THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.
“Thus fortune on our first endeavour smiles.”
VIRGIL.
The district of which Mont Pelvoux and the neighbouring summits are the
culminating points,(12) is, both historically and topographically, one of
the most interesting in the Alps. As the nursery and the home of the
Vaudois, it has claims to permanent attention. The names of Waldo and of
Neff will be remembered when men more famous in their time will be
forgotten; and the memory of the heroic courage and the simple piety of
their disciples will endure as long as history lasts.
This district contains the highest summits in France, and some of its
finest scenery. It has not perhaps the beauties of Switzerland, but has
charms of its own; its cliffs, its torrents, and its gorges are
unsurpassed; its deep and savage valleys present pictures of grandeur, and
even sublimity, and it is second to none in the boldness of its mountain
forms.
The district includes a mass of valleys which vie with each other in
singularity of character and dissimilarity of climate. Some the rays of
the sun can never reach, they are so deep and narrow.(13) In others the
very antipodes may be found; the temperature more like that of the plains
of Italy than of Alpine France. This great range of climate has a marked
effect on the flora of these valleys. Sterility reigns in some; stones
take the place of trees; débris and mud replace plants and flowers: in
others, in the space of a few miles, one passes vines, apple, pear, and
cherry trees, the birch, alder, walnut, ash, larch, and pine, alternating
with fields of rye, barley, oats, beans, and potatoes.
The valleys are for the most part short and erratic. They are not,
apparently, arranged on any definite plan. They are not disposed, as is
frequently the case elsewhere, either at right angles to, or parallel
with, the highest summits; but they wander hither and thither, take one
direction for a few miles, then double back, and then perhaps resume their
original course. Thus, long perspectives are rarely to be seen, and it is
difficult to form a general idea of the disposition of the peaks.
The highest summits are arranged almost in a horse-shoe form. The highest
of all, which occupies a central position, is the Pointe des Ecrins; the
second in height, the Meije,(14) is on the north; and the Mont Pelvoux,
which gives its name to the entire block, stands almost detached by itself
on the outside.
The district is still very imperfectly known; there are probably many
valleys, and there are certainly many summits which have never been
trodden by the feet of tourists or travellers; but in 1861 it was even
less known. Until quite recently there was, practically, no map of it;(15)
General Bourcet’s, which was the best that was published, was completely
wrong in its delineation of the mountains, and was frequently incorrect in
regard to paths or roads.
The mountainous regions of Dauphiné, moreover, are not supplied, like
Switzerland, Tyrol, or even the Italian valleys, with accommodation for
travellers. The inns, when they exist, are often filthy beyond
description; rest is seldom obtained in their beds, or decent food found
in their kitchens, and there are no local guides worth having. The tourist
is thrown very much on his own resources, and it is not therefore
surprising that these districts are less visited and less known than the
rest of the Alps.
Most of the statements current in 1861 respecting these mountains had been
derived from two authors(16)—M. Elie de Beaumont and the late Principal J.
D. Forbes. Their works, however, contained numerous errors in regard to
the identification of the peaks, and, amongst others, they referred the
supremacy to the Mont Pelvoux, the highest point of which they termed the
Pointe des Arcines, or des Ecrins. Principal Forbes erroneously identified
the high peak seen from the valley of St. Christophe, with that seen from
the valley of the Durance, and spoke of both as the Mont Pelvoux, and M.
de Beaumont committed similar mistakes. In point of fact, at the time when
M. de Beaumont and Forbes wrote their respective memoirs, the proper
relation of the Mont Pelvoux to the neighbouring summits had been
determined by the engineers employed on the survey for the map of France,
but their observations were not then accessible to the public, although
they had evidently been seen by M. de Beaumont. This party of surveyors,
led by Captain Durand, made the ascent of Mont Pelvoux from the side of
the Val d’Ailefroide—that is, from the direction of Val Louise—in 1828.
According to the natives of the Val Louise, they got to the top of the
second peak in height, and remained upon it, lodged in a tent for several
days, at a height of 12,904 feet. They took numerous porters to carry wood
for fires, and erected a large cairn on the summit, which has caused the
name of Pic de la Pyramide to be given to their summit.
In 1848, M. Puiseux made the ascent from the same direction, but his Val
Louisan guide stopped short of the summit, and allowed this courageous
astronomer to proceed by himself.(17)
In the middle of August 1860, Messrs. Bonney, Hawkshaw, and Mathews, with
Michel Croz of Chamounix, tried to ascend the Pelvoux, likewise from the
same direction. These gentlemen spent several days and nights upon the
mountain; and, encountering bad weather, only attained a height of 10,430
feet.
M. Jean Reynaud, of whom mention has been made in the preceding chapter,
accompanied the party of Mr. Mathews, and he was of opinion that the
attempt had been made too late in the season. He said that the weather was
usually good enough for high mountain ascents _only_ during the last few
days of July, and the first ones of August,(18) and suggested that we
should attempt to ascend the mountain in the following year at that time.
The proposition was a tempting one, and Reynaud’s cordial and modest
manner made it irresistible, although there seemed small chance that we
should succeed where a party such as that of Mr. Mathews had been beaten.
