CHAPTER VII

ON SKIS IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND (_continued_)

In later years we visited many other parts of the Alps on skis; but it was not until the Easter of 1914 that we returned to the great glaciers of the Oberland. On April 9, I boarded the continental train at Charing Cross and, on the following day, joined my brother in Zürich, where he was completing his studies. My arrival being totally unexpected, I was indeed fortunate in finding him free from climbing plans and obligations. Next evening at eight o’clock we were in Wengen. After dinner, and having written a few letters informing relatives and friends that we were off for a week’s ski-ing mid the peaks of the Bernese Oberland, we put on skis and, at 10 p.m., left the Schönegg Hôtel. The moon shone brightly, and we strode up the buried railway track through a land of silver dominated by the great ghostly shapes of that wonderful Alpine trinity, the Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau. All shuttered up and deserted were the railway station and collection of hôtels at the Little Scheidegg--a forlorn colony of the dead. In the eerie magic of an hour past midnight, we should not have been astonished had a ghostly throng of perspiring trippers appeared from nowhere and begun that fight for seats of vantage on the train, which we had more than once witnessed during the bright sunny days of a summer season. Braving the possible presence of the supernatural, however, we paused here to indulge in the infinitely prosaic--a meal of dry bread and raw bacon fat, our favourite winter tit-bit!

Soon we were off again up the railway track. The snow throughout was safe and in perfect condition, and at 3 a.m. we reached the Eiger Glacier station. We saw the engineer on duty, who most kindly undertook to make the necessary arrangements for a special train to be at our disposal after breakfast. Unwilling to disturb others, we contented ourselves with a table each for bed and slept soundly until after sunrise. The train left just after eight. During the six years that had elapsed since our last visit, considerable progress had been made, and the tunnel completed up to the Jungfraujoch. The railway track, however, was not yet finished, and the walk from the train to the Joch was no easy matter, as the final section of the tunnel was still in the rough stage. Thanks to the kind offers of one of the tunnelling foremen who remembered us from the winter of 1908, we were provided with a warm meal at a trifling cost.

With the good wishes of all the staff, we stepped out of the tunnel at noon on the 12th and, descending carefully over a steep snow slope, crossed a small snow-choked bergschrund on to the Jungfrau Glacier. Here we put on skis and, leaving the heavy knapsacks to be picked up on the return journey, headed for the Mönchjoch. We wore the rope, though, at this time of the year and with the snow in its present condition, there was no difficulty in detecting the presence of crevasses or in sounding with the axe and accurately estimating the strength of snow bridges. The weather was sunny and windless, and, though the temperature in the shade was far below freezing, we gradually divested ourselves of coats and shirts and arrived in the lower Mönchjoch stripped to the waist, but fresh and aglow from the exertion. There we were accosted by the gentlest of breezes; sufficient, nevertheless, to persuade us to resume some of our discarded coverings. The skis, not needed for the time being, were left behind as we turned up the south-east ridge of the Mönch. The climb up the ridge was as easy as I have ever known it, so good were the conditions. Along the final, almost level section, we found the remains of old steps which we at first followed. Presently, however, we forsook them. According to our views, they went dangerously close to, and were sometimes even on, the overhanging portion of the immense cornice which adorns the crest of this part of the ridge. We preferred to keep well down on the steep slope to the left, though such a procedure did involve a little step-cutting. At 3 p.m. we paid our third visit to the summit of the Mönch. Filmy mists of the kind that the mountaineer usually associates with fair, settled weather floated up from the north and enveloped us almost immediately. Despite a fresh breeze from the south-west, they clung tenaciously about us, completely obscuring the view. For nearly an hour we waited for things to clear; but in vain. Too chilled to prolong our stay, we sought warmth in action and turned back towards the Mönchjoch. As we passed along the highest section of the ridge, I re-cut one or two of the steps. Suddenly I was startled by a crashing noise, followed by a thunderous roar, as almost the whole of the great cornice broke away for a distance of about a hundred yards in front and fifty yards behind us and fell down in a mighty avalanche towards the Eismeer. Where a moment previously the view to the left had been shut off by a steep snow wall, I now had an uninterrupted survey down the precipice, from the brink of which I was separated by a distance of only an inch or two. At first we were a little startled by the suddenness of the happening, but later regarded it as merely another demonstration of the fact that, if mountaineering is to be a safe pursuit, knowledge and the exercise of care are indispensable. Although much of the ridge along which we now had to pass was still heavily corniced, we had faith in the safety of the tracks we had left on ascending and, following these, made our way down to our skis. Strapping them on and coiling up the rope, we skimmed in a sheer riot of exhilaration down towards the Jungfraujoch, keeping as much as possible to our previous tracks. It being our intention to make the Concordia hut our home for the next few days, we recovered our knapsacks and, at 5 p.m., set off down the Jungfrau Glacier on the last lap of the day’s journey.

