CHAPTER IXTHE BIFERTENSTOCK
Farto the north of the main chain of the Alps there lies a range of mountains crowned by the two outstanding summits of the Tödi and the Bifertenstock. The former, rising from the lowlands of the Linth Valley to an altitude of 11,887 feet, is the loftier of the two and justly gives its name to the group; but the latter far excels it in beauty and impressiveness, and gives its name to the greatest glacier of the group, which flows down the deep cleft valley between the “King of the Little Mountains,” as the Tödi has appropriately been named, and the stupendous precipices of the north-west wall of the Bifertenstock. The range is within easy reach of Zürich by rail, and affords climbing of almost any degree of difficulty, from the simplest of snow trudges to the most desperately hard ice or rock ascents. Small wonder, then, that climbers flock hither in their numbers during the week-ends, and that daily throughout July and August the more accessible club-huts are crowded to overflowing. The vast majority of these mountaineers, however, have designs upon the Tödi alone. For hours on end they trudge up the wearisome upper slopes of the Biferten Glacier to the summit, whence, after enjoying one of the most wonderful panoramic views in the Alps, they return contented to the valleys. A few, imbued with the pioneering spirit, or to whom the spice of danger and the sense of achievement after hard-fought battles are of stronger allure than thewonders of the summit view, desert the well-trodden glacier track and sally forth to grapple with unsolved problems, or problems so seldom attacked that they are still clothed in the nimbus of the mysterious and superlatively difficult.
A glance at the three main stages in the history of the exploration of these “Little Mountains” is astonishingly interesting, not only for its own sake, but for the light it throws on the trend of modern mountaineering. The story of the conquest of the range begins with Pater Placidus à Spescha, a jovial monk and surely one of the stoutest-hearted men that ever lived. Climbing alone or with the most inefficient of companions, and inadequately equipped, he accomplished some astonishing feats, which even to-day would stand well to the credit of an expert mountaineer. To give the details of his many conquests and valuable contributions towards the topographical knowledge of the Bündner Alps, would be beyond the scope of this book; but as an example of his outstanding perseverance it may be mentioned that this Swiss priest made no less than six attempts to reach the summit of Piz Rusein, the highest of the three summits of the Tödi, and that his last attempt, also unsuccessful, was made at the age of seventy-two. When we consider that his explorations were carried out towards the close of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century, at a time when the belief had not yet died out that the mountains were the abode of fearsome and savage dragons, and when the inhabitants of a secluded valley, such as the one whence this valiant pioneer hailed, were still ready to condemn as sacrilegious any unwonted activities on the part of a member of their community, we are filled with amazed admiration at the intrepidity, resolution and prowess of this valiant monk. Contemptuous of discomfort and danger, defiant ofcriticism and defeat, ever aspiring towards the highest his little mountain world held forth to him, actuated only by love of the mountains and a lively, intelligent curiosity as to what secrets lay hidden therein, without hope of gain, Pater Placidus à Spescha well deserves recognition as one of the fathers of mountaineering. With the cessation of his climbing career in 1824 ends the first stage in the history of the exploration of the Tödi range.[4]
The second stage sees the rise of a protagonist of other mettle, the chamois hunter, strong, sure-footed, quick to grasp the use of rope and axe, and possessing valuable local knowledge, but for the most part lacking in initiative and slow to understand the joy in climbing for climbing’s sake. He was soon induced by offers of generous payment to turn guide and place his skill and physical strength at the disposal of the stranger, whose self-imposed task it was to supply the initiative in which his employee was deficient and to arouse in him the energy and will-power without which nothing would have been accomplished. From 1830 onwards, the summits of the range of the Tödi shared the fate of mountains throughout the length and breadth of the Alps, and fell before the onslaughts of parties composed of amateurs aided by professional mountaineers, or, in short, guided parties. But the conquest of the last virgin peak still left much work to be done; only the fringe of the pioneering had been touched, for, as a rule, the first ascent opened up but one way to the summit, and that usually the easiest and least interesting. And so it came about that, as the numbers of unclimbedmountains decreased, the attention of the more ambitious climber turned towards the discovery of new routes. In the greater mountain groups of the Alps, success in this new line again fell almost exclusively to guided parties, the amateur members of which, generally speaking, continued to supply the mental stimulus, while the guides, by virtue of their greater climbing ability, superior physical strength and improving knowledge in all practical matters pertaining to their new craft, were able not only to help them to overcome the mountaineering difficulties encountered, but also to ensure their immunity from the subjective—that is avoidable, given the exercise of due skill and precaution—dangers inherent in the pursuit. In the range of the Tödi, however, it was otherwise. After the conquest of the individual peaks, little was done by way of opening up new routes, and a period of comparative stagnation set in.