At the beginning of July 1861, I despatched to Reynaud from Havre,
blankets (which were taxed as “prohibited fabrics”), rope, and other
things desirable for the excursion, and set out on the tour of France;
but, four weeks later, at Nîmes, found myself completely collapsed by the
heat, then 94° Faht. in the shade, and took a night train at once to
Grenoble.
Grenoble is a town upon which a volume might be written. Its situation is
probably the finest of any in France, and the views from its high forts
are superb. I lost my way in the streets of this picturesque and noisome
town, and having but a half-hour left in which to get a dinner and take a
place in the diligence, was not well pleased to hear that an Englishman
wished to see me. It turned out to be my friend Macdonald, who confided to
me that he was going to try to ascend a mountain called Pelvoux in the
course of ten days. On hearing of my intentions, he agreed to join us at
La Bessée on the 3rd of August. In a few moments more I was perched in the
banquette _en route_ for Bourg d’Oysans, in a miserable vehicle which took
nearly eight hours to accomplish less than 30 miles.
At five on a lovely morning I shouldered my knapsack and started for
Briançon. Gauzy mists clung to the mountains, but melted away when touched
by the sun, and disappeared by jerks (in the manner of views when focussed
in a magic lantern), revealing the wonderfully bent and folded strata in
the limestone cliffs behind the town. Then I entered the Combe de Malval,
and heard the Romanche eating its way through that wonderful gorge, and
passed on to Le Dauphin, where the first glacier came into view, tailing
over the mountain-side on the right. From this place until the summit of
the Col de Lautaret was passed, every gap in the mountains showed a
glittering glacier or a soaring peak; the finest view was at La Grave,
where the Meije rises by a series of tremendous precipices 8000 feet above
the road.(19) The finest distant view of the pass is seen after crossing
the Col, near Monêtier. A mountain, commonly supposed to be Monte Viso,
appears at the end of the vista, shooting into the sky;(20) in the middle
distance, but still ten miles off, is Briançon with its interminable
forts, and in the foreground, leading down to the Guisane, and rising high
up the neighbouring slopes, are fertile fields, studded with villages and
church spires. The next day I walked over from Briançon to La Bessée, to
my worthy friend Jean Reynaud, the surveyor of roads of his district.
All the peaks of Mont Pelvoux are well seen from La Bessée—the highest
point, as well as that upon which the engineers erected their cairn.
Neither Reynaud nor any one else knew this. The natives knew only that the
engineers had ascended one peak, and had seen from that one a still higher
point, which they called the Pointe des Arcines or des Ecrins. They could
not say whether this latter could be seen from La Bessée, nor could they
tell the peak upon which the cairn had been erected. We were under the
impression that the highest point was concealed by the peaks which we saw,
and would be gained by passing over them. They knew nothing of the ascent
of Monsieur Puiseux, and they confidently asserted that the highest point
of Mont Pelvoux had not been attained by any one. It was this point we
wished to reach.
[Illustration: MONT PELVOUX FROM ABOVE LA BESSÉE.]
Nothing prevented our starting at once but the absence of Macdonald and
the want of a bâton. Reynaud suggested a visit to the postmaster, who
possessed a bâton of local celebrity. Down we went to the bureau; but it
was closed: we halloed through the slits, but no answer. At last the
postmaster was discovered endeavouring (with very fair success) to make
himself intoxicated. He was just able to ejaculate, “France! ’tis the
first nation in the world!” which is a phrase used by a Frenchman at times
when a Briton would begin to shout, “We won’t go home till
morning”—national glory being uppermost in the thoughts of one, and home
in those of the other. The bâton was produced; it was a branch of a young
oak, about five feet long, gnarled and twisted in several directions.
“Sir,” said the postmaster, as he presented it, “France! ’tis the
first—the first nation in the world, by its”—he stuck. “Bâtons?” I
suggested. “Yes, yes, sir; by its bâtons, by its—its,” and here he could
not get on at all. As I looked at this young limb, I thought of my own;
but Reynaud, who knew everything about everybody in the village, said
there was not a better one, so off we went with it, leaving the official
staggering in the road and muttering, “France! ’tis the first nation in
the world!”
The 3rd of August came, and Macdonald did not appear, so we started for
the Val Louise; our party consisting of Reynaud, myself, and a porter,
Jean Casimir Giraud, nicknamed “little nails,” the shoemaker of the place.
An hour and a half’s smart walking took us to La Ville de Val Louise, our
hearts gladdened by the glorious peaks of Pelvoux shining out without a
cloud around them. I renewed acquaintance with the mayor of “La Ville.”
His aspect was original, and his manners were gracious, but the odour
which proceeded from him was dreadful.
Reynaud kindly undertook to look after the commissariat, and I found to my
annoyance, when we were about to leave, that I had given tacit consent to
a small wine-cask being carried with us, which was a great nuisance from
the commencement. It was excessively awkward to handle; one man tried to
carry it, and then another, and at last it was slung from one of our
bâtons, and was carried by two of us, which gave our party the appearance
of a mechanical diagram to illustrate the uses of levers.
