CHAPTER VI.

[pg 114]CHAPTER VI.OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.81“But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,The long, long views of poor, designing man.”Homer.Carrel hadcarte blanchein the matter of guides, and his choice fell upon his relative Cæsar, Luc Meynet, and two others whose names I do not know. These men were now brought together, and our preparations were completed, as the weather was clearing up.We rested on Sunday, August 9, eagerly watching the lessening of the mists around the great peak, and started just before dawn upon the 10th, on a still and cloudless morning, which seemed to promise a happy termination to our enterprise.By going always, though gently, we arrived upon the Col du Lion before nine o’clock. Changes were apparent. Familiar ledges had vanished; the platform, whereupon my tent had stood, looked very forlorn, its stones had been scattered by wind and frost, and had half disappeared: and the summit of the Col itself, which in 1862 had always been respectably broad, and covered by snow, was now sharper than the ridge of any church roof, and was hard ice. Already we had found that the bad weather of the past week had done its work. The rocks for several hundred feet below the Col were varnished with ice. Loose, incoherent snow covered the older and harder beds below, and we nearly lost our leader through its treacherousness. He stepped on some snow which seemed firm, and raised his axe to deliver a swinging blow, but, just as it was[pg 115]highest, the crust of the slope upon which he stood broke away, and poured down in serpentine streams, leaving long, bare strips, which glittered in the sun, for they were glassy ice. Carrel, with admirable readiness, flung himself back on to the rock off which he had stepped, and was at once secured. He simply remarked,“It is time we were tied up,”and, after we had been tied up, he went to work again as if nothing had happened.82We had abundant illustrations during the next two hours of the value of a rope to climbers. We were tied up rather widely apart, and advanced, generally, in pairs. Carrel, who led, was followed closely by another man, who lent him a shoulder or placed an axe-head under his feet, when there was need; and when this couple were well placed the second pair advanced, in similar fashion,—the rope being drawn in by those above, and paid out gradually by those below. The leading men again advanced, or the third pair, and so on. This manner of progression was slow, but sure. One man only moved at a time, and if he slipped (and we frequently did slip) he could slide scarcely a foot without being checked by the others. The certainty and safety of the method gave confidence to the one who was moving, and not only nerved him to put out his powers to the utmost, but sustained nerve in really difficult situations. For these rocks (which, it has been already said, were easy enough under ordinary circumstances) were now difficult in a high degree. The snow-water which had trickled down for many days past in little streams, had taken, naturally, the very route by which we wished to ascend; and, refrozen in the night, had glazed the slabs over which we had to pass,—sometimes with a fine film of ice as thin as a sheet of paper, and sometimes so thickly that we[pg 116]could almost cut footsteps in it. The weather was superb, the men made light of the toil, and shouted to rouse the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens.We went on gaily, passed the second tent platform, the Chimney, and the other well-remembered points, and reckoned, confidently, on sleeping that night upon the top of“the shoulder;”but, before we had well arrived at the foot of the Great Tower, a sudden rush of cold air warned us to look out.It was difficult to say where this air came from; it did not blow as a wind, but descended rather as the water in a shower-bath! All was tranquil again; the atmosphereshowedno signs of disturbance; there was a dead calm, and not a speck of cloud to be seen anywhere. But we did not remain very long in this state. The cold air came again, and this time it was difficult to say where it didnotcome from. We jammed down our hats as it beat against the ridge, and screamed amongst the crags. Before we had got to the foot of the Tower, mists had been formed above and below. They appeared at first in small, isolated patches (in several places at the same time), which danced and jerked and were torn into shreds by the wind, but grew larger under the process. They were united together, and rent again,—showing us the blue sky for a moment, and blotting it out the next; and augmented incessantly, until the whole heavens were filled with whirling, boiling clouds. Before we could take off our packs, and get under any kind of shelter, a hurricane of snow burst upon us from the east. It fell very heavily, and in a few minutes the ridge was covered by it.“What shall we do?”I shouted to Carrel.“Monsieur,”said he,“the wind is bad; the weather has changed; we are heavily laden. Here is a finegîte; let us stop! If we go on we shall be half-frozen. That ismyopinion.”No one differed from him; so we fell to work to make a place for the tent, and in a couple of hours completed the platform which we had commenced in 1862. The clouds had blackened during that time, and we had hardly finished our task before a thunderstorm broke upon us with appalling fury. Forked[pg 117]lightning shot out at the turrets above, and at the crags below. It was so close that we quailed at its darts. It seemed to scorch us,—we were in the very focus of the storm. The thunder was simultaneous with the flashes; short and sharp, and more like the noise of a door that is violently slammed, multiplied a thousandfold, than any noise to which I can compare it.When I say that the thunder wassimultaneouswith the lightning, I speak as an inexact person. My meaning is that the time which elapsed between seeing the flash and hearing the report was inappreciable to me. I wish to speak with all possible precision, and there are two points with regard to this storm upon which I can speak with some accuracy. The first is in regard to the distance of the lightning from our party. Wemighthave been 1100 feet from it if a second of time had elapsed between seeing the flashes and hearing the reports; and a second of time is not appreciated by inexact persons. It was certain that we were sometimes less than that distance from the lightning, because I saw it pass in front of well-known points on the ridge, both above and below us, which were less (sometimes considerably less) than a thousand feet distant.Secondly, in regard to the difficulty of distinguishing sounds which are merely echoes from true thunder, or the noise which occurs simultaneously with lightning. Arago entered into this subject at some length in hisMeteorological Essays, and seemed to doubt if it would ever be possible to determine whether echoes arealwaysthe cause of the rolling sounds commonly called thunder.83I shall not attempt to show whether the rolling sounds should ever, or never, be regarded as true thunder, but only that during this storm upon the Matterhorn it was possible to distinguish the sound of the thunder itself from the sounds (rolling and otherwise) which were merely the echoes of the first, original sound.[pg 118]At the place where we were camped a remarkable echo could be heard (one so remarkable that if it could be heard in this country it would draw crowds for its own sake); I believe it came from the cliffs of the Dent d’Hérens. It was a favourite amusement with us to shout to rouse this echo, which repeated any sharp cry, in a very distinct manner, several times, after the lapse of something like a dozen seconds. The thunderstorm lasted nearly two hours, and raged at times with great fury; and the prolonged rollings from the surrounding mountains, after one flash, had not usually ceased before another set of echoes took up the discourse, and maintained the reverberations without a break. Occasionally there was a pause, interrupted presently by a single clap, the accompaniment of a single discharge, and after such times I could recognise the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens by their peculiar repetitions, and by the length of time which had passed since the reports had occurred of which they were the echoes.If I had been unaware of the existence of this echo, I should have supposed that the resounds were original reports of explosions which had been unnoticed, since in intensity they were scarcely distinguishable from the true thunder; which, during this storm, seemed to me, upon every occasion, to consist of a single, harsh, instantaneous sound.84Or if, instead of being placed at a distance of less than a thousand feet from the points of explosion (and consequently hearing the report almost in the same moment as we saw the flash,[pg 119]and the rollings after a considerable interval of time), we had been placed so that the original report had fallen on our ears nearly at the same moment as the echoes, we should probably have considered that the successive reports and rollings of the echoes were reports of successive explosions occurring nearly at the same moment, and that they were not echoes at all.This is the only time (out of many storms witnessed in the Alps) I have obtained evidence that the rollings of thunder are actually echoes; and that they are not, necessarily, the reports of a number of discharges over a long line, occurring at varying distances from the spectator, and consequently unable to arrive at his ear at the same moment, although they follow each other so swiftly as to produce a sound more or less continuous.85The wind during all this time seemed to blow tolerably consistently from the east. It smote the tent so vehemently (notwithstanding it was partly protected by rocks) that we had grave fears our refuge might be blown away bodily, with ourselves inside; so, during some of the lulls, we issued out and built a wall to windward. At half-past three the wind changed to the north-west, and the clouds vanished. We immediately took the opportunity to send down one of the porters (under protection of some of the others, a little beyond the Col du Lion), as the tent would accommodate only five persons. From this time to sunset the weather was variable. It was sometimes blowing and snowing hard, and sometimes a dead calm. The bad weather was evidently confined to the Mont Cervin, for when the clouds lifted we could see every[pg 120]thing that could be seen from our gîte. Monte Viso, a hundred miles off, was clear, and the sun set gorgeously behind the range of Mont Blanc. We passed the night comfortably—even luxuriously—in our blanket-bags, but there was little chance of sleeping, between the noise of the wind, of the thunder, and of the falling rocks. I forgave the thunder for the sake of the lightning. A more splendid spectacle than its illumination of the Matterhorn crags I do not expect to see.86The greatest rock-falls always seemed to occur in the night, between midnight and daybreak. This was noticeable on each of the seven nights which I passed upon the south-west ridge, at heights varying from 11,800 to 13,000 feet.I may be wrong in supposing that the falls in the night are greater than those in the daytime, since sound is much more startling during darkness than when the cause of its production is seen. Even a sigh may be terrible in the stillness of the night. In the daytime one’s attention is probably divided between the sound and the motion of rocks which fall; or it may be concentrated on other matters. But it is certain that the greatest of the falls which happened during the night took place after midnight, and this I connect with the fact that the maximum of cold during any twenty-four hours very commonly occurs between midnight and dawn.We turned out at 3.30A.M.on the 11th, and were dismayed to find that it still continued to snow. At 9A.M.it ceased to fall, and the sun showed itself feebly, so we packed up our baggage, and set out to try to get upon“the shoulder.”We struggled upwards until eleven o’clock, and then it commenced to snow again. We held a council; the opinions expressed at it were unanimous against advancing, and I decided to retreat. For we had risen less than 300 feet in the past two hours, and had not even arrived at the rope which Tyndall’s party left behind, attached to the rocks,[pg 121]in 1862. At the same rate of progression it would have taken us from four to five hours to get upon“the shoulder.”Not one of us cared to attempt to do so under the existing circumstances; for besides having to move our own weight, which was sufficiently troublesome at this part of the ridge, we had to transport much heavy baggage, tent, blankets, and provisions, ladder, and 450 feet of rope, besides many other smaller matters. These, however, were not the most serious considerations. Supposing that we got upon“the shoulder,”we might find ourselves detained there several days, unable either to go up or down.87I could not risk any such detention, being under obligations to appear in London at the end of the week.Illustration: The crags of the Matterhorn, during the storm, midnight, Aug. 10, 1863THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT, AUG. 10, 1863.We returned to Breil in the course of the afternoon. It was quite fine there, and the tenants of the inn received our statements with evident scepticism. They were astonished to learn that we had been exposed to a snow-storm of twenty-six hours’ duration.“Why,”said Favre, the innkeeper,“wehave had no snow; it has been fine all the time you have been absent, and there has been only that small cloud upon the mountain.”Ah! that small cloud! None except those who have had experience of it can tell what a formidable obstacle it is.Illustration: Monsieur FavreMONSIEUR FAVRE.Why is it that the Matterhorn is subject to these abominable variations of weather? The ready answer is,“Oh, the mountain is so isolated; it attracts the clouds.”This is not a sufficient answer. Although the mountainisisolated, it is not so much more isolated than the neighbouring peaks that it should gather clouds when none of the others do so. It will not at all account for the[pg 122]cloud to which I refer, which is not formed by an aggregation of smaller, stray clouds drawn together from a distance (as scum collects round a log in the water), but is created against the mountain itself, and springs into existence where no clouds were seen before. It is formed and hangs chiefly against the southern sides, and particularly against the south-eastern side. It frequently does not envelop the summit, and rarely extends down to the Glacier du Lion, and to the Glacier du Mont Cervin below. It forms in the finest weather; on cloudless and windless days.I conceive that we should look to differences of temperature rather than to the height or isolation of the mountain for an explanation. I am inclined to attribute the disturbances which occur in the atmosphere of the southern sides of the Matterhorn on fine days,88principally to the fact that the mountain is arockmountain; that it receives a great amount of heat,89and is not only warmer itself, but is surrounded by an atmosphere of a higher temperature than such peaks as the Weisshorn and the Lyskamm, which are eminentlysnowmountains.In certain states of the atmosphere its temperature may be tolerably uniform over wide areas and to great elevations. I have known the thermometer to show 70° in the shade at the top of an Alpine peak more than 13,000 feet high, and but a very few degrees higher 6000 or 7000 feet lower. At other times, there will be a difference of forty or fifty degrees (Faht.) between two stations, the higher not more than 6000 or 7000 feet above the lower.Provided that the temperature was uniform, or nearly so, on all sides of the Matterhorn, and to a considerable distance above its summit, no clouds would be likely to form upon it. But if the atmosphere immediately surrounding it is warmer than the contiguous strata, a local“courant ascendant”must necessarily be generated; and portions of the cooler superincumbent (or circum[pg 123]jacent) air will naturally be attracted towards the mountain, where they will speedily condense the moisture of the warm air in contact with it. I cannot explain the downrushes of cold air which occur on it, when all the rest of the neighbourhood appears to be tranquil, in any other way. The clouds are produced by the contact of two strata of air (of widely different temperatures) charged with invisible moisture, as surely as certain colourless fluids produce a white, turbid liquid, when mixed together. The order has been—wind of a low temperature—mist—rain—snow or hail.90This opinion is borne out to some extent by the behaviour of the neighbouring mountains. The Dom (14,935 feet) and the Dent Blanche (14,318) have both of them large cliffs of bare rock upon their southern sides, and against those cliffs clouds commonly form (during fine, still weather) at the same time as the cloud on the Matterhorn; whilst the Weisshorn (14,804) and the Lyskamm (14,889), (mountains of about the same altitude, and which are in corresponding situations to the former pair) usually remain perfectly clear.Illustration: Crossing the ChannelCROSSING THE CHANNEL.I arrived at Chatillon at midnight on the 11th, defeated and disconsolate; but, like a gambler who loses each throw, only the more eager to have another try, to see if the luck would change: and returned to London ready to devise fresh combinations, and to form new plans.[pg 124]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.“The more to help the greater deed is done.”Homer.When we arrived upon the highest summit of Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphiné, in 1861, we saw, to our surprise and disappointment, that it was not the culminating point of the district; and that another mountain—distant about a couple of miles, and separated from us by an impassable gulf—claimed that distinction. I was troubled in spirit about this mountain, and my thoughts often reverted to the great wall-sided peak, second in apparent inaccessibility only to the Matterhorn. It had, moreover, another claim to attention—it was the highest mountainInFrance.The year 1862 passed away without a chance of getting to it, and my holiday was too brief in 1863 even to think about it; but in the following year it was possible, and I resolved to set my mind at rest by completing the task which had been left unfinished in 1861.In the meantime others had turned their attention to Dauphiné. First of all (in 1862) came Mr. F. Tuckett—that mighty mountaineer, whose name is known throughout the length and breadth of the Alps—with the guides Michel Croz, Peter Perrn, and Bartolommeo Peyrotte, and great success attended his arms. But Mr. Tuckett halted before the Pointe des Ecrins, and, dismayed by its appearance, withdrew his forces to gather less dangerous laurels elsewhere.His expedition, however, threw some light upon the Ecrins. He pointed out the direction from which an attack was most likely to be successful, and Mr. William Mathews and the Rev. T. G.[pg 125]Bonney (to whom he communicated the result of his labours) attempted to execute the ascent, with the brothers Michel and J. B. Croz, by following his indications. But they too were defeated, as I shall relate more particularly presently.Illustration: Michel-Auguste Crow (1865)MICHEL-AUGUSTE CROZ (1865).The guide Michel Croz had thus been engaged in both of these expeditions in Dauphiné, and I naturally looked to him for assistance. Mr. Mathews (to whom I applied for information) gave him a high character, and concluded his reply to me by saying,“he was only happy when upwards of 10,000 feet high.”I know what my friend meant. Croz was happiest when he was employing his powers to the utmost. Places where you and I would“toil and sweat, and yet be freezing cold,”were bagatelles to him, and it was only when he got above the range of ordinary mortals, and was required to employ his magnificent strength,[pg 126]and to draw upon his unsurpassed knowledge of ice and snow, that he could be said to be really and truly happy.Of all the guides with whom I travelled, Michel Croz was the man who was most after my own heart. He did not work like a blunt razor, and take to his toil unkindly. He did not need urging, or to be told a second time to do anything. You had but to saywhatwas to be done, andhowit was to be done, and the workwasdone, if it was possible. Such men are not common, and when they are known they are valued. Michel was not widely known, but those who did know him employed him again and again. The inscription that is placed upon his tomb truthfully records that he was“beloved by his comrades and esteemed by travellers.”At the time that I was planning my journey, my friends Messrs. A. W. Moore and Horace Walker were also drawing up their programme; and, as we found that our wishes were very similar, we agreed to unite our respective parties. The excursions which are described in this and the two following chapters are mutual ideas which were jointly executed.Our united programme was framed so as to avoid sleeping in inns, and so that we should see from the highest point attained on one day a considerable portion of the route which was intended to be followed on the next. This latter matter was an important one to us, as all of our projected excursions were new ones, and led over ground about which there was very little information in print.My friends had happily secured Christian Almer of Grindelwald as their guide. The combination of Croz and Almer was a perfect one. Both men were in the prime of life;91both were endued with strength and activity far beyond the average; and the courage and the knowledge of each was alike undoubted. The temper of Almer it was impossible to ruffle; he was ever obliging and enduring,—a bold but a safe man. That which he lacked in fire—in dash—was supplied by Croz, who, in his turn, was kept in place by Almer.[pg 127]It is pleasant to remember how they worked together, and how each one confided to you that he liked the other so much because he worked so well; but it is sad, very sad, to those who have known the men, to know that they can never work together again.We met at St. Michel on the Mont Cenis road, at midday on June 20, 1864, and proceeded in the afternoon over the Col de Valloires to the village of the same name. The summit of this pretty little pass is about 3500 feet above St. Michel, and from it we had a fair view of the Aiguilles d’Arve, a group of three peaks of singular form, which it was our especial object to investigate.92They had been seen by ourselves and others from numerous distant points, and always looked very high and very inaccessible; but we had been unable to obtain any information about them, except the few words in Joanne’sItinéraire du Dauphiné. Having made out from the summit of the Col de Valloires that they could be approached from the Valley of Valloires, we hastened down to find a place where we could pass the night, as near as possible to the entrance of the little valley leading up to them.By nightfall we arrived at the entrance to this little valley (Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve), and found some buildings placed just where they were wanted. The proprietress received us with civility, and placed a large barn at our disposal, on the conditions that no lights were struck or pipes smoked therein; and when her terms were agreed to, she took us into her own chalet, made up a huge fire, heated a gallon of milk, and treated us with genuine hospitality.In the morning we found that the Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve led away nearly due west from the Valley of Valloires, and that the village of Bonnenuit was placed (in the latter valley) almost exactly opposite to the junction of the two.At 3.55A.M.on the 21st we set out up the Vallon, passed for a time over pasture-land, and then over a stony waste, deeply chan[pg 128]nelled by watercourses. At 5.30 the two principal Aiguilles were well seen, and as, by this time, it was evident that the authors of the Sardinian official map had romanced as extensively in this neighbourhood as elsewhere, it was necessary to hold a council.Illustration: Plan to show routeThree questions were submitted to it:—Firstly, Which is the highest of these Aiguilles? Secondly, Which shall we go up? Thirdly, How is it to be done?The French engineers, it was said, had determined that the two highest of them were respectively 11,513 and 11,529 feet in height; but we were without information as to which two they had measured.93Joanne indeed said (but without specifying whether he meant all three) that the Aiguilles had been several times ascended, and particularly mentioned that the one of 11,513 feet was“relatively easy.”We therefore said,“We will go up the peak of 11,529 feet.”That determination did not settle the second question. Joanne’s“relatively easy”peak, according to his description, was evidently the most northern of the three.Ourpeak then was to be one of the other two;—but which of them? We were inclined to favour the central one; but it was hard to determine, they looked so equal in height. When, however, the council came to study the third[pg 129]question—“How is it to be done?”it was unanimously voted that upon the eastern and southern sides it was certainly“relatively”difficult, and that a move should be made round to the northern side.The movement was duly executed, and after wading up some snow-slopes of considerable steepness (going occasionally beyond 40°), we found ourselves in a gap or nick, between the central and northernmost Aiguille, at 8.45A.M.We then studied the northern face of our intended peak, and finally arrived at the conclusion that it was“relatively”impracticable. Croz shrugged his big shoulders, and said,“My faith! I think you will do well to leave it to others.”Almer was more explicit, and volunteered the information that a thousand francs would not tempt him totryit. We then turned to the northernmost peak, but found its southern faces even more hopeless than the northern faces of the central one. We enjoyed accordingly the unwonted luxury of a three-hours’ rest on the top of our pass; for pass we were determined it should be.We might have done worse. We were 10,300 or 10,400 feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a most picturesque view of the mountains of the Tarentaise; while, somewhat east of south, we saw the monarch of the Dauphinémassif, whose closer acquaintance it was our intention to make. Three sunny hours passed away, and then we turned to the descent. We saw the distant pastures of a valley (which we supposed was the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse), and a long snow-slope leading down to them. But from that slope we were cut off by precipitous rocks, and our first impression was that we should have to return in our track. Some running up and down, however, discovered two little gullies, filled with threads of snow, and down the most northern of these we decided to go. It was a steep way but a safe one, for the cleft was so narrow that we could press the shoulder against one side whilst the feet were against the other, and the last remnant of the winter’s snow, well hardened, clung to the rift with great tenacity, and gave us a path when the rocks refused one. In half-an-hour we got to the top of the great snow-slope. Walker said—“Let us[pg 130]glissade;”the guides—“No, it is too steep.”Our friend, however, started off at a standing glissade, and advanced for a time very skilfully; but after a while he lost his balance, and progressed downwards and backwards with great rapidity, in a way that seemed to us very much like tumbling head over heels. He let go his axe, and left it behind, but it overtook him and batted him heartily. He and it travelled in this fashion for some hundreds of feet, and at last subsided into the rocks at the bottom. In a few moments we were reassured as to his safety, by hearing him ironically request us not to keep him waiting down there.Illustration: The Aiguilles d’Arve, from above the chalets of Rieu BlancTHE AIGUILLES D’ARVE, FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU BLANC, SHOWING ROUTE.We others followed the track shown by the dotted line upon theengraving(making zigzags to avoid the little groups of rocks which jutted through the snow, by which Walker had been upset), descended by asittingglissade, and rejoined our friend at the bottom. We then turned sharply to the left, and tramped down the summit ridge of an old moraine of great size. Its mud was excessively[pg 131]hard, and where some large erratic blocks lay perched upon its crest, we were obliged to cut steps (in the mud) with our ice-axes.Guided by the sound of a distant“moo,”we speedily found the highest chalets in the valley, named Rieu Blanc. They were tenanted by three old women (who seemed to belong to one of the missing links sought by naturalists), destitute of all ideas except in regard to cows, and who spoke a barbarous patois, well-nigh unintelligible to the Savoyard Croz. They would not believe that we had passed between the Aiguilles,—“It is impossible, thecowsnever go there.”