Eighty-five years after the author of those words, Sir Arnold Lunn (one of the very first mountaineers to explore the Alps on skis), laid tracks across the vast expanse of ice before me, I'm trying to detect what afterglow of his emotions still linger here. I survey the massive Swiss glaciers before me--glaciers that smother the backside of such famous peaks as the Eiger, Jungfrau, and Monch--and try to imagine what it was like to ski here in 1908, as Sir Arnold did, when the surroundings were a true wilderness and these icefields were separated from the valley below by a two-day trudge. Then, virtually no one ventured into the High Alps in winter and the rare tracks of other skiers would have forged a welcomed connection to humanity.
This is hard to imagine. Now, a train tunneling through the bowels of the Eiger and Jungfrau transports visitors 7000 vertical feet from valley floor to glacier flank in an hour. And in a place that saw no ski tracks for thousands of years, I'm cursing the multitudes of garishly-dressed Euros who rode the earlier train and trashed the canvas of snow before me.
On the walk through the cement tunnels connecting the Jungfrau Joch train station to the glacier, I ponder other differences between then and now. Technology has surely triumphed. We see it in the train station that delivered us here, the nylon packs housing our polyester clothing, the foam-core skis mounted with one-pound releasable touring bindings, and the plastic boots wrapping our feet.
But equipment does not a ski mountaineer make, and with his edgeless wooden boards, flimsy leather boots, and malleable metal bindings, Sir Arnold Lunn penned his signature all over these peaks. Lunn, an Englishman whose writings and preachings triggered much of the early European enthusiasm for both ski mountaineering and slalom skiing, was unstoppable. Some of his lines, like the high traverse through the Bernese Oberland which we will be following, have become classics. Others, like the turns he carved on the summit slopes of the Kleine Schreckhorn, did not see skis again for 60 years. Meanwhile, the distances the man covered in a day were twice what modern tourers travel. Sir Arnold's indomitable spirit was never shackled by his prehistoric equipment.
Hank de Vre, John Tremann, and I heft our pregnant packs and begin a pilgrimage designed to follow the tracks that Lunn furrowed in these frozen fields. Hank's pack is crammed with camera lenses and warehouses more glass than a Coca Cola factory, John's blue whale bulges from 16 changes of clothing, my beast is obese with food. So while Lunn's words percolate to mind-- "I shall always be glad that I first saw the Concordia in winter, and that I saw it before the Jungfrau railway had been built,"-- those of us toting oppressive loads of lightweight equipment quickly dispose of the silly romance. Without the railway, soft boys like us would never arrive to defile this shrine of beauty.
Make that soft, dimwitted boys. Two strides into our two week mission to follow Lunn's tracks across the Alps and it's apparent that our late night attempt to prepare Hank's climbing skins overlooked a minor detail. The grain of his skins run in the wrong direction. Hank slides a ski forward, consuming inordinate amounts of energy as the fur bristles against the motion. He weights the ski and the skin, which should grip now, slips backward and drops him to his knees. The glass factory in his pack lurches into motion and hammers Hank's head deep into the snow pack.
Today, the ghost of Sir Arnold looks on from the recesses of this old haunt and laughs.
"Skiing belongs to a great family of sports which owe their appeal to the primitive passion for speed."
In truth, the slope below the Monchsjoch Hut, the multi-story skier's dormitory where we dined and slept, is delivering too much appeal. The speed is high, the snow is breakable, and I'm feeling breakable--especially when my tips submarine below the crust and the pack launches me on a meteor ride. I look back. Hank and John have ridden meteors of their own and are also writhing in the snow like maggots. I think about Sir Arnold's comments: "Skiing makes demands on mind as well as on muscle. The expert...must adapt his tactics to every fickle fancy of the snow...Until he (the skier) can diagnose snow while travelling at high speed, until he can carry a compass in his head and instinctively allow for the difference in texture, according to the orientation and the steepness of the slope, he will spend more time on his back than on his feet."
