CHAPTER III
FROM THE COL DU PILLON TO THE GEMMI PASS (DIABLERETS, WILDHORN, WILDSTRUBEL, AND KANDERSTEG).
The range--Ski-runners’ logic--Itinerary--The Plan des Roses--Untoward experiences on the Rawyl pass--Death through exposure--The _Daily Mail_ and Mr. Arnold Lunn’s feat--House-breaking--On the Gemmi--Perspective and levels--Relief models of the Alps--My smoking den--Old Egger.
No visitor to Switzerland requires telling that a section of the Bernese Alps runs up to the Gemmi pass from the south-west. In this secondary range, the leading groups are the Diablerets, the Wildhorn, and the Wildstrubel. So far as the Wildstrubel and Wildhorn are concerned, the range separates the Canton du Valais from the Canton de Berne, but the Diablerets throw out a shoulder into the Canton de Vaud. From their summit the lake of Geneva can be seen.
Each of these large mountain clusters is linked up to its neighbour by a pass, running perpendicularly to the range. The Sanetsch pass is a dip between the Wildhorn and the Wildstrubel. Just as--in January, 1909--I had the pleasure of traversing the higher Bernese Alps between the Gemmi and Grimsel passes, it was, in March, 1910, my good luck to carry out in one continuous expedition the traverse of the nether Bernese Alps, beginning at the Col du Pillon and ending at the Gemmi and Kandersteg.
The summits of the Diablerets, Wildhorn, and Wildstrubel group do not exceed 10,705 feet in height. Singly, they have frequently been ascended on ski. But, to my knowledge, the ascent of all three had not yet been achieved as a connected and consecutive piece of winter work. My traverse having brought me much opportunity to fully realise the extraordinary quality and beauty of this high ski-ing ground, I do not hesitate to give here my best information on the route.
The route now opened out presents this capital feature, that the mountains along the top of which it lies are uniform in height and in conformation. Their general lineal development is straight; they arise steeply from their south-west extremities; they carry ski-runners down, on well-defined inclines, to their north-east extremities, which rest on the flat surface of high-lying passes.
No wise runner will attempt to run from the Gemmi end. By so doing he would be making light of the best rules of ski-ing, as well as throwing away the indications which nature herself gives him. From all three summits the larger and lengthier glaciers stretch uniformly from south-west downwards to north-east, while on the opposite slope the mountains are precipitous and the glaciers short.
Not only will no wise runner attempt the trip from the Gemmi end, but he will also follow the rules of ski-runners’ logic. The reader will notice that while summer tourists cross the Bernese Alps from north to south, that is from Canton Berne to Canton Valais, or _vice versâ_, from Canton Valais to Canton Berne, tourists on ski follow the range in its length, and will have nothing to do with its passes, as leading from one valley to another.
Indeed, a ski-runner must look a very paradoxical creature. For him, passes are just convenient, saddle-like depressions connecting the summits he has left with the summit he next wishes to attain. He will have no dealings with the valleys. He does not follow the path, say from Kandersteg to Louèche. That is all very well for mules. But he crosses, say, the Sanetsch and Rawyl passes, in the same way as a foot-passenger goes across a street from one pavement to the other. By so doing he knows no more of the actual pass-track than its width, say a matter of one to a few yards, as the case may be. This totally new conception of how to get about on the Alps from point to point is of great importance with a view to the military occupation of the High Alp passes and their defence in winter. I call it the ski-runners’ paradox.
Gsteig is best reached from Montreux, on the lake of Geneva, or from Spiez, on the lake of Thoune, by availing oneself of the electric railway and getting out at the station of Gstaad; hence on foot or by horse-sleigh to Gsteig.
The hut, on the Tête aux Chamois, at the foot of the Oldenhorn, where the first night had better be spent, lies to the south-west from Gsteig, and is approached from the Pillon route. The approach _viâ_ the Sanetsch pass necessitates the ascent of the Zan Fleuron glacier round the Oldenhorn. It is therefore much longer.
The map to be used, and to which all references in this book are made, is the Swiss Military Survey Map (Siegfried Atlas), sold to the public in sheets. A reprint covering the whole region may be bought at Gstaad, price 4 francs.
