It was after midnight, during the first half-hour of the Ides of March, when the great cornice, which forms the culminating point of the Tödi (11,887 ft.), was reached.

Bitterly cold it was; yet the fairy scene below and the feeling of complete content due to the unconventionality of our success held us spell-bound for a full half-hour. The valleys were filled with rolling silvery clouds, above which the peaks of over 10,000 feet in height appeared as islands in a sea of molten metal. Only the valley of the Biferten Glacier up which we had ascended was clear and free of mist. The sky above was cloudless and, owing to the brilliant rays of the moon, almost pale blue in colour, and not blue-black and starry as an Alpine firmament should be at night. One fact alone worried us and finally impelled us to retreat much sooner than we would otherwise have done; the weather began to take a decided turn for the worse. Through the Gliemspforte, the lowest gap at the head of the Biferten Glacier, the mist began to stream in from the Gliems Valley. Evidently it was rising rapidly, and this was the overflow. On looking closely, the sea of clouds no longer appeared solid and uniform like a great glacier or snow field; everywhere it moved, tossed up waves and rollers, breakers and billows, differing in its dead silence alone from a storm-tossed ocean.

Before stepping out on to the final ridge we had hardly felt so much as a breath of wind. On the ridge, however, a sharp south-wester had chilled us to the marrow, though, apart from its direction, we had seen little cause for alarm. But now, on the summit, we realised that below those rolling billows of mist a tempest of unusual degree was raging, and that we must race for the hut. Even then it might be too late, and we would have to battle with the unfettered fury of a winter storm.

Back at the skis, Obexer spent a busy and chilly ten minutes hunting for his watch which he believed he had deposited thereabouts. No luck, it had probably found a quiet resting-place in the blue depths of a near by crevasse, and will doubtless some day appear far below at the snout of the glacier. By the time we had our skis on, the wind had increased to a staggering gale. The lower Boden was submerged under fiercely wind-driven clouds of snow, and still more overflows were leaking from the Ponteglias Valley over the Piz Urlaun, and from the Rusein Valley through the Porta da Spescha. Evidently we would soon be well in the thick of the mists where fast running would hardly be to our liking, so we fixed the climbing irons under our skis. Owing to the powerful braking-action of the long spikes of these irons, we were able to cut short the many zig-zags of the way up, and our descending tracks were consequently somewhat steeper than the ascending. Long before the middle Boden was regained, we were path-finding in thick, driving mists where the light of the moon was all but useless. The storm rose to a shrieking gale, against the thundering gusts of which we often found it difficult to keep our feet. We kept as close as possible to the faint tracks of the ascent, which speedily became more and more dim as the storm ploughed up slope after slope of loose, powdery snow. Once or twice we hesitated, but always some faintly visible sign revealed to us our old tracks. On arriving at the middle of the Boden, the correct turn to the left was duly carried out, and right glad we were to have the gale now pushing us from behind instead of throwing us sideways. During the whole ascent and descent between the great icefall and the summit of the Tödi, we were climbing on two separate ropes, each about one hundred feet long; in summer forty to fifty feet between each man would suffice, but in winter, and on skis, a distance of one hundred feet is indispensable for safety. Before sighting the upper crevasses of the great icefall, Weber, who was on my rope, began to show signs of exhaustion. He tripped over the rope several times and finally succeeded in tangling it so thoroughly round his skis and feet, that we had to call a halt of some ten minutes to unravel him. During this process, Weber removed his frozen gloves and worked at the stiff cord with bare hands. On the greater part of the descent the two ropes marched side by side, Morgenthaler and I ahead, as four eyes were better than two in looking out for our previous tracks. The storm increased in violence. We crossed the first large crevasses above the icefall in a howling hurricane, where communication even by dint of shouting from mouth to ear was barely possible. In the thick mist and driving snow, one end of the rope was seldom visible from the other. The fiercest blasts had to be taken stooping low and propped on the ski-sticks, else they might have thrown us into the cold depths of the yawning, deep blue chasms which surrounded us on all sides. Under these conditions, questions began to force themselves upon us. Could we tackle the icefall against such odds? Could we fasten the stiff, frozen straps of the climbing irons with our painfully numb fingers? Some of us had already begun to feel the first pangs of frost-bite; Weber in particular remarked upon what formerly had been but a pain, but now was an absolute, unfeeling numbness in both hands. The cold was too intense (over 50° F. of frost) to risk removing gloves if we hoped to escape being seriously frost-bitten. Could we, from above, re-cut the steps which had led us up steep slopes over gaping crevasses? Could we carry our skis and cling to those steps, all the while buffeted, pushed, blinded and almost smothered by the storm? And if, in the great icefall, unable to see the tracks, we should fail to strike the right descent over the great overhanging ice wall, in many parts over a hundred feet high, what then? Could we reascend in the teeth of the storm and, trusting to luck to find the way, force a descent down that precipitous ice-swept gully, the Schneerunse, probably only to be buried in an avalanche? For above the roar of the tempest we frequently heard dull rumbles as ice and snow, crashing down from the cliffs high above, swept through that gloomy funnel, avalanche upon avalanche. Should we aim to the left and descend, by the ordinary summer route, the rocks of the Gelbe Wand hand over hand on the rope, throwing the skis down before us? Neither hands nor ropes were in fit condition for such tricky manipulations. Such were the thoughts which, flashing through our minds as we stood together on the brink of the icefall, gave rise to a hurried consultation. The result thereof was the unanimous decision to camp there and then; for, as long as the storm continued to rage with all its present fury, it would be nothing short of madness to attempt the descent of the icefall before daybreak. It was about 2 or 3 a.m., and the moon was not only behind the cold, opaque and driving mists, but evidently also hidden behind the crags of the Tödi itself. The grey shadows of night made the very surface we stood upon uncertain.

