Chapter XVIII: Some Terrible Experiences

All must have noticed, summer after summer, in the daily papers, a recital from time to time under some such heading as, "Perils of the Alps," of a variety of disasters to Germans or Austrians on mountains the names of which are unfamiliar to English people or even to English climbers. Many young men, of little leisure and of slight means, develop a passionate love for the peaks of their native land. The minor ranges of Austria and Germany offer few difficulties to really first-class, properly equipped parties, but nasty places can be found on most of them, and the very fact that they do not boast of glaciers removes the chief argument against solitary ascents.

The Rax, near Vienna, is a mountain which can be reached in a few hours from that city, and while a good path has been laid out to the summit, many other routes requiring climbing--by climbing I mean the use of the hands--are available for the hardier class of tourists. One route in particular, that from the Kaiserbrunn through the Wolfsthal, appears to be really difficult, and is unfit for a man to ascend alone unless he is a climber of great skill. A terrible experience fell to the lot of a young Viennese compositor, employed on the _Neue Freie Presse_, and by name Emil Habl. He set out by himself to make the expedition referred to, and, having fallen and broken his leg, he managed, thanks to his pluck and endurance, to escape with his life. "Despite injuries which made it impossible for him to stand," says a writer in one of Messrs Newnes' publications, from which I am courteously permitted to quote, "he yet succeeded in conveying himself from the scene of his accident into the valley in the neighbourhood of human dwellings. Three dreadful days and three awful nights lasted that memorable descent--a descent which can easily be made in two hours by any one able to walk. It may almost certainly be said that the case is without a parallel in the annals of Alpine accidents."

Herr Habl had ascended the Rax on previous occasions, and twice before by the Wolfsthal. It is the custom on many of the easier Austrian mountains to mark the way by painted strips on the rocks. These are sometimes very useful, but occasionally they tempt the tourist into tracks which may be beyond his powers, or lure him on till, at last, losing sight of them, he is induced to strike out a route--and perhaps an impracticable one--for himself. The Wolfsthal route up the Rax is marked in green, but the paint had worn off in many places, and after a time Herr Habl could no longer trace it. At last the way was barred by a precipice, but while pausing in uncertainty beneath it, the climber noticed two iron clamps fixed far apart on the face of the cliff, and argued that they must at one time have supported ladders and formed, perhaps, part of a hunter's path. He made an attempt to scramble up the rock, in spite of the absence of the ladder, but when more than 30 feet up saw that it was impossible to scale it. He therefore determined to return, but a loose stone, giving way beneath him, he was precipitated from his precarious hold, and fell with a crash straight to the bottom. This happened at about 7.30 A.M., and for a long time he lay unconscious. When he came to himself again he was suffering greatly.

"The first thing I noticed," he says, "was a terrible pain in my right leg, my head, and left side; I was also bleeding profusely from several wounds. At the same time, considering the fearful fall I had had, I felt thankful I had not been killed outright. On trying to get up I discovered, to my utter horror, that I had broken my right shin-bone. It was quite impossible to rise. The break was about 6 inches below the knee, and at the first glance I knew it to be a very bad fracture. It was what the doctors call an 'open' fracture--that is, the bone projected through the skin."

It was in vain that he shouted for help. Tourists seldom pass that way, and it was useless to expect any one to hear him. To make matters worse, the weather had changed, and rain now fell heavily. But Herr Habl did not lose courage. He writes: "Unless I wanted miserably to die a long-drawn-out, hideous death from hunger and thirst, I knew _I must save myself_. I decided not to lose another moment in fruitless brooding, and waiting, and shouting, but to act at once.

"I perceived that first of all I must set my broken leg and bandage it in some rough fashion. In spite of the agony it caused me, I rolled over and over the ground in different directions like a bale of goods--a few yards here and a few yards there--until I had collected a sufficient quantity of fallen branches, bits of fir and moss; this strange collecting process took me some hours. The next thing was to tear off the sleeves of my shirt and such other parts of my underwear as I could spare. On my mountain excursions I always took with me a box containing iodoform gauze and cambric; and now these things were more than welcome.

