Above the Snow Line: Mountaineering Sketches Between 1870 and 1880
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The mattress proved to be so tightly packed that it was easier, on the whole, to lie awake under it than to sleep on the top of it, and less painful. About 4 A.M. one of the guides incautiously moved his head, and having thus disturbed his equilibrium fell heavily on to the floor. Thereupon he woke up and said it was time to start. We bade a cheerful adieu to our host, who was obtaining such repose as could be got by the process of leaning against the doorpost, and made our way upwards.
On the south side of the Portienhorn a long and rough rocky ridge, preserving a tolerably uniform height, extends as far as the Sonnighorn. Ultimately the ridge, still running in a southerly direction, curves slightly round to the west up to the Monte Moro, and thus forms the head of the Saas valley. There are several unimportant peaks in this ridge perhaps equally worthy, with the Portienhorn, of a place in literature; but of all the points south of the Weissmies this Portienhorn is perhaps the most considerable, and certainly the most difficult of access. At any rate, we climbed the peak, and this is how we did it.
A short cut after a knife
It was clear that the southern ridge was more feasible than the northern one, which drops to a col known as the Zwischbergen Pass, and then rises again to merge into the mass of the Weissmies. The whole of the western slope of the Portienhorn is covered by the Rothblatt Glacier, the ice of which is plastered up against its sides. We kept to the left of the termination of this glacier, and after a brief look round turned our steps away from the rock buttress forming the northern boundary of the glacier, though we were of opinion that we might by this line ascend the mountain; but we nevertheless selected the southern ridge, on the same principle that the sportsman, perfectly capable of flying across any obstacle, however high, sometimes, out of consideration no doubt for his horse, elects to follow somebody else through a gap. In good time we reached a point about halfway up the side of the mountain, and halted at the upper edge of a sloping patch of snow. It was fortunate that we had ample time to spare, for considerable delay was experienced here. Burgener had become newly possessed of a remarkable knife, which he was perpetually taking out of his pocket and admiring fondly; in fact, it provided material for conversation to the guides for the whole day. The knife was an intricate article, and strikingly useless, being weak in the joints; but nevertheless Burgener was vastly proud of the weapon, and valued it as much as an ugly man does a compliment. In the middle of breakfast the treasure suddenly slipped out of his hand, and started off down the slope. With a yell of anguish he bounded off after it, and went down the rocks in a manner and at a pace that only a guide in a state of excitement can exhibit. The incident was trivial, but it impressed on me the extraordinary powers of sure-footedness and quickness on rocks that a good guide possesses. An amateur might have climbed after these men the whole day, and have thought that he was nearly as good as they, but he could no more have gone down a couple of hundred feet as this guide did without committing suicide, than he could have performed a double-three backwards the first time he put on skates. He might, indeed, have gone backwards, but he would not have achieved his double-three. Turning northwards the moment we were on the arête, we made our way, with a good deal of scrambling, upwards. The rocks were firm and good, and, being dry, gave no great difficulty. Still they were far from easy, and now and again there were short passages sufficiently troublesome to yield the needed charm to a mountain climb, difficult enough at any rate to make us leave our axes behind and move one at a time. But how have the times altered since our expedition was made! Nowadays such a climb would be more fitly mentioned casually after dinner as “a nice little walk before church,” “a capital after-breakfast scramble,” “a stroll strongly recommended to persons of an obese habit,” and so forth. Nevertheless, there is a very distinct pleasure in climbing up a peak of this sort – greater, perhaps, than may be found on many of the more highly rated, formidable, and, if the truth be told, fashionable mountains; for the expedition was throughout interesting, and the contrast between the view to the west where the Mischabelhörner reared up their massive forms, and to the east looking towards Domo d’Ossola and the Italian lake district, was one to repay a climber who has eyes as well as limbs. The crest was in places tolerably sharp, and we were forced at times to adopt the expedient, conventionally supposed to be the only safe one in such cases, of bestriding the rock edge. It should be stated, however, that, as usual on such occasions, when we desired to progress we discarded this position, and made our way onwards in the graceful attitude observed at the seaside in those who are hunting on the sand for marine specimens. And thus we arrived ultimately at the top, where we gave way to a properly regulated amount of subdued enthusiasm, proportionate to the difficulty and height of the vanquished mountain. No trace of previous travellers could be found on the summit. It was a maiden ascent. Doubtless the mythical and ubiquitous chamois-hunter had been up before us, for at the time I write of the district was noted for chamois; but even if he had, it makes no difference. We have found it long since necessary to look upon ascents stated to have been made by chamois-hunters as counting for nothing, and in the dearth of new peaks in the Alps, have to resort to strange devices and strained ideas for novelty. Thus, a mountain in the present day can be the means of bringing glory and honour to many climbers. For instance: —
Many more might be added; probably in the future many more will, for, in modern mountaineering phrase, the Portienhorn “goes all over.” By 4 P.M. we were back again in the Saas valley.
