THE FIRST ASCENT OF THE POINTE DES ECRINS.
“Filled with high mountains, rearing their heads as if to reach
to heaven, crowned with glaciers, and fissured with immense
chasms, where lie the eternal snows guarded by bare and rugged
cliffs; offering the most varied sights, and enjoying all
temperatures; and containing everything that is most curious and
interesting, the most simple and the most sublime, the most
smiling and the most severe, the most beautiful and the most
awful; such is the department of the High Alps.”
LADOUCETTE.
Before 5 o’clock on the afternoon of June 23, we were trotting down the
steep path that leads into La Bérarde. We put up, of course, with the
chasseur-guide Rodier (who, as usual, was smooth and smiling), and, after
congratulations were over, we returned to the exterior to watch for the
arrival of one Alexander Pic, who had been sent overnight with our baggage
_viâ_ Freney and Venos. But when the night fell, and no Pic appeared, we
saw that our plans must be modified; for he was necessary to our very
existence—he carried our food, our tobacco, our all. So, after some
discussion, it was agreed that a portion of our programme should be
abandoned, that the night of the 24th should be passed at the head of the
Glacier de la Bonne Pierre, and that, on the 25th, a push should be made
for the summit of the Ecrins. We then went to straw.
Our porter Pic strolled in next morning with a very jaunty air, and we
seized upon our tooth-brushes; but, upon looking for the cigars, we found
starvation staring us in the face. “Hullo! Monsieur Pic, where are our
cigars?” “Gentlemen,” he began, “I am desolated!” and then, quite pat, he
told a long rigmarole about a fit on the road, of brigands, thieves, of
their ransacking the knapsacks when he was insensible, and of finding them
gone when he revived! “Ah! Monsieur Pic, we see what it is, you have
smoked them yourself!” “Gentlemen, I never smoke, _never_!” Whereupon we
inquired secretly if he was known to smoke, and found that he was.
However, he said that he had never spoken truer words, and perhaps he had
not, for he is reported to be the greatest liar in Dauphiné!
[Illustration: Map of the central Dauphiné Alps]
We were now able to start, and set out at 1.15 P.M. to bivouac upon the
Glacier de la Bonne Pierre, accompanied by Rodier, who staggered under a
load of blankets. Many slopes had to be mounted, and many torrents to be
crossed, all of which has been described by Mr. Tuckett.(106) We, however,
avoided the difficulties he experienced with the latter by crossing them
high up, where they were subdivided. But when we got on to the moraine on
the right bank of the glacier (or, properly speaking, on to one of the
moraines, for there are several), mists descended, to our great hindrance;
and it was 5.30 before we arrived on the spot at which it was intended to
camp.
Each one selected his nook, and we then joined round a grand fire made by
our men. Fortnum and Mason’s portable soup was sliced up and brewed, and
was excellent; but it should be said that before it _was_ excellent, three
times the quantity named in the directions had to be used. Art is required
in drinking as in making this soup, and one point is this—always let your
friends drink first; not only because it is more polite, but because the
soup has a tendency to burn the mouth if taken too hot, and one drink of
the bottom is worth two of the top, as all the goodness settles.
[While engaged in these operations, the mist that enveloped the glacier
and surrounding peaks was becoming thinner; little bits of blue sky
appeared here and there, until suddenly, when we were looking towards the
head of the glacier, far, far above us, at an almost inconceivable height,
in a tiny patch of blue, appeared a wonderful rocky pinnacle, bathed in
the beams of the fast-sinking sun. We were so electrified by the glory of
the sight that it was some seconds before we realised what we saw, and
understood that that astounding point, removed apparently miles from the
earth, was one of the highest summits of Les Ecrins; and that we hoped,
before another sun had set, to have stood upon an even loftier pinnacle.
The mists rose and fell, presenting us with a series of dissolving views
of ravishing grandeur, and finally died away, leaving the glacier and its
mighty bounding precipices under an exquisite pale blue sky, free from a
single speck of cloud.]
