George Finch was then twenty-two years old, broad shouldered and a touch over six feet tall. Fine-featured like his mother, he was as fair as she was dark, although he also shared her piercing pale-blue eyes – ‘glacial’, as someone would call them. It wasn’t just his physical appearance that commanded a level of respect but his manner: assured and charming for the most part, but with a mind of his own and an abrasiveness that sometimes raised the ire of others. And he did not suffer fools silently.
His entry into Zürich university life hadn’t been as easy as he might have hoped. The first problem had been the language. He could now speak French fluently and without a telltale Australian accent, but his courses were taught in German and he’d had to learn the language in little more than six months. For some reason he’d chosen as a tutor a clergyman from the Swiss village of Gais (probably because it was close to an attractive set of mountain peaks) only to find when he arrived in Zürich that he had learned a local dialect that could barely be understood in the city. It took a crash course from another tutor over a matter of weeks to correct things.
His linguistic talents did not go unnoticed among his fellow students at the Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule, otherwise known as ETH (or, in English, the Federal Institute of Technology), when he enrolled in the autumn of 1907. Initial guffaws at the new boy’s dialect turned to admiration and he quickly became a class leader. He was a young man who wanted challenges but also expected definitive answers. Medicine had not suited his academic curiosity because it couldn’t provide the latter. Besides, he didn’t like the dissecting room, perhaps because of his nauseating experience years before in the backstreet restaurant in Paris.
Outside the classroom, he pursued the piano with some zeal. His love of music had been fostered by his mother, a keen harpist as well as singer, from an early age. While studying in Zürich, George sought the advice of the famed Austrian pianist Artur Schnabel, querying whether he was good enough to pursue a career as a concert pianist. The conversation was staccato.
‘Tell me truthfully, how good am I?’ George asked.
‘You are first-rate second-rate,’ Schnabel replied.
‘I thought so,’ said George.
And that was that. George not only abandoned the idea of being a concert pianist but apparently stopped playing the piano almost entirely. He would always retain a love of classical music and would often be seen, even in later life, reading books of music scores.
The perfectionist in him was simply unable to cope with the notion of not being quite good enough. Besides, he was obsessed with climbing mountains and could channel his passion into that endeavour. When Max later moved to Zürich to study, the brothers resumed their affair with intoxicating adventure.
The Alps were spawned by a clash of continents 300 million years ago, an incremental grind of Africa and Eurasia which crushed and concertinaed the earth’s crust, causing the mountain range to rise like a gigantic twisted spine running from the Mediterranean to the Adriatic.
The jagged line of peaks towers almost three miles above sea level in places, forming a 750-mile boundary between languages and cultures across eight nations and evoking stories of brave or foolhardy deeds, from the Carthaginian warlord Hannibal crossing with a herd of elephants, to the French Emperor Napoleon urging 40,000 soldiers across to retake Italy from the Austrians.
Although men had been crossing the mountains via snowy passages and across vast glaciers for thousands of years, it was only since the mid eighteenth century that the summits themselves had become of interest, not because they offered practical riches but because they satisfied the base human desire to conquer. To men like George and Max Finch the Alps were a playground of risk and reward they could not resist.
The pair sought increasing challenges every weekend and every university holiday, often basing themselves for days and even weeks at a time in one of the many mountain cabins set up by Alpine clubs. They tackled new peaks every day, returning to the cabin each night where they nestled under blankets to sleep on musty, straw-filled bunks with only a small stove to warm the room, their spare accommodation only heightening the experience.
Meals were basic but in those surroundings they were feasts. George’s favourite was tinned peaches drizzled with thin cream, usually eaten as they sat on a rock ledge, feet dangling into the abyss, or as they gazed over the Alpine spine after they’d conquered yet another peak. The meal was invariably preceded and followed by a cup of tea boiled from snow and the obligatory cigarette.
Laura Finch had long bowed to the inevitable and stopped trying to curtail her sons’ adventures. The brothers were free to tackle the highest peak in the Glarus Alps, the Tödi, which stood at almost 11,900 feet. Their only concession to conventional notions of proper mountaineering was to make their first climb during the summer of 1908 – but they returned a few months later to make the same climb in snow.
To George, these were just training climbs, building on the ‘scrambling’ and gradually more serious ascents he and Max had already successfully undertaken. He was developing much bigger ambitions and was happy to progress carefully and to hone the skills, learned from Christian Jossi, in handling ropes and axes. He also saw great value in planning his climbs, recognising that the use of a map and identifying sensible routes, both before and during the climb, were the difference between success and failure, even life and death.
With Max’s agreement, he decided they were ready for the most serious peaks of the Alps: ‘Our self-assurance, confidence – call it what you like – seems to have been boundless, for we now considered that our apprenticeship had been sufficiently long to justify us in letting ambitions soar into reality,’ he would later write.
Reputation meant little to George at this stage in his climbing career, particularly as he and Max felt as if they had hardly begun. In the summer of 1908, after their success on the relatively straightforward Tödi, they planned a holiday program which was ambitious in its scope and challenge, particularly for two fairly inexperienced men without guides. But it also smacked of a man of meticulous planning, which would become the hallmark of George’s later achievements.
