THE VAL TOURNANCHE—DIRECT PASS FROM BREIL TO ZERMATT
(BREUILJOCH)—ZERMATT—FIRST ASCENT OF THE GRAND TOURNALIN.
“How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of a fleeting year!”
W. SHAKESPEARE.
I crossed the Channel on the 29th of July 1863, embarrassed by the
possession of two ladders, each twelve feet long, which joined together
like those used by firemen, and shut up like parallel rulers. My luggage
was highly suggestive of housebreaking, for, besides these, there were
several coils of rope, and numerous tools of suspicious appearance, and it
was reluctantly admitted into France, but it passed through the
custom-house with less trouble than I anticipated, after a timely
expenditure of a few francs.
I am not in love with the douane. It is the purgatory of travellers, where
uncongenial spirits mingle together for a time, before they are separated
into rich and poor. The douaniers look upon tourists as their natural
enemies; see how eagerly they pounce upon the portmanteaux! One of them
has discovered something! He has never seen its like before, and he holds
it aloft in the face of its owner, with inquisitorial insolence. “But
_what is_ this?” The explanation is only half-satisfactory. “But what is
_this_?” says he, laying hold of a little box. “Powder.” “But that it is
forbidden to carry of powder on the railway.” “Bah!” says another and
older hand, “pass the effects of Monsieur;” and our countryman—whose
cheeks had begun to redden under the stares of his fellow-travellers—is
allowed to depart with his half-worn tooth-brush, while the discomfited
douanier gives a mighty shrug at the strange habits of those “whose
insular position excludes them from the march of continental ideas.”
My real troubles commenced at Susa. The officials there, more honest and
more obtuse than the Frenchmen, declined at one and the same time to be
bribed, or to pass my baggage until a satisfactory account of it was
rendered; and, as they refused to believe the true explanation, I was
puzzled what to say, but was presently relieved from the dilemma by one of
the men, who was cleverer than his fellows, suggesting that I was going to
Turin to exhibit in the streets; that I mounted the ladder and balanced
myself on the end of it, then lighted my pipe and put the point of the
bâton in its bowl, and caused the bâton to gyrate around my head. The rope
was to keep back the spectators, and an Englishman in my company was the
agent. “Monsieur is acrobat then?” “Yes, certainly.” “Pass the effects of
Monsieur the acrobat!”
These ladders were the source of endless trouble. Let us pass over the
doubts of the guardians of the Hôtel d’Europe (Trombetta), whether a
person in the possession of such questionable articles should be admitted
to their very respectable house, and get to Chatillon, at the entrance of
the Val Tournanche. A mule was chartered to carry them, and, as they were
too long to sling across its back, they were arranged lengthways, and one
end projected over the animal’s head, while the other extended beyond its
tail. A mule when going up or down hill always moves with a jerky action,
and in consequence of this the ladders hit my mule severe blows between
its ears and in its flanks. The beast, not knowing what strange creature
it had on its back, naturally tossed its head and threw out its legs, and
this, of course, only made the blows that it received more severe. At last
it ran away, and would have perished by rolling down a precipice, if the
men had not caught hold of its tail. The end of the matter was that a man
had to follow the mule, holding the end of the ladders, which obliged him
to move his arms up and down incessantly, and to bow to the hind quarters
of the animal in a way that afforded more amusement to his comrades than
it did to him.
I was once more _en route_ for the Matterhorn, for I had heard in the
spring of 1863 the cause of the failure of Professor Tyndall, and learnt
that the case was not so hopeless as it appeared to be at one time. I
found that he arrived as far only as the northern end of “the shoulder.”
The point at which he says,(66) they “sat down with broken hopes, the
summit within a stone’s throw of us, but still defying us,” was not the
notch or cleft at D (which is literally within a stone’s throw of the
summit), but another and more formidable cleft that intervenes between the
northern end of “the shoulder” and the commencement of the final peak. It
is marked E on the outline which faces p. 44. Carrel and all the men who
had been with me knew of the existence of this cleft, and of the pinnacle
which rose between it and the final peak;(67) and we had frequently talked
about the best manner of passing the place. On this we disagreed, but we
were both of opinion that when we got to “the shoulder,” it would be
necessary to bear down gradually to the right or to the left, to avoid
coming to the top of the notch. Tyndall’s party, after arriving at “the
shoulder,” was led by his guides along the crest of the ridge, and,
consequently, when they got to its northern end, they came to the top of
the notch, instead of the bottom—to the dismay of all but the Carrels. Dr.
