It has often been a matter for discussion whether the talent of path-finding, or, more often, of discovering a possible route when no semblance of a path exists, comes from instinct or from training. It seems to me that it usually proceeds from something of both, though especially from the latter. Those who would confine this power to instinct pure and simple, bring forward as an argument on their side the fact that hardly any amateurs possess it to a great degree, and none to the extent exhibited in a first-rate guide. But they forget that people in our own class cannot by any possibility have the early experience of Swiss peasants, many of whom are accustomed from childhood to scramble about in all sorts of difficult and perilous places, and are often taken by their fathers and neighbours for lengthened excursions on mountains and glaciers, either during hunting expeditions, or sometimes, with the kindly permission of a traveller, as porters. I remember, on one occasion, Peter Taugwalder asking me to allow his son, then aged fourteen, to go with us up the Breithorn, and most efficient did the little fellow prove himself, insisting on carrying my camera a good part of the way. Imboden’s eldest son, Roman, had at fifteen made quite a number of first-rate ascents with his father, including the passage of the Ried Pass (twice), of the Alphubel, the ascent of the Balfrinhorn, Brunegghorn, and other big peaks. When, in 1887, I took him up Piz Kesch, I noticed that his “form” had already attained to a point which few amateurs could beat. The manner in which a first-rate guide will find the way in darkness, a thick fog, or a snowstorm is really marvellous. In descending Mont Blanc in January, we were in a thick fog from the moment we turned at the top of the Mur de la Côte, and it was pitch-dark before we were fairly off the Grand Plateau. Yet on the guides went, with a cheery, confident air about them, never hesitating for a moment, and only halting twice, the first time to root out a knapsack of provisions, left on the Grand Plateau that morning, and since buried in the thickly falling snow, and the second time, at my request, to light the lanterns when, within half an hour of the Grands Mulets, I awkwardly walked into one of the crevasses across which we had to pass. Again, in coming down at the end of November from the Aiguille du Tour to the Cabane d’Orny, darkness overtook us. Before beginning the descent of the Glacier d’Orny, I suggested that our lantern should be made use of; but the guides laughed, and breaking into one of the songs of the district, trotted unhesitatingly down the ice, in and out amongst the crevasses, and at last up to the door of the hut, which was so deeply buried in snow as to be hardly distinguishable. Indeed, the little cabin is at all times hard to find, and Chamonix sometimes confidentially whispers how an ex-guide and a friend, after crossing the Col du Tour, entirely failed to discover the hut, and, after much poking about, returned over the pass to Chamonix!
Another example of path-finding which greatly struck me was during a descent in the dark of the Italian side of the Matterhorn. We had the moon a good part of the time, but often, owing to the conformation of the rocks, we were in utter darkness, and Alexander Burgener would rummage about for a bit, then seize on the commencement of one of the fixed ropes, and, with a series of his characteristic grunts and snorts, work his way down it. He never missed the right route for an instant, though the mountain was in a very bad state from the amount of ice and snow on it. One more incident before we pass on to the consideration of the next of the qualities which I have noted. Some years ago, during the month of January, I found myself with Edouard Cupelin (of Chamonix), and a couple of local guides, in the long couloir which leads from the Sella Pass towards the first peak of Piz Roseg. A discussion arose as to the best route to take, the local guides advising our bearing to the left, and Cupelin recommending keeping to the right. The latter’s opinion, as leader, of course prevailed, and though he had never been in the Engadine till the day before, we cheerfully followed him. On reaching the plateau above, it became obvious that we had saved both time and trouble by selecting this route, which, indeed, we afterwards found was the one usually taken.
Pontresina guides have gone rapidly ahead since then, and it would now be hard to beat, say, Martin Schocher as a rising guide.
Now let us travel from the Engadine to the Bernese Oberland, and I will tell you of an occurrence there which made much stir amongst the few who heard of it, but an account of which did not, as far as I know, reach the ears of the Alpine world.
Again Joseph Imboden must come to the front, and never did he more deserve applause than on this occasion.