We intended to crank tight parallel turns that, by comparison, would have humbled the loose braid of Lunn's telemark tracks. Instead, we resign ourselves to squandering elevation with wide traverses and the occasional snowplow turn.
Near the Concordia Hut, a massive stone edifice Lunn had to himself in the early days of skiing but usually booked to capacity now, we hook east on the Gruneggfirn and climb 2000 vertical feet to Grunhornlucke, a pass dividing the Aletsch Glacier and the Fiescher Glacier, two monstrous ice rivers whose equals are found nowhere in the Lower 48 states. The April sun, high in the sky now, is a flame-thrower that sears the mountains out of their frozen torpor. Avalanches break loose on the high slopes and flow like flash floods over the surrounding cliffs. One slide nearly engulfs three European tourers below who follow the tracks we laid an hour ago.
"In spring the snow on all slopes will pass through a complete transformation between dawn and sunset...the charm of spring skiing is due to the high demands that it makes on the ski runner's intelligence."If we were at the pass, we could chastise the fools following us and congratulate ourselves for passing through at the exact time when the slopes we climbed were perfectly stable and the slopes we would descend were perfectly softened. But the pass, while achingly close, is guarded by a traverse over slopes with the same exposure that just slid. We, the flunkies of Sir Arnold, play avalanche roulette and sprint through the danger zone.
At the pass, fine weather provides stunning views of the area's preeminent peak. It is a view that inspired Lunn: "you cannot fail to feel that the noble simplicity of the Finsteraarhorn in the centre of the picture, flanked on the left by one of the most perfect groups in the Alps, the Weisshorn and the Matterhorn, is a view which fulfills every artistic canon of excellence." Maybe his description piles the snow on thick, but how can you fail to admire a man who, in alternating paragraphs of his writings, wanders between the opposing pillars of poetry and pragmatism?
April 20th we devote to the conquest of the Finsteraarhorn. For Sir Arnold, the ascent of the "artistic canon of excellence" had been a casual jaunt. Several hours of skiing had delivered him to the Hugisattel and an hour of unroped ridge scrambling led to a nonchalant capture of the peak. Yesterday, 16 modern tourers, decked out with the latest skis, boots, crampons, and ropes, tried seizing the summit. Only two returned with the prize and they had spent 12 hours grappling with the peak.
The hut becomes a chamber of babble at 4:30 a.m. as German, French, Italian, Spanish, and English parties discuss the cloudy weather. The optimists are out of the hut in an hour while pessimists like us roll back into bed for another 90-minute snooze before clearing weather establishes that we made the wrong choice. Downstairs, amidst an aroma of sweat and salami, we wash down the customary continental breakfast with tea. Then we're out the door with the second wave of peak baggers.
Troubles within our ranks surface immediately. John is outfitted with normal downhill skis and bindings, equipment he trusts for the big air and steep slopes that have become his trademarks. His problem: The Secure Fixes that clip into his bindings for touring don't cut the mustard when edging up steep slopes of frozen spring snow. Progress is tediously slow and, as Sir Arnold has taught us, slowness is a safety hazard. A young German guide with two clients in tow, treats our slowness not only as unsafe but as unforgivable. He overtakes us, not by giving berth and shuffling around us, but by walking on the tails of our skis until we give way.
Noon draws near as we approach the Breakfast Platform, a spot most parties reached hours ago. The mountain sweats with heat and the clouds choking the valley below begin rising. By the time we reach the Breakfast Platform, the white amoebas engulf us. For the slow, the prize has been lost. We wallow through a world of chowder as we follow our up-track back down to the hut.
Hours later the hordes are back and the hut boils with a sensual stew of sweat, flatulence, language, and food. Among the bodies struts the German guide.
"Make the summit?" I ask.
"Naturlich" he answers smugly.
For manners and humility he scores an "F."