At “La Ville” the Val Louise splits into two branches—the Val d’Entraigues
on the left and the Vallon d’Alefred (or Ailefroide) on the right; our
route was up the latter, and we moved steadily forwards to the village of
La Pisse, where Pierre Sémiond lived, who was reputed to know more about
the Pelvoux than any other man. He looked an honest fellow, but
unfortunately he was ill and could not come. He recommended his brother,
an aged creature, whose furrowed and wrinkled face hardly seemed to
announce the man we wanted; but having no choice, we engaged him and again
set forth. Walnut and a great variety of other trees gave shadow to our
path and fresh vigour to our limbs; while below, in a sublime gorge,
thundered the torrent, whose waters took their rise from the snows we
hoped to tread on the morrow.
[Illustration: THE GRAND PELVOUX DE VAL LOUISE.]
The Pelvoux could not be seen at La Ville, owing to a high intervening
ridge; we were now moving along the foot of this to get to the châlets of
Alefred, or, as they are sometimes called, Aléfroide, where the mountain
actually commences. From these châlets the subordinate, but more
proximate, peaks appear considerably higher than the loftier ones behind,
and sometimes completely conceal them. But the whole height of the peak,
which in these valleys goes under the name of the “Grand Pelvoux,” is seen
at one glance from its summit to its base, six or seven thousand feet of
nearly perpendicular cliffs.
The châlets of Alefred are a cluster of miserable wooden huts at the foot
of the Grand Pelvoux, and are close to the junction of the streams which
descend from the glacier de Sapenière (or du Selé) on the left, and the
glaciers Blanc and Noir on the right. We rested a minute to purchase some
butter and milk, and Sémiond picked up a disreputable-looking lad to
assist in carrying, pushing, and otherwise moving the wine-cask.
Our route now turned sharply to the left, and all were glad that the day
was drawing to a close, so that we had the shadows from the mountains. A
more frightful and desolate valley it is scarcely possible to imagine; it
contains miles of boulders, débris, stones, sand, and mud; few trees, and
they placed so high as to be almost out of sight; not a soul inhabits it;
no birds are in the air, no fish in its waters; the mountain is too steep
for the chamois, its slopes too inhospitable for the marmot, the whole too
repulsive for the eagle. Not a living thing did we see in this sterile and
savage valley during four days, except some few poor goats which had been
driven there against their will.
It was a scene in keeping with the diabolical deed perpetrated here about
four hundred years ago—the murder of the Vaudois of Val Louise, in the
cavern which was now in sight, though high above us. Their story is very
sad. Peaceful and industrious, for more than three centuries they had
inhabited these retired valleys in tranquil obscurity. The Archbishops of
Embrun endeavoured, though with little success, to get them within the
pale of their church. Their efforts were aided by others, who commenced by
imprisonments and torture,(21) and at last adopted the method of burning
them by hundreds at the stake.(22)
In the year 1488, Albert Cattanée, Archdeacon of Cremona and legate of
Pope Innocent VIII., would have anticipated the barbarities which at a
later date roused the indignation of Milton and the fears of Cromwell;(23)
but, driven everywhere back by the Waldenses of Piedmont, he left their
valleys and crossed the Mont Genèvre to attack the weaker and more thinly
populated valleys of the Vaudois in Dauphiné. At the head of an army which
is said to have been composed of vagabonds, robbers, and assassins (who
had been tempted to his banner by promises of absolution beforehand, of
being set free from the obligation of vows which they might have made, and
by the confirmation of property to them which they might have wrongfully
acquired), as well as regular troops, Cattanée poured down the valley of
the Durance. The inhabitants of the Val Louise fled before a host that was
ten times their number, and took up their abode in this cavern, where they
had collected provisions sufficient for two years. But intolerance is ever
painstaking; their retreat was discovered. Cattanée had a captain who
combined the resources of a Herod to the cruelty of a Pelissier, and,
lowering his men by ropes, fired piles of brushwood at the entrance to the
cavern, suffocated the majority, and slew the remainder. The Vaudois were
relentlessly exterminated, without distinction of age or sex. More than
three thousand persons, it is said, perished in this frightful massacre;
the growth of three hundred and fifty years was destroyed at one blow, and
the valley was completely depopulated. Louis XII. caused it to be
re-peopled, and, after another three centuries and a half, behold the
result—a race of monkeys.(24)
We rested a little at a small spring, and then hastened onwards till we
nearly arrived at the foot of the Sapenière glacier, when Sémiond said we
must turn to the right, up the slopes. This we did, and clambered for
half-an-hour through scattered firs and fallen boulders. Then evening
began to close in rapidly, and it was time to look for a resting-place.
There was no difficulty in getting one, for all around there was a chaotic
assemblage of rocks. We selected the under side of a boulder which was
more than fifty feet long by twenty high, cleared out the rubbish, and
then collected wood for a fire.
I have a pleasant recollection of that camp-fire. The wine-cask had got
through all its troubles; it was tapped, and the Frenchmen seemed to
derive some consolation from its execrable contents. Reynaud chanted
scraps of French songs, and each contributed his share of joke, story, or
verse. The weather was perfect, and our prospects for the morrow were
good. My companions’ joy culminated when a packet of red fir was thrown
into the flames. It hissed and bubbled for a moment or two, and then broke
out into a grand flare. The effect of the momentary light was magnificent;
the mountains all around were illuminated for a second, and then relapsed
into their solemn gloom. One by one our party dropped off to sleep, and at
last I got into my blanket-bag. It was hardly necessary, for although we
were at a height of at least 7000 feet, the minimum temperature was above
40° Fahrenheit.
