Читать книгу True Tales of Mountain Adventures: For Non-Climbers Young and Old - Aubrey Mrs. Le Blond - Страница 9

Edouard Cupelin of Chamonix.

The Guide with whom Mrs Aubrey Le Blond commenced her climbing.

Guiding, if it sometimes does include these duties, is far more than this. The first-class guide must be the general of the little army setting out to invade the higher regions. He need not know the way—in fact, it sometimes happens that he has never before visited the district—but he must be able to find a way, and a safe one, to the summit of the peak for which his party is bound. An inferior guide may know, from habit, the usual way up a mountain, but, should the conditions of ice and snow alter, he is unable to alter with them and vary his route. You may ask: "How does a guide find his way on a mountain new to him?" There are several means open to him. If the peak is well known, as is, say, the Matterhorn, he will have heard from other guides which routes have been followed, and will know that if he desires to take his traveller up the ordinary way he must go past the Schwarz-see Hotel, and on to the ridge which terminates in the Hörnli, making for the hut which he has seen from below through the telescope. Then he remembers that he must cross to the east face, and while doing so he will notice the scratches on the rocks from the nailed boots of previous climbers. Now, mounting directly upward, he will pick out the passages which seem easiest, until, passing the ruined upper hut, he comes out on the ridge and looks down the tremendous precipice which overhangs the Matterhorn Glacier. This ridge, he knows, he simply has to follow until he reaches the foot of a steep face of rock some 50 feet high, down which hangs a chain. He has heard all about this bit of the climb since his boyhood, and he tells his traveller that, once on the top of the rock, all difficulty will be over, and the final slope to the summit will be found a gentle one. So it comes to pass that the party reaches the highest pinnacle of the great mountain without once diverging from the best route. Occasionally the leading guide may take with him as second guide a man from the locality, but most climbers will prefer to keep with them the two guides they are used to.

It is not only on mountains that a guide is able to find his way over little known ground. Many years ago Melchior Anderegg came to stay with friends in England, and arrived at London Bridge Station in the midst of a thick London fog. "He was met by Mr Stephen and Mr Hinchliff," writes his biographer in The Pioneer of the Alps, "who accompanied him on foot to the rooms of the latter gentleman in Lincoln's Inn Fields. A day or two later the same party found themselves at the same station on their return from Woolwich. 'Now, Melchior,' said Mr Hinchliff, 'you will lead us back home.' Instantly the skilful guide, who had never seen a larger town than Berne, accepted the situation, and found his way straight back without difficulty, pausing for consideration only once, as if to examine the landmarks at the foot of Chancery Lane."

Now, let us see how a guide sets about exploring a district where no one has previously ascended the mountains. Of this work I have seen a good deal, since in Arctic Norway my Swiss guides and I have ascended more than twenty hitherto-unclimbed peaks, and were never once unable to reach the summit. Of course, the first thing is to see the mountains, and, to do this, it is wise to ascend something which you are sure, from its appearance, is easy, and then prospect for others, inspecting others again from them, and so on, ad infinitum. You cannot always see the whole of a route, and, perhaps, your leading guide will observe: "We can reach that upper glacier by the gully in the rocks." "What gully?" you ask. "The one to the left. There must be one there. Look at the heap of stones at the bottom!" Thus, from the seen to the unseen the guide argues, reading a fact from writing invisible to the untrained eye. Between difficulty and danger, too, he draws a sharp distinction, and attacks with full confidence a steep but firm wall of rock, turning back from the easy-looking slope of snow ready to set forth in an avalanche directly the foot touches it.

And how is this proficiency obtained? How does the guide learn his profession?

