Chapter VIII: Some Narrow Escapes and Fatal Accidents

Probably not half the narrow escapes experienced by climbers are ever described, even in the pages of the various publications of English and foreign Alpine Clubs, though when an accident by the breaking of a snow-cornice is just avoided, the incident is so terribly impressive that several accounts have found their way into print. Scarcely anything more startling than a certain occurrence on a ridge of the Mönch, which happened to the late Mr Moore and his two guides, Melchior and Jacob Anderegg, has ever been related. The party had succeeded in making the ascent of the Mönch from the Wengern Alp, it being only the third occasion when this long and difficult climb was accomplished, each of their predecessors spending _three days and three nights_ on the expedition.

_To face_ p. 124.]

Having gained the summit, the party proceeded to go down by the usual route towards the Trugberg. This follows a very narrow _arête_. "On the left hand," says Mr Moore in _The Alpine Journal_, "is an absolute precipice; on the right a slope, which might be called precipitous, falls to the Aletsch Glacier. The quantity of snow on the ridge was enormous, and the sun had begun to tell upon it. We knew too much to attempt to approach the upper edge, and kept at a distance of some 12 feet below it on the Aletsch side; lower down we dared not go, owing to the steepness of the slope and the danger of starting an avalanche. With Melchior in front it is unnecessary to say that we moved with the greatest caution. No man is more alive than he to the danger arising from a snow-cornice. He sounded with his axe at every step, and we went steadily along, anxious, but with every reason to believe that we were giving the cornice a wide berth. Suddenly came a startling cry from Melchior. At the same instant I felt myself stagger, and, instinctively swinging ever so slightly to the right, found myself the next moment sitting astride on the ridge. With a thundering roar the cornice on our left for a distance of some 200 yards went crashing down to the depths below, sending up clouds of snow-dust which completely concealed my companions from me. It was only by the absence of all strain on the rope that I knew--though at the moment I scarcely realised the fact--that they were, like myself, safe. As the dust cleared off, Melchior, also sitting astride of the ridge, turned towards me, his face white as the snow which covered us. That it was no personal fear which had blanched our leader's sunburnt cheeks his first words, when he could find utterance, showed. 'God be thanked!' said he; 'I never thought to see either of you there.' We had, in fact, escaped destruction by a hand's-breadth. As I believe, our right feet had been on the ridge, our left on the cornice; we had thus just sufficient firm standing-ground to enable us to make that instinctive movement to the right which had landed us _á cheval_, for Jacob had fallen in the same position as Melchior and myself. Few words were said; but words poorly express the emotions at such a moment. Melchior's axe had been carried down with the cornice as it fell, but had fortunately lodged on the face of the precipice 50 feet below. It was too precious to leave behind, so we let him down by the rope, and descending in a cat-like way peculiar to first-class guides when not hampered by _Herrshaft_, he regained it without difficulty.

"Our further descent was uneventful."

One of the greatest dangers of mountaineering is from falling stones, yet the number of fatal accidents from this cause is as few as the narrow escapes are many. As exciting an experience as can well be imagined took place on the Aiguille du Midi at Chamonix in 1871. The party consisted of Messrs Horace Walker and G. E. Foster. The latter wrote a graphic account in _The Alpine Journal_, and kindly allows me to make the following extracts. The guides were Jacob Anderegg and Hans Baumann, and the climbers wished to ascend from the Montanvert and be the first to go down the steep face of the mountain on the Chamonix side.

After some difficulty in finding the route, for both the guides were unacquainted with the district, and Mr Walker alone knew in a vague sort of way that the peak was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Géant ice-fall, they eventually stood on the top. It had taken them ten hours, and they sat for some time on the more sheltered Chamonix side, debating by what route they should descend. The slopes below were very steep, so they decided to retrace their steps to the foot of the rocks, and then, turning over on to the Chamonix side of the mountain, make their way as best they could down ice-filled gullies and precipitous rocks. All at first went well, and soon they commenced to cross the face of the cliff to gain a rocky buttress that offered a likely route some hundred feet below the top of the wall. "Jacob was leading," writes Mr Foster, "Walker next, I followed, and Baumann brought up the rear. Only one was moving at a time, and every one had the rope as taut as possible between himself and his neighbour. Jacob was crossing a narrow gully, when suddenly, without any warning, as though he had trod on the keystone of the wall, the whole face for some 30 or 40 feet above him peeled off, and with a crash like thunder, hundreds of tons of rocks precipitated themselves on him. In an instant he was torn from his hold, and hurled down the precipice with them. Fortunately, Walker was able to hold on, though the strain on him was something awful. As the uproar ceased, and silence even more impressive succeeded, we looked in one another's faces with blank dismay. From our position it was impossible to see what had become of Jacob, and only the tight rope told us that his body at least, living or dead, was still fastened to us. In a voice singularly unlike his own, Walker at length cried out, 'Jacob,' and our hearts sank within us as it passed without response. 'Jacob! Ach Jacob!' Walker repeated; and I trust none of my readers may ever know the relief we felt when the reply came back, 'Ich lebe noch.'[6]