“Could we get to La Grave over yonder ridge?”“Oh yes! thecowsoften crossed!”Could they show us the way? No; but we could follow thecow-tracks.We stayed a while near these chalets, to examine the western sides of the Aiguilles d’Arve, and, according to our united opinion, the central one was as inaccessible from this direction as from the east, north, or south. On the following day we saw them again, from a height of about 11,000 feet, in a south-easterly direction, and our opinion remained unchanged.We saw (on June 20-22) the central Aiguille from all sides, and very nearly completely round the southernmost one. The northern one we also saw on all sides excepting from the north. (It is, however, precisely from this direction M. Joanne says that its ascent is relatively easy.) We do not, therefore, venture to express any opinion respecting its ascent, except as regards its actual summit. This is formed of two curious prongs, or pinnacles of rock, and we do not understand in what way they (or either of them) can be ascended; nor shall we be surprised if this ascent is discovered to have been made in spirit rather than body; in fact, in the same manner as the celebrated ascent of Mont Blanc,“not entirely to the summit, but as far as the Montanvert!”All three of the Aiguillesmaybe accessible, but theylookas inaccessible as anything I have seen. They are the highest summits between the valleys of the Romanche and the Arc; they are placed slightly to the north of the watershed between those[pg 132]two valleys, and a line drawn through them runs, pretty nearly, north and south.We descended by a rough path from Rieu Blanc to the chalets of La Sausse, which give the name to the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse, in which they are situated. This is one of the numerous branches of the valley that descends to St. Jean d’Arve, and subsequently to St. Jean de Maurienne.Two passes, more or less known, lead from this valley to the village of La Grave (on the Lautaret road) in the valley of the Romanche, viz.:—the Col de l’Infernet and the Col de Martignare. The former pass was crossed, many years ago, by J. D. Forbes, and was mentioned by him in hisNorway and its Glaciers. The latter one lies to the north of the former, and is seldom traversed by tourists, but it was convenient for us, and we set out to cross it on the morning of the 22d, after having passed a comfortable, but not luxurious, night in the hay, at La Sausse, where, however, the simplicity of the accommodation was more than counterbalanced by the civility and hospitality of the people in charge.94[Our object now was to cross to La Grave (on the high road from Grenoble to Briançon), and to ascend,en route, some point sufficiently high to give us a good view of the Dauphiné Alps in general, and of the grand chain of the Meije in particular. Before[pg 133]leaving England a careful study of“Joanne”had elicited the fact that the shortest route from La Sausse to La Grave was by the Col de Martignare; and also that from the aforesaid Col it was possible to ascend a lofty summit, called by him the Bec-du-Grenier, also called Aiguille de Goléon. On referring, however, to the Sardinian survey, we found there depicted, to the east of the Col de Martignare, notonepeak bearing the abovetwonames, buttwo distinct summits; one—just above the Col—the Bec-du-Grenier (the height of which was not stated); the other, still farther to the east, and somewhat to the south of the watershed—the Aiguille du Goléon (11,250 English feet in height), with a very considerable glacier—the Glacier Lombard—between the two. On the French map,95on the other hand, neither of the above names was to be found, but a peak called Aiguille de la Sausse (10,897 feet), was placed in the position assigned to the Bec-du-Grenier in the Sardinian map; while farther to the east was a second and nameless peak (10,841), not at all in the position given to the Aiguille du Goléon, of which and of the Glacier Lombard there was not a sign. All this was very puzzling and unsatisfactory; but as we had no doubt of being able to climb one of the points to the east of the Col de Martignare (which overhung the Ravine de la Sausse), we determined to make that col the basis of our operations.]96We left the chalets at 4.15A.M.[under a shower of good wishes from our hostesses], proceeded at first towards the upper end of the ravine, then doubled back up a long buttress which projects in an unusual way, and went towards the Col de Martignare; but before arriving at its summit we again doubled, and resumed the[pg 134]original course.97At 6A.M.we stood on the watershed, and followed it towards the east; keeping for some distance strictly to the ridge, and afterwards diverging a little to the south to avoid a considerable secondary aiguille, which prevented a straight track being made to the summit at which we were aiming. At 9.15 we stood on its top, and saw at once the lay of the land.We found that our peak was one of four which enclosed a plateau that was filled by a glacier. Let us call these summitsA,B,C,D(see plan onp. 128). We stood uponC, which was almost exactly the same elevation asB, but was higher thanD, and lower thanA. PeakAwas the highest of the four, and was about 200 feet higher thanBandC; we identified it as the Aiguille de Goléon (French survey, 11,250 feet). PeakDwe considered was the Bec-du-Grenier; and, in default of other names, we calledBandCthe Aiguilles de la Sausse. The glacier flowed in a south-easterly direction, and was the Glacier Lombard.PeaksBandCoverhung the Ravine de la Sausse, and were connected with another aiguille—E—which did the same. A continuation of the ridge out of which these three aiguilles rose joined the Aiguilles d’Arve. The head of the Ravine de la Sausse was therefore encircled by six peaks; three of which it was convenient to term the Aiguilles de la Sausse, and the others were the Aiguilles d’Arve.We were very fortunate in the selection of our summit. Not to speak of other things, it gave a grand view of the ridge which culminates in the peak called La Meije (13,080 feet), which used to be mentioned by travellers under the name Aiguille du Midi de la Grave. The view of this mountain from the village of La Grave itself can hardly be praised too highly,—it is one of the very finest road-views in the Alps. The Ortler Spitz from the Stelvio is, in fact, its only worthy competitor; and the opinions generally of[pg 135]those who have seen the two views are in favour of the former. But from La Grave one can no more appreciate the noble proportions and the towering height of the Meije, than understand the symmetry of the dome of St. Paul’s by gazing upon it from the churchyard. To see it fairly, one must be placed at a greater distance and at a greater height.I shall not try to describe the Meije. The same words, and the same phrases, have to do duty for one and another mountain; their repetition becomes wearisome; and ’tis a discouraging fact that any description, however true or however elaborated, seldom or never gives an idea of the reality.Yet the Meije deserves more than a passing notice. It was the last great Alpine peak which knew the foot of man, and one can scarcely speak in exaggerated terms of its jagged ridges, torrential glaciers, and tremendous precipices.98But were I to discourse upon these things without the aid of pictures, or to endeavour to convey inwordsa sense of the loveliness ofcurves, of the beauty ofcolour, or of the harmonies ofsound, I should try to accomplish that which is impossible; and, at the best, should succeed in but giving an impression that the things spoken of may have been pleasant to hear or to behold, although they are perfectly incomprehensible to read about. Let me therefore avoid these[pg 136]things, not because I have no love for or thought of them, but because they cannot be translated into language; and presently, when topographical details must, of necessity, be returned to again, I will endeavour to relieve the poverty of the pen by a free use of the pencil.Whilst we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, our attention was concentrated on a point that was immediately opposite—on a gap or cleft between the Meije and the mountain called the Rateau. It was, indeed, in order to have a good view of this place that we made the ascent of the Aiguille. It (that is the gap itself) looked, as my companions remarked, obtrusively and offensively a pass. It had not been crossed, but it ought to have been; and this seemed to have been recognised by the natives, who called it, very appropriately, the Brèche de la Meije.I had seen the place in 1860, and again in 1861, but had not then thought about getting through it; and our information in respect to it was chiefly derived from a photographic reproduction of the then unpublished sheet 189, of the great map of France, which Mr. Tuckett, with his usual liberality, had placed at our disposal. It was evident from this map that if we could succeed in passing the Brèche, we should make the most direct route between the village of La Grave and that of Bérarde in the Department of the Isère, and that the distance between these two places by this route, would be less than one-third that of the ordinary way via the villages of Freney and Venos. It may occur to some of my readers, why had it not been done before? For the very sound reason that the valley on its southern side (Vallon des Etançons) is uninhabited, and La Bérarde itself is a miserable village, without interest, without commerce, and almost without population. Why then did we wish to cross it? Because we were bound to the Pointe des Ecrins, to which La Bérarde was the nearest inhabited place.When we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, we were rather despondent about our prospects of crossing the Brèche, which seemed to present a combination of all that was formidable. There[pg 137]was, evidently, but one way by which it could be approached. We saw that at the top of the pass there was a steep wall of snow or ice (so steep that it was most likely ice) protected at its base by a big schrund or moat, which severed it from the snow-fields below. Then (tracking our course downwards) we saw undulating snow-fields leading down to a great glacier. The snow-fields would be easy work, but the glacier was riven and broken in every direction; huge crevasses seemed to extend entirely across it in some places, and everywhere it had that strange twisted look, which tells of the unequal motion of the ice. Where could we get on to it? At its base it came to a violent end, being cut short by a cliff, over which it poured periodical avalanches, as we saw by a great triangular bed of débris below. We could not venture there,—the glacier must be taken in flank. But on which side? Not on the west,—no one could climb those cliffs. It must, if any where, be by the rocks on the east; andtheylooked as if they wereroches moutonnées.So we hurried down to La Grave, to hear what Melchior Anderegg (who had just passed through the village with the family of our friend Walker) had to say on the matter. Who is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the question cannot have been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of Melchior is as well known as the name of Napoleon. Melchior, too, is an Emperor in his way—a very Prince among guides. His empire is amongst the“eternal snows,”—his sceptre is an ice-axe.Melchior Anderegg, more familiarly, and perhaps more generally known simply as Melchior, was born at Zaun, near Meiringen, on April 6, 1828. He was first brought into public notice in Hinchcliff’sSummer Months in the Alps, and was known to very few persons at the time that little work was published. In 1855 he was“Boots”at the Grimsel Hotel, and in those days, when he went out on expeditions, it was for the benefit of his master, the proprietor; Melchior himself only got thetrinkgelt. In 1856 he migrated to the Schwarenbach Inn on[pg 138]the Gemmi, where he employed his time in carving objects for sale. In 1858 he made numerous expeditions with Messrs. Hinchcliff and Stephen, and proved to his employers that he possessed first-rate skill, indomitable courage, and an admirable character. His position has never been doubtful since that year, and for a long time there has been no guide whose services have been more in request: he is usually engaged a year in advance.It would be almost an easier task to say what he has not done than to catalogue his achievements. Invariable success attends his arms; he leads his followers to victory, but not to death. I believe that no serious accident has ever befallen travellers in his charge. Like his friend Almer, he can be called asafeman. It is the highest praise that can be given to a first-rate guide.Illustration: Melchior Anderegg in 1864MELCHIOR ANDEREGG IN 1864.Early in the afternoon we found ourselves in the little inn at La Grave, on the great Lautaret road, a rickety, tumble-down sort of place, with nothing stable about it, as Moore wittily remarked, except the smell.99Melchior had gone, and had left[pg 139]behind a note which said,“I think the passage of the Brèche is possible, but that it will be very difficult.”His opinion coincided with ours, and we went to sleep, expecting to be afoot about eighteen or twenty hours on the morrow.At 2.40 the next morning we left La Grave, in a few minutes crossed the Romanche, and at 4A.M.got to the moraine of the eastern branch of the glacier that descends from the Brèche.100The rocks by which we intended to ascend were placed between the two branches of this glacier, and still looked smooth and unbroken. By 5 o’clock we were upon them, and saw that we had been deluded by them. No carpenter could have planned a more convenient staircase. They werenot moutonnée, their smooth look from a distance was only owing to their singular firmness. [It was really quite a pleasure to scale such delightful rocks. We felt the stone held the boot so well, that, without making a positive effort to do so, it would be almost impossible to slip.] In an hour we had risen above the most crevassed portion of the glacier, and began to look for a way on to it. Just at the right place there was a patch of old snow at the side, and, instead of gaining the ice by desperate acrobatic feats, we passed from the rocks on to it as easily as one walks across a gangway. At half-past 6 we were on the centre of the glacier, and the inhabitants of La Grave turned outen masseinto the road, and watched us with amazement as they witnessed the falsification of their confident predictions. Well might they stare, for our little caravan, looking to them like a train of flies on a wall, crept up and up, without hesitation and without a halt—lost to their sight one minute as it dived into a crevasse, then seen again clambering up the other side. The higher we rose the easier became the work, the angles lessened, and our pace increased. The snow remained shadowed, and we walked as easily as on a high road; and when (at 7.45) the summit of the Brèche was seen, we rushed at it as furiously[pg 140]as if it had been a breach in the wall of a fortress, carried the moat by a dash, with a push behind and a pull before, stormed the steep slope above, and at 8.50 stood in the little gap, 11,054 feet above the level of the sea. The Brèche was won. Well might they stare; five hours and a quarter had sufficed for 6500 feet of ascent.101We screamed triumphantly as they turned in to breakfast.Illustration: Map of the Brèche de la Meije, etc.SCALE, THREE MILES TO AN INCH.All mountaineers know how valuable it is to study beforehand an intended route over new ground from a height at some distance. None but blunderers fail to do so, if it is possible; and one cannot do so too thoroughly. As a rule, the closer one approaches underneath a summit, the more difficult it is to pick out a path with judgment. Inferior peaks seem unduly important, subordinate ridges are exalted, and slopes conceal points beyond; and if one blindly undertakes an ascent, without having acquired a tolerable notion of the relative importance of the parts, and of their positions to one another, it will be miraculous if great difficulties are not encountered.But although the examination of an intended route from a height at a distance will tell one (who knows the meaning of the things he is looking at) a good deal, and will enable him to steer clear of many difficulties against which he might otherwise blindly run, it will seldom allow one to pronounce positively upon the practicability or impracticability of the whole of the route. No living man, for example, can pronounce positively from a distance[pg 141]in regard to rocks. Those just mentioned are an illustration of this. Three of the ablest and most experienced guides concurred in thinking that they would be found very difficult, and yet they presented no difficulty whatever. In truth, the sounder and less broken up are the rocks, the more impracticable do they usually look from a distance; while soft and easily rent rocks, which are often amongst the most difficult and perilous to climb, very frequently look from afar as if they might be traversed by a child.It is possible to decide with greater certainty in regard to the practicability of glaciers. When one is seen to have few open crevasses (and this may be told from a great distance), then we know that it ispossibleto traverse it; but to what extent it, or a glacier that is much broken up by crevasses, will be troublesome, will depend upon the width and length of the crevasses, and upon the angles of the surface of the glacier itself. A glacier may be greatly crevassed, but the fissures may be so narrow that there is no occasion to deviate from a straight line when passing across them; or a glacier may have few open crevasses, and yet may be practically impassable on account of the steepness of the angles of its surface. Nominally, a man with an axe can go anywhere upon a glacier, but in practice it is found that to move freely upon ice one must have to deal only with small angles. It is thus necessary to know approximately the angles of the surfaces of a glacier before it is possible to determine whether it will afford easy travelling, or will be so difficult as to be (for all practical purposes) impassable. This cannot be told by looking at glaciers in full face from a distance; they must be seen in profile; and it is often desirable to examine them both from the front and in profile,—to do the first to study the direction of the crevasses, to note where they are most and least numerous; and the second to see whether its angles are moderate or great. Should they be very steep, it may be better to avoid them altogether, and to mount even by difficult rocks; but upon glaciers ofgentleinclination, and with few open crevasses, better progress can always be made than upon theeasiestrocks.[pg 142]So much to explain why we were deceived when looking at the Brèche de la Meije from the Aiguille de la Sausse. We took note of all the difficulties, but did not pay sufficient attention to the distance that the Brèche was south of La Grave. My meaning will be apparent from the accompanyingdiagram, Fig. 1 (constructed upon the data supplied by the French surveyors), which will also serve to illustrate how badly angles of elevation are judged by the unaided eye.Illustration: Diagram to show angle of summit of Meije, etc.The village of La Grave is just 5000 feet, and the highest summit of the Meije is 13,080 feet above the level of the sea. There is therefore a difference in their levels of 8080 feet. But the summit of the Meije is south of La Grave about 14,750 feet, and, consequently, a line drawn from La Grave to the summit of the Meije is no steeper than the dotted line drawn fromAtoC,Fig. 1; or, in other words, if one could go in a direct line from La Grave to the summit of the Meije the ascent would be at an angle of less than 30°. Nine persons out of ten would probably estimate the angle on the spot at double this amount.102The Brèche is 2000 feet below the summit of the Meije, and only 6000 feet above La Grave. A direct ascent from the village to the Brèche would consequently be at an angle of not much more than 20°. But it is not possible to make the ascent as the crow flies; it has to be made by an indirect and much longer route. Our track was probably double the length of a direct line between the two places. Doubling the length halved the angles, and we[pg 143]therefore arrive at the somewhat amazing conclusion, that upon this, one of the steepest passes in the Alps, the mean of all the angles upon the ascent could not have been greater than 11° or 12°. Of course, in some places, the angles were much steeper, and in others less, but themeanof the whole could not have passed the angle above indicated.Illustration: The Vallon des EtançonsTHE VALLON DES ETANÇONS (LOOKING TOWARDS LA BÉRARDE).103We did not trouble ourselves much with these matters when we sat on the top of the Brèche. Our day’s work was as good as over (for we knew from Messrs. Mathews and Bonney that there was no difficulty upon the other side), and we abandoned ourselves to ease and luxury; wondering, alternately, as we gazed upon the Rateau and the Ecrins, how the one mountain could[pg 144]possibly hold itself together, and whether the other would hold out against us. The former looked [so rotten that it seemed as if a puff of wind or a clap of thunder might dash the whole fabric to pieces]; while the latter asserted itself the monarch of the group, and towered head and shoulders above all the rest of the peaks which form the great horse-shoe of Dauphiné. At length a cruel rush of cold air made us shiver, and shift our quarters to a little grassy plot, 3000 feet below—an oasis in a desert—where we lay nearly four hours admiring the splendid wall of the Meije.104Then we tramped down the Vallon des Etançons, a howling wilderness, the abomination of desolation; destitute alike of animal or vegetable life; pathless, of course; suggestive of chaos, but of little else; covered almost throughout its entire length with débris from the size of a walnut up to that of a house; in a word, it looked as if half-a-dozen moraines of first-rate dimensions had been carted and shot into it. Our tempers were soured by constant pitfalls [it was impossible to take the eyes from the feet, and if an unlucky individual so much as blew his nose, without standing still to perform the operation, the result was either an instantaneous tumble, or a barked shin, or a half-twisted ankle. There was no end to it, and we became more savage at every step, unanimously agreeing that no power on earth would ever induce us to walk up or down this particular valley again.] It was not just to the valley, which was enclosed by noble mountains,—unknown, it is true, but worthy of a great reputation, and which, if placed in other districts, would be sought after, and cited as types of daring form and graceful outline.105