It seems, as I write, only yesterday that all this happened. But a regular revolution has really taken place. There can be no question, I think, that fewer real mountaineers are to be found in the old “playground” than formerly. Still, there are not wanting climbers, all of them apparently of the first rank. For among the high Alps now, even as on the dramatic stage of to-day, there are no amateurs.
The amateur
A curious human fungus that has grown up suddenly of late is the emancipated schoolboy spoken of by a certain, principally feminine, clique of admirers as “such a wonderful actor, you know.” Very learned is he in the technicalities of the stage. The perspiring audience in the main drawing-room he alludes to as “those in front.” He knows what “battens” are, and “flies,” and “tormentors,” and “spider-traps.” He endeavours to imitate well-known actors, but does not imitate the laborious process by which these same artists arrive at successful results. But we all know him, and are aware also, at any rate by report, of his overweening vanity, and the manner in which he intrudes his conception of “Hamlet” or “Richelieu” on a longsuffering public. Without the slightest knowledge technically of how to walk, talk, sit down, go off, or come on, he rushes on the boards possessed solely of such qualifications for his task as may arise in a brain fermenting with conceit. Critics he regards as persons existing solely for the purpose of crushing him, and showing ill-tempered hostility born of envy. The judicious, if they accept and weakly avail themselves of orders, can but grieve and marvel that there should exist that curious state of folly which prompts a man to exhibit it before the world, or even to thrust it upon his fellow-creatures. Some men are born foolish – a pity, no doubt, but the circumstances are beyond their own control; some achieve a reputation for lack of wisdom, and even make it pay; but some thrust their folly on others, and to such no quarter need be given. The self-constituted exponent of a most difficult art is not a whit more ridiculous than the boy or man who rushes at a difficult peak before he has learnt the elements of mountaineering science. A man may become a good amateur actor if he will consent to devote his leisure to ascertaining what there is to learn, and trying to learn it; and a man may become a good mountaineer by adopting the same line of action. But this is rarely the case. Too often they forget that, as a late president of the Alpine Club remarked, “life is a great opportunity, not to be thrown away lightly.” It is said sometimes by unreflecting persons that such institutions as the Alpine Club are responsible for the misfortunes and calamities that have arisen from time to time, and may still arise. But there has been a good example set if recruits would only turn to it; for the mountaineers in the old style, speaking of a generation that climbs but little in these days, did what it is the fashion now to call their “work” thoroughly – too thoroughly and completely, perhaps, to please altogether their successors. Novelty in the mountains of Switzerland may be exhausted, but there are still too many expeditions of which, because they have been done once or twice, the danger is not adequately recognised. If these remarks, written in no captious spirit, but rather with the strongest desire to lay stress on truths that are too often ignored, should lead any aspiring but unpractised mountaineer to pause and reflect before he tries something beyond his strength and capabilities, some little good will at least have been done. It is not that the rules are unknown; they are simple, short, ready to hand, and intelligible; but the penalty that may be exacted for breaking any of them is a terribly heavy one —absit omen.
CHAPTER VIII.