Tyndall’s words are, “The ridge was here split by a deep cleft which
separated it from the final precipice, and the case became more hopeless
as we came more near.” The Professor adds, “The mountain is 14,800 feet
high, and 14,600 feet had been accomplished.” He greatly deceived himself;
by the barometric measurements of Signor Giordano the notch is no less
than 800 feet below the summit. The guide Walter (Dr. Tyndall says) said
it was impossible to proceed, and the Carrels, appealed to for their
opinion (this is their own account), gave as an answer, “We are porters;
ask your guides.” Bennen, thus left to himself, “was finally forced to
accept defeat.” Tyndall had nevertheless accomplished an advance of about
400 feet over one of the most difficult parts of the mountain.
There are material discrepancies between the published narratives of
Professor Tyndall(68) and the verbal accounts of the Carrels. The former
says the men had to be “urged on,” that “they pronounced flatly against
the final precipice,” “they yielded so utterly,” and that Bennen said, in
answer to a final appeal made to him, “‘What could I do, sir? not one of
them would accompany me.’ It was the accurate truth.” Jean-Antoine Carrel
says that when Professor Tyndall gave the order to turn _he_ would have
advanced to examine the route, as he did not think that farther progress
was impossible, but he was stopped by the Professor, and was naturally
obliged to follow the others.(69) These disagreements may well be left to
be settled by those who are concerned. Tyndall, Walter, and Bennen, now
disappear from this history.(70)
[Illustration: An arch of the aqueduct in the Val Tournanche]
The Val Tournanche is one of the most charming valleys in the Italian
Alps; it is a paradise to an artist, and if the space at my command were
greater, I would willingly linger over its groves of chestnuts, its bright
trickling rills and its roaring torrents, its upland unsuspected valleys
and its noble cliffs. The path rises steeply from Chatillon, but it is
well shaded, and the heat of the summer sun is tempered by cool air and
spray which comes off the ice-cold streams.(71) One sees from the path, at
several places on the right bank of the valley, groups of arches which
have been built high up against the faces of the cliffs. Guide-books
repeat—on whose authority I know not—that they are the remains of a Roman
aqueduct. They have the Roman boldness of conception, but the work has not
the usual Roman solidity. The arches have always seemed to me to be the
remains of an _unfinished_ work, and I learn from Jean-Antoine Carrel that
there are other groups of arches, which are not seen from the path, all
having the same appearance. It may be questioned whether those seen near
the village of Antey are Roman. Some of them are semicircular, whilst
others are distinctly pointed. Here is one of the latter, which might pass
for fourteenth-century work, or later;—a two-centred arch, with mean
voussoirs, and the masonry in rough courses. These arches are well worth
the attention of an archæologist, but some difficulty will be found in
approaching them closely.
We sauntered up the valley, and got to Breil when all were asleep. A halo
round the moon promised watery weather, and we were not disappointed, for,
on the next day (August 1), rain fell heavily, and when the clouds lifted
for a time, we saw that new snow lay thickly over everything higher than
9000 feet. J.-A. Carrel was ready and waiting (as I had determined to give
the bold cragsman another chance); and he did not need to say that the
Matterhorn would be impracticable for several days after all this new
snow, even if the weather were to arrange itself at once. Our first day
together was accordingly spent upon a neighbouring summit, the Cimes
Blanches; a degraded mountain, well known for its fine panoramic view. It
was little that we saw; for, in every direction except to the south,
writhing masses of heavy clouds obscured everything; and to the south our
view was intercepted by a peak higher than the Cimes Blanches, named the
Grand Tournalin.(72) But we got some innocent pleasure out of watching the
gambolings of a number of goats, who became fast friends after we had
given them some salt; in fact, too fast, and caused us no little annoyance
when we were descending. “Carrel,” I said, as a number of stones whizzed
by which they had dislodged, “this must be put a stop to.” “Diable!” he
grunted, “it is very well to talk, but how will you do it?” I said that I
would try; and, sitting down, poured a little brandy into the hollow of my
hand, and allured the nearest goat with deceitful gestures. It was one who
had gobbled up the paper in which the salt had been carried—an animal of
enterprising character—and it advanced fearlessly and licked up the
brandy. I shall not easily forget its surprise. It stopped short, and
coughed, and looked at me as much as to say, “Oh, you cheat!” and spat and
ran away; stopping now and then to cough and spit again. We were not
troubled any more by those goats.