In different ways, but he usually begins young, tending goats on steep grassy slopes requiring balance and nerve to move about over. Later on, having decided that he wishes to be a guide, the boy, at the age of seventeen or eighteen, offers himself for examination on applying for a certificate as porter. The requirements for this first step are not great: a good character, a sound physique, a knowledge of reading and writing, and in most Alpine centres the guild of guides will grant him a license. He can now accompany any guide who will take him, on any expedition that guide considers within the porter's powers. His advancement depends on his capacity. Should he quickly adapt himself to the work, the guides will trust him more and more, taking him on difficult ascents and allowing him occasionally to share the responsibility of leading on an ascent and coming down last when descending. It will readily be seen that the leader must never slip, and must, when those who follow are moving, be able to hold them should anything go wrong with them. The same applies to the even more responsible position of last man coming down. When a porter reaches this stage, he is little inferior to a second guide. He can now enter for his final examination. If he is competent, he has no trouble in passing it, and I fear that if the contrary—as is the case in many of those who apply—he gets through easily enough.

At Chamonix the guides' society is controlled by Government. The rules press hardly on the better class of guides there, or would do so if observed; but a first-class guide is practically independent of them, and mountaineers who know the ropes can avoid the regulations. At Zermatt greater liberty is allowed, and, indeed, I believe that everywhere except at Chamonix a guide is free to go with any climber who applies for him. At Chamonix the rule is that the guides are employed in turn, so that the absurd spectacle is possible of a man of real experience carrying a lady's shawl across the Mer de Glace, while a guide, who is little better than a porter, sets out to climb the Aiguille de Dru! However, the exceptions to this rule make a broad way of escape, for a lady alone, a member of an Alpine club, or a climber bent on a particularly difficult ascent, may choose a guide.

The pay of a first-class guide is seldom by tariff, for the class of climber who alone would have the opportunity of securing the services of one of the extremely limited number of guides of the first order generally engages him for some weeks at a time. Indeed, such men are usually bespoken a year in advance. The pay offered and expected is 25 fr. a day, including all expeditions, or else 10 fr. a day for rest days, 50 fr. for a peak, 25 fr. for a pass, in both cases the guide to keep himself, while travelling expenses and food on expeditions are to be paid for by the employer. If a season is fine and the party energetic, the former rate of payment may be the cheaper. The second guide generally receives two-thirds as much as the first guide.

When a novice is about to choose a guide, the advice of an experienced friend is invaluable, but, failing this, it is worse than useless to rely on inn-keepers, casual travellers, or the guide-chef at the guides' office of the locality. From these you can obtain the names of guides whom they recommend, but before making any definite arrangements, see the men themselves and carefully examine their books of certificates. In these latter lie your security, if you read them intelligently. Bear in mind that their value consists in their being signed by competent mountaineers. For instance, you may find something like the following in a guide's book:—

A. Dumkopf took me up the Matterhorn to-day. He showed wonderful sureness of foot and steadiness of head, and I consider him a first-class guide, and have pleasure in recommending him.

(Signed) A. S. Smith.

Now, this is by some one you never heard of, and a very little consideration will show you that A. S. Smith is quite ignorant of climbing, judging by his wording of the certificate. That which follows, taken from the late Christian Almer's Führerbuch, is the sort of thing to carry weight:—

Christian Almer has been our guide for three weeks, during which time we made the ascents of the Matterhorn (ascending by the northern and descending by the southern route), Weisshorn (from the Bies Glacier), Dent Blanche, and the Bietschhorn. Every journey that we take under Almer's guidance confirms us in the high opinion we have formed of his qualities as a guide and as a man. To the utmost daring and courage he unites prudence and foresight, seldom found in combination.

(Signed) W. A. B. Coolidge.

Visp, September 22nd, 1871.

It is when things go badly that a first-class guide is so conspicuously above an inferior man. In sudden storms or fog you may, if accompanied by the former, be in security, while the latter may get his party into positions of great peril. The former will take you slowly and carefully, sounding, perhaps, at every step, over what appears to you a perfectly easy snow plateau. The latter goes across a similar place unsuspecting of harm and with the rope loose, and, lo and behold, you all find yourselves in a hidden crevasse, and are lucky if you escape with your lives. In the early days of mountaineering guides were frequently drawn from the chamois hunters of a district, a sport requiring, perhaps, rather the quickness and agility of the born climber and gymnast than the qualities of calculation and prudence needed in addition by the guide.