Once the decision to bivouac had been definitely arrived at, the next question was how best and quickest to protect ourselves from the biting wind. Obexer proposed to dig a hole, but a prod with the axe revealed ice under a layer of barely two feet of soft, powdery snow which would not bind together and was continually whirled about by the wind. Another suggestion was to seek the shelter provided by some shallow or otherwise suitable crevasse. This was my idea, so I promptly proceeded to look around for something after the nature of a harmless crevasse. Hardly had I moved a few feet downwards, when with a dull thump there I hung, with nothing but empty space under my skis. I clung to two ski-sticks up to my shoulders in a bottomless crevasse. As I began hauling myself out by the sticks, Weber noticed my disappearance and pulled wildly on the rope; an unfortunate move on his part, for it jerked me away from the sticks and threw me into the crevasse, where I hung, with my full weight on the rope, some four feet below the surface. In falling, the sudden jerk of the rope on my ribs winded me thoroughly. Communication with the others was quite impossible, unless I could contrive to raise my head to the level of the ground above. Even the united forces of all three of them could not pull me up on that rope, for it had cut deeply into the frozen, overhanging snow edge of the crevasse. To regain my wind and, indeed, to be able to breathe, I had to force the loop of the rope high up under my armpits. Then I threw the ski-sticks, which I had firmly retained in my grasp, up over the lower edge of the crevasse, and one after the other I unfastened my skis and threw them after the sticks. Propped with my feet against one wall and my shoulders against the other, I could now relieve the pressure on my ribs, and was able to sling the rucksack, on which I carried my ice-axe, off my back. I unfastened the axe and pushed it into the loop of the rope. Just as I was swinging the rucksack up to join my skis and sticks, the rope suddenly slackened, and down I rattled another couple of feet. The poor old rucksack, a dear friend, failed to gain the safety of the upper world, and fell, thud--thud--thud, far beyond reach down into the invisible depths of my grim prison. Gone with it, and most regretted, was one glove which had frozen to the strap that I had been holding. With my axe I managed to cut steps up one wall of this troublesome crevasse, knock a breach in the corniced edge, and work with my head above ground. Then I shouted to the others, who stood some distance off, to throw me an end of the other rope. Between us yawned the wide-open mouth of another crevasse which prevented them from approaching any nearer to me, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I succeeded in making my instructions understood above the roar of the storm. The wind flung wide three casts of the second rope, but the fourth succeeded. Putting my weight on this rope, I could pull up the other one, which was buried to a depth of some three feet into the snow at the edge. A few minutes more of hard struggling and we were once again united. We no longer felt inclined to hunt after safe crevasses, especially as the one I had so thoroughly inspected was full of draughts; indeed, the storm seemed rather increased when caught between those merciless, blue walls. Under Obexer’s able direction, the following half-hour was spent busily digging a ten-foot long and four-foot deep hole in the snow, into which we laid the skis and then ourselves. Three lay stretched out at full length, two on the skis, and the top man on those two. Morgenthaler preferred to sit with his hands round his feet and his head tucked well in between his knees.

