The First Edition of Scrambles Amongst the Alps appeared in the summer of 1871, and the Second Edition in the autumn of the same year. In 1879, a Third (condensed) Edition was published, under the title The Ascent of the Matterhorn. The book then remained out of print for twelve years. In the Fourth Edition (1893) the matter which was omitted in the Third one was restored; the text was revised generally; corrections which had become necessary in consequence of the lapse of years were made; and, in the Appendix, the History of the Matterhorn was brought down to date.

Amongst changes and developments which are not noted in the narrative, it may be mentioned that an Inn at Lognan has replaced the chalets, and that there is another one at Prerayen, in addition to the old buildings. A cabane has been opened at Chanrion. A new Inn (Hôtel des Jumeaux) has been put up at Breuil, and the Albergo del Monte Cervino at Giomein has been enlarged. The building on the summit of the Col Théodule, which was formerly termed “the hut,” is now called Pavillon du Col St. Théodule.

The Maps have been re-engraved, on copper. That of the Matterhorn and its Glaciers is after the Siegfried Map of Switzerland, with such additions as are needful to adapt it to the text. The Map of the Chain of Mont Blanc is based on the Survey of Capt. Mieulet, the map by Mr. Adams-Reilly, and the Carte Dufour, but numerous corrections and additions have been made from personal observation. The Map of the Valley of Valpelline, etc., has been constructed from the new Italian Official Map, the survey by Mr. Reilly, and the Carte Dufour.

Early Ascents of the Aiguilles d’Arve

In the Annuaire of the Club Alpin Français published in 1899 there is an article by Dr. Fodéré upon the Aiguilles d’Arve. Dr. Fodéré has ascended both the Southern and the Central Aiguilles, and says he found by levelling that the Southern Aiguille is the higher of the two. He also gives the name of a person (Célestin Bellet) who made an ascent of the Central Aiguille in 1845, and the name of another person (Elie Savoye) who did the same before 1864. In the Alpine Journal, vol. XVIII, pp. 165–8, there is a reference to an ascent of the Central Aiguille which was made in 1839. These were probably the excursions which were referred to by Mons. Ad. Joanne, about which both I and my companions were perhaps unduly sceptical. See Chapter VIII. Dr. Fodéré’s article came under my notice after the sheets of Chapter VIII were worked off.

The Death of Christian Almer

Most of the characters mentioned in Scrambles have now departed. One of the last to go was my old Guide and Friend Christian Almer. This ideal mountain-guide celebrated the 70th anniversary of his birthday by making an ascent of the Wetterhorn along with his wife, who was then aged 72; and from this display of vigour when threescore and ten he might have been expected to have lived much longer. To my great regret, he died on May 17, 1898, aged 72. See the illustration in Chapter XIIX, and the Alpine Journal, vol. XVIII, pp. 185–6.

Changes on the Southern Side of the Matterhorn

In August, 1895, I ascended the southwest ridge as far as the base of the Great Tower, to photograph places in which I was interested. More than thirty years had elapsed since my last visit, and I found that great changes had taken place in the interval. The summit of the Col du Lion was lower than it was formerly, from diminution of the snow; and the passage across it was shorter than it used to be. For the next 150 feet or so of ascent there was little alteration, but thence upwards the ridge had tumbled to pieces, and many familiar places were unrecognizable. No spot on this ridge is more firmly fixed in my recollection than “the Chimney.” (See the illustration in Chapter V.) Only a remnant of it was left—more than half of the Chimney had disappeared; and from that point upwards everything was altered. Difficult places had become easy, and easy places had become difficult. The angle in which a thick knotted rope is now dangling, which is one of the steepest bits of the ascent, did not exist in 1864.

The first refuge on the southern side of the Matterhorn was made on the ledge called the “cravate” (see Appendix C). Later on, a cabane was built close to the base of the Great Tower. Its life seeming precarious, a third refuge, another cabane, was erected in 1893 about 160 feet lower down, and came into use in 1894. This latter hut occupies very nearly the position of my third tent-platform. A view of it is given in Chapter II of my Guide to Zermatt and the Matterhorn, after photographs taken in 1895.