One morning in August, two parties set out from the Eggischhorn to cross the Mönch Joch to Grindelwald. One of them consisted of an Englishman accustomed to climbing, accompanied by Imboden and a good, steady porter. The second party comprised two Englishmen and a guide and porter, all of whom were more or less lacking in the qualities so conspicuous in party the first. In descending the slopes above the Bergli Hut, the second party was leading, and the position was as follows. Just below was a deep bergschrund, or large crevasse, approached by a slope of ice, down which the guide was cutting steps. Behind him was one of the travellers, then came the other, and last on the rope, and in a desperate state of apprehension at the sight of the horrors beneath, was the porter. The other party, in which, most providentially, Imboden was first on the rope, was close behind—in fact, Imboden himself was only separated by a distance of about a couple of feet from the other party’s porter. At this particularly auspicious moment, it occurred to the gentleman on the ice-slope to stick his axe into a neighbouring patch of snow, nearly out of his reach, and to take off his spectacles for the purpose of wiping them. Hardly had he commenced this operation, than, to his horror, the guide, who was cutting below, slipped. The gentleman of the spectacles followed suit, so did his companion behind, and so, with a wild cry of “Wir sind alle verloren!” (We are all lost!) did the porter. But hardly had he lost his footing when, in calm, clear tones, came the remark from behind him, “Noch nicht!” (Not yet), and he felt himself arrested and held back. What actually occurred was this (I had it from the gentleman whom Imboden was guiding, and who, from his position behind and above him, had the best possible view of the situation). When Imboden saw the spectacle-wiping begin, he instinctively scented danger, and hooked the cutting point of his axe through the rope which was round the porter’s waist. Immediately after, if not simultaneously, the slip took place, and the whole strain of the weight of the foremost party came on Imboden. However, he was firmly placed, and held without difficulty till they recovered their footing. But for Imboden’s coolness and quickness, a very serious, and most likely a fatal accident would have occurred. Two or three days afterwards, while ascending the Eiger with Imboden, I questioned him about this incident. He took his extraordinary performance entirely as a matter of course, and declined to admit any merit in it. I fear that the two Englishmen (or rather the spectacle-man) hardly realised the escape they had. Well, it is not for a mere matter of thanks or reward that men do deeds such as this, though I can vouch for it that a few warm words of gratitude are far more valued than a mere pecuniary manifestation of the same.
A good guide is usually able to turn his hand to most things, and has generally plenty of resource in unforeseen difficulties of all kinds. In short, he is ever ready to rise to the occasion, no matter what it may show of the unexpected. Many a guide with whom I have travelled has combined the qualities of an excellent cook, a lady’s-maid (!), a courier, and a first-rate carpenter, with those of a pleasant companion and the special characteristics of his profession. In proof of the above, I may remark that a little dinner in a hut is often a meal by no means to be despised, the ingenuity displayed in cooking with next to no appliances being really wonderful. As to the packing of one’s garments, I have been more than once informed that the way in which I fold dresses leaves much to be desired, while an incident connected with this subject, which took place some years ago, is still vividly impressed on my mind. When paying my bill at a certain hotel, an item of 150 francs for a broken piano-string had aroused my indignation. In the first place, the string had been broken by the frost; secondly, 150 francs was a preposterous charge. I promptly left the hotel in disgust, and accomplished my departure in a very short space of time, thanks to my guide, who valiantly helped by packing dresses and hats, boots and shoes, with unhesitating rapidity, and, what is more, they were as wearable when they emerged from my trunk as when they went into it. I was much amused, during an ascent some years ago, to see my porter produce a needle and thread and solemnly commence to repair a rent in my climbing skirt. I cannot say that the work was very fine, but it held together as long as ever that garment lasted.
There are several incidents which I should like to mention in connection with that strength of muscle with which nature and training have supplied some guides to a very remarkable extent.
Perhaps one of the most notable instances of great strength being put forth at exactly the right instant was the following, which was described to me by Miss Lucy Walker as having happened to her brother, Mr. Horace Walker.