"From where I was I could not see him, but Walker craned over a rock, and then turned round. 'I see him. He is awfully hurt, and bleeding frightfully.' I then contrived to shift my position, and saw that he was indeed hurt. His face was black with blood and dirt, the skin torn from his bleeding hands, while his clothes in ribands threatened worse injuries still unseen. After a moment, he managed to recover his footing, and then untied the rope with trembling fingers, and crawled along the face of the cliff to the other side of the gully, where some snow offered means to stanch his wounds.

"As soon as he was safe, Baumann called on us to stand still, and clambered carefully over the spot where the rocks had given way, our only road lying there. I followed, and then Walker, knotting up the rope to which Jacob had hung, crossed last. With Jacob below us, care was necessary in climbing so as to send no more loose fragments on his head, but we at last reached the spot where he was standing. Thanks to the snow, the bleeding had already stopped to a great extent, and with the aid of some sticking-plaster Walker had with him, and some torn strips from a pocket-handkerchief, we bound up his wounds as well as we could. He had had a marvellous escape; no fragment had struck him fully, the rock that had grazed his face having missed knocking out his brains from his presence of mind in throwing back his head. Fortunately, no bones were broken, though he was badly bruised all over, and after a quarter of an hour's rest and a good pull at the brandy-flask, he said he was ready to start again.

"On taking hold of the rope to tie him on again, we were awestruck to find all its strands but one had been severed, so that his whole weight had hung literally on a thread. Strange as it may appear, the rock that had done this had probably saved his life by jerking him out of the line of fire. Still, all honour to Messrs Buckingham for their good workmanship, to which, and Walker's holding powers, we owe our escape from a miserable ending of our day's work. As it was, poor Walker's ribs had suffered sadly, and with two wounded men we recommenced our descent.

"Naturally, our trust in the rocks was gone, and we took as soon as possible to the steep snow of the couloir. This, however, lay so thin on the ice, that we found we had only exchanged one danger for another. Baumann led and we followed, driving in our axe-heads at every step, but were soon forced to descend into a narrow gully, cut by avalanches, where the snow was deep enough to give better footing. The sides of this were above our heads, and the bottom not more than a foot wide, so that the danger from avalanches was very great, but for a time we descended safely. Then a startled shout from Walker warned me that something was wrong, and driving my axe desperately into the side, I found myself up to the neck in a snow avalanche. For a moment I thought all was up, but held on to the best of my powers. Then finding the stream did not stop, I looked back, and found Walker and Jacob had contrived to get out of the gully. With a shout to Baumann, I gave a desperate struggle, and followed their example, and instantly saw the snow I had held up surge over Baumann's head. For a moment he held on, then climbed out on my side. We waited till the avalanche had passed, two of us on one side of the gully and two on the other, and then Walker and Jacob jumped into it with a groan, as it shook their bruised bones, and climbed up to our side, and with an occasional look for Baumann's hat, which the avalanche had carried off with it, pursued our way.

"So long and steep was the couloir, so thin and treacherous the snow layer on the ice, that a good hour elapsed before we reached the bottom, where a formidable _bergschrund_ cut off access to the glacier. Only at one point could we find a bridge, and that was where our old enemy, the avalanche gully, terminated, choking the crevasse with its snows, and spreading in a fan-like mass below. With some hesitation, as our recollection of it was not pleasant, and it was here all hard ice, Baumann cut his way down into it. We were scarcely all fairly in it, when we heard a tremendous crash above. Clearly, another avalanche was descending, this time composed of rocks. As it was 2000 feet above us, and would take some time to clear the distance, a short race for life ensued. Baumann cut steps with amazing rapidity. Fortunately, some half dozen only were necessary. With one eye on him and one keeping a sharp look-out for the advent of the unwelcome stranger, we hastened down, crossed the bridge, scampered down a slope, and merely stooping down to pick up Baumann's hat, which turned up here, got out of the way just in time, as an enormous mass of snow and rocks dashed over where we had stood not a minute before."