[pg 114]CHAPTER VI.OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.81“But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,The long, long views of poor, designing man.”Homer.Carrel hadcarte blanchein the matter of guides, and his choice fell upon his relative Cæsar, Luc Meynet, and two others whose names I do not know. These men were now brought together, and our preparations were completed, as the weather was clearing up.We rested on Sunday, August 9, eagerly watching the lessening of the mists around the great peak, and started just before dawn upon the 10th, on a still and cloudless morning, which seemed to promise a happy termination to our enterprise.By going always, though gently, we arrived upon the Col du Lion before nine o’clock. Changes were apparent. Familiar ledges had vanished; the platform, whereupon my tent had stood, looked very forlorn, its stones had been scattered by wind and frost, and had half disappeared: and the summit of the Col itself, which in 1862 had always been respectably broad, and covered by snow, was now sharper than the ridge of any church roof, and was hard ice. Already we had found that the bad weather of the past week had done its work. The rocks for several hundred feet below the Col were varnished with ice. Loose, incoherent snow covered the older and harder beds below, and we nearly lost our leader through its treacherousness. He stepped on some snow which seemed firm, and raised his axe to deliver a swinging blow, but, just as it was[pg 115]highest, the crust of the slope upon which he stood broke away, and poured down in serpentine streams, leaving long, bare strips, which glittered in the sun, for they were glassy ice. Carrel, with admirable readiness, flung himself back on to the rock off which he had stepped, and was at once secured. He simply remarked,“It is time we were tied up,”and, after we had been tied up, he went to work again as if nothing had happened.82We had abundant illustrations during the next two hours of the value of a rope to climbers. We were tied up rather widely apart, and advanced, generally, in pairs. Carrel, who led, was followed closely by another man, who lent him a shoulder or placed an axe-head under his feet, when there was need; and when this couple were well placed the second pair advanced, in similar fashion,—the rope being drawn in by those above, and paid out gradually by those below. The leading men again advanced, or the third pair, and so on. This manner of progression was slow, but sure. One man only moved at a time, and if he slipped (and we frequently did slip) he could slide scarcely a foot without being checked by the others. The certainty and safety of the method gave confidence to the one who was moving, and not only nerved him to put out his powers to the utmost, but sustained nerve in really difficult situations. For these rocks (which, it has been already said, were easy enough under ordinary circumstances) were now difficult in a high degree. The snow-water which had trickled down for many days past in little streams, had taken, naturally, the very route by which we wished to ascend; and, refrozen in the night, had glazed the slabs over which we had to pass,—sometimes with a fine film of ice as thin as a sheet of paper, and sometimes so thickly that we[pg 116]could almost cut footsteps in it. The weather was superb, the men made light of the toil, and shouted to rouse the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens.We went on gaily, passed the second tent platform, the Chimney, and the other well-remembered points, and reckoned, confidently, on sleeping that night upon the top of“the shoulder;”but, before we had well arrived at the foot of the Great Tower, a sudden rush of cold air warned us to look out.It was difficult to say where this air came from; it did not blow as a wind, but descended rather as the water in a shower-bath! All was tranquil again; the atmosphereshowedno signs of disturbance; there was a dead calm, and not a speck of cloud to be seen anywhere. But we did not remain very long in this state. The cold air came again, and this time it was difficult to say where it didnotcome from. We jammed down our hats as it beat against the ridge, and screamed amongst the crags. Before we had got to the foot of the Tower, mists had been formed above and below. They appeared at first in small, isolated patches (in several places at the same time), which danced and jerked and were torn into shreds by the wind, but grew larger under the process. They were united together, and rent again,—showing us the blue sky for a moment, and blotting it out the next; and augmented incessantly, until the whole heavens were filled with whirling, boiling clouds. Before we could take off our packs, and get under any kind of shelter, a hurricane of snow burst upon us from the east. It fell very heavily, and in a few minutes the ridge was covered by it.“What shall we do?”I shouted to Carrel.“Monsieur,”said he,“the wind is bad; the weather has changed; we are heavily laden. Here is a finegîte; let us stop! If we go on we shall be half-frozen. That ismyopinion.”No one differed from him; so we fell to work to make a place for the tent, and in a couple of hours completed the platform which we had commenced in 1862. The clouds had blackened during that time, and we had hardly finished our task before a thunderstorm broke upon us with appalling fury. Forked[pg 117]lightning shot out at the turrets above, and at the crags below. It was so close that we quailed at its darts. It seemed to scorch us,—we were in the very focus of the storm. The thunder was simultaneous with the flashes; short and sharp, and more like the noise of a door that is violently slammed, multiplied a thousandfold, than any noise to which I can compare it.When I say that the thunder wassimultaneouswith the lightning, I speak as an inexact person. My meaning is that the time which elapsed between seeing the flash and hearing the report was inappreciable to me. I wish to speak with all possible precision, and there are two points with regard to this storm upon which I can speak with some accuracy. The first is in regard to the distance of the lightning from our party. Wemighthave been 1100 feet from it if a second of time had elapsed between seeing the flashes and hearing the reports; and a second of time is not appreciated by inexact persons. It was certain that we were sometimes less than that distance from the lightning, because I saw it pass in front of well-known points on the ridge, both above and below us, which were less (sometimes considerably less) than a thousand feet distant.Secondly, in regard to the difficulty of distinguishing sounds which are merely echoes from true thunder, or the noise which occurs simultaneously with lightning. Arago entered into this subject at some length in hisMeteorological Essays, and seemed to doubt if it would ever be possible to determine whether echoes arealwaysthe cause of the rolling sounds commonly called thunder.83I shall not attempt to show whether the rolling sounds should ever, or never, be regarded as true thunder, but only that during this storm upon the Matterhorn it was possible to distinguish the sound of the thunder itself from the sounds (rolling and otherwise) which were merely the echoes of the first, original sound.[pg 118]At the place where we were camped a remarkable echo could be heard (one so remarkable that if it could be heard in this country it would draw crowds for its own sake); I believe it came from the cliffs of the Dent d’Hérens. It was a favourite amusement with us to shout to rouse this echo, which repeated any sharp cry, in a very distinct manner, several times, after the lapse of something like a dozen seconds. The thunderstorm lasted nearly two hours, and raged at times with great fury; and the prolonged rollings from the surrounding mountains, after one flash, had not usually ceased before another set of echoes took up the discourse, and maintained the reverberations without a break. Occasionally there was a pause, interrupted presently by a single clap, the accompaniment of a single discharge, and after such times I could recognise the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens by their peculiar repetitions, and by the length of time which had passed since the reports had occurred of which they were the echoes.If I had been unaware of the existence of this echo, I should have supposed that the resounds were original reports of explosions which had been unnoticed, since in intensity they were scarcely distinguishable from the true thunder; which, during this storm, seemed to me, upon every occasion, to consist of a single, harsh, instantaneous sound.84Or if, instead of being placed at a distance of less than a thousand feet from the points of explosion (and consequently hearing the report almost in the same moment as we saw the flash,[pg 119]and the rollings after a considerable interval of time), we had been placed so that the original report had fallen on our ears nearly at the same moment as the echoes, we should probably have considered that the successive reports and rollings of the echoes were reports of successive explosions occurring nearly at the same moment, and that they were not echoes at all.This is the only time (out of many storms witnessed in the Alps) I have obtained evidence that the rollings of thunder are actually echoes; and that they are not, necessarily, the reports of a number of discharges over a long line, occurring at varying distances from the spectator, and consequently unable to arrive at his ear at the same moment, although they follow each other so swiftly as to produce a sound more or less continuous.85The wind during all this time seemed to blow tolerably consistently from the east. It smote the tent so vehemently (notwithstanding it was partly protected by rocks) that we had grave fears our refuge might be blown away bodily, with ourselves inside; so, during some of the lulls, we issued out and built a wall to windward. At half-past three the wind changed to the north-west, and the clouds vanished. We immediately took the opportunity to send down one of the porters (under protection of some of the others, a little beyond the Col du Lion), as the tent would accommodate only five persons. From this time to sunset the weather was variable. It was sometimes blowing and snowing hard, and sometimes a dead calm. The bad weather was evidently confined to the Mont Cervin, for when the clouds lifted we could see every[pg 120]thing that could be seen from our gîte. Monte Viso, a hundred miles off, was clear, and the sun set gorgeously behind the range of Mont Blanc. We passed the night comfortably—even luxuriously—in our blanket-bags, but there was little chance of sleeping, between the noise of the wind, of the thunder, and of the falling rocks. I forgave the thunder for the sake of the lightning. A more splendid spectacle than its illumination of the Matterhorn crags I do not expect to see.86The greatest rock-falls always seemed to occur in the night, between midnight and daybreak. This was noticeable on each of the seven nights which I passed upon the south-west ridge, at heights varying from 11,800 to 13,000 feet.I may be wrong in supposing that the falls in the night are greater than those in the daytime, since sound is much more startling during darkness than when the cause of its production is seen. Even a sigh may be terrible in the stillness of the night. In the daytime one’s attention is probably divided between the sound and the motion of rocks which fall; or it may be concentrated on other matters. But it is certain that the greatest of the falls which happened during the night took place after midnight, and this I connect with the fact that the maximum of cold during any twenty-four hours very commonly occurs between midnight and dawn.We turned out at 3.30A.M.on the 11th, and were dismayed to find that it still continued to snow. At 9A.M.it ceased to fall, and the sun showed itself feebly, so we packed up our baggage, and set out to try to get upon“the shoulder.”We struggled upwards until eleven o’clock, and then it commenced to snow again. We held a council; the opinions expressed at it were unanimous against advancing, and I decided to retreat. For we had risen less than 300 feet in the past two hours, and had not even arrived at the rope which Tyndall’s party left behind, attached to the rocks,[pg 121]in 1862. At the same rate of progression it would have taken us from four to five hours to get upon“the shoulder.”Not one of us cared to attempt to do so under the existing circumstances; for besides having to move our own weight, which was sufficiently troublesome at this part of the ridge, we had to transport much heavy baggage, tent, blankets, and provisions, ladder, and 450 feet of rope, besides many other smaller matters. These, however, were not the most serious considerations. Supposing that we got upon“the shoulder,”we might find ourselves detained there several days, unable either to go up or down.87I could not risk any such detention, being under obligations to appear in London at the end of the week.Illustration: The crags of the Matterhorn, during the storm, midnight, Aug. 10, 1863THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT, AUG. 10, 1863.We returned to Breil in the course of the afternoon. It was quite fine there, and the tenants of the inn received our statements with evident scepticism. They were astonished to learn that we had been exposed to a snow-storm of twenty-six hours’ duration.“Why,”said Favre, the innkeeper,“wehave had no snow; it has been fine all the time you have been absent, and there has been only that small cloud upon the mountain.”Ah! that small cloud! None except those who have had experience of it can tell what a formidable obstacle it is.Illustration: Monsieur FavreMONSIEUR FAVRE.Why is it that the Matterhorn is subject to these abominable variations of weather? The ready answer is,“Oh, the mountain is so isolated; it attracts the clouds.”This is not a sufficient answer. Although the mountainisisolated, it is not so much more isolated than the neighbouring peaks that it should gather clouds when none of the others do so. It will not at all account for the[pg 122]cloud to which I refer, which is not formed by an aggregation of smaller, stray clouds drawn together from a distance (as scum collects round a log in the water), but is created against the mountain itself, and springs into existence where no clouds were seen before. It is formed and hangs chiefly against the southern sides, and particularly against the south-eastern side. It frequently does not envelop the summit, and rarely extends down to the Glacier du Lion, and to the Glacier du Mont Cervin below. It forms in the finest weather; on cloudless and windless days.I conceive that we should look to differences of temperature rather than to the height or isolation of the mountain for an explanation. I am inclined to attribute the disturbances which occur in the atmosphere of the southern sides of the Matterhorn on fine days,88principally to the fact that the mountain is arockmountain; that it receives a great amount of heat,89and is not only warmer itself, but is surrounded by an atmosphere of a higher temperature than such peaks as the Weisshorn and the Lyskamm, which are eminentlysnowmountains.In certain states of the atmosphere its temperature may be tolerably uniform over wide areas and to great elevations. I have known the thermometer to show 70° in the shade at the top of an Alpine peak more than 13,000 feet high, and but a very few degrees higher 6000 or 7000 feet lower. At other times, there will be a difference of forty or fifty degrees (Faht.) between two stations, the higher not more than 6000 or 7000 feet above the lower.Provided that the temperature was uniform, or nearly so, on all sides of the Matterhorn, and to a considerable distance above its summit, no clouds would be likely to form upon it. But if the atmosphere immediately surrounding it is warmer than the contiguous strata, a local“courant ascendant”must necessarily be generated; and portions of the cooler superincumbent (or circum[pg 123]jacent) air will naturally be attracted towards the mountain, where they will speedily condense the moisture of the warm air in contact with it. I cannot explain the downrushes of cold air which occur on it, when all the rest of the neighbourhood appears to be tranquil, in any other way. The clouds are produced by the contact of two strata of air (of widely different temperatures) charged with invisible moisture, as surely as certain colourless fluids produce a white, turbid liquid, when mixed together. The order has been—wind of a low temperature—mist—rain—snow or hail.90This opinion is borne out to some extent by the behaviour of the neighbouring mountains. The Dom (14,935 feet) and the Dent Blanche (14,318) have both of them large cliffs of bare rock upon their southern sides, and against those cliffs clouds commonly form (during fine, still weather) at the same time as the cloud on the Matterhorn; whilst the Weisshorn (14,804) and the Lyskamm (14,889), (mountains of about the same altitude, and which are in corresponding situations to the former pair) usually remain perfectly clear.Illustration: Crossing the ChannelCROSSING THE CHANNEL.I arrived at Chatillon at midnight on the 11th, defeated and disconsolate; but, like a gambler who loses each throw, only the more eager to have another try, to see if the luck would change: and returned to London ready to devise fresh combinations, and to form new plans.[pg 124]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.“The more to help the greater deed is done.”Homer.When we arrived upon the highest summit of Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphiné, in 1861, we saw, to our surprise and disappointment, that it was not the culminating point of the district; and that another mountain—distant about a couple of miles, and separated from us by an impassable gulf—claimed that distinction. I was troubled in spirit about this mountain, and my thoughts often reverted to the great wall-sided peak, second in apparent inaccessibility only to the Matterhorn. It had, moreover, another claim to attention—it was the highest mountainInFrance.The year 1862 passed away without a chance of getting to it, and my holiday was too brief in 1863 even to think about it; but in the following year it was possible, and I resolved to set my mind at rest by completing the task which had been left unfinished in 1861.In the meantime others had turned their attention to Dauphiné. First of all (in 1862) came Mr. F. Tuckett—that mighty mountaineer, whose name is known throughout the length and breadth of the Alps—with the guides Michel Croz, Peter Perrn, and Bartolommeo Peyrotte, and great success attended his arms. But Mr. Tuckett halted before the Pointe des Ecrins, and, dismayed by its appearance, withdrew his forces to gather less dangerous laurels elsewhere.His expedition, however, threw some light upon the Ecrins. He pointed out the direction from which an attack was most likely to be successful, and Mr. William Mathews and the Rev. T. G.[pg 125]Bonney (to whom he communicated the result of his labours) attempted to execute the ascent, with the brothers Michel and J. B. Croz, by following his indications. But they too were defeated, as I shall relate more particularly presently.Illustration: Michel-Auguste Crow (1865)MICHEL-AUGUSTE CROZ (1865).The guide Michel Croz had thus been engaged in both of these expeditions in Dauphiné, and I naturally looked to him for assistance. Mr. Mathews (to whom I applied for information) gave him a high character, and concluded his reply to me by saying,“he was only happy when upwards of 10,000 feet high.”I know what my friend meant. Croz was happiest when he was employing his powers to the utmost. Places where you and I would“toil and sweat, and yet be freezing cold,”were bagatelles to him, and it was only when he got above the range of ordinary mortals, and was required to employ his magnificent strength,[pg 126]and to draw upon his unsurpassed knowledge of ice and snow, that he could be said to be really and truly happy.Of all the guides with whom I travelled, Michel Croz was the man who was most after my own heart. He did not work like a blunt razor, and take to his toil unkindly. He did not need urging, or to be told a second time to do anything. You had but to saywhatwas to be done, andhowit was to be done, and the workwasdone, if it was possible. Such men are not common, and when they are known they are valued. Michel was not widely known, but those who did know him employed him again and again. The inscription that is placed upon his tomb truthfully records that he was“beloved by his comrades and esteemed by travellers.”At the time that I was planning my journey, my friends Messrs. A. W. Moore and Horace Walker were also drawing up their programme; and, as we found that our wishes were very similar, we agreed to unite our respective parties. The excursions which are described in this and the two following chapters are mutual ideas which were jointly executed.Our united programme was framed so as to avoid sleeping in inns, and so that we should see from the highest point attained on one day a considerable portion of the route which was intended to be followed on the next. This latter matter was an important one to us, as all of our projected excursions were new ones, and led over ground about which there was very little information in print.My friends had happily secured Christian Almer of Grindelwald as their guide. The combination of Croz and Almer was a perfect one. Both men were in the prime of life;91both were endued with strength and activity far beyond the average; and the courage and the knowledge of each was alike undoubted. The temper of Almer it was impossible to ruffle; he was ever obliging and enduring,—a bold but a safe man. That which he lacked in fire—in dash—was supplied by Croz, who, in his turn, was kept in place by Almer.[pg 127]It is pleasant to remember how they worked together, and how each one confided to you that he liked the other so much because he worked so well; but it is sad, very sad, to those who have known the men, to know that they can never work together again.We met at St. Michel on the Mont Cenis road, at midday on June 20, 1864, and proceeded in the afternoon over the Col de Valloires to the village of the same name. The summit of this pretty little pass is about 3500 feet above St. Michel, and from it we had a fair view of the Aiguilles d’Arve, a group of three peaks of singular form, which it was our especial object to investigate.92They had been seen by ourselves and others from numerous distant points, and always looked very high and very inaccessible; but we had been unable to obtain any information about them, except the few words in Joanne’sItinéraire du Dauphiné. Having made out from the summit of the Col de Valloires that they could be approached from the Valley of Valloires, we hastened down to find a place where we could pass the night, as near as possible to the entrance of the little valley leading up to them.By nightfall we arrived at the entrance to this little valley (Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve), and found some buildings placed just where they were wanted. The proprietress received us with civility, and placed a large barn at our disposal, on the conditions that no lights were struck or pipes smoked therein; and when her terms were agreed to, she took us into her own chalet, made up a huge fire, heated a gallon of milk, and treated us with genuine hospitality.In the morning we found that the Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve led away nearly due west from the Valley of Valloires, and that the village of Bonnenuit was placed (in the latter valley) almost exactly opposite to the junction of the two.At 3.55A.M.on the 21st we set out up the Vallon, passed for a time over pasture-land, and then over a stony waste, deeply chan[pg 128]nelled by watercourses. At 5.30 the two principal Aiguilles were well seen, and as, by this time, it was evident that the authors of the Sardinian official map had romanced as extensively in this neighbourhood as elsewhere, it was necessary to hold a council.Illustration: Plan to show routeThree questions were submitted to it:—Firstly, Which is the highest of these Aiguilles? Secondly, Which shall we go up? Thirdly, How is it to be done?The French engineers, it was said, had determined that the two highest of them were respectively 11,513 and 11,529 feet in height; but we were without information as to which two they had measured.93Joanne indeed said (but without specifying whether he meant all three) that the Aiguilles had been several times ascended, and particularly mentioned that the one of 11,513 feet was“relatively easy.”We therefore said,“We will go up the peak of 11,529 feet.”That determination did not settle the second question. Joanne’s“relatively easy”peak, according to his description, was evidently the most northern of the three.Ourpeak then was to be one of the other two;—but which of them? We were inclined to favour the central one; but it was hard to determine, they looked so equal in height. When, however, the council came to study the third[pg 129]question—“How is it to be done?”it was unanimously voted that upon the eastern and southern sides it was certainly“relatively”difficult, and that a move should be made round to the northern side.The movement was duly executed, and after wading up some snow-slopes of considerable steepness (going occasionally beyond 40°), we found ourselves in a gap or nick, between the central and northernmost Aiguille, at 8.45A.M.We then studied the northern face of our intended peak, and finally arrived at the conclusion that it was“relatively”impracticable. Croz shrugged his big shoulders, and said,“My faith! I think you will do well to leave it to others.”Almer was more explicit, and volunteered the information that a thousand francs would not tempt him totryit. We then turned to the northernmost peak, but found its southern faces even more hopeless than the northern faces of the central one. We enjoyed accordingly the unwonted luxury of a three-hours’ rest on the top of our pass; for pass we were determined it should be.We might have done worse. We were 10,300 or 10,400 feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a most picturesque view of the mountains of the Tarentaise; while, somewhat east of south, we saw the monarch of the Dauphinémassif, whose closer acquaintance it was our intention to make. Three sunny hours passed away, and then we turned to the descent. We saw the distant pastures of a valley (which we supposed was the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse), and a long snow-slope leading down to them. But from that slope we were cut off by precipitous rocks, and our first impression was that we should have to return in our track. Some running up and down, however, discovered two little gullies, filled with threads of snow, and down the most northern of these we decided to go. It was a steep way but a safe one, for the cleft was so narrow that we could press the shoulder against one side whilst the feet were against the other, and the last remnant of the winter’s snow, well hardened, clung to the rift with great tenacity, and gave us a path when the rocks refused one. In half-an-hour we got to the top of the great snow-slope. Walker said—“Let us[pg 130]glissade;”the guides—“No, it is too steep.”Our friend, however, started off at a standing glissade, and advanced for a time very skilfully; but after a while he lost his balance, and progressed downwards and backwards with great rapidity, in a way that seemed to us very much like tumbling head over heels. He let go his axe, and left it behind, but it overtook him and batted him heartily. He and it travelled in this fashion for some hundreds of feet, and at last subsided into the rocks at the bottom. In a few moments we were reassured as to his safety, by hearing him ironically request us not to keep him waiting down there.Illustration: The Aiguilles d’Arve, from above the chalets of Rieu BlancTHE AIGUILLES D’ARVE, FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU BLANC, SHOWING ROUTE.We others followed the track shown by the dotted line upon theengraving(making zigzags to avoid the little groups of rocks which jutted through the snow, by which Walker had been upset), descended by asittingglissade, and rejoined our friend at the bottom. We then turned sharply to the left, and tramped down the summit ridge of an old moraine of great size. Its mud was excessively[pg 131]hard, and where some large erratic blocks lay perched upon its crest, we were obliged to cut steps (in the mud) with our ice-axes.Guided by the sound of a distant“moo,”we speedily found the highest chalets in the valley, named Rieu Blanc. They were tenanted by three old women (who seemed to belong to one of the missing links sought by naturalists), destitute of all ideas except in regard to cows, and who spoke a barbarous patois, well-nigh unintelligible to the Savoyard Croz. They would not believe that we had passed between the Aiguilles,—“It is impossible, thecowsnever go there.”“Could we get to La Grave over yonder ridge?”“Oh yes! thecowsoften crossed!”Could they show us the way? No; but we could follow thecow-tracks.We stayed a while near these chalets, to examine the western sides of the Aiguilles d’Arve, and, according to our united opinion, the central one was as inaccessible from this direction as from the east, north, or south. On the following day we saw them again, from a height of about 11,000 feet, in a south-easterly direction, and our opinion remained unchanged.We saw (on June 20-22) the central Aiguille from all sides, and very nearly completely round the southernmost one. The northern one we also saw on all sides excepting from the north. (It is, however, precisely from this direction M. Joanne says that its ascent is relatively easy.) We do not, therefore, venture to express any opinion respecting its ascent, except as regards its actual summit. This is formed of two curious prongs, or pinnacles of rock, and we do not understand in what way they (or either of them) can be ascended; nor shall we be surprised if this ascent is discovered to have been made in spirit rather than body; in fact, in the same manner as the celebrated ascent of Mont Blanc,“not entirely to the summit, but as far as the Montanvert!”All three of the Aiguillesmaybe accessible, but theylookas inaccessible as anything I have seen. They are the highest summits between the valleys of the Romanche and the Arc; they are placed slightly to the north of the watershed between those[pg 132]two valleys, and a line drawn through them runs, pretty nearly, north and south.We descended by a rough path from Rieu Blanc to the chalets of La Sausse, which give the name to the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse, in which they are situated. This is one of the numerous branches of the valley that descends to St. Jean d’Arve, and subsequently to St. Jean de Maurienne.Two passes, more or less known, lead from this valley to the village of La Grave (on the Lautaret road) in the valley of the Romanche, viz.:—the Col de l’Infernet and the Col de Martignare. The former pass was crossed, many years ago, by J. D. Forbes, and was mentioned by him in hisNorway and its Glaciers. The latter one lies to the north of the former, and is seldom traversed by tourists, but it was convenient for us, and we set out to cross it on the morning of the 22d, after having passed a comfortable, but not luxurious, night in the hay, at La Sausse, where, however, the simplicity of the accommodation was more than counterbalanced by the civility and hospitality of the people in charge.94[Our object now was to cross to La Grave (on the high road from Grenoble to Briançon), and to ascend,en route, some point sufficiently high to give us a good view of the Dauphiné Alps in general, and of the grand chain of the Meije in particular. Before[pg 133]leaving England a careful study of“Joanne”had elicited the fact that the shortest route from La Sausse to La Grave was by the Col de Martignare; and also that from the aforesaid Col it was possible to ascend a lofty summit, called by him the Bec-du-Grenier, also called Aiguille de Goléon. On referring, however, to the Sardinian survey, we found there depicted, to the east of the Col de Martignare, notonepeak bearing the abovetwonames, buttwo distinct summits; one—just above the Col—the Bec-du-Grenier (the height of which was not stated); the other, still farther to the east, and somewhat to the south of the watershed—the Aiguille du Goléon (11,250 English feet in height), with a very considerable glacier—the Glacier Lombard—between the two. On the French map,95on the other hand, neither of the above names was to be found, but a peak called Aiguille de la Sausse (10,897 feet), was placed in the position assigned to the Bec-du-Grenier in the Sardinian map; while farther to the east was a second and nameless peak (10,841), not at all in the position given to the Aiguille du Goléon, of which and of the Glacier Lombard there was not a sign. All this was very puzzling and unsatisfactory; but as we had no doubt of being able to climb one of the points to the east of the Col de Martignare (which overhung the Ravine de la Sausse), we determined to make that col the basis of our operations.]96We left the chalets at 4.15A.M.[under a shower of good wishes from our hostesses], proceeded at first towards the upper end of the ravine, then doubled back up a long buttress which projects in an unusual way, and went towards the Col de Martignare; but before arriving at its summit we again doubled, and resumed the[pg 134]original course.97At 6A.M.we stood on the watershed, and followed it towards the east; keeping for some distance strictly to the ridge, and afterwards diverging a little to the south to avoid a considerable secondary aiguille, which prevented a straight track being made to the summit at which we were aiming. At 9.15 we stood on its top, and saw at once the lay of the land.We found that our peak was one of four which enclosed a plateau that was filled by a glacier. Let us call these summitsA,B,C,D(see plan onp. 128). We stood uponC, which was almost exactly the same elevation asB, but was higher thanD, and lower thanA. PeakAwas the highest of the four, and was about 200 feet higher thanBandC; we identified it as the Aiguille de Goléon (French survey, 11,250 feet). PeakDwe considered was the Bec-du-Grenier; and, in default of other names, we calledBandCthe Aiguilles de la Sausse. The glacier flowed in a south-easterly direction, and was the Glacier Lombard.PeaksBandCoverhung the Ravine de la Sausse, and were connected with another aiguille—E—which did the same. A continuation of the ridge out of which these three aiguilles rose joined the Aiguilles d’Arve. The head of the Ravine de la Sausse was therefore encircled by six peaks; three of which it was convenient to term the Aiguilles de la Sausse, and the others were the Aiguilles d’Arve.We were very fortunate in the selection of our summit. Not to speak of other things, it gave a grand view of the ridge which culminates in the peak called La Meije (13,080 feet), which used to be mentioned by travellers under the name Aiguille du Midi de la Grave. The view of this mountain from the village of La Grave itself can hardly be praised too highly,—it is one of the very finest road-views in the Alps. The Ortler Spitz from the Stelvio is, in fact, its only worthy competitor; and the opinions generally of[pg 135]those who have seen the two views are in favour of the former. But from La Grave one can no more appreciate the noble proportions and the towering height of the Meije, than understand the symmetry of the dome of St. Paul’s by gazing upon it from the churchyard. To see it fairly, one must be placed at a greater distance and at a greater height.I shall not try to describe the Meije. The same words, and the same phrases, have to do duty for one and another mountain; their repetition becomes wearisome; and ’tis a discouraging fact that any description, however true or however elaborated, seldom or never gives an idea of the reality.Yet the Meije deserves more than a passing notice. It was the last great Alpine peak which knew the foot of man, and one can scarcely speak in exaggerated terms of its jagged ridges, torrential glaciers, and tremendous precipices.98But were I to discourse upon these things without the aid of pictures, or to endeavour to convey inwordsa sense of the loveliness ofcurves, of the beauty ofcolour, or of the harmonies ofsound, I should try to accomplish that which is impossible; and, at the best, should succeed in but giving an impression that the things spoken of may have been pleasant to hear or to behold, although they are perfectly incomprehensible to read about. Let me therefore avoid these[pg 136]things, not because I have no love for or thought of them, but because they cannot be translated into language; and presently, when topographical details must, of necessity, be returned to again, I will endeavour to relieve the poverty of the pen by a free use of the pencil.Whilst we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, our attention was concentrated on a point that was immediately opposite—on a gap or cleft between the Meije and the mountain called the Rateau. It was, indeed, in order to have a good view of this place that we made the ascent of the Aiguille. It (that is the gap itself) looked, as my companions remarked, obtrusively and offensively a pass. It had not been crossed, but it ought to have been; and this seemed to have been recognised by the natives, who called it, very appropriately, the Brèche de la Meije.I had seen the place in 1860, and again in 1861, but had not then thought about getting through it; and our information in respect to it was chiefly derived from a photographic reproduction of the then unpublished sheet 189, of the great map of France, which Mr. Tuckett, with his usual liberality, had placed at our disposal. It was evident from this map that if we could succeed in passing the Brèche, we should make the most direct route between the village of La Grave and that of Bérarde in the Department of the Isère, and that the distance between these two places by this route, would be less than one-third that of the ordinary way via the villages of Freney and Venos. It may occur to some of my readers, why had it not been done before? For the very sound reason that the valley on its southern side (Vallon des Etançons) is uninhabited, and La Bérarde itself is a miserable village, without interest, without commerce, and almost without population. Why then did we wish to cross it? Because we were bound to the Pointe des Ecrins, to which La Bérarde was the nearest inhabited place.When we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, we were rather despondent about our prospects of crossing the Brèche, which seemed to present a combination of all that was formidable. There[pg 137]was, evidently, but one way by which it could be approached. We saw that at the top of the pass there was a steep wall of snow or ice (so steep that it was most likely ice) protected at its base by a big schrund or moat, which severed it from the snow-fields below. Then (tracking our course downwards) we saw undulating snow-fields leading down to a great glacier. The snow-fields would be easy work, but the glacier was riven and broken in every direction; huge crevasses seemed to extend entirely across it in some places, and everywhere it had that strange twisted look, which tells of the unequal motion of the ice. Where could we get on to it? At its base it came to a violent end, being cut short by a cliff, over which it poured periodical avalanches, as we saw by a great triangular bed of débris below. We could not venture there,—the glacier must be taken in flank. But on which side? Not on the west,—no one could climb those cliffs. It must, if any where, be by the rocks on the east; andtheylooked as if they wereroches moutonnées.So we hurried down to La Grave, to hear what Melchior Anderegg (who had just passed through the village with the family of our friend Walker) had to say on the matter. Who is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the question cannot have been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of Melchior is as well known as the name of Napoleon. Melchior, too, is an Emperor in his way—a very Prince among guides. His empire is amongst the“eternal snows,”—his sceptre is an ice-axe.Melchior Anderegg, more familiarly, and perhaps more generally known simply as Melchior, was born at Zaun, near Meiringen, on April 6, 1828. He was first brought into public notice in Hinchcliff’sSummer Months in the Alps, and was known to very few persons at the time that little work was published. In 1855 he was“Boots”at the Grimsel Hotel, and in those days, when he went out on expeditions, it was for the benefit of his master, the proprietor; Melchior himself only got thetrinkgelt. In 1856 he migrated to the Schwarenbach Inn on[pg 138]the Gemmi, where he employed his time in carving objects for sale. In 1858 he made numerous expeditions with Messrs. Hinchcliff and Stephen, and proved to his employers that he possessed first-rate skill, indomitable courage, and an admirable character. His position has never been doubtful since that year, and for a long time there has been no guide whose services have been more in request: he is usually engaged a year in advance.It would be almost an easier task to say what he has not done than to catalogue his achievements. Invariable success attends his arms; he leads his followers to victory, but not to death. I believe that no serious accident has ever befallen travellers in his charge. Like his friend Almer, he can be called asafeman. It is the highest praise that can be given to a first-rate guide.Illustration: Melchior Anderegg in 1864MELCHIOR ANDEREGG IN 1864.Early in the afternoon we found ourselves in the little inn at La Grave, on the great Lautaret road, a rickety, tumble-down sort of place, with nothing stable about it, as Moore wittily remarked, except the smell.99Melchior had gone, and had left[pg 139]behind a note which said,“I think the passage of the Brèche is possible, but that it will be very difficult.”His opinion coincided with ours, and we went to sleep, expecting to be afoot about eighteen or twenty hours on the morrow.At 2.40 the next morning we left La Grave, in a few minutes crossed the Romanche, and at 4A.M.got to the moraine of the eastern branch of the glacier that descends from the Brèche.100The rocks by which we intended to ascend were placed between the two branches of this glacier, and still looked smooth and unbroken. By 5 o’clock we were upon them, and saw that we had been deluded by them. No carpenter could have planned a more convenient staircase. They werenot moutonnée, their smooth look from a distance was only owing to their singular firmness. [It was really quite a pleasure to scale such delightful rocks. We felt the stone held the boot so well, that, without making a positive effort to do so, it would be almost impossible to slip.] In an hour we had risen above the most crevassed portion of the glacier, and began to look for a way on to it. Just at the right place there was a patch of old snow at the side, and, instead of gaining the ice by desperate acrobatic feats, we passed from the rocks on to it as easily as one walks across a gangway. At half-past 6 we were on the centre of the glacier, and the inhabitants of La Grave turned outen masseinto the road, and watched us with amazement as they witnessed the falsification of their confident predictions. Well might they stare, for our little caravan, looking to them like a train of flies on a wall, crept up and up, without hesitation and without a halt—lost to their sight one minute as it dived into a crevasse, then seen again clambering up the other side. The higher we rose the easier became the work, the angles lessened, and our pace increased. The snow remained shadowed, and we walked as easily as on a high road; and when (at 7.45) the summit of the Brèche was seen, we rushed at it as furiously[pg 140]as if it had been a breach in the wall of a fortress, carried the moat by a dash, with a push behind and a pull before, stormed the steep slope above, and at 8.50 stood in the little gap, 11,054 feet above the level of the sea. The Brèche was won. Well might they stare; five hours and a quarter had sufficed for 6500 feet of ascent.101We screamed triumphantly as they turned in to breakfast.Illustration: Map of the Brèche de la Meije, etc.SCALE, THREE MILES TO AN INCH.All mountaineers know how valuable it is to study beforehand an intended route over new ground from a height at some distance. None but blunderers fail to do so, if it is possible; and one cannot do so too thoroughly. As a rule, the closer one approaches underneath a summit, the more difficult it is to pick out a path with judgment. Inferior peaks seem unduly important, subordinate ridges are exalted, and slopes conceal points beyond; and if one blindly undertakes an ascent, without having acquired a tolerable notion of the relative importance of the parts, and of their positions to one another, it will be miraculous if great difficulties are not encountered.But although the examination of an intended route from a height at a distance will tell one (who knows the meaning of the things he is looking at) a good deal, and will enable him to steer clear of many difficulties against which he might otherwise blindly run, it will seldom allow one to pronounce positively upon the practicability or impracticability of the whole of the route. No living man, for example, can pronounce positively from a distance[pg 141]in regard to rocks. Those just mentioned are an illustration of this. Three of the ablest and most experienced guides concurred in thinking that they would be found very difficult, and yet they presented no difficulty whatever. In truth, the sounder and less broken up are the rocks, the more impracticable do they usually look from a distance; while soft and easily rent rocks, which are often amongst the most difficult and perilous to climb, very frequently look from afar as if they might be traversed by a child.It is possible to decide with greater certainty in regard to the practicability of glaciers. When one is seen to have few open crevasses (and this may be told from a great distance), then we know that it ispossibleto traverse it; but to what extent it, or a glacier that is much broken up by crevasses, will be troublesome, will depend upon the width and length of the crevasses, and upon the angles of the surface of the glacier itself. A glacier may be greatly crevassed, but the fissures may be so narrow that there is no occasion to deviate from a straight line when passing across them; or a glacier may have few open crevasses, and yet may be practically impassable on account of the steepness of the angles of its surface. Nominally, a man with an axe can go anywhere upon a glacier, but in practice it is found that to move freely upon ice one must have to deal only with small angles. It is thus necessary to know approximately the angles of the surfaces of a glacier before it is possible to determine whether it will afford easy travelling, or will be so difficult as to be (for all practical purposes) impassable. This cannot be told by looking at glaciers in full face from a distance; they must be seen in profile; and it is often desirable to examine them both from the front and in profile,—to do the first to study the direction of the crevasses, to note where they are most and least numerous; and the second to see whether its angles are moderate or great. Should they be very steep, it may be better to avoid them altogether, and to mount even by difficult rocks; but upon glaciers ofgentleinclination, and with few open crevasses, better progress can always be made than upon theeasiestrocks.[pg 142]So much to explain why we were deceived when looking at the Brèche de la Meije from the Aiguille de la Sausse. We took note of all the difficulties, but did not pay sufficient attention to the distance that the Brèche was south of La Grave. My meaning will be apparent from the accompanyingdiagram, Fig. 1 (constructed upon the data supplied by the French surveyors), which will also serve to illustrate how badly angles of elevation are judged by the unaided eye.Illustration: Diagram to show angle of summit of Meije, etc.The village of La Grave is just 5000 feet, and the highest summit of the Meije is 13,080 feet above the level of the sea. There is therefore a difference in their levels of 8080 feet. But the summit of the Meije is south of La Grave about 14,750 feet, and, consequently, a line drawn from La Grave to the summit of the Meije is no steeper than the dotted line drawn fromAtoC,Fig. 1; or, in other words, if one could go in a direct line from La Grave to the summit of the Meije the ascent would be at an angle of less than 30°. Nine persons out of ten would probably estimate the angle on the spot at double this amount.102The Brèche is 2000 feet below the summit of the Meije, and only 6000 feet above La Grave. A direct ascent from the village to the Brèche would consequently be at an angle of not much more than 20°. But it is not possible to make the ascent as the crow flies; it has to be made by an indirect and much longer route. Our track was probably double the length of a direct line between the two places. Doubling the length halved the angles, and we[pg 143]therefore arrive at the somewhat amazing conclusion, that upon this, one of the steepest passes in the Alps, the mean of all the angles upon the ascent could not have been greater than 11° or 12°. Of course, in some places, the angles were much steeper, and in others less, but themeanof the whole could not have passed the angle above indicated.Illustration: The Vallon des EtançonsTHE VALLON DES ETANÇONS (LOOKING TOWARDS LA BÉRARDE).103We did not trouble ourselves much with these matters when we sat on the top of the Brèche. Our day’s work was as good as over (for we knew from Messrs. Mathews and Bonney that there was no difficulty upon the other side), and we abandoned ourselves to ease and luxury; wondering, alternately, as we gazed upon the Rateau and the Ecrins, how the one mountain could[pg 144]possibly hold itself together, and whether the other would hold out against us. The former looked [so rotten that it seemed as if a puff of wind or a clap of thunder might dash the whole fabric to pieces]; while the latter asserted itself the monarch of the group, and towered head and shoulders above all the rest of the peaks which form the great horse-shoe of Dauphiné. At length a cruel rush of cold air made us shiver, and shift our quarters to a little grassy plot, 3000 feet below—an oasis in a desert—where we lay nearly four hours admiring the splendid wall of the Meije.104Then we tramped down the Vallon des Etançons, a howling wilderness, the abomination of desolation; destitute alike of animal or vegetable life; pathless, of course; suggestive of chaos, but of little else; covered almost throughout its entire length with débris from the size of a walnut up to that of a house; in a word, it looked as if half-a-dozen moraines of first-rate dimensions had been carted and shot into it. Our tempers were soured by constant pitfalls [it was impossible to take the eyes from the feet, and if an unlucky individual so much as blew his nose, without standing still to perform the operation, the result was either an instantaneous tumble, or a barked shin, or a half-twisted ankle. There was no end to it, and we became more savage at every step, unanimously agreeing that no power on earth would ever induce us to walk up or down this particular valley again.] It was not just to the valley, which was enclosed by noble mountains,—unknown, it is true, but worthy of a great reputation, and which, if placed in other districts, would be sought after, and cited as types of daring form and graceful outline.105