The night passed over without anything worth mention, but we had had
occasion to observe in the morning an instance of the curious evaporation
that is frequently noticeable in the High Alps. On the previous night we
had hung up on a knob of rock our mackintosh bag containing five bottles
of Rodier’s bad wine. In the morning, although the stopper appeared to
have been in all night, about four-fifths had evaporated. It was strange;
my friends had not taken any, neither had I, and the guides each declared
that they had not seen any one touch it. In fact it was clear that there
was no explanation of the phenomenon, but in the dryness of the air. Still
it is remarkable that the dryness of the air (or the evaporation of wine)
is always greatest when a stranger is in one’s party—the dryness caused by
the presence of even a single Chamounix porter is sometimes so great, that
not four-fifths but the entire quantity disappears. For a time I found
difficulty in combating this phenomenon, but at last discovered that if I
used the wine-flask as a pillow during the night, the evaporation was
completely stopped.
At 4 A.M. we moved off across the glacier in single file towards the foot
of a great gully, which led from the upper slopes of the glacier de la
Bonne Pierre, to the lowest point in the ridge that runs from the Ecrins
to the mountain called Roche Faurio,—cheered by Rodier, who now returned
with his wraps to La Bérarde. This gully (or _couloir_) was discovered and
descended by Mr. Tuckett, and we will now return for a minute to the
explorations of that accomplished mountaineer.
In the year 1862 he had the good fortune to obtain from the _Dépôt de la
Guerre_ at Paris, a MS. copy of the then unpublished sheet 189 of the map
of France, and with it in hand, he swept backwards and forwards across the
central Dauphiné Alps, untroubled by the doubts as to the identity of
peaks, which had perplexed Mr. Macdonald and myself in 1861; and,
enlightened by it, he was able to point out (which he did in the fairest
manner) that we had confounded the Ecrins with another mountain—the Pic
Sans Nom. We made this blunder through imperfect knowledge of the district
and inaccurate reports of the natives;—but it was not an extraordinary one
(the two mountains are not unlike each other), considering the difficulty
that there is in obtaining from any except the very highest summits a
complete view of this intricate group.
The situations of the principal summits can be perceived at a glance on
the accompanying map, which is a reproduction of a portion of sheet 189.
The main ridge of the chain runs, at this part, nearly north and south.
Roche Faurio, at the northern extreme, is 3716 mètres, or 12,192 feet,
above the level of the sea. The lowest point between that mountain and the
Ecrins (the Col des Ecrins) is 11,000 feet. The ridge again rises, and
passes 13,000 feet in the neighbourhood of the Ecrins. The highest summit
of that mountain (13,462 feet) is, however, placed a little to the east of
and off the main ridge. It then again falls, and in the vicinity of the
Col de la Tempe it is, perhaps, below 11,000 feet; but immediately to the
south of the summit of that pass, there is upon the ridge a point which
has been determined by the French surveyors to be 12,323 feet. This peak
is without a name. The ridge continues to gain height as we come to the
south, and culminates in the mountain which the French surveyors have
called Sommet de l’Aile Froide. On the spot it is called, very commonly,
the Aléfroide.
There is some uncertainty respecting the elevation of this mountain. The
Frenchmen give 3925 mètres (12,878) as its highest point, but Mr. Tuckett,
who took a good theodolite to the top of Mont Pelvoux (which he agreed
with his predecessors had an elevation of 12,973 feet), found that the
summit of the Aléfroide was elevated above his station 4′; and as the
distance between the two points was 12,467 feet, this would represent a
difference in altitude of 5 mètres in favour of the Aléfroide. I saw this
mountain from the summit of Mont Pelvoux in 1861, and was in doubt as to
which of the two was the higher, and in 1864, from the summit of the
Pointe des Ecrins (as will presently be related), it looked actually
higher than Mont Pelvoux. I have therefore little doubt but that Mr.
Tuckett is right in believing the Aléfroide to have an elevation of about
13,000 feet, instead of 12,878, as determined by the French surveyors.
Mont Pelvoux is to the east of the Aléfroide and off the main ridge, and
the Pic Sans Nom (12,845 feet) is placed between these two mountains. The
latter is one of the grandest of the Dauphiné peaks, but it is shut in by
the other mountains, and is seldom seen except from a distance, and then
is usually confounded with the neighbouring summits. Its name has been
accidentally omitted on the map, but its situation is represented by the
large patch of rocks, nearly surrounded by glaciers, that is seen between
the words Ailefroide and Mt. Pelvoux.