The latter, accompanied by Peter Anderegg, was ascending a steep wall of ice. The guide went first, cutting steps. The way was barred by a big piece of rock, apparently firmly frozen into the ice-slope. While Mr. Walker stood just below the boulder, Anderegg worked to the side round it. Beaching its upper level, he placed one foot on the great mass, which, to his horror, at once began to move. To cry out and warn his companion below would have been to expend far too much time; there was but one way of saving Mr. Walker’s life, and that he promptly took. In an instant he had stepped back on to his last foothold, and with a terrific jerk had swung Mr. Walker out of his steps and along the slope. Immediately after, the huge stone thundered down the slope, across the place occupied till a moment before by Mr. Walker. This, I think, is the most wonderful thing of the kind I ever heard of.
Another very striking instance of strength promptly put forth took place on Piz Palü, a mountain in the Bernina group, during an ascent by Mrs. Wainwright, Dr. Wainwright, and the guides Christian and Hans Grass. I extract the following from Dr. Ludwig’s capital little book, “Pontresina and its Neighbourhood.”
“In 1879 an accident happened on Piz Palü, which had a similar cause, and nearly had a similar fatal ending, with the accident on the Lyskamm two years before. The middle and the western summits are joined together by a narrow ridge; on the side of the Pers Glacier (the north) the frozen snow (firn) forms, in parts, an overhanging cornice. Mr. W. and his sister-in-law, Mrs. W., with the two veteran guides, Hans and Christian Grass, had ascended the highest summit, and were on their return; Christian Grass leading, then Mr. W., Mrs. W., and last, Hans Grass. There was a thick fog. The first three of the party stepped on to the cornice; it gave way suddenly, and all four would have been dashed down the face of the ice-wall, which there falls sheer some two thousand feet, had not Hans Grass had the presence of mind and the bodily activity and strength to spring at once to the opposite side of the ridge and plant his feet firmly in the snow. Fortunately Mr. W. had not lost his axe; he gave it to Christian Grass, who in this awful situation untied himself from the rope, and cut his way up on to the ridge, where his brother and he, joining forces, were able to bring Mr. and Mrs. W. into safety.”
What a fearful moment of suspense it must have been when Mr. W. dropped his axe to the guide below, who, if he had failed to catch it, would have lost the last chance of saving the party.
An accident very much resembling that on Piz Palü occurred on August 18, 1880, on the Ober-Gabelhorn, near Zermatt. In this case, as on the Palü, no lives were lost, thanks to the prompt action of one of the guides, Ulrich Almer. I extract the following account of the event from Ulrich’s book:—
“We attacked the mountain direct from the Trift Alp, and had scaled the steep rocks and reached the eastern arête, along which, at a distance of about twelve yards from the edge, we were proceeding, when a huge cornice fell, carrying with it the leading guide, Brantschen, and the two voyagers. Almer, who alone remained on terra firma, showed extraordinary strength and presence of mind. Instantly on hearing the crack of the cornice, he leaped a yard backwards, plunged his axe into the snow, and planting himself as firmly as possible, was thus enabled to arrest the fall of the entire party down a precipice of some 2000 feet. Joseph Brantschen, who fell farthest down the precipice, dislocated his right shoulder, and this mischance involved a long, and to him most painful descent, and the return to Zermatt took us eight hours, the injured man being obliged to stop every two or three minutes from pain and exhaustion. It should be mentioned that the mass of cornice which fell measured (as far as we can judge) about forty yards long by thirteen yards broad.
“Mr. C. E. Mathews, president, and other members of the Alpine Club, went carefully into the details of the accident, and gave their verdict that, according to all the hitherto accepted theories of cornices, we were allowing an ample margin, and that no blame attached to the leading guide, Brantschen.... There can be no doubt whatever that it is owing solely to Ulrich Almer’s strength, presence of mind, and lightning-like rapidity of action that this accident on the Gabelhorn did not terminate with the same fatal results as the Lyskamm catastrophe.
(Signed)
H. H. MAJENDIE, A.C.
RICHARD L. HARRISON.”
As a practical proof of their gratitude to Almer, I understand that these gentlemen gave him a cow.