The ascent of the Matterhorn E-Book

Edward Whymper

• Herausgeber: Cervantes Digital
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

"The ascent of the Matterhorn" is a gripping tale of adventure and determination set against the stunning backdrop of the Swiss Alps. In this thrilling account, readers are transported to the rugged peaks of the Matterhorn, one of the most iconic and challenging mountains in the world.

As the narrative unfolds, readers follow a team of intrepid climbers as they embark on a perilous journey to conquer the formidable Matterhorn. Led by experienced guides and fueled by a relentless spirit of exploration, the climbers brave treacherous terrain, unpredictable weather, and sheer rock faces in their quest to reach the summit.

But "The ascent of the Matterhorn" is more than just a story of mountaineering prowess—it's a testament to the human spirit and the pursuit of lofty goals. Through vivid descriptions and heart-pounding accounts of narrow escapes and breathtaking vistas, the author captures the essence of the mountaineering experience and the thrill of pushing oneself to the limit.

With its combination of adventure, danger, and triumph, "The ascent of the Matterhorn" is a captivating read for anyone drawn to the allure of high-altitude exploration. Whether you're an experienced climber or an armchair adventurer, this book will transport you to the majestic slopes of the Matterhorn and leave you inspired by the indomitable spirit of those who dare to reach for the sky.

Leseprobe

Copyright 2024

Cervantes Digital

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II. THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.

CHAPTER III. MY FIRST SCRAMBLE ON THE MATTERHORN.

CHAPTER IV. RENEWED ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.

CHAPTER V. THE VAL TOURNANCHE—DIRECT PASS FROM BREIL TO ZERMATT (BREUILJOCH)—ZERMATT—FIRST ASCENT OF THE GRAND TOURNALIN.

CHAPTER VI. OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.81

CHAPTER VII. FROM ST. MICHEL ON THE MONT CENIS ROAD BY THE COL DES AIGUILLES D’ARVE, COL DE MARTIGNARE, AND THE BRÈCHE DE LA MEIJE TO LA BÉRARDE.

CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE POINTE DES ECRINS.

CHAPTER IX. FROM VAL LOUISE TO LA BÉRARDE BY THE COL DE PILATTE.115

CHAPTER X. THE FIRST PASSAGE OF THE COL DE TRIOLET, AND FIRST ASCENTS OF MONT DOLENT, AIGUILLE DE TRÉLATÊTE, AND AIGUILLE D’ARGENTIÈRE.

CHAPTER XI. THE FIRST PASSAGE OF THE MOMING PASS—ZINAL TO ZERMATT.

CHAPTER XII. THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE GRAND CORNIER.

CHAPTER XIII. THE ASCENT OF THE DENT BLANCHE.

CHAPTER XIV. LOST ON THE COL D’HÉRENS.—MY SEVENTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.

CHAPTER XV. THE FIRST PASSAGE OF THE COL DOLENT.

CHAPTER XVI. THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE AIGUILLE VERTE.

CHAPTER XVII. THE FIRST PASSAGE OF THE COL DE TALÈFRE.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE RUINETTE—THE MATTERHORN.

CHAPTER XIX. THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE MATTERHORN.

CHAPTER XX. DESCENT OF THE MATTERHORN.233

APPENDIX.

A. The Death of Bennen.253

B. Struck by Lightning upon the Matterhorn.254

C. Note To Chapter VII.

D. Subsequent History of the Matterhorn.258

E. TABLE OF ATTEMPTS MADE TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN PREVIOUS TO THE FIRST ASCENT.

F. ASCENTS OF THE MATTERHORN.

G. Courte Note sur la Géologie du Matterhorn. Par Signor F. Giordano, Ingénieur en Chef des Mines d’Italie.

H. Professor Tyndall and the Matterhorn.

FOOTNOTES

PREFACE.

In the year 1860, shortly before leaving England for a long continental tour, the late Mr. William Longman requested me to make for him some sketches of the great Alpine peaks. At this time I had only a literary acquaintance with mountaineering, and had even not seen—much less set foot upon—a mountain. Amongst the peaks which were upon my list was Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphiné. The sketches that were required of it were to celebrate the triumph of some Englishmen who intended to make its ascent. They came—they saw—but they did not conquer. By a mere chance I fell in with a very agreeable Frenchman who accompanied this party, and was pressed by him to return to the assault. In 1861 we did so, with my friend Macdonald—and we conquered. This was the origin of my scrambles amongst the Alps.