The run down the glacier was somewhat spoilt by the fact that the weight of our knapsacks rendered crevasse-dodging rather difficult unless the pace of travel was kept down by frequent braking. Far from easy to negotiate, too, were the occasional patches of snow, hard-crusted by the action of the fierce winds that from time to time sweep up this glacier in winter. It was, however, a wonderful evening. There was no cause for haste, so we halted frequently to ease our shoulders of the weight of the knapsacks and to point out to each other old friends amongst the surrounding peaks. We had last crossed the Concordia Platz in the summer of 1909. Then we had found it a vast, almost level expanse of glacier covered with an abominable slush of snow and water. But now it was in the grip of winter. We ambled and slid over a dry, powdery snow surface, the soft, fresh breezes of dusk playing about us and cooling the flush that exercise had called to our faces. A little, fairly steep slope lay between the edge of the glacier and the rocks on which the Concordia hut stands. I ski-ed down this slope and brought up with a Christiania swing; but not in time to prevent twisting my left ankle against a stone--a painful experience, though no bones were broken, and, beyond the throbbing pain, I seemed to suffer no inconvenience. We climbed up the almost snow-free rocks and, at 7.30 p.m., arrived in the hut. By this time there remained to us but faded memories of our last meal, and it was not until ten o’clock that our ravenous appetites were satisfied.

[Illustration: _Cornices on the Punta Margherita._]

[Illustration: _A cornice on the Rôchefort ridge._

_Facing page 98._ ]

Next morning, after a night of wonderful sleep, we awoke at 9.30. The weather was doubtful, with cloudy skies and a gusty wind varying in quarter from west to south. Shortly before midday, after alternating between hopes and fears as to the prospects of being able to do something by way of an excursion, we left the hut, carrying only the rope and a little chocolate, it being our humble intention to potter about on the Concordia Platz. However, after putting on the skis, which had been left down on the glacier, we decided that, though the clouds and the wind gusts were still as evident as ever, the weather might hold out sufficiently long to enable us to climb the Ebnefluh. We crossed the Concordia Platz and, mounting up the main Aletsch Glacier, eventually turned up the Ebnefluh Glacier and headed almost straight for the summit of our peak. We were able to keep the skis on until within a few hundred feet of the top. Had the snow been powdery and suitable for ski-ing instead of hard and frozen, we might have ski-ed right on to the summit. At 6 p.m. we had gained the highest point. The most striking feature of the view from the summit of the Ebnefluh (13,005 ft.) is the wonderful outlook it affords over the tremendous precipices falling away to the Rotthal Valley, one of the wildest and most secluded and, from the climber’s point of view, most interesting valleys in the Alps.

We had put on the rope on leaving the skis, but even on foot, by exercising ordinary, reasonable caution, there was no danger of falling into a crevasse. With the passage from early to late winter, glacier conditions suffer enormous change. I have previously pointed out how the winter snows form most unreliable bridges over crevasses and often mask them so effectively that the vision of even the most experienced mountaineer is sometimes unable to detect them. But later on, towards the close of the winter season, usually in March and almost always in April, the keen mountaineer will never be at fault in this respect. I am frequently at a loss to explain to a less experienced companion how this can be. Perhaps long experience in the mountains tends to develop in one an extra and particular sense which warns one of the proximity of hidden crevasses; but to those who wish a more scientific explanation, I would draw attention to the following facts. Towards the end of winter the snow is more consolidated, that is, packed more closely by reason of its own weight and the effect of wind. Where snow is unsupported from below, that is, where it lies over a crevasse, a slight, sometimes almost imperceptible hollow will be formed on its surface. These hollows, slight though they be, betray themselves to the experienced eye by the difference in the shade of the light that they reflect and thus give warning of the existence of a crevasse. In the earlier part of the winter, the snow, as a rule, has not had time to “pack” sufficiently to form such hollows, and the detection of chasms is therefore immeasurably more difficult. A heated controversy is now raging amongst ski-ing experts as to whether the rope should be worn when ski-ing on glaciers in winter. It is by no means easy for a party roped together to keep the rope taut while ski-ing down a glacier, without inflicting bad jerks and causing each other to fall. For this reason the rope is considered by many ski-ers to be an unmitigated nuisance. Hence the rise of the two contesting parties. To me, the question does not seem to admit of an answering unqualified “Yes” or “No.” Owing to the difficulty of sighting crevasses during the beginning and middle of winter, the wearing of the rope at these times should certainly be urged, even on the simplest of glaciers. But the rope must be worn properly, kept taut from man to man; and as one’s rate of travel is far greater on skis than without, and the difficulty of holding a man who has fallen into a crevasse is proportionally greater, there should be not less than a hundred feet of rope between each member of the party. Later on in the season, an experienced party may unhesitatingly dispense with the rope on glacier expeditions, provided that they are not only adept ski-ers with full command of their skis, but really skilled mountaineers, with eyes open, ever on their guard against the hidden dangers of the mountains.