More snow fell during the night, and our attempt on the Matterhorn was
postponed indefinitely. As there was nothing to be done at Breil, I
determined to make the tour of the mountain, and commenced by inventing a
pass from Breil to Zermatt,(73) in place of the hackneyed Théodule. Any
one who looks at the map will see that the latter pass makes a
considerable détour to the east, and, apparently, goes out of the way. I
thought that it was possible to strike out a shorter route, both in
distance and in time, and we set out on the 3rd of August, to carry out
the idea. We followed the Théodule path for some time, but quitted it when
it bore away to the east, and kept straight on until we struck the moraine
of the Mont Cervin glacier. Our track still continued in a straight line
up the centre of the glacier to the foot of a tooth of rock, which juts
prominently out of the ridge (Furggengrat) connecting the Matterhorn with
the Théodulehorn. The head of the glacier was connected with this little
peak by a steep bank of snow; but we were able to go straight up, and
struck the Col at its lowest point, a little to the right (that is to say,
to the east) of the above-mentioned peak. On the north there was a
snow-slope corresponding to that on the other side. Half-an-hour took us
to its base. We then bore away over the nearly level plateau of the
Furggengletscher, making a straight track to the Hörnli, from whence we
descended to Zermatt by one of the well-known paths. This pass has been
dubbed the Breuiljoch by the Swiss surveyors. It is a few feet higher than
the Théodule, and it may be recommended to those who are familiar with
that pass, as it gives equally fine views, and is accessible at all times.
But it will never be frequented like the Théodule, as the snow-slope at
its summit, at certain times, will require the use of the axe. It took us
six hours and a quarter to go from one place to the other, which was an
hour longer than we would have occupied by the Théodule, although the
distance in miles is less.
It is stated in one of the MS. note-books of the late Principal J. D.
Forbes, that this depression, now called the Breuiljoch, was formerly
_the_ pass between the Val Tournanche and Zermatt, and that it was
abandoned for the Théodule in consequence of changes in the glaciers.(74)
The authority for the statement was not given. I presume it was from local
tradition, but I readily credit it; for, before the time that the glaciers
had shrunk to so great an extent, the steep snow-slopes above mentioned,
in all probability, did not exist; and, most likely, the glaciers led by
very gentle gradients up to the summit; in which case the route would have
formed the natural highway between the two places. It is far from
impossible, if the glaciers continue to diminish at their present rapid
rate,(75) that the Théodule itself, the easiest and the most frequented of
all the higher Alpine passes, may, in the course of a few years, become
somewhat difficult; and if this should be the case, the prosperity of
Zermatt will probably suffer.(76)
Carrel and I wandered out again in the afternoon, and went, first of all,
to a favourite spot with tourists near the end of the Gorner glacier (or,
properly speaking, the Boden glacier), to a little verdant flat—studded
with _Euphrasia officinalis_—the delight of swarms of bees, who gather
there the honey which afterwards appears at the _table d’hôte_.
[Illustration: WATER-WORN ROCKS IN THE GORGE BELOW THE GORNER GLACIER.]
On our right the glacier-torrent thundered down the valley through a gorge
with precipitous sides, not easily approached; for the turf at the top was
slippery, and the rocks had everywhere been rounded by the glacier,—which
formerly extended far away. This gorge seems to have been made chiefly by
the torrent, and to have been excavated subsequently to the retreat of the
glacier. It seems so because not merely upon its walls are there the marks
of running water, but even upon the rounded rocks at the top of its walls,
at a height of seventy or eighty feet above the present level of the
torrent, there are some of those queer concavities which rapid streams
alone are known to produce on rocks.
[Illustration: STRIATIONS PRODUCED BY GLACIER-ACTION (AT GRINDELWALD).]
A little bridge, apparently frail, spans the torrent just above the
entrance to this gorge, and from it one perceives, being fashioned in the
rocks below, concavities similar to those to which reference has just been
made. The torrent is seen hurrying forwards. Not everywhere. In some
places the water strikes projecting angles, and, thrown back by them,
remains almost stationary, eddying round and round: in others,
obstructions fling it up in fountains, which play perpetually on the
_under_ surfaces of overhanging masses; and sometimes do so in such a way
that the water not only works upon the under surfaces, but round the
corner; that is to say, upon the surfaces which are _not_ opposed to the
general direction of the current. In all cases _concavities_ are being
produced. Projecting angles are rounded, it is true, and are more or less
convex, but they are overlooked on account of the prevalence of concave
forms.
Cause and effect help each other here. The inequalities of the torrent bed
and walls cause its eddyings, and the eddies fashion the concavities. The
more profound the latter become, the more disturbance is caused in the
water. The destruction of the rocks proceeds at an ever-increasing rate;
for the larger the amount of surface that is exposed, the greater are the
opportunities for the assaults of heat and cold.
When water is in the form of glacier it has not the power of making
concavities, such as these, in rocks, and of working upon surfaces which
are not opposed to the direction of the current. Its nature is changed; it
operates in a different way, and it leaves marks which are readily
distinguished from those produced by torrent-action.