"At last, then, I was ready to begin the operation. But, good heavens, what agony! My deadliest enemy I would not wish such excruciating pains as I suffered when setting the poor splintered bone--which, be it remembered, was not broken straight across. The dreadful splinters, indeed, dug deep into my flesh. Not regarding the pain (although nearly fainting therewith) I exerted my whole force, and at last succeeded in getting the bone into what, as far as I could judge, was its right position. Then I wound the iodoform gauze round it, and over that I put the cambric, the bits of underclothing, and a layer of moss. Next in the queer operation came my alpenstock and some boughs in place of splints; and finally I tied the whole together with the string, my hat-line, and neck-tie."

During the rest of the day the agonising descent continued, down rocks which were difficult even for a sound man to ascend. As evening approached Herr Habl bethought him of the need of food, but, alas! all was gone from his knapsack, doubtless left at the spot where the bandages had been put on. To regain this point was out of the question, so berries and leaves were resorted to, to appease the craving of hunger.

That night was passed in pain and weariness. The rain never ceased, the poor wounded man was soaked to the skin. The next day, from dawn to dark the fearful descent continued, and was followed by another night of indescribable misery. The morning after Herr Habl could hardly drag himself a yard, and the temptation to lie down and await the end was very great. Still, for the sake of his parents at home, he continued his efforts, though bleeding now from the contact of the sharp rocks over which he pushed himself in a half-lying, half-sitting posture. By four o'clock that afternoon it seemed as if human endurance could bear no more, and for two hours he lay in an awful apathy he could not shake off. Then, when all hope seemed over, help came, for he heard the sound of human voices, and this so stirred him that once more he began to crawl downward, though unable to obtain any reply to his cries for assistance. Another night passed, and during it, for the first time, he got some sleep. The next morning, he once more dragged his poor lacerated body downwards and at last came in sight of some houses. Calling feebly for help, he was delighted beyond measure to receive an answer, and soon he was carried to Hôtel Kaiserbrunn, and the same evening transported to the hospital at Vienna. He concludes his most interesting account by remarking: "I do not think that my accident, terrible as it is, has cured me of my love of mountaineering. But certainly the remembrance of those three terrible days and nights will deter me from again undertaking difficult climbs by myself."

_To face p. 297._]

An adventure, having a happier termination, befell some friends of mine in the Bregaglia group, owing to the marking of a route with paint. The district was but little known to them, so they were glad to follow where the marks led. One of the party, writing in _The Alpine Journal_, says:

"The descent began by a grass ledge. After a few yards this was suddenly closed by overhanging rocks. François, who was first, appeared to us to plunge down a precipice. He answered our criticism by pointing to the red triangles. They indicated the only means of advance. It was requisite to go down a dozen feet of nearly vertical rock by the help of two grass tufts, and then for several yards to walk across a horizontal crack which gave foot-hold varying from 2 inches to nothing. Nominal support--help in balance--could be gained at first by digging axes into grass overhead; further on hand-hold was obtainable. François walked across without a moment's hesitation, but we did not despise the rope. This _mauvais pas_ would not, perhaps, trouble younger cragsmen. It came upon us unprepared and when somewhat tired. But to indicate a route including such an obstacle to unsuspecting tourists as a Station Path is surely rash. A practical joke that may lead to fatal results should only be resorted to under exceptional circumstances--as, for example, in the case of an hotel bore. There can be little doubt that in this instance the Milanese section entrusted their paint-pot to a conscious, if unconscientious, humorist; for we found afterwards that he had continued his triangles through the village, along the high road, and finished up only on the ticket office."

The following terrible experience did not, it is true, happen to a party of mountaineers, but as _The Alpine Journal_, from which I take my account, has considered a notice of it appropriate to its pages, I include it amongst my tales.

"A distinguished aeronaut, Captain Charbonnet, of Lyons, married a young girl from Turin. On the evening of their wedding, in October, 1893, they set out in Captain Charbonnet's balloon 'Stella,' and covered about 10 miles on their way towards Lyons.