The ascent of Mont Pelvoux (including the disagreeables) was a very delightful scramble. The mountain air did not act as an emetic; the sky did not look black, instead of blue; nor did I feel tempted to throw myself over precipices. I hastened to enlarge my experience, and went to the Matterhorn. I was urged towards Mont Pelvoux by those mysterious impulses which cause men to peer into the unknown. Not only was this mountain reputed to be the highest in France, and on that account was worthy of attention, but it was the dominating point of a most picturesque district of the greatest interest, which, to this day, remains almost unexplored! The Matterhorn attracted me simply by its grandeur. It was considered to be the most thoroughly inaccessible of all mountains, even by those who ought to have known better. Stimulated to make fresh exertions by one repulse after another, I returned, year after year, as I had opportunity, more and more determined to find a way up it, or to prove it to be really inaccessible.

The chief part of this volume is occupied by the history of these attacks on the Matterhorn, and the other excursions that are described have all some connection, more or less remote, with that mountain or with Mont Pelvoux. All are new excursions (that is, excursions made for the first time), unless the contrary is pointed out. Some have been passed over very briefly, and entire ascents or descents have been disposed of in a single line. Generally speaking, the salient points alone have been dwelt upon, and the rest has been left to the imagination. This treatment has spared the reader from much useless repetition.

In endeavouring to make the book of some use to those who may wish to go mountain-scrambling, whether in the Alps or elsewhere, prominence has been given to our mistakes and failures; and to some it may seem that our practice must have been bad if the principles which are laid down are sound, or that the principles must be unsound if the practice was good. The principles which are brought under the notice of the reader are, however, deduced from long experience, which experience had not been gained at the time that the blunders were perpetrated; and, if it had been acquired at an earlier date, there would have been fewer failures to record.

My scrambles amongst the Alps were a sort of apprenticeship in the art of mountaineering, and they were, for the most part, carried out in the company of men who were masters of their craft. In any art the learner, who wishes to do good work, does well to associate himself with master workmen, and I attribute much of the success which is recorded in this volume to my having been frequently under the guidance of the best mountaineers of the time. The hints and observations which are dispersed throughout the volume are not the result of personal experience only, they have been frequently derived from professional mountaineers, who have studied the art from their youth upwards.

Without being unduly discursive in the narrative, it has not been ossible to include in the text all the observations which are desirable for the general reader, and a certain amount of elementary knowledge has been pre-supposed, which perhaps some do not possess; and the opportunity is now taken of making a few remarks which may serve to elucidate those which follow.

When a man who is not a born mountaineer gets upon the side of a mountain, he speedily finds out that walking is an art; and very soon wishes that he could be a quadruped or a centipede, or anything except a biped; but, as there is a difficulty in satisfying these very natural desires, he ultimately procures an alpenstock and turns himself into a tripod. This simple implement is invaluable to the mountaineer, and when he is parted from it involuntarily (and who has not been?) he is inclined to say, just as one may remark of other friends, “You were only a stick—a poor stick—but you were a true friend, and I should like to be in your company again.”



Respecting the size of the alpenstock, let it be remarked that it may be nearly useless if it be too long or too short. It should always be shorter than the person who carries it, but it may be any length you like between three-fifths of your height and your extreme altitude. It should be made of ash, of the very best quality; and should support your weight upon its centre when it is suspended at its two ends. Unless shod with an iron point it can scarcely be termed an alpenstock, and the nature of the point is of some importance. It has a long tang running into the wood, is supported by a rivetted collar, and its termination is extremely sharp. With a point of this description steps can be made in ice almost as readily as with an axe.

A volume might be written upon the use of the alpenstock. Its principal use is as a third leg, to extend one’s base line; and when the beginner gets this well into his head he finds the implement of extraordinary value. In these latter times the pure and simple alpenstock has gone out of fashion, and mountaineers now almost universally carry a stick with a point at one end and an axe-head at the other. A moveable axe-head is still a desideratum. There is a pick-axe made at Birmingham with a moveable head which is better than any other kind that I have seen, but the head is too clumsy to be held in the hand, and various improvements will have to be effected in it before it will be fit for use in mountaineering. Still, its principle appears to me to be capable of adaptation, and on that account I have introduced it here.





After the alpenstock, or axe-alpenstock, it is of most importance for the mountaineer to supply himself with plenty of good rope. Enough has been said on this subject in different parts of the narrative, as well as in regard to tents. Few other articles are necessary, though many others are desirable, to carry about, and amongst the most important may be reckoned some simple means of boiling water and cooking. At considerable altitudes above the tree-line, it is frequently impossible to carry up wood enough for a camp-fire, and nothing but spirits of wine can be employed. The well-known and convenient so-called “Russian furnace” is the most compact form of spirit lamp that I know, and wonders can be effected with one that is only three inches in diameter. In conjunction with a set of tins like those (which are constructed to be used either with a wood fire or over a spirit lamp), all the cooking can be done that the Alpine tourist requires. For prolonged expeditions of a serious nature a more elaborate equipage is necessary; but upon such small ones as are made in the Alps it would be unnecessarily encumbering yourself to take a whole batterie de cuisine.1



