CHAPTER II

CLIMBING IN CORSICA

Comfortably seated in the depths of Bryn’s favourite and most somniferous chair, I browsed idly and half unthinkingly through the pages of a guide book that had found its way, as such things will, to my host’s address. Cynically amused as far as my sleepy condition would permit by the flights of verbal fancy to which compilers of guide books seem addicted, subconsciously certain plain, unbefrilled facts impressed themselves upon my mind and, eventually marshalling themselves, roused me out of my lethargy to a state bordering on excitement.

“I’ve found it!” I shouted.

Max and Bryn awoke, startled.

“What, you fool?” they growled encouragingly.

“Listen! It is easy of access, thinly populated, few tourists visit the interior, and it has mountains rising to 9,000 feet above sea-level; the very thing we are looking for.” Wide awake now, they were interested enough to ask where this Utopia was. Astonished at such crass ignorance, I answered, “Corsica, of course, fatheads!”

It really was the very thing we had been looking for. The Christmas vacation of 1908 was just over. A few months ago Max and I had made the acquaintance of Alf Bonnvie Bryn, a Norwegian who, like ourselves, was studying in Zürich. Bound together by the common bond of enthusiasm for the mountains, the acquaintance rapidly ripened into friendship, and many were the pleasant evenings spent in each other’s rooms. The topic of conversation was always the same--mountaineering. Gradually our thoughts turned from other mountain groups more and more towards the Himalayas, and we decided some day to combine forces and carry out an expedition to this greatest of the world’s mountain ranges. As far as actual climbing was concerned, we considered that the Alps, as a training ground for Himalayan exploration, could not be bettered. But in one thing which would do much to make or mar the success of an exploring venture in these distant ranges, we could look to the Alps for little assistance. That was organisation, particularly with respect to food and equipment. In the Alps, a mistake or omission of detail in either of these things can be remedied by a descent into the valley, involving a loss of not more than a day or so of climbing time. But for the Himalayas we judged that it would be essential to have everything that one would want with one. Mistakes or omissions would not be easily rectified after one had left one’s base, usually the last outpost of civilization and, even as such, devoid of many of the necessities for mountaineering. From the base onwards one would have to rely entirely upon one’s own resources. These considerations drove us to a decision to spend the Easter vacation in some remote part of Europe; Switzerland would be our advanced base, and the chosen field of our activities a wilder territory to which we would not look for supplies of either food or equipment. Where was such a territory to be found? The more remote mountains of Norway were ruled out on account of the earliness of the season. Considerations of distance, and therefore of time and expense, militated against our going to the Sierra Nevada or the Balkans. Our mental state was one of puzzled despair until by chance the little guide book of Corsica insinuated itself into my attention.

Early in March, 1909, we set to work to put our equipment in order, making sleeping-bags and a tent and buying tinned foods. The latter were selected with a view to nourishing value, variety, compactness and minimum of weight. By the middle of the month our preparations were almost complete. A few days afterwards, Bryn and I set off for Corsica, leaving Max, whose studies kept him in Zürich for the time being, to join us at a later date. We travelled by rail through the St. Gotthard _via_ Milan and Genoa to Leghorn, embarking there for Bastia. The five-hour crossing on a crazy little cargo boat was rough and uncomfortable, and we both dwelt at some length and with much feeling upon the foolishness of setting out on our little expedition instead of spending the holidays in comparative luxury in Switzerland. But when, at sunset, loomed up the snow-capped summits of the bold mountain chain that forms the backbone of the long promontory of Cap Corse, our optimism returned. The first difficulties on landing were those created by Customs officials. On explaining quite frankly the object of our visit, however, they informed us ecstatically that Corsica was the most beautiful country in the world and that we would be sure to enjoy our stay there--and passed our stores free of duty! Such patriotism created a first good impression of the inhabitants, which we saw no reason later to alter. The Corsicans received us with nothing but the utmost kindness throughout our stay on the island.