The lowest depression on the main ridge to the south of the Aléfroide is
the Col du Selé, and this, according to Mr. Tuckett, is 10,834 feet. The
ridge soon rises again, and, a little farther to the south, joins another
ridge running nearly east and west. To a mountain at the junction of these
two ridges the Frenchmen have given the singular name Crête des Bœufs
Rouges! The highest point hereabouts is 11,332 feet; and a little to the
west there is another peak (Mont Bans) of 11,979 feet. The main ridge runs
from this last-named point, in a north-westerly direction, to the Cols de
Says, both of which exceed 10,000 feet.
It will thus be seen that the general elevation of this main ridge is
almost equal to that of the range of Mont Blanc, or of the central Pennine
Alps; and if we were to follow it out more completely, or to follow the
other ridges surrounding or radiating from it, we should find that there
is a remarkable absence, throughout the entire district, of low gaps and
depressions, and that there are an extraordinary number of peaks of medium
elevation.(107) The difficulty which explorers have experienced in
Dauphiné in identifying peaks, has very much arisen from the elevation of
the ridges generally being more uniform than is commonly found in the
Alps, and the consequent facile concealment of one point by another. The
difficulty has been enhanced by the narrowness and erratic courses of the
valleys.
The possession of the “advanced copy” of sheet 189 of the French map,
enabled Mr. Tuckett to grasp most of what I have just said, and much more;
and he added, in 1862, three interesting passes across this part of the
chain to those already known. The first, from Ville Vallouise to La
Bérarde, _viâ_ the village of Claux, and the glaciers du Selé and de la
Pilatte,—this he called the Col du Selé; the second, between Ville
Vallouise and Villar d’Arène (on the Lautaret road) _viâ_ Claux and the
glaciers Blanc and d’Arsine,—the Col du Glacier Blanc; and the third, from
Vallouise to La Bérarde, _viâ_ the Glacier Blanc, the Glacier de l’Encula,
and the Glacier de la Bonne Pierre, the Col des Ecrins.
This last pass was discovered accidentally. Mr. Tuckett set out intending
to endeavour to ascend the Pointe des Ecrins, but circumstances were
against him, as he relates in the following words:—“Arrived on the
plateau” (of the Glacier de l’Encula), “a most striking view of the Ecrins
burst upon us, and a hasty inspection encouraged us to hope that its
ascent would be practicable. On the sides of La Bérarde and the Glacier
Noir it presents, as has been already stated, the most precipitous and
inaccessible faces that can well be conceived; but in the direction of the
Glacier de l’Encula, as the upper plateau of the Glacier Blanc is named on
the French map, the slopes are less rapid, and immense masses of _névé_
and _séracs_ cover it nearly to the summit.”
“The snow was in very bad order, and as we sank at each step above the
knee, it soon became evident that our prospects of success were extremely
doubtful. A nearer approach, too, disclosed traces of fresh avalanches,
and after much deliberation and a careful examination through the
telescope, it was decided that the chances in our favour were too small to
render it desirable to waste time in the attempt.... I examined the map,
from which I perceived that the glacier seen through the gap” (in the
ridge running from Roche Faurio to the Ecrins) “to the west, at a great
depth below, must be that of La Bonne Pierre; and if a descent to its head
was practicable, a passage might probably be effected to La Bérarde. On
suggesting to Croz and Perrn that, though baffled by the state of the snow
on the Ecrins, we might still achieve something of interest and importance
by discovering a new col, they both heartily assented, and in a few
minutes Perrn was over the edge, and cutting his way down the rather
formidable _couloir_,” etc. etc.(108)
This was the couloir at the foot of which we found ourselves at daybreak
on the 25th of June 1864; but before commencing the relation of our doings
upon that eventful day, I must recount the experiences of Messrs. Mathews
and Bonney in 1862.