A careful party descending a Rock Peak near Zermatt (the Unter Gabelhorn).

The most thoroughly unorthodox beginning to a great career of which I have ever heard was that of Joseph Imboden, of St Nicholas. When a boy his great desire, as he has often told me, was to become a guide. But his father would not consent to it, and apprenticed him to a boot-maker. During the time he toiled at manufacturing and mending shoes he contrived to save 20 fr. He then, at the age of sixteen, ran away from his employer, bought a note-book, and established himself at the Riffel Hotel above Zermatt. On every possible occasion he urged travellers to employ him as guide.

"Where is your book, young man?" they invariably enquired.

He showed it to them, but the pages were blank, and so no one would take him.

"At last," Imboden went on, "my 20 fr. were all but spent, when I managed to persuade a young Englishman to let me take him up Monte Rosa. I told him I knew the mountain well, and I would not charge him high. So we started. I had never set foot on a glacier before or on any mountain, but there was a good track up the snow, and I followed this, and there were other parties on Monte Rosa, so I copied what the guides did, and roped my gentleman as I saw the guides doing theirs. It was a lovely day, and we got on very well, and my gentleman was much pleased, and offered me an engagement to go to Chamonix with him over high passes.

"Then I said to myself: 'Lies have been very useful till now, but the time has come to speak the truth, and I will do so.'

"So I said to him: 'Herr, until to-day I have never climbed a mountain, but I am strong and active, and I have lived among mountaineers and mountains, and I am sure I can satisfy you if you will take me.'

"He was quite ready to do so, and we crossed the Col du Géant and went up Mont Blanc, but could do no more as the weather was bad. Then he wrote a great deal in my book, and since then I have never been in want of a gentleman to guide."

Imboden's eldest son, Roman, began still younger. When only thirteen he was employed by a member of the Alpine Club, Mr G. S. Barnes, to carry his lunch on the picnics he made with his friends on the glaciers near Saas-Fée. The party eventually undertook more ambitious expeditions, and one evening, Roman, who was very small for his age, was seen entering his native village at the head of a number of climbers who had crossed the Ried Pass, the little boy proudly carrying the largest knapsack of which he could possess himself, a huge coil of rope, and an ice-axe nearly as big as himself. Thus commenced the career of an afterwards famous Alpine guide.

During some fifteen seasons Imboden accompanied me on my climbs, frequently with Roman as second guide. Once the latter went with me to Dauphiné, and, though only twenty-three at the time, took me up the Meije, Ecrins, and other big peaks, his father being detained at home by reason of a bitter feud with the railway company about to run a line through his farm. It is sad to look back to the terrible ending of Roman's career at a period when he was the best young guide in the Alps. How little, in September 1895, as with the Imbodens, father and son, I stood on the summit of the Lyskamm, did any of us think that never again should we be together on a mountain, and that from the very peak on which we were Roman would be precipitated in one awful fall of hundreds of feet, his companions, Dr Guntner and the second guide Ruppen, also losing their lives.

I shall never forget the evening the news reached us at Zermatt. Imboden was, as usual, my guide, but Roman was leading guide to Dr Guntner. A month or two previously this gentleman had written to Roman asking if he would climb with him. Roman showed the letter to his father, saying: "I only go with English people, so I shall refuse." "Do not reply in a hurry," was the answer; "wait and see what the Herr is like, he is coming here soon." So Roman waited, saw Dr Guntner, liked him immensely, and engaged himself, not only till the end of the season, but also for a five months' mountaineering expedition in the Himalayas. We had all arrived at Zermatt from Fée a few days before, and while we waited in the valley for good weather, Dr Guntner, Roman Imboden, and Ruppen went to the Monte Rosa Hut to get some exercise next day on one of the easier peaks in the neighbourhood. Dr Guntner much wished to try the Lyskamm. Roman was against it, as the weather and snow were bad. However, in the morning there was a slight improvement, and as Dr Guntner was still most anxious to attempt the Lyskamm and Roman was so attached to him that he wished to oblige him in every way he could, he consented to, at any rate, go and look at it. Another party followed, feeling secure in the wake of such first-rate climbers, and, though the snow was atrocious and the weather grew worse and worse, no one turned back, and the summit was not far distant.

