Read Ebook: The making of a mountaineer by Finch George Ingle

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The washing, a kind of work I knew nothing about, was given to me; but I could not do it, and it was finally given over to a hired woman. I had to do the ironing of the fancy clothing for Mrs. Kimball and the children.

About five or six weeks after my arrival, Mrs. Kimball and the children went to the White Mountains for the summer, and I had more leisure. Mr. Kimball went up to the mountains every Saturday night, to stay with his family over Sunday; but he and his father-in-law were at home other nights, and I had to have dinner for them.

To keep away the homesickness and loneliness as much as possible, I made acquaintance with the hired girl across the street.

One morning I climbed up into the cherry tree that grew between Mr. Kimball's yard and the yard of his next-door neighbor, Mr. Roberts. I was thinking of the South, and as I picked the cherries, I sang a Southern song. Mr. Roberts heard me, and gave me a dollar for the song.

From this place I proceeded to 24 Springfield Street, as directed, hoping that I would be refused, so that I might go back to the intelligence office and get my fifty cents. The lady at No. 24 who wanted a servant, said she didn't think I was large and strong enough, and guessed I wouldn't do. Then I went and got my fifty cents.

Having now obtained a situation, I sent to Mr. Kimball's for my trunk. I remained in my new place a year and a half. At the end of that time the family moved to Dorchester, and because I did not care to go out there, I left their service.

From this place, I went to Narragansett Pier to work as a chambermaid for the summer. In the fall, I came back to Boston and obtained a situation with a family, in Berwick Park. This family afterward moved to Jamaica Plain, and I went with them. With this family I remained seven years. They were very kind to me, gave me two or three weeks' vacation, without loss of pay.

In June, 1884, I went with them to their summer home in the Isles of Shoals, as housekeeper for some guests who were coming from Paris. On the 6th of July I received word that my sister Caroline had died in June. This was a great blow to me. I remained with the Reeds until they closed their summer home, but I was not able to do much work after the news of my sister's death.

I wrote home to Georgia, to the white people who owned the house in which Caroline had lived, asking them to take care of her boy Lawrence until I should come in October. When we came back to Jamaica Plain in the fall, I was asked to decide what I should do in regard to this boy. Mrs. Reed wanted me to stay with her, and promised to help pay for the care of the boy in Georgia. Of course, she said, I could not expect to find positions if I had a child with me. As an inducement to remain in my present place and leave the boy in Georgia, I was promised provision for my future days, as long as I should live. It did not take me long to decide what I should do. The last time I had seen my sister, a little over a year before she died, she had said, when I was leaving, "I don't expect ever to see you again, but if I die I shall rest peacefully in my grave, because I know you will take care of my child."

I left Jamaica Plain and took a room on Village Street for the two or three weeks until my departure for the South. During this time, a lady came to the house to hire a girl for her home in Wellesley Hills. The girl who was offered the place would not go. I volunteered to accept the position temporarily, and went at once to the beautiful farm. At the end of a week, a man and his wife had been engaged, and I was to leave the day after their arrival. These new servants, however, spoke very little English, and I had to stay through the next week until the new ones were broken in. After leaving there I started for Georgia, reaching there at the end of five days, at five o'clock.

I took a carriage and drove at once to the house where Lawrence was being taken care of. He was playing in the yard, and when he saw me leave the carriage he ran and threw his arms around my neck and cried for joy. I stayed a week in this house, looking after such things of my sister's as had not been already stored. One day I had a headache, and was lying down in the cook's room. Lawrence was in the dining-room with the cook's little girl, and the two got into a quarrel, in the course of which my nephew struck the cook's child. The cook, in her anger, chased the boy with a broom, and threatened to give him a good whipping at all costs. Hearing the noise, I came out into the yard, and when Lawrence saw me he ran to me for protection. I interceded for him, and promised he should get into no more trouble. We went at once to a neighbor's house for the night. The next day I got a room in the yard of a house belonging to some white people. Here we stayed two weeks. The only return I was asked to make for the room was to weed the garden. Lawrence and I dug out some weeds and burned them, but came so near setting fire to the place that we were told we need not dig any more weeds, but that we might have the use of the room so long as we cared to stay.

In about a week and a half more we got together such things as we wanted to keep and take away with us.