This was the last adventure the party had that day from avalanches, but their troubles were as yet by no means over. Some formidable glacier work had to be accomplished before all was plain sailing. "Though we were now tolerably reckless, the difficulties in our way nearly beat us," Mr Foster goes on to say. "Three times we tried, and thrice in vain, though knife edges of the most revolting description were passed, and crevasses of fabulous width and depth jumped or got over as seemed best. Again and again we were forced to return. At length, when we were almost in despair, a way was found, and at 6.30, drenched by the storm which by this time had burst upon us, we reached the little hotel at the Pierrepointue."

There are no climbing dangers which skill and care can more surely avert than those which are ever present on a crevassed, but snow-covered glacier.

By Signor R. Cajrati Crivelli Mesmer.

_To face_ p. 133.]

Should a party fail to arrest the fall of one of its members, and have difficulty in pulling him above ground, however, the position may become most serious. If another party is within hail, matters are generally simple enough, yet even for four or five people it is not always the easiest thing in the world to haul up a companion who has disappeared into the bowels of the earth, especially if the folly of walking unroped has been indulged in.

A good description of what might have been a serious business but for the skill and resource of a member of the party is given in the course of a description of some climbs in the Rocky Mountains. The writer, Mr Harold B. Dixon, says in _The Alpine Journal_: "A snow-covered crevasse crossed our route at right angles. The party in front, who were without ropes, saw the crevasse, and proceeded to leap it. All crossed in safety but the last man, who broke through the snow and disappeared. Through the hole the wide mouth of the crevasse was revealed, showing the danger of trusting to the frail bridge. It was obviously dangerous to recross without a rope, so his companions signalled to us for help, but for some time we failed to observe their signals.

"Though stunned by the fall our friend was not materially damaged, but he was in a sufficiently awkward fix. Jammed between the narrowing walls of ice, he was unable to move a limb except his right arm. The crevasse did not drop perpendicularly, but the ice-wall bulged out from the side we stood on, and then curved over out of sight; we could not see down more than 18 feet. We stood in a little semicircle at the hole, and one short sentence was spoken: 'Some one must go down.' We looked at each other. Sahrbach and Baker are large and heavy men: it was obvious they must 'pass.' I am of lighter build; I proclaimed my 11 stone and readiness to go. But Collie went better. 'I am 9 stone 6,' was his deliberate statement. There was no means of seeing if this was a bluff, so we threw up our hands--the trick was his. Tying a stirrup loop for one foot and a noose round his waist, Collie attached himself to one rope, which was then joined to a second. Meanwhile the Americans were brought across the crevasse by the aid of another rope, and axes were fixed deep in the snow in suitable positions to fasten the rope to. Then we let Collie down as far as he would go. An anxious moment followed. 'I can't reach him,' came Collie's voice from below. Then, after a few minutes, 'Send down a slip knot on the other rope.' We made the knot and lowered the rope. How Collie managed it I don't know, for he could not reach his man, but he threw the loop round the prisoner's right arm, and then called on us to pull. At the second haul we felt something give, and our friend was pulled into an upright position, when Collie could just reach him with his left hand, and with this he tied a knot above the elbow of his right arm. By this knot we hauled him out of the narrow crevasse and on to the bulge of ice without difficulty. But as we pulled the rope cut into the snow, and we could not raise our burden within 6 feet of the surface. Then, while the rope was held taut, one of us worked the handle of an axe along under the rope by sitting on the snow and pushing it forward with his feet. In this way the rope was loosened, and we could haul up another 3 feet, and then Sahrbach, leaning over, reached his collar, and our half-frozen friend was deposited on the snow with an assortment of flasks, while we fished out Collie from his uncomfortable position. They were both very wet and cold, but no bones were broken."

Here we see that even with a large party of competent people, it was no easy matter to rescue a comrade from his icy prison. The details are well given, and may be useful to any one so unfortunate as to require by personal experience a knowledge of what should be done under similar circumstances.