"And you?" he asks.
"No luck," I answer.
For competence we rack up an "F."
A week passes and we measure its passage with a litany of unimpressive and unsuccessful summit bids while following Sir Arnold Lunn through the Bernese Oberland. Despite our sharp technology, our minds and bodies have proved impossibly dull next to Lunn's.
We avoid judging ourselves too harshly. After all, Lunn lived for many years in the nearby village of Grindelwald and grew intimate with this subrange. During WWI he spent three years guarding prisoners of war in another nearby village, Murren. He skied extensively during those years and took daily notes detailing the affects of temperature, wind, exposure, and elevation on snow. Maybe it's impossible to measure up to a man with too much home-court advantage.
We decide a change of scenery might improve our batting average, so we follow the master to another subrange he was among the first to ski--the Valais of Southern Switzerland, home of the legendary Matterhorn and St. Bernard Pass.
Our first foray into these new environs elevate our status. In severe white-out conditions we navigate convoluted hills, complex passes, and crevassed glaciers to reach the Pannossiere Hut. The hut master is both surprised and impressed to see us materialize from the fog. His regard for us plummets once he discovers we are low-profit Americans toting our own food rather than respectable Europeans willing to line his pockets.
That matters little. It is Sir Arnold's regard we are here to capture, and toward that end we actually haul ourselves out of bed early on the morning we make our assault of the Petit Combin. For the first time we make good time and, from the top of the 12,000 foot peak, experience what was a common occurrence for Sir Arnold--a view out over the roof of Europe. To the east rise the famed fangs of Switzerland--the Matterhorn, Weisshorn, and Dent Blanche; to the west Mt. Blanc hovers like a cloud above the black needles of the Chamonix Valley; to the south a thousand peaks I can't pronounce much less identify pierce a blanket of valley clouds; and to the north we stare at the vast lift complex of Verbier.
A dozen other skiers who summited with us identify the big peaks with a half-dozen different languages. Then, in their hurry to lay tracks through last night's gift of fresh powder, they cram unchewed salami down their esophagi. We lounge on the summit, luxuriating in our rare success. With no avalanche threat between us and the hut, we dedicate hours to photographing John jumping cliffs amidst a spectacular backdrop of rock needles.
The slanting rays of sun glisten golden as we pack away cameras and prepare for the long powder run leading to Miller Time. It takes all of one turn on our east-facing descent slopes to discover that the eight inches of powder we ascended is powder no more.
By the chill of late afternoon, our powder-turned-slush skims over with a wicked crust--which leaves us in a Sir Arnoldian quandary. On the one hand he advises, "In May and June the ski-runner can choose between skiing down before the sun has quite melted the snow or waiting till the evening for the wet heavy snow to refreeze." On the other hand he says, "...no use specializing in easy snow...Skiing consists in facing, not in shirking, difficulties."
We opt to earn Sir Arnold's respect (and to reach the beckoning beers), by facing our difficulties. Practicing jackhammer skiing, we launch ourselves above the snow with every turn and smash the crust as we descend. An exhausting 3500 vertical feet lower, we look back at the tight zigzag stitches sewn into the slopes.
The stars go out one by one as the rising sun illuminates the great walls of ice armoring the massive bulk of the Grand Combin. It's the first time we've beaten the sun out of bed and Sir Arnold is with me as we witness nonhuman sights at inhuman hours: "The dawn which one has earned by long hours of toil beneath the frosty stars are more wonderful than those which one watches in comfort from a bedroom window. There is a close connection between the ascetic and the aesthetic."
We move steadily and top the 11,500-foot Col de Pannossiere before the sun has converted the steep eastern slopes to slide-prone slush. Beyond this col, time strips away and we enter an Alpine back-eddy few skiers visit each winter. We faintly taste the appeal that Sir Arnold tasted years ago when he was one of the few explorers venturing into the mountains during the snowy months."If you feel that the Alps are played out, vulgarized and overcrowded, you need only revisit them in winter to find that the hills have recaptured their immortal maidenhood."