The last time I saw my sister, I had persuaded her to open a bank account, and she had done so, and had made small deposits from time to time. When I came to look for the bankbook, I discovered that her lodger, one Mayfield, had taken it at her death, and nobody knew where it might be now. I found out that Mayfield had drawn thirty dollars from the account for my sister's burial, and also an unknown amount for himself. He had done nothing for the boy. I went down to the bank, and was told that Mayfield claimed to look after my sister's burial and her affairs. He had made one Reuben Bennett, who was no relation and had no interest in the matter, administrator for Lawrence, until his coming of age. But Bennett had as yet done nothing for him. The book was in the bank, with some of the account still undrawn, how much I did not know. I next went to see a lawyer, to find out how much it would cost me to get this book. The lawyer said fifteen dollars. I said I would call again. In the meantime, I went to the court house, and when the case on trial was adjourned I went to the judge and stated my case. The judge, who was slightly acquainted with my sister and me, told me to have Reuben Bennett in court next morning at nine o'clock, and to bring Lawrence with me. When we had all assembled before the judge, he told Bennett to take Lawrence and go to the bank and get the money belonging to my sister. Bennett went and collected the money, some thirty-five dollars. The boy was then given into my care by the judge. For his kindness, the judge would accept no return. Happy at having obtained the money so easily, we went back to our room, and rested until our departure the next night for Jacksonville, Florida. I had decided to go to this place for the winter, on account of Lawrence, thinking the Northern winter would be too severe for him.

My youngest sister, who had come to Macon from Atlanta a few days before my arrival, did not hear of Caroline's death until within a few days of our departure. This youngest sister decided to go to Florida with us for the winter.

Our trunks and baggage were taken to the station in a team. We had a goodly supply of food, given us by our friends and by the people whose hospitality we had shared during the latter part of our stay.

The next morning we got into Jacksonville. My idea was to get a place as chambermaid at Green Cove Springs, Florida, through the influence of the head waiter at a hotel there, whom I knew. After I got into Jacksonville I changed my plans. I did not see how I could move my things any farther, and we went to a hotel for colored people, hired a room for two dollars, and boarded ourselves on the food which had been given us in Macon. This food lasted about two weeks. Then I had to buy, and my money was going every day, and none coming in, I did not know what to do. One night the idea of keeping a restaurant came to me, and I decided to get a little home for the three of us, and then see what I could do in this line of business. After a long and hard search, I found a little house of two rooms where we could live, and the next day I found a place to start my restaurant. For house furnishings, we used at first, to the best advantage we could, the things we had brought from Macon. Caroline's cookstove had been left with my foster-mother in Macon. After hiring the room for the restaurant, I sent for this stove, and it arrived in a few days. Then I went to a dealer in second-hand furniture and got such things as were actually needed for the house and the restaurant, on the condition that he would take them back at a discount when I got through with them.

Trade at the restaurant was very good, and we got along nicely. My sister got a position as nurse for fifteen dollars a month. One day the cook from a shipwrecked vessel came to my restaurant, and in return for his board and a bed in the place, agrebags 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.

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 H?tel 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 homoeopathic 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.

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.

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.

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 . 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.

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.

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 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.

FOOTNOTES:

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

A rock pinnacle on a ridge.

THE WETTERHORN

Grindelwald, the most popular of the climbing centres of the Bernese Oberland, is dominated by the Eiger and the Wetterhorn. The former is so close to the village that, owing to foreshortening, much of the majesty of its huge precipices is lost to the casual observer below. But the Wetterhorn, standing well back at the head of the valley, its great limestone cliffs surmounted by terraced glaciers upon which the snow-capped summit cone is so gracefully poised, has long appealed to the artist--so much so, indeed, that the view of the Wetterhorn from Grindelwald vies for pride of place with those of the Jungfrau from the Wengernalp and of the Matterhorn from the Riffel Alp.

My first climbing acquaintance with the Wetterhorn was destined to be a rude one. My brother Max and I had, for five seasons, served a faithful apprenticeship to mountaineering in the lesser Alps of Northern Switzerland and, long before the arrival of the summer vacation of 1908, had drawn up the plan of an ambitious climbing campaign which, beginning with the Wetterhorn, should lead us over the principal peaks of the Bernese Oberland into the Zermatt district, that Mecca of the mountaineering world. Starting from Meiringen, we had, by a circuitous route over the Gauli Glacier and the Wetterlimmi, gained the Dossen club-hut, north-east of the Wetterhorn, whence the easiest way to the summit starts. A party of five Germans, likewise bound for the Wetterhorn, shared the hut with us.