They would begin in the Bernese Oberland, in central Switzerland, attempting and conquering the main peaks in order of height, beginning with the lowest of the monsters, the Wetterhorn, at 12,185 feet, before tackling the Eiger (13,020 feet), Mönch (13,474 feet), Jungfrau (13,641 feet) and finally the Finsteraarhorn (14,022 feet).
But that was just the start, and afterwards they made their way on skis, as they might have ridden horses back in the Australian bush, down through the Aletsch Glacier to the Rhône Valley and then up to the village of Zermatt which served as the base for the peaks of the Pennine Alps. First they climbed Dent Blanche (14,294 feet), then ascended the Matterhorn (14,691 feet), the focus of George’s hero Edward Whymper’s career and one of the deadliest peaks in the Alps.
It wasn’t just climbing peaks that attracted the brothers but traversing mountains, which meant climbing by one route and descending by another, thereby crossing them as a traveller might when moving from one region to another. There were three at least that the brothers traversed that summer: Aiguille de la Za, Aiguilles Rouges d’Arolla and Pigne d’Arolla, which all sat near the Swiss border with Italy. Still not satisfied, George and Max headed back to the Glarus region where they repeated their ascents of the main Tödi peaks.
George would rarely keep a diary of his activities but his summary of the 1908 summer gives an indication of his and Max’s incredible physical endurance and capabilities. It also indicates their growing fascination with climbing, and the hold it exerted over them, as he concluded in a later reflection:
From its chance nucleus on the hill-top in the Australian bush, snowball-wise the zest for the mountains grew until it has actually become an integral part of life itself. The health and happiness that the passion has brought with it are as incalculable as the ways of the ‘divinity that shoes our ends’ chooses our par
ents for us and places us in a certain environment.
The brothers’ first target that summer, the Wetterhorn, was not an easy ascent even in midsummer when snow and ice still capped its peak. The mountain, sitting high above the village of Grindelwald, had long been a favourite of artists, and their romantic images drew many climbers.
George and Max decided to bivouac overnight at a hut built on a spectacular overhanging ledge just over halfway to the peak. The huts were basic but provided a sanctuary for the tired and a launching pad for the careful who wanted to ensure they had time to reach the peak via the easier, north-east route, and descend before nightfall – or before the infamous changing weather of the mountains closed in.
Another climbing party of five Germans was also staying overnight at the hut, with the same intention. At 2am the next day, under moon- and lantern light, all seven men set off, George and Max in front and the Germans, roped in two groups, a few minutes behind. Within an hour, the Germans had raced past the two young men who were happy to let them go, preferring to take their time.
They caught up again just before 5am, arriving at a sheltered depression known as the Wettersattel, just as the Germans were tucking into a hearty breakfast before a final push for the summit. George and Max decided to press on after a short pause. It was still dark and a wind had risen which made sitting still uncomfortable.
They left the others and headed upwards, finding the going much easier than anticipated because a snowfall two days earlier had compacted and provided firm footing. George had expected to be cutting steps into ice, but that was only necessary for the final few yards.
Five hours after leaving the hut George and Max reached the highest peak they had ever attempted. They scraped depressions in the snow with their axes and sat contentedly to survey the scene, in no hurry to begin the return journey. The wind had died away to a whisper and the peak was bathed in sunshine, revealing in their full glory the views across the green valley, the village below and, beyond, the peaks of three of their next challenges. It was twenty minutes before two of the Germans arrived, the others having decided against making the final climb.
Their appearance shattered the peace so George and Max began their descent, a few minutes ahead of the German pair who stopped only long enough to take in the view before traipsing after the brothers. George and Max reached the top of a large gully that led to a glacier by which they planned to return to Grindelwald – a different and more difficult route than the ascent. They stopped here, intent on ensuring it was safe to make their way down the slope before setting off.
The three Germans who had not attempted the final ascent were sitting on a ledge nearby, unsure how to proceed. There were signs they had attempted to climb down the gully themselves but had given up and were waiting for their compatriots. As George surveyed the gully for potential problems and tested the snow underfoot, the first German pair arrived. They paused briefly to greet the other three before moving down the slope, taking the lead without discussion, much to George’s annoyance. A few minutes later, satisfied that the snow was firm underfoot, he and Max set off, leaving the hesitant German trio still anchored to their ledge.
George was worried, not just about the German pair’s apparent thoughtlessness, but because he now seriously doubted that they (let alone the nervous trio) had the skills necessary for such a climb. There was only one way to descend a steep snow-covered slope: with your back to the slope and stepping boldly, like a soldier, driving your heel into the ground with each step to allow your weight to create a sure footing. The Germans were taking short, hesitant steps and one was even reduced to all fours, facing into the slope and trying to descend backwards.