The prevailing forms which result from glacier-action are more or less
_convex_. Ultimately, all angles and almost all curves are obliterated,
and large areas of flat surfaces are produced. This perfection of abrasion
is rarely found, except in such localities as have sustained a grinding
much more severe than that which has occurred in the Alps; and, generally
speaking, the dictum of the veteran geologist Studer, quoted below, is
undoubtedly true.(77) Not merely can the operations of extinct glaciers be
traced in detail by means of the bosses of rock popularly termed _roches
moutonnées_, but their effects in the aggregate, on a range of mountains
or an entire country, can be recognised sometimes at a distance of fifteen
or twenty miles from the incessant repetition of these convex forms.
We finished up the 3d of August with a walk over the Findelen glacier, and
returned to Zermatt at a later hour than we intended, both very sleepy.
This is noteworthy only on account of that which followed. We had to cross
the Col de Valpelline on the next day, and an early start was desirable.
Monsieur Seiler, excellent man, knowing this, called us himself, and when
he came to my door, I answered, “All right, Seiler, I will get up,” and
immediately turned over to the other side, saying to myself, “First of
all, ten minutes more sleep.” But Seiler waited and listened, and,
suspecting the case, knocked again. “Herr Whymper, have you got a light?”
Without thinking what the consequences might be, I answered, “No,” and
then the worthy man actually forced the lock off his own door to give me
one. By similar and equally friendly and disinterested acts, Monsieur
Seiler has acquired his enviable reputation.
At 4 A.M. we left his Monte Rosa Hotel, and were soon pushing our way
through the thickets of grey alder that skirt the path up the right bank
of the exquisite little valley which leads to the Z’Muttgletscher.
Nothing can well seem more inaccessible than the Matterhorn upon this
side; and even in cold blood one holds the breath when looking at its
stupendous cliffs. There are but few equal to them in size in the Alps,
and there are none which can more truly be termed _precipices_. Greatest
of them all is the immense north cliff,—that which bends over towards the
Z’Muttgletscher. Stones which drop from the top of that amazing wall fall
for about 1500 feet before they touch anything; and those which roll down
from above, and bound over it, fall to a much greater depth, and leap
well-nigh 1000 feet beyond its base. This side of the mountain has always
seemed sombre—sad—terrible; it is painfully suggestive of decay, ruin, and
death; and it is now, alas! more than terrible by its associations.
“There is no aspect of destruction about the Matterhorn cliffs,” says
Professor Ruskin. Granted;—when they are seen from afar. But approach, and
sit down by the side of the Z’Muttgletscher, and you will hear that their
piecemeal destruction is proceeding ceaselessly—incessantly. You will
_hear_, but, probably, you will not _see_; for even when the descending
masses thunder as loudly as heavy guns, and the echoes roll back from the
Ebihorn opposite, they will still be as pin-points against this grand old
face, so vast is its scale!
If you would see the “aspects of destruction,” you must come still closer,
and climb its cliffs and ridges, or mount to the plateau of the
Matterhorngletscher, which is cut up and ploughed up by these missiles,
and strewn on its surface with their smaller fragments; the larger masses,
falling with tremendous velocity, plunge into the snow and are lost to
sight.
The Matterhorngletscher, too, sends down _its_ avalanches, as if in
rivalry with the rocks behind. Round the whole of its northern side it
does not terminate in the usual manner by gentle slopes, but comes to a
sudden end at the top of the steep rocks which lie betwixt it and the
Z’Muttgletscher; and seldom does an hour pass without a huge slice
breaking away and falling with dreadful uproar on to the slopes below,
where it is re-compacted.
The desolate, outside pines of the Z’Mutt forests, stripped of their bark,
and blanched by the weather, are a fit foreground to a scene that can
hardly be surpassed in solemn grandeur. It is a subject worthy of the
pencil of a great painter, and one which would tax the powers of the very
greatest.
Higher up the glacier the mountain appeared less savage although not less
inaccessible; and, about three hours later, when we arrived at the island
of rock, called the Stockje (which marks the end of the Z’Muttgletscher
proper, and which separates its higher feeder, the Stockgletscher, from
its lower and greater one, the Tiefenmatten), Carrel himself, one of the
least demonstrative of men, could not refrain from expressing wonder at
the steepness of its faces, and at the audacity that had prompted us to
camp upon the south-west ridge; the profile of which is seen very well
from the Stockje.(78) Carrel then saw the north and north-west sides of
the mountain for the first time, and was more firmly persuaded than ever
that an ascent was possible _only_ from the direction of Breil.