The following day was spent in purchasing maps and drawing up plans. According to the maps, Calacuccia appeared to be the Zermatt of Corsica, so to Calacuccia we forwarded most of our stores. Leaving the greater part of the remainder in the simple little auberge, the Hôtel des Voyageurs, which was our headquarters in Bastia, we set out to walk and climb over the whole length of the range of mountains in the promontory of Cap Corse. Though none of these peaks exceed 4,300 feet in height, nevertheless, owing to the close proximity of the sea, they appear high. But their chief appeal to us was that they afforded magnificent views into the mountains of the north-west interior of the island, where we expected to find the best climbing. The main groups centre round Monte Cinto which, rising to 8,900 feet above sea-level, is the highest summit in Corsica. Standing well away to the north of the main mass was one bold rock needle that attracted our attention. With the aid of compass and map, we identified this point as being the Capo al Dente, a peak some 7,000 feet in altitude, and decided to lay siege to it before going to Calacuccia, especially as we had every reason to believe that it had not been climbed. Back again in Bastia, we packed up our remaining stores, sufficient for ten days, and took train to Palasca, a station on the line between Bastia and Calvi. In Palasca we were fortunate in securing the services of a mule and his driver. I say “fortunate,” for our knapsacks, containing sleeping-bags, spare clothing, ropes, cooking apparatus, cameras and food, weighed over 80 lbs. each. The mule proved more willing than his master. Our way to the Val Tartagine, at the head of which the Capo al Dente lies, led over a number of passes the crossing of which involved a good deal of uphill and downdale walking. The mule-driver’s strength never seemed equal to any of the rises, as he would persist in sitting on the mule. The upshot was that ere half our thirty-mile journey was accomplished the poor little animal struck work and refused to go an inch farther. There was nothing to do but dismiss both driver and mule and shoulder our burdens ourselves. We struggled on all day, steering for the most part by map. It was a painful business. The knapsacks were inordinately heavy, and their narrow straps bit cruelly into our shoulder muscles. At sunset, completely exhausted and feeling incapable of moving another step, we unpacked the sleeping-bags by the banks of a spring and, after cooking a meal, slept such a sleep as falls to the lot of few.

On the following day we crossed the last pass and dropped down into the Tartagine Valley. At the entrance to the valley stood a forester’s cottage. The forester and his wife refused to allow us to pass without first partaking of their hospitality. Like all Corsicans, they spoke a good French as well as the peculiar dialect of their country, a mixture of French and Italian. Here, as elsewhere in the island, we met with nothing but courtesy and kindness. In response to anxious inquiries, our host assured us that the Capo al Dente had never been climbed. From his house we could see it, a wonderful rock pinnacle bearing a certain resemblance to the Aiguille du Dru and standing up boldly at the very head of the valley. In the afternoon we took our leave and followed a diminutive track leading along the right bank of the Tartagine River.

At an altitude of about 4,000 feet above sea-level, above the snow-line which at this season of the year extends to below 3,000 feet, we found a suitable camping site, a huge rock platform on the face of a cliff. It was sheltered from the wind on three sides and, being

## partially overhung, might also be expected to be protected in the

event of snow or rain falling. For nine nights we camped on this spot. The cold during the long hours of darkness was bitter and ruthlessly demonstrated the flaws in the design of our sleeping-bags. Day after day we made our way up to the head of the valley and searched in vain for a route up the black cliffs of the Capo al Dente. On the ninth day we at last espied a diminutive crack threading the first hundred feet of the precipitous lower ramparts of the mountain. We had discovered the solution to the problem. Within an hour of effecting a lodgment on the rock we had gained the summit and felt truly recompensed for those long, cold nights of shivering endured in camp. The climbing had been steep but by no means excessively difficult.

[Illustration:

_Photo A. B. Bryn._

_Climbing the Capo al Dente._

“... we espied a diminutive crack ... the solution to the problem.”

_Facing page 24._ ]

There is a peculiar charm about the view from the summits of these Corsican mountains. They have the lure of sea cliffs. From most of them you look down upon the ocean. From the Capo al Dente we could see the tiny little harbour of Calvi and, fascinated, follow the movements of a Lilliputian steamer that was leaving on its voyage over the smooth, broad, blue expanse of the Mediterranean. To the south the great range of the Cinto reared its snow-clad, precipitous peaks, and, looking, we felt satisfied that, in coming to Corsica in quest of mountaineering adventure, we had made no false step. Flanking the Val Tartagine were other mountains of interest, such as Monte Corona and Monte Padro; but our provisions were almost at an end. In any case, time was up, for we had arranged to meet Max in Calacuccia on April 5.