The gentleman in the second party did not feel very well, and made a long halt on the lower part of the ridge. Something seems to have aroused his suspicions—some drifting snow above, it was said, but I could never understand this part of the story—and an accident was feared. Abandoning the ascent, partly because of illness, partly on account of the weather, the party went down. At the bottom of the ridge, wishing to see if indeed something had gone wrong, they bore over towards the Italian side of the mountain. Directly the snowy plain at the base of the peak became visible, their worst fears were confirmed, for they perceived three black specks lying close together. Examining them through their glasses, it was but too certain that what they saw were the lifeless bodies of Dr Gunnter, Roman, and Ruppen.

Meanwhile, unconscious of the awful tragedy being enacted that day on the mountains, I had sent Imboden down to St Nicholas to see his family, and, after dinner, was sitting writing in the little salon of the Hotel Zermatt when two people entered, remarking to each other, "What a horrible smash on the Lyskamm!"

I started to my feet. Something told me it must be Roman's party. Crossing quickly over to the Monte Rosa Hotel, I found a silent crowd gathering in the street. I went into the office.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Roman's party," was the answer.

"How do you know?"

"The other party has telephoned from the Riffel; we wait for them to arrive to hear particulars."

The crowd grew larger and larger in the dark without. All waited in cruel suspense. I could not bear to think of Imboden.

An hour passed. Then there was a stir among the waiting throng, and I went out among them and waited too.

The other party was coming. As the little band filed through the crowd, one question only was whispered.

"Is there any hope?" Sadly shaking their heads, the gentleman and his guides passed into Herr Seiler's room, and there we learned all there was to hear.

I need not dwell on Imboden's grief. He will never be the same man again, though three more sons are left him; but I must put on record his first words to me when I saw him: "Ruppen has left a young wife and several children, and they are very poor. Will you get up a subscription for them, ma'am, and help them as much as possible?"

Stopped by a big Crevasse.

The party descended a little till a better passage was found by crossing a snow-bridge (page 37).

The gentle persuasion of the Rope (page 39).

It was done, and for Roman a tombstone was erected, "By his English friends, as a mark of their appreciation of his sterling qualities as a man and a guide." Roman was twenty-seven at the time of the accident. Neither Imboden nor I cared to face the sad associations of the Alps after the death of Roman, and the next and following years we mountaineered in Norway instead.

It will have been noticed that a climber nearly always takes two guides on an expedition. A visitor at Zermatt, or some other climbing centre, was heard to enquire: "Why do people take two guides? Is it in case they lose one?"

There are several reasons why a climbing party should not number less than three. In a difficult place, if one slips, his two companions should be able to check his fall immediately, whereas if the party number but two the risk of an accident is much greater. Again, a mishap to one of a party of two is infinitely more serious than had there been three climbing together. A glance at the accompanying photograph of some mountaineers reconnoitring a big crevasse will make my point clear.

A first-class guide will use the rope very differently to an inferior man, who allows it to hang about in a tangle, and to catch on every point of projecting rock.

A friend of mine, a Senior Wrangler, was extremely anxious to learn how to use a rope properly. So, instead of watching the method of his guide, he purchased a handbook, and learned by heart all the maxims therein contained on the subject. Shortly after these studies of his I was descending a steep face of rock in his company. I was in advance, and had gone down as far as the length of rope between us permitted. A few steps below was a commodious ledge, so I called out: "More rope, please!"