Three years afterwards I was traversing the same spot with the guide Franz
Biener, when all at once a puff of wind brought to us a very bad smell;
and, on looking about, we discovered a dead chamois half-way up the
southern cliffs of the Stockje. We clambered up, and found that it had
been killed by a most uncommon and extraordinary accident. It had slipped
on the upper rocks, had rolled over and over down a slope of débris,
without being able to regain its feet, had fallen over a little patch of
rocks that projected through the débris, and had caught the points of both
horns on a tiny ledge, not an inch broad. It had just been able to touch
the débris, where it led away down from the rocks, and had pawed and
scratched until it could no longer touch. It had evidently been starved to
death, and we found the poor beast almost swinging in the air, with its
head thrown back and tongue protruding, looking to the sky as if imploring
help.
We had no such excitement as this in 1863, and crossed this easy pass to
the châlets of Prerayen in a very leisurely fashion. From the summit to
Prerayen let us descend in one step. The way has been described before;
and those who wish for information about it should consult the description
of Mr. Jacomb, the discoverer of the pass. Nor need we stop at Prerayen,
except to remark that the owner of the châlets (who is usually taken for a
common herdsman) must not be judged by appearances. He is a man of
substance; he has many flocks and herds; and although, when approached
politely, is courteous, he can (and probably will) act as the _master_ of
Prerayen, if his position is _not_ recognised, and with all the importance
of a man who pays taxes to the extent of 500 francs per annum to his
government.
[Illustration: CHAMOIS IN DIFFICULTIES.]
The hill-tops were clouded when we rose from our hay on the 5th of August.
We decided not to continue the tour of our mountain immediately, and
returned over our track of the preceding day to the highest châlet on the
left bank of the valley, with the intention of attacking the Dent d’Erin
on the next morning. We were interested in this summit, more on account of
the excellent view which it commanded of the south-west ridge and the
terminal peak of the Matterhorn, than from any other reason.
The Dent d’Erin had not been ascended at this time, and we had diverged
from our route on the 4th, and had scrambled some distance up the base of
Mont Brulé, to see how far its south-western slopes were assailable. We
were divided in opinion as to the best way of approaching the peak.
Carrel, true to his habit of sticking to rocks in preference to ice,
counselled ascending by the long buttress of the Tête de Bella Cia (which
descends towards the west, and forms the southern boundary of the last
glacier that falls into the Glacier de Zardesan), and thence traversing
the heads of all the tributaries of the Zardesan to the western and rocky
ridge of the Dent. I, on the other hand, proposed to follow the Glacier de
Zardesan itself throughout its entire length, and from the plateau at its
head (where my proposed route would cross Carrel’s) to make directly
towards the summit, up the snow-covered glacier slope, instead of by the
western ridge. The hunchback, who was accompanying us on these excursions,
declared in favour of Carrel’s route, and it was accordingly adopted.
The first part of the programme was successfully executed; and at 10.30
A.M. on the 6th of August, we were sitting astride the western ridge, at a
height of about 12,500 feet, looking down upon the Tiefenmatten glacier.
To all appearance another hour would place us on the summit; but in
another hour we found that we were not destined to succeed. The ridge
(like all of the principal rocky ridges of the great peaks upon which I
have stood) had been completely shattered by frost, and was nothing more
than a heap of piled up fragments. It was always narrow, and where it was
narrowest it was also the most unstable and the most difficult. On neither
side could we ascend it by keeping a little below its crest,—on the side
of the Tiefenmatten because it was too steep, and on both sides because
the dislodgment of a single block would have disturbed the equilibrium of
all those which were above. Forced, therefore, to keep to the very crest
of the ridge, and unable to deviate a single step either to the right or
to the left, we were compelled to trust ourselves upon unsteady masses,
which trembled under our tread, which sometimes settled down, grating in a
hollow and ominous manner, and which seemed as if a little shake would
send the whole roaring down in one awful avalanche.
I followed my leader, who said not a word, and did not rebel until we came
to a place where a block had to be surmounted which lay poised across the
ridge. Carrel could not climb it without assistance, or advance beyond it
until I joined him above; and as he stepped off my back on to it, I felt
it quiver and bear down upon me. I doubted the possibility of another man
standing upon it without bringing it down. Then I rebelled. There was no
honour to be gained by persevering, or dishonour in turning from a place
which was dangerous on account of its excessive difficulty. So we returned
to Prerayen, for there was too little time to allow us to re-ascend by the
other route, which was subsequently shown to be the right way up the
mountain.
Four days afterwards a party of Englishmen (including my friends, W. E.