We left the hut at 2 a.m. on July 24, closely followed by the Germans who were roped in two parties. Walking up the snow slopes at a furious rate, they soon left us behind, for, knowing that our strength would be needed later on, we preferred to take things leisurely. Max and I arrived at the depression south of the summit and known as the Wettersattel, to find the Germans already breakfasting and bringing by no means small appetites to bear upon the generous contents of their knapsacks. A chilly north wind was blowing, and the sun had not yet reached us, so we cut short our rest and were soon forging up the final snow slope to the summit. The new snow which had fallen two days before, though it had obliterated the steps and tracks of previous climbers, was now good and firmly frozen; the slopes were nowhere very steep, and with the help of our climbing irons we made rapid progress. Save for the last few feet there was no need to cut steps. The ascent had been easy--far easier than most of the climbs of our apprenticeship; indeed, it seemed little more than a short mountain walk, for in less than five hours after leaving the Dossen hut we stood on the summit. The facility with which we had conquered this, our first really great peak, however, did nothing to mar our feelings of happy pride in the achievement. The wind had dropped and the sun was warm. With our axes we scraped out comfortable seats for ourselves in the snow and sat down to rest. Westwards from our feet the summit snow slope curved gently outwards to fall away in ever-increasing steepness till it was lost to sight, and the eye rested on the green meadows above Grindelwald. To the south we saw the Schreckhorn, Eiger, M?nch, Jungfrau and hosts of other giants of the Oberland, and in them beheld with happy vision a new world awaiting conquest.

Twenty minutes of supreme happiness stole away ere our solitude was interrupted by the arrival of two of the Germans. The other three had given up the ascent. The spell thus broken, we prepared to return and a few minutes later were making our way back to the Wettersattel, closely followed by the two Germans who there rejoined their friends.

Now, unless it is extraordinarily steep, there is only one correct way of descending a snow slope; you go down with your back to the slope, facing outwards. Standing boldly erect with shoulders well back like a guardsman on parade, you walk unconcernedly downwards with toes well up, letting the impetus of your body drive the heel into the snow to make a good, reliable step. Do not take little mincing steps, one barely below the other, but plunge bravely. You will then be sure of your foothold and make good headway. The Germans were evidently not accustomed to snow. They advanced with hesitation. Indeed, one of those behind us nervously faced into the slope and descended on all fours. About four hundred feet below the saddle, the tracks ceased. For some few feet farther, the leader of the party preceding us made sufficiently firm steps by kicking with his heels, but soon we found ourselves on much steeper and harder snow where step-cutting was imperative. The Germans betrayed an inclination to take to the snow and ice-plastered rocks to the left, but we warned them that safety lay only in laboriously cutting a way down in the hard snow bed of the gully. The leading German, however, soon abandoned step-cutting and moved out on to the rocks where he and his companion sat down, one close behind the other. Throughout the climb they had appeared to find difficulty in managing the sixty feet of rope to which they were attached; seldom had it been taut from man to man, and now, as they rested, it lay in loose coils between them. Max and I carried on, cutting steps down the gully, and had passed below the level of the two Germans when I saw one of them stand up. He slipped. His legs shot out beneath him and he began to slide down over the slabs on to the hard snow slope below. He dropped his axe. I shouted out a warning to his companion who was, however, too startled to take up the slack of the rope which was fast running out as the man at the other end slid on with increasing impetus. He had by now turned over on to his face, and was scraping frantically into the hard snow with his fingers in a desperate endeavour to save himself. At length the sixty feet of rope had run out; with a terrific jerk the second man was dragged from the rock and hurled through the air. Striking against a projecting crag, his left arm was wrenched from the shoulder and his chest crushed in. The body went on until the rope's length was spent. Again a jerk, and the first man, whose pace had slackened as his comrade was dragged from his seat, was in his turn hurled through the air--to smash his head in on the rocks below. It was a sickening spectacle. The bodies bounded over and over each other in wide curves until the edge of the first great precipice leading down to the Krinne Glacier hid them from our sight. Their three companions, who had looked on aghast, were naturally in a terrible state of nerves. There was nothing to do but to go steadily on, and, not yet realising the condition of the party behind, Max and I turned our attention once more to step-cutting. We had not proceeded far before they implored us to lead them back into the Wettersattel. Cutting steps up past them, therefore, we joined their rope to ours, charging them to keep it always taut from man to man, and so made our way back to the saddle. Thence we descended with all possible speed past the Dossen hut to Rosenlaui, from where we telephoned news of the accident to Grindelwald.