Towards the latter end of the last century, the old style amateur climber, a true lover of mountain adventure, was rarely seen in this corner of the Alps. Not that there was any deficiency of climbers, for even then had appeared the sure signs of the impending deluge. The little Grünhorn club-hut, the first of many huts built by the Swiss Alpine Club for the benefit of mountaineers, and which still stands on a rocky spur of the Tödi hard by the Biferten Glacier, no longer harboured an occasional party at distant intervals, but was regularly so overcrowded that a larger hut, the St. Fridolin’s, was built to relieve the congestion. Whence came these throngs of climbers, and who were they?
So far the Alps had been almost exclusively the playground of a small, select circle composed of men of leisure and means who could afford to pay for the by no means inexpensive services of guides and the charges for theirupkeep while engaged. Within the circle there soon moved two classes; the first consisted of the real pioneers, true lovers of mountain adventure, and the second of imitators, who climbed because climbing was deemed fashionable. In course of time, here and there from out the ranks of these early amateur climbers would come one or two, vaguely moved perhaps by the supreme joys that unaided achievement might bring, to dispense for a space with professional help and climb “on their own.” From them sprang the modern guideless climber. Rendered inarticulate at first by the appearance of the new species, it was not long ere certain members of the climbing fraternity of the day had collected themselves enough to pour unstinted abuse upon those who dared to indulge in the new form of mountaineering. They condemned climbing without guides as suicidal, and therefore wicked and immoral, and started out to strangle the new tendency in its cradle. They all but succeeded. Yet one of their strongest contentions, to the effect that the practice was fraught with undue danger and likely to lead to unnecessary loss of life, will not bear the cold light of fact; statistics of mountaineering accidents show, if anything, that the percentage of casualties amongst the guided exceeds that amongst the unguided. In condemning climbing without guides, they were attempting to deny for ever to the youth, who could not afford the luxury of a guide, the adventure, health and happiness that are to be found in the mountains, and did their utmost to pinion his wings. Fortunately, the new movement weathered the storm and steadily pursued its course, until to-day purely amateur parties completely outnumber the guided. Nor are the ranks of the guideless recruited solely from those who cannot afford the expense of guides; on thecontrary, many of the old faith, having once tasted of the more satisfying joys of the new, have definitely embraced the latter.
The statement has been made more than once, and may even be seen in print, that the first-class amateur is superior, as a mountaineer, to the first-class guide. Surely such a statement can emanate only from those who have no actual,personalexperience of the highest capacities of a great guide. The truth is, that the first-class guides of the Alps number less than the fingers of one’s two hands, and—let us be humble—the first-class, British, all-round amateur mountaineers less than one third of that. The ideal, strongest mountaineering party would be composed of two or more first-rate guides; but obviously such a party has noraison d’être. The next strongest party, therefore, would be a combination of first-class guides and first-class amateurs. Such a party would be able to attack the most difficult mountaineering problems with the greatest possible prospects of success and a wide margin of safety. Herein is probably the chief reason why a few proficient amateurs still endeavour to obtain the services of the few guides of the highest rank.
With the firm establishment of guideless mountaineering, the exploration of the range of the Tödi entered upon its last phase. Diffident of their powers, the new climbers who thronged the Grünhorn, St. Fridolin’s, and other club-huts were at first content to feel their feet on the old familiar paths; but soon the more adventurous began to yield to the lure of the unknown and seek their chosen summit by hitherto untrodden ways. Almost without exception, the discovery of every subsequent new route up the mountains of the Tödi group has fallen to the lot of guideless climbers. To-day,in this part of the Alps, a guided party is seldom seen, and then, as a rule, only on the well-beaten track which marks the easiest way up one or other of the more popular summits. So successfully have these keen young men carried out their work that the end of the era of exploration in the range of the Tödi is in sight. Possibilities of new routes still exist, though it is only too obvious that these will provide climbing of exceptional difficulty and tax the capabilities of the guideless climber to the uttermost. Of the few fine problems still awaiting solution, perhaps the most alluring is the crossing of the Bifertenlücke, one of the wildest and grandest of Alpine passes.