Before passing on to speak of clothing, a word upon snow-blindness will not be out of place. Very fine language is sometimes used to express the fact that persons suffer from their eyes becoming inflamed; and there is one well-known traveller, at least, who, when referring to snow-blindness, speaks habitually of the distressing effects which are produced by “the reverberation of the snow.” Snow-blindness is a malady which touches all mountain-travellers sooner or later, for it is found impossible in practice always to protect the eyes with the goggles. In critical situations almost every one removes them. The beginner should, however, note that at great altitudes it is not safe to leave the eyes unprotected even on rocks, when the sun is shining brightly; and upon snow or ice it is indispensable to shade them in some manner, unless you wish to be placed hors de combat on the next day. Should you unfortunately find yourself in this predicament through the intensity of the light, there is no help but in sulphate of zinc and patience. Of the former material a half-ounce will be sufficient for a prolonged campaign, as a lotion compounded with two or three grains to an ounce of water will give relief; but of patience you can hardly lay in too large a stock, as a single bad day sometimes throws a man on his back for weeks.2



The whole face suffers under the alternation of heat, cold, and glare, and few mountain-travellers remain long without having their visages blistered and cracked in all directions. Now, in respect to this matter, prevention is better than cure; and, though these inconveniences cannot be entirely escaped, they may, by taking trouble, be deferred for a long time. As a travelling cap for mountain expeditions, there is scarcely anything better than the kind of helmet used by Arctic travellers, and with the eyes well shaded by its projecting peak and covered with the ordinary goggles one ought not, and will not, suffer much from snow-blindness. I have found, however, that it does not sufficiently shade the face, and that it shuts out sound too much when the side-flaps are down; and I consequently adopt a woollen headpiece, which almost entirely covers or shades the face and extends well downwards on to the shoulders. One hears sufficiently distinctly through the interstices of the knitted wool, and they also permit some ventilation—which the Arctic cap does not. It is a useful rather than an ornamental article of attire, and strangely affects one’s appearance.



For the most severe weather even this is not sufficient, and a mask must be added to protect the remainder of the face. You then present the appearance of the lower woodcut, and are completely disguised. Your most intimate friends—even your own mother—will disown you, and you are a fit subject for endless ridicule.



The alternations of heat and cold are rapid and severe in all high mountain ranges, and it is folly to go about too lightly clad. Woollen gloves ought always to be in the mountaineer’s pocket, for in a single hour, or less, he may experience a fall in temperature of sixty to eighty degrees. But in respect to the nature of the clothing there is little to be said beyond that it should be composed of flannels and woollens.

Upon the important subject of boots much might be written. My friends are generally surprised to find that I use elastic-side boots whilst mountaineering, and condemn them under the false impression that they will not give support to the ankles, and will be pulled off when one is traversing deep snow. I have invariably used elastic-side boots on my mountain expeditions in the Alps and elsewhere, and have found that they give sufficient support to the ankles and never draw off. My Alpine boots have always been made by Norman—a maker who knows what the requirements are, and one who will give a good boot if allowed good time.

It is fully as important to have proper nails in the boots as it is to have good boots. The quantity is frequently overdone, and when there are too many they are absolutely dangerous. Ice-nails, which may be considered a variety of crampon, are an abomination. The nails should be neither too large nor too numerous, and they should be disposed everywhere irregularly—not symmetrically. They disappear one by one, from time to time; and the prudent mountaineer continually examines his boots to see that sufficient numbers are left.3 A handkerchief tied round the foot, or even a few turns of cord, will afford a tolerable substitute when nails cannot be procured.

If the beginner supplies himself with the articles which have been named, he will be in possession of all the gear which is necessary for ordinary mountain excursions, and if he uses his plant properly he will avoid many of the disagreeables which are looked upon by some as almost unavoidable accompaniments of the sport of mountaineering. I have not throughout the volume ignored the dangers which are real and unavoidable, and say distinctly that too great watchfulness cannot be exercised at great altitudes. But I say now, as I have frequently said before, that the great majority of accidents which occur to mountaineers, especially to mountaineering amateurs in the Alps, are not the result of unavoidable dangers; and that they are for the most part the product of ignorance and neglect. I consider that falling rocks are the greatest danger which a mountaineer is likely to encounter, and in concluding these prefatory remarks I especially warn the novice against the things which tumble about the ears of unwary travellers.

CHAPTER I.

On the 23d of July 1860, I started for my first tour in the Alps. As we steamed out into the Channel, Beachy Head came into view, and recalled a scramble of many years ago. With the impudence of ignorance, my brother4 and I, schoolboys both, had tried to scale that great chalk cliff. Not the head itself—where sea-birds circle, and where the flints are ranged so orderly in parallel lines—but at a place more to the east, where the pinnacle called the Devil’s Chimney had fallen down. Since that time we have been often in dangers of different kinds, but never have we more nearly broken our necks than upon that occasion.