A SENTIMENTAL ALPINE JOURNEY
Long “waits” and entr’actes – The Mont Buet as an unknown mountain – We hire carriages – A digression on a stationary vehicle – A straggling start – The incomplete moralist – The niece to the moralist – A discourse on gourmets – An artistic interlude – We become thoughtful, and reach the height of sentiment and the top of the Mont Buet – Some other members of the party – The mountaineers perform – How glissading ambition did o’erleap itself – A vision on the summit – The moralist leaves us for a while – Entertainment at the Bérard Chalet – View of the Aiguille Verte – The end of the journey.
A fair critic – in the matter of sex – discussing a recently published work with the author, remarked that it was the most charming book she had ever read. “I was told it would not interest me,” she remarked most seriously to him, “but really I found it delightful: there are such lovely wide margins to the pages, you know.” On much the same principle a highly intelligent lady, noted for her theatrical discrimination, once remarked that she liked those theatres best which afforded the longest entr’actes. So in the Alps we felt from time to time the necessity, between the more stirring episodes resulting from higher mountaineering, to interpose minor expeditions, on which no less care and thought was often lavished to make them worthy of pursuit. These were our entr’actes. Of such expeditions it is customary to say that they are the most enjoyable of any undertaken. Without going so far as this, it may be conceded that they have a pleasure of their own, and it is at least no more difficult to discover a novel form of sub-Alpine expedition than to vary the details of a big climb. One of these episodes, undertaken while we were barred from the higher mountains by a fall of snow, consisted in a night attack on the Mont Buet.
Mont Buet
Now the Mont Buet, although it lies close to the regular highway to Chamouni from the Rhone valley, is a peak but rarely even seen of the ordinary tourist; and, considering the numbers of our countrymen that flock to the village whence they imagine that they see the summit of Mont Blanc, the English folk who make the ascent are strangely few. Yet the walk is not a laborious one; not more fatiguing, for example, than the tramp from Martigny to Chamouni over the Col de Balme on a hot day. Fashion in the mountains is very conservative, and probably it is too late in the day now to hope that this mountain will ever gain all the reputation it deserves, for, though comparatively unknown, its praises have been by no means left unsung. Possibly the lowness of the guides’ tariff for the peak may have something to do with the matter, and may serve to explain why it is so much left out in the cold; for this is a very potent agent in determining the attractiveness of special localities. How many go to Chamouni, and never wander along one of the most beautiful sylvan paths in the Alps, that leads to the Glacier des Bossons through the woods, where the view, as the spectator suddenly finds himself confronted with the huge stream of pure glacier, topped by a most magnificent ice-fall, and backed by the crags of the Aiguille du Midi, compares by no means unfavourably with the more frequently photographed panorama from the Montanvert. Ask a dozen persons at haphazard who are staying at Chamouni where the Mont Buet is, and ten out of the number will be unable to answer you. But the pictures hung on the line are not invariably the best in an exhibition; and the Mont Buet is a masterpiece, so to speak, “skied.”
We hire carriages
Our party that summer at Chamouni was a large one, for we had stayed a long time in the hotel, and knew, as the phrase goes, a great many to speak to – quite a different thing to answering for them. We conceived the plan of so timing our modest expedition as to arrive on the summit of the Mont Buet about sunset. It was agreed by some members of the party that it would be “such fun, you know,” to come down in the dark. The inference to be gathered from this is that the party was not exclusively composed of the male sex. Two of us, reputed to be good at a bargain, were deputed to charter carriages to convey the members of the expedition up to Argentière, where the ascent commenced. The carriages of Chamouni, though no doubt practical and well suited to the mountain roads, were not found to be of uniform excellence. Availing ourselves of a proper introduction, we made the temporary acquaintance of an individual interested officially in vehicular traffic, who possessed that remarkable insight into character noticeable in all who are concerned with horses, and knew exactly what we wanted without any preliminary explanation on our part. “Voilà votre affaire,” he said, and indicated a machine that would have been out of date when the first char-à-banc was constructed. We inquired if the somewhat unsavoury load (it had, apparently, been in recent requisition for farming purposes) which the cart contained might be removed, and he said there was no objection to this. “See,” said the proprietor, “the seats have backs.” “But they tip up,” we remonstrated. “That is nothing,” rejoined the proprietor; “they can be tied down: the carriage is good, and has gone many miles. However, Monsieur is evidently particular; he shall be satisfied. Behold!” and the proprietor threw open the creaking door of a shed, and revealed to our gaze a pretentious landau with faded linings and wheels which did not seem to be circular. This “machine,” he assured us, it would be hard to equal for locomotive purposes. Two strange beasts were connected to it, chiefly, as it seemed, by bits of string. One of the animals was supported on two very puffy hind legs and two very tremulous fore-legs, and seemed perpetually on the point of going down on its knees to supplicate that it might be allowed to go no further. Its companion was a horse of the most gloomy nature, that no amount of chastisement could stir from a despondent and pensive frame of mind. Both these treasures had a capacity for detecting an upward incline that was marvellously acute. Then there was a structure like a magnified perambulator, of which one wheel was afflicted with a chronic propensity for squeaking, while the other described a curious serpentine track as it rolled along. Not being, however, in any particular hurry, we decided to avail ourselves of such assistance as these vehicles might afford, and did, as a matter of fact, ultimately reach our destination, if not in, at least with them.