Cross the Reuschbach by a bridge, a little beyond point 1,340 (sheet 472). The chalets of Reusch will then be reached at Reuschalp, at the altitude marked 1,326 on the map (sheet 472 or 471). At Bödeli one should carefully avoid taking the path leading south, up to the Oldenhornalp. The situation of the Cabane des Diablerets is given on the Siegfried Atlas at point 2,487 (sheet 478). The line of access is plain from Bödeli. But strangers should not attempt to reach the hut in winter snow without being accompanied on the Martisberg slopes by some person possessing full local knowledge. The traversing of steep slopes, such as those which here run down from the Oldenhorn, is always dangerous.
Runners start from Gsteig and will do well to take with them one or both of the brothers Ernest and Victor Marti, young men and fair runners. Readers of the preceding chapter know that I have trained them in what little they understand about winter mountaineering. This little is quite sufficient to enable them to guide safely any party of able-bodied and fair ski-runners along the new route.
From Gsteig to the hut an average walker on ski may count five hours. The hut is comfortable enough for practical purposes, and can accommodate a large party.
On the next morning, do not leave the hut till daylight, and then, in three hours, one may reach the top of the Diablerets on ski, though these may have to be removed to traverse a part of the steep snow-fields resting on ice which run down the precipitous cliffs to the south. Runners with whom it is a point to run, rather than conquer hill-tops, may leave the summit alone. Wending their way round the Oldenhorn, they will at once face north-east and run down the Zan Fleuron glacier to the top of the Sanetsch pass. Use a compass, and run strictly east. Full north, full south, or south-east are equally pernicious. The snow may be crusted and wind-swept. But if it is dry, powdery, and smooth, the runner’s joy will be inexpressible.
Our day--and so might yours--gave us a prospect of a very long run. We knew that we should not be able to make use of the Alpine Club hut on the Wildhorn, for a notice had appeared in the _Alpina_ (organ of the Swiss Alpine Club) that this hut was badly overwhelmed with snow. Under ordinary conditions, provided one did not mind sweeping low down out of one’s way to the north, there would be no reason why this hut should not be taken advantage of to spread over two days the work which on that occasion we did in one day, to get from the Diablerets hut along to the Wildstrubel huts. Without any waste of time, we pushed across the Sanetsch pass, from the point marked 2,234 (sheet 481), on to the _arête_ which runs due east across the point marked 2,354.
If it is your intention to go as far as the Wildstrubel hut in one day, you ought to cross the Sanetsch by eleven o’clock--an easy thing if you left the Diablerets hut by eight o’clock. The line to be followed leads down to, but keeps above, the small lakes which are marked with the name Les Grandes Gouilles, altitude 2,456. These lakes must be left on one’s right hand, and then make straight for the Glacier du Brozet, above the words Luis de Marche. Under ordinary winter circumstances, particularly late in the season, this glacier, which is broken up to any extent in summer, will be found to present a steep and hard surface most convenient to ascend. When once the point 3,166 has been reached, it will be unnecessary to complete the ascent of the Wildhorn, though nothing could be easier. Leaving the summit to your left at the point 3,172, the descent on the Glacier de Tenehet comes next to be considered. At that altitude you should ski onward sharply to the north-east for a while, then great care should be taken to proceed downward gradually by taking a curved route, below point 3,124 (sheet 472), full north-east, then east, along the circular tiers of the ice.
Let me here remind the reader that the Wildhorn hut is away far down on the northern slope of the Wildhorn, at the top of the Iffigenthal. Runners who wish to break their journey and spend a night there will beware of running down the glacier of Tenehet. They will cross the watershed to the north at the point 2,795, or thereabouts, and descend to the point 2,204, in the vicinity of which they will find the hut.
The course on to the Rawyl pass presents no difficulty to a competent runner. When under point 2,767, turn to the south, where the slope dips, and then again, when well under point 2,797, and the lake, turn to the north-east, so as to reach and keep on dotted curve 2,400. South or south-east would be irrecoverably wrong. In fair weather it will be unbroken pleasure, on condition that the runner is well led or is thoroughly conversant with map or level readings in a very difficult country. I reached the Rawyl pass by six o’clock.
The fairly level stretch along which undulates the Rawyl mule track is called the Plan des Roses, which sounds very poetical to cultivated minds, such as my readers always are. The Alps, and many other ranges in Europe, are studded with those appellations, whose delightful ring calls forth the fragrance and beauty of the rose at an altitude at which gardens are not usually met. Never did a summer rose grow or blossom naturally in most of the places bearing that pretty name--not even the Alpen Rose or the Alpine Anemone.