In Paris I made two ascents. The first to the seventh floor of a house in the Quartier Latin—to an artist friend, who was engaged, at the moment of my entry, in combat with a little Jew. He hurled him with great good-will, and with considerable force, into some of his crockery, and then recommended me to go up the towers of Notre Dame. Half-an-hour later I stood on the parapet of the great west front, by the side of the leering fiend which for centuries has looked down upon the great city, and then took rail to Switzerland; saw the sunlight lingering on the giants of the Oberland; heard the echoes from the cow-horns in the Lauterbrunnen valley and the avalanches rattling off the Jungfrau; and crossed the Gemmi into the Valais.

I was bound for the valley of Saas, and my work took me high up the Alps on either side; far beyond the limit of trees and the tracks of tourists. The view from the slopes of the Weissmies, on the eastern side of the valley, 5000 or 6000 feet above the village of Saas, is perhaps the finest of its kind in the Alps. The full height of the three-peaked Mischabel (the highest mountain in Switzerland) is seen at one glance; 11,000 feet of dense forests, green alps, rocky pinnacles, and glittering glaciers. The peaks seemed to me then to be hopelessly inaccessible from this direction.

I next descended the valley to the village of Stalden, and went up the Visp Thal to Zermatt, and stopped there several days. Numerous traces of the formidable earthquake-shocks of five years before still remained; particularly at St. Nicholas, where the inhabitants had been terrified beyond measure at the destruction of their churches and houses. At this place, as well as at Visp, a large part of the population was obliged to live under canvas for several months. It is remarkable that there was hardly a life lost on this occasion, although there were about fifty shocks, some of which were very severe.

At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather was bad, and my work was much retarded. One day, after spending a long time in attempts to sketch near the Hörnli, and in futile endeavours to seize the forms of the peaks as they for a few seconds peered out from above the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined not to return to Zermatt by the usual path, and to cross the Gorner glacier to the Riffel hotel. After a rapid scramble over the polished rocks and snowbeds which skirt the base of the Théodule glacier, and wading through some of the streams which flow from it, at that time much swollen by the late rains, the first difficulty was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice about three hundred feet high. It seemed that it would be easy enough to cross the glacier if the cliff could be descended; but higher up, and lower down, the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to be impassable for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was nearly perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was little difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another. At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixed at an angle of about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock. Nothing, except the glacier, could be seen below. It was an awkward place, but I passed it at length by lying across the slab, putting the shoulders stiffly against one side, and the feet against the other, and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly crack was seen, into which the point of the baton could be stuck, and I dropped down to the next piece. It took a long time coming down that little bit of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory to see the ice close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty presented itself. The glacier swept round an angle of the cliff, and as the ice was not of the nature of treacle or thin putty, it kept away from the little bay, on the edge of which I stood. We were not widely separated, but the edge of the ice was higher than the opposite edge of rock; and worse, the rock was covered with loose earth and stones which had fallen from above. All along the side of the cliff, as far as could be seen in both directions, the ice did not touch it, but there was this marginal crevasse, seven feet wide, and of unknown depth.

All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I could not jump the crevasse, and began to try along the cliff lower down; but without success, for the ice rose higher and higher, until at last further progress was stopped by the cliffs becoming perfectly smooth. With an axe it would have been possible to cut up the side of the ice; without one I saw there was no alternative but to return and face the jump.

Night was approaching, and the solemn stillness of the High Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling rocks. If the jump should be successful,—well; if not, I fell into that horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that gurgling, rushing water. Everything depended on that jump. Again I asked myself, “Can it be done?” It must be. So, finding my stick was useless, I threw it and the sketch-book to the ice, and first retreating as far as possible, ran forward with all my might, took the leap, barely reached the other side, and fell awkwardly on my knees.

The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel,5 which was then a very small building, was crammed with tourists, and could not take me in. As the way down was unknown to me, some of the people obligingly suggested getting a man at the chalets, otherwise the path would be certainly lost in the forest. On arriving at the chalets no man could be found, and the lights of Zermatt, shining through the trees, seemed to say, “Never mind a guide, but come along down, I’ll show you the way;” so off I went through the forest, going straight towards them. The path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered. I was tripped up by pine-roots, tumbled over rhododendron bushes, fell over rocks. The night was pitch dark, and after a time the lights of Zermatt became obscure, or went out altogether. By a series of slides, or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent through the forest was at length accomplished; but torrents of formidable character had still to be passed before one could arrive at Zermatt. I felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly; by an exhaustive process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight, covered with dirt and scratches, re-entered the inn which I had quitted in the morning.