On July 24, Max and I once again made ourselves at home in the Dossen hut. A school friend of Max, Will Sturgess, aged seventeen, accompanied us, keen as mustard and looking forward to his first mountain climb. That evening the weather broke and remained bad until the following afternoon, when a fierce westerly wind set in which swept away the clouds and lashed up from the ridges the newly-fallen snow. Towards sunset the gale dropped, and numerous parties arrived from Rosenlaui and Meiringen. We prepared our simple evening meal--pea soup, tea and plenty of bread and jam--and before nightfall were already seeking sleep on the straw of the bunks. But the ceaseless chatter, the noise of other people's cooking operations, and last but not least the insistence of the preponderating Teuton element on closed windows, despite the fact that the little hut harboured some thirty individuals, made rest impossible. Soon after midnight, no longer able to bear the stifling atmosphere, we jumped down from our beds and gathered round in front of the door to drink in the sweet, cool night air. A full moon shone from a cloudless sky, streaking the quiet snows with bands of silver.

We began to prepare breakfast, an example which was too soon followed by the other inmates, and so once more the little hut was filled with noise and bustle. Shortly after half-past one on the morning of July 26, we escaped into the peace of the night. In our rucksacks we carried only the essential needs for the day, it being our intention to return to the hut. Over the splendid, hard-frozen snow we mounted up to the Dossensattel--the little snow depression on the rock ridge at the lower end of which stands the hut--and within an hour had crossed it and were making our way horizontally over a fairly steep snow slope towards the Wetterkessel. Sturgess, who was in the middle of the rope, slipped twice, but as we always kept the rope taut from man to man he was easily held, while on both occasions he retained his grip upon his ice-axe--a promising sign on the part of a beginner. We walked quickly across the Wetterkessel, for the wind was bitingly cold, and about an hour below the Wettersattel halted for a second breakfast, finding shelter in a shallow crevasse. The first red flush of dawn was creeping down the Hasle Jungfrau as we set off once more. In the snow at the foot of a great rock pinnacle in the Wettersattel we deposited our knapsacks. Sturgess, wishing to reserve his strength for later in the day, elected to remain here and await our return from the Hasle Jungfrau. In a wind-sheltered hollow he got the little aluminium cooking apparatus into action, and promised that we should have hot drinks when we came back.

We found the remains of good steps leading up the final snow slope and, at 6 a.m., within twenty minutes after leaving the Wettersattel, stepped out on to the summit. Not a single step had we had to cut. The wind had died down, and the sky was cloudless. Again we gazed into the snow and ice-clad recesses of the Oberland, no longer land of mystery, for in the summer of 1908 we had successfully invaded its fastnesses. Far below in the Wettersattel, numerous climbers were coming up from the Grindelwald side--little black spots upon the white purity of the snows. Sturgess was evidently feeling the cold, for we could see him occasionally forsake the cooking-pot and indulge in short runs; altogether he seemed to be exerting himself much more than we two. After spending half an hour on the summit, we cut steps along the snow ridge in the direction of the Great Scheidegg, until we could look down on to the little H?hnergutz Glacier on the cliffs of the Wetterhorn overlooking the Scheidegg. On our return we found several parties in possession of the summit, so, carrying straight on and plunging down the good snow, we soon rejoined our companion who was waiting to welcome us with a cup of hot tea--veritable nectar to the climber on the heights. Max and his friend being inclined to dally over this, their third breakfast, I unroped and, leaving them to follow at their leisure, proceeded alone up the snow slopes leading to the Mittelhorn. There were no difficulties to be overcome, and presently I had gained the summit where I stretched myself out in the warm sun on some near by rocks and went to sleep.