We roused at three, and made a start at half-past four. Giraud had been
engaged as far as this rock only, but as he wished to go on, we allowed
him to accompany us. We mounted the slopes and quickly got above the
trees, then had a couple of hours’ clambering over bits of precipitous
rock and banks of débris, and, at a quarter to seven, got to a narrow
glacier—Clos de l’Homme—which streamed out of the plateau on the summit,
and nearly reached the glacier de Sapenière. We worked as much as possible
to the right, in hopes that we should not have to cross it, but were
continually driven back, and at last we found that over we must go. Old
Sémiond had a strong objection to the ice, and made explorations on his
own account to endeavour to avoid it; but Reynaud and I preferred to cross
it, and Giraud stuck to us. It was narrow—in fact, one could throw a stone
across—and it was easily mounted on the side; but in the centre swelled
into a steep dome, up which we were obliged to cut. Giraud stepped forward
and said he should like to try his hand, and having got hold of the axe,
would not give it up; and here, as well as afterwards when it was
necessary to cross the gullies filled with hard snow, which abound on the
higher part of the mountain, he did all the work, and did it admirably.
Old Sémiond of course came after us when we got across. We then zigzagged
up some snow-slopes, and shortly afterwards commenced to ascend the
interminable array of buttresses which are the great peculiarity of the
Pelvoux.(25) They were very steep in many places, yet on the whole
afforded good hold, and no climbing should be called difficult which does
that. Gullies abounded among them, sometimes of great length and depth.
_They_ were frequently rotten, and would have been difficult for a single
man to pass. The uppermost men were continually abused for dislodging
rocks and for harpooning those below with their bâtons. However, without
these incidents the climbing would have been dull—they helped to break the
monotony.
We went up chimneys and gullies by the hour together, and always seemed to
be coming to something, although we never got to it. The outline sketch
will help to explain the situation. We stood at the foot of a great
buttress—perhaps about 200 feet high—and looked up. It did not go to a
point as in the diagram, because we could not see the top; although we
felt convinced that behind the fringe of pinnacles we did see there was a
top, and that _it_ was the edge of the plateau we so much desired to
attain. Up we mounted, and reached the pinnacles; but, lo! another set was
seen,—and another,—and yet more—till at last we reached the top, and found
it was only a buttress, and that we must descend 40 or 50 feet before we
could commence to mount again. When this operation had been performed a
few dozen times, it began to be wearisome, especially as we were in the
dark as to our whereabouts. Sémiond, however, encouraged us, and said he
knew we were on the right route,—so away we went once more.
[Illustration: BUTTRESSES OF MONT PELVOUX.]
It was now nearly mid-day, and we seemed no nearer the summit of the
Pelvoux than when we started. At last we all joined together and held a
council. “Sémiond, old friend, do you know where we are now?” “Oh yes,
perfectly, to a yard and a half.” “Well, then, how much are we below this
plateau?” He affirmed we were not half-an-hour from the edge of the snow.
“Very good; let us proceed.” Half-an-hour passed, and then another, but we
were still in the same state,—pinnacles, buttresses, and gullies were in
profusion, but the plateau was not in sight. So we called him again—for he
had been staring about latterly, as if in doubt—and repeated the question.
“How far below are we now?” Well, he thought it might be half-an-hour
more. “But you said that just now; are you sure we are going right?” Yes,
he believed we were. Believed! that would not do. “Are you sure we are
going right for the Pic des Arcines?” “Pic des Arcines!” he ejaculated in
astonishment, as if he had heard the words for the first time. “Pic des
Arcines; no! but for the pyramid, the celebrated pyramid he had helped the
great Capitaine Durand,” &c.
Here was a fix;—we had been talking about it to him for a whole day, and
now he confessed he knew nothing about it. I turned to Reynaud, who seemed
thunderstruck. “What did he suggest?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well,”
we said, after explaining our minds pretty freely to Sémiond, “the sooner
we turn back the better, for we have no wish to see your pyramid.”
We halted for an hour, and then commenced the descent. It took us nearly
seven hours to come down to our rock; but I paid no heed to the distance,
and do not remember anything about it. When we got down we made a
discovery which affected us as much as the footprint in the sand did
Robinson Crusoe: a blue silk veil lay by our fireside. There was but one
explanation,—Macdonald had arrived; but where was he? We soon packed our
baggage, and tramped in the dusk, through the stony desert, to Alefred,
where we arrived about half-past nine. “Where is the Englishman?” was the
first question. He was gone to sleep at La Ville.
We passed that night in a hay-loft, and in the morning, after settling
with Sémiond, posted down to catch Macdonald. We had already determined on
the plan of operation, which was to get him to join us, return, and be
independent of all guides, simply taking the best man we could get as a
porter. I set my heart on Giraud,—a good fellow, with no pretence,
although in every respect up to the work. We were disappointed; he was
obliged to go to Briançon.