These gentlemen, with the two Croz’s, attempted the ascent of the Ecrins a
few weeks after Mr. Tuckett had inspected the mountain. On August 26, says
Mr. Bonney, “we pushed on, and our hopes each moment rose higher and
higher; even the cautious Michel committed himself so far as to cry, ‘Ah,
malheureux Ecrins, vous serez bientôt morts,’ as we addressed ourselves to
the last slope leading up to the foot of the final cone. The old proverb
about ‘many a slip’ was, however, to prove true on this occasion. Arrived
at the top of this slope, we found that we were cut off from the peak by a
formidable bergschrund, crossed by the rottenest of snow-bridges. We
looked to the right and to the left, to see whether it would be possible
to get on either arête at its extremity; but instead of rising directly
from the snow as they appeared to do from below, they were terminated by a
wall of rock some forty feet high. There was but one place where the
bergschrund was narrow enough to admit of crossing, and there a cliff of
ice had to be climbed, and then a path to be cut up a steep slope of snow,
before the arête could be reached. At last, after searching in vain for
some time, Michel bade us wait a little, and started off to explore the
gap separating the highest peak from the snow-dome on the right, and see
if it were possible to ascend the rocky wall. Presently he appeared,
evidently climbing with difficulty, and at last stood on the arête itself.
Again we thought the victory was won, and started off to follow him.
Suddenly he called to us to halt, and turned to descend. In a few minutes
he stopped. After a long pause he shouted to his brother, saying that he
was not able to return by the way he had ascended. Jean was evidently
uneasy about him, and for some time we watched him with much anxiety. At
length he began to hew out steps in the snow along the face of the peak
towards us. Jean now left us, and, making for the ice-cliff mentioned
above, chopped away until, after about a quarter of an hour’s labour, he
contrived, somehow or other, to worm himself up it, and began to cut steps
to meet his brother. Almost every step appeared to be cut right through
the snowy crust into the hard ice below, and an incipient stream of snow
came hissing down the sides of the peak as they dug it away with their
axes. Michel could not have been much more than 100 yards from us, and yet
it was full three quarters of an hour before the brothers met. This done,
they descended carefully, burying their axe-heads deep in the snow at
every step.
“Michel’s account was that he had reached the arête with great difficulty,
and saw that it was practicable for some distance, in fact, as far as he
could see; but that the snow was in a most dangerous condition, being very
incoherent and resting on hard ice; that when he began to descend in order
to tell us this, he found the rocks so smooth and slippery that return was
impossible; and that for some little time he feared that he should not be
able to extricate himself, and was in considerable danger. Of course the
arête could have been reached by the way our guides had descended, but it
was so evident that their judgment was against proceeding, that we did not
feel justified in urging them on. We had seen so much of them that we felt
sure they would never hang back unless there was real danger, and so we
gave the word for retreating.”(109)
On both of these expeditions there was fine weather and plenty of time. On
each occasion the parties slept out at, and started from, a considerable
elevation, and arrived at the base of the final peak of the Ecrins early
in the day, and with plenty of superfluous energy. Guides and travellers
alike, on each occasion, were exceptional men, experienced mountaineers,
who had proved their skill and courage on numerous antecedent occasions,
and who were not accustomed to turn away from a thing merely because it
was difficult. On each occasion the attempts were abandoned because the
state of the snow on and below the final peak was such that avalanches
were anticipated; and, according to the judgment of those who were
concerned, there was such an amount of positive danger from this condition
of things, that it was unjustifiable to persevere.
We learnt privately, from Messrs. Mathews, Bonney, and Tuckett, that
unless the snow was in a good state upon the final peak (that is to say,
coherent and stable), we should probably be of the same opinion as
themselves; and that, although the face of the mountain fronting the
Glacier de l’Encula was much less steep than its other faces, and was
apparently the _only_ side upon which an attempt was at all likely to be
successful, it was, nevertheless, so steep, that for several days, at
least, after a fall of snow upon it, the chances in favour of avalanches
would be considerable.
The reader need scarcely be told, after all that has been said about the
variableness of weather in the High Alps, the chance was small indeed that
we should find upon the 25th of June, or any other set day, the precise
condition of affairs that was deemed indispensable for success. We had
such confidence in the judgment of our friends, that it was understood
amongst us the ascent should be abandoned, unless the conditions were
manifestly favourable.