The danger of crossing snow-covered glaciers when the party does not number more than two was brought home to those who heard of it by one of the most tragical events which has ever been recorded in the annals of mountaineering. A German, Dr Schäffer, had been celebrating his golden wedding at a small place on the Brenner on 22nd August 1900. He engaged a guide, by name Johann Offerer, and, sleeping at a hut, started early next morning. They reached the Wildlahner Glacier in an hour and a half from their sleeping quarters, and after traversing it for some distance came to a large crevasse. This the guide crossed safely on a snow bridge, but the tourist, a much heavier man, broke through, and pulled his companion down with him. They fell about 100 feet, with the result that the guide had a broken thigh and arm, while Dr Schäffer only bruised his knee. He put his coat round Offerer and left food beside him, and then tried to get out of the crevasse. After hours of toil and pain he managed to reach a ledge not very far below the mouth of the crevasse, but further he could not get. At last he gave up all hope, and sat down to die, first, however, writing a full account of the accident, and leaving a sum of money for the widow of his guide. It is to this pathetic last effort of his life that we owe our knowledge of what happened. The only other instance at all like it is the terrible accident on Mont Blanc in 1870, when eleven persons perished in a snow-storm, one of their number, Mr Bean, leaving details in his diary of the events immediately preceding the catastrophe.

_To face_ p. 137.]

It was only on 5th September, after a long search, that the remains of the two unfortunate men were discovered.

The following is of special interest, because, of late years, the Norwegian sport of ski-ing has become exceedingly popular in Alpine winter resorts. It is impossible, however, owing to the great length of the ski, to go in difficult places on them, and therefore mountaineers have only used them when intending to ascend to points accessible entirely over snow-slopes, not much broken up by crevasses. The first fatal accident to a climbing party on ski took place in 1902, and may serve as a warning to those intending to traverse glaciers in winter on skis, or indeed even without them. I take my account from a translation from the Italian, which appeared in _The Alpine Journal_. The comments by the editor should be laid to heart.

"A party of five gentlemen and four Zermatt guides left Zermatt on 24th February for the Bétemp Hut, with the intention of ascending the Signalkuppe and the Zumstein, _via_ the Grenz Glacier and the Capanna Margherita.

"The 25th was spent in ski practice in the neighbourhood of the hut. On the 26th the whole party, with the exception of one guide who had brought a defective pair of skis, left the hut at 3.30 A.M. in weather marked by no adverse conditions of any kind. The Grenz Glacier was reached somewhat west of the point marked 3344 mètres on the Siegfried map. The party unroped, proceeded upwards on their skis towards the point marked 3496 mètres, the surface of the glacier, covered with deep snow, showing no crevasses nor the indications of any. About midway between 3300 mètres and the point 3344 mètres the caravan found itself on a gentle slope, when a muffled crack was heard, and Herr Koenig, Herr Flender, and one of the guides, Hermann Perren, were seen to sink almost simultaneously into a concealed crevasse about 6 feet in width, which ran in a direction parallel with the glacier, carrying with them a mass of snow about 65 feet in length and over 14 feet in thickness. Obviously, no amount of probing would have indicated the presence of the crevasse, and thus by an unfortunate coincidence the three men were standing at the same time over the hidden abyss without knowing it. One of the other guides was instantly lowered into the crevasse by the only available rope (the other being on Herr Flender's back), which proved to be just too short to reach Hermann Perren, who had fallen about 90 feet, and was standing upright against the side of the crevasse, held fast in a mass of snow which had left his head and one arm free. Two of the party hurried down to fetch another rope from the Bétemps Hut. In the meanwhile Perren had managed, after a struggle of two and a half hours, almost to set himself free, and was eventually drawn out safely, practically uninjured, save a slightly frost-bitten hand. The dead body of Herr Flender, found with his neck broken, partially covered with some 2 feet of hard snow, was then extricated, but in spite of persistent efforts the body of Herr Koenig was not recovered until the next day, when he was found lying face downwards under a mass of compact snow over 10 feet thick. Death in his case was instantaneous, caused by suffocation, the body bearing no signs whatever of external injury. Herr Koenig was laid to rest in the English cemetery at Zermatt, while the body of Herr Flender was conveyed by his relatives to its last resting-place at Düsseldorf. This is, we think, the first fatal accident which has occurred to a party of climbers on skis bound on a serious climbing expedition. The party on this occasion cannot with justice be accused of recklessness, for the apparent neglect of the usual precaution of putting on the rope on a snow-covered glacier will not be misunderstood by those accustomed to the use of skis, who will readily understand that the rope is practically impossible, and even dangerous, for a party on skis.