The incomplete moralist
From Argentière we followed the familiar track of the Tête Noire for some little distance, and then bore away to the left up the valley leading towards the Bérard Chalet. The party, which had kept well together for the first few minutes after parting with the carriages, were soon straggling off in every direction, and the chief organiser of the expedition, desperately anxious lest some should go astray and be no more found, ran to and fro from one little group to another, and got into a highly excitable frame of mind, like a busily minded little dog when first taken out for a walk. Chief among the more erratic members was an elderly person who had, unwisely, been asked to join the party for no very definite reason, but because some one had said that it would be obviously incomplete without him. The old gentleman had no previous experience of mountain walks, but had very complete theories on the subject. He had made great preparations for his day’s climb, had carefully dieted himself the day previously, and was not a little proud of his equipment and attire. He was furnished with a spiked umbrella, a green tin box, and a particularly thin pair of boots; for he wished to prove the accuracy of a theory that man, being descended from the apes, might properly use his feet as prehensile members, and he held that this additional aid would prove valuable on rocks. It was currently reported, notwithstanding his loquacity, that he was a very wise person, and indeed he dropped hints himself, which he was much annoyed if we did not take, on the subject of a projected literary work. We were given to understand that the publishers were all hankering after the same, and he had a manner in conversation of tentatively quoting passages and watching eagerly for the effects. He was known to us as the incomplete moralist, and proved to be a very didactic person.
The niece to the moralist
But this was not all; there was one other member of the party, who may be described, as in the old-fashioned list of the “Dramatis Personæ,” as “niece to the moralist.” Somehow or another, she seemed to lead everything; instinctively all gave way to her wishes, and even the chief organiser looked to her for confirmation of his opinions before enunciating them with decision. Bright, impulsive, wilful, she led the moralist, subjectively speaking, whither she would, and he had no chance at all. “She ought not to have come at all on such an expedition,” he said, looking at the light, fragile form ahead; “but you know you can’t persuade a butterfly to take systematic exercise, and everything seems to give her so much pleasure;” and here the moralist looked rather wistful, and somehow the artificiality seemed to fade away from him for the moment. “Such of us,” he resumed, “as stay long enough in this world cease to have much hopefulness; and when that quality shows up too strong in the young, such as that child yonder, somehow I don’t think they often – ” Here he paused abruptly, and, selecting a meat lozenge from a store in his tin box, put it into his mouth and apparently swallowed it at once; at any rate, he gulped down something. It must be allowed that the moralist had done his best to prevent his charge from accompanying the party. She had been reminded of what learned doctors had said, that she was not to exert herself; that certain persons, vaguely alluded to, would be very angry, and so forth. The moralist had been talked down in two minutes. He might as well have pointed out to the little budding leaflets the unwisdom of mistaking warm days in March for commencing summer; and, finally, he had surrendered at discretion, fencing himself in with some stipulations as to warm cloaks, “this once only,” and the like, which he knew would not be attended to. So she came, and her eager brightness shed a radiance over the most commonplace objects, and infected the most prosaic of the party, even a young lady of varied accomplishments, who distinguished herself later on. After all, if the flame burned a little more brightly at the expense of a limited stock of fuel, was there anything to regret? Tone down such brightness as hers was, and you have but an uncut diamond, or a plant that may possibly last a little longer because its blossom, its fruit, and with them its beauties, have been cut off to preserve the dull stem to the utmost. Check the natural characteristics and outflow of such natures, and you force them to the