It took us two days to regain the railway at Ponte Leggia, and for those two days our sole provisions consisted of rather less than a pound of porridge and a little tea and sugar; a fault in organisation to which we frankly confessed at the little station restaurant at Ponte Leggia by purchasing several square meals rolled into one. On April 4 we arrived at Calacuccia. Max joined us on the 5th, and the following days were spent in exploring the Cinto group to the north-west of Calacuccia and in selecting a suitable site for a camp. Eventually our choice fell upon the Viro Valley which, in an island rich in the beauty of rugged mountain scenery and wild vegetation, is one of the grandest and most charming.

On April 10 we left the little Hôtel des Voyageurs, where we had received much kindness at the hands of the proprietress, Madame Veuve Lupi. A mule and his driver were entrusted with kit and provisions--a heavy load. The mule was lazy and needed much and continual urging. The Corsicans seldom strike their animals. If a grumbling “Huh! Huh!” has not the desired effect, the driver spits on the mule’s hindquarters--and a trot is almost invariably the result. As a rule, a whip is worse than useless; it only produces a wild fit of panicky bucking. The day was hot and sultry. The mule-driver had soon emptied his wine-flask and, as he disdained to allay his thirst with the crystal-clear water of the many mountain streams we passed, his supply of saliva eventually failed. The pace of the mule fell off accordingly.

At Albertacce, a hamlet near the entrance of the Viro Valley, we halted to pay our respects to the priest, who was also head man of the place, and make arrangements about our mail. Before we had taken our leave, the rumour had spread that we were skilled physicians, and we had to resign ourselves to treating nearly half the inhabitants for all manner of ills, imaginary and real. Sodium bicarbonate, bismuth subnitrate, calomel or quinine were administered in homœopathic doses. A week later, homeward-bound, we returned through Albertacce and had thrust upon us the homage and thanks of the entire population. The prescribed treatment had, in every single case, effected a complete cure--another example of how a reputation may be made.

Half an hour below the selected camping site, patches of snow were met with. The first extensive snow patch proved too much for both mule and driver. The Corsicans have a real terror of walking in snow; they fear that at any moment they may sink in and be suffocated. So we had to dismiss our burden bearers and make shift to carry our loads into camp ourselves. In the heart of the forest, on a little snow-free plot of ground hard by the left bank of the river, we pitched the tent. To the south-west rose the great precipices of Paglia Orba, the grandest summit in the great chain of mountains which in the form of a gigantic horseshoe shuts in the valley of the River Viro.

On the following day at 8 a.m. we left camp, crossed the foaming waters of the torrent--not without getting more or less drenched in the process--and spent the next two hours in steadily plodding up the snow slopes to the Col de Foggiale,[1] a depression on the ridge south of Paglia Orba. The work at first was distinctly hard, for the surface crust of frozen snow was not always sufficiently strong to bear one’s weight. As the lower mountain slopes in Corsica are usually covered with a dense undergrowth or _maquis_, breaking the snow crust meant plunging right through into a thick tangle of vegetation, extrication from which was possible often only after a struggle. Higher up, fortunately, the snow became firmer and we seldom broke through. The approach to the col was defended by a huge overhanging cornice of snow through which we had to tunnel a way with the axe. The charm of the view from the col lay in the contrast between the whiteness of snow-covered mountain and the deep blue of sea. Capo Tafonato (7,700 feet), however, a mountain whose praises we had often read, presented a disappointing appearance. Judging from the map, we had expected to see it standing boldly up in front of us on the far side of a fairly wide valley. It stood, however, a low rock ridge possessing no daring outlines and partially hidden behind Paglia Orba. Nevertheless, two features commanded our respect; no snow was lying on the peak, a sign that the wall opposite us was very steep; and we could see right through a tremendous hole or natural tunnel which pierced the mountain from one side to the other, indicating that the unseen side was also steep and that the summit ridge must be proportionately narrow. After a short rest, we traversed over frozen snow slopes round the base of Paglia Orba to the gap between it and Capo Tafonato. Here we had a short discussion as to the route to be followed, finally deciding to take the right hand or north ridge straight up from the gap and to traverse the whole mountain from north to south. We roped and were soon at work climbing the very steep and firm rocks. Following a spiral staircase of easy chimneys and ledges round the northern, the higher of the two summits, we reached the top after an hour’s brisk climbing. After a brief halt to gaze down over the tremendous precipices of the west face towards the sea, we re-arranged the rope and set off to make an attack on the gap of formidable appearance that separated us from the southern summit. This looked just like a much magnified blunt needle point. To our surprise we were able to descend into the gap without encountering any serious difficulty, and followed the extremely narrow, but on the whole easy, ridge to the southern summit which was crowned by a diminutive cairn. Now followed a descent into another gap over very rotten rocks and an imposing, but easy, _gendarme_.[2] All the while we could not help admiring the steepness and depth of the walls on the western side of the mountain. Soon after passing the _gendarme_, we came to a great overhanging buttress in the ridge, at the top of which a hanging coil of rope indicated that the last climbers to descend here had made use of the doubled rope. The coil was thin and bleached with exposure, so we cut it off and stowed it in our rucksacks as a trophy, to be returned, if possible, to its late owners. We fixed a new coil, passed our rope through it and slid down some fifty feet on to an uncomfortably sloping ledge. Here we found driven into a crack in the rock a large, rusty iron nail to which some coils of strong, silken cord were attached. Threading the rope through these, we again slid down about sixty feet to a broad snow ledge on the east face. After hauling down the rope, we followed the continuation of this ledge in a northerly direction and gained the floor of the immense tunnel that pierces Cape Tafonato from east to west. A series of ledges and chimneys brought us safely back to the gap where the climb had begun, the whole traverse having taken nearly five hours.