In Chapter V, I characterize the Great Tower as “one of the most striking features on the ridge.” In 1864, there were no signs of decay about the base of this huge pinnacle. In 1895 it seemed to me that it would not be long before it would collapse. Woe betide those who may be beneath the Great Tower when it falls.

Carrel’s Gallery

By reference to this section in Appendix C, it will be seen that Jean-Antoine Carrel, upon his descent of the Matterhorn, on July 17, 1865, came down at one part of the way by a somewhat easier route than that which was taken upon the ascent. The opinion of Mr. Craufurd Grove about this “somewhat easier route” will be found later in Appendix C. Mr. Grove was the first tourist to ascend the Matterhorn on the Italian side; and, so far as I am aware, no one again went that way until Aug. 1895, when Mr. W. E. Davidson, with the guides Daniel Maquignaz and Christian Klucker, made an ascent by what was generally, though perhaps not exactly, the route taken by Mr. Grove. Mr. Davidson strongly endorses Mr. Grove’s opinion. Traces of the two previous ascents were observed by Mr. Davidson.

Exploration of the Furgg Ridge

In 1899, Sig. Guido Rey, of Turin, undertook a very bold and enterprising exploration of the Furgg Ridge—that which leads from the Furgggrat towards the summit of the Matterhorn. The information that Sig. Rey communicated to me arrived too late to be incorporated in Appendix C.

“I started from Breuil with Antoine Maquignaz and a porter on Aug. 24, 1899, at one o’clock in the night, and went to the Breuiljoch, and thence directly up the Furgg Ridge, as far as the point reached by Mummery—which may be called ‘l’Épaule de Furgg’ At this point real difficulty begins.

Meanwhile Daniel Maquignaz, with two porters and a large amount of rope, had reached the summit of the Matterhorn by the usual way; and descended about 85 metres” (280 feet) “down the Furgg Ridge, until he came to a place where the rocks became overhanging. There he stopped, and fixed a rope, and let the same down to the spot where we were standing, which was about 10 metres higher than l’Épaule de Furggen. By means of this rope, I and my men ascended about 80 metres, with great difficulty, the rocks being smooth and nearly vertical. After two hours of grimpade” (scrambling) “we thus arrived at the base of some overhanging rock upon which stood Daniel and his men. We were separated 12 or 15 metres from Daniel, and tried to pull ourselves up; but this was impossible on account of the great oscillation of the rope, and from there being no means of laying hold of the rock either with hands or feet. At 5 p.m. we gave up our attempts, and returned the way we had come; and, walking down the whole night, arrived at Breuil on the morning of the 25th of August. The point reached on this attempt was distant from the summit about 105 metres” (344 feet).

“I again left Breuil on the 28th, and ascended the Matterhorn by the usual Italian route. Daniel, Antoine, and porters were with me, carrying a rope ladder about 15 metres long. I descended from the summit to the Furggen Ridge as far as the point previously attained by Daniel’s party, and found means of getting a few metres lower. There I fixed the ladder, and let it down the overhanging wall. Descending it, I reached the point where we arrived on the 25th of August. Having completely explored the ridge, and touched every part of it, I returned immediately to the summit, and descended, in very bad weather, by the Hörnli route.”

Toil and pleasure, in their natures opposite, are yet linked together in a kind of necessary connection.

Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860–69

I

Introductory

On the 23rd of July 1860, I started for my first tour in the Alps. As we steamed out into the Channel, Beachy Head came into view, and recalled a scramble of many years ago. With the impudence of ignorance, my brother1 and I, schoolboys both, had tried to scale that great chalk cliff. Not the head itself—where seabirds circle, and where the flints are ranged in orderly parallel lines—but at a place more to the east, where a pinnacle called the Devil’s Chimney had fallen down. Since then we have been often in dangers of different kinds, but never have we more nearly broken our necks than upon that occasion.