Early in September, 1913, persistent snowfalls having seriously impaired climbing conditions in the Mont Blanc group, Guy Forster and I turned our attention to the range of the Tödi where, thanks to its position well to the north of the main chain of the Alps and comparatively low elevation, climbing possibilities were still at their best and likely to remain so for some time. Our main interest centred on the Bifertenstock, whose culminating point reaches an altitude of 11,241 feet above sea-level. Belted, as it were, from head to foot with girdle upon girdle of bronze-coloured rock besprinkled with the crystal of snow and ice, the Bifertenstock was unique not only in appearance, but in that its west ridge, which rears itself up out of the Bifertenlücke towards the summit in a series of huge, precipitous, even overhanging buttresses, had never suffered the imprint of human foot. Here was one of the few problems that still awaited the explorer in the Tödi. More than one party of mountaineers had gone up to the Bifertenlücke with the avowed intention of climbing this ridge; but the aspect of the first buttress, a tremendous overhanging corner risingstraight out of the pass, had so successfully repelled them all that no one had ever even come to grips with it. On September 5, 1913, in the hope of meeting with better fortune, Forster and I set out from Zürich to investigate the chances of success. As there is so far no direct approach from the north to the Bifertenlücke, whence the climb must begin, we selected as our base the Ponteglias hut which stands on the southern side of the range.
The Bifertenstock from the Bündner Tödi.
The west ridge commences in the Bifertenlücke, just beyond the snow slope in the foreground.
Facing page 128.
A five-hours’ rail journeyviaCoire brought us to the village of Truns in the Rhine Valley, whence professional help in the shape of a guide assisted in carrying up to the hut our ponderous rucksacks replete with a full week’s provisions, ropes, spare clothes, photographic equipment and all the other things that add to the interest and comfort of life in the solitudes. Towards nightfall, after a laborious three hours’ walk through the narrow, steep Ponteglias Valley, we arrived at the hut where our guide, having dumped his load, was paid off and returned to the village. Plans for the following day provided only for an ascent of the Bündner Tödi, a little snow-capped summit to the west of the Bifertenlücke, whence a commanding view of the west ridge of the Bifertenstock could be obtained, and for a reconnaissance, at close quarters, of the first great buttress of the ridge. There was, therefore, no need for an early start on the morning of the 6th. It was daylight when we arose to cook a breakfast which proved so much to our liking that we immediately set to and prepared another even more sumptuous one. At length, in the bright sunshine of a cloudless day we sallied forth. For an hour we strolled leisurely up the gently-rising, stone-strewn surface of the Ponteglias Glacier which reaches from just below the Bifertenlücke to within a few hundred yards of the hut. At the pointwhere the glacier becomes snow-covered and crevassed and rises more steeply towards its source, we put on the rope and steered an uneventful, zig-zag course round the more fissured zones towards a little scree slope lying just below the Bifertenlücke. At 9 a.m. we were in the pass, and looking down the breathless precipice that falls away to the Biferten Glacier. Here we deposited the knapsacks and, after twenty minutes’ trudge up a broad snow ridge, gained the summit of the Bündner Tödi.
A careful glance at the west ridge of the Bifertenstock sufficed to show that the only really crucial sections were the first and last buttresses. But these two steps, the first rising out of the pass and the last leading on to the final easy summit ridge, were so awe-inspiring and immense that they seemed fashioned only for Titans. The first, in particular, looked absolutely impregnable, and, had the usual everyday conception of the sporting element been present, there is no doubt that the betting would have been largely in favour of the Bifertenstock’s west ridge remaining inviolate. But we were both too old hands at the game to be dismissed by mere appearances, and returned to the Bifertenlücke to prepare for a closer examination of the initial difficulty. Back at the spot where the knapsacks were dumped, we settled down to a meal and a smoke; and then, as the rock was limestone, upon which nails can get but little grip, we replaced our boots by rope-soled canvas shoes and roped on at each end of one of the two one-hundred-foot climbing ropes. Leaving almost all our kit behind, we moved up to the attack, Forster armed with the second rope and my camera and I with apiton.[5]While still only a short distance along thenarrow but not very steep ridge from the Bifertenlücke, we found ourselves at the foot of the obstacle, a smooth, perpendicular, at times even overhanging, corner of rock about one hundred and sixty feet in height. Further progress along the crest of the ridge was out of the question. To the right, smooth, vertical slabs crowned by an overhang and utterly devoid of hand- or foothold, completely excluded any possibility of climbing on that side. But in the wall on our left lay the semblance of a chance. It was very steep, indeed beetling in places; but the rock was not so pitilessly smooth as elsewhere, and it looked sufficiently broken to afford some hand- and foothold. The route would lead us on to the face of the giddy precipice that falls away to the Biferten Glacier over three thousand feet below; but it was the one possible line of ascent. Forster placed himself securely at the foot of the great step and, well-braced to hold me in the event of a slip, paid out my rope inch by inch whilst I made my way leftwards along a narrow, sloping, terribly exposed ledge.