Hall, Craufurd Grove, and Reginald Macdonald), arrived in the Valpelline,
and (unaware of our attempt) on the 12th, under the skilful guidance of
Melchior Anderegg, made the first ascent of the Dent d’Erin by the route
which I had proposed. This is the only mountain which I have essayed to
ascend, that has not, sooner or later, fallen to me. Our failure was
mortifying, yet I am satisfied that we did wisely in returning, and that
if we had persevered, by Carrel’s route, another Alpine accident would
have been recorded. Other routes have been since discovered up the Dent
d’Erin. The ascent ranks amongst the more difficult ones which have been
made in the Alps.(79)
On the 7th of August we crossed the Va Cornère pass,(80) and had a good
look at the mountain named the Grand Tournalin as we descended the Val de
Chignana. This mountain was seen from so many points, and was so much
higher than any peak in its immediate neighbourhood, that it was bound to
give a very fine view; and (as the weather continued unfavourable for the
Matterhorn) I arranged with Carrel to ascend it the next day, and
despatched him direct to the village of Val Tournanche to make the
necessary preparations, whilst I, with Meynet, made a short cut to Breil,
at the back of Mont Panquero, by a little pass locally known as the Col de
Fenêtre. I rejoined Carrel the same evening at Val Tournanche, and we
started from that place at a little before 5 A.M. on the 8th, to attack
the Tournalin.
Meynet was left behind for that day, and most unwillingly did the
hunchback part from us, and begged hard to be allowed to come. “Pay me
nothing, only let me go with you;” “I shall want but a little bread and
cheese, and of that I won’t eat much;” “I would much rather go with you
than carry things down the valley.” Such were his arguments, and I was
really sorry that the rapidity of our movements obliged us to desert the
good little man.
Carrel led over the meadows on the south and east of the bluff upon which
the village of Val Tournanche is built, and then by a zig-zag path through
a long and steep forest, making many short cuts, which showed he had a
thorough knowledge of the ground. After we came again into daylight, our
route took us up one of those little, concealed, lateral valleys which are
so numerous on the slopes bounding the Val Tournanche.
This valley, the Combe de Ceneil, has a general easterly trend, and
contains but one small cluster of houses (Ceneil). The Tournalin is
situated at the head of the Combe, and nearly due east of the village of
Val Tournanche, but from that place no part of the mountain is visible.
After Ceneil is passed it comes into view, rising above a cirque of cliffs
(streaked by several fine waterfalls), at the end of the Combe. To avoid
these cliffs the path bends somewhat to the south, keeping throughout to
the left bank of the valley, and at about 3500 feet above Val Tournanche,
and 1500 feet above Ceneil and a mile or so to its east, arrives at the
base of some moraines, which are remarkably large considering the
dimensions of the glaciers which formed them. The ranges upon the western
side of the Val Tournanche are seen to great advantage from this spot; and
here the path ends and the way steepens.
When we arrived at these moraines, we had a choice of two routes. One,
continuing to the east, over the moraines themselves, the débris above
them, and a large snow-bed still higher up, to a kind of _col_ or
depression to the _south_ of the peak, from whence an easy ridge led
towards the summit. The other, over a shrunken glacier on our north-east
(now, perhaps, not in existence), which led to a well-marked _col_ on the
_north_ of the peak, from whence a less easy ridge rose directly to the
highest point. We followed the first named of these routes, and in little
more than half-an-hour stood upon the Col, which commanded a most glorious
view of the southern side of Monte Rosa, and of the ranges to its east,
and to the east of the Val d’Ayas.
[Illustration: “THEY SCATTERED IN A PANIC WHEN SALUTED BY THE CRIES OF MY
EXCITED COMRADE.”]
Whilst we were resting at this point, a large party of vagrant chamois
arrived on the summit of the mountain from the northern side, some of
whom—by their statuesque position—seemed to appreciate the grand panorama
by which they were surrounded, while others amused themselves, like
two-legged tourists, in rolling stones over the cliffs. The clatter of
these falling fragments made us look up. The chamois were so numerous that
we could not count them, and clustered around the summit, totally unaware
of our presence. They scattered in a panic, as if a shell had burst
amongst them, when saluted by the cries of my excited comrade; and plunged
wildly down in several directions, with unfaltering and unerring bounds,
with such speed and with such grace that we were filled with admiration
and respect for their mountaineering abilities.
The ridge that led from the Col towards the summit was singularly easy,
although well broken up by frost, and Carrel thought that it would not be
difficult to arrange a path for mules out of the shattered blocks; but
when we arrived on the summit we found ourselves separated from the very
highest point by a cleft which had been concealed up to that time: its
southern side was nearly perpendicular, but it was only fourteen or
fifteen feet deep. Carrel lowered me down, and afterwards descended on to
the head of my axe, and subsequently on to my shoulders, with a cleverness
which was almost as far removed from my awkwardness as his own efforts
were from those of the chamois. A few easy steps then placed us on the
highest point. It had not been ascended before, and we commemorated the
event by building a huge cairn, which was seen for many a mile, and would
have lasted for many a year, had it not been thrown down by the orders of
Canon Carrel, on account of its interrupting the sweep of a camera which
he took to the lower summit in 1868, in order to photograph the panorama.