The men had descended about 400 feet when the slope suddenly became far steeper and the surface hard-packed. Even stepping down the slope, as George and Max had been, was no longer possible. Instead, the lead man – in the brothers’ case it was George – would have to lean into oblivion, supported by the rope tied to his brother, and wield his axe to cut steps into the compacted snow, creating an ice ladder. It was slow, dangerous work but their only option other than climbing back up.
Below them the two Germans had abandoned the slope and instead moved across to an outcrop of jagged rocks, hoping to clamber down away from the snow. George had assessed that route but dismissed it as too dangerous because the rocks were encased in a glaze of ice, making them treacherous. Step-cutting into the snow might be slower, but it was the only safe way to descend. He called out to the men in their own tongue, expressing his concern. The men stopped, unsure, and sat on the rocks to watch the two Australians.
George and Max kept going, ensuring the rope between them remained tight, as they had been taught by Christian Jossi, so that if one man slipped then the rope wouldn’t act like a whip and cause both to fall. It was another concern George had about the Germans. The rope between them was overly long – he judged it to be sixty feet – and they had struggled to manage it properly.
Moving steadily and securely the brothers soon passed the Germans, who had remained on the rocks. As George turned his attention back to the job at hand, he heard a cry. One of the men had stood up and immediately slipped on the icy rock. He was now sliding down the slope, clawing desperately at the ground to stop himself. George shouted to the second man, warning him to pull in the extra rope to help his friend slow down.
But before he could react the rope went taut and jerked the seated German from his precarious perch, sending him hurtling through the air past his stricken companion. The next few seconds were horrific as he struck an outcrop of rocks, his left arm wrenched from his shoulder socket and his chest crushed by the sharp boulders. The bloodied corpse continued to fall until the rope went taut again, this time pulling the first frightened German from the slope and repeating the horror, his head smashing open on the rocks. The two bodies tumbled in a sickening aerial ballet into the ravine, eventually disappearing into the whiteness below.
The three other Germans above were silent in their terror and despair, while George and Max, who had watched the men fall past them, could only cling to their insecure position on the side of the mountain. Minutes passed before they moved, George finally coaxing his brother to resume the descent. He cut the next step in the snow and moved down in unison with Max, then cut another and another. Then came a cry from above. The Germans were pleading with them to climb back up and get them safely back to the hut. The men were clearly paralysed with fear, the loss of their friends only highlighting their own self-doubt.
Even though they were well down the dangerous section, George and Max had no choice but to climb back and rescue the men whom they roped together and led back to the Dossen Hut where they reported the accident. Although George would later play down the incident, watching the men fall to their deaths would leave a deep psychological scar that would eventually contribute to him quitting his great infatuation.
6.
EVEREST DREAMING
The success of their 1908 summer climbing experience, even taking into account the horrific deaths of the German pair, would only spur the Finch brothers onto grander schemes. The possibilities seemed endless, particularly as George was not interested in mountain scalps so much as challenges of skill and scope involving rock, snow and, most of all, the vagaries of ice.
And the delight of their Alpine adventures fed rather than detracted from George’s studies at the ETH where he began to shine not only academically but as a prominent student figure. He joined the Academic Alpine Club of Zürich (AACZ) in 1909, presenting a catalogue of climbs that astounded the club committee, not only because of his youth but because he and Max challenged the notion that English climbers needed the help of local guides to safely negotiate Europe’s Alpine playground. To climb independently of guides was the very reason the club had been established in 1896 and George quickly became a favourite among its members.
The brothers returned to Grindelwald in the summer, this time to embrace an endurance chall
enge of traversing the three peaks of the Wetterhorn massif in a single day – the Wetterhorn, the Mittelhorn and the Rosenhorn. The attempt was launched from the Dossen Hut once more, but this time they were not alone. The brothers had brought with them a seventeen-year-old school friend of Max named Will Sturgess who had never climbed before. It seemed astonishing that George would take such a risk, but such was his self-confidence and lack of fear. In his mind, Sturgess was perfectly safe in his company.
Sturgess, for his part, seemed unperturbed even when a storm kept them inside the hut for two days. Then he slipped twice while crossing a steep snow slope on the first climb, saved by the rope and the fact he was climbing between the brothers. He seemed oblivious to the dangers as he abseiled down vertical cliffs – ‘roping down’ as it is quaintly called by mountaineers – and scrambled across ridge-tops without hesitation, convinced he was safe with George and Max Finch.
It was typical not only of the utter fearlessness of the brothers and their achievements, but of the sheer joy of their vertical frolics, whether perched on a narrow snowbound ledge cooking a meal, or setting out on a climb at midnight, hoping to catch the dawn from a summit as the morning light spread across the valleys and villages below.
One of the lasting images of this time is a photograph taken of the two brothers sunbaking on the roof of an Alpine hut called the Guggi, set into a bare ledge halfway to the summit of the Jungfrau. The view beyond them, even in the black and white of a shot taken in 1909, is spectacular, but it is the innocence of the moment that is so captivating. It is difficult to tell which figure is George and which is Max, even though they were physically different – George rangy and blond and Max shorter and darker – but both are completely at peace, one sleeping and the other gazing out over the valley.
The Brilliant Outsider Page 4
