Above the Snow Line: Mountaineering Sketches Between 1870 and 1880

Benighted

Before long the situation ceased to be amusing, as we found that we had managed to get wet through in the gully, and that the slowly falling temperature was exceedingly unpleasant. I converted a cowhide knapsack into a temporary foot-warmer, much to the detriment of such articles of food as were still stored in its recesses, and tucked a boot under each arm to keep the leather from hardening. Then we fell to discussing what we would have next day for breakfast, and for some two hours found a certain amount of solace in disputing over the merits of divers dainty dishes. Even this fertile subject failed at length to give adequate satisfaction. The ledge became colder and colder, and new spiky little points appeared to develop every moment. The argument of the sportsmen grew fainter, and we became slowly chilled through. For a while the mind became more active, but less logical, and fanciful visions crowded thickly through it. On such occasions it is seldom possible to fix the thoughts on events immediately past. To my drowsy gaze the mist seemed to take the form of our native fogs, while the condition of the ledge suggested obtrusively a newly macadamised road. Almost at will I could transport myself in imagination to the metropolis I had so recently left, or back again to the wild little ledge on which we were stranded. Following up the train of sensations, it was easy to conceive how reason might fail altogether, and how gradually, as the senses became numbed one by one, delirium might supervene from cold and exposure – as has often happened to arctic travellers. The thoughts flew off far afield, and pictured the exact contrast of the immediate surroundings. I saw a brilliantly lighted street with long rows of flaming lamps. The windows of the clubhouses shone out as great red and orange squares and oblongs. Carriages dashed by, cabs oscillated down the roads. Elegantly attired youths about to commence their wakeful period (why are men who only know the seamy side of life called “men of the world”? Is it so bad a world, my masters?) were strolling off to places of entertainment. A feeble, ragged creature crept along in the shadows. A worn, bright-eyed girl, just free from work which had begun at early dawn, dragged her aching limbs homewards, but stopped a moment to glance with envy at a mamma and two fair daughters crossing the pavement to their carriage; light, life, bustle, crowding everywhere. Faster and faster follow the shifting scenes till the visions jostle and become confused – A crack, a distant sound of a falling shower of stones, a hiss as they fall on to the snow slopes below. The eyes open, but the mind only half awakes, and almost immediately dreams again, with changed visions of comfortable rooms, in which the flickering light of a coal fire now throws up, now half conceals the close-drawn curtains, or the familiar form of books and pictures; visions of some formless individual with slippered feet disposed at judicious distance from the blazing coals, of soft carpets and deep arm-chairs moulded by long use into the precise intaglio adapted to the human frame; visions of a warm flood of subdued light, of things steaming gently with curling wreaths of vapour. All these passed in order before the mind, called up by the incantation of discomfort out of the cauldron of misery, like unto the regal display manifested to that impulsive and somewhat over-married individual, Macbeth.

Shifting scenes

But before long it was most difficult to picture these pleasant sights so vividly as to become altogether oblivious of an exceedingly chilly personality, and ultimately human nature triumphed, and the ego in a rather frozen state became again paramount. I had begun to calculate the number of hours we might have to remain where we were, and the probable state in which we should be next morning, when of a sudden the mist lifted, and disclosed the glacier just below feebly lit up by the rising moon. We sprang instantly to our feet, almost as instantaneously returning to our former positions by reason of the exceeding stiffness and cramp begotten of the cold. The guides, leaving their discussion at a point where the last speaker had, in imagination, shot a chamois about the size of an elephant, descended to inspect the ice. The snow bridges were pronounced secure, and we were soon across the crevasses, but found to our disgust that we had rather overdone the waiting. The slope was hard frozen, and in the dim light it was found necessary to cut steps nearly the whole way down the glacier. For five hours and a half were we thus engaged, and did not reach our camp till 2.30 A.M. Never did the tent look so comfortable as on that morning. If, as was remarked of Mrs. Gamp’s apartment in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, to the contented mind a cottage is a palace, so to the weary frame may a tent be a luxurious hotel. We rushed over the loose rocks by the snout of the glacier, and ran helter-skelter for our bivouac. From the circumstance that the invariable struggle for the best pillow was usually brief, and that one of the party was discovered next morning wrong end foremost in his sleeping bag with his boots still on his feet, I am disposed to think that we were not long in dropping off to sleep; but the unstudied attitudes of the party suggested rather four revellers returning from a Greenwich dinner in a four-wheeled cab over a cobbled road than a company of sober mountaineers. By seven o’clock, however, the predominant thought of breakfast so asserted itself that we woke up and looked out.