[pg 114]CHAPTER VI.OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.81“But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,The long, long views of poor, designing man.”Homer.Carrel hadcarte blanchein the matter of guides, and his choice fell upon his relative Cæsar, Luc Meynet, and two others whose names I do not know. These men were now brought together, and our preparations were completed, as the weather was clearing up.We rested on Sunday, August 9, eagerly watching the lessening of the mists around the great peak, and started just before dawn upon the 10th, on a still and cloudless morning, which seemed to promise a happy termination to our enterprise.By going always, though gently, we arrived upon the Col du Lion before nine o’clock. Changes were apparent. Familiar ledges had vanished; the platform, whereupon my tent had stood, looked very forlorn, its stones had been scattered by wind and frost, and had half disappeared: and the summit of the Col itself, which in 1862 had always been respectably broad, and covered by snow, was now sharper than the ridge of any church roof, and was hard ice. Already we had found that the bad weather of the past week had done its work. The rocks for several hundred feet below the Col were varnished with ice. Loose, incoherent snow covered the older and harder beds below, and we nearly lost our leader through its treacherousness. He stepped on some snow which seemed firm, and raised his axe to deliver a swinging blow, but, just as it was[pg 115]highest, the crust of the slope upon which he stood broke away, and poured down in serpentine streams, leaving long, bare strips, which glittered in the sun, for they were glassy ice. Carrel, with admirable readiness, flung himself back on to the rock off which he had stepped, and was at once secured. He simply remarked,“It is time we were tied up,”and, after we had been tied up, he went to work again as if nothing had happened.82We had abundant illustrations during the next two hours of the value of a rope to climbers. We were tied up rather widely apart, and advanced, generally, in pairs. Carrel, who led, was followed closely by another man, who lent him a shoulder or placed an axe-head under his feet, when there was need; and when this couple were well placed the second pair advanced, in similar fashion,—the rope being drawn in by those above, and paid out gradually by those below. The leading men again advanced, or the third pair, and so on. This manner of progression was slow, but sure. One man only moved at a time, and if he slipped (and we frequently did slip) he could slide scarcely a foot without being checked by the others. The certainty and safety of the method gave confidence to the one who was moving, and not only nerved him to put out his powers to the utmost, but sustained nerve in really difficult situations. For these rocks (which, it has been already said, were easy enough under ordinary circumstances) were now difficult in a high degree. The snow-water which had trickled down for many days past in little streams, had taken, naturally, the very route by which we wished to ascend; and, refrozen in the night, had glazed the slabs over which we had to pass,—sometimes with a fine film of ice as thin as a sheet of paper, and sometimes so thickly that we[pg 116]could almost cut footsteps in it. The weather was superb, the men made light of the toil, and shouted to rouse the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens.We went on gaily, passed the second tent platform, the Chimney, and the other well-remembered points, and reckoned, confidently, on sleeping that night upon the top of“the shoulder;”but, before we had well arrived at the foot of the Great Tower, a sudden rush of cold air warned us to look out.It was difficult to say where this air came from; it did not blow as a wind, but descended rather as the water in a shower-bath! All was tranquil again; the atmosphereshowedno signs of disturbance; there was a dead calm, and not a speck of cloud to be seen anywhere. But we did not remain very long in this state. The cold air came again, and this time it was difficult to say where it didnotcome from. We jammed down our hats as it beat against the ridge, and screamed amongst the crags. Before we had got to the foot of the Tower, mists had been formed above and below. They appeared at first in small, isolated patches (in several places at the same time), which danced and jerked and were torn into shreds by the wind, but grew larger under the process. They were united together, and rent again,—showing us the blue sky for a moment, and blotting it out the next; and augmented incessantly, until the whole heavens were filled with whirling, boiling clouds. Before we could take off our packs, and get under any kind of shelter, a hurricane of snow burst upon us from the east. It fell very heavily, and in a few minutes the ridge was covered by it.“What shall we do?”I shouted to Carrel.“Monsieur,”said he,“the wind is bad; the weather has changed; we are heavily laden. Here is a finegîte; let us stop! If we go on we shall be half-frozen. That ismyopinion.”No one differed from him; so we fell to work to make a place for the tent, and in a couple of hours completed the platform which we had commenced in 1862. The clouds had blackened during that time, and we had hardly finished our task before a thunderstorm broke upon us with appalling fury. Forked[pg 117]lightning shot out at the turrets above, and at the crags below. It was so close that we quailed at its darts. It seemed to scorch us,—we were in the very focus of the storm. The thunder was simultaneous with the flashes; short and sharp, and more like the noise of a door that is violently slammed, multiplied a thousandfold, than any noise to which I can compare it.When I say that the thunder wassimultaneouswith the lightning, I speak as an inexact person. My meaning is that the time which elapsed between seeing the flash and hearing the report was inappreciable to me. I wish to speak with all possible precision, and there are two points with regard to this storm upon which I can speak with some accuracy. The first is in regard to the distance of the lightning from our party. Wemighthave been 1100 feet from it if a second of time had elapsed between seeing the flashes and hearing the reports; and a second of time is not appreciated by inexact persons. It was certain that we were sometimes less than that distance from the lightning, because I saw it pass in front of well-known points on the ridge, both above and below us, which were less (sometimes considerably less) than a thousand feet distant.Secondly, in regard to the difficulty of distinguishing sounds which are merely echoes from true thunder, or the noise which occurs simultaneously with lightning. Arago entered into this subject at some length in hisMeteorological Essays, and seemed to doubt if it would ever be possible to determine whether echoes arealwaysthe cause of the rolling sounds commonly called thunder.83I shall not attempt to show whether the rolling sounds should ever, or never, be regarded as true thunder, but only that during this storm upon the Matterhorn it was possible to distinguish the sound of the thunder itself from the sounds (rolling and otherwise) which were merely the echoes of the first, original sound.[pg 118]At the place where we were camped a remarkable echo could be heard (one so remarkable that if it could be heard in this country it would draw crowds for its own sake); I believe it came from the cliffs of the Dent d’Hérens. It was a favourite amusement with us to shout to rouse this echo, which repeated any sharp cry, in a very distinct manner, several times, after the lapse of something like a dozen seconds. The thunderstorm lasted nearly two hours, and raged at times with great fury; and the prolonged rollings from the surrounding mountains, after one flash, had not usually ceased before another set of echoes took up the discourse, and maintained the reverberations without a break. Occasionally there was a pause, interrupted presently by a single clap, the accompaniment of a single discharge, and after such times I could recognise the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens by their peculiar repetitions, and by the length of time which had passed since the reports had occurred of which they were the echoes.If I had been unaware of the existence of this echo, I should have supposed that the resounds were original reports of explosions which had been unnoticed, since in intensity they were scarcely distinguishable from the true thunder; which, during this storm, seemed to me, upon every occasion, to consist of a single, harsh, instantaneous sound.84Or if, instead of being placed at a distance of less than a thousand feet from the points of explosion (and consequently hearing the report almost in the same moment as we saw the flash,[pg 119]and the rollings after a considerable interval of time), we had been placed so that the original report had fallen on our ears nearly at the same moment as the echoes, we should probably have considered that the successive reports and rollings of the echoes were reports of successive explosions occurring nearly at the same moment, and that they were not echoes at all.This is the only time (out of many storms witnessed in the Alps) I have obtained evidence that the rollings of thunder are actually echoes; and that they are not, necessarily, the reports of a number of discharges over a long line, occurring at varying distances from the spectator, and consequently unable to arrive at his ear at the same moment, although they follow each other so swiftly as to produce a sound more or less continuous.85The wind during all this time seemed to blow tolerably consistently from the east. It smote the tent so vehemently (notwithstanding it was partly protected by rocks) that we had grave fears our refuge might be blown away bodily, with ourselves inside; so, during some of the lulls, we issued out and built a wall to windward. At half-past three the wind changed to the north-west, and the clouds vanished. We immediately took the opportunity to send down one of the porters (under protection of some of the others, a little beyond the Col du Lion), as the tent would accommodate only five persons. From this time to sunset the weather was variable. It was sometimes blowing and snowing hard, and sometimes a dead calm. The bad weather was evidently confined to the Mont Cervin, for when the clouds lifted we could see every[pg 120]thing that could be seen from our gîte. Monte Viso, a hundred miles off, was clear, and the sun set gorgeously behind the range of Mont Blanc. We passed the night comfortably—even luxuriously—in our blanket-bags, but there was little chance of sleeping, between the noise of the wind, of the thunder, and of the falling rocks. I forgave the thunder for the sake of the lightning. A more splendid spectacle than its illumination of the Matterhorn crags I do not expect to see.86The greatest rock-falls always seemed to occur in the night, between midnight and daybreak. This was noticeable on each of the seven nights which I passed upon the south-west ridge, at heights varying from 11,800 to 13,000 feet.I may be wrong in supposing that the falls in the night are greater than those in the daytime, since sound is much more startling during darkness than when the cause of its production is seen. Even a sigh may be terrible in the stillness of the night. In the daytime one’s attention is probably divided between the sound and the motion of rocks which fall; or it may be concentrated on other matters. But it is certain that the greatest of the falls which happened during the night took place after midnight, and this I connect with the fact that the maximum of cold during any twenty-four hours very commonly occurs between midnight and dawn.We turned out at 3.30A.M.on the 11th, and were dismayed to find that it still continued to snow. At 9A.M.it ceased to fall, and the sun showed itself feebly, so we packed up our baggage, and set out to try to get upon“the shoulder.”We struggled upwards until eleven o’clock, and then it commenced to snow again. We held a council; the opinions expressed at it were unanimous against advancing, and I decided to retreat. For we had risen less than 300 feet in the past two hours, and had not even arrived at the rope which Tyndall’s party left behind, attached to the rocks,[pg 121]in 1862. At the same rate of progression it would have taken us from four to five hours to get upon“the shoulder.”Not one of us cared to attempt to do so under the existing circumstances; for besides having to move our own weight, which was sufficiently troublesome at this part of the ridge, we had to transport much heavy baggage, tent, blankets, and provisions, ladder, and 450 feet of rope, besides many other smaller matters. These, however, were not the most serious considerations. Supposing that we got upon“the shoulder,”we might find ourselves detained there several days, unable either to go up or down.87I could not risk any such detention, being under obligations to appear in London at the end of the week.Illustration: The crags of the Matterhorn, during the storm, midnight, Aug. 10, 1863THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT, AUG. 10, 1863.We returned to Breil in the course of the afternoon. It was quite fine there, and the tenants of the inn received our statements with evident scepticism. They were astonished to learn that we had been exposed to a snow-storm of twenty-six hours’ duration.“Why,”said Favre, the innkeeper,“wehave had no snow; it has been fine all the time you have been absent, and there has been only that small cloud upon the mountain.”Ah! that small cloud! None except those who have had experience of it can tell what a formidable obstacle it is.Illustration: Monsieur FavreMONSIEUR FAVRE.Why is it that the Matterhorn is subject to these abominable variations of weather? The ready answer is,“Oh, the mountain is so isolated; it attracts the clouds.”This is not a sufficient answer. Although the mountainisisolated, it is not so much more isolated than the neighbouring peaks that it should gather clouds when none of the others do so. It will not at all account for the[pg 122]cloud to which I refer, which is not formed by an aggregation of smaller, stray clouds drawn together from a distance (as scum collects round a log in the water), but is created against the mountain itself, and springs into existence where no clouds were seen before. It is formed and hangs chiefly against the southern sides, and particularly against the south-eastern side. It frequently does not envelop the summit, and rarely extends down to the Glacier du Lion, and to the Glacier du Mont Cervin below. It forms in the finest weather; on cloudless and windless days.I conceive that we should look to differences of temperature rather than to the height or isolation of the mountain for an explanation. I am inclined to attribute the disturbances which occur in the atmosphere of the southern sides of the Matterhorn on fine days,88principally to the fact that the mountain is arockmountain; that it receives a great amount of heat,89and is not only warmer itself, but is surrounded by an atmosphere of a higher temperature than such peaks as the Weisshorn and the Lyskamm, which are eminentlysnowmountains.In certain states of the atmosphere its temperature may be tolerably uniform over wide areas and to great elevations. I have known the thermometer to show 70° in the shade at the top of an Alpine peak more than 13,000 feet high, and but a very few degrees higher 6000 or 7000 feet lower. At other times, there will be a difference of forty or fifty degrees (Faht.) between two stations, the higher not more than 6000 or 7000 feet above the lower.Provided that the temperature was uniform, or nearly so, on all sides of the Matterhorn, and to a considerable distance above its summit, no clouds would be likely to form upon it. But if the atmosphere immediately surrounding it is warmer than the contiguous strata, a local“courant ascendant”must necessarily be generated; and portions of the cooler superincumbent (or circum[pg 123]jacent) air will naturally be attracted towards the mountain, where they will speedily condense the moisture of the warm air in contact with it. I cannot explain the downrushes of cold air which occur on it, when all the rest of the neighbourhood appears to be tranquil, in any other way. The clouds are produced by the contact of two strata of air (of widely different temperatures) charged with invisible moisture, as surely as certain colourless fluids produce a white, turbid liquid, when mixed together. The order has been—wind of a low temperature—mist—rain—snow or hail.90This opinion is borne out to some extent by the behaviour of the neighbouring mountains. The Dom (14,935 feet) and the Dent Blanche (14,318) have both of them large cliffs of bare rock upon their southern sides, and against those cliffs clouds commonly form (during fine, still weather) at the same time as the cloud on the Matterhorn; whilst the Weisshorn (14,804) and the Lyskamm (14,889), (mountains of about the same altitude, and which are in corresponding situations to the former pair) usually remain perfectly clear.Illustration: Crossing the ChannelCROSSING THE CHANNEL.I arrived at Chatillon at midnight on the 11th, defeated and disconsolate; but, like a gambler who loses each throw, only the more eager to have another try, to see if the luck would change: and returned to London ready to devise fresh combinations, and to form new plans.