Owing to the lateness of the hour, our halt on the top of the Ebnefluh was a brief one. Within five minutes of leaving the summit we were back at our skis, rubbing them fondly with grease in anticipation of a swift run home. With veils of snow dust flying out behind us, we whizzed down on to the Aletsch Glacier and, half sliding, half shuffling, worked across the Concordia Platz, arriving in the hut just after nightfall.

On the 14th we were up at the fairly reasonable hour of six, but though the weather was calm and fine we did not launch out on any ambitious programme. My ankle, though no longer very painful, was so swollen that I had great difficulty in getting on my boot. Thinking, however, that a little exercise would do no harm, we ski-ed up to the Grünhornlücke and climbed a neighbouring peak called the Weissnollen (11,841 ft.). What with my ankle and the deep powdery snow, it took us three hours to plough our way up to the former. The return from the Grünhornlücke to the hut, however, was accomplished in barely fifteen minutes.

Early next morning, dense mists surrounded the hut, and snow was falling fast. At 9 a.m. we looked out, to find the snow had ceased and the mists were being blown away by a fierce north-easter. But we dallied until the weather became more certain, and at a quarter to eleven set off for the Fiescherhorn. To climb the Fiescherhorn, it was necessary to gain the upper level of the Ewigschneefeld above its great icefall. By keeping to the left bank of the latter, we succeeded in finding a passage without having to remove our skis; but by the time the glacier above had been gained, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, and in the end we had to content ourselves with climbing the Walcherhorn (12,155 ft.). Skis were kept on right up to the summit. No view rewarded our labours. Mists clung about us, and a cold wind hastened our retreat. Through the clouds, keeping to our former tracks, we ran down to the head of the icefall. Then came five wonderfully exciting minutes as, in and out of crevasses and séracs, we twisted and turned and sped, without a halt, out on to the unbroken slopes below the icefall and down to the Concordia Platz, to reach home in time for four o’clock tea.

We voted the next day to be one of rest. The strain of manœuvring through the icefall of the Ewigschneefeld had caused my ankle to swell up again, and Max was suffering from a cough which made him declare he felt ready for a coffin. It was beautifully clear weather when we rose from our sleeping bunks at one o’clock, and the rest of the day was spent sitting in the sun in front of the hut, Max wrapped up in layers of blankets in an attempt to sweat out his cold, while I, between meal times, endeavoured to allay the inflammation of my ankle with frequent applications of bandages soaked in ice-cold water.

On April 17, we were up before daybreak and left the hut at seven o’clock, bound for the Jungfrau. Once again a bright sun shone from a cloudless sky and a dead calm reigned. So warm was it that our progress was a most moderate one and punctuated by many rests. At one o’clock we gained the large bergschrund immediately under the Rotthal Sattel and there left the skis. Fifty minutes later, having mounted for the most

## part in perfect snow and having found it necessary to cut only a few

steps, we were on the summit of the Jungfrau (13,668 ft.). It was our fifth visit to the Queen of the Oberland; she had always received us well, but never so kindly as on this late winter afternoon of cloudless sky and total absence of wind. Much though we would have preferred to dally, our stay had to be cut short; for a deficiency in certain articles of provisions rendered necessary a visit to the Jungfraujoch on the way back. Threading a way down on to the glacier and then mounting a steep little snow slope, we arrived, in due course, at the tunnel of the Jungfraujoch station where we loaded up fresh supplies, not forgetting wax for the skis which were no longer slipping as freely as they should. After re-waxing them, we sped down to the edge of the Concordia Platz in ten short minutes. The temptation to loaf there in the sun proved irresistible, and it was not until six o’clock that we arrived back in our little winter home.