The camp breaks up

The first object that met our gaze was a large sheet of paper, affixed to the rock just in front of the tent, and bearing the simple inscription “Hooray!” This led us to surmise that our success was already known below; for the author of the legend had returned to Chamouni the previous evening, after having seen us on the summit. To each man was apportioned the burden he should bear of the camp equipage. Such a collection of pots and pans and other paraphernalia had we amassed gradually during our stay, that our appearance as we crossed the glacier suggested rather that of certain inhabitants of Lagado mentioned in Gulliver’s voyage to Laputa. By nine o’clock we had deposited our burdens at the Montanvert and, disregarding the principles of the sages above referred to, ventured to corrode our lungs by articulating our wants to the landlord. This worthy received us with more than his usual affability, for the tidings of our success had in truth already reached the inn. A bottle of conical form was produced, the cork drawn with a monstrous explosion, and some very indifferent fluid poured out as a token of congratulation. In spite of, perhaps in consequence of, these early libations, we skipped down the well-worn and somewhat unsavoury path with great nimbleness, and in an hour or so found ourselves on the level path leading along the valley to Chamouni by the English church. There, I am pleased to record, the first man to congratulate us was our old friend M. Gabriel Loppé, without whose kindly sympathy and constant encouragement I doubt if we should have ever persevered to our successful end. It mattered little to us that but few of the Chamouni guides gave us credit for having really ascended the peak, for most of them maintained that we had merely reached a point on the south-east face of the lower summit; indeed, to those not so familiar with the details of the mountain as we were, it might well seem hard to realise that the crag jutting out on the right, as seen from Chamouni, is really the actual summit.

Such is the record of the most fascinating rock climb with which I am acquainted. From beginning to end it is interesting. There is no wearisome tramping over loose moraine and no great extent of snow-field to traverse. The rocks are wondrously firm and big, and peculiarly unlike those on other mountains, even on many of the aiguilles about Chamouni.

Mountaineering morality

An odd code of mountaineering morality has gradually sprung into existence, and ideas as to what is fair and sportsmanlike in mountain climbing are somewhat peculiar. People speak somewhat vaguely of “artificial aid,” and are wont to criticise in very severe language the employment of such assistance, at the same time finding it rather hard, if driven into a corner, to define what they mean by the term. It would seem that artificial aid may signify the driving of iron pegs into rocks when nature has provided insufficient hand or foot-hold. Such a proceeding is considered highly improper. To cut a step in ice is right, but to chisel out a step on rock is in the highest degree unjustifiable. Again, a ladder may be used without critical animadversion to bridge a crevasse, but its employment over a rock cleft is tabooed. A certain amount of mountaineering equipment is not only considered proper, but those who go on the mountains without it are spoken of with great asperity, and called very hard names; but the equipment must not include anything beyond hobnails, rope, axes, and possibly a ladder for a crevasse; any other contrivance is sniffed at contemptuously as artificial aid. Rockets and such like are usually only mentioned in order to be condemned; while grapnels, chains, and crampons are held to be the inventions of the fiend. Why these unwritten laws should exist in such an imaginary code it is hard to see. Perhaps we must not consider too curiously on the matter. For my own part, if it could be proved that by no possible means could a given bad passage be traversed without some such aid, nor turned by another route, I should not hesitate to adopt any mechanical means to the desired end. As a matter of fact, in the Alps scarcely any such places exist for those who have taken the trouble to learn how to climb, and there are none on the Aiguille du Dru. We used our ladder often enough in exploring the mountain, but when we actually ascended it we employed it in one place only, saving thereby at least an hour of invaluable time. Indeed, subsequent explorers have found such to be the case; and Mr. W. E. Davidson, in a recent ascent of the mountain, was able to find his way without invoking the assistance of either ladder or fixed ropes. In a marvellously short space of time, too, did he get up and down the peak on which we had spent hours without number. Still, this is the fate of all mountains. The mountaineers who make the third ascent are, usually, able to sweep away the blushing honours that the first climbers might fondly hope they had invested the mountain with. A word, a stroke of the pen, will do it. The peaks do not yield gradually from their high estate, but fall, like Lucifer, from summit to ultimate destination, and are suddenly converted from “the most difficult mountain in the Alps” to “Oh yes; a fine peak, but not a patch upon Mount So-and-so.” It is but with the mountains as with other matters of this life, save in this respect, that once deposed they never can hope to reign again supreme. Statements concerning our fellow-creatures when of a depreciatory, and still more when of a scandal-flavoured, nature, are always believed by nine people out of ten to be, if not absolutely true, at any rate well-founded enough for repetition. A different estimate of the standard of veracity to be met with in this world is assumed when the remarks are favourable. Even so may it be, in some instances, with the mountains. The prestige that clings to a maiden peak is like the bark on a wand: peel it off, and it cannot be replaced; the bough withers, and is cast to one side, its character permanently altered.