Others besides tourists get into difficulties. A day or two afterwards, when on the way to my old station, near the Hörnli, I met a stout curé who had essayed to cross the Théodule pass. His strength or his wind had failed, and he was being carried down, a helpless bundle and a ridiculous spectacle, on the back of a lanky guide; while the peasants stood by, with folded hands, their reverence for the church almost overcome by their sense of the ludicrous.

I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to mount the slopes of the Dom,6 in order to see the Weisshorn face to face. The latter mountain is the noblest in Switzerland, and from this direction it looks especially magnificent. On its north there is a large snowy plateau that feeds the glacier of which a portion is seen from Randa, and which on more than one occasion has destroyed that village. From the direction of the Dom (that is, immediately opposite) this Bies glacier seems to descend nearly vertically. It does not do so, although it is very steep. Its size is much less than formerly, and the lower portion, now divided into three tails, clings in a strange, weird-like manner to the cliffs, to which it seems scarcely possible that it can remain attached.



Arriving once more in the Rhone valley, I proceeded to Viesch, and from thence ascended the Eggischorn; on which unpleasant eminence I lost my way in a fog, and my temper shortly afterwards. Then, after crossing the Grimsel in a severe thunderstorm, passed on to Brienz, Interlachen, and Bern; and thence to Fribourg and Morat, Neuchâtel, Martigny, and the St. Bernard. The massive walls of the convent were a welcome sight as I waded through the snow-beds near the summit of the pass, and pleasant also was the courteous salutation of the brother who bade me enter. He wondered at the weight of my knapsack, and I at the hardness of his bread. The saying that the monks make the toast in the winter that they give to tourists in the following season is not founded on truth; the winter is their most busy time of the year. But it is true they have exercised so much hospitality, that at times they have not possessed the means to furnish the fuel for heating their chapel in the winter.7

Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned aside into the Val Pelline, in order to obtain views of the Dent d’Erin. The night had come on before Biona was gained, and I had to knock long and loud upon the door of the curé’s house before it was opened. An old woman, with querulous voice, and with a large goître, answered the summons, and demanded rather sharply what was wanted; but became pacific—almost good-natured—when a five-franc piece was held in her face, and she heard that lodging and supper were requested in exchange.



THE VILLAGE OF BIONA.

My directions asserted that a passage existed from Prerayen, at the head of this valley, to Breil,8 in the Val Tournanche, and the old woman, now convinced of my respectability, busied herself to find a guide. Presently she introduced a native, picturesquely attired in high-peaked hat, braided jacket, scarlet waistcoat, and indigo pantaloons, who agreed to take me to the village of Val Tournanche. We set off early on the next morning, and got to the summit of the pass without difficulty. It gave me my first experience of considerable slopes of hard steep snow, and, like all beginners, I endeavoured to prop myself up with my stick, and kept it outside, instead of holding it between myself and the slope, and leaning upon it, as should have been done. The man enlightened me; but he had, properly, a very small opinion of his employer, and it is probably on that account that, a few minutes after we had passed the summit, he said he would not go any further and would return to Biona. All argument was useless; he stood still, and to everything that was said answered nothing but that he would go back. Being rather nervous about descending some long snow-slopes, which still intervened between us and the head of the valley, I offered more pay, and he went on a little way. Presently there were some cliffs down which we had to scramble. He called to me to stop, then shouted that he would go back, and beckoned to me to come up. On the contrary, I waited for him to come down; but instead of doing so, in a second or two he turned round, clambered deliberately up the cliff, and vanished. I supposed it was only a ruse to extort offers of more money, and waited for half-an-hour, but he did not appear again. This was rather embarrassing, for he carried off my knapsack. The choice of action lay between chasing him and going on to Breil, risking the loss of my knapsack. I chose the latter course, and got to Breil the same evening. The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a person entirely innocent of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me, and eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already occupied by guides and by hay. In later years we became good friends, and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance considerable sums.

My sketches from Breil were made under difficulties, for my materials had been carried off. Nothing better than fine sugar-paper could be obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more silica than plumbago. However, they were made, and the pass9 was again crossed, this time alone. By the following evening the old woman of Biona again produced the faithless guide. The knapsack was recovered after the lapse of several hours, and then I poured forth all the terms of abuse and reproach of which I was master. The man smiled when called a liar, and shrugged his shoulders when referred to as a thief, but drew his knife when spoken of as a pig.



CROSSING MONT CENIS.

The following night was spent at Courmayeur, and the day after I crossed the Col Ferret to Orsières, and on the next the Tête Noire to Chamounix. The Emperor Napoleon arrived on the same day, and access to the Mer de Glace was refused to tourists; but, by scrambling along the Plan des Aiguilles, I managed to outwit the guards, and to arrive at the Montanvert as the Imperial party was leaving: the same afternoon failing to get to the Jardin, but very nearly succeeding in breaking a leg by dislodging great rocks on the moraine of the glacier.



“GARIBALDI!”

