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