The walk soon became exciting. The natives inquired the result of our
expedition, and common civility obliged us to stop. But I was afraid of
losing my man, for it was said he would wait only till ten o’clock, and
that time was near at hand. At last I dashed over the bridge,—time from
Alefred an hour and a quarter. A cantonnier stopped me, saying that the
Englishman had just started for La Bessée. I rushed after him, turned
angle after angle of the road, but could not see him; at last, as I came
round a corner, he was also just turning another, going very fast. I
shouted, and luckily he heard me. We returned, reprovisioned ourselves at
La Ville, and the same evening saw us passing our first rock, _en route_
for another. I have said we determined to take no guide; but, on passing
La Pisse, old Sémiond turned out and offered his services. He went well,
in spite of his years and disregard of truth. “Why not take him?” said my
friend. So we offered him a fifth of his previous pay, and in a few
seconds he closed with the offer. This time he came in an inferior
position,—we were to lead, he to follow. Our second follower was a youth
of twenty-seven years, who was not all that could be desired. He drank
Reynaud’s wine, smoked our cigars, and quietly secreted the provisions
when we were nearly starving. Discovery of his proceedings did not at all
disconcert him, and he finished up by getting several items added to our
bill at La Ville, which, not a little to his disgust, we disallowed.
This night we fixed our camp high above the tree-line, and indulged
ourselves in the healthy employment of carrying our fuel up to it. The
present rock was not so comfortable as the first, and, before we could
settle down, we were obliged to turn out a large mass which was in the
way. It was very obstinate, but moved at length; slowly and gently at
first, then faster and faster, at last taking great jumps in the air,
striking a stream of fire at every touch, which shone out brightly as it
entered the gloomy valley below, and long after it was out of sight, we
heard it bounding downwards, and then settle with a subdued crash on the
glacier beneath. As we turned back from this curious sight, Reynaud asked
if we had ever seen a torrent on fire, and told us that in the spring the
Durance, swollen by the melting of the snow, sometimes brings down so many
rocks that, where it passes through a narrow gorge at La Bessée, no water
whatever is seen, but only boulders rolling over and over, grinding each
other into powder, and striking so many sparks that the stream looks as if
it were on fire.
We had another merry evening with nothing to mar it; the weather was
perfect, and we lay backward in luxurious repose, looking at the sky
spangled with its ten thousand brilliant lights.
... “The ranges stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Their snows were flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black,
Against the whiteness at their back.”(26)
[Illustration: Portrait of the late R. J. S. Macdonald]
Macdonald related his experiences over the café noir. He had travelled day
and night for several days in order to join us, but had failed to find our
first bivouac, and had camped a few hundred yards from us under another
rock, higher up the mountain. The next morning he discerned us going along
a ridge at a great height above him, and as it was useless to endeavour to
overtake us, he lay down and watched with a heavy heart until we had
turned the corner of a buttress, and vanished out of sight.
Nothing but the heavy breathing of our already sound asleep comrades broke
the solemn stillness of the night. It was a silence to be felt. Nothing?
Hark! what is that dull booming sound above us? Is that nothing? There it
is again, plainer—on it comes, nearer, clearer; ’tis a crag escaped from
the heights above! What a fearful crash! We jump to our feet. Down it
comes with awful fury; what power can withstand its violence? Dancing,
leaping, flying; dashing against others; roaring as it descends. Ah, it
has passed! No; there it is again, and we hold our breath, as, with
resistless force and explosions like artillery, it darts past, with an
avalanche of shattered fragments trailing in its rear! ’Tis gone, and we
breathe more freely as we hear the finale on the glacier below.(27)
We retired at last, but I was too excited to sleep. At a quarter-past four
every man once more shouldered his pack and started. This time we agreed
to keep more to the right, to see if it were not possible to get to the
plateau without losing any time by crossing the glacier. To describe our
route would be to repeat what has been said before. We mounted steadily
for an hour and a half, sometimes walking, though more frequently
climbing, and then found, after all, that it was necessary to cross the
glacier. The part on which we struck came down a very steep slope, and was
much crevassed. The word crevassed hardly expresses its appearance—it was
a mass of formidable séracs. We found, however, more difficulty in getting
on than across it; and, thanks to the rope, it was passed in safety. Then
the interminable buttresses began again. Hour after hour we proceeded
upwards, frequently at fault, and obliged to descend. The ridge behind us
had sunk long ago, and we looked over it, and all others, till our eyes
rested on the majestic Viso. Hour after hour passed, and monotony was the
order of the day. When twelve o’clock came we lunched, and contemplated
the scene with satisfaction; all the summits in sight, with the single
exception of the Viso, had given in, and we looked over an immense
expanse—a perfect sea of peaks and snow-fields. Still the pinnacles rose
above us, and opinions were freely uttered that we should see no summit of
Pelvoux that day. Old Sémiond had become a perfect bore to all; whenever
one rested for a moment to look about, he would say, with a complacent
chuckle, “Don’t be afraid, follow me.” We came at last to a very bad
piece, rotten and steep, and no hold. Here Reynaud and Macdonald confessed
to being tired, and talked of going to sleep. A way was discovered out of
the difficulty; then some one called out, “Look at the Viso!” and we saw
that we almost looked over it. We worked away with redoubled energy, and
at length caught sight of the head of the glacier as it streamed out of
the plateau. This gave us fresh hopes; we were not deceived; and with a
simultaneous shout we greeted the appearance of our long-wished-for snows.