"Next morning, accompanied by two young Italians named Durando and Botto, one of whom had made many previous ascents with Captain Charbonnet, they started again. Stormy weather seemed to be brewing, and after rising to a height of 3000 mètres they were caught in a current. At Saluggia they nearly touched ground, then leapt up again to 4000, and presently to 6000 mètres. About 2.30 P.M. the balloon began to descend rapidly, and they had some difficulty in stopping it at 3000 mètres.

_To face page 293._]

"Here they were in dense clouds, and bitterly cold; quite ignorant, moreover, of their position. Captain Charbonnet made his crew lie down in the car, himself leaning out in order to try if he could catch a glimpse of any point from which he could learn his bearings. The balloon was drifting at a great rate, and nothing could be done to check it. Presently there was a shock, and Captain Charbonnet was thrown to the bottom of the car, by a heavy blow over his left eye.

"The balloon rebounded, and dashing across a gully struck the other side of it, and it finally settled down on a steep rocky spur on the east side of the Bessanese (3632 mètres = 11,917 feet), just above the small glacier of Salau. It had struck the wall of the mountain which faces the Rifugio Gastaldi, at a height of about 3000 mètres (9843 feet).

"The aeronauts reached the ground a good deal shaken and bruised, but none of them, except the leader, suffering from any serious injuries.... Their sole provision was one bottle of wine; but they were fairly well off for covering, and they cut up the balloon to supply deficiencies. In the night a violent storm came on, to add to their misery. In spite of his injuries, Captain Charbonnet kept up the spirits of his companions as well as might be, but towards morning his powers failed, and when day dawned his young wife, a girl of eighteen, had some difficulty in bringing him round.

"They started to descend the snow-slope, Durando going first, and making steps to the best of his power with his feet 'and with a long key which he happened to have in his pocket.' Of course they had neither nails nor poles; and, by a fatal imprudence, they did not tie themselves together, though ropes must have been in plenty in the wreck of the balloon.

"Presently Charbonnet slipped. He was held up by his wife and Botto; but a few minutes later he disappeared into a hidden crevasse. The others could see him far below, but as he neither moved nor answered their call, they rightly assumed that he was beyond the reach of any human help, and proceeded downwards.

"With infinite difficulty, owing to their utter ignorance of the country, and after another night spent in the open air, they found a path which brought them to the hut under the Rocca Venoni. Thence a shepherd guided them to the Cantina della Mussa, where they were at first taken for deserters or spies; the lady, it should be said, had been obliged to put on a suit of her husband's clothes, her own having been torn to pieces.

"The sight of her hair and bracelets convinced the inhabitants of the true state of the case; a telegram was sent to Turin, and a message to Balme, and a search party came up from the latter place in the afternoon. Captain Charbonnet's body was recovered the next day. It was found at the bottom of a crevasse more than 60 feet deep, and completely doubled up; but medical examination showed that his death was primarily due to the injury received when the balloon first struck."

The first passage of the Alps by balloon was made in September 1903, by Captain Spelterini, of Zürich, accompanied by Dr Hermann Seiler and another friend. They started from Zermatt, crossed the Mischabel group, passed over the valley of Saas, then rose above the Weissmies range, and approached the Lago Maggiore so closely that they were able to converse with the passengers of a steamer. They then rose again and spent the night above the mountains not far from the Gotthard. The next day it would have been possible to clear the Bernese Alps and descend somewhere near Lucerne, but though Dr Seiler, who is a climber and was fully equipped for a descent above the snow line, urged the attempt being made to cross the chain, Captain Spelterini and his friend, unused to the aspect of the higher peaks, considered it more prudent to descend, and so the expedition came to an end after twenty hours aloft, during which no discomfort from cold was experienced.