My friend hesitated, cleared his throat, and replied: "I am not sure if I ought to move just now, because, in Badminton, on page so-and-so, line so-and-so, the writer says——"

"Will you please give the lady more rope, sir!" called out Imboden.

"He says that if a climber finds himself in a position——"

"Will you go on, sir, or must I come down and help you?" exclaimed Imboden from above, and, at last, reluctantly enough, my friend moved on. He is now a distinguished member of the Alpine Club, so there is, perhaps, something to be said in favour of learning mountaineering from precept rather than example!

Occasionally a guide's manipulation of the rope includes something more arduous than merely being always ready to stop a slip. If his traveller is tired and the snow slopes are long and wearisome, it may happen that a guide will put the rope over his shoulder and pull his gentleman. A mountaineer of my acquaintance met a couple ascending the Breithorn in this manner. It was a hot day, and the amateur was very weary. Furthermore, he could speak no German. So he entreated his compatriot to intercede for him with the guide, who would insist on taking him up in spite of his groans of fatigue.

"Why do you not return when the gentleman wishes it?" queried the stranger.

"Sir," replied the guide, "he can go, he must go; he has paid me in advance!"

The rope generally used by climbers is made in England, is known as Alpine Club rope, and may be recognised by the bright red thread which runs through the centre of it. A climber should have his own rope, and not trust to any of doubtful quality.

Should climbers desire to make ascents in seldom explored parts of the world, such as the Caucasus, the Andes, or the Himalayas, they must take Alpine guides with them, for mountains everywhere have many characteristics in common, and as a good rider will go over a country unknown to him better than a bad horseman to whom it is familiar, so will a skilful guide find perhaps an easy way up a mountain previously unexplored, while the natives of the district declare the undertaking an impossible one. The Canadian Pacific Railway Company have recognised the truth of this, and have secured the services of Swiss guides for climbing in the Rockies.

The devotion of a really trustworthy guide to his employer is a fine trait in his character. My guide, Joseph Imboden, has often told me that for years the idea that he might somehow return safe from an expedition during which his traveller was killed, was simply a nightmare to him. Directly the rope was removed his anxiety commenced, and he was just as careful to see that the climber did not slip in an easy place as he had been on the most difficult part of the ascent. It is an unbroken tradition that no St. Nicholas guide ever comes home without his employer; all return safely or all are killed. Alas! the list of killed is a long one from that little Alpine village. In the churchyard, from the most recent grave, covered by the beautiful white marble stone placed there by Roman's English friends, to those recalling accidents a score or more of years ago, there lies the dust of many brave men. But I must not dwell on the gloom of the hills; let me rather recall some of the many occasions when a guide, by his skill, quickness, or resource, has saved his own and his charges' lives.

A famous Oberlander, Lauener by name, noted for his great strength, performed on one occasion a marvellous feat. He was ascending a steep ice slope, at the bottom of which was a precipice. He was alone with his "gentleman," and to this fact, usually by no means a desirable one, they both owed their lives. A big boulder seemed to be so deeply imbedded in the ice as to be actually part of the underlying rock. The traveller was just below it, the guide had cut steps alongside, and was above with, most happily, the rope taut. As he gained the level of the boulder he put his foot on it. To his horror it began to move! He took one rapid step back, and with a superhuman effort positively swung his traveller clean out of the steps and dangled him against the slope while the rock, heeling slowly outwards, broke loose from its icy fetters and plunged down the mountain side, right across the very place where the climber had been standing but an instant before.

A small man, whose muscles are in perfect condition, and who knows how to turn them to account, can accomplish what would really appear to be almost impossible for any one of his size.