From Chamounix I went to Geneva, and thence by the Mont Cenis to Turin and to the Vaudois valleys. A long and weary day had ended when Paesana was reached. The inn was full, and I was tired, and about to go to bed, when some village stragglers entered and began to sing. They sang to Garibaldi! The tenor, a ragged fellow, whose clothes were not worth a shilling, took the lead with wonderful expression and feeling. The others kept their places, and sang in admirable time. For hours I sat enchanted; and, long after I retired, the sound of their melody could be heard, relieved at times by the treble of the girl who belonged to the inn.

The next morning I passed the little lakes, which are the sources of the Po, on my way into France. The weather was stormy, and misinterpreting the patois of some natives—who in reality pointed out the right way—I missed the track, and found myself under the cliffs of Monte Viso. A gap that was occasionally seen, in the ridge connecting it with the mountains to the east, tempted me up; and, after a battle with a snow-slope of excessive steepness, I reached the summit. The scene was extraordinary, and, in my experience, unique. To the north there was not a particle of mist, and the violent wind coming from that direction blew one back staggering. But on the side of Italy, the valleys were completely filled with dense masses of cloud to a certain level; and there—where they felt the influence of the wind—they were cut off as level as the top of a table, the ridges appearing above them.

I raced down to Abries, and went on through the gorge of the Guil to Mont Dauphin. The next day found me at La Bessée, at the junction of the Val Louise with the valley of the Durance, in full view of Mont Pelvoux; and by chance I walked into a cabaret where a Frenchman was breakfasting, who, a few days before, had made an unsuccessful attempt to ascend that mountain with three Englishmen and the guide Michel Croz of Chamounix;10 a right good fellow, by name Jean Reynaud.

The same night I slept at Briançon, intending to take the courier on the following day to Grenoble; but all places had been secured several days beforehand, so I set out at two P.M. on the next day for a seventy-mile walk. The weather was again bad; and on the summit of the Col de Lautaret I was forced to seek shelter in the wretched little hospice. It was filled with workmen who were employed on the road, and with noxious vapours which proceeded from them. The inclemency of the weather was preferable to the inhospitality of the interior. Outside, it was disagreeable, but grand; inside, it was disagreeable and mean.11 The walk was continued under a deluge of rain, and I felt the way down—so intense was the darkness—to the village of La Grave, where the people of the inn detained me forcibly. It was perhaps fortunate that they did so; for, during that night, blocks of rock fell at several places from the cliffs on to the road with such force that they made large pits in the macadam. I resumed the walk at half-past five the next morning, and proceeded, under steady rain, through Bourg d’Oysans to Grenoble, arriving at the latter place soon after seven P.M., having accomplished the entire distance from Briançon in about eighteen hours of actual walking.

This was the end of the Alpine portion of my tour of 1860, on which I was introduced to the great peaks, and acquired the passion for mountain-scrambling, the development of which is described in the following chapters.



A BIT OF THE VILLAGE OF ZERMATT.



BRIANÇON.

CHAPTER II. THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.

“Thus fortune on our first endeavour smiles.”

Virgil.

The district of which Mont Pelvoux and the neighbouring summits are the culminating points,12 is, both historically and topographically, one of the most interesting in the Alps. As the nursery and the home of the Vaudois, it has claims to permanent attention. The names of Waldo and of Neff will be remembered when men more famous in their time will be forgotten; and the memory of the heroic courage and the simple piety of their disciples will endure as long as history lasts.

This district contains the highest summits in France, and some of its finest scenery. It has not perhaps the beauties of Switzerland, but has charms of its own; its cliffs, its torrents, and its gorges are unsurpassed; its deep and savage valleys present pictures of grandeur, and even sublimity, and it is second to none in the boldness of its mountain forms.

The district includes a mass of valleys which vie with each other in singularity of character and dissimilarity of climate. Some the rays of the sun can never reach, they are so deep and narrow.13 In others the very antipodes may be found; the temperature more like that of the plains of Italy than of Alpine France. This great range of climate has a marked effect on the flora of these valleys. Sterility reigns in some; stones take the place of trees; débris and mud replace plants and flowers: in others, in the space of a few miles, one passes vines, apple, pear, and cherry trees, the birch, alder, walnut, ash, larch, and pine, alternating with fields of rye, barley, oats, beans, and potatoes.

The valleys are for the most part short and erratic. They are not, apparently, arranged on any definite plan. They are not disposed, as is frequently the case elsewhere, either at right angles to, or parallel with, the highest summits; but they wander hither and thither, take one direction for a few miles, then double back, and then perhaps resume their original course. Thus, long perspectives are rarely to be seen, and it is difficult to form a general idea of the disposition of the peaks.

The highest summits are arranged almost in a horse-shoe form. The highest of all, which occupies a central position, is the Pointe des Ecrins; the second in height, the Meije,14 is on the north; and the Mont Pelvoux, which gives its name to the entire block, stands almost detached by itself on the outside.