Chamouni becomes festive

We would fain have rested that evening, but the edict went forth that festivities were to take place in honour of the ascent, and, to tell the truth, that evening was not the least fatiguing part of the whole affair. The opportunity was too good to be lost, especially as the customary mode of testifying congratulations by firing off divers podgy little cannons, had been omitted. Preparations were made for a display of fireworks on a large scale. Some six rockets of moderately soaring ambition were placed in order on the grass-plot in front of the hotel. A skilful pyrotechnist, who knew the right end to which to apply the match, was placed in charge, and fussed about a great deal. A very little table covered with a white cloth, and on which were displayed several bottles, reminded the crowd of loafers who assembled expectant as the darkness came on, that a carousal was meditated. At last the word was given, and the pyrotechnist, beaming with pride, advanced bearing a lighted taper attached to the end of a stick of judicious length. A hush of expectancy followed, and experienced persons retired to sheltered corners. The fireworks behaved as they usually do. They fizzed prodigiously, and went off in the most unexpected directions. One rocket, rather weak in the waist, described, after a little preliminary spluttering, an exceedingly sharp, corkscrew-like series of curves, and then turned head-over-heels with astounding rapidity on the lawn, like a rabbit shot through the head, and there lay flat, spluttering out its gunpowdery vitals. Another was perfectly unmoved at the initial application of the kindling flame, but then suddenly began to swell up in an alarming way, causing the pyrotechnist, who had no previous experience of this phenomenon, to retreat somewhat hastily. However, one of the rockets rose to a height of some five-and-twenty feet, much to the operator’s satisfaction, and we were all able to congratulate him warmly on his contribution to our entertainment as we emerged from our places of security.