In Paris I made two ascents. The first to the seventh floor of a house in the Quartier Latin—to an artist friend, who was engaged, at the moment of my entry, in combat with a little Jew. He hurled him with great goodwill, and with considerable force, into some crockery, and then recommended me to go up the towers of Notre Dame. Half-an-hour later I stood on a parapet of the west front, by the side of the leering fiend which for centuries has looked down upon the great city, and then took rail to Switzerland; saw the sunlight lingering on the giants of the Oberland; heard the echoes from the cow-horns in the Lauterbrunnen Valley and the avalanches rattling off the Jungfrau; and crossed the Gemmi into the Valais, resting for a time by the beautiful Oeschinen See, and getting a forcible illustration of glacier-motion in a neighbouring valley—the Gasteren Thal. The upper end of this valley is crowned by the Tschingel Glacier, which, as it descends, passes over an abrupt cliff that is in the centre of its course. On each side the continuity of the glacier is maintained, but in the centre it is cleft in twain by the cliff. Lower down it is consolidated again. I scrambled on to this lower portion, advanced towards the cliff, and then stopped to admire the contrast of the brilliant pinnacles of ice with the blue sky. Without a warning, a huge slice of the glacier broke away, and fell over the cliff on to the lower portion with a thundering crash. Fragments rolled beyond me; although, fortunately, not in my direction. I fled, and did not stop until off the glacier; but before it was quitted learned another lesson in glacial matters. The terminal moraine, which seemed to be a solid mound, broke away underneath me, and showed that it was only a superficial covering resting on a slope of glassy ice.

On the steep path over the Gemmi there were opportunities for observing the manners and customs of the Swiss mule. Though it is not perhaps in revenge for generations of ill-treatment that the mule grinds one’s legs against fences and stonewalls, and pretends to stumble in awkward places (particularly when coming round corners and on the brinks of precipices), their evil habit of walking on the outside edges of paths (even in the most unguarded positions) is one that is distinctly the result of association with man. The transport of wood from the mountains into the valleys occupies most of the mules during a considerable portion of the year. The faggots into which the wood is made up project some distance on each side of the beast, and it is said that they walk intuitively to the outside of paths having rocks on the other side to avoid the collisions which would otherwise occur. When they carry tourists they behave in a similar manner; and, no doubt, when the good time for mules arrives, and they no longer carry burdens, they will still continue to do the same. This habit frequently gives rise to scenes. Two mules meet; each wishes to pass on the outside, and neither will give way. It requires considerable persuasion, through the medium of the tail, before such difficulties are arranged.

I visited the baths of Leuk, and saw the queer assemblage of men, women, and children, attired in bathing-gowns, chatting, drinking, and playing at chess in the water. The company did not seem to be perfectly sure whether it was decorous for elderly men to chase young females from one corner to another, but it was unanimous in howling at the advent of a stranger who remained covered, and literally yelled when I departed without exhibiting my sketch.

I trudged up the Rhône Valley, and turned aside at Visp to go up the Visp Thal, where one would expect to see greater traces of glacial action, if a glacier formerly filled it, as one is said to have done.

I was bound for the Valley of Saas, and my work took me high up the Alps on either side; far beyond the limit of trees and the tracks of tourists. The view from the slopes of the Weissmies, on the eastern side of the valley, 5,000 or 6,000 feet above the village of Saas, is perhaps the finest of its kind in the Alps. The full height of the three-peaked Mischabel (the loftiest mountain in Switzerland) is seen at one glance; 11,000 feet of dense forests, green alps, rocky pinnacles, and glittering glaciers. The summits seemed to me then to be hopelessly inaccessible from this direction.

I descended the valley to the village of Stalden, and then went up the Visp Thal to Zermatt, and stopped there several days. Numerous traces of the formidable earthquake-shocks of five years before still remained, particularly at St. Nicholas, where the inhabitants had been terrified beyond measure at the destruction of their churches and houses. At this place, as well as at Visp, a large part of the population was obliged to live under canvas for several months. It is remarkable that there was hardly a life lost on this occasion, although there were about fifty shocks, some of which were very severe.