The district is still very imperfectly known; there are probably many valleys, and there are certainly many summits which have never been trodden by the feet of tourists or travellers; but in 1861 it was even less known. Until quite recently there was, practically, no map of it;15 General Bourcet’s, which was the best that was published, was completely wrong in its delineation of the mountains, and was frequently incorrect in regard to paths or roads.

The mountainous regions of Dauphiné, moreover, are not supplied, like Switzerland, Tyrol, or even the Italian valleys, with accommodation for travellers. The inns, when they exist, are often filthy beyond description; rest is seldom obtained in their beds, or decent food found in their kitchens, and there are no local guides worth having. The tourist is thrown very much on his own resources, and it is not therefore surprising that these districts are less visited and less known than the rest of the Alps.

Most of the statements current in 1861 respecting these mountains had been derived from two authors16—M. Elie de Beaumont and the late Principal J. D. Forbes. Their works, however, contained numerous errors in regard to the identification of the peaks, and, amongst others, they referred the supremacy to the Mont Pelvoux, the highest point of which they termed the Pointe des Arcines, or des Ecrins. Principal Forbes erroneously identified the high peak seen from the valley of St. Christophe, with that seen from the valley of the Durance, and spoke of both as the Mont Pelvoux, and M. de Beaumont committed similar mistakes. In point of fact, at the time when M. de Beaumont and Forbes wrote their respective memoirs, the proper relation of the Mont Pelvoux to the neighbouring summits had been determined by the engineers employed on the survey for the map of France, but their observations were not then accessible to the public, although they had evidently been seen by M. de Beaumont. This party of surveyors, led by Captain Durand, made the ascent of Mont Pelvoux from the side of the Val d’Ailefroide—that is, from the direction of Val Louise—in 1828. According to the natives of the Val Louise, they got to the top of the second peak in height, and remained upon it, lodged in a tent for several days, at a height of 12,904 feet. They took numerous porters to carry wood for fires, and erected a large cairn on the summit, which has caused the name of Pic de la Pyramide to be given to their summit.

In 1848, M. Puiseux made the ascent from the same direction, but his Val Louisan guide stopped short of the summit, and allowed this courageous astronomer to proceed by himself.17

In the middle of August 1860, Messrs. Bonney, Hawkshaw, and Mathews, with Michel Croz of Chamounix, tried to ascend the Pelvoux, likewise from the same direction. These gentlemen spent several days and nights upon the mountain; and, encountering bad weather, only attained a height of 10,430 feet.

M. Jean Reynaud, of whom mention has been made in the preceding chapter, accompanied the party of Mr. Mathews, and he was of opinion that the attempt had been made too late in the season. He said that the weather was usually good enough for high mountain ascents only during the last few days of July, and the first ones of August,18 and suggested that we should attempt to ascend the mountain in the following year at that time. The proposition was a tempting one, and Reynaud’s cordial and modest manner made it irresistible, although there seemed small chance that we should succeed where a party such as that of Mr. Mathews had been beaten.

At the beginning of July 1861, I despatched to Reynaud from Havre, blankets (which were taxed as “prohibited fabrics”), rope, and other things desirable for the excursion, and set out on the tour of France; but, four weeks later, at Nîmes, found myself completely collapsed by the heat, then 94° Faht. in the shade, and took a night train at once to Grenoble.

Grenoble is a town upon which a volume might be written. Its situation is probably the finest of any in France, and the views from its high forts are superb. I lost my way in the streets of this picturesque and noisome town, and having but a half-hour left in which to get a dinner and take a place in the diligence, was not well pleased to hear that an Englishman wished to see me. It turned out to be my friend Macdonald, who confided to me that he was going to try to ascend a mountain called Pelvoux in the course of ten days. On hearing of my intentions, he agreed to join us at La Bessée on the 3rd of August. In a few moments more I was perched in the banquette en route for Bourg d’Oysans, in a miserable vehicle which took nearly eight hours to accomplish less than 30 miles.

At five on a lovely morning I shouldered my knapsack and started for Briançon. Gauzy mists clung to the mountains, but melted away when touched by the sun, and disappeared by jerks (in the manner of views when focussed in a magic lantern), revealing the wonderfully bent and folded strata in the limestone cliffs behind the town. Then I entered the Combe de Malval, and heard the Romanche eating its way through that wonderful gorge, and passed on to Le Dauphin, where the first glacier came into view, tailing over the mountain-side on the right. From this place until the summit of the Col de Lautaret was passed, every gap in the mountains showed a glittering glacier or a soaring peak; the finest view was at La Grave, where the Meije rises by a series of tremendous precipices 8000 feet above the road.19 The finest distant view of the pass is seen after crossing the Col, near Monêtier. A mountain, commonly supposed to be Monte Viso, appears at the end of the vista, shooting into the sky;20 in the middle distance, but still ten miles off, is Briançon with its interminable forts, and in the foreground, leading down to the Guisane, and rising high up the neighbouring slopes, are fertile fields, studded with villages and church spires. The next day I walked over from Briançon to La Bessée, to my worthy friend Jean Reynaud, the surveyor of roads of his district.

