THE FIRST PASSAGE OF THE COL DOLENT.
“Men willingly believe what they wish.”—CÆSAR.
Freethinking mountaineers have been latterly in the habit of going up one
side of an Alp and coming down the other, and calling the route a pass. In
this confusion of ideas may be recognised the result of the looseness of
thought which arises from the absence of technical education. The true
believer abhors such heresies, and observes with satisfaction that
Providence oftentimes punishes the offenders for their greediness by
causing them to be benighted. The faithful know that passes must be made
_between_ mountains, and not over their tops. Their creed declares that
between any two mountains there _must_ be a pass, and they believe that
the end for which big peaks were created—the office they are especially
designed to fulfil—is to point out the way one should go. This is the true
faith, and there is no other.
We set out upon the 26th of June to endeavour to add one more to the
passes which are strictly orthodox. We hoped, rather than expected, to
discover a quicker route from Courmayeur to Chamounix than the Col du
Géant, which was the easiest, quickest, and most direct pass known at the
time across the main chain of Mont Blanc.(187) The misgivings which I had
as to the result caused us to start at the unusual hour of 12.40 A.M. At
4.30 we passed the chalets of Prè du Bar, and thence, for some distance,
followed the track which we had made upon the ascent of Mont Dolent, over
the glacier of the same name (p. 182). At a quarter past 8 we arrived at
the head of the glacier, and at the foot of the only steep gradient upon
the whole of the ascent.
It was the beau-ideal of a pass. There was a gap in the mountains, with a
big peak on each side (Mount Dolent and the Aig. de Triolet). A narrow
thread of snow led up to the lowest point between those mountains, and the
blue sky beyond said, Directly you arrive here you will begin to go down.
We addressed ourselves to our task, and at 10.15 A.M. arrived at the top
of the pass.
Had things gone as they ought, within six hours more we should have been
at Chamounix. Upon the other side we knew that there was a couloir in
correspondence with that up which we had just come. If it had been filled
with snow all would have been well. It turned out to be filled with ice.
Croz, who led, passed over to the other side, and reported that we should
get down somehow, but I knew from the sound of his axe how the somehow
would be, and settled myself to sketch, well assured that _I_ should not
be wanted for an hour to come. What I saw is shown in the engraving. A
sharp aiguille (nameless), perhaps the sharpest in the whole range, backed
on the left by the Aig. de Triolet; queer blocks of (probably) protogine
sticking out awkwardly through the snow; and a huge cornice from which big
icicles depended, that broke away occasionally and went skiddling down the
slope up which we had come. Of the Argentière side I could not see
anything.
Croz was tied up with our good Manilla rope, and the whole 200 feet were
payed out gradually by Almer and Biener before he ceased working. After
two hours’ incessant toil, he was able to anchor himself to the rock on
his right. He then untied himself, the rope was drawn in, Biener was
attached to the end and went down to join his comrade. There was then room
enough for me to stand by the side of Almer, and I got my first view of
the other side. For the first and only time in my life I looked down a
slope more than a thousand feet long, set at an angle of about 50°, which
was a sheet of ice from top to bottom. It was unbroken by rock or crag,
and anything thrown down it sped away unarrested until the level of the
Glacier d’Argentière was reached. The entire basin of that noble
glacier(188) was spread out at our feet, and the ridge beyond, culminating
in the Aig. d’Argentière, was seen to the greatest advantage. I confess,
however, that I paid very little attention to the view, for there was no
time to indulge in such luxuries. I descended the icy staircase and joined
the others, and then we three drew in the rope tenderly as Almer came
down. His was not an enviable position, but he descended with as much
steadiness as if his whole life had been passed on ice-slopes of 50°. The
process was repeated; Croz again going to the front, and availing himself
very skilfully of the rocks which projected from the cliff on our right.
Our 200 feet of rope again came to an end, and we again descended one by
one. From this point we were able to clamber down by the rocks alone for
about 300 feet. They then became sheer cliff, and we stopped for dinner,
about 2.30 P.M., at the last place upon which we could sit. Four hours’
incessant work had brought us rather more than half-way down the gully. We
were now approaching, although we were still high above, the schrunds at
its base, and the guides made out, in some way unknown to me, that Nature
had perversely placed the only snow-bridge across the topmost one towards
the centre of the gully. It was decided to cut diagonally across the gully
to the point where the snow-bridge was supposed to be. Almer and Biener
undertook the work, leaving Croz and myself firmly planted on the rocks to
pay out the rope to them as they advanced.
[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE COL DOLENT.]