I study the map with Sir Arnold's eyes. Ski the fall line and we'll contend with crust that has weakened, but not yet softened, in the sun. Take a long traverse, however, and we'll intersect long northern slopes that just might have held their powder.
We traverse and find the powder. Massive slopes of it. With technique derived from long hours on the downhill slopes, we rip it apart with style that, for once, would have kindled envy in the Englishman. For 2000 feet we surf, then we look back and confirm that, "An intersecting pattern of tempo turns on a canvas undefiled by beginners is among the loveliest of man's contributions to natural beauty."
Abruptly the snow on the lower glacier turns sour. Equally abruptly the glacier fractures into an icefall. Contouring sees us around the difficulty of the icefall but does not solve the difficulty of the snow. Sir Arnold keeps pestering me: "A clever runner will often find an oasis of good snow while the rest of the party--within a few yards of him--are struggling with crust."
Suddenly the glacier hooks west and presents the solution I seek. I ski up onto the south-facing moraine and cut long sweeping, off-fall-line turns through soft corn snow. Hank sticks to the glacier, performing spectacular crust crashes. Is he being unclever or is he unwilling to specialize in easy snows? Which of us is the purest disciple of Sir Arnold?
We slough off several thousand feet of vertical and abruptly the boards slide off snow and onto grass pocked with patches of purple crocuses. Ancient but well-kept livestock sheds dot these inclined pastures and far below a gray mosaic of slate roofs marks our final destination--the village of Bourg St. Pierre.
I sit to enjoy a moment of magic that Sir Arnold understood well: "..the Alps are at their loveliest in May...You begin the day linking Christianas down some glacier pass, and wind up at sunset with a stroll through the scented pines down through pastures rich in gentian and anemone." He also understood the accompanying sense of loss. "To tired and badly sun-scorched men, the delight of leaving the snowfields and coming down to the garden...is only second to the delight of getting back to high levels."
Sir Arnold loiters with us as we lie in this alm, steeping in both the new life around us and the new memories forged by the glacial world above. Our senses are tuned to an afterglow of emotions that has lingered here for long decades. We hear Sir Arnold's call and could happily return to the dazzling monotony of his white world, but the pull of families, friends, and jobs is stronger than the pull of our dead mountain master. Sadly, we pack our skis: A perfect alpine day--like Sir Arnold himself--is on its way to becoming nothing but a memory.
Details, Details, Details
Books: Sir Arnold Lunn (1888-1974), wrote dozens of books on subjects as varied as travel, politics, and religion. His best ski-related works include: Alpine Skiing at All Heights and Seasons, The Mountains of Youth, and Mountains of Memory.
Information: To plan ski-touring or ski-mountaineering holidays in Switzerland, contact the Swiss National Tourist Office, 310-335-5982. It can answer questions about trains, hotels, maps, mountaineering schools, club huts... Swiss Alpine Club Huts can be used by nonmembers. Nonmembers pay, on average, about $18 per night for dormitory accommodations. Huts eliminate the need to carry sleeping bags, tents, pots, stoves, and tons of clothing. Bring your own food (dinners should be easy, 1-pot meals that the hut warden will usually cook for you) or purchase breakfasts and dinners at the huts (buying both meals runs about $19/day). Get a free listing of the Swiss Alpine Club huts from the Swiss National Tourist Office and use this to make reservations at the huts you plan to visit (especially if you're skiing in April--high season for randonnee tours).
Guides: Skiers who are not avalanche, and glacier, savvy will find a certified guide good for their health. For an excellent English-speaking guide, contact Rinaldo Borra, Bergfuhrer und Skilehrer, 3933 Staldenried, Switzerland, 077-28-81-43. A listing of other guides is available through the Swiss National Tourist Office.