The imagination of some has seen in the name an allusion to the pink colour of the sky at dawn and at sunset. Alas, this too is a fallacy borne in upon us by the literary faculty. Monte-Rosa does not mean pink mountain.
Rosa (as in Rosa Blanche, above the Val Cleuson), roses, roxes, rousse, rossa, rasses, rosen (as in Rosenlaui), ross, rosso (as in Cima di Rosso), rossère, all mean rocks or rock. The Tête Rousse (above St. Gervais) would not be in English the Ruddy Brow, but the much more commonplace Rocky Tor, Ben, or Fell. All forms of the word go back to a common Celtic origin, whether they appear in Swiss nomenclature, in a French, German, Italian, or Romance form. This phenomenon is a good illustration of the manner in which the association of ideas by sound enriches and varies in time the very rudimentary stock of primitive impressions gathered in by the ancient Alp dwellers.
If the reader will think of Rhine, Rhône, Reuse, Reuss, Reusch, in the light of the foregoing explanations, he will hear through all those words the rush of water that is characteristic of Alpine streams.
I have lively recollections of the Rawyl pass dating back to the days of my boyhood. This pass is dear to me also as having served as an introduction to my young friend, Arnold Lunn. When he battled with the pass, on ski, he was probably little older than myself when I first fought my way through it on foot.
I was following the range in its length in the early, old-fashioned style, purposing to make my way from Sion, on the Rhône, to Grindelwald, by dipping in and out of the valleys; namely, first to Lenk across the Rawyl, then to Adelboden, thence to Kandersteg, then to Trachsellauenen, in the Lauterbrunnen valley, hence to Grindelwald, over the little Scheidegg--a regular switchback railway.
My walk over the Rawyl was marked by an episode. It was late in the season--late in the sense of the word in those days, when there was no winter season to upset people’s ideas. I reached at night the Châlet d’Armillon, by hook or by crook, along the precipitous Kaendle, and crossing mountain torrents as casually as a squirrel would swing from tree to tree, for those were the days of my _Sturm und Drang Periode_ as a mountaineer.
Nevertheless, when the Armillon shepherds pointed out to me the heights of the pass shining pink in the sunset with a fresh snow edging, my resolution wavered for an instant. On I went, little dreaming that thirty years later I should despise being seen here at all, except in winter and on ski.
The job proved a serious one. Heavy snow lay over the marshes and rivulets of the Plan des Roses. The mule track was buried under wind-blown wreaths. The moon rose and illuminated a desolate landscape. A little rain, then snow, began to fall, obliterating the moonbeams and my own footprints behind me. Floundering about, I broke through the thin ice that lay over the patches of water imprisoned under the snow. Still I ploughed my way forward.
Then, probably in the nick of time for my own safety (else I might have spent the night up there, being still young enough to show myself, in the circumstances, obstinate unto folly), a guardian angel, whose assistance I certainly did not deserve, slily detached my brandy flask from around my shoulders and dropped it well out of my reach. When I discovered the trick, I took the hint and retraced my footsteps to the shepherds’ huts at Armillon.
I believe they were more pleased than surprised. They sat down round the hearth, an open fireplace, with embers lying about on the ground. They handed to me a bowl of milk, a lump of cheese, a piece of rye bread as hard as a brick, and gave me a bit of goat’s liver that was stewing in the pan in its own broth. They said their prayers aloud, standing reverently in the firelight; then the goats’ skins were laid out flat on the ground. We lay on them all in a heap together, with our feet turned towards the fire. The last man threw the last chips upon it, pulled warm sheeps’ skins over us, and laid himself down beside us.
The moon, high up in the sky by this time, shone placidly upon the pastoral scene. The air got sharper and more chilly. When we rose at dawn every blade of grass sparkled with frost.
I set out again up the pass in brilliant sunshine. My footprints were still here and there faintly visible. When they came to an end I made for the cross, marking the site of a rough stone refuge, then under snow. From here some faint footprints again became visible, turning down the gorge to the north. I made up my mind to follow them, for those who had made them were certainly moving in the right direction. After a while I saw a stick standing out of the snow. The footprints did not seem to continue beyond. On approaching, I found myself in the presence of the dead body of a mountaineer. Rumour will have it--for the scene of this mishap was visited shortly after, to lift the body--that I leaped aside at the sight, leaving marks on the snow which, graphologically interpreted, were seen to signify my dismay.