Ulrich Almer, eldest son of the famous guide, the late Christian Almer, saved an entire party on one occasion by his own unaided efforts. They were descending the Ober Gabelhorn, a high mountain near Zermatt, and had reached a ridge where there is usually a large cornice. Now, a cornice is an overhanging eave of snow which has been formed by the wind blowing across a ridge. Sometimes cornices reach an enormous size, projecting 50 feet or more from the ridge. In climbing, presence of mind may avail much if a cornice breaks—absence of body is, however, infinitely preferable. Even first-class guides may err in deciding whether a party is or is not at an absolutely safe distance from a cornice. Though not actually on that part of the curling wave of snow which overhangs a precipice, the party may be in danger, for when a cornice breaks away it usually takes with it part of the snow beyond.

A typical Couloir is seen streaking the peak from summit to base in the centre of the picture (page 73).

The wrong way to Descend.

The Cross marks the spot where the accident happened on the cornice of the Ober Gabelhorn in 1880 (page 43).

Very soft Snow which, on a steep slope, would cause an Avalanche (page 60).

By some miscalculation the first people on the rope walked on to the cornice. It broke, and they dropped straight down the precipice below. But at the same moment Ulrich saw and grasped the situation, and, springing right out on the other side, was able to check them in their terrible fall. It was no easy matter for the three men, one of whom had dislocated his shoulder, to regain the ridge, although held all the time by Ulrich. Still it was at length safely accomplished. The two gentlemen were so grateful to their guide that they wished to give him an acceptable present, and after much consideration decided that they could not do better than present him with a cow!

In trying to save a party which has fallen off a ridge, either by the breaking of a cornice or by a slip, I am told by first-rate guides that the proper thing to do is to jump straight out into the air on the opposite side. You thus bring a greater strain on the rope, and are more likely to check the pace at which your companions are sliding. I had a very awkward experience myself on one occasion when, owing to the softness of the snow, we started an avalanche, and the last guide, failing to spring over on the other side, we were all carried off our feet. Luckily, we were able, by thrusting our axes through into a lower and harder layer of snow, to arrest our wild career.

Piz Palü, in the Engadine, was once nearly the scene of a terrible tragedy through the breaking of a cornice, the party only being saved by the quickness and strength of one of their guides. The climbers consisted of Mrs Wainwright, her brother-in-law Dr B. Wainwright and the famous Pontresina guides Hans and Christian Grass. Bad weather overtook them during their ascent, and while they were passing along the ridge the fog was so thick that Hans Grass, who was leading, got on to the cornice. He was followed by the two travellers, and then with a mighty crack the cornice split asunder and precipitated them down the icy precipice seen to the right. Last on the rope came sturdy old Christian Grass, who grasped the awful situation in an instant, and sprang back. He held, but could, of course, do no more. Now was the critical time for the three hanging against the glassy wall. Both Hans and the lady had dropped their axes. Dr Wainwright alone retained his, and to this the party owed their lives. Of course he, hanging at the top, could do nothing; but after shouting out his intentions to those below, he called on Hans to make ready to catch the axe when it should slip by him. A moment of awful suspense, and the weapon was grasped by the guide, who forthwith hewed a big step out of the ice, and, standing on it, began the toilsome work of constructing a staircase back to the ridge. At last it was done, and when the three lay panting on the snow above, it was seen that by that time one strand only of the rope had remained intact.

The dotted line in the top right-hand corner shows the spot on Piz Palü where the Wainwright accident took place, the slope being the one the party fell down.

Hans and Christian Grass.

The following account of a narrow escape from the result of a cornice breaking has an especially sad interest, for it was found amongst the papers of Lord Francis Douglas after his tragic death on the Matterhorn, and was addressed to the Editor of the Alpine Journal. The ascent described was made on 7th July 1865, and the poor young man was killed on the 14th of the same month.

The Gabelhorn is a fine peak, 13,365 feet high, in the Zermatt district.