After working along the ledge for about thirty feet, I saw above me an ill-defined, shallow chimney which, though overhanging towards the top, might have afforded some possibility of climbing directly upwards; but to attempt it seemed likely to prove such a desperate venture that I decided to keep to the route across the precipice in the hope of finding a better way up. This further search failed in its object, and there remained nothing but to go back and try conclusions with the chimney. First I returned to where Forster was standing, then, making sure that my shoelaces were tightly tied and the ends well tucked away, and that the rope about my chest was not so tight as to interfere with freedom of movement, I returned to the ledge and at 10 a.m.began to grapple with the chimney. Handholds and footholds proved to be of the minutest, and the rock was unreliable. Every hold had to be carefully tested before use. Inch by inch, painfully slowly and exerting every effort of which I was capable, I gained in height. The upper, overhanging portion of the chimney required an almost desperate struggle before it yielded, but I was at last able to grasp a large and firm handhold and drag myself on to a platform at the top. This platform was none too commodious; about a foot wide and no more than eighteen inches long, it sloped slightly downwards and afforded room for only one man. Nevertheless, it gave me an opportunity to stand and rest while I nerved myself for the next pitch. A little to the left, a fairly clean-cut chimney commenced, which led up towards and ended underneath a gigantic, protruding tooth. I thought, however, that it might be possible to avoid the overhang by leaving the chimney about half-way up and, by traversing over some slabs to the right, gain the crest of the ridge of the great buttress at a point where it was climbable. So I set out to put my idea to the test, but had not gone far up the chimney before the weight of the rope between myself and Forster, who was now a good thirty feet below and as much to one side, threatened to destroy my balance. Returning to the platform, I took in the rope while Forster climbed up towards me. At the very moment when he grasped the good handhold and was ready to pull himself on to the platform, I vacated it and recommenced work on the chimney. We were now in a situation which should rarely, if ever, occur in mountain climbing. A slip on the part of either would have involved the fall of both. There was no projecting piece of rock within reach over which to belay the rope, neither did the platform on which he stood afford sufficiently good footing to enableForster to hold me in the event of an ill-judged movement or false step on my part. Climbing the chimney which was already taxing my powers to the full, I should have been powerless to arrest a slip on my companion’s part. No matter who fell first, he would drag the other after him. Fully realising the precariousness of the position, we climbed on, determined not to slip, and exercising all the care and skill at our command.
On drawing level with the slabs across which I had thought to reach the ridge, they looked so forbidding that, situated as we were, the risk of embarking upon them without the safeguard of a belay appeared too great. So I proceeded farther up the chimney until my way was blocked by the overhang at the top. Jamming myself securely in the now narrower and deeper cleft, I took thepitonfrom my pocket and with the help of a stone hammered it well into a little fissure seaming the smooth rock wall on my left. Then I unroped, passed the end of the rope through the ring of thepitonand tied myself on once more. It was a lengthy process, for I had only one hand to spare for the work, but well worth the trouble, as it put an end to the unpleasant situation in which we had found ourselves ever since Forster had come up to the platform. Thepitonwas firm, and it would now be an easy matter for either of us to hold the other in the event of a slip. After retreating half-way down the chimney, I worked out across the slabs to the right. They by no means belied their appearance and afforded most difficult climbing. But as the rope passed from me up to thepitonand then down to Forster, any tendency to slip could be immediately and easily checked. Once across the treacherous slabs, a quick scramble up firm and easy rocks landed me on a spacious platform on the very crest of theridge. Glancing upwards, I saw that, in so far as the rest of the buttress was concerned, all serious difficulties were over.