When an accident happens in the Alps involving loss of life, it is not difficult to learn whatever facts may be known with regard to it, but when climbers have a narrow escape from death the occurrence is often hushed up and nothing said or written about the matter. And yet it is just the narrow escapes that furnish the most interesting Alpine narratives. Amongst them are few more exciting than a mishap on the Matterhorn which happened in 1895, and is admirably described by an onlooker, Mr Ernest Elliot Stock, in the pages of one of Messrs Newnes' periodicals, from which I am courteously permitted to quote a portion of the tale.

Mr Stock's party consisted of himself, his sister, Mr Grogan (the well-known traveller who first crossed Africa from South to North), Mr Broadbent, and the guides, P. A. and Alois Biner, Peter Perrin, and Zurmatter. An American of no climbing experience, with Joseph Biner and Felix Julen, was on the mountain at the same time, and both parties having made the ascent by the ordinary route, were coming down the same way, and had descended in safety to just below "Moseley's Platte" when the incident which so nearly cost them their lives took place. They were on a steep slope, and the American party was slightly in advance. Mr Stock writes:

_To face p. 302_]

"We had been working slowly, and at a slight zig-zag, down this for some 150 feet, only one member of the party moving at a time, and keeping carefully within the steps cut by the leader, when suddenly a flat stone, some 6 inches across, became detached from a small pile either to the side of or directly behind me--possibly loosened by our passage or picked up by the rope as it tautened between myself and Peter Biner, who came next. Peter's cry of warning was echoed by his brother at the tail of the party, and I half turned to see it slipping past on the right.

"Reaching out with my axe I endeavoured to stop it, but its impetus had become too great. Getting upon its edge it rolled and struck a small rock; then jumped some 20 feet down the ice-slope, narrowly missing Perrin and 'America,' and struck again upon a larger and flatter rock, when, amidst a flight of smaller stones, it bounded outwards and downwards, striking the leading guide, Joseph Biner, full and square on the head. He fell as though he had been shot, dragging 'America' after him amidst a perfect shower of snow and stones. Julen, who came third, with the greatest presence of mind drove his ice-axe hard and deep into the ice, took a turn round it with his left arm, and, though dragged violently from his steps, to our intense relief held on.

"But we were in an awkward plight. Poor Joseph half lay, half hung, without movement, at the end of some 30 feet of rope, bleeding copiously from a deep gash in the head and another across the forehead caused by his fall; 'America' clung to a small rock projecting from the snow, beating a tattoo with his boots on the ice and wailing dismally; Julen held the two by favour of his ice-axe and firmly planted feet only. For a space no one moved, excepting to get such anchorage as was possible upon the spur of the moment, each expecting a rope-jerk, the forerunner of a swift and battered end in the ice-fall of the Furgg Glacier thousands of feet below.

"The guides for a time seemed utterly stunned by the catastrophe, and to all suggestions could only reply with muttered prayers and exclamations. So exasperating did this become at last, with the thought of the man below bleeding to death, if not dead already, that Mr Grogan, who had vainly been endeavouring to bring the guides to a sense of the position, quietly slipped the rope, and, amid a storm of protest from them, traversed out some distance to avoid a patch of loose stones, and descended inwards again, cutting his steps as he went, till he reached a spot immediately below the wounded man. Poor Joseph hung with his head buried in a patch of snow, and in an extremely awkward position to reach from above. Mr Grogan, however, refused to be daunted by the difficulties, and we were treated to a fine piece of ice-craft during his descent."

After a little time Mr Grogan managed to cut a seat in the slope of ice and placing the still breathing but insensible man in it, he bandaged the wounds on his head, and before long had the satisfaction of seeing him recover his senses. With great difficulty, as he was very weak and shaken, poor Joseph was helped down the mountain, and at last every one arrived safe and sound at the lower hut.

There is no doubt that Joseph owed his life to Mr Grogan's skill, promptness, and courage. Had the travellers in the party following "America's" been of the usual type of tourist, who is hauled up and let down the Matterhorn, one dare not think what would probably have been the result, for the description Mr Stock gives of the behaviour of his guides seems in no way exaggerated. I edit this account in sight of the very spot where the accident occurred, and I have made careful enquiries here as to the accuracy of the story, and am assured that it is true in every detail. It is a pleasure to feel that a fellow-countryman should show so brilliant an example to those who were not willing and probably would have hardly been able to rescue their comrade, although to attempt such a task was one of the prior obligations of their profession.