It is generally admitted that veritable ice-slopes (understanding by ice
something more than a crust of hard snow over soft snow) are only rarely
met with in the Alps. They are frequently spoken of, but such as that to
which I refer are _very_ rarely seen, and still more seldom traversed. It
is, however, always possible that they may be encountered, and on this
account, if for no other, it is necessary for men who go mountaineering to
be armed with ice-axes, and with good ones. The form is of more importance
than might be supposed. Of course, if you intend to act as a simple
amateur, and let others do the work, and only follow in their steps, it is
not of much importance what kind of ice-axe you carry, so long as its head
does not fall off, or otherwise behave itself improperly.(189) There is no
better weapon for cutting steps in ice than a common pick-axe, and the
form of ice-axe which is now usually employed by the best guides is very
like a miniature pick. My own axe is copied from Melchior Anderegg’s. It
is of wrought iron, with point and edge steeled. Its weight, including
spiked handle, is four pounds. For cutting steps in ice, the pointed end
of the head is almost exclusively employed; the adze-end is handy for
polishing them up, but is principally used for cutting in hard snow. Apart
from its value as a cutting weapon, it is invaluable as a grapnel. It is
naturally a rather awkward implement when it is not being employed for its
legitimate purpose, and is likely to give rise to much strong language in
crushes at railway termini, unless its head is protected with a leathern
cap, or in some other way. Many attempts have been made, for the sake of
convenience, to fashion an ice-axe with a movable head, but it seems
difficult or impossible to produce one except at the expense of cutting
qualities, and by increasing the weight.
[Illustration: MY ICE-AXE.]
[Illustration: KENNEDY ICE-AXE.]
[Illustration: THE “LESLIE STEPHEN” AXE.]
Mr. T. S. Kennedy (of the firm of Fairbairn & Co.), whose practical
acquaintance with mountaineering, and with the use and manufacture of
tools, makes his opinion particularly valuable, has contrived the best
that I have seen; but even it seems to me to be deficient in rigidity, and
not to be so powerful a weapon as the more common kind with the fixed
head. The simple instrument which is shown in the annexed diagram is the
invention of Mr. Leslie Stephen, and it answers the purposes for which he
devised it, namely, for giving better hold upon snow and ice than can be
obtained from the common alpenstock, and for cutting an occasional step.
The amateur scarcely requires anything more imposing, but for serious
ice-work a heavier weapon is indispensable.
To persons armed with the proper tools, ice-slopes are not so dangerous as
many places which appeal less to the imagination. Their ascent or descent
is necessarily laborious (to those who do the work), and they may
therefore be termed difficult. They _ought_ not to be dangerous. Yet they
always seem dangerous, for one is profoundly convinced that if he slips he
will certainly go to the bottom. Hence, any man, who is not a fool, takes
particular care to preserve his balance, and, in consequence, we have the
noteworthy fact that accidents have seldom or never taken place upon
ice-slopes.
The same slopes covered with snow are much less impressive, and _may_ be
much more dangerous. They may be less slippery, the balance may be more
easily preserved, and if one man slips he may be stopped by his own
personal efforts, provided the snow which over-lies the ice is
consolidated and of a reasonable depth. But if, as is more likely to be
the case upon an angle of 50° (or anything approaching that angle), there
is only a thin stratum of snow which is not consolidated, the occurrence
of a slip will most likely take the entire party as low as possible, and
in addition to the chance of broken necks, there will be a strong
probability that some, at least, will be smothered by the dislodged snow.
Such accidents are far too common, and their occurrence, as a rule, may be
traced to the want of caution which is induced by the apparent absence of
danger.
I do not believe that the use of the rope, in the ordinary way, affords
the least _real_ security upon ice-slopes. Nor do I think that any benefit
is derived from the employment of crampons. Mr. Kennedy was good enough to
present me with a pair some time ago, and one of these has been engraved.
They are the best variety I have seen of the species, but I only feel
comfortable with them on my feet in places where they are not of the
slightest use, that is in situations where there is no possibility of
slipping, and would not wear them upon an ice-slope for any consideration
whatever. All such adventitious aids are useless if you have not a good
step in the ice to stand upon, and if you have got that, nothing more is
wanted except a few nails in the boots.
[Illustration: Crampon]
Almer and Biener got to the end of their tether; the rope no longer
assured their safety, and they stopped work as we advanced and coiled it
up. Shortly afterwards they struck a streak of snow that proved to be just
above the bridge of which they were in search. The slope steepened, and
for thirty feet or so we descended face to the wall, making steps by
kicking with the toes, and thrusting the arms well into the holes above,
just as if they had been rounds in a ladder. At this time we were crossing
the uppermost of the schrunds. Needless to say that the snow was of an
admirable quality; this performance would otherwise have been impossible.
It was soon over, and we then found ourselves upon a huge rhomboidal mass
of ice, and