According to that well-known mountaineer the summit of the Grand Tournalin
is 6100 feet above the village of Val Tournanche, and 11,155 feet above
the sea. Its ascent (including halts) occupied us only four hours.
[Illustration: “CARREL LOWERED ME DOWN.”]
I recommend any person who has a day to spare in the Val Tournanche to
ascend the Tournalin. It should be remembered, however (if its ascent is
made for the sake of the view), that these southern Pennine Alps seldom
remain unclouded after mid-day, and, indeed, frequently not later than 10
or 11 A.M. Towards sunset the equilibrium of the atmosphere is restored,
and the clouds very commonly disappear.
I advise the ascent of this mountain not on account of its height, or from
its accessibility or inaccessibility, but simply for the wide and splendid
view which may be seen from its summit. Its position is superb, and the
list of the peaks which can be seen from it includes almost the whole of
the principal mountains of the Cottian, Dauphiné, Graian, Pennine, and
Oberland groups. The view has, in the highest perfection, those elements
of picturesqueness which are wanting in the purely panoramic views of
higher summits. There are three principal sections, each with a central or
dominating point, to which the eye is naturally drawn. All three alike are
pictures in themselves; yet all are dissimilar. In the south, softened by
the vapours of the Val d’Aoste, extends the long line of the Graians, with
mountain after mountain 12,000 feet and upwards in height. It is not upon
these, noble as some of them are, that the eye will rest, but upon the
Viso, far off in the background. In the west and towards the north the
range of Mont Blanc, and some of the greatest of the Central Pennine Alps
(including the Grand Combin and the Dent Blanche) form the background, but
they are overpowered by the grandeur of the ridges which culminate in the
Matterhorn. Nor in the east and north, where pleasant grassy slopes lead
downwards to the Val d’Ayas, nor upon the glaciers and snow-fields above
them, nor upon the Oberland in the background, will the eye long linger,
when immediately in front, several miles away, but seeming close at hand,
thrown out by the pure azure sky, there are the glittering crests of Monte
Rosa.
[Illustration: THE LATE CANON CARREL, OF AOSTA.]
Those who would, but cannot, stand upon the highest Alps, may console
themselves with the knowledge that they do not usually yield the views
that make the strongest and most permanent impressions. Marvellous some of
the panoramas seen from the greatest peaks undoubtedly are; but they are
necessarily without those isolated and central points which are so
valuable pictorially. The eye roams over a multitude of objects (each,
perhaps, grand individually), and, distracted by an embarrassment of
riches, wanders from one to another, erasing by the contemplation of the
next the effect that was produced by the last; and when those happy
moments are over, which always fly with too great rapidity, the summit is
left with an impression that is seldom durable, because it is usually
vague.
No views create such lasting impressions as those which are seen but for a
moment, when a veil of mist is rent in twain, and a single spire or dome
is disclosed. The peaks which are seen at these moments are not, perhaps,
the greatest or the noblest, but the recollection of them outlives the
memory of any panoramic view, because the picture, photographed by the
eye, has time to dry, instead of being blurred, while yet wet, by contact
with other impressions. The reverse is the case with the bird’s-eye
panoramic views from the great peaks, which sometimes embrace a hundred
miles in nearly every direction. The eye is confounded by the crowd of
details, and is unable to distinguish the relative importance of the
objects which are seen. It is almost as difficult to form a just estimate
(with the eye) of the respective heights of a number of peaks from a very
high summit, as it is from the bottom of a valley. I think that the
grandest and the most satisfactory standpoints for viewing mountain
scenery are those which are sufficiently elevated to give a feeling of
depth, as well as of height, which are lofty enough to exhibit wide and
varied views, but not so high as to sink everything to the level of the
spectator. The view from the Grand Tournalin is a favourable example of
this class of panoramic views.
We descended from the summit by the northern route, and found it tolerably
stiff clambering as far as the Col. Thence, down the glacier, the way was
straightforward, and we joined the route taken on the ascent at the foot
of the ridge leading towards the east. In the evening we returned to
Breil.
There is an abrupt rise in the valley about two miles to the north of the
village of Val Tournanche, and just above this step the torrent has eaten
its way into its bed and formed an extraordinary chasm, which has long
been known by the name Gouffre des Busserailles. We lingered about this
spot to listen to the thunder of the concealed water, and to watch its
tumultuous boiling as it issued from the gloomy cleft, but our efforts to
peer into the mysteries of the place were baffled. In November 1865, the
intrepid Carrel induced two trusty comrades—the Maquignaz’s of Val
Tournanche—to lower him by a rope into the chasm and over the cataract.