[Illustration: The Pointe des Ecrins from the Col du Galibier]
By five minutes to six we were at the top of the gully (a first-rate
couloir, about 1000 feet high), and within sight of our work. Hard, thin,
and wedge-like as the Ecrins had looked from afar, it had never looked so
hard and so thin as it did when we emerged from the top of the couloir
through the gap in the ridge. No tender shadows spoke of broad and rounded
ridges, but sharp and shadowless its serrated edges stood out against the
clear sky.(110) It had been said that the route must be taken by one of
the ridges of the final peak, but both were alike repellent, hacked and
notched in numberless places. They reminded me of my failure on the Dent
d’Hérens in 1863, and of a place on a similar ridge, from which advance or
retreat was alike difficult. But, presuming one or other of these ridges
or arêtes was practicable, there remained the task of getting to them, for
completely round the base of the final peak swept an enormous bergschrund,
almost separating it from the slopes which lay beneath. It was evident
thus early that the ascent would not be accomplished without exertion, and
that it would demand all our faculties and all our time. In more than one
respect we were favoured. The mists were gone, the day was bright and
perfectly calm; there had been a long stretch of fine weather beforehand,
and the snow was in excellent order; and, most important of all, the last
new snow which had fallen on the final peak, unable to support itself, had
broken away and rolled in a mighty avalanche, over schrund, névé, séracs,
over hills and valleys in the glacier (levelling one and filling the
other), completely down to the summit of the Col des Ecrins, where it lay
in huge jammed masses, powerless to harm us; and had made a broad track,
almost a road, over which, for part of the way at least, we might advance
with rapidity.
We took in all this in a few minutes, and seeing there was no time to be
lost, despatched a hasty meal, left knapsacks, provisions, and all
incumbrances by the Col, started again at half-past six, and made direct
for the left side of the schrund, for it was there alone that a passage
was practicable. We crossed it at 8.10. Our route can now be followed upon
the annexed outline. The arrow marked *D* points out the direction of the
Glacier de la Bonne Pierre. The ridge in front, that extends right across,
is the ridge that is partially shown on the top of the map at p. 146,
leading from Roche Faurio towards the W.N.W. We arrived upon the plateau
of the Glacier de l’Encula, behind this ridge, from the direction of *D*,
and then made a nearly straight track to the left hand of the bergschrund
at *A*.
[Illustration: Outline to show route up Pointe des Ecrins]
Thus far there was no trouble, but the nature of the work changed
immediately. If we regard the upper 700 feet alone of the final peak of
the Ecrins, it may be described as a three-sided pyramid. One face is
towards the Glacier Noir, and forms one of the sheerest precipices in the
Alps. Another is towards the Glacier du Vallon, and is less steep, and
less uniform in angle than the first. The third is towards the Glacier de
l’Encula, and it was by this one we approached the summit. Imagine a
triangular plane, 700 or 800 feet high, set at an angle exceeding 50°; let
it be smooth, glassy; let the uppermost edges be cut into spikes and
teeth, and let them be bent, some one way, some another. Let the glassy
face be covered with minute fragments of rock, scarcely attached, but
varnished with ice; imagine this, and then you will have a very faint idea
of the face of the Ecrins on which we stood. It was not possible to avoid
detaching stones, which, as they fell, cause words unmentionable to rise.
The greatest friends would have reviled each other in such a situation. We
gained the eastern arête, and endeavoured for half-an-hour to work upwards
towards the summit; but it was useless (each yard of progress cost an
incredible time); and having no desire to form the acquaintance of the
Glacier Noir in a precipitate manner, we beat a retreat, and returned to
the schrund. We again held a council, and it was unanimously decided that
we should be beaten if we could not cut along the upper edge of the
schrund, and, when nearly beneath the summit, work up to it. So Croz took
off his coat and went to work;—on ice,—not that black ice so often
mentioned and so seldom seen, but on ice as hard as ice could be. Weary
work for the guides. Croz cut for more than half-an-hour, and we did not
seem to have advanced at all. Some one behind, seeing how great the labour
was, and how slow the progress, suggested that after all we might do
better on the arête. Croz’s blood was up, and indignant at this slight on
his powers, he ceased working, turned in his steps, and rushed towards me
with a haste that made me shudder: “By all means let us go there, the
sooner the better.” No slight was intended, and he resumed his work, after
a time being relieved by Almer. Half-past ten came; an hour had passed;
they were still cutting. Dreary work for us, for no capering about could
be done here; hand as well as foot holes were necessary; the fingers and
toes got very cold; the ice, as it boomed in bounding down the
bergschrund, was very suggestive; conversation was very restricted,
separated as we were by our tether of 20 feet apiece. Another hour passed.