It was the first time that I had before my eyes an instance of death through exposure in the mountains.
On reaching the Iffigen Alp I reported the matter to the local authorities. From later information it came to my knowledge that there were two victims, the body of the second being covered up by the snow.
My other connection with the Rawyl pass is less gloomy, since I owe to the eccentricities of that pass one of my best young friends in England.
I was, a few years ago, standing on the platform of the railway station at Gstaad, when an English vicar, whom I took pleasure in instructing in ski, brought me a copy of the _Daily Mail_, in which a whole column was literally flaming with the exploits of two English runners who had crossed the Rawyl a few days before. That sort of description we generally call “Journalese,” and let it pass without correction. It would be an ungracious act on the part of climbers, who seek out deliberately so many hardships, to wince at the touch of the voluntary kindness that almost kills.
The true account of what then took place appeared in the columns of the _Isis_, the Oxford undergraduates’ organ, on January 23, 1909. There Arnold Lunn expresses himself as follows:--
“I spent five winters in climbing from various centres, before--in the winter of 1907-8--I first tried cross-country work. With three ladies and my brother, I visited the Great St. Bernard and spent New Year’s Eve in the Hospice. Next day I was thoroughly walked out by two plucky Irish ladies, and had just enough energy left to reach Montana on the following afternoon. I had previously arranged with a friend to cross the mountains to Villars, a four-day trip, but on arriving found that he was unable to go.
“I was introduced to Mr. W., who had only been on ski three afternoons, but volunteered to come. We left next morning at 4 a.m., climbed for eight hours up to the glacier of the Plaine Morte, and then separated. Mr. W. went on to the hut and I climbed the Wildstrubel alone, from the summit of which I saw a beautiful sunset. The solitary trudge back over the glacier at night thoroughly exhausted me, and I narrowly escaped frost-bite in one of my feet. At Lenk that night, 6,000 feet lower down, they had 40 degrees of frost, and the cold in the hut was almost unbearable. We did manage to get a fire alight, which proved a doubtful blessing, as it thawed the snow in the top bunk, forming a lake which trickled down on our faces during the night in intermittent showers. The next morning our blankets were frozen as stiff as boards. Even the iron stove was sticky with frost.
“Our natural course led over the Wildhorn, a delightful ski-run, but though Mr. W. throughout displayed wonderful pluck and perseverance, his limited experience prevented our tackling the long but safe Wildhorn. So we took a short and dangerous cut down to Lenk, following a track which crossed several avalanche runs. We raced the darkness through a long hour of unpleasant suspense, and won our race by a head, getting off the cliff as the last rays of light disappeared. A night on the Rawyl would probably have ended disastrously.
“The remaining two days of the expedition were comparatively uneventful, but we were dogged by an avenging Providence. A telegram miscarried, and a search party was organised to hunt for our remains. The guests at Montana spent a very pleasant day with ordnance maps in attempting to locate the position of our corpses, and were not a little disappointed when they learnt that the search party had found nothing but our tracks. The net result of the expedition was a bill for £20 for search parties, plus hospital expenses, as one of the guides had been frost-bitten.”
Arnold Lunn’s performance in bringing down safely to Lenk a companion encumbered with ski in places fit for the use of climbing-irons only, at that time of year, was conclusive as a proof of his sportsmanlike qualities, as it was a bold and unexpected line to take. For that reason I found it necessary to reflect upon his daring in the _Gazette de Lausanne_, which had quoted the English press, lest it should unwittingly lead my young countrymen into dangerous undertakings. Arnold Lunn and myself made friends over the correspondence which ensued between us. A better companion and a fairer knight to joust with in Alpine tourney it would be, I believe, difficult to meet.
Now, it might be well to return to the Plan des Roses, whence, still north-east, and then upwards on the Rohrbachstein glacier to the Rohrbachhaus, whose roof was plainly visible at sunset, we strolled peacefully and unconcernedly along.
In connection with the Rohrbachhaus, the brothers Marti, for the second time, had an encounter with the Bernese police courts on my account. It was my evil influence that brought them to that comfortable but closed house. I need not say that I carefully kept out of the mischief that was brewing by lingering behind to admire the view by moonlight.