"A remarkable feature of the accident was the thickness of the mass of snow which gave way under the three men, and demonstrates the extreme insecurity of winter snow on a crevassed glacier. It is possible that the three men were perhaps too close to each other at the time of the accident.

"It is evident that winter climbers who wish to use skis must carry their lives in their own hands, and perhaps the safer plan for future expeditions of this kind will be to make the ascent roped in the usual way on snow _racquettes_ carrying the skis on the back. On the descent the risk of breaking through the snow covering during the rapid progress on skis would of course be very much less than on the ascent."

One of the most fruitful causes of accidents on mountains is the underrating of difficulties by ignorant persons who, having been hauled up and let down precipices by a couple of sturdy guides in fine weather, proceed to inform their friends and acquaintances that "Nowadays the Matterhorn is mere child's play, don't cher know."

A sorry tale is told by the famous climber, Mr Cecil Slingsby, who, himself accustomed to undertake the hardest climbs without guides, would be the first to discourage imitation in any unfit to follow in his steps.

Writing of Skagastöldstind, in Norway, of which he made the first ascent, and which is still considered the most difficult of the fashionable climbs in that country, he says in _The Alpine Journal_:

"In 1880 a young tourist, son of a rich banker, whom I will call Nils, desirous of emulating our exploits, attempted the mountain, and with the assistance of two good climbers, who shoved and hauled him up the rocks, succeeded in reaching the summit. Unfortunately, he afterwards wrote a pamphlet of sixty-six pages about the mountain, in which he underrated its difficulties. This pamphlet, I unhesitatingly assert, has been the main cause of a terrible tragedy which took place on Skagastöldstind. It was in this manner. At one of the series of huts built by the tourist club a young man, named Tönsberg, who had been partially deranged, was staying with his wife, and was deriving much benefit from the mountain air. Here he read this pamphlet, and inferred that though Skagastöldstind was undoubtedly a very fine mountain, yet the difficulties of its ascent had been much exaggerated, and that any one might make it. Upon this he set off with a lad seventeen years of age, at 9.30 P.M., in vile weather; walked through the night (in the middle of summer it is never dark), and reached a saetor (or châlet) at 3 A.M.; here they found Peter, one of Nils' guides, who refused to have anything more to do with the mountain. At last, by means of bribes, and by promising to turn back at once if the mountain should prove impracticable, Peter was persuaded to go forward; and at 6 o'clock they sallied out into the wet. Wind and snow soon assailed them, but Tönsberg would persist in his rash work. At 11 they reached the actual base of the peak, 4100 feet below the top. The lad was frost-bitten and could go no further; neither could Peter. They tried to tie the man with ropes, but he was too strong for them, and used his alpenstock against them, and it was no good. Soon afterwards he left them in the mist, and in twenty strides was out of sight. A month or five weeks after this his remains were found in a deep chasm between a glacier and the rocks, amidst crags at least 2000 feet higher up on the mountain. I may add that the valley Midt Maradal, out of which Skagastöldstind rises, is so difficult to approach, that though it contains rich pasturage at its lower end--a mine of wealth in Norway--its owner, a man of forty-five years, who has overlooked it hundreds of times and lives within three miles of it as the crow flies, had never been in it when I saw him last, and has asked me several times to guide him into it."

Referring to an expedition from Mouvoison, which began, as do most climbs, over grass slopes, Mr Clinton Dent remarks in _Above the Snow Line_:

"One ascent over a grass slope is very much like another, and description in detail would be as wearisome as the slopes themselves often prove. Yet it is worthy of notice that there is an art to be acquired even in climbing grass slopes. We had more than one opportunity on the present occasion of seeing that persons look supremely ridiculous if they stumble about, and we noticed also that, like a bowler when he has delivered a long hop to the off for the third time in one over, the stumbler invariably inspects the nails in his boots, a proceeding which deceives no one. It is quite easy to judge of a man's real mountaineering capacity by the way in which he attacks a steep grass slope. The unskilful person, who fancies himself perfectly at home among the intricacies of an ice-fall, will often candidly admit that he never can walk with well-balanced equilibrium on grass, a form of vegetable which it might be thought in many instances of self-sufficient mountaineers, would naturally suit them. There is often real danger in such places, and not infrequently the wise man will demand the use of the rope, especially when there are any tired members among the party. There is no better way of learning how to preserve a proper balance on a slope than by practising on declivities of moderate steepness, and it is astonishing to find how often those who think they have little to learn, or, still worse, that there is nothing to learn, will find themselves in difficulties on a mountain-side, and forced to realise that they have got themselves into a rather humiliating position. We may have seen, before now, all of us, distinguished cragsmen to whom an ascent of the Weisshorn or Matterhorn was but a mere stroll, utterly pounded in botanical expeditions after Edelweiss, and compelled to regain a position of security by very ungraceful sprawls, or, worse still, have to resort to the unpardonable alternative of asking for assistance."