We were now almost immediately below the summit, and we stopped to look
up. We were nearly as far off it (vertically) as we had been more than
three hours before. The day seemed going against us. The only rocks near
at hand were scattered; no bigger than tea-cups, and most of these, we
found afterwards, were glazed with ice. Time forbade cutting right up to
the summit, even had it been possible, which it was not. We decided to go
up to the ridge again by means of the rocks; but had we not had a certain
confidence in each other, it unquestionably would not have been done; for
this, it must be understood, was a situation where not only _might_ a slip
have been fatal to every one, but it would have been so beyond doubt:
nothing, moreover, was easier than to make one. It was a place where all
had to work in unison, where there must be no slackening of the rope, and
no unnecessary tension. For another hour we were in this trying situation,
and at 12.30 we gained the arête again at a much higher point (*B*), close
to the summit. Our men were, I am afraid, well-nigh worn out. Cutting up a
couloir 1000 feet high was not the right sort of preparation for work of
this kind. Be it so or not, we were all glad to rest for a short time, for
we had not sat down a minute since leaving the col six hours before.
Almer, however, was restless, knowing that midday was past, and that much
remained to be accomplished, and untied himself, and commenced working
towards the summit. Connecting the teeth of rock were beds of snow, and
Almer, only a few feet from me, was crossing the top of one of these, when
suddenly, without a moment’s warning, it broke away under him, and plunged
down on to the glacier. As he staggered for a second, one foot in the act
of stepping, and the other on the falling mass, I thought him lost; but he
happily fell on to the right side and stopped himself. Had he taken the
step with his right instead of the left foot, he would, in all
probability, have fallen several hundred feet without touching anything,
and would not have been arrested before reaching the glacier, a vertical
distance of at least 3000 feet.
Small, ridiculously small, as the distance was to the summit, we were
occupied nearly another hour before it was gained. Almer was a few feet in
front, and he, with characteristic modesty, hesitated to step on the
highest point, and drew back to allow us to pass. A cry was raised for
Croz, who had done the chief part of the work, but he declined the honour,
and we marched on to the top simultaneously; that is to say, clustered
round it, a yard or two below, for it was much too small to get upon.
According to my custom, I bagged a piece from off the highest rock
(chlorite slate), and I found afterwards that it had a striking similarity
to the final peak of the Ecrins. I have noticed the same thing on other
occasions,(111) and it is worthy of remark that not only do fragments of
such rock as limestone often present the characteristic forms of the
cliffs from which they have been broken, but that morsels of mica slate
will represent, in a wonderful manner, the identical shape of the peaks of
which they have formed part. Why should it not be so if the mountain’s
mass is more or less homogeneous? The same causes which produce the small
forms fashion the large ones; the same influences are at work; the same
frost and rain give shape to the mass as well as to its parts.
[Illustration: FRAGMENT FROM THE SUMMIT OF THE POINTE DES ECRINS.]
Did space permit me, I could give a very poor idea of the view, but it
will be readily imagined that a panorama extending over as much ground as
the whole of England is one worth taking some trouble to see, and one
which is not often to be seen even in the Alps. No clouds obscured it, and
a list of the summits that we saw would include nearly all the highest
peaks of the chain. I saw the Pelvoux now—as I had seen the Ecrins from it
three years before—across the basin of the Glacier Noir. It is a splendid
mountain, although in height it is equalled, if not surpassed, by its
neighbour the Aléfroide.