Organising the ball

A series of smaller explosions, resulting from the drawing of corks, was the next item in the programme, and appeared to give more general satisfaction. Then the bell rang, and the master of the ceremonies announced that the ball was about to commence. Some over-zealous person had unfortunately sought to improve the condition of the floor for dancing, by tracing an arabesque pattern on the boards with water, using for the purpose a tin pot with a convenient leak at the bottom. It followed that the exercise of waltzing in thick boots was more laborious than graceful. Without, the villagers crowded at the windows to gaze upon our fantastic gyrations. But little formality had been observed in organising the ball; in fact, the ceremony of issuing cards of invitation had been replaced by ringing a bell and displaying a placard on which it was announced that the dance would commence at nine o’clock. However, the enjoyment appeared to be none the less keen, for all that the dancers were breathing fairly pure air, taking no champagne, and not fulfilling any social duty. But for the costumes the gathering might have been mistaken for a fashionable entertainment. All the recognised types to be met with in a London ball-room were there. The conversation, judging from the fragments overheard, did not appear to be below the average standard of intellectuality. The ladies, who came from the various hotels of Chamouni, displayed, as most English girls do —pace the jealous criticism of certain French writers, more smart than observant – their curious faculty of improvising ball costume exactly suitable to the occasion. There was a young man who had a pair of white gloves, and was looked upon with awe in consequence, and who, in the intervals of the dances, slid about in an elegant manner instead of walking. There was a middle-aged person of energetic temperament who skipped and hopped like the little hills, and kept everything going – including the refreshments. There was a captious and cynical person, who frowned horribly, and sat in a corner in the verandah with an altogether superior air, and who, in support of the character, smoked a cigar of uncertain botanical pedigree provided by the hotel, which disagreed with him and increased his splenetic mood. Elsewhere, at more fashionable gatherings, he would have leaned against doorposts, cultivated a dejected demeanour, and got very much in other people’s way. There was a pianist who was a very clever artist, and found out at once the notes that yielded no response on the instrument, and who, like his more fashionable analogue, regularly required stimulants after playing a waltz. It mattered little what he played – polka, waltz, galop, or mazurka – whatever the tune, the couples all rotated more or less slowly about; so it was evidently an English gathering. At such impromptu dances there is always a strong desire to show off musical talent. No sooner did the hireling pianist desist than a little cluster gathered around the instrument, assured him that he must be tired, and volunteered to play. Finally he was induced to rest, and a young lady who knew “Rousseau’s Dream,” or some tune very like it, triumphantly seated herself and favoured the company with that air in waltz time, whereat the unsuccessful candidates for the seat smiled scornfully at each other, and rolled up their eyes, and would not dance. So they, in turn, triumphed, and the young lady blushed, and said she had never seen such a stupid set of people, and went away and sat by her parents, and thought the world was indeed hollow. The hireling came back, and all went on merrily again.

Chamouni dances

In the yard outside the crowd increased. In the midst of the throng could be seen Maurer, resplendent in a shirt the front of which was like unto a petrified bath-towel, wearing a coat many sizes too large, his face beaming with smiles and shining from the effects of drinks offered in the spirit of good fellowship on all sides. Close by stood Burgener, displaying similar physiognomical phenomena, his natural free movements hampered by the excessive tightness of some garments with which an admirer of smaller girth had presented him. Let us do justice to the guides of Chamouni, who might not unnaturally have found some cause for disappointment that the peak had been captured by strangers in the land. On this occasion, at any rate, they offered the hand of good fellowship, and listened with admiring attention while our guides, in an unknown tongue, expatiated on the difficulties and dangers they had successfully overcome – difficulties which did not appear to become less by frequent repetition. Let us leave them there. They did their work thoroughly well, and might be pardoned, under all the circumstances, for a little swagger.

The scene closes in

The days grow shorter apace. The sun has barely time to make the ice peaks glisten, ere the cold shadows creep over again. Snow lies thick on ledge and cranny, and only the steepest mountain faces show dark through the powdery veil. Bleak night winds whistle around the beetling crags and whirl and chevy the wreathing snow-clouds, making weird music in these desolate fastnesses, while the glaciers and snow-fields collect fresh strength against the time when their relentless destroyer shall attack them once again at an advantage. The scene is changed. The clear air, the delicate purity of the Alpine tints are but recollections, and have given way to fog, mist, slush, and smoke-laden atmosphere. Would you recall these mountain pictures? Draw close the curtains, stir the coals into an indignant crackling blaze, and fashion, in the rising smoke, the mountain vista. How easy it is to unlock the storehouse of the mind where these images are stowed away! how these scenes crowd back into the mind! What keener charm than to pass in review the memories of these simple, wholesome pleasures; to see again, as clear as in the reality, every ledge, every hand and foot-hold; to feel the fingers tingle and the muscles instinctively contract at the recollection of some tough scramble on rock or glacier? The pleasures of the Alps endure long after the actual experience, and are but invested; whether the interest can be derived by any one but the actual investor is a matter for others to decide. For my own part, I can only wish that any one could possibly derive a hundredth part of the pleasure in reading, that I have had in writing, of our adventures.