With an ice-axe they dealt a well-directed blow upon the lock. Before this “Open Sesame” the door gave way. We gained admittance to a kitchen, well stocked with fire-wood; a dining-room, with preserves, tinned victuals, and bottles of wine in the cupboards; a vast bedroom, furnished with couches, mattresses, sheets, blankets, eiderdown quilts! Quite an Eldorado, but, for my young friends, another step on the downward path to the prisoners’ dock!
The police of Berne had a watchful eye on the Rohrbachhaus. Though I did promptly send the culprits to make their report in the proper quarter, to ask for the bill and pay for the damage done (which precluded any civil action being brought against me), the Court at Blankenburg tried them for house-breaking on the Procurator’s charge. But this business was happily purely formal, as the _bona-fides_ of the house-breakers was not questioned. The offenders were spoken free, on condition that they paid the costs of the official prosecution. This part of the bargain was passed on to me to keep, which I did cheerfully. Indeed, the whole transaction appealed to my sense of right in the administration of law. There was no doubt in my mind that we had broken into a private establishment without leave, and even without actual necessity. The establishment was, of course, there for the use of such as ourselves, even without consent, on an emergency. But the weather was good, the night still and clear, our health excellent, and there was an open refuge within short ski-ing distance. It is true that on foot we might have been totally unable to reach it.
Those who do not wish to run the risk attending the forcible bursting of locks in order to get shelter at the first hut had better move on, in the quiet of night and with an easy conscience, to the open hut, which stands a little further on, and reach it by lantern light. They may, however, make previously an appointment with the caretaker at Lenk. He will then come up, weather permitting, and open the Rohrbachhaus.
I need not dwell on the pleasant night we spent in the beds of the Rohrbachhaus. Stolen joys are sweet, and even may, as in our case, be well deserved, or at least well earned--a way of putting it which leaves morals uninjured. Our first day had been heavy, but had afforded two magnificent runs on glaciers and on slopes abutting to passes, each covering about four miles exclusive of curves, which, of course, being purely voluntary as to their number and scope, cannot be calculated.
Ski-running parties spending a night in one or the other of the two Wildstrubel huts will find themselves on the next day surrounded by as fine and as varied a country as they may wish for. Whatever line they choose, there is but one that should absolutely be avoided. This, they know already, is the Rawyl pass, whether winter tourists wish to go north to Lenk or south to Sion. The outlet of the pass to the north is best described as a most precipitous and ice-bound region. The southward descent is dangerous quite as much, owing to its great complication amid rock, ravine, forest, and watercourse. Runners should divert their ambitions well away from those gorges. The best way to Montana and Vermala lies over the Glacier de la Plaine Morte, and thence to the south.
Runners proceeding from the huts and wishing to follow in our footsteps, in order to reach the Lämmern glacier and the Wildstrubel, will run down the slopes leading to the Glacier de la Plaine Morte (map, sheet 473). They will glance at the Raezli glacier tumbling down to the north-west, between the Gletschhorn and the Wildstrubel (west-end summit). Hence they will steer a straight course to the east, along the centre line of the Glacier de la Plaine Morte, and then turn to the north-east towards the Lämmernjoch, a pass to the east of the Weststrubel, on a ridge, which is steepish to reach, though usually well covered with snow. From that point to the top of the Weststrubel there is an additional rise of about 120 metres, say 400 feet. The view from this Strubel is worth the additional labour, and it also gives one the satisfaction of having reached the last of the highest points on the Diablerets-Wildhorn-Wildstrubel route. The height of the Diablerets is 3,222, of the Wildhorn 3,264, and of the Wildstrubel west 3,251 metres. But this satisfaction, like that which may have been got from ascending the Diablerets and the Wildhorn, may, in point of time, be too dearly bought.
It is quite sufficient to direct one’s course straight from the Lämmernjoch on to the higher reaches of the Lämmerngletscher, which open up beyond the Lämmernjoch to the north.