We could stay on the summit only a short time, and at a quarter to two
prepared for the descent. Now, as we looked down, and thought of what we
had passed over in coming up, we one and all hesitated about returning the
same way. Moore said, no. Walker said the same, and I too; the guides were
both of the same mind: this, be it remarked, although we had considered
that there was no chance whatever of getting up any other way. But those
“last rocks” were not to be forgotten. Had they only protruded to a
moderate extent, or had they been merely glazed, we should doubtless still
have tried: but they were not reasonable rocks,—they would neither allow
us to hold, nor would do it themselves. So we turned to the western arête,
trusting to luck that we should find a way down to the schrund, and some
means of getting over it afterwards. Our faces were a tolerable index to
our thoughts, and apparently the thoughts of the party were not happy
ones. Had any one then said to me, “You are a great fool for coming here,”
I should have answered with humility, “It is too true.” And had my monitor
gone on to say, “Swear you will never ascend another mountain if you get
down safely,” I am inclined to think I should have taken the oath. In
fact, the game here was not worth the risk. The guides felt it as well as
ourselves, and as Almer led off, he remarked, with more piety than logic,
“The good God has brought us up, and he will take us down in safety,”
which showed pretty well what _he_ was thinking about.
The ridge down which we now endeavoured to make our way was not inferior
in difficulty to the other. But were serrated to an extent that made it
impossible to keep strictly to them, and obliged us to descend
occasionally for some distance on the northern face and then mount again.
Both were so rotten that the most experienced of our party, as well as the
least, continually upset blocks large and small. Both arêtes were so
narrow, so thin, that it was often a matter for speculation on which side
an unstable block would fall.
At one point it seemed that we should be obliged to return to the summit
and try the other way down. We were on the very edge of the arête. On one
side was the enormous precipice facing the Pelvoux, which is not far from
perpendicular; on the other a slope exceeding 50°. A deep notch brought us
to an abrupt halt. Almer, who was leading, advanced cautiously to the edge
on hands and knees, and peered over; his care was by no means unnecessary,
for the rocks had broken away from under us unexpectedly several times. In
this position he gazed down for some moments, and then, without a word,
turned his head and looked at us. His face _may_ have expressed
apprehension or alarm, but it certainly did not show hope or joy. We
learned that there was no means of getting down, and that we must, if we
wanted to pass the notch, jump across on to an unstable block on the other
side. It was decided that it should be done, and Almer, with a larger
extent of rope than usual, jumped. The rock swayed as he came down upon
it, but he clutched a large mass with both arms and brought himself to
anchor. That which was both difficult and dangerous for the first man was
easy enough for the others, and we got across with less trouble than I
expected; stimulated by Croz’s perfectly just observation, that if we
couldn’t get across there we were not likely to get down the other way.
We had now arrived at *C* and could no longer continue on the arête, so we
commenced descending the face again. Before long we were close to the
schrund, but unable to see what it was like at this part, as the upper
edge bent over. Two hours had already passed since leaving the summit, and
it began to be highly probable that we should have to spend a night on the
Glacier Blanc. Almer, who yet led, cut steps right down to the edge, but
still he could not see below; therefore, warning us to hold tight, he made
his whole body rigid, and (standing in the large step which he had cut for
the purpose), had the upper part of his person lowered out until he saw
what he wanted. He shouted that our work was finished, made me come close
to the edge and untie myself, advanced the others until he had rope
enough, and then with a loud _jödel_ jumped down on to soft snow. Partly
by skill and partly by luck he had hit the crevasse at its easiest point,
and we had only to make a downward jump of eight or ten feet.
We had been more than eight hours and a half accomplishing the ascent of
the final peak, which, according to an observation by Mr. Bonney in 1862,
is only 525 feet high.(112) During this period we had not stopped for more
than half-an-hour, and our nerves and muscles had been kept at the highest
degree of tension the whole time. It may be imagined that we accepted the
ordinary conditions of glacier travelling as an agreeable relief, and that
that which at another time might have seemed formidable we treated as the
veriest bagatelle. Late in the day as it was, and soft as was the snow, we
put on such pace that we reached the Col des Ecrins in less than forty
minutes. We lost no time in arranging our baggage, for we had still to
traverse a long glacier, and to get clear of two ice-falls before it was
dark; so, at 5.35 we resumed the march, adjourning eating and drinking,
and put on a spurt which took us clear of the Glacier Blanc by 7.45
P.M.(113) We got off the moraine of the Glacier Noir at 8.45, just as the
last remnant of daylight vanished. Croz and myself were a trifle in
advance of the others, and fortunately so for us; for as they were about
to commence the descent of the snout of the glacier, the whole of the
moraine that rested on its face peeled off, and came down with a
tremendous roar.