[Illustration: _The southern summit of Capo Tafonato._

“... like a much magnified blunt needle point.”

_Facing page 28._ ]

After a hasty but enjoyable meal of chocolate, sardines, and tea, we set off on the return journey. The descent to the Col de Foggiale round the foot of Paglia Orba was most enjoyable in the evening sun, whose golden reflection shimmered in the distant gulfs of the coast. We passed the cornice on the col without jumping and managed, in spite of the soft snow, to glissade almost half-way down to the tent. We arrived back in camp about half an hour after sunset. The night was fine, though cold, but we slept well, for we had earned our sleep with a good hard day’s work.

April 12 was spent in recuperating from the effects of the previous day’s labours. In fact, during our whole stay in Corsica we were generally forced to sandwich our climbs with a generous number of off-days. Our food, consisting mainly of preserves brought out from Switzerland, certainly disagreed with one and all of us; by which it is not to be inferred that the quality of the food was at fault. It was the nature of the food that was wrong. Our dietary was totally lacking in fresh vegetables and, indeed, fresh food stuffs of any kind; an omission which probably explains our general state of unfitness.

During the night of April 12 to 13 a west wind set in and towards morning became so violent that the tent several times threatened to leave its moorings. The weather, however, was otherwise fine, so we decided to make an attempt at traversing the five peaks of the Cinque Fratri, the highest of which is about 6,500 feet. After numerous efforts to shake off a certain lethargy which gripped us all, we at length stumbled off in three detachments, at intervals of ten minutes. The aim of each detachment was to meet the other two in the gap to the south of the fifth and lowest Frater. This we eventually succeeded in doing, though each took a different route up. We roped in the col, Max being given the lead, an honour which he repaid by dropping a pot of honey and a loaf of bread on Bryn’s head and mine in the course of the ascent. The tie-strings of his knapsack had been too weak. From the gap we traversed round on to the east face of the peak and climbed directly upwards through the great chimney which runs down it from the summit. The climax of the ascent was provided by a somewhat narrow pitch in this chimney, where you encounter a bush of prickles, roll in them on your back, kick with one leg against each wall of the cleft and then swing out on to the exposed and very steep ridge on the right. This brings one to an easy slope of loose stones leading to the summit. Bryn and I, of course, went to sleep, leaving Maxwell to confide a slip of paper containing our names to the care of the newly-built cairn--a reprehensible form of vice to which in those days we were much addicted. Presently he stirred us up, driving fresh life and energy into us with the business end of his Anthanmatten ice-axe, and we obediently scrambled down to the gap between Fratri Nos. 5 and 4. Maxwell was again delegated to pull the two sleep-walkers up Frater No. 4. He chose the easier, direct way and energetically pulled us up a few steep cracks, slabs and chimneys, in the hope of rousing us. A vain hope, for, arrived on the summit, we immediately sought out a spot that was sheltered from the wind and were soon deep in slumber once more. All too quickly came another rude awakening at Max’s hands, and we again moved off. A few feet below the summit we were baulked at the edge of an overhanging wall. With some difficulty we contrived to fasten a coil of thin rope round a large block. Maxwell descended first and succeeded in climbing nearly all the way, though most of his verbal messages and directions were borne off by the wind, with the result that the rope was always slack when he wanted it taut and nearly always pulling him up again while he was climbing an easy bit. Then came my turn. I found the descent distinctly easy and pleasant, for, still half asleep, I allowed myself to hang free all the way, leaving the work of lowering me down to Bryn who found me rather heavy. After sending down his axe and rucksack, Bryn soon joined us, and we romped up the easy Frater No. 3. Passing another gap, Frater No. 2 speedily succumbed to our united attack.