Runners should not plunge full east straight down the glacier. Such a course would be attended with much danger, as a line of crevasses runs across the glacier roughly from south to north. A careful runner will map out for himself a “circumferential” route, which will bring him round that dangerous part, by descending the slopes of the glacier which are beyond that spot to the north. Then, by turning to the east, one enters the lower reaches of the ice, when one faces the extensive building of the Wildstrubel Hotel on the Gemmi pass, about 3 miles ahead. The best way off the glacier on to the Lämmernalp is on the north side of the gorge, in which the glacier tails off, though I found it quite convenient to reach the Lämmernboden (see map) by means of the slopes which run down to it on the southern side of the stream.
Our route leaves completely out of account the Gross-strubel (3,253 metres), which rises above Adelboden and the Engstligenalp. This summit does not belong to the traverse I am now describing. There are quite distinct expeditions to be made to either or both Strubels from Adelboden or Kandersteg. If from Kandersteg, one should go and spend the night at the Schwarenbach Hotel, on the Gemmi road, go up the way we have just described for the descent, and return _viâ_ Ueschinenthal. The Kandersteg guides know all about this run, which is much to be recommended to the expert.
There are three long, flat strips on the run from the Wildstrubel huts to the Schwarenbach Hotel _viâ_ Gemmi. The first is the Glacier de la Plaine Morte (about 3 miles), the second the Lämmernboden (about a mile), the third the Daubensee (about a mile).
The run from the Daubensee to Kandersteg requires no particular notice. It begins at the spot where the Lämmernboden turns to the north, within 800 yards or so of the Wildstrubel Hotel on the Gemmi pass. The run on the Daubensee, then to the Schwarenbach Hotel (one should not pass to the right, east of the summer road) affords excellent ski-ing. Then, on the rush down to the Spitalmatten, with the Balmhorn and the Altels towering to one’s right, will be met some of the best ground of the whole trip, the slopes being throughout beautifully exposed to the north. The gorges to the east should on no account be entered. The course runs straight north on the west side of the valley, till the upper bends of the summer road are met on the shoulder which drops down to Inner Kandersteg, at the entrance of the Gasternthal. The slopes to the west of the woods on the shoulder are periodically swept by avalanches. Look carefully whether the fragments lie on the ground, and whether the rocks above, whence they start, are bare of snow. If so, you may proceed among the fragments. If otherwise, take to the road and walk.
The whole distance travelled over during this expedition, starting from Gsteig, is, measured on the map, about 40 miles to Kandersteg. We had with us ropes and axes, but never used them. In point of fact, I should consider that expeditions upon which a use is foreseen for the axe and the rope are not, strictly speaking, ski-ing expeditions. Ski-ing, by definition, excludes the use of rope and axe, though one should be provided with them when having reason to fear unforeseen contingencies.
The levels are as follow:--
At Gsteig: 1,192 metres (3,937 feet).
On the Zan Fleuron glacier: 2,866 metres, being a rise of 1,674 metres.
On the Sanetsch pass: 2,221 metres, being a fall of 645 metres.
On the Wildhorn glacier: 3,172 metres, being a rise of 951 metres.
On the Rawyl pass: 2,400 metres, being a drop of 772 metres.
On the Lämmernjoch: 3,132 metres, being a rise of 732 metres.
On the Gemmi pass: 2,214 metres, being a drop of 918 metres.
At Kandersteg: 1,169 metres, being a drop of 1,045 metres.
From this table of levels, the general public, if there is any in mountaineering topics, may draw a conclusion and a moral.
Have you ever looked at a model relief map of the Alps? As one of the general public, you may not be aware that the relief is artificially forced. It is intended to amaze by the steepness of the declivities and the terribly sharp angles at which the ridges of the peaks meet in the air and terminate into a threatening point.
The designers of those otherwise beautiful and attractive models wish to heighten the impression which you are accustomed to receive when you look up to the Alpine peaks from some point below. The laws of perspective bring then those peaks nearer the perpendicular. By an optical delusion, which is full of scenic effect, they tower aloft. The designers of Alpine models run after poetical and picturesque effects. They very naturally do not wish to show you in plaster Alps far less formidable than those which agreeably overawe you in nature. They add from 10 to 20 per cent. to the angles of declivity, deepen the valleys and pull out the mountain tops like putty. They thus show you the Alps in your own natural perspective, as a painter does on his canvas. But the whole thing is fallacious.