A large crevasse separated us from them; but a bridge was found; we tied
ourselves in line, and moved safely over it. Directly we got across, there
rose before us a fine snow-capped peak. Old Sémiond cried, “The pyramid! I
see the pyramid!” “Where, Sémiond, where?” “There; on the top of that
peak.”
[Illustration: Outline to show route up Mont Pelvoux]
There, sure enough, was the cairn he had helped to erect more than thirty
years before. Where was the Pic des Arcines which we were to see? It was
nowhere visible—there was only a great expanse of snow, bordered by three
lower peaks. Somewhat sadly we moved towards the pyramid, sighing that
there was no other to conquer; but hardly had we gone two hundred paces,
before there rose a superb white cone on the left, which had been hidden
before by a slope of snow. We shouted, “The Pic des Arcines!” and inquired
of Sémiond if he knew whether that peak had been ascended. As for him, he
knew nothing, except that the peak before us was called the pyramid, from
the cairn he had, etc. etc., and that it had not been ascended since. “All
right then—face about,” and we immediately turned at right angles for the
cone, the porter making faint struggles for his beloved pyramid. Our
progress was stopped, in the sixth of a mile, by the edge of the ridge
connecting the two peaks, and we perceived that it curled over in a lovely
volute. We involuntarily retreated. Sémiond, who was last in the line,
took the opportunity to untie himself, and refused to come on; said we
were running dangerous risks, and talked vaguely of crevasses. We tied him
up again, and proceeded. The snow was very soft; we were always knee-deep,
and sometimes floundered in up to the waist; but a simultaneous jerk
before and behind always released one. By this time we had arrived at the
foot of the final peak. The left-hand ridge seemed easier than that upon
which we stood, so we curved round to get to it. Some rocks peeped out 150
feet below the summit, and up these we crawled, leaving our porter behind,
as he said he was afraid. I could not resist the temptation, as we went
off, to turn round and beckon him onwards, saying, “Don’t be afraid—follow
me,” but he did not answer to the appeal, and never went to the top. The
rocks led to a short ridge of ice—our plateau on one side, and a nearly
vertical precipice on the other. Macdonald cut up it, and at a quarter to
two we stood shaking hands on the loftiest summit of the conquered
Pelvoux.
The day still continued everything that could be desired, and, far and
near, countless peaks burst into sight, without a cloud to hide them. The
mighty Mont Blanc, full seventy miles away, first caught our eyes, and
then, still farther off, the Monte Rosa group; while, rolling away to the
east, one unknown range after another succeeded in unveiled splendour;
fainter and fainter in tone, but still perfectly defined, till at last the
eye was unable to distinguish sky from mountain, and they died away in the
far-off horizon. Monte Viso rose up grandly, but it was less than forty
miles away, and we looked over it to a hazy mass we knew must be the
plains of Piedmont. Southwards a blue mist seemed to indicate the
existence of the distant Mediterranean; to the west we looked over to the
mountains of Auvergne. Such was the panorama; a view extending in nearly
every direction for more than one hundred miles. It was with some
difficulty we wrenched our eyes from the more distant objects to
contemplate the nearer ones. Mont Dauphin was very conspicuous, but La
Bessée was not readily perceived. Besides these places not a habitation
could be seen; all was rock, snow, or ice; and, large as we knew were the
snow-fields of Dauphiné, we were surprised to find that they very far
surpassed our most ardent imagination. Nearly in a line between us and the
Viso, immediately to the south of Chateau Queyras, was a splendid group of
mountains of great height. More to the south an unknown peak seemed still
higher; while close to us we were astonished to discover that there was a
mountain which appeared even higher than that on which we stood. At least
this was my opinion; Macdonald thought that it was not so high, and
Reynaud that it was much about the same elevation as our own peak.
This mountain was distant a couple of miles or so, and was separated from
us by a tremendous abyss, the bottom of which we could not see. On the
other side rose this mighty wall-sided peak, too steep for snow, black as
night, with sharp ridges and pointed summit. We were in complete ignorance
of its whereabouts, for none of us had been on the other side. We imagined
that La Bérarde was in the abyss at our feet, although it was in reality
beyond the other mountain.(28)
We left the summit at last, and descended to the rocks and to our porter,
where I boiled some water, obtained by melting snow. After we had fed, and
smoked our cigars (lighted without difficulty from a common match), we
found it was ten minutes past three, and high time to be off. We dashed,
waded, and tumbled for twenty-five minutes through the snow, and then
began the long descent of the rocks. It was nearly four o’clock, and, as
it would be dark at eight, it was evident that there was no time to be
lost, and we pushed on to the utmost. Nothing remarkable occurred going
down. We kept rather closer to the glacier, and crossed at the same point
as in the morning. Getting _off_ it was like getting _on_ it—rather
awkward. Old Sémiond had got over—so had Reynaud; Macdonald came next,
but, as he made a long stretch to get on to a higher mass, he slipped, and
would have been in the bowels of a crevasse in a moment had he not been
tied.