The next gully, that between Fratri Nos. 2 and 1, and running down the south wall of the mountain, is most remarkable. Very narrow and steep, with deep, clean-cut walls, it should afford some first-rate climbing. The descent from Frater No. 1, the highest of these peaks, to the gap between it and Monte Albano provided another occasion for cutting off a loop from the spare rope and roping down. The wall here is very steep, and composed in the main of loose and treacherous rocks. I went down first and photographed the others struggling to descend, almost expecting to see them at any moment blown away with a piece of rock in each hand, so buffeted about were they by the gale.

Traversing round the southern base of Monte Albano, we struck some abominably slushy snow slopes through which we ploughed a way, finally stumbling through _maquis_ and loose stones into the welcome haven of our camp. After a grand five-course dinner, we settled ourselves comfortably in the tent and talked over deeds and memories until, wearied out, we quietly dozed off.

Wednesday, April 14, was destined to be another lazy day. It was Maxwell’s turn to prepare breakfast, and in due course Bryn and I kicked him out of the tent. Unfortunately we neglected to hang on to his sleeping-bag, with the result that when we two began sleepily foraging for something to allay the pangs of hunger, we found our cook snugly asleep. With eating and sleeping, with roasting in the sun and cooling in the shade of the forest and in the icy waters of the Viro, time passed away pleasantly enough, but all too quickly. After such a glorious rest, we were ready and anxious to grapple with the hardest problem the mountains of Corsica could offer us. Owing to the ease with which we had been able to scramble over Capo Tafonato and the Cinque Fratri, we were beginning to despair of finding a really difficult climb and had reached a stage where we were ready to tackle any projected route, no matter how difficult it appeared from afar. In short, we were in need of proof that one could meet with a really tough job amongst the cliffs of Corsica’s mountains.

[Illustration:

_Camp._

_The Cinque Fratri from below the Col de Foggiale._

_The Cinque Fratri, I. to V., are the rock peaks to the right of Monte Albano, the highest summit seen._

_Facing page 32._ ]

More than a week ago, on the occasion of an ascent of Monte Albano, Bryn and I had admired the boldly soaring outlines of Paglia Orba (8,300 feet). In particular the clean-cut, awe-inspiring precipices of the north-east face drew our attention. A prolonged inspection of this huge wall revealed two apparently weak points. The one was formed by a series of snow patches indicating ledges, probably connected by small cracks or chimneys and ledges invisible to us from a distance. The whole series formed a huge C in white on a background of black rock. A snow field on the summit of Paglia Orba formed the head of the C-ledge, while the lower end began about eight or nine hundred feet lower down and about half-way up the upper, more or less perpendicular, wall. Several larger snow patches indicated a possible connection between the foot of the C and the gentler slopes below the great final wall. The other weak point was indicated by a deep shadow, betraying the presence of a chimney, joining the summit snows with a small snow patch in the wall some thousand feet below the top. On the east face, which offers no absolutely blank and perpendicular walls comparable with those of the impressive north-east face, we could see plenty of easy ways of gaining the summit. They threatened to be rather dull and uninteresting; so, in the hopes of finding a day’s difficult work, we determined to finish up our climbs in the range of the Cinto with an attack on the north-east face of Paglia Orba.