“But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,The long, long views of poor, designing man.”Homer.

“But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,The long, long views of poor, designing man.”Homer.

“But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,

The long, long views of poor, designing man.”

Homer.

Carrel hadcarte blanchein the matter of guides, and his choice fell upon his relative Cæsar, Luc Meynet, and two others whose names I do not know. These men were now brought together, and our preparations were completed, as the weather was clearing up.

We rested on Sunday, August 9, eagerly watching the lessening of the mists around the great peak, and started just before dawn upon the 10th, on a still and cloudless morning, which seemed to promise a happy termination to our enterprise.

By going always, though gently, we arrived upon the Col du Lion before nine o’clock. Changes were apparent. Familiar ledges had vanished; the platform, whereupon my tent had stood, looked very forlorn, its stones had been scattered by wind and frost, and had half disappeared: and the summit of the Col itself, which in 1862 had always been respectably broad, and covered by snow, was now sharper than the ridge of any church roof, and was hard ice. Already we had found that the bad weather of the past week had done its work. The rocks for several hundred feet below the Col were varnished with ice. Loose, incoherent snow covered the older and harder beds below, and we nearly lost our leader through its treacherousness. He stepped on some snow which seemed firm, and raised his axe to deliver a swinging blow, but, just as it was[pg 115]highest, the crust of the slope upon which he stood broke away, and poured down in serpentine streams, leaving long, bare strips, which glittered in the sun, for they were glassy ice. Carrel, with admirable readiness, flung himself back on to the rock off which he had stepped, and was at once secured. He simply remarked,“It is time we were tied up,”and, after we had been tied up, he went to work again as if nothing had happened.82

We had abundant illustrations during the next two hours of the value of a rope to climbers. We were tied up rather widely apart, and advanced, generally, in pairs. Carrel, who led, was followed closely by another man, who lent him a shoulder or placed an axe-head under his feet, when there was need; and when this couple were well placed the second pair advanced, in similar fashion,—the rope being drawn in by those above, and paid out gradually by those below. The leading men again advanced, or the third pair, and so on. This manner of progression was slow, but sure. One man only moved at a time, and if he slipped (and we frequently did slip) he could slide scarcely a foot without being checked by the others. The certainty and safety of the method gave confidence to the one who was moving, and not only nerved him to put out his powers to the utmost, but sustained nerve in really difficult situations. For these rocks (which, it has been already said, were easy enough under ordinary circumstances) were now difficult in a high degree. The snow-water which had trickled down for many days past in little streams, had taken, naturally, the very route by which we wished to ascend; and, refrozen in the night, had glazed the slabs over which we had to pass,—sometimes with a fine film of ice as thin as a sheet of paper, and sometimes so thickly that we[pg 116]could almost cut footsteps in it. The weather was superb, the men made light of the toil, and shouted to rouse the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens.

We went on gaily, passed the second tent platform, the Chimney, and the other well-remembered points, and reckoned, confidently, on sleeping that night upon the top of“the shoulder;”but, before we had well arrived at the foot of the Great Tower, a sudden rush of cold air warned us to look out.

It was difficult to say where this air came from; it did not blow as a wind, but descended rather as the water in a shower-bath! All was tranquil again; the atmosphereshowedno signs of disturbance; there was a dead calm, and not a speck of cloud to be seen anywhere. But we did not remain very long in this state. The cold air came again, and this time it was difficult to say where it didnotcome from. We jammed down our hats as it beat against the ridge, and screamed amongst the crags. Before we had got to the foot of the Tower, mists had been formed above and below. They appeared at first in small, isolated patches (in several places at the same time), which danced and jerked and were torn into shreds by the wind, but grew larger under the process. They were united together, and rent again,—showing us the blue sky for a moment, and blotting it out the next; and augmented incessantly, until the whole heavens were filled with whirling, boiling clouds. Before we could take off our packs, and get under any kind of shelter, a hurricane of snow burst upon us from the east. It fell very heavily, and in a few minutes the ridge was covered by it.“What shall we do?”I shouted to Carrel.“Monsieur,”said he,“the wind is bad; the weather has changed; we are heavily laden. Here is a finegîte; let us stop! If we go on we shall be half-frozen. That ismyopinion.”No one differed from him; so we fell to work to make a place for the tent, and in a couple of hours completed the platform which we had commenced in 1862. The clouds had blackened during that time, and we had hardly finished our task before a thunderstorm broke upon us with appalling fury. Forked[pg 117]lightning shot out at the turrets above, and at the crags below. It was so close that we quailed at its darts. It seemed to scorch us,—we were in the very focus of the storm. The thunder was simultaneous with the flashes; short and sharp, and more like the noise of a door that is violently slammed, multiplied a thousandfold, than any noise to which I can compare it.

When I say that the thunder wassimultaneouswith the lightning, I speak as an inexact person. My meaning is that the time which elapsed between seeing the flash and hearing the report was inappreciable to me. I wish to speak with all possible precision, and there are two points with regard to this storm upon which I can speak with some accuracy. The first is in regard to the distance of the lightning from our party. Wemighthave been 1100 feet from it if a second of time had elapsed between seeing the flashes and hearing the reports; and a second of time is not appreciated by inexact persons. It was certain that we were sometimes less than that distance from the lightning, because I saw it pass in front of well-known points on the ridge, both above and below us, which were less (sometimes considerably less) than a thousand feet distant.

Secondly, in regard to the difficulty of distinguishing sounds which are merely echoes from true thunder, or the noise which occurs simultaneously with lightning. Arago entered into this subject at some length in hisMeteorological Essays, and seemed to doubt if it would ever be possible to determine whether echoes arealwaysthe cause of the rolling sounds commonly called thunder.83I shall not attempt to show whether the rolling sounds should ever, or never, be regarded as true thunder, but only that during this storm upon the Matterhorn it was possible to distinguish the sound of the thunder itself from the sounds (rolling and otherwise) which were merely the echoes of the first, original sound.

At the place where we were camped a remarkable echo could be heard (one so remarkable that if it could be heard in this country it would draw crowds for its own sake); I believe it came from the cliffs of the Dent d’Hérens. It was a favourite amusement with us to shout to rouse this echo, which repeated any sharp cry, in a very distinct manner, several times, after the lapse of something like a dozen seconds. The thunderstorm lasted nearly two hours, and raged at times with great fury; and the prolonged rollings from the surrounding mountains, after one flash, had not usually ceased before another set of echoes took up the discourse, and maintained the reverberations without a break. Occasionally there was a pause, interrupted presently by a single clap, the accompaniment of a single discharge, and after such times I could recognise the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens by their peculiar repetitions, and by the length of time which had passed since the reports had occurred of which they were the echoes.

If I had been unaware of the existence of this echo, I should have supposed that the resounds were original reports of explosions which had been unnoticed, since in intensity they were scarcely distinguishable from the true thunder; which, during this storm, seemed to me, upon every occasion, to consist of a single, harsh, instantaneous sound.84

Or if, instead of being placed at a distance of less than a thousand feet from the points of explosion (and consequently hearing the report almost in the same moment as we saw the flash,[pg 119]and the rollings after a considerable interval of time), we had been placed so that the original report had fallen on our ears nearly at the same moment as the echoes, we should probably have considered that the successive reports and rollings of the echoes were reports of successive explosions occurring nearly at the same moment, and that they were not echoes at all.