It was our plan to tackle the Grüneckhorn and the Gross Grünhorn on the following day; a more ambitious undertaking than any we had attempted this season. The weather was doubtful when we looked out just before sunrise. A south wind was driving rolling banks of mist up the Aletsch Glacier, and cloud caps, omens of evil weather, had settled on the summits of all the greater mountains. By eight o’clock no improvement had taken place, so we decided to shift our abode and cross the Grünhornlücke to the Finsteraarhorn hut. An hour later, just as we were preparing to leave, the north wind at last seemed on the point of gaining the ascendancy over the south, and the weather took a distinct turn for the better. We straightway made up our minds to adhere to our original plan. With a rope slung over Max’s shoulder, and a camera and a few provisions in my pockets, we ski-ed up towards the prominent gap in the south-west ridge of the Grüneckhorn. Before reaching it, the badly crevassed nature of the glacier and the icy condition of the snow forced us to leave the skis. We put on the rope and kicked a way up in snow that was so hard and good that we never sank in to more than ankle-depth. From the gap onwards, we followed a delightful ice ridge which forced us to a free use of the ice-axe in cutting steps. Knowing that there was not much time to spare, we worked with a will and, shortly after one o’clock, gained the summit of the Grüneckhorn (12,500 ft.). The climb from here along the snow-free rock ridge to the summit of the Gross Grünhorn was child’s play. The weather was perfect; and no cold wind whipped our faces. We might almost have been climbing on a fine summer’s day, so warm were the rocks, and so good the climbing conditions. We sat on the top of the Gross Grünhorn (13,278 ft.) till well after three. The view from this summit is almost unique. One is so closed in on all sides by great peaks that, no matter where the eye roves, it rests on nothing save rock and ice and perpetual snow. No green valleys suggesting the homes of human folk are there to offer a contrast to the sterner majesty of nature.

Within three-quarters of an hour of leaving the summit, we were back on the Grüneckhorn, and there conceived the idea of descending by the hitherto unclimbed south face, a tremendously steep snow slope through which rocks jutted out here and there. The wonderful condition of the snow tempted us to this decision. Under less favourable circumstances, indeed, such a venture might well have led to trouble. Facing inwards towards the steep snow, we kicked our way downwards step by step, surely but quickly, and crossed the bergschrund at the foot of the slope without the slightest difficulty. Twenty minutes after leaving the summit, we were back at our skis and a quarter of an hour later had entered the hut.

According to programme, we were due at the Finsteraarhorn hut on Sunday the 19th. The barometer had fallen so low, however, and the weather had become so threatening, that we entertained scant hopes of being able to carry our projects into effect. We waited till midday, but no improvement took place; so we packed up to return home via the Lötschenlücke and the Lötschberg railway. Steering by map and compass, we crossed the Concordia Platz and mounted the main Aletsch Glacier through thick mists and gently-falling snow. At four o’clock we left the Lötschenlücke, having paused at the Egon von Steiger hut, close to the pass, for lunch. In a few minutes we had run down below the cloud level. From the ski-ing point of view, the snow was bad, possessing almost throughout a hard, thick, frozen crust which made it difficult for one to exert proper control over the skis. The strap of one of Max’s bindings, cut by the crusted snow, gave way, and replacing it by a spare was no easy matter, for the narrow little slit in the ski, through which the spare had to be threaded, was partly blocked with ice. Lower down the snow was deep and wet and of such a consistency that we seemed to be running through treacle.

Just before reaching the little village of Blatten in the Lötschen Valley, we took off the skis and trudged down the long path to Goppenstein where we caught the train for Zürich, little thinking that we were turning our backs on the mountains and all that they meant to us for the next five years.

There is much to be said for winter mountaineering. In summer, if one wishes to climb the Jungfrau or any other similar mountain, the ascent of which involves a lengthy walk on snow-covered glaciers, one must start very early, well before daybreak; otherwise, the sun will have softened the snow so much that the ascent, and still more the descent, will be most laborious. On skis and in winter, this nightmare of a long and wearisome trudge in soft snow hardly exists. The return from a climb, especially, is a simple and almost effortless affair. Again, fewer people by far climb in the winter season, and, if one so wishes, one’s solitude need not be disturbed. Throughout this glorious week in the Oberland we had had the huts and the mountains all to ourselves.

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