After a sumptuous breakfast of porridge and coffee we left camp at 8.15 a.m. on April 15. We followed the stream for some ten minutes then, crossing it near a dilapidated cow-shed, set to work to plod up the snow slopes leading to the north-east wall. We took turns of an hour each to break trail, for the snow was already soft. As far as possible keeping to the rocks that here and there cropped out of the snow, we rose fairly rapidly. By 10 a.m. we were on a level with the lowest of the Cinque Fratri. Half an hour later we began climbing hand and foot up broken rocks to the right of some steep snow slopes. In order to save time, and being sure of ourselves, we did not use the rope. To avoid an overhang just below the top of these rocks, we were forced to cross under a small waterfall which thoroughly drenched us. Thence mounting a very steep snow slope, we gained the narrow, heavily corniced crest of a minor ridge which seemed to descend from the beginning of the great C-ledge. The work ahead looked serious. We roped, Bryn being invested with the responsibilities of leadership. The fun began at once. Difficult chimneys, choked with masses of snow and ice, alternated with small snow slopes lying at a dangerously steep angle. Good belays were generally conspicuous by their absence. At 1 p.m., having risen some six hundred feet above where the rope had been put on, we were pulled up short by a smooth wall which appeared to bar all possible access to the foot of the C-ledge. We were on the upper edge of a comparatively large snow slope of triangular shape which had been clearly visible from our camp. We knew that the foot of the C-ledge was some two hundred and fifty feet, the summit itself over a thousand feet above us. The way up those two hundred and fifty feet seemed all too well guarded. To right and left, the ledge supporting our snow patch ran out into smooth, perpendicular walls. We were standing on the upper rim of the ledge in a position which, owing to the lack of any belay whatsoever, was by no means too secure. A chimney led up presumably to the foot of the C-ledge. The first few feet appeared to be extremely difficult, and the leader would undoubtedly have needed the assistance of the other two if he were to tackle it with any hope of success. Higher up, the chimney looked even worse and was finally blocked by a huge, ice-covered, overhanging chock-stone. Far above we could see the icicle-fringed summit of Paglia Orba, from which water trickled down. Occasionally icicles broke away and fell _past_ us, proving the wall above to be overhanging. Some two hundred feet from our standpoint a part of the wall had broken away, leaving a huge overhanging platform which would have made an excellent site for a bivouac if only the mountain had been turned upside down.

Whilst munching some bread and chocolate we had ample time to review our surroundings thoroughly. We made the best use of our opportunities, the more so as we were beginning to think this was to be the highest point of the day’s climb. We knew that the Austrian climber, Herr Albert Gerngross, and his guide, Konrad Kain, had attempted the climb during the previous year; also, Dr. von Cube, a well-known pioneer of climbing in Corsica, had referred to the wall in terms of the impossible. At present, after a lengthy inspection, we were scarcely in the mood to disagree with him. Finally, admitting defeat, we turned to descend. When almost a rope’s length down the now dangerously soft snow slope, I remembered having omitted to photograph the ledge running out to the right. I halted a moment and asked Bryn to use his camera to save me the trouble of reascending. To obtain a better view, Bryn carefully crawled out along the ledge in the opposite direction. This chance move saved the day, for, some ten feet above his standing-point, Bryn now caught sight of another ledge which would enable us to enter the chimney above the most difficult pitch. On hearing this welcome news I rejoined the others with all possible haste, and together Maxwell and I shouldered Bryn up on to the newly-discovered ledge. Once on this, Bryn made rapid progress. Maxwell followed, and, after a struggle, I arrived to find that they were already attacking the chimney immediately below the huge, ice-covered chock-stone. The climbing had now become extremely difficult. Bryn rounded the chock-stone by climbing out of the chimney over some precipitous slabs to the right, finally gaining the upper level of the chock-stone. A period of intense anxiety followed upon our rejoining Bryn. Should we have to return or could we push through? A series of short snow-filled chimneys and ledges led up and round several corners. Each time on clearing one corner we could overlook only the ground as far as the next. But whether we were getting nearer to the summit or to a forced bivouac still remained to be seen. At last we gained the beginning of the C-ledge. On following this, though not without difficulty because of its incline, we saw that it was broken off at the foot of the huge chimney previously considered as possibly affording an alternative route to the summit. We now perceived, however, that the chimney was formed by a clean-cut buttress jutting out at right angles from the wall, and that it overhung considerably. Bryn crossed the chimney and, by climbing a very difficult and exposed series of cracks in its left wall overhanging an appallingly steep precipice, regained the C-ledge. “How’s the view?” we called out from below in one breath. Once again we only learn that the climb can be continued to the next corner. While Maxwell was rejoining Bryn he had the misfortune to drop his axe. It fell, providentially without once striking rock, into a tiny patch of snow some eighty feet lower down the big chimney. Maxwell and Bryn lowered me down until I could reach it, and then unmercifully hauled me up to their perch without giving me the least opportunity of climbing. Exercising the utmost care, we proceeded along a series of highly sensational ledges leading in an almost unbroken line from corner to corner. All the time belays were few and small. On rounding what proved to be the last corner, we saw before us a broad chimney which was choked by what resembled a frozen waterfall crowned by a huge cornice. The sun shining on the cornice told us we were at last approaching the north-east ridge where we could expect easier climbing. What appeared to be an excellent belay enabled us to pay out Bryn’s rope with some measure of security as, crouching, he followed the ledge to its extreme end. The sloping floor of the ice-choked chimney was about two yards from the end of the ledge on which we stood. Far below could be seen our tracks in the snowfields, but of the wall beneath we were only able to imagine the appearance. Altogether, even a climber could hardly conceive of a more exposed spot.