The following accounts of adventures on grass slopes, taken from _The Alpine Journal_, may serve to bear out the truth of Mr Dent's remarks:

"On Monday, 31st August, Mr J. F. C. Devas, aged 26, accompanied by a friend, Mr A. G. Ferard, proceeded after lunch to take a stroll from the Riffel-Haus towards the Gorner Glacier by the Théodule path. Before reaching the glacier they returned, Mr Ferard by the ordinary route. Mr Devas, leaving the path to the left, attempted a short cut by climbing some wet and slippery rocks leading to a grass slope above. He reached a difficult place, immediately below the slope, beyond which he was unable to go. Mr Ferard made his way as speedily as possible to the grass slope and to within a few yards of his friend. While Mr Ferard was endeavouring to render assistance, Mr Devas, in trying to pull himself up, lost his footing and slid down about 70 feet to a ledge covered with turf, which it might have been hoped would have arrested his fall. Unfortunately, the impetus was sufficient to carry him over the ledge to a further distance of about 70 feet below. His friend hastened to the Riffel-Haus for assistance, and a number of guides and porters, accompanied by Mr Ferard and a French gentleman, hurried to the scene of the accident. Mr Devas, who had sustained a severe fracture of the skull, was brought back to the Riffel-Haus about 5 P.M., where he received the most unremitting care from M. Seiler's staff of servants. He was unconscious from the moment of the accident till he died at noon of the following day."

Another writer gives an account of an adventure on a grass slope which, happily, had a less serious ending. He also attempted to make a short cut.

"I entangled myself in an adventure which, as nearly as possible, ended in a catastrophe. Not caring to turn back, I followed a track past the châlets of Cavrera, in hope of being able to find a direct ascent over the steep lower ground that enclosed the head of the valley. It seemed as I advanced that among the ledges of rock and grass at the left-hand corner there would be access to the path above. A dubious and attenuated track which led me up in this direction after giving evidence of design in a few steps notched in the great gneiss slabs, vanished, leaving me to choose between the slabs which sloped up in front and a line of juniper bushes on the left of them. As the slabs at this spot could be walked upon, and higher up seemed to ease off again, I kept to the rocks without investigating the juniper belt. But walking exchanged itself for climbing, and I continued to ascend under the impression that I should shortly gain the inclination above. I came to a spot where I had to raise myself on to a small rounded knob of rock with a slight effort, there being no hand-hold above. From this vantage-ground I was able to repeat the process, still buoyed up with the belief that the easy part would be reached above, and to hoist myself on to the only remaining hold in the neighbourhood--a strong tuft of grass in a sort of half corner in the slabs--which supported one foot well, but one foot only. I now found I could go no further. The strata inclined downwards, so that the smooth and crackless slabs overlay one another like the slates on a house-roof, and there was no more hold for hand or foot apparent, while the slabs were far too steep for unsupported progression. The next discovery was a much more alarming one; I looked below, wondered why on earth I had come up such a place, and saw at a glance that I could not get down again. If I fell, moreover, it would not be by the line of my ascent, but down steeper rocks and to a lower depth. Generally in a dilemma in climbing there is a sort of instinctive feeling that an escape will be made at last, but now, for the first time, I was seized with a sentiment akin to despair. One chance only remained, and that was to take off my boots and stockings and try the slabs above.