At 9 a.m. Max, with Sturgess in tow, rudely awakened me, and we made ready for the serious part of the day's work. Hitherto, though we had omitted none of the precautions so necessary for the safe carrying out of even the simplest of mountaineering excursions, the climb had seemed little more than a pleasant morning's walk. Now, however, we were confronted by the long, be-pinnacled ridge connecting the Mittelhorn and the Rosenhorn, and unless appearance and rumour belied it, we were not likely to have too little to do. We roped together. For the first half-hour along the snow-crest everything was straightforward, until we arrived on a rocky platform from which the ridge suddenly fell away in an almost vertical cliff. About thirty feet lower down was a ledge, narrow and sloping, but roomy enough to provide standing ground for all three. Max lowered himself over, while I, well-braced, held his rope and paid him out foot by foot until he reached the ledge. Then came Sturgess' turn. He advanced boldly, but lacking my brother's rock-climbing prowess, he completed the descent by a free use of the rope. Now it was my turn. Max warned me that the pitch was too difficult to descend without help from above; so I cut a short length off the end of our rope, tied the ends securely together to form a loop and hung it over a jutting out spike of firm rock. Meanwhile the others had untied themselves, thus giving me sufficient rope for subsequent manoeuvres. Drawing up Max's end of the rope, I passed it through the loop and back to him, so that as I descended he could hold me from below like a weight on a rope passing through a pulley--the loop in this case performing the functions of the pulley--and check any disposition on my part to fall. Safe on the ledge, I recovered the rope by simply pulling on my end until the other passed through the noose. This and similar methods of descending difficult pitches of rock or ice are known to the mountaineer as "roping down."

A brief scramble over easy rocks led to the upper edge of another vertical step in the ridge, where we again roped down. This pitch, however, was much longer than the last and, in addition, it partially overhung. Here and there, also, it was plastered up with ice that was softening in the warm rays of the sun. It was practically impossible to climb, and for most of the way down I hung with my full weight on the rope while Max paid it out. The ledge on which we now stood was on the south side of the ridge, the backbone of which we soon regained by an easy traverse over good broken up rock to the left. Here we made the aggravating discovery that, by previously adhering to the crest, we had missed a perfectly simple line of descent on the other side.

The cold wind to which we had hitherto been exposed had dropped, and the sun beat warmly down upon us from an almost cloudless sky. Presently I became assailed with doubts as to whether the highest point visible were really the summit or merely masking a loftier eminence farther along the ridge. To settle the question, I unroped and set off alone. An hour's easy clamber brought me to the point in question, to discover to my intense satisfaction that it actually was the summit of the Rosenhorn. I shouted the good news down to the others who were already making their way up towards me. At the same moment I found that my knapsack had been left behind at our resting-place. As Max and Sturgess had both overlooked it, I hurried down past them, retrieved my property and, climbing back in all haste, overtook them just below the top. At 3 p.m. all three stood on the summit. Sturgess immediately set about finding a comfortable couch for himself on a smooth, horizontal slab where he dozed while Max and I got busy with the cooker. An hour sped by quickly enough to the pleasant accompaniment of the munching of stout sandwiches washed down by copious draughts of hot tea.

Our gallant beginner showed naturally great fatigue, but we rubbed him until he was warm again and rolled him up in blankets. Max and I then prepared a hot meal and changed our sodden clothing as far as the presence of a party of ladies, who with their guides were bent on climbing the Dossenhorn on the morrow, would permit. Good food followed by a night's rest worked wonders for Sturgess who soon recovered from the effects of his hardships. He was a stout fellow, keen, uncomplaining and always ready to do his best, and had indeed acquitted himself splendidly on this, his first great mountain climb.

THE JUNGFRAU

A glance at the map of the Bernese Oberland will show that a straight line drawn in a north-easterly direction from the Breithorn to the Eiger will pass through, or close to, the Grosshorn, Mittaghorn, Ebnefluh, Jungfrau and M?nch. The ridge connecting these great peaks forms a lofty watershed flanked on the south by gently-rising glacier slopes and on the north by precipitous ice-clad cliffs and icefalls. Almost every route, therefore, leading from the north across this great connecting ridge constitutes an arduous ice-climb followed by a comparatively easy descent on the south side. Small wonder, then, that the guides of the Oberland, who live in close proximity to such a wonderful training ground, excel all others in the art of snow and ice mountaineering.

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