This is the only time (out of many storms witnessed in the Alps) I have obtained evidence that the rollings of thunder are actually echoes; and that they are not, necessarily, the reports of a number of discharges over a long line, occurring at varying distances from the spectator, and consequently unable to arrive at his ear at the same moment, although they follow each other so swiftly as to produce a sound more or less continuous.85

The wind during all this time seemed to blow tolerably consistently from the east. It smote the tent so vehemently (notwithstanding it was partly protected by rocks) that we had grave fears our refuge might be blown away bodily, with ourselves inside; so, during some of the lulls, we issued out and built a wall to windward. At half-past three the wind changed to the north-west, and the clouds vanished. We immediately took the opportunity to send down one of the porters (under protection of some of the others, a little beyond the Col du Lion), as the tent would accommodate only five persons. From this time to sunset the weather was variable. It was sometimes blowing and snowing hard, and sometimes a dead calm. The bad weather was evidently confined to the Mont Cervin, for when the clouds lifted we could see every[pg 120]thing that could be seen from our gîte. Monte Viso, a hundred miles off, was clear, and the sun set gorgeously behind the range of Mont Blanc. We passed the night comfortably—even luxuriously—in our blanket-bags, but there was little chance of sleeping, between the noise of the wind, of the thunder, and of the falling rocks. I forgave the thunder for the sake of the lightning. A more splendid spectacle than its illumination of the Matterhorn crags I do not expect to see.86

The greatest rock-falls always seemed to occur in the night, between midnight and daybreak. This was noticeable on each of the seven nights which I passed upon the south-west ridge, at heights varying from 11,800 to 13,000 feet.

I may be wrong in supposing that the falls in the night are greater than those in the daytime, since sound is much more startling during darkness than when the cause of its production is seen. Even a sigh may be terrible in the stillness of the night. In the daytime one’s attention is probably divided between the sound and the motion of rocks which fall; or it may be concentrated on other matters. But it is certain that the greatest of the falls which happened during the night took place after midnight, and this I connect with the fact that the maximum of cold during any twenty-four hours very commonly occurs between midnight and dawn.

We turned out at 3.30A.M.on the 11th, and were dismayed to find that it still continued to snow. At 9A.M.it ceased to fall, and the sun showed itself feebly, so we packed up our baggage, and set out to try to get upon“the shoulder.”We struggled upwards until eleven o’clock, and then it commenced to snow again. We held a council; the opinions expressed at it were unanimous against advancing, and I decided to retreat. For we had risen less than 300 feet in the past two hours, and had not even arrived at the rope which Tyndall’s party left behind, attached to the rocks,[pg 121]in 1862. At the same rate of progression it would have taken us from four to five hours to get upon“the shoulder.”Not one of us cared to attempt to do so under the existing circumstances; for besides having to move our own weight, which was sufficiently troublesome at this part of the ridge, we had to transport much heavy baggage, tent, blankets, and provisions, ladder, and 450 feet of rope, besides many other smaller matters. These, however, were not the most serious considerations. Supposing that we got upon“the shoulder,”we might find ourselves detained there several days, unable either to go up or down.87I could not risk any such detention, being under obligations to appear in London at the end of the week.

Illustration: The crags of the Matterhorn, during the storm, midnight, Aug. 10, 1863THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT, AUG. 10, 1863.

THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT, AUG. 10, 1863.

We returned to Breil in the course of the afternoon. It was quite fine there, and the tenants of the inn received our statements with evident scepticism. They were astonished to learn that we had been exposed to a snow-storm of twenty-six hours’ duration.“Why,”said Favre, the innkeeper,“wehave had no snow; it has been fine all the time you have been absent, and there has been only that small cloud upon the mountain.”Ah! that small cloud! None except those who have had experience of it can tell what a formidable obstacle it is.

Illustration: Monsieur FavreMONSIEUR FAVRE.

MONSIEUR FAVRE.

Why is it that the Matterhorn is subject to these abominable variations of weather? The ready answer is,“Oh, the mountain is so isolated; it attracts the clouds.”This is not a sufficient answer. Although the mountainisisolated, it is not so much more isolated than the neighbouring peaks that it should gather clouds when none of the others do so. It will not at all account for the[pg 122]cloud to which I refer, which is not formed by an aggregation of smaller, stray clouds drawn together from a distance (as scum collects round a log in the water), but is created against the mountain itself, and springs into existence where no clouds were seen before. It is formed and hangs chiefly against the southern sides, and particularly against the south-eastern side. It frequently does not envelop the summit, and rarely extends down to the Glacier du Lion, and to the Glacier du Mont Cervin below. It forms in the finest weather; on cloudless and windless days.

I conceive that we should look to differences of temperature rather than to the height or isolation of the mountain for an explanation. I am inclined to attribute the disturbances which occur in the atmosphere of the southern sides of the Matterhorn on fine days,88principally to the fact that the mountain is arockmountain; that it receives a great amount of heat,89and is not only warmer itself, but is surrounded by an atmosphere of a higher temperature than such peaks as the Weisshorn and the Lyskamm, which are eminentlysnowmountains.

In certain states of the atmosphere its temperature may be tolerably uniform over wide areas and to great elevations. I have known the thermometer to show 70° in the shade at the top of an Alpine peak more than 13,000 feet high, and but a very few degrees higher 6000 or 7000 feet lower. At other times, there will be a difference of forty or fifty degrees (Faht.) between two stations, the higher not more than 6000 or 7000 feet above the lower.

Provided that the temperature was uniform, or nearly so, on all sides of the Matterhorn, and to a considerable distance above its summit, no clouds would be likely to form upon it. But if the atmosphere immediately surrounding it is warmer than the contiguous strata, a local“courant ascendant”must necessarily be generated; and portions of the cooler superincumbent (or circum[pg 123]jacent) air will naturally be attracted towards the mountain, where they will speedily condense the moisture of the warm air in contact with it. I cannot explain the downrushes of cold air which occur on it, when all the rest of the neighbourhood appears to be tranquil, in any other way. The clouds are produced by the contact of two strata of air (of widely different temperatures) charged with invisible moisture, as surely as certain colourless fluids produce a white, turbid liquid, when mixed together. The order has been—wind of a low temperature—mist—rain—snow or hail.90

This opinion is borne out to some extent by the behaviour of the neighbouring mountains. The Dom (14,935 feet) and the Dent Blanche (14,318) have both of them large cliffs of bare rock upon their southern sides, and against those cliffs clouds commonly form (during fine, still weather) at the same time as the cloud on the Matterhorn; whilst the Weisshorn (14,804) and the Lyskamm (14,889), (mountains of about the same altitude, and which are in corresponding situations to the former pair) usually remain perfectly clear.

Illustration: Crossing the ChannelCROSSING THE CHANNEL.

CROSSING THE CHANNEL.

I arrived at Chatillon at midnight on the 11th, defeated and disconsolate; but, like a gambler who loses each throw, only the more eager to have another try, to see if the luck would change: and returned to London ready to devise fresh combinations, and to form new plans.

[pg 124]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.“The more to help the greater deed is done.”Homer.When we arrived upon the highest summit of Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphiné, in 1861, we saw, to our surprise and disappointment, that it was not the culminating point of the district; and that another mountain—distant about a couple of miles, and separated from us by an impassable gulf—claimed that distinction. I was troubled in spirit about this mountain, and my thoughts often reverted to the great wall-sided peak, second in apparent inaccessibility only to the Matterhorn. It had, moreover, another claim to attention—it was the highest mountainInFrance.The year 1862 passed away without a chance of getting to it, and my holiday was too brief in 1863 even to think about it; but in the following year it was possible, and I resolved to set my mind at rest by completing the task which had been left unfinished in 1861.In the meantime others had turned their attention to Dauphiné. First of all (in 1862) came Mr. F. Tuckett—that mighty mountaineer, whose name is known throughout the length and breadth of the Alps—with the guides Michel Croz, Peter Perrn, and Bartolommeo Peyrotte, and great success attended his arms. But Mr. Tuckett halted before the Pointe des Ecrins, and, dismayed by its appearance, withdrew his forces to gather less dangerous laurels elsewhere.His expedition, however, threw some light upon the Ecrins. He pointed out the direction from which an attack was most likely to be successful, and Mr. William Mathews and the Rev. T. G.[pg 125]Bonney (to whom he communicated the result of his labours) attempted to execute the ascent, with the brothers Michel and J. B. Croz, by following his indications. But they too were defeated, as I shall relate more particularly presently.Illustration: Michel-Auguste Crow (1865)MICHEL-AUGUSTE CROZ (1865).The guide Michel Croz had thus been engaged in both of these expeditions in Dauphiné, and I naturally looked to him for assistance. Mr. Mathews (to whom I applied for information) gave him a high character, and concluded his reply to me by saying,“he was only happy when upwards of 10,000 feet high.”I know what my friend meant. Croz was happiest when he was employing his powers to the utmost. Places where you and I would“toil and sweat, and yet be freezing cold,”were bagatelles to him, and it was only when he got above the range of ordinary mortals, and was required to employ his magnificent strength,[pg 126]and to draw upon his unsurpassed knowledge of ice and snow, that he could be said to be really and truly happy.Of all the guides with whom I travelled, Michel Croz was the man who was most after my own heart. He did not work like a blunt razor, and take to his toil unkindly. He did not need urging, or to be told a second time to do anything. You had but to saywhatwas to be done, andhowit was to be done, and the workwasdone, if it was possible. Such men are not common, and when they are known they are valued. Michel was not widely known, but those who did know him employed him again and again. The inscription that is placed upon his tomb truthfully records that he was“beloved by his comrades and esteemed by travellers.”At the time that I was planning my journey, my friends Messrs. A. W. Moore and Horace Walker were also drawing up their programme; and, as we found that our wishes were very similar, we agreed to unite our respective parties. The excursions which are described in this and the two following chapters are mutual ideas which were jointly executed.Our united programme was framed so as to avoid sleeping in inns, and so that we should see from the highest point attained on one day a considerable portion of the route which was intended to be followed on the next. This latter matter was an important one to us, as all of our projected excursions were new ones, and led over ground about which there was very little information in print.My friends had happily secured Christian Almer of Grindelwald as their guide. The combination of Croz and Almer was a perfect one. Both men were in the prime of life;91both were endued with strength and activity far beyond the average; and the courage and the knowledge of each was alike undoubted. The temper of Almer it was impossible to ruffle; he was ever obliging and enduring,—a bold but a safe man. That which he lacked in fire—in dash—was supplied by Croz, who, in his turn, was kept in place by Almer.[pg 127]It is pleasant to remember how they worked together, and how each one confided to you that he liked the other so much because he worked so well; but it is sad, very sad, to those who have known the men, to know that they can never work together again.We met at St. Michel on the Mont Cenis road, at midday on June 20, 1864, and proceeded in the afternoon over the Col de Valloires to the village of the same name. The summit of this pretty little pass is about 3500 feet above St. Michel, and from it we had a fair view of the Aiguilles d’Arve, a group of three peaks of singular form, which it was our especial object to investigate.92They had been seen by ourselves and others from numerous distant points, and always looked very high and very inaccessible; but we had been unable to obtain any information about them, except the few words in Joanne’sItinéraire du Dauphiné. Having made out from the summit of the Col de Valloires that they could be approached from the Valley of Valloires, we hastened down to find a place where we could pass the night, as near as possible to the entrance of the little valley leading up to them.By nightfall we arrived at the entrance to this little valley (Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve), and found some buildings placed just where they were wanted. The proprietress received us with civility, and placed a large barn at our disposal, on the conditions that no lights were struck or pipes smoked therein; and when her terms were agreed to, she took us into her own chalet, made up a huge fire, heated a gallon of milk, and treated us with genuine hospitality.In the morning we found that the Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve led away nearly due west from the Valley of Valloires, and that the village of Bonnenuit was placed (in the latter valley) almost exactly opposite to the junction of the two.At 3.55A.M.on the 21st we set out up the Vallon, passed for a time over pasture-land, and then over a stony waste, deeply chan[pg 128]nelled by watercourses. At 5.30 the two principal Aiguilles were well seen, and as, by this time, it was evident that the authors of the Sardinian official map had romanced as extensively in this neighbourhood as elsewhere, it was necessary to hold a council.Illustration: Plan to show routeThree questions were submitted to it:—Firstly, Which is the highest of these Aiguilles? Secondly, Which shall we go up? Thirdly, How is it to be done?The French engineers, it was said, had determined that the two highest of them were respectively 11,513 and 11,529 feet in height; but we were without information as to which two they had measured.93Joanne indeed said (but without specifying whether he meant all three) that the Aiguilles had been several times ascended, and particularly mentioned that the one of 11,513 feet was“relatively easy.”We therefore said,“We will go up the peak of 11,529 feet.”That determination did not settle the second question. Joanne’s“relatively easy”peak, according to his description, was evidently the most northern of the three.Ourpeak then was to be one of the other two;—but which of them? We were inclined to favour the central one; but it was hard to determine, they looked so equal in height. When, however, the council came to study the third[pg 129]question—“How is it to be done?”it was unanimously voted that upon the eastern and southern sides it was certainly“relatively”difficult, and that a move should be made round to the northern side.The movement was duly executed, and after wading up some snow-slopes of considerable steepness (going occasionally beyond 40°), we found ourselves in a gap or nick, between the central and northernmost Aiguille, at 8.45A.M.We then studied the northern face of our intended peak, and finally arrived at the conclusion that it was“relatively”impracticable. Croz shrugged his big shoulders, and said,“My faith! I think you will do well to leave it to others.”Almer was more explicit, and volunteered the information that a thousand francs would not tempt him totryit. We then turned to the northernmost peak, but found its southern faces even more hopeless than the northern faces of the central one. We enjoyed accordingly the unwonted luxury of a three-hours’ rest on the top of our pass; for pass we were determined it should be.We might have done worse. We were 10,300 or 10,400 feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a most picturesque view of the mountains of the Tarentaise; while, somewhat east of south, we saw the monarch of the Dauphinémassif, whose closer acquaintance it was our intention to make. Three sunny hours passed away, and then we turned to the descent. We saw the distant pastures of a valley (which we supposed was the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse), and a long snow-slope leading down to them. But from that slope we were cut off by precipitous rocks, and our first impression was that we should have to return in our track. Some running up and down, however, discovered two little gullies, filled with threads of snow, and down the most northern of these we decided to go. It was a steep way but a safe one, for the cleft was so narrow that we could press the shoulder against one side whilst the feet were against the other, and the last remnant of the winter’s snow, well hardened, clung to the rift with great tenacity, and gave us a path when the rocks refused one. In half-an-hour we got to the top of the great snow-slope. Walker said—“Let us[pg 130]glissade;”the guides—“No, it is too steep.”Our friend, however, started off at a standing glissade, and advanced for a time very skilfully; but after a while he lost his balance, and progressed downwards and backwards with great rapidity, in a way that seemed to us very much like tumbling head over heels. He let go his axe, and left it behind, but it overtook him and batted him heartily. He and it travelled in this fashion for some hundreds of feet, and at last subsided into the rocks at the bottom. In a few moments we were reassured as to his safety, by hearing him ironically request us not to keep him waiting down there.Illustration: The Aiguilles d’Arve, from above the chalets of Rieu BlancTHE AIGUILLES D’ARVE, FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU BLANC, SHOWING ROUTE.We others followed the track shown by the dotted line upon theengraving(making zigzags to avoid the little groups of rocks which jutted through the snow, by which Walker had been upset), descended by asittingglissade, and rejoined our friend at the bottom. We then turned sharply to the left, and tramped down the summit ridge of an old moraine of great size. Its mud was excessively[pg 131]hard, and where some large erratic blocks lay perched upon its crest, we were obliged to cut steps (in the mud) with our ice-axes.Guided by the sound of a distant“moo,”we speedily found the highest chalets in the valley, named Rieu Blanc. They were tenanted by three old women (who seemed to belong to one of the missing links sought by naturalists), destitute of all ideas except in regard to cows, and who spoke a barbarous patois, well-nigh unintelligible to the Savoyard Croz. They would not believe that we had passed between the Aiguilles,—“It is impossible, thecowsnever go there.”“Could we get to La Grave over yonder ridge?”“Oh yes! thecowsoften crossed!”Could they show us the way? No; but we could follow thecow-tracks.We stayed a while near these chalets, to examine the western sides of the Aiguilles d’Arve, and, according to our united opinion, the central one was as inaccessible from this direction as from the east, north, or south. On the following day we saw them again, from a height of about 11,000 feet, in a south-easterly direction, and our opinion remained unchanged.We saw (on June 20-22) the central Aiguille from all sides, and very nearly completely round the southernmost one. The northern one we also saw on all sides excepting from the north. (It is, however, precisely from this direction M. Joanne says that its ascent is relatively easy.) We do not, therefore, venture to express any opinion respecting its ascent, except as regards its actual summit. This is formed of two curious prongs, or pinnacles of rock, and we do not understand in what way they (or either of them) can be ascended; nor shall we be surprised if this ascent is discovered to have been made in spirit rather than body; in fact, in the same manner as the celebrated ascent of Mont Blanc,“not entirely to the summit, but as far as the Montanvert!”All three of the Aiguillesmaybe accessible, but theylookas inaccessible as anything I have seen. They are the highest summits between the valleys of the Romanche and the Arc; they are placed slightly to the north of the watershed between those[pg 132]two valleys, and a line drawn through them runs, pretty nearly, north and south.We descended by a rough path from Rieu Blanc to the chalets of La Sausse, which give the name to the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse, in which they are situated. This is one of the numerous branches of the valley that descends to St. Jean d’Arve, and subsequently to St. Jean de Maurienne.Two passes, more or less known, lead from this valley to the village of La Grave (on the Lautaret road) in the valley of the Romanche, viz.:—the Col de l’Infernet and the Col de Martignare. The former pass was crossed, many years ago, by J. D. Forbes, and was mentioned by him in hisNorway and its Glaciers. The latter one lies to the north of the former, and is seldom traversed by tourists, but it was convenient for us, and we set out to cross it on the morning of the 22d, after having passed a comfortable, but not luxurious, night in the hay, at La Sausse, where, however, the simplicity of the accommodation was more than counterbalanced by the civility and hospitality of the people in charge.94[Our object now was to cross to La Grave (on the high road from Grenoble to Briançon), and to ascend,en route, some point sufficiently high to give us a good view of the Dauphiné Alps in general, and of the grand chain of the Meije in particular. Before[pg 133]leaving England a careful study of“Joanne”had elicited the fact that the shortest route from La Sausse to La Grave was by the Col de Martignare; and also that from the aforesaid Col it was possible to ascend a lofty summit, called by him the Bec-du-Grenier, also called Aiguille de Goléon. On referring, however, to the Sardinian survey, we found there depicted, to the east of the Col de Martignare, notonepeak bearing the abovetwonames, buttwo distinct summits; one—just above the Col—the Bec-du-Grenier (the height of which was not stated); the other, still farther to the east, and somewhat to the south of the watershed—the Aiguille du Goléon (11,250 English feet in height), with a very considerable glacier—the Glacier Lombard—between the two. On the French map,95on the other hand, neither of the above names was to be found, but a peak called Aiguille de la Sausse (10,897 feet), was placed in the position assigned to the Bec-du-Grenier in the Sardinian map; while farther to the east was a second and nameless peak (10,841), not at all in the position given to the Aiguille du Goléon, of which and of the Glacier Lombard there was not a sign. All this was very puzzling and unsatisfactory; but as we had no doubt of being able to climb one of the points to the east of the Col de Martignare (which overhung the Ravine de la Sausse), we determined to make that col the basis of our operations.]96We left the chalets at 4.15A.M.[under a shower of good wishes from our hostesses], proceeded at first towards the upper end of the ravine, then doubled back up a long buttress which projects in an unusual way, and went towards the Col de Martignare; but before arriving at its summit we again doubled, and resumed the[pg 134]original course.97At 6A.M.we stood on the watershed, and followed it towards the east; keeping for some distance strictly to the ridge, and afterwards diverging a little to the south to avoid a considerable secondary aiguille, which prevented a straight track being made to the summit at which we were aiming. At 9.15 we stood on its top, and saw at once the lay of the land.We found that our peak was one of four which enclosed a plateau that was filled by a glacier. Let us call these summitsA,B,C,D(see plan onp. 128). We stood uponC, which was almost exactly the same elevation asB, but was higher thanD, and lower thanA. PeakAwas the highest of the four, and was about 200 feet higher thanBandC; we identified it as the Aiguille de Goléon (French survey, 11,250 feet). PeakDwe considered was the Bec-du-Grenier; and, in default of other names, we calledBandCthe Aiguilles de la Sausse. The glacier flowed in a south-easterly direction, and was the Glacier Lombard.PeaksBandCoverhung the Ravine de la Sausse, and were connected with another aiguille—E—which did the same. A continuation of the ridge out of which these three aiguilles rose joined the Aiguilles d’Arve. The head of the Ravine de la Sausse was therefore encircled by six peaks; three of which it was convenient to term the Aiguilles de la Sausse, and the others were the Aiguilles d’Arve.We were very fortunate in the selection of our summit. Not to speak of other things, it gave a grand view of the ridge which culminates in the peak called La Meije (13,080 feet), which used to be mentioned by travellers under the name Aiguille du Midi de la Grave. The view of this mountain from the village of La Grave itself can hardly be praised too highly,—it is one of the very finest road-views in the Alps. The Ortler Spitz from the Stelvio is, in fact, its only worthy competitor; and the opinions generally of[pg 135]those who have seen the two views are in favour of the former. But from La Grave one can no more appreciate the noble proportions and the towering height of the Meije, than understand the symmetry of the dome of St. Paul’s by gazing upon it from the churchyard. To see it fairly, one must be placed at a greater distance and at a greater height.I shall not try to describe the Meije. The same words, and the same phrases, have to do duty for one and another mountain; their repetition becomes wearisome; and ’tis a discouraging fact that any description, however true or however elaborated, seldom or never gives an idea of the reality.Yet the Meije deserves more than a passing notice. It was the last great Alpine peak which knew the foot of man, and one can scarcely speak in exaggerated terms of its jagged ridges, torrential glaciers, and tremendous precipices.98But were I to discourse upon these things without the aid of pictures, or to endeavour to convey inwordsa sense of the loveliness ofcurves, of the beauty ofcolour, or of the harmonies ofsound, I should try to accomplish that which is impossible; and, at the best, should succeed in but giving an impression that the things spoken of may have been pleasant to hear or to behold, although they are perfectly incomprehensible to read about. Let me therefore avoid these[pg 136]things, not because I have no love for or thought of them, but because they cannot be translated into language; and presently, when topographical details must, of necessity, be returned to again, I will endeavour to relieve the poverty of the pen by a free use of the pencil.Whilst we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, our attention was concentrated on a point that was immediately opposite—on a gap or cleft between the Meije and the mountain called the Rateau. It was, indeed, in order to have a good view of this place that we made the ascent of the Aiguille. It (that is the gap itself) looked, as my companions remarked, obtrusively and offensively a pass. It had not been crossed, but it ought to have been; and this seemed to have been recognised by the natives, who called it, very appropriately, the Brèche de la Meije.I had seen the place in 1860, and again in 1861, but had not then thought about getting through it; and our information in respect to it was chiefly derived from a photographic reproduction of the then unpublished sheet 189, of the great map of France, which Mr. Tuckett, with his usual liberality, had placed at our disposal. It was evident from this map that if we could succeed in passing the Brèche, we should make the most direct route between the village of La Grave and that of Bérarde in the Department of the Isère, and that the distance between these two places by this route, would be less than one-third that of the ordinary way via the villages of Freney and Venos. It may occur to some of my readers, why had it not been done before? For the very sound reason that the valley on its southern side (Vallon des Etançons) is uninhabited, and La Bérarde itself is a miserable village, without interest, without commerce, and almost without population. Why then did we wish to cross it? Because we were bound to the Pointe des Ecrins, to which La Bérarde was the nearest inhabited place.When we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, we were rather despondent about our prospects of crossing the Brèche, which seemed to present a combination of all that was formidable. There[pg 137]was, evidently, but one way by which it could be approached. We saw that at the top of the pass there was a steep wall of snow or ice (so steep that it was most likely ice) protected at its base by a big schrund or moat, which severed it from the snow-fields below. Then (tracking our course downwards) we saw undulating snow-fields leading down to a great glacier. The snow-fields would be easy work, but the glacier was riven and broken in every direction; huge crevasses seemed to extend entirely across it in some places, and everywhere it had that strange twisted look, which tells of the unequal motion of the ice. Where could we get on to it? At its base it came to a violent end, being cut short by a cliff, over which it poured periodical avalanches, as we saw by a great triangular bed of débris below. We could not venture there,—the glacier must be taken in flank. But on which side? Not on the west,—no one could climb those cliffs. It must, if any where, be by the rocks on the east; andtheylooked as if they wereroches moutonnées.So we hurried down to La Grave, to hear what Melchior Anderegg (who had just passed through the village with the family of our friend Walker) had to say on the matter. Who is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the question cannot have been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of Melchior is as well known as the name of Napoleon. Melchior, too, is an Emperor in his way—a very Prince among guides. His empire is amongst the“eternal snows,”—his sceptre is an ice-axe.Melchior Anderegg, more familiarly, and perhaps more generally known simply as Melchior, was born at Zaun, near Meiringen, on April 6, 1828. He was first brought into public notice in Hinchcliff’sSummer Months in the Alps, and was known to very few persons at the time that little work was published. In 1855 he was“Boots”at the Grimsel Hotel, and in those days, when he went out on expeditions, it was for the benefit of his master, the proprietor; Melchior himself only got thetrinkgelt. In 1856 he migrated to the Schwarenbach Inn on[pg 138]the Gemmi, where he employed his time in carving objects for sale. In 1858 he made numerous expeditions with Messrs. Hinchcliff and Stephen, and proved to his employers that he possessed first-rate skill, indomitable courage, and an admirable character. His position has never been doubtful since that year, and for a long time there has been no guide whose services have been more in request: he is usually engaged a year in advance.It would be almost an easier task to say what he has not done than to catalogue his achievements. Invariable success attends his arms; he leads his followers to victory, but not to death. I believe that no serious accident has ever befallen travellers in his charge. Like his friend Almer, he can be called asafeman. It is the highest praise that can be given to a first-rate guide.Illustration: Melchior Anderegg in 1864MELCHIOR ANDEREGG IN 1864.Early in the afternoon we found ourselves in the little inn at La Grave, on the great Lautaret road, a rickety, tumble-down sort of place, with nothing stable about it, as Moore wittily remarked, except the smell.99Melchior had gone, and had left[pg 139]behind a note which said,“I think the passage of the Brèche is possible, but that it will be very difficult.”His opinion coincided with ours, and we went to sleep, expecting to be afoot about eighteen or twenty hours on the morrow.At 2.40 the next morning we left La Grave, in a few minutes crossed the Romanche, and at 4A.M.got to the moraine of the eastern branch of the glacier that descends from the Brèche.100The rocks by which we intended to ascend were placed between the two branches of this glacier, and still looked smooth and unbroken. By 5 o’clock we were upon them, and saw that we had been deluded by them. No carpenter could have planned a more convenient staircase. They werenot moutonnée, their smooth look from a distance was only owing to their singular firmness. [It was really quite a pleasure to scale such delightful rocks. We felt the stone held the boot so well, that, without making a positive effort to do so, it would be almost impossible to slip.] In an hour we had risen above the most crevassed portion of the glacier, and began to look for a way on to it. Just at the right place there was a patch of old snow at the side, and, instead of gaining the ice by desperate acrobatic feats, we passed from the rocks on to it as easily as one walks across a gangway. At half-past 6 we were on the centre of the glacier, and the inhabitants of La Grave turned outen masseinto the road, and watched us with amazement as they witnessed the falsification of their confident predictions. Well might they stare, for our little caravan, looking to them like a train of flies on a wall, crept up and up, without hesitation and without a halt—lost to their sight one minute as it dived into a crevasse, then seen again clambering up the other side. The higher we rose the easier became the work, the angles lessened, and our pace increased. The snow remained shadowed, and we walked as easily as on a high road; and when (at 7.45) the summit of the Brèche was seen, we rushed at it as furiously[pg 140]as if it had been a breach in the wall of a fortress, carried the moat by a dash, with a push behind and a pull before, stormed the steep slope above, and at 8.50 stood in the little gap, 11,054 feet above the level of the sea. The Brèche was won. Well might they stare; five hours and a quarter had sufficed for 6500 feet of ascent.101We screamed triumphantly as they turned in to breakfast.Illustration: Map of the Brèche de la Meije, etc.SCALE, THREE MILES TO AN INCH.All mountaineers know how valuable it is to study beforehand an intended route over new ground from a height at some distance. None but blunderers fail to do so, if it is possible; and one cannot do so too thoroughly. As a rule, the closer one approaches underneath a summit, the more difficult it is to pick out a path with judgment. Inferior peaks seem unduly important, subordinate ridges are exalted, and slopes conceal points beyond; and if one blindly undertakes an ascent, without having acquired a tolerable notion of the relative importance of the parts, and of their positions to one another, it will be miraculous if great difficulties are not encountered.But although the examination of an intended route from a height at a distance will tell one (who knows the meaning of the things he is looking at) a good deal, and will enable him to steer clear of many difficulties against which he might otherwise blindly run, it will seldom allow one to pronounce positively upon the practicability or impracticability of the whole of the route. No living man, for example, can pronounce positively from a distance[pg 141]in regard to rocks. Those just mentioned are an illustration of this. Three of the ablest and most experienced guides concurred in thinking that they would be found very difficult, and yet they presented no difficulty whatever. In truth, the sounder and less broken up are the rocks, the more impracticable do they usually look from a distance; while soft and easily rent rocks, which are often amongst the most difficult and perilous to climb, very frequently look from afar as if they might be traversed by a child.It is possible to decide with greater certainty in regard to the practicability of glaciers. When one is seen to have few open crevasses (and this may be told from a great distance), then we know that it ispossibleto traverse it; but to what extent it, or a glacier that is much broken up by crevasses, will be troublesome, will depend upon the width and length of the crevasses, and upon the angles of the surface of the glacier itself. A glacier may be greatly crevassed, but the fissures may be so narrow that there is no occasion to deviate from a straight line when passing across them; or a glacier may have few open crevasses, and yet may be practically impassable on account of the steepness of the angles of its surface. Nominally, a man with an axe can go anywhere upon a glacier, but in practice it is found that to move freely upon ice one must have to deal only with small angles. It is thus necessary to know approximately the angles of the surfaces of a glacier before it is possible to determine whether it will afford easy travelling, or will be so difficult as to be (for all practical purposes) impassable. This cannot be told by looking at glaciers in full face from a distance; they must be seen in profile; and it is often desirable to examine them both from the front and in profile,—to do the first to study the direction of the crevasses, to note where they are most and least numerous; and the second to see whether its angles are moderate or great. Should they be very steep, it may be better to avoid them altogether, and to mount even by difficult rocks; but upon glaciers ofgentleinclination, and with few open crevasses, better progress can always be made than upon theeasiestrocks.[pg 142]So much to explain why we were deceived when looking at the Brèche de la Meije from the Aiguille de la Sausse. We took note of all the difficulties, but did not pay sufficient attention to the distance that the Brèche was south of La Grave. My meaning will be apparent from the accompanyingdiagram, Fig. 1 (constructed upon the data supplied by the French surveyors), which will also serve to illustrate how badly angles of elevation are judged by the unaided eye.Illustration: Diagram to show angle of summit of Meije, etc.The village of La Grave is just 5000 feet, and the highest summit of the Meije is 13,080 feet above the level of the sea. There is therefore a difference in their levels of 8080 feet. But the summit of the Meije is south of La Grave about 14,750 feet, and, consequently, a line drawn from La Grave to the summit of the Meije is no steeper than the dotted line drawn fromAtoC,Fig. 1; or, in other words, if one could go in a direct line from La Grave to the summit of the Meije the ascent would be at an angle of less than 30°. Nine persons out of ten would probably estimate the angle on the spot at double this amount.102The Brèche is 2000 feet below the summit of the Meije, and only 6000 feet above La Grave. A direct ascent from the village to the Brèche would consequently be at an angle of not much more than 20°. But it is not possible to make the ascent as the crow flies; it has to be made by an indirect and much longer route. Our track was probably double the length of a direct line between the two places. Doubling the length halved the angles, and we[pg 143]therefore arrive at the somewhat amazing conclusion, that upon this, one of the steepest passes in the Alps, the mean of all the angles upon the ascent could not have been greater than 11° or 12°. Of course, in some places, the angles were much steeper, and in others less, but themeanof the whole could not have passed the angle above indicated.Illustration: The Vallon des EtançonsTHE VALLON DES ETANÇONS (LOOKING TOWARDS LA BÉRARDE).103We did not trouble ourselves much with these matters when we sat on the top of the Brèche. Our day’s work was as good as over (for we knew from Messrs. Mathews and Bonney that there was no difficulty upon the other side), and we abandoned ourselves to ease and luxury; wondering, alternately, as we gazed upon the Rateau and the Ecrins, how the one mountain could[pg 144]possibly hold itself together, and whether the other would hold out against us. The former looked [so rotten that it seemed as if a puff of wind or a clap of thunder might dash the whole fabric to pieces]; while the latter asserted itself the monarch of the group, and towered head and shoulders above all the rest of the peaks which form the great horse-shoe of Dauphiné. At length a cruel rush of cold air made us shiver, and shift our quarters to a little grassy plot, 3000 feet below—an oasis in a desert—where we lay nearly four hours admiring the splendid wall of the Meije.104Then we tramped down the Vallon des Etançons, a howling wilderness, the abomination of desolation; destitute alike of animal or vegetable life; pathless, of course; suggestive of chaos, but of little else; covered almost throughout its entire length with débris from the size of a walnut up to that of a house; in a word, it looked as if half-a-dozen moraines of first-rate dimensions had been carted and shot into it. Our tempers were soured by constant pitfalls [it was impossible to take the eyes from the feet, and if an unlucky individual so much as blew his nose, without standing still to perform the operation, the result was either an instantaneous tumble, or a barked shin, or a half-twisted ankle. There was no end to it, and we became more savage at every step, unanimously agreeing that no power on earth would ever induce us to walk up or down this particular valley again.] It was not just to the valley, which was enclosed by noble mountains,—unknown, it is true, but worthy of a great reputation, and which, if placed in other districts, would be sought after, and cited as types of daring form and graceful outline.105