Forster now prepared to join me. Climbing up to thepiton, he unroped, withdrew his end of the rope from the ring and tied himself on again. He then descended the upper half of the chimney, carefully negotiated the slabs and climbed swiftly up to me. Together on the roomy ledge, we yelled ourselves hoarse in giving vent to our hitherto pent-up feelings and in anticipating the triumph of which we now felt assured. It was half-past noon; so exigent had been the ascent that we had taken two and a half hours to accomplish this small section. We had, however, made up our minds to push on the reconnaissance as far as the top of the buttress; so, after regaining our breath, we set to to tackle what remained of it.
The crest of the ridge once again became too smooth and precipitous, but close to it, on the right, a feasible route could be detected. It led up steep slabs to the foot of a crack which debouched on the very summit of the buttress. The rope was all paid out before I had gained the crack, and Forster had to make his way up towards me. But I had good standing ground on a fairly wide ledge and could hold his rope securely. He was about fifteen feet below me and just about to wrestle with the hardest part of the ascent when, in an effort to improve my footing the better to cope with a slip, I felt the greater part of the ledge, which I had hitherto looked upon as solid with the mountain, break away from under my feet, and a great mass of rock slithered down the slabs, aiming with deadly accuracy at Forster. Powerless to move out of its way, he received a glancing blow which inflicted a deep scalp wound and all but stunned him. Swept out of his holds by the impact, he was left hanging helpless in mid-air. By all that is merciful, however, sufficient had remained of theledge to leave me with just enough footing to withstand the strain on the rope and hold Forster up. Blood was spurting freely from the wound in his head, the extent of the injury was unknown, and no time was to be lost in getting to a place of safety, where it would be possible to staunch the flow. Staggered though he was and dripping with blood, Forster still had his wits about him. As I held his rope taut, he climbed up to me and took his stand on what was left of the ledge, while I made my way up to the foot of the crack and, with all possible haste, gained the broad level platform at the top of the buttress. There he rejoined me. Inspection revealed the reassuring fact that the extent of his injuries was limited to the scalp wound, which, however, still bled freely. By means of a few sheets of paper kept firmly in position underneath a knitted silken cap, the flow was eventually stopped. Except in its purely physical result, the little drama had not adversely affected either of us. Indeed, if there had previously been any doubt as to the final conquest of the west ridge of the Bifertenstock, there could be none now. The rough handling had got our blood up, and we felt the ridge was doomed. For the present we had fulfilled the object with which we had set out, namely the reconnaissance of the first great obstacle, and it behoved us to return to the Bifertenlücke where we had deposited our kits. We did not, however, hasten our retreat; for Forster was weakened through loss of blood, and, that he might recover his strength as far as possible, we rested on top of the buttress for over an hour. Building a cairn, smoking and chatting the while, the time flew past merrily enough, and at 2 p.m. we turned to face the problem of the descent.
Exercising the greatest possible care, all went well as far as the platform whence it was necessary to traverse out acrossthe slabs leading to the chimney near which thepitonwas fixed. It was obvious that the last man down could neither venture across these slabs nor descend the final, shallow chimney below without the steadying help of a rope from above. Held firmly on the rope by me, Forster moved out across the slabs and climbed up to thepiton, where he unroped, threaded his rope through the ring of thepiton, re-roped, and then descended right down on to the lowest ledge and over to the good standing ground on the ridge at the foot of the buttress. There he again unroped and tied the spare rope on to the end of the one passing through thepitonto me. It was now my turn to go down. I crossed the slabs with due care, but, thanks to the assistance of the improvised belay, the rest of the descent was a simple matter, and in a few minutes I had rejoined my companion. I untied myself, and, by hauling on the spare, the climbing rope was pulled down through the ring of thepitonand recovered. A little later, in the Bifertenlücke, my camera had made a faithful record of Forster’s blood-bespattered condition. Our sensational entry into the Ponteglias hut was witnessed only by the too friendly sheep that haunt the surrounding grassy slopes.
On the following day the weather broke and snow fell. But we cared little, and time passed pleasantly in the preparation and consumption of oft-repeated meals. On September 8, the weather was once more fine, but the desire to be up and doing had to be curbed until the sun should melt the fresh snow that lay on the Bifertenstock, and yet another day was spent in cooking and eating, and in frustrating the effects of over-indulgence with spasmodic bouts of step-cutting practice on the snout of the Ponteglias Glacier. Towards evening we packed the rucksacks and made everything ready for an early start on the morrow.
“...a faithful record of Forster’s blood-bespattered condition.”
Facing page 136.