To be bombarded by falling stones in the Alps is bad enough. To be hurled from one's foot-hold by a flock of eagles seems to me even more appalling. Though on one occasion, when on the slopes of a bleak and rocky peak in Lapland, in company with my husband, a pair of eagles came screaming so close to us that we drove them away by brandishing our ice-axes and throwing stones at them, I did not till recently believe that there could be positive danger to a climbing party from an onslaught by these birds. It was only a few weeks ago that taking up one of Messrs Newnes' publications I came upon an account of a tragedy in the Maritime Alps caused by an attack from eagles. On applying to the editor of the magazine in question, he kindly allowed me to make some extracts from a striking article by Mons. Antoine Neyssel. This gentleman with a friend, Mons. Joseph Monand, was making a series of ascents in the Maritime Alps with Sospello as their headquarters. From here they took a couple of guides and got all ready for a climb on the following morning, 23rd July. During the evening the amazing news reached them that a postman, while crossing a high pass, had been attacked and nearly killed by eagles. They at once went into the cottage where the poor man lay unconscious on two chairs, a pool of blood beneath him and his clothes torn to ribbons. A few days later he died from the terrible injuries he had received.

Though much shocked at the sad event, the climbers believed that their party of four would be quite safe, for each man had an ice-axe and some carried rifles. So the next morning they set out, and, ascending higher and higher, reached the glacier and put on the rope. They had forgotten all about the ferocious birds when suddenly, as they traversed the upper edge of a crevasse near the summit of their peak, the leading guide stopped with an exclamation of horror. Close to them the ground was strewn with feathers and marked with blood, doubtless the spot where the postman was attacked. They passed on, however, and remembering that they were a party of four, felt reassured. But soon after weird cries came to their ears from below, followed by the whirr and beating of great wings. Looking cautiously over the abyss, they saw a fight of eagles in progress; feathers flew in the air and strange sounds came out of the seething mass. It seemed to rise towards them, and in their insecure position on the edge of a crevasse, they were badly placed to resist an attack. The foot-hold was of frozen and slippery snow. Suddenly the eagles burst up and around them. The guides immediately cut the rope and each person did what he could to save himself. "Wherever possible," says Mons. Neyssel, "we simply raced over the frozen snow like maniacs. In another moment they dashed upon us like an avalanche. I heard a shot--I suppose Monand fired, but I did not: I do not know why. The attack was quite too dreadful for words. Speaking for myself, I remember that the eagles struck me with stunning force with their wings, their hooked beaks, and strong talons. Every part of my body seemed to be assailed simultaneously. It was a fierce struggle for life or death. Strangely enough, I remember nothing of what happened to my companions. I neither saw nor heard anything of them after the first great rush of the eagles. It is a miracle I was not hurled to death into the crevasse.

"Do not ask me how long this weird battle lasted. It may have been five or six minutes, or a quarter of an hour. I do not know. I grew feebler, and felt almost inclined to give up the struggle, when the blood began to trickle down my face and nearly blinded me. I knew that every moment might be my last, and that I might be hurled into the crevasse. Strangely enough, the prospect did not appal me. From this time onward I defended myself almost mechanically, inclined every moment to give up and lie down.

"I gave no thought to the guides and my poor friend Monand. If I am judged harshly for this, I regret it; but I could not help it. All at once I heard loud, excited voices, but thought that these were merely fantastic creations of my own brain. In a moment or two, however, I could distinguish a number of men laying about them fiercely with sticks, and beating off the eagles."

The villagers, having watched the ascent through a telescope had come to the rescue and had saved the lives of the writer and his two guides. His poor friend, however, was dashed into the crevasse, at the bottom of which his body was found five days later.