We had now the pleasure of walking over a plain that is known by the name
of the Pré de Madame Carle, covered with pebbles of all sizes, and
intersected by numerous small streams or torrents. Every hole looked like
a stone, every stone like a hole, and we tumbled about from side to side
until our limbs and our tempers became thoroughly jaded. My companions,
being both short-sighted, found the travelling especially disagreeable; so
there was little wonder that when we came upon a huge mass of rock as big
as a house, which had fallen from the flanks of Pelvoux, a regular cube
that offered no shelter whatever, Moore cried out in ecstasy, “Oh, how
delightful! the very thing I have been longing for. Let us have a
perfectly extemporaneous bivouac.” This, it should be said, was when the
night threatened thunder and lightning, rain, and all other delights.
The pleasures of a perfectly extemporaneous bivouac under these
circumstances not being novelties to Croz and myself, we thought we would
try for the miseries of a roof; but Walker and Almer, with their usual
good nature, declared it was the very thing that they, too, were longing
for; so the trio resolved to stop. We generously left them all the
provisions (a dozen cubic inches or thereabouts of bacon fat, and half a
candle), and pushed on for the chalets of Aléfroide, or at least we
thought we did, but could not be certain. In the course of half-an-hour we
got uncommonly close to the main torrent, and Croz all at once
disappeared. I stepped cautiously forward to peer down into the place
where I thought he was, and quietly tumbled head over heels into a big
rhododendron bush. Extricating myself with some trouble, I fell backwards
over some rocks, and got wedged in a cleft so close to the torrent that it
splashed all over me.
The colloquy which then ensued amid the thundering of the stream was as
follows:—
“Hullo, Croz!” “Eh, Monsieur.” “Where _are_ you?” “Here, Monsieur.” “Where
_is_ here?” “I don’t know; where are _you_?” “Here, Croz;” and so on.
The fact was, from the intense darkness, and the noise of the torrent, we
had no idea of each other’s situation. In the course of ten minutes,
however, we joined together again, agreed we had had quite enough of that
kind of thing, and adjourned to a most eligible rock at 10.15.
How well I remember the night at that rock, and the jolly way in which
Croz came out! We were both very wet about the legs, and both uncommonly
hungry, but the time passed pleasantly enough round our fire of juniper,
and until long past midnight we sat up recounting, over our pipes,
wonderful stories of the most incredible description, in which I must
admit, my companion beat me hollow. Then throwing ourselves on our beds of
rhododendron, we slept an untroubled sleep, and rose on a bright Sunday
morning as fresh as might be, intending to enjoy a day’s rest and luxury
with our friends at La Ville de Val Louise.
[Illustration: A NIGHT WITH CROZ.]
I have failed to give the impression I wish if it has not been made
evident that the ascent of the Pointe des Ecrins was not an ordinary piece
of work. There is an increasing disposition now-a-days amongst those who
write on the Alps, to underrate the difficulties and dangers which are met
with, and this disposition is, I think, not less mischievous than the
old-fashioned style of making everything terrible. Difficult as we found
the peak, I believe we took it at the best, perhaps the only possible,
time of the year. The great slope on which we spent so much time was, from
being denuded by the avalanche of which I have spoken, deprived of its
greatest danger. Had it had the snow still resting upon it, and had we
persevered with the expedition, we should almost without doubt have ended
with calamity instead of success. The ice of that slope is always below,
its angle is severe, and the rocks do not project sufficiently to afford
the support that snow requires, to be stable, when at a great angle. So
far am I from desiring to tempt any one to repeat the expedition, that I
put it on record as my belief, however sad and however miserable a man may
have been, if he is found on the summit of the Pointe des Ecrins after a
fall of new snow, he is likely to experience misery far deeper than
anything with which he has hitherto been acquainted.(114)