Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the years 1860-69 Part 8

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.(14)

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 everything that could be seen from our gite. Monte Viso, a hundred miles off, was clear, and the sun set gorgeously behind the range of Mont Blanc. We pa.s.sed 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.

We turned out at 3.30 A.M.on the 11th, and were dismayed to find that it still continued to snow. At 9 A.M. the snow 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 upward 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 three hundred feet in the past two hours, and had not even arrived at the rope which Tyndall's party left behind attached to the rocks, 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 circ.u.mstances; 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, provisions, ladder and four hundred and fifty 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.(15) I could not risk any such detention, being under obligations to appear in London at the end of the week. We got to Breuil in the course of the afternoon: it was quite fine there, and the tenants of the inn received our statements with evident skepticism. They were astonished to learn that we had been exposed to a snow-storm of twenty-six hours' duration. "Why,"

said Favre, the innkeeper, "_we_ have 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.

[MONSIEUR 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 mountain _is_ isolated, it is not so much more isolated than the neighboring peaks that it should gather clouds when none of the others do so. It will not at all account for the cloud to which I refer, which is not formed by an aggregation of smaller, stray clouds drawn together from a distance (as sc.u.m 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 princ.i.p.ally to the fact that the mountain is a _rock_ mountain-that it receives a great amount of heat, and 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 eminently _snow_ mountains.

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 seventy degrees in the shade at the top of an Alpine peak more than thirteen thousand feet high, and but a very few degrees higher six or seven thousand feet lower. At other times there will be a difference of forty or fifty degrees (Fahrenheit) between two stations, the higher not more than six or seven thousand 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 superinc.u.mbent (or circ.u.mjacent) air will naturally be attracted toward the mountain, where they will speedily condense the moisture of the warm air in contact with it. I cannot explain the down-rushes of cold air which occur on it when all the rest of the neighborhood 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 colorless fluids produce a white, turbid liquid when mixed together. The order has been, wind of a low temperature, mist, rain, snow or hail.

This opinion is borne out to some extent by the behavior of the neighboring 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 alt.i.tude, and which are in corresponding situations to the former pair--usually remain perfectly clear.

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.

[CROSSING THE CHANNEL.]

CROSSING THE CHANNEL.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

PART V.

[A NIGHT WITH CROZ.]

A NIGHT WITH CROZ.

CHAPTER VIII. FROM ST. MICHEL TO LA BeRARDE ON THE MONT CENIS ROAD, BY THE COL DES AIGUILLES, D'ARVE, COL DE MARTIGNARE AND THE BReCHE DE LA MEIJE.

When we arrived upon the highest summit of Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphine, 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 impa.s.sable 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 mountain in France.

The year 1862 pa.s.sed 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 mean time, others had turned their attention to Dauphine. 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 Perm 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. Bonney (to whom he communicated the result of his labors) attempted to execute the ascent, with the brothers Michel and J. B. Croz, by following his indications, but they too were defeated.

[MICHEL-AUGUST CROZ (1865).]

MICHEL-AUGUST CROZ (1865).

The guide Michel Croz had thus been engaged in both of these expeditions in Dauphine, and I naturally looked to him for a.s.sistance. 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 upward of ten thousand 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 and to draw upon his unsurpa.s.sed knowledge of ice and snow, that he could be said to be really and truly happy.

Of all the guides with whom I traveled, 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 say _what_ was to be done and _how_ it was to be done, and the work _was_ done 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 came again and again. The inscription placed upon his tomb truthfully records that he was "beloved by his comrades and esteemed by travelers."

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. 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, both were endued with strength and activity far beyond the average, and the courage and the knowledge of each were 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. 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 mid-day 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 pa.s.s is about thirty-five hundred 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. They 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's _Itineraire du Dauphine._ 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 pa.s.s 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 condition 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 3.55 A.M. on the 21st we set out up the Vallon, pa.s.sed for a time over pasture-land, and then over a stony waste, deeply channeled by water-courses. At 5.30 the two princ.i.p.al 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 neighborhood as elsewhere, it was necessary to hold a council.

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. Joanne 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." But 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. _Our_ peak, then, was to be one of the other two, but which of them? We were inclined to favor the central one, but it was hard to determine, they looked so equal in height. When, however, the council came to study the third 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 8.45 A 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 to _try_ it.

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 pa.s.s, for pa.s.s we were determined it should be.

[THE AIGUILLES D'ARVE FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU BLANC.]

THE AIGUILLES D'ARVE FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU BLANC.

We might have done worse. We were ten thousand three hundred or ten thousand four hundred 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 Dauphine ma.s.sif, whose closer acquaintance it was our intention to make. Three sunny hours pa.s.sed 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 glissade;" the guides, "No, it is too steep." Our friend, however, started off at a standing glissade, and advanced for a time very skillfully; but after a while he lost his balance, and progressed downward and backward with great rapidity, in a way that seemed to us very much like tumbling heels over head. He let go his axe and left it behind, but it overtook him and batted him heartily. He and it traveled in this fashion for some hundreds of feet, and at last subsided into the rocks at the bottom. In a few moments we were rea.s.sured as to his safety by hearing him ironically request us not to keep him waiting down there.

We others followed the tracks shown by the dotted line upon the engraving (making zigzags to avoid the little groups of rocks which jutted through the snow, by which Walker had been upset), descended by a _sitting_ glissade, 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 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.