contemplation of what is painful and gloomy. You bring them back fully to this world, and it is their greatest privilege to be but half in it, and to have eyes blind to the seamy side. The Alpine rose-glow owes its fascination to the fact that we know it will soon fade. So is it with these natures. They are to be envied. We may hold it truth with him who sings, “Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.” But the parallel is not strictly true: the brightness will not fade, but will be there to the end, and the streak of sadness running through it all gives the fascination. So the wit that approaches nearest to pathos touches us most deeply, and is one of the rarest of intellectual talents. With what a thrill of mixed, but yet pleasurable, sensation do we recall the timely jest of a lost friend. But all this has nothing to do with a holiday expedition in the Alps. Still, it must be remembered, we were on a sentimental journey in the mountains.
Before long the chief organiser, seizing an opportunity when most of the stragglers were within earshot, announced at the top of his voice that luncheon would be served on certain flat rocks. This had the immediate effect of uniting our scattered forces. The first to arrive (the moralist was slow of foot) were some gallant members of the high mountaineering fraternity, who throughout the day evinced astounding activity, and an unwonted desire to carry burdens on their backs. Secretly they were burning with an ambition to display their prowess on some “mauvais pas,” or glissade, an ambition rewarded later on in a somewhat remarkable manner. The rock was spread, the moralist selected a comfortable place, and, stimulated by the appearance of the viands, favoured us with certain extracts.
A discourse on gourmets
“There are many,” he observed, holding a large piece of pie to his mouth and eyeing it to select an appropriate place for the next bite, “who hold that the sense of taste is not one to which we should much minister. I do not hold with such;” and here he found the right spot, and for a minute or two the thread of his discourse was broken off. “The painter blends colours to please the sense of sight; the musician studies harmonies of sound to please the ear; each appeals to but one of our imperfect senses, and yet we think much of them for so doing; we compliment them, and give them the appellation of artists. Now the worthy person who dexterously compounded this article, of which, alas! I hold now but little in my hand, appeals not to a single but to a twofold sense; he ministers alike to taste and to smell, and I must own, after a toilsome walk, with commendable results. He is an artist in the highest sense of the word; his merits, to my thinking, are but inadequately recognised in this world. I am convinced that they will be more so in another. The gourmet’s paradise shall provide for him a cherubic state of existence; then shall he have all the pleasure that the palate can afford without any ill-omened presage of subsequent discomfort; for, thrice happy that he will be, digestion will be an anatomical impossibility.” It may be remarked parenthetically that the possession of a gigantic brain had not obviated, in the case of the moralist, the deleterious effects of sour wine. But the moralist was not, as yet, much of a cherub.
As the speaker showed unmistakable signs of continuing his discourse, which had been chiefly directed at a youth of whom we only knew that he was some one’s brother, if the opportunity were afforded, a sudden and general move was made, and the proposal that a short adjournment should take place previous to resuming our upward journey found instant favour. The chief organiser was by common consent left to pack up. Straightway the ladies all produced little sketch-books, and fell very vigorously to recording their impressions of the scenery around; whilst the moralist, already somewhat stiff, wandered from one group to the other and favoured them with his suggestions. The result of half an hour’s work with pencil and brush was to produce diagrams of certain objects which looked uncommonly like telegraph poles with cross bars attached, but which were coloured of a vivid green, and were thus obviously intended for fir trees. The moralist, not finding that his remarks were met with much favour by the artists, selected an ascetic who sat apart from the others, and delivered his next discourse into his inattentive but uncomplaining ear.