[Illustration: _Paglia Orba from the Cinque Fratri._

_The C-ledge is visible on the dark rock precipice immediately below the summit._

_Facing page 36_ ]

Bryn took the fateful step from the ledge to the chimney and was soon mixed up in the intricacies of the frozen waterfall, whose icicles were clustered together like the pipes of an organ. Skilfully cutting his way diagonally from left to right across them, he succeeded in finding a comparatively firm position whence he was able to take in Maxwell’s rope with his teeth and left hand, as the latter made the wide and difficult step from the end of the ledge to the foot of the waterfall. To add to the insecurity of the situation, the belay on the ledge proved worthless; it broke off as I was testing it, and nothing would have saved us in the event of a slip. The following fifteen minutes were indeed anxious ones. I contrived to make myself fairly comfortable on the ledge, but poor Maxwell, standing in a very shaky step and hanging on to an icicle, had patiently to submit to freezing while fragments of ice and snow were showered on him by Bryn’s hard-working axe. At last Bryn had come to the end of his rope, but there were still six feet separating him from the nearest belay at the top of the waterfall and almost directly under the cornice. During a moment of suspense both he and Maxwell had to climb together. Then, just as the latter began to tackle the worst bit of all, Bryn reached the belay and firm footing. We soon joined him, though not without thoroughly appreciating the great difficulties of the pitch. We avoided cutting through the cornice by climbing two short but stiff chimneys to the right of and above the frozen waterfall, and at 5.15 p.m. were beyond the bend of the great C-ledge, with only easy, though steep, rocks between us and the summit. Feeling that we were now safe from a forced bivouac, that constant nightmare of the last five hours, we indulged in a brief rest. While swallowing a mouthful of chocolate and dry bread we reviewed the many little episodes, exciting moments, disappointments and hopes of the last two hours. But so far the sun had eluded us. When we first viewed the frozen waterfall the sun was shining on the cornice above; now it had disappeared to the other side of the mountain in its haste to sink into the Mediterranean, for we had taken over two hours to master the last hundred feet. Anxious to get warmed in its last rays, we began work once more. The climb up the final rocks was pure joy; the plentiful handholds were still quite warm, and their touch was as welcome to our frozen fingers as the iced handholds had before been painful. We rose very rapidly and at 6 p.m. stepped out on to the top of Paglia Orba. A strong westerly wind somewhat counterbalanced the warming effect of the setting sun, but no discomfort could detract from the pleasure we all felt at the success of the day’s venture.

The summit of Paglia Orba is covered by a large snow field (at least, as long as the snow lasts) sloping down from the north to south and east. As near to the highest point as possible we built a little cairn, within which we hid a piece of paper giving our names and a description of the route and times of the ascent. To indicate the spot to future climbers we wound a piece of spare rope round the rock. Pausing once more to look down the wonderful precipice of the north-east face, we re-arranged the rope and set off towards the Col de Foggiale. We soon came upon a steep gully filled with firm, frozen snow and descended the first few feet cutting steps. Then, glissading down to the col, we dropped over the cornice and slid or ran down to the river and, wading through, regained our camp at 7.30 p.m., just one hour and a quarter after leaving the summit.

Our success was suitably celebrated by a _grand bal masqué_, followed up with the most glorious dinner of our lives. Two days later we struck camp and, casting many a look back towards the noble form of Paglia Orba, that Matterhorn of Corsica, slowly filed out of the Viro Valley towards Calaccucia, Corte, Ajaccio, and home, bidding Corsica _au revoir_ but not adieu!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Col is a French term denoting a depression on a ridge connecting two summits.

[2] A rock pinnacle on a ridge.

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