At 5 a.m. on September 9, we left the comfort of the hut and in little more than two hours had gained the Bifertenlücke. Then, exchanging the heavy mountain boots for rope-soled shoes, we commenced the attack upon the west ridge in real earnest. Leaving my knapsack and ice-axe with Forster at the foot of the great buttress, I worked out along the ledge, climbed up the shallow chimney and, gaining the little platform, paused to rest after my exertions. Then, being now familiar with the position of every handhold in the next chimney, I climbed quickly up to thepiton, threaded the rope through the ring and crossed over the slabs lower down to the broad ledge on the right. As soon as I had firmly established myself, Forster unroped. Drawing the rope free from thepiton, I flung it down to him so that he might tie on to it our knapsacks and axes; the latter were necessary, for it was our intention to traverse the mountain, descending by the south ridge and the Frisallücke. The goods were soon pulled up to my level and removed, and once more the coils of rope swished through the air to Forster, who again tied himself on and was soon up beside me. From here onwards, past the scene of the accident to the foot of the last great buttress, all was plain sailing. Five intermediate steps or buttresses had to be surmounted. One yielded to a frontal attack; the others were turned without great difficulty either on their right or left. Twice we had to take to steep snow, a change of footgear being necessary on both occasions. At length we stood on the ridge at the foot of the last buttress, the most formidable barrier remaining between us and success. The ridge itself and the wall to the left both overhung to such an extent that they defied attack. To the right, however, the rocks were less steep and more broken up, and for about one hundred feetwe made our way across them under the great wall of the step. On attempting to strike upwards, however, we found that we had misjudged the gradient, and after a stern struggle I recoiled defeated. We then continued our traverse still further to the right across a series of smooth, precipitous slabs where, for the second time on this ridge, in spite of the great length of rope at our disposal, the utter absence of belays or suitable standing grounds forced us into a situation in which the protection afforded by the rope was nil, and a slip on the part of one of us would have involved the destruction of both. Each knowing that where one could climb the other could follow, and both confident that neither would slip, we did not dream of retreat. But had we been at the mercy of a companion who was clumsy and frequently in need of assistance, even at this advanced stage where we were so near our goal, we would have broken off the climb. Why, one may ask, not dispense with the rope altogether in such a situation where it is little more than a dangerous encumbrance? My reply is a simple statement of fact, from which each may draw his own inferences. I would prefer not to climb with the man who advocates such a policy.
Safely over the slabs, we came to the foot of a very steep, shallow gully leading to a great snow cornice on the ridge above the buttress. With much difficulty we climbed the first hundred feet and reached a broad, almost level shelf barely fifty feet below the cornice. A huge lump of the latter had fallen away, leaving a gap that gave easy access to the ridge. Between us and the gap lay a stretch of easy, broken rocks, so, once more changing footgear and donning mountain boots, we scrambled up and at last stepped out through the cornice back on to the ridge.
A north breeze, cool and bracing, met us. The snowunder foot sparkled in the brilliant noonday light. The neighbouring peaks stood up bold and sharp in the clear atmosphere. The sun flooded all with warmth. It was good to be alive. A last, half-whimsical glance at the little St. Fridolin’s hut, a tiny brown speck at the foot of the great four-thousand-foot wall, and we turned our steps along the snow-crested ridge towards the summit. Chipping a step here and there where the cornice forced us out on to the steep north flank, we mounted speedily. One more clamber over a pitch of easy, broken rocks and the fight was over. At 2 p.m. we stood atop of the Bifertenstock.
FOOTNOTES:[4]Those interested in the exploits of Placidus à Spescha would do well to consult the articles contributed to the Alpine Journal byDr.H. Dübi andMr.D. W. Freshfield.Mr.Freshfield, the greatest living British mountaineering explorer, was one of the pioneers of climbing in the range of the Tödi.[5]A stout iron pin or nail provided with a ring at one end.
FOOTNOTES:
[4]Those interested in the exploits of Placidus à Spescha would do well to consult the articles contributed to the Alpine Journal byDr.H. Dübi andMr.D. W. Freshfield.Mr.Freshfield, the greatest living British mountaineering explorer, was one of the pioneers of climbing in the range of the Tödi.
[4]Those interested in the exploits of Placidus à Spescha would do well to consult the articles contributed to the Alpine Journal byDr.H. Dübi andMr.D. W. Freshfield.Mr.Freshfield, the greatest living British mountaineering explorer, was one of the pioneers of climbing in the range of the Tödi.
[5]A stout iron pin or nail provided with a ring at one end.
[5]A stout iron pin or nail provided with a ring at one end.