"The stories of extraordinary predicaments in the Alps one is apt to receive with some incredulity. I never altogether accepted the tale of the chamois-hunter's gashing his feet, and, needless to say, it did not occur to me to imitate him in this particular. For the rest, I can only promise the literal narration of circumstances _as they presented themselves to me at the time_. It is, indeed, sufficiently sensational without exaggeration. Well, it appeared at first impossible to take my boots off; I was facing the rocks with one toe on the turf, and the necessary manipulation could not be accomplished. What was to be done? This was, perhaps, the worst moment of the whole, as far as sensation went. However, by turning round, and planting my heel on the tuft and my back on the rock, I found myself in a secure and tolerably comfortable position. I now set to work and slung my boots separately round my neck as I took them off, pocketing the socks. All was done with deliberation; the laces were as usual untied with the button-hook in my cherished knife, and the latter was carefully returned to my pocket with the thought that if it went down it should be in my company. Meantime the necessary rigidity of position had to be preserved; there was only room in the turf for one heel, and for the point of my ice-axe, for which there was no other possible resting-place. Its preservation, indeed, that day was wonderful; at one time I felt a momentary temptation to throw it down in order to better the hold with the hand, but this would not bear a second thought.

"I now lost no time in placing myself on the slabs. I found that I dare not move on them in an upright position, and had to seek support with both hands. My condition was not an enviable one, and in no direction could an effort to proceed be made without danger. The situation was as follows: If I could manage to advance in front, I should, eventually, reach the more easily inclined slabs, on which I could walk; but then it was some way. If I could cross the much shorter interval (some 15 feet) to the right, I should reach a grass band below the rocks at the side; but then there intervened a broad, black, glistening streak, where waters oozed down and where to tread was fatal. Suddenly, without any warning, I found myself going down. I remember no slip, but rather that it was as if all hold gave way at once under the too potent force of gravity. Anyhow I was sliding down the rocks, and that helplessly I made, I believe, little or no attempt to obtain fresh hold; I simply remained rigid in the position in which I was, waiting for the fatal momentum to come which should dash me below. The instants passed, and at each I expected the momentum to begin. I felt quite a surprise when, instead, the sliding mass slowly pulled up and came to a stoppage. The scales of fate had been most delicately balanced, and a hair's weight in the right one decided that this paper should be written. Had I floundered, like a non-swimmer out of his depth, I must have gone down; but the first moments of despondency past the opening for action had once for all brought with it that species of mechanical coolness which is the happy concomitant of so many forms of habitual physical occupation.

(_P. 301._)]

_To face_ p 148.]

"If it be asked, what were my thoughts when I was going down, I can only reply that they chiefly amounted to a sort of dull feeling that I was actually in for a fall, being concentrated on waiting for its inevitable commencement; and that there was no such terror or disagreeable realisation of the situation as people are apt to assign to such moments. Such realisations exist most deeply in the imaginations of the non-combatants outside the fray. During the whole affair my attention was mainly directed to the physical combating with difficulties, and the passing reflections were partly indifferent, partly frivolous. A sort of acceptance of the position, indeed, possessed me, which almost amounted to a melancholy complacency, and, at most, perhaps, the customary 'When I get out of this' was changed as fast as it rose up in my imagination into a sadder 'If ever.' It was the feeling of the gamester or the soldier surprised at last by adverse odds, intent on his craft as at other times, but with a new and melancholy consciousness.

"My first thought when I came to a standstill--I cannot have gone more than a couple of feet at most--was what I could do even then, with no more hold than before? But I placed myself again in my old position on the tuft; and reflecting that if I had been intended to go down I should have gone then, and almost feeling as if, having escaped that extremity of risk, I had a sort of security for the rest, I resolved without further hesitation to make a determined effort. I once more raised myself on my feet and decided to make a push across the slabs to the grass belt at all hazards; possibly, in case of slipping on the way, I might be able to make a desperate sort of rush for it. I now found two unevennesses in succession, which would allow the side of the foot to rest in them with some chance of staying, while I moved my body along, there being at no time hold for the hand. The second of these slight hollows was fortunately in the dread bank of moisture itself. Below, the rocks shelved away to a steep fall; in front, the grass tufts smiled on me nearer and nearer. While I was feeling along the slabs with the hand that held my ice-axe, the latter by chance fixed itself in a cavity that would otherwise have escaped my notice. It was just about the size and depth of a half-crown, and could not have been caught by the fingers, but the rigid iron stuck in it. This was perhaps the first bit of direct hold I had. A yard further on was another of the same size. But now I had passed the wet rock and was nearing the grass, and carefully launching my ice-axe, so as not to disturb my balance, I hooked it in the grass, and in another moment had reached its hospitable tufts. Creeping up the side, I at last found _terra firma_."