All the peaks of Mont Pelvoux are well seen from La Bessée—the highest point, as well as that upon which the engineers erected their cairn. Neither Reynaud nor any one else knew this. The natives knew only that the engineers had ascended one peak, and had seen from that one a still higher point, which they called the Pointe des Arcines or des Ecrins. They could not say whether this latter could be seen from La Bessée, nor could they tell the peak upon which the cairn had been erected. We were under the impression that the highest point was concealed by the peaks which we saw, and would be gained by passing over them. They knew nothing of the ascent of Monsieur Puiseux, and they confidently asserted that the highest point of Mont Pelvoux had not been attained by any one. It was this point we wished to reach.



MONT PELVOUX FROM ABOVE LA BESSÉE.

Nothing prevented our starting at once but the absence of Macdonald and the want of a bâton. Reynaud suggested a visit to the postmaster, who possessed a bâton of local celebrity. Down we went to the bureau; but it was closed: we halloed through the slits, but no answer. At last the postmaster was discovered endeavouring (with very fair success) to make himself intoxicated. He was just able to ejaculate, “France! ’tis the first nation in the world!” which is a phrase used by a Frenchman at times when a Briton would begin to shout, “We won’t go home till morning”—national glory being uppermost in the thoughts of one, and home in those of the other. The bâton was produced; it was a branch of a young oak, about five feet long, gnarled and twisted in several directions. “Sir,” said the postmaster, as he presented it, “France! ’tis the first—the first nation in the world, by its”—he stuck. “Bâtons?” I suggested. “Yes, yes, sir; by its bâtons, by its—its,” and here he could not get on at all. As I looked at this young limb, I thought of my own; but Reynaud, who knew everything about everybody in the village, said there was not a better one, so off we went with it, leaving the official staggering in the road and muttering, “France! ’tis the first nation in the world!”

The 3rd of August came, and Macdonald did not appear, so we started for the Val Louise; our party consisting of Reynaud, myself, and a porter, Jean Casimir Giraud, nicknamed “little nails,” the shoemaker of the place. An hour and a half’s smart walking took us to La Ville de Val Louise, our hearts gladdened by the glorious peaks of Pelvoux shining out without a cloud around them. I renewed acquaintance with the mayor of “La Ville.” His aspect was original, and his manners were gracious, but the odour which proceeded from him was dreadful.

Reynaud kindly undertook to look after the commissariat, and I found to my annoyance, when we were about to leave, that I had given tacit consent to a small wine-cask being carried with us, which was a great nuisance from the commencement. It was excessively awkward to handle; one man tried to carry it, and then another, and at last it was slung from one of our bâtons, and was carried by two of us, which gave our party the appearance of a mechanical diagram to illustrate the uses of levers.

At “La Ville” the Val Louise splits into two branches—the Val d’Entraigues on the left and the Vallon d’Alefred (or Ailefroide) on the right; our route was up the latter, and we moved steadily forwards to the village of La Pisse, where Pierre Sémiond lived, who was reputed to know more about the Pelvoux than any other man. He looked an honest fellow, but unfortunately he was ill and could not come. He recommended his brother, an aged creature, whose furrowed and wrinkled face hardly seemed to announce the man we wanted; but having no choice, we engaged him and again set forth. Walnut and a great variety of other trees gave shadow to our path and fresh vigour to our limbs; while below, in a sublime gorge, thundered the torrent, whose waters took their rise from the snows we hoped to tread on the morrow.



THE GRAND PELVOUX DE VAL LOUISE.

The Pelvoux could not be seen at La Ville, owing to a high intervening ridge; we were now moving along the foot of this to get to the châlets of Alefred, or, as they are sometimes called, Aléfroide, where the mountain actually commences. From these châlets the subordinate, but more proximate, peaks appear considerably higher than the loftier ones behind, and sometimes completely conceal them. But the whole height of the peak, which in these valleys goes under the name of the “Grand Pelvoux,” is seen at one glance from its summit to its base, six or seven thousand feet of nearly perpendicular cliffs.

The châlets of Alefred are a cluster of miserable wooden huts at the foot of the Grand Pelvoux, and are close to the junction of the streams which descend from the glacier de Sapenière (or du Selé) on the left, and the glaciers Blanc and Noir on the right. We rested a minute to purchase some butter and milk, and Sémiond picked up a disreputable-looking lad to assist in carrying, pushing, and otherwise moving the wine-cask.