At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather was bad, and my work was much retarded. One day, after spending a long time in attempts to sketch near the Hörnli, and in futile endeavours to seize the forms of the peaks as they peered out a few seconds above the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined not to return to Zermatt by the usual path, but to cross the Gorner Glacier to the Riffel hotel. After a rapid scramble over the polished rocks and snow-beds which skirt the base of the Théodule Glacier, and wading through some of the streams which flow from it (at that time much swollen by the late rains) the first difficulty was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice about three hundred feet high. It seemed that it would be easy enough to cross the glacier if the cliff could be descended; though higher up, and lower down, the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to be impassable for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was nearly perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was little difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another. At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixed at an angle of about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock. Nothing, except the glacier, could be seen below. It was an awkward place, but being doubtful if return were possible, as I had been dropping from one ledge to another, I passed it at length by lying across the slab, putting the shoulder stiffly against one side, and the feet against the other, and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly crack was seen, into which the point of the baton could be stuck, and I dropped down to the next piece. It took a long time coming down that little bit of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory to see the ice close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty presented itself. The glacier swept round an angle of the cliff, and as the ice was not of the nature of treacle or thin putty, it kept away from the little bay, on the edge of which I stood. We were not widely separated, but the edge of the ice was higher than the opposite edge of rock; and worse, the rock was covered with loose earth and stones which had fallen from above. All along the side of the cliff, as far as could be seen in both directions, the ice did not touch it, and there was a marginal crevasse, seven feet wide, and of unknown depth.

All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I could not jump the crevasse, and began to try along the cliff lower down; though without success, for the ice rose higher and higher, until at last further progress was stopped by the cliffs becoming perfectly smooth. With an axe it would have been possible to cut up the side of the ice; without one I saw there was no alternative but to return and face the jump.

Night was approaching, and the solemn stillness of the High Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling rocks. If the jump should be successful—well; if not, I fell into that horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that gurgling, rushing water. Everything depended on that jump. Again I asked myself, “Can it be done?” It must be. So, finding my stick was useless, I threw it and the sketchbook to the ice, and first retreating as far as possible, ran forward with all my might, took the leap, barely reached the other side, and fell awkwardly on my knees. Almost at the same moment a shower of stones fell on the spot from which I had jumped.

The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel,2 which was then a very small building, was crammed with tourists, and could not take me in. As the way down was unknown to me, some of the people obligingly suggested getting a man at the chalets, otherwise the path would be certainly lost in the forest. On arriving at the chalets no man could be found, and the lights of Zermatt, shining through the trees, seemed to say, “Never mind a guide, but come along down, I’ll show you the way;” so off I went through the forest, going straight towards them. The path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered. I was tripped up by pine-roots, tumbled into rhododendron bushes, and fell over rocks. The night was pitch dark, and after a time the lights of Zermatt became obscure, or went out altogether. By a series of slides, or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent through the forest was at length accomplished; but torrents of formidable character had still to be passed before one could arrive at Zermatt. I felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly; by an exhaustive process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight, covered with dirt and scratches, reentered the inn which I had quitted in the morning.

Others besides tourists get into difficulties. A day or two afterwards, when on the way to my old station, near the Hörnli, I met a stout curé who had essayed to cross the Théodule pass. His strength or his wind had failed, and he was being carried down, a helpless bundle and a ridiculous spectacle, on the back of a lanky guide, while the peasants stood by with folded hands, their reverence for the church almost overcome by their sense of the ludicrous.

I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to mount the slopes of the Dom,3 in order to see the Weisshorn face to face. The latter mountain is the noblest in Switzerland, and from this direction it looks especially magnificent. On its north there is a large snowy plateau that feeds the glacier of which a portion is seen from Randa, and which on more than one occasion has destroyed that village. From the direction of the Dom—that is, immediately opposite, this Bies Glacier seems to descend nearly vertically. It does not do so, although it is very steep. Its size is much less than formerly, and the lower portion, now divided into three tails, clings in a strange, weird-like manner to the cliffs, to which it seems scarcely possible that it can remain attached.