“The more to help the greater deed is done.”Homer.

“The more to help the greater deed is done.”Homer.

“The more to help the greater deed is done.”

Homer.

When we arrived upon the highest summit of Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphiné, in 1861, we saw, to our surprise and disappointment, that it was not the culminating point of the district; and that another mountain—distant about a couple of miles, and separated from us by an impassable gulf—claimed that distinction. I was troubled in spirit about this mountain, and my thoughts often reverted to the great wall-sided peak, second in apparent inaccessibility only to the Matterhorn. It had, moreover, another claim to attention—it was the highest mountainInFrance.

The year 1862 passed away without a chance of getting to it, and my holiday was too brief in 1863 even to think about it; but in the following year it was possible, and I resolved to set my mind at rest by completing the task which had been left unfinished in 1861.

In the meantime others had turned their attention to Dauphiné. First of all (in 1862) came Mr. F. Tuckett—that mighty mountaineer, whose name is known throughout the length and breadth of the Alps—with the guides Michel Croz, Peter Perrn, and Bartolommeo Peyrotte, and great success attended his arms. But Mr. Tuckett halted before the Pointe des Ecrins, and, dismayed by its appearance, withdrew his forces to gather less dangerous laurels elsewhere.

His expedition, however, threw some light upon the Ecrins. He pointed out the direction from which an attack was most likely to be successful, and Mr. William Mathews and the Rev. T. G.[pg 125]Bonney (to whom he communicated the result of his labours) attempted to execute the ascent, with the brothers Michel and J. B. Croz, by following his indications. But they too were defeated, as I shall relate more particularly presently.

Illustration: Michel-Auguste Crow (1865)MICHEL-AUGUSTE CROZ (1865).

MICHEL-AUGUSTE CROZ (1865).

The guide Michel Croz had thus been engaged in both of these expeditions in Dauphiné, and I naturally looked to him for assistance. Mr. Mathews (to whom I applied for information) gave him a high character, and concluded his reply to me by saying,“he was only happy when upwards of 10,000 feet high.”

I know what my friend meant. Croz was happiest when he was employing his powers to the utmost. Places where you and I would“toil and sweat, and yet be freezing cold,”were bagatelles to him, and it was only when he got above the range of ordinary mortals, and was required to employ his magnificent strength,[pg 126]and to draw upon his unsurpassed knowledge of ice and snow, that he could be said to be really and truly happy.

Of all the guides with whom I travelled, Michel Croz was the man who was most after my own heart. He did not work like a blunt razor, and take to his toil unkindly. He did not need urging, or to be told a second time to do anything. You had but to saywhatwas to be done, andhowit was to be done, and the workwasdone, if it was possible. Such men are not common, and when they are known they are valued. Michel was not widely known, but those who did know him employed him again and again. The inscription that is placed upon his tomb truthfully records that he was“beloved by his comrades and esteemed by travellers.”

At the time that I was planning my journey, my friends Messrs. A. W. Moore and Horace Walker were also drawing up their programme; and, as we found that our wishes were very similar, we agreed to unite our respective parties. The excursions which are described in this and the two following chapters are mutual ideas which were jointly executed.

Our united programme was framed so as to avoid sleeping in inns, and so that we should see from the highest point attained on one day a considerable portion of the route which was intended to be followed on the next. This latter matter was an important one to us, as all of our projected excursions were new ones, and led over ground about which there was very little information in print.

My friends had happily secured Christian Almer of Grindelwald as their guide. The combination of Croz and Almer was a perfect one. Both men were in the prime of life;91both were endued with strength and activity far beyond the average; and the courage and the knowledge of each was alike undoubted. The temper of Almer it was impossible to ruffle; he was ever obliging and enduring,—a bold but a safe man. That which he lacked in fire—in dash—was supplied by Croz, who, in his turn, was kept in place by Almer.[pg 127]It is pleasant to remember how they worked together, and how each one confided to you that he liked the other so much because he worked so well; but it is sad, very sad, to those who have known the men, to know that they can never work together again.

We met at St. Michel on the Mont Cenis road, at midday on June 20, 1864, and proceeded in the afternoon over the Col de Valloires to the village of the same name. The summit of this pretty little pass is about 3500 feet above St. Michel, and from it we had a fair view of the Aiguilles d’Arve, a group of three peaks of singular form, which it was our especial object to investigate.92They had been seen by ourselves and others from numerous distant points, and always looked very high and very inaccessible; but we had been unable to obtain any information about them, except the few words in Joanne’sItinéraire du Dauphiné. Having made out from the summit of the Col de Valloires that they could be approached from the Valley of Valloires, we hastened down to find a place where we could pass the night, as near as possible to the entrance of the little valley leading up to them.

By nightfall we arrived at the entrance to this little valley (Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve), and found some buildings placed just where they were wanted. The proprietress received us with civility, and placed a large barn at our disposal, on the conditions that no lights were struck or pipes smoked therein; and when her terms were agreed to, she took us into her own chalet, made up a huge fire, heated a gallon of milk, and treated us with genuine hospitality.

In the morning we found that the Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve led away nearly due west from the Valley of Valloires, and that the village of Bonnenuit was placed (in the latter valley) almost exactly opposite to the junction of the two.

At 3.55A.M.on the 21st we set out up the Vallon, passed for a time over pasture-land, and then over a stony waste, deeply chan[pg 128]nelled by watercourses. At 5.30 the two principal Aiguilles were well seen, and as, by this time, it was evident that the authors of the Sardinian official map had romanced as extensively in this neighbourhood as elsewhere, it was necessary to hold a council.

Illustration: Plan to show route

Three questions were submitted to it:—Firstly, Which is the highest of these Aiguilles? Secondly, Which shall we go up? Thirdly, How is it to be done?

The French engineers, it was said, had determined that the two highest of them were respectively 11,513 and 11,529 feet in height; but we were without information as to which two they had measured.93Joanne indeed said (but without specifying whether he meant all three) that the Aiguilles had been several times ascended, and particularly mentioned that the one of 11,513 feet was“relatively easy.”

We therefore said,“We will go up the peak of 11,529 feet.”That determination did not settle the second question. Joanne’s“relatively easy”peak, according to his description, was evidently the most northern of the three.Ourpeak then was to be one of the other two;—but which of them? We were inclined to favour the central one; but it was hard to determine, they looked so equal in height. When, however, the council came to study the third[pg 129]question—“How is it to be done?”it was unanimously voted that upon the eastern and southern sides it was certainly“relatively”difficult, and that a move should be made round to the northern side.

The movement was duly executed, and after wading up some snow-slopes of considerable steepness (going occasionally beyond 40°), we found ourselves in a gap or nick, between the central and northernmost Aiguille, at 8.45A.M.We then studied the northern face of our intended peak, and finally arrived at the conclusion that it was“relatively”impracticable. Croz shrugged his big shoulders, and said,“My faith! I think you will do well to leave it to others.”Almer was more explicit, and volunteered the information that a thousand francs would not tempt him totryit. We then turned to the northernmost peak, but found its southern faces even more hopeless than the northern faces of the central one. We enjoyed accordingly the unwonted luxury of a three-hours’ rest on the top of our pass; for pass we were determined it should be.

