The Climb

The Climb

It was the 14th of July, 1865, and we made the summit of Matterhorn and were on our way down. A beautiful Matterhorn mountain was on the border of Italy and Switzerland. Matterhorn and its steep faces, snow, and falling rocks, conquered. Fourteen thousand, six hundred and ninety-two feet accomplished. We had taken the Hörnli ridge and were successful. There were eight of us on the team and excitement flowed through each of our bodies. The region's regular storms did not hold us from victory over the rival Italian team.

We came to a stop, perhaps it was to catch our breath or to look into the next maneuver down. The man, Croz, who led the team, had decided to begin the descent again. Hadow, the inexperienced man behind Croz, had lost his footing and fell onto him. It could have been the loose snow or the difficult rock to secure onto, either way, Hadow's fall caused the next two men behind to be pulled with him. Each one landed on their back and began the descent downward. The four who remained were on luck's side that day. The rope snapped and saved the last four.

It happened in slow motion, we watched as the four men fell to their deaths. Their arms had reached out for anything which could have stopped the fall downward. One by one, they were swallowed by the mountainside. The screams for help and despair filled the air. Each man disappeared before our eyes. We stood still for what seemed hours. It had been no more than half hour. No one moved from their spot. Uncertainty rang in our ears. Paralyzed by fear of death; perhaps ours, but certainly of those below.

Those screams would haunt us for years to come. Three of the bodies were recovered, that of Croz, Hadow and Hudson. The bodies had lain in unmentionable positions. Rag dolls among the glaciers was what claimed by the search and rescue teams. One body was never discovered, his was that of Lord Douglas, the ninth Marquess of Queensbury. All but one was given a proper burial.

Innuendoes of murder would follow for years. It was salt on an open wound. The first team to make the summit. A bitter sweet ascent for the survivors. One for the history books for sure. The team of Edward Whymper won and lost on the 14th of July, 1865.