I should feel called upon to condemn the process as a downright black lie if there was not enough snow on those models to paint the lie white. Look at the Matterhorn from Zermatt and then look at one of those paper-weight models in stone which are sold for a few francs in the local bazaars and which are cut according to scale. You will be surprised to see how really flat the Matterhorn is. I advise every one who intends to climb it to first make a careful study of a paper-weight model. It is most reassuring.
Now this is exactly what an Alpine ski-runner does or should do.
There is in the vestibule of the University buildings at Geneva, on the first floor, a magnificent plaster model of Switzerland, true to scale. Each time I cast my eyes upon this model I more fully realise how exactly the author’s execution of the relief, based on science, corresponds with the runner’s conception, based on experience. In its own unvarnished language, the model says: “By me know the Alps, and by them know thyself and be modest, thou hast not done so much after all.”
So the general public may now understand why the runner sees the Alpine world in his own perspective. The real reliefs are printed on his mind. A summer tourist, who instead of fitting foot-rules to his feet, pegs or stumps along, can with difficulty enter into the runner’s notion.
Orographic conformation and questions of exposure are ski-running matters. The runner studies the _relievo_ in the light of two or three truisms resting on experience, which are as conditions determining the rational use of ski and assuring the pleasure of the runner.
1. The runner aims at rising rapidly, because he cannot draw from his ski a full measure of pleasure except from the moment when the ski cease to be the means of carrying his weight uphill, and become merely a means of velocity.
2. While rising as abruptly as he possibly can, the runner seeks out--for this tiresome operation is seldom avoidable--the declivities whose exposure marks them out as unsuitable for a good run down. No wonder. It is not to his interest to throw away, as it were, good slopes by employing them for work uphill. Now, steepnesses turned to the south, south-west, and west, afford poor running, viewed, of course, in their generality.
Here meteorology--or, in plain English, weather--is more important than geography, because warm winds, whether they blow soft or wild, beat upon those faces. When not actually dangerous, such defective slopes are convenient for rising to the high levels. The runner who knows how to take advantage both of meteorology and orography shows himself possessed of an advanced knowledge of his craft.
3. The best running hills are those whose gentler slopes are exposed north and east. The winds from those quarters are not warm winds, though they too have their own way of spoiling the snow. At any rate, the sun--which has even in winter powers for mischief--is too low on the southern horizon to interfere with the powdery condition of snow facing north. But there is not much gained in mapping out one’s tour in the manner indicated if one is landed for the descent on abrupt, though northern or eastern, slopes.
So now draw your moral and conclusion. Will it not be that you should walk round and round a large relief model of the Alps when planning your winter excursions? This you could easily do if some kind patron of Alpinism would provide you in London with a copy, cast in metal for durability, of the Geneva plaster relief.
Would the reader like to know, after this long lecture, how I take the refreshment, and smoke the pipe--in my case it has always been a cigar--which I should like to offer him now? He is welcome to my den.
I scoop out the snow, in the manner of dogs, to the depth of 2 feet, or thereabouts. I lay my ski across the cavity thus formed. Pressed close together, they roof in about one-third of the opening. I put my feet in the hole, wrap them up in my empty rucksack, bend my knees and sit on the ski. Before me, on the snow shovelled up with my hands in the shape of a tray, I display the contents of my larder. Then I plant my sticks behind me, one supporting each shoulder. Thus, my armchair, dining-room, and table are all ready. I wait upon myself, as is usual at lunch, and when the time has come for the blissful smoke, I lazily stretch my legs across the empty table and lean back, looking into immensity through the puffs. When the time comes when I should like a nap, I find that the sticks at my back invite me to recline by gradually giving way. I lay them flat on the snow, spread my cloak over them and, thus comfortably padded, I pull my cap over my eyes, and try hard to convince myself that it is a cold midwinter day. The smoke ceases to rise, the cigar end drops and---- This is all vanity no doubt, but is mine not better than that of many a wiser man?
Old Egger at Kandersteg, who received me with a cheery handshake on completion of the trip described in this chapter, had seen me start about a year before on my traverse of the Bernese Oberland. He expressed satisfaction at seeing me again, though with another companion, and said he thought we had been rather long. But when I told him that another trip had been thrown in, as well as my companion changed, he insinuated with a smile of great intelligence that we had had time to grow very thirsty. It was, he said, a grand thing for Kandersteg that it had been at the beginning of the first trip and at the end of the second. So he would drink our healths. And we honoured him likewise.