It was nearly dark by the time we had crossed, yet I still hoped that we
should be able to pass the night at our rock. Macdonald was not so
sanguine, and he was right; for at last we found ourselves quite at fault,
and wandered helplessly up and down for an hour, while Reynaud and the
porter indulged in a little mutual abuse. The dreary fact, that, as we
could not get down, we must stay where we were, was now quite apparent.
We were at least 10,500 feet high, and if it commenced to rain or snow, as
the gathering clouds and rising wind seemed to threaten, we might be in a
sore plight. We were hungry, having eaten little since 3 A.M., and a
torrent we heard close at hand, but could not discover, aggravated our
thirst. Sémiond endeavoured to get some water from it. Although he
succeeded in doing so, he was wholly unable to return, and we had to
solace him by shouting at intervals through the night.
A more detestable locality for a night out of doors it is difficult to
imagine. There was not shelter of any kind; it was perfectly exposed to
the chilly wind which began to rise, and it was too steep to promenade.
Loose rubbly stones covered the ground, and had to be removed before we
could sit with any comfort. This was an advantage, although we hardly
thought so at the time, as it gave us some employment, and, after an
hour’s active exercise of that interesting kind, I obtained a small strip
about nine feet long, on which it was possible to walk. Reynaud was
furious at first, and soundly abused the porter, whose opinion as to the
route down had been followed rather than that of our friend, and at last
settled down to a deep dramatic despair, and wrung his hands with frantic
gesture, as he exclaimed, “Oh, malheur, malheur! Oh misérables!”
Thunder commenced to growl, and lightning to play among the peaks above,
and the wind, which had brought the temperature down to nearly
freezing-point, began to chill us to the bones. We examined our resources.
They were six and a half cigars, two boxes of vesuvians, one-third of a
pint of brandy-and-water, and half-a-pint of spirits of wine: rather scant
fare for three fellows who had to get through seven hours before daylight.
The spirit-lamp was lighted, and the remaining spirits of wine, the brandy
and some snow, were heated by it. It was a strong liquor, and we wished
for more of it. When it was consumed, Macdonald endeavoured to dry his
socks by the lamp, and then the three lay down under my plaid to pretend
to sleep. Reynaud’s woes were aggravated by toothache; Macdonald somehow
managed to close his eyes.
The longest night must end, and ours did at last. We got down to our rock
in an hour and a quarter, and found the lad not a little surprised at our
absence. He said he had made a gigantic fire to light us down, and shouted
with all his might; we neither saw the fire nor heard his shouts. He said
we looked a ghastly crew, and no wonder; it was our fourth night out.
We feasted at our cave, and performed some very necessary ablutions. The
persons of the natives are infested by certain agile creatures—rapid of
motion, numerous, and voracious. It is dangerous to approach too near, and
one has to study the wind, so as to get on their weather-side. In spite of
all such precautions my unfortunate companion and myself were being
rapidly devoured alive. We only expected a temporary lull of our tortures,
for the interiors of the inns are like the exteriors of the natives,
swarming with this species of animated creation.
It is said that once, when these tormentors were filled with an unanimous
desire, an unsuspecting traveller was dragged bodily from his bed! This
needs confirmation. One word more, and I have done with this vile subject.
We returned from our ablutions, and found the Frenchmen engaged in
conversation. “Ah!” said old Sémiond, “as to fleas, I don’t pretend to be
different to anyone else,—_I have them_.” This time he certainly spoke the
truth.
We got down to La Ville in good time, and luxuriated there for several
days; played many games of bowls with the natives, and were invariably
beaten by them. At last it was necessary to part, and I walked to Abries,
by way of Mont Dauphin and the gorge of the Guil towards Monte Viso, while
Macdonald went to Briançon.
I have not attempted to conceal that the ascent of Mont Pelvoux is of a
rather monotonous character; the view from its summit can, however, be
confidently recommended. A glance at a map will show that, with the single
exception of the Viso, whose position is unrivalled, it is better situated
than any other mountain of considerable height for viewing the whole of
the Western Alps.
Our discovery that the peak which is to be called the Pointe des Ecrins
was a separate and distinct mountain from Mont Pelvoux—and not its highest
point—gave us satisfaction, although it was also rather of the nature of a
disappointment.
On our return to La Bessée we wrongly identified it with the peak which is
seen from thence to the left of the Pelvoux. The two mountains bear a
considerable resemblance to each other, so the mistake is not, perhaps,
unpardonable. Although the latter mountain is one that is considerably
higher than the Wetterhorn or Monte Viso, it has no name; we called it the
Pic Sans Nom.
It has been observed by others that it is improbable the French surveyors
should have remained for several days upon the Pic de la Pyramide without
visiting the other and loftier summit. If they did, it is strange that
they did not leave some memorial of their visit. The natives who
accompanied them asserted that they did not pass from one to the other; we
therefore claimed to have made the ascent of the loftiest point for the
first time. The claim, however, cannot be sustained, on account of the
ascent of M. Puiseux. It is a matter of little moment; the excursion had
for us all the interest of a first ascent; and I look back upon this, my
first serious mountain scramble, with more satisfaction, and with as much
pleasure as upon any that is recorded in this volume.
A few days later, I left Abries to seek a quiet bundle of hay at Le
Chalp—a village some miles nearer to the Viso. On approaching the place,
the odour of sanctity became distinctly perceptible; and on turning a
corner the cause was manifested—there was the priest of the place,
surrounded by some of his flock. I advanced humbly, hat in hand, but
almost before a word could be said, he broke out with, “Who are you?”