The feat required iron nerves, and muscles and sinews of no ordinary kind;
and its performance alone stamps Carrel as a man of dauntless courage. One
of the Maquignaz’s subsequently descended in the same way, and these two
men were so astonished at what they saw, that they forthwith set to work
with hammer and chisel to make a way into this romantic gulf. In a few
days they constructed a rough but convenient plank gallery into the centre
of the _gouffre_, along its walls; and, on payment of a toll of half a
franc, any one can now enter the Gouffre des Busserailles.
I cannot, without a couple of sections and a plan, give an exact idea to
the reader of this remarkable place. It corresponds in some of its
features to the gorge figured upon page 96, but it exhibits in a much more
notable manner the characteristic action and extraordinary power of
running water. The length of the chasm or _gouffre_ is about 320 feet, and
from the top of its walls to the surface of the water is about 110 feet.
At no part can the entire length or depth be seen at a glance; for,
although the width at some places is 15 feet or more, the view is limited
by the sinuosities of the walls. These are everywhere polished to a
smooth, vitreous-in-appearance surface. In some places the torrent has
wormed into the rock, and has left natural bridges. The most extraordinary
features of the Gouffre des Busserailles, however, are the caverns (or
_marmites_ as they are termed), which the water has hollowed out of the
heart of the rock. Carrel’s plank path leads into one of the greatest,—a
grotto that is about 28 feet across at its largest diameter, and 15 or 16
feet high; roofed above by the living rock, and with the torrent roaring
50 feet or thereabouts below, at the bottom of a fissure. This cavern is
lighted by candles, and talking in it can only be managed by signs.
I visited the interior of the _gouffre_ in 1869, and my wonder at its
caverns was increased by observing the hardness of the hornblende out of
which they have been hollowed. Carrel chiselled off a large piece, which
is now lying before me. It has a highly polished, glassy surface, and
might be mistaken, for a moment, for ice-polished rock. But the water has
found out the atoms which were least hard, and it is dotted all over by
minute depressions, much as the face of one is who has suffered from
smallpox. The edges of these little hollows are _rounded_, and the whole
surfaces of the depressions are polished nearly, or quite, as highly as
the general surface of the fragment. The water has eaten more deeply into
some veins of steatite than in other places, and the presence of the
steatite may possibly have had something to do with the formation of the
_gouffre_.
I arrived at Breil again after an absence of six days, well satisfied with
my tour of the Matterhorn, which had been rendered very pleasant by the
willingness of my guides, and by the kindliness of the natives. Still, it
must be admitted that the inhabitants of the Val Tournanche are behind the
times. Their paths are as bad as, or worse than, they were in the time of
De Saussure, and their inns are much inferior to those on the Swiss side.
If it were otherwise there would be nothing to prevent the valley becoming
one of the most popular and frequented of all the valleys in the Alps. As
it is, tourists who enter it seem to think only about how soon they can
get out of it, and hence it is much less known than it deserves to be on
account of its natural attractions.
I believe that the great hindrance to the improvement of the paths in the
Italian valleys generally is the wide-spread impression that the
innkeepers would alone directly benefit by any amelioration of their
condition. To a certain extent this view is correct; but inasmuch as the
prosperity of the natives is connected with that of the innkeepers, the
interests of both are pretty nearly identical. Until their paths are
rendered less rough and swampy, I think the Italians must submit to see
the golden harvest principally reaped in Switzerland and Savoy. At the
same time, let the innkeepers look to the commissariat. Their supplies are
not unfrequently deficient in quantity, and, according to my experience,
very often deplorable in quality.
I will not venture to criticise in detail the dishes which are brought to
table, since I am profoundly ignorant of their constitution. It is
commonly said amongst Alpine tourists that goat flesh represents mutton,
and mule does service for beef and chamois. I reserve my own opinion upon
this point until it has been shown what becomes of all the dead mules. But
I may say, I hope, without wounding the susceptibilities of my
acquaintances among the Italian innkeepers, that it would tend to smoothen
their intercourse with their guests if requests for solid food were less
frequently regarded as criminal. The deprecating airs with which inquiries
for really substantial food are received always remind me of a Dauphiné
innkeeper, who remarked that he had heard a good many tourists travel in
Switzerland. “Yes,” I answered, “there are a good many.” “How many?”
“Well,” I said, “I have seen a hundred or more sit down at a table
d’hôte.” He lifted up his hands—“Why,” said he, “they would want meat
every day!” “Yes, that is not improbable.” “In that case,” he replied, “_I
think we are better without them_.”