[Illustration: _The Tödi from the Bifertenlücke._

_The dotted line indicates the route followed, and B the site of the bivouac on the Biferten Glacier._]

[Illustration: _The summit of the Tödi._

_Facing page 116._ ]

During the whole trip I had not worn any head-gear, and now all my own property in that line lay under the glacier. The first few minutes of inaction revealed two facts. Firstly, for all the protection from the wind our Palace Hotel, as Obexer named the happy home, afforded us we might almost as well have camped out on the normal, unprepared surface; secondly, that my head was covered with an inch of ice and snow, icicles were pendent from eyebrows and eyelashes, and one half of my face was dolefully sore as if from commencing frost-bite. So I borrowed the nearest rucksack and tucked my head into it. The dark interior was full of snow; but by now I was accustomed to snow, and the storm at least was outside. Feeling round inside my novel head-gear for apples, which the owner reported to be there, provided some excitement. One or two, and much sugarless ice-cream, I found and promptly gobbled. The gloveless hand found comparative warmth in the pocket of my sodden jacket.

Long before morning we were all wet through. Every little while the three who lay full length struggled, wriggled and rolled until top and bottom positions were exchanged. Everyone continually buffeted, slapped and shook his neighbours or himself, no one being allowed to remain silent or motionless for more than half an hour. To beguile the sleepless hours by songs, jests and yarns was out of the question, as the storm howled louder than any or all of us together. Morgenthaler and Weber, unluckily, had only woollen gloves, which were long since sodden and frozen. Spare socks helped somewhat, but anything woollen was soon soaked and rendered useless. Consequently, they chiefly complained of frost-bitten hands. Weber, whose vitality did not appear to equal that of his companions, required much attention, in spite of which he at times complained of the attacks of Jack Frost at his toes and other parts of his anatomy. Yet, all things considered, the time passed rapidly enough in the bivouac, and not half as unpleasantly as one might have expected under such conditions. Once the storm tore the mists apart for a second, and a glimpse of the sharp rock summit of the Grünhorn to the left served to reassure us as to our exact position. Later on, towards dawn, I fell sound asleep, only to awake when someone announced it to be 8 a.m. At first I could not account for the darkness which surrounded me, then suddenly I remembered my head was in the rucksack. Outside this “abode à la ostrich” it was broad daylight, but grey white, and there were no signs of any abatement in the fury of the storm. I must have slept quite an hour.

We all stood up and stamped about. The storm seemed fiercer than ever, and in our soaked condition the cold was doubly penetrating. We decided to attempt further descent on foot, leaving our skis to be recovered on some later occasion. Ski-sticks were planted to mark the scene of our camp, then the ropes re-arranged and joined together. The crevasse I had fallen into had no bridge on the left, so we headed horizontally to the right. Almost at once the steepness of the ground increased rapidly, and it was soon necessary to cut steps. When we had advanced but a few rope’s lengths, it became all too evident that we could not descend the icefall as long as the storm raged. Every few minutes terrific gusts would force us to our knees, all but sweeping us off our steps. So when we came to a fallen ice-block and found a four-foot-deep hollow in the snow beside it, we decided to camp anew, in the hope that the gusts were but a final effort on the part of the tempest and sign of its approaching exhaustion.