“What are you?” “What do you want?” I endeavoured to explain. “You are a
deserter; I know you are a deserter; go away, you can’t stay here; go to
Le Monta, down there; I won’t have you here,” and he literally drove me
away. The explanation of his strange behaviour was, that Piedmontese
soldiers who were tired of the service had not unfrequently crossed the
Col de la Traversette into the valley, and trouble had arisen from
harbouring them. However, I did not know this at the time, and was not a
little indignant that I, who was marching to the attack, should be taken
for a deserter.
So I walked away, and shortly afterwards, as it was getting dark, encamped
in a lovely hole—a cavity or kind of basin in the earth, with a stream on
one side, a rock to windward, and some broken fir branches close at hand.
Nothing could be more perfect: rock, hole, wood, and water. After making a
roaring fire, I nestled in my blanket bag (an ordinary blanket sewn up
double round the legs, with a piece of elastic riband round the open end),
and slept, but not for long. I was troubled with dreams of the
Inquisition; the tortures were being applied—priests were forcing fleas
down my nostrils and into my eyes—and with red-hot pincers were taking out
bits of flesh, and then cutting off my ears and tickling the soles of my
feet. This was too much; I yelled a great yell and awoke, to find myself
covered with innumerable crawling bodies. They were ants; I had camped by
an ant-hill, and, after making its inhabitants mad with the fire, had
coolly lain down in their midst.
[Illustration: THE BLANKET BAG.]
The night was fine, and as I settled down in more comfortable quarters, a
brilliant meteor sailed across full 60° of the cloudless sky, leaving a
trail of light behind which lasted for several seconds. It was the herald
of a splendid spectacle. Stars fell by hundreds; and not dimmed by
intervening vapours, they sparkled with greater brightness than Sirius in
our damp climate.
The next morning, after walking up the valley to examine the Viso, I
returned to Abries, and engaged a man from a neighbouring hamlet, an
inveterate smoker, and thirsty in proportion, whose pipe never left his
mouth except to allow him to drink. We returned up the valley together,
and slept in a hut of a shepherd, whose yearly wage was almost as small as
that of the herdsman spoken of in Hyperion by Longfellow; and the next
morning, in his company, proceeded to the summit of the pass which I had
crossed in 1860. We were baffled in our attempt to get closer to the
mountain. A deep notch(29) with precipitous cliffs cut us off from it. The
snow-slope, too, which existed in the preceding year on the Piedmontese
side of the pass, was now wanting, and we were unable to descend the rocks
which lay beneath. A fortnight afterwards the mountain was ascended for
the first time by Messrs. Mathews and Jacomb, with the two Croz’s of
Chamounix. Their attempt was made from the _southern_ side, and the
ascent, which was formerly considered a thing totally impossible, has
become one of the most common and favourite excursions of the district.
The night of the 14th of August found me at St. Veran, a village made
famous by Neff, but in no other respect remarkable, saving that it is one
of the highest in Europe. The poor inn gave the impression of great
poverty. There was no meat, no bread, no butter or cheese; almost the only
things that could be obtained were eggs. The manners of the natives were
primitive. The woman of the inn, without the least sense of impropriety,
stayed in the room until I was fairly in bed, and her bill for supper,
bed, and breakfast, amounted to one and sevenpence.
[Illustration: NATURAL PILLAR NEAR MOLINES.]
In this neighbourhood, and indeed all round about the Viso, the chamois
still remain in considerable numbers. They said at St. Veran that six had
been seen from the village on the day I was there, and the innkeeper
declared that he had seen fifty together in the previous week! I myself
saw in this and in the previous season several small companies round about
the Viso. It is perhaps as favourable a district as any in the Alps for a
sportsman who wishes to hunt the chamois, as the ground over which they
wander is by no means of excessive difficulty.
The next day I descended the valley to Ville Vieille, and passed near the
village of Molines, but on the opposite side of the valley, a remarkable
natural pillar, in form not unlike a champagne bottle, about sixty feet
high, which had been produced by the action of the weather, and, in all
probability, chiefly by rain. These natural pillars are among the most
remarkable examples of the potent effects produced by the long-continued
action of quiet-working forces. They are found in several other places in
the Alps, as well as elsewhere.
The village of Ville Vieille boasts of an inn with the sign of the
Elephant; which, in the opinion of local amateurs, is a proof that
Hannibal passed through the gorge of the Guil. I remember the place,
because its bread, being only a month old, was unusually soft, and, for
the first time during ten days, it was possible to eat some, without first
of all chopping it into small pieces and soaking it in hot water, which
produced a slimy paste on the outside, but left a hard untouched kernel.
The same day I crossed the Col Isoard to Briançon. It was the 15th of
August, and all the world was _en fête_; sounds of revelry proceeded from
the houses of Servières as I passed over the bridge upon which the pyrrhic
dance is annually performed,(30) and natives in all degrees of inebriation
staggered about the paths. It was late before the lights of the great
fortress came into sight; but unchallenged I passed through the gates, and
once more sought shelter under the roof of the Hotel de l’Ours.