We might have done worse. We were 10,300 or 10,400 feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a most picturesque view of the mountains of the Tarentaise; while, somewhat east of south, we saw the monarch of the Dauphinémassif, whose closer acquaintance it was our intention to make. Three sunny hours passed away, and then we turned to the descent. We saw the distant pastures of a valley (which we supposed was the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse), and a long snow-slope leading down to them. But from that slope we were cut off by precipitous rocks, and our first impression was that we should have to return in our track. Some running up and down, however, discovered two little gullies, filled with threads of snow, and down the most northern of these we decided to go. It was a steep way but a safe one, for the cleft was so narrow that we could press the shoulder against one side whilst the feet were against the other, and the last remnant of the winter’s snow, well hardened, clung to the rift with great tenacity, and gave us a path when the rocks refused one. In half-an-hour we got to the top of the great snow-slope. Walker said—“Let us[pg 130]glissade;”the guides—“No, it is too steep.”Our friend, however, started off at a standing glissade, and advanced for a time very skilfully; but after a while he lost his balance, and progressed downwards and backwards with great rapidity, in a way that seemed to us very much like tumbling head over heels. He let go his axe, and left it behind, but it overtook him and batted him heartily. He and it travelled in this fashion for some hundreds of feet, and at last subsided into the rocks at the bottom. In a few moments we were reassured as to his safety, by hearing him ironically request us not to keep him waiting down there.

Illustration: The Aiguilles d’Arve, from above the chalets of Rieu BlancTHE AIGUILLES D’ARVE, FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU BLANC, SHOWING ROUTE.

THE AIGUILLES D’ARVE, FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU BLANC, SHOWING ROUTE.

We others followed the track shown by the dotted line upon theengraving(making zigzags to avoid the little groups of rocks which jutted through the snow, by which Walker had been upset), descended by asittingglissade, and rejoined our friend at the bottom. We then turned sharply to the left, and tramped down the summit ridge of an old moraine of great size. Its mud was excessively[pg 131]hard, and where some large erratic blocks lay perched upon its crest, we were obliged to cut steps (in the mud) with our ice-axes.

Guided by the sound of a distant“moo,”we speedily found the highest chalets in the valley, named Rieu Blanc. They were tenanted by three old women (who seemed to belong to one of the missing links sought by naturalists), destitute of all ideas except in regard to cows, and who spoke a barbarous patois, well-nigh unintelligible to the Savoyard Croz. They would not believe that we had passed between the Aiguilles,—“It is impossible, thecowsnever go there.”“Could we get to La Grave over yonder ridge?”“Oh yes! thecowsoften crossed!”Could they show us the way? No; but we could follow thecow-tracks.

We stayed a while near these chalets, to examine the western sides of the Aiguilles d’Arve, and, according to our united opinion, the central one was as inaccessible from this direction as from the east, north, or south. On the following day we saw them again, from a height of about 11,000 feet, in a south-easterly direction, and our opinion remained unchanged.

We saw (on June 20-22) the central Aiguille from all sides, and very nearly completely round the southernmost one. The northern one we also saw on all sides excepting from the north. (It is, however, precisely from this direction M. Joanne says that its ascent is relatively easy.) We do not, therefore, venture to express any opinion respecting its ascent, except as regards its actual summit. This is formed of two curious prongs, or pinnacles of rock, and we do not understand in what way they (or either of them) can be ascended; nor shall we be surprised if this ascent is discovered to have been made in spirit rather than body; in fact, in the same manner as the celebrated ascent of Mont Blanc,“not entirely to the summit, but as far as the Montanvert!”

All three of the Aiguillesmaybe accessible, but theylookas inaccessible as anything I have seen. They are the highest summits between the valleys of the Romanche and the Arc; they are placed slightly to the north of the watershed between those[pg 132]two valleys, and a line drawn through them runs, pretty nearly, north and south.

We descended by a rough path from Rieu Blanc to the chalets of La Sausse, which give the name to the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse, in which they are situated. This is one of the numerous branches of the valley that descends to St. Jean d’Arve, and subsequently to St. Jean de Maurienne.

Two passes, more or less known, lead from this valley to the village of La Grave (on the Lautaret road) in the valley of the Romanche, viz.:—the Col de l’Infernet and the Col de Martignare. The former pass was crossed, many years ago, by J. D. Forbes, and was mentioned by him in hisNorway and its Glaciers. The latter one lies to the north of the former, and is seldom traversed by tourists, but it was convenient for us, and we set out to cross it on the morning of the 22d, after having passed a comfortable, but not luxurious, night in the hay, at La Sausse, where, however, the simplicity of the accommodation was more than counterbalanced by the civility and hospitality of the people in charge.94

[Our object now was to cross to La Grave (on the high road from Grenoble to Briançon), and to ascend,en route, some point sufficiently high to give us a good view of the Dauphiné Alps in general, and of the grand chain of the Meije in particular. Before[pg 133]leaving England a careful study of“Joanne”had elicited the fact that the shortest route from La Sausse to La Grave was by the Col de Martignare; and also that from the aforesaid Col it was possible to ascend a lofty summit, called by him the Bec-du-Grenier, also called Aiguille de Goléon. On referring, however, to the Sardinian survey, we found there depicted, to the east of the Col de Martignare, notonepeak bearing the abovetwonames, buttwo distinct summits; one—just above the Col—the Bec-du-Grenier (the height of which was not stated); the other, still farther to the east, and somewhat to the south of the watershed—the Aiguille du Goléon (11,250 English feet in height), with a very considerable glacier—the Glacier Lombard—between the two. On the French map,95on the other hand, neither of the above names was to be found, but a peak called Aiguille de la Sausse (10,897 feet), was placed in the position assigned to the Bec-du-Grenier in the Sardinian map; while farther to the east was a second and nameless peak (10,841), not at all in the position given to the Aiguille du Goléon, of which and of the Glacier Lombard there was not a sign. All this was very puzzling and unsatisfactory; but as we had no doubt of being able to climb one of the points to the east of the Col de Martignare (which overhung the Ravine de la Sausse), we determined to make that col the basis of our operations.]96

We left the chalets at 4.15A.M.[under a shower of good wishes from our hostesses], proceeded at first towards the upper end of the ravine, then doubled back up a long buttress which projects in an unusual way, and went towards the Col de Martignare; but before arriving at its summit we again doubled, and resumed the[pg 134]original course.97At 6A.M.we stood on the watershed, and followed it towards the east; keeping for some distance strictly to the ridge, and afterwards diverging a little to the south to avoid a considerable secondary aiguille, which prevented a straight track being made to the summit at which we were aiming. At 9.15 we stood on its top, and saw at once the lay of the land.

We found that our peak was one of four which enclosed a plateau that was filled by a glacier. Let us call these summitsA,B,C,D(see plan onp. 128). We stood uponC, which was almost exactly the same elevation asB, but was higher thanD, and lower thanA. PeakAwas the highest of the four, and was about 200 feet higher thanBandC; we identified it as the Aiguille de Goléon (French survey, 11,250 feet). PeakDwe considered was the Bec-du-Grenier; and, in default of other names, we calledBandCthe Aiguilles de la Sausse. The glacier flowed in a south-easterly direction, and was the Glacier Lombard.

PeaksBandCoverhung the Ravine de la Sausse, and were connected with another aiguille—E—which did the same. A continuation of the ridge out of which these three aiguilles rose joined the Aiguilles d’Arve. The head of the Ravine de la Sausse was therefore encircled by six peaks; three of which it was convenient to term the Aiguilles de la Sausse, and the others were the Aiguilles d’Arve.

We were very fortunate in the selection of our summit. Not to speak of other things, it gave a grand view of the ridge which culminates in the peak called La Meije (13,080 feet), which used to be mentioned by travellers under the name Aiguille du Midi de la Grave. The view of this mountain from the village of La Grave itself can hardly be praised too highly,—it is one of the very finest road-views in the Alps. The Ortler Spitz from the Stelvio is, in fact, its only worthy competitor; and the opinions generally of[pg 135]those who have seen the two views are in favour of the former. But from La Grave one can no more appreciate the noble proportions and the towering height of the Meije, than understand the symmetry of the dome of St. Paul’s by gazing upon it from the churchyard. To see it fairly, one must be placed at a greater distance and at a greater height.

I shall not try to describe the Meije. The same words, and the same phrases, have to do duty for one and another mountain; their repetition becomes wearisome; and ’tis a discouraging fact that any description, however true or however elaborated, seldom or never gives an idea of the reality.

Yet the Meije deserves more than a passing notice. It was the last great Alpine peak which knew the foot of man, and one can scarcely speak in exaggerated terms of its jagged ridges, torrential glaciers, and tremendous precipices.98But were I to discourse upon these things without the aid of pictures, or to endeavour to convey inwordsa sense of the loveliness ofcurves, of the beauty ofcolour, or of the harmonies ofsound, I should try to accomplish that which is impossible; and, at the best, should succeed in but giving an impression that the things spoken of may have been pleasant to hear or to behold, although they are perfectly incomprehensible to read about. Let me therefore avoid these[pg 136]things, not because I have no love for or thought of them, but because they cannot be translated into language; and presently, when topographical details must, of necessity, be returned to again, I will endeavour to relieve the poverty of the pen by a free use of the pencil.

Whilst we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, our attention was concentrated on a point that was immediately opposite—on a gap or cleft between the Meije and the mountain called the Rateau. It was, indeed, in order to have a good view of this place that we made the ascent of the Aiguille. It (that is the gap itself) looked, as my companions remarked, obtrusively and offensively a pass. It had not been crossed, but it ought to have been; and this seemed to have been recognised by the natives, who called it, very appropriately, the Brèche de la Meije.

I had seen the place in 1860, and again in 1861, but had not then thought about getting through it; and our information in respect to it was chiefly derived from a photographic reproduction of the then unpublished sheet 189, of the great map of France, which Mr. Tuckett, with his usual liberality, had placed at our disposal. It was evident from this map that if we could succeed in passing the Brèche, we should make the most direct route between the village of La Grave and that of Bérarde in the Department of the Isère, and that the distance between these two places by this route, would be less than one-third that of the ordinary way via the villages of Freney and Venos. It may occur to some of my readers, why had it not been done before? For the very sound reason that the valley on its southern side (Vallon des Etançons) is uninhabited, and La Bérarde itself is a miserable village, without interest, without commerce, and almost without population. Why then did we wish to cross it? Because we were bound to the Pointe des Ecrins, to which La Bérarde was the nearest inhabited place.

When we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse, we were rather despondent about our prospects of crossing the Brèche, which seemed to present a combination of all that was formidable. There[pg 137]was, evidently, but one way by which it could be approached. We saw that at the top of the pass there was a steep wall of snow or ice (so steep that it was most likely ice) protected at its base by a big schrund or moat, which severed it from the snow-fields below. Then (tracking our course downwards) we saw undulating snow-fields leading down to a great glacier. The snow-fields would be easy work, but the glacier was riven and broken in every direction; huge crevasses seemed to extend entirely across it in some places, and everywhere it had that strange twisted look, which tells of the unequal motion of the ice. Where could we get on to it? At its base it came to a violent end, being cut short by a cliff, over which it poured periodical avalanches, as we saw by a great triangular bed of débris below. We could not venture there,—the glacier must be taken in flank. But on which side? Not on the west,—no one could climb those cliffs. It must, if any where, be by the rocks on the east; andtheylooked as if they wereroches moutonnées.

So we hurried down to La Grave, to hear what Melchior Anderegg (who had just passed through the village with the family of our friend Walker) had to say on the matter. Who is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the question cannot have been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of Melchior is as well known as the name of Napoleon. Melchior, too, is an Emperor in his way—a very Prince among guides. His empire is amongst the“eternal snows,”—his sceptre is an ice-axe.

Melchior Anderegg, more familiarly, and perhaps more generally known simply as Melchior, was born at Zaun, near Meiringen, on April 6, 1828. He was first brought into public notice in Hinchcliff’sSummer Months in the Alps, and was known to very few persons at the time that little work was published. In 1855 he was“Boots”at the Grimsel Hotel, and in those days, when he went out on expeditions, it was for the benefit of his master, the proprietor; Melchior himself only got thetrinkgelt. In 1856 he migrated to the Schwarenbach Inn on[pg 138]the Gemmi, where he employed his time in carving objects for sale. In 1858 he made numerous expeditions with Messrs. Hinchcliff and Stephen, and proved to his employers that he possessed first-rate skill, indomitable courage, and an admirable character. His position has never been doubtful since that year, and for a long time there has been no guide whose services have been more in request: he is usually engaged a year in advance.

It would be almost an easier task to say what he has not done than to catalogue his achievements. Invariable success attends his arms; he leads his followers to victory, but not to death. I believe that no serious accident has ever befallen travellers in his charge. Like his friend Almer, he can be called asafeman. It is the highest praise that can be given to a first-rate guide.

Illustration: Melchior Anderegg in 1864MELCHIOR ANDEREGG IN 1864.

MELCHIOR ANDEREGG IN 1864.

Early in the afternoon we found ourselves in the little inn at La Grave, on the great Lautaret road, a rickety, tumble-down sort of place, with nothing stable about it, as Moore wittily remarked, except the smell.99Melchior had gone, and had left[pg 139]behind a note which said,“I think the passage of the Brèche is possible, but that it will be very difficult.”His opinion coincided with ours, and we went to sleep, expecting to be afoot about eighteen or twenty hours on the morrow.

At 2.40 the next morning we left La Grave, in a few minutes crossed the Romanche, and at 4A.M.got to the moraine of the eastern branch of the glacier that descends from the Brèche.100The rocks by which we intended to ascend were placed between the two branches of this glacier, and still looked smooth and unbroken. By 5 o’clock we were upon them, and saw that we had been deluded by them. No carpenter could have planned a more convenient staircase. They werenot moutonnée, their smooth look from a distance was only owing to their singular firmness. [It was really quite a pleasure to scale such delightful rocks. We felt the stone held the boot so well, that, without making a positive effort to do so, it would be almost impossible to slip.] In an hour we had risen above the most crevassed portion of the glacier, and began to look for a way on to it. Just at the right place there was a patch of old snow at the side, and, instead of gaining the ice by desperate acrobatic feats, we passed from the rocks on to it as easily as one walks across a gangway. At half-past 6 we were on the centre of the glacier, and the inhabitants of La Grave turned outen masseinto the road, and watched us with amazement as they witnessed the falsification of their confident predictions. Well might they stare, for our little caravan, looking to them like a train of flies on a wall, crept up and up, without hesitation and without a halt—lost to their sight one minute as it dived into a crevasse, then seen again clambering up the other side. The higher we rose the easier became the work, the angles lessened, and our pace increased. The snow remained shadowed, and we walked as easily as on a high road; and when (at 7.45) the summit of the Brèche was seen, we rushed at it as furiously[pg 140]as if it had been a breach in the wall of a fortress, carried the moat by a dash, with a push behind and a pull before, stormed the steep slope above, and at 8.50 stood in the little gap, 11,054 feet above the level of the sea. The Brèche was won. Well might they stare; five hours and a quarter had sufficed for 6500 feet of ascent.101We screamed triumphantly as they turned in to breakfast.

Illustration: Map of the Brèche de la Meije, etc.SCALE, THREE MILES TO AN INCH.

SCALE, THREE MILES TO AN INCH.

All mountaineers know how valuable it is to study beforehand an intended route over new ground from a height at some distance. None but blunderers fail to do so, if it is possible; and one cannot do so too thoroughly. As a rule, the closer one approaches underneath a summit, the more difficult it is to pick out a path with judgment. Inferior peaks seem unduly important, subordinate ridges are exalted, and slopes conceal points beyond; and if one blindly undertakes an ascent, without having acquired a tolerable notion of the relative importance of the parts, and of their positions to one another, it will be miraculous if great difficulties are not encountered.

But although the examination of an intended route from a height at a distance will tell one (who knows the meaning of the things he is looking at) a good deal, and will enable him to steer clear of many difficulties against which he might otherwise blindly run, it will seldom allow one to pronounce positively upon the practicability or impracticability of the whole of the route. No living man, for example, can pronounce positively from a distance[pg 141]in regard to rocks. Those just mentioned are an illustration of this. Three of the ablest and most experienced guides concurred in thinking that they would be found very difficult, and yet they presented no difficulty whatever. In truth, the sounder and less broken up are the rocks, the more impracticable do they usually look from a distance; while soft and easily rent rocks, which are often amongst the most difficult and perilous to climb, very frequently look from afar as if they might be traversed by a child.

It is possible to decide with greater certainty in regard to the practicability of glaciers. When one is seen to have few open crevasses (and this may be told from a great distance), then we know that it ispossibleto traverse it; but to what extent it, or a glacier that is much broken up by crevasses, will be troublesome, will depend upon the width and length of the crevasses, and upon the angles of the surface of the glacier itself. A glacier may be greatly crevassed, but the fissures may be so narrow that there is no occasion to deviate from a straight line when passing across them; or a glacier may have few open crevasses, and yet may be practically impassable on account of the steepness of the angles of its surface. Nominally, a man with an axe can go anywhere upon a glacier, but in practice it is found that to move freely upon ice one must have to deal only with small angles. It is thus necessary to know approximately the angles of the surfaces of a glacier before it is possible to determine whether it will afford easy travelling, or will be so difficult as to be (for all practical purposes) impassable. This cannot be told by looking at glaciers in full face from a distance; they must be seen in profile; and it is often desirable to examine them both from the front and in profile,—to do the first to study the direction of the crevasses, to note where they are most and least numerous; and the second to see whether its angles are moderate or great. Should they be very steep, it may be better to avoid them altogether, and to mount even by difficult rocks; but upon glaciers ofgentleinclination, and with few open crevasses, better progress can always be made than upon theeasiestrocks.

So much to explain why we were deceived when looking at the Brèche de la Meije from the Aiguille de la Sausse. We took note of all the difficulties, but did not pay sufficient attention to the distance that the Brèche was south of La Grave. My meaning will be apparent from the accompanyingdiagram, Fig. 1 (constructed upon the data supplied by the French surveyors), which will also serve to illustrate how badly angles of elevation are judged by the unaided eye.

Illustration: Diagram to show angle of summit of Meije, etc.

The village of La Grave is just 5000 feet, and the highest summit of the Meije is 13,080 feet above the level of the sea. There is therefore a difference in their levels of 8080 feet. But the summit of the Meije is south of La Grave about 14,750 feet, and, consequently, a line drawn from La Grave to the summit of the Meije is no steeper than the dotted line drawn fromAtoC,Fig. 1; or, in other words, if one could go in a direct line from La Grave to the summit of the Meije the ascent would be at an angle of less than 30°. Nine persons out of ten would probably estimate the angle on the spot at double this amount.102

The Brèche is 2000 feet below the summit of the Meije, and only 6000 feet above La Grave. A direct ascent from the village to the Brèche would consequently be at an angle of not much more than 20°. But it is not possible to make the ascent as the crow flies; it has to be made by an indirect and much longer route. Our track was probably double the length of a direct line between the two places. Doubling the length halved the angles, and we[pg 143]therefore arrive at the somewhat amazing conclusion, that upon this, one of the steepest passes in the Alps, the mean of all the angles upon the ascent could not have been greater than 11° or 12°. Of course, in some places, the angles were much steeper, and in others less, but themeanof the whole could not have passed the angle above indicated.

Illustration: The Vallon des EtançonsTHE VALLON DES ETANÇONS (LOOKING TOWARDS LA BÉRARDE).103

THE VALLON DES ETANÇONS (LOOKING TOWARDS LA BÉRARDE).103

We did not trouble ourselves much with these matters when we sat on the top of the Brèche. Our day’s work was as good as over (for we knew from Messrs. Mathews and Bonney that there was no difficulty upon the other side), and we abandoned ourselves to ease and luxury; wondering, alternately, as we gazed upon the Rateau and the Ecrins, how the one mountain could[pg 144]possibly hold itself together, and whether the other would hold out against us. The former looked [so rotten that it seemed as if a puff of wind or a clap of thunder might dash the whole fabric to pieces]; while the latter asserted itself the monarch of the group, and towered head and shoulders above all the rest of the peaks which form the great horse-shoe of Dauphiné. At length a cruel rush of cold air made us shiver, and shift our quarters to a little grassy plot, 3000 feet below—an oasis in a desert—where we lay nearly four hours admiring the splendid wall of the Meije.104Then we tramped down the Vallon des Etançons, a howling wilderness, the abomination of desolation; destitute alike of animal or vegetable life; pathless, of course; suggestive of chaos, but of little else; covered almost throughout its entire length with débris from the size of a walnut up to that of a house; in a word, it looked as if half-a-dozen moraines of first-rate dimensions had been carted and shot into it. Our tempers were soured by constant pitfalls [it was impossible to take the eyes from the feet, and if an unlucky individual so much as blew his nose, without standing still to perform the operation, the result was either an instantaneous tumble, or a barked shin, or a half-twisted ankle. There was no end to it, and we became more savage at every step, unanimously agreeing that no power on earth would ever induce us to walk up or down this particular valley again.] It was not just to the valley, which was enclosed by noble mountains,—unknown, it is true, but worthy of a great reputation, and which, if placed in other districts, would be sought after, and cited as types of daring form and graceful outline.105

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