Later in the morning, deceived by lengthy pauses between the shrieking blasts of the gale, we made two more vain attempts to continue the descent. Soon after noon it commenced to snow very heavily, and we were glad, for surely now the wind would cease. Shortly after 2 p.m. the storm was all but a thing of the past. At 3 p.m., satisfied that no more fierce gusts were likely to surprise us, we resumed the descent which had been interrupted by a total of nearly twelve hours in bivouac.

Many steps had to be cut, as now all traces of our ascent had disappeared. It was hard work and cost much time, as all were very stiff, and none had escaped more or less severe frost-bite. We found the right way off the ice wall, letting ourselves down by the rope; but unravelling tangles and loosening knots was painfully hard on our fingers. Being on foot, we at first thought of returning past the Grünhorn hut and took a few steps in that direction; but when once again I made the acquaintance of the interior of a hidden longitudinal crevasse, the majority voted for the descent by the lower icefall. The walls of the Bifertenstock were alive with avalanches, invisible on account of the falling snow and dense mists, but ever crashing over the precipices and rumbling down close on our right. On the plateau below the icefall, the mist became so dense that we had to steer for the hut by compass. After some hours’ vain stumbling round about where we thought the hut should lie, we found it shortly before 9 p.m. On the table was a note from Forster, informing us that he had descended to collect a rescue party. Had we been in anything like undamaged condition, we should at once have continued our descent down to the Linthal Valley. As it was, we ate a frugal supper; then slept like logs till far into the next morning.

On Tuesday, owing to a temporary sleeping fit of our only remaining watch, we prepared to leave the hut two hours later than we had intended. Obexer and Morgenthaler started off immediately after breakfast, in the hope of preventing a rescue party from setting out. We did our level best to tidy the hut, and then had to spend over an hour softening Weber’s boots on the stove before he could force his sorely frozen feet into them. Arriving too late in Linthal to catch a train home, we passed the night in the comfortable quarters of the Raben Hôtel. During the evening, the welcome message arrived telling of Obexer’s success in telegraphically sending a rescue party composed of members of the Academic Alpine Club back to Zürich, before they had proceeded beyond Thalwil on their outbound journey.

On Wednesday, at noon, we two arrived at Zürich. Weber went off to bed at once and was more or less an invalid for the next six weeks. His hands and feet were badly frost-bitten, the result of wearing woollen gloves and tight, ill-fitting boots. Thanks to careful treatment, his hands recovered completely, but most toes of both feet had to be amputated.

More serious was Morgenthaler’s fate. Nearly all his fingers had to be amputated at the first or second joint, and the remaining ones will probably always be stiff. He, also, wore woollen gloves, but large, loose-fitting ski-ing boots had kept his feet in perfect condition.

Obexer and I suffered no serious consequences. A frost-bitten thumb worried the former for the next month. I lost a few teeth, and with a swollen, half-frozen face, hobbled about for a day or two in gouties. A fortnight later I was able to accompany Forster on a ski-ing trip over the Furka and Nägelisgrätli up the Oberaarhorn. A month later Obexer and I climbed Piz Urlaun, revisiting _en route_ the scene of our bivouac. We succeeded in rescuing in all six skis (unfortunately not three pairs), two of which were recovered out of a great flat-bottomed crevasse which had split open just below our camp.

The story of this adventure has a moral; an old moral it is true, but one that will well bear repeating. In the first place, we should never have attempted a mountain like the Tödi with companions of whose equipment and experience we had no knowledge; and, secondly, methylated spirits and cooking apparatus, warm clothes, loose-fitting boots, sailcloth gloves lined with wool, and last, but not least, a reliable pocket barometer which would have warned us of an approaching change in the weather, are indispensable items of equipment for serious winter ascents.

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