Lord Francis Douglas writes:—"We arrived at the summit at 12.30. There we found that some one had been the day before, at least to a point very little below it, where they had built a cairn; but they had not gone to the actual summit, as it was a peak of snow, and there were no marks of footsteps. On this peak we sat down to dine, when, all of a sudden, I felt myself go, and the whole top fell with a crash thousands of feet below, and I with it, as far as the rope allowed (some 12 feet). Here, like a flash of lightning, Taugwald came right by me some 12 feet more; but the other guide, who had only the minute before walked a few feet from the summit to pick up something, did not go down with the mass, and thus held us both. The weight on the rope must have been about 23 stone, and it is wonderful that, falling straight down without anything to break one's fall, it did not break too. Joseph Viennin then pulled us up, and we began the descent to Zermatt."

Here, again, one of the guides saved the party from certain destruction.

It is in time of emergency that a really first-rate guide is so far ahead of an inferior man. In many cases when fatal results have followed unexpected bad weather or exceptionally difficult conditions of a mountain, bad guiding is to blame, while the cases when able guides have brought down themselves and their employers from very tight places indeed, are far more frequent than have ever been related.

A really wonderful example of a party brought safely home after terrible exposure is related in The Pioneers of the Alps. The well-known guides, Andreas Maurer and Emile Rey, with an English climber, had tried to reach the summit of the Aiguille du Plan by the steep ice slopes above the Chamonix Valley. "After step-cutting all day, they reached a point when to proceed was impossible, and retreat looked hopeless. To add to their difficulties, bad weather came on, with snow and intense cold. There was nothing to be done but to remain where they were for the night, and, if they survived it, to attempt the descent of the almost precipitous ice-slopes they had with such difficulty ascended. They stood through the long hours of that bitter night, roped together, without daring to move, on a narrow ridge, hacked level with their ice-axes. I know from each member of the party that they looked upon their case as hopeless, but Maurer not only never repined, but affected rather to like the whole thing, and though his own back was frozen hard to the ice-wall against which he leaned, and in spite of driving snow and numbing cold, he opened coat, waistcoat and shirt, and through the long hours of the night he held, pressed against his bare chest, the half-frozen body of the traveller who had urged him to undertake the expedition.

"The morning broke, still and clear, and at six o'clock, having thawed their stiffened limbs in the warm sun, they commenced the descent. Probably no finer feat in ice-work has ever been performed than that accomplished by Maurer and Rey on the 10th August 1880. It took them ten hours of continuous work to reach the rocks and safety, and their work was done without a scrap of food, after eighteen hours of incessant toil on the previous day, followed by a night of horrors such as few can realize." Had the bad weather continued, the party could not possibly have descended alive, "and this act of unselfish devotion would have remained unrecorded!"

Perhaps the most remarkable instance of endurance took place on the Croda Grande. The party consisted of Mr Oscar Schuster and the Primiero guide, Giuseppe Zecchini. They set out on 17th March 1900, from Gosaldo at 5.10 A.M., the weather becoming unsettled as they went along. After they had been seven hours on the march a storm arose, yet, as they were within three-quarters of an hour of the top of their peak, they did not like to turn back. They duly gained the summit, the storm momentarily increasing in violence, and then they descended on the other side of the mountain till they came to an overhanging rock giving a certain amount of shelter. The guide had torn his gloves to pieces during the ascent, and his fingers were raw and sore from the difficult icy rocks he had climbed. As the cold was intense, they now began to be very painful. The weather grew worse and worse, and the two unfortunate climbers were obliged to remain in a hole scooped out of the snow, not only during the night of the 17th, but also during the whole day and night of the 18th. On the 19th, at 8 A.M., they made a start, not having tasted food for forty-eight hours. Five feet of snow had fallen, and the weather was still unsettled, but go they had to. First they tried to return as they came, but the masses of snow barred the way. They were delayed so long by the terrible state of the mountain that they had to spend another night out, and it was not till 6 P.M. on the 20th, after great danger that they reached Gosaldo. The guide, from whose account in The Alpine Journal I have borrowed, lost three fingers of his right hand and one of the left from frost-bite; the traveller appears to have come off scot free.