Unwillingly I parted from the sight of this glorious mountain, and went down to Visp. A party of English tourists had passed up the valley a short time before with a mule. The party numbered nine—eight young women and a governess. The mule carried their luggage, and was ridden by each in turn. The peasants—themselves not unaccustomed to overload their beasts—were struck with astonishment at the unwonted sight; and made comments, more free than welcome to English ears, on the nonchalance with which young miss sat, calm and collected, on the miserable beast, while it was struggling under her weight, combined with that of the luggage.

Arriving once more in the Rhône Valley, I proceeded to Viesch, and from thence ascended the Eggischhorn; on which unpleasant eminence I lost my way in a fog, and my temper shortly afterwards. Then, after crossing the Grimsel in a severe thunderstorm, passed on to Brienz, Interlaken, and Bern; and thence to Fribourg and Morat, Neuchâtel, Martigny, and the St. Bernard. The massive walls of the convent were a welcome sight as I waded through the snow-beds near the summit of the pass, and pleasant also was the courteous salutation of the brother who bade me enter. He wondered at the weight of my knapsack, and I at the hardness of their bread. The saying that the monks make the toast in the winter that they give to tourists in the following season is not founded on truth; the winter is their most busy time of the year. But it is true they have exercised so much hospitality, that at times they have not possessed the means to furnish the fuel for heating their chapel in the winter.4

Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned aside into the Val Pelline, in order to obtain views of the Dent d’Erin. The night had come on before Biona was gained, and I had to knock long and loud upon the door of the curé’s house before it was opened. An old woman, with querulous voice, and with a large goitre, answered the summons, and demanded rather sharply what was wanted; but became pacific—almost good-natured—when a five-franc piece was held in her face, and she heard that lodging and supper were requested in exchange.

My directions asserted that a passage existed from Prerayen, at the head of this valley, to Breuil, in the Val Tournanche, and the old woman, now convinced of my respectability, busied herself to find a guide. Presently she introduced a native, picturesquely attired in high-peaked hat, braided jacket, scarlet waistcoat, and indigo pantaloons, who agreed to take me to the village of Val Tournanche. We set off early on the next morning, and got to the summit of the pass without difficulty. It gave me my first experience of considerable slopes of hard steep snow, and, like all beginners, I endeavoured to prop myself up with my stick, and kept it outside, instead of holding it between myself and the slope, and leaning upon it, as should have been done. The man enlightened me; but he had, possibly, a very small opinion of his employer, and it is probably on that account that, a few minutes after we had passed the summit, he said he would not go any further and would return to Biona. All argument was useless; he stood still, and to everything that was said answered nothing but that he would go back. Being rather nervous about descending some long snow-slopes, which still intervened between us and the head of the valley, I offered more pay, and he went on a little way. Presently there were some cliffs down which we had to scramble. He called to me to stop, then shouted that he would go back, and beckoned to me to come up. On the contrary, I waited for him to come down; but instead of doing so, in a second or two he turned round, clambered deliberately up the cliff, and vanished. I supposed it was only a ruse to extort offers of more money, and waited for half-an-hour, but he did not appear again. This was rather embarrassing, for he carried off my knapsack. The choice of action lay between chasing him and going on to Breuil, risking the loss of my knapsack. I chose the latter course, and got to Breuil the same evening. The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a person destitute of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me, and eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already occupied by guides and by hay. In later years we became good friends, and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance considerable sums.

My sketches from Breuil were made under difficulties, for my materials had been carried off. Nothing better than sugar-paper could be obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more silica than plumbago. However, they were made, and the pass5 was again crossed, this time alone. By the following evening the old woman of Biona again produced the faithless guide. The knapsack was recovered after the lapse of several hours, and then I poured forth all the terms of abuse and reproach of which I was master.

The following night was spent at Courmayeur, and the day after I crossed the Col Ferret to Orsières, and on the next the Tête Noir to Chamounix.6 The Emperor Napoleon arrived the same day, and access to the Mer de Glace was refused to tourists; but, by scrambling along the Plan des Aiguilles, I managed to outwit the guards, and to arrive at the Montanvert as the Imperial party was leaving: the same afternoon failing to get to the Jardin, but very nearly succeeding in breaking a leg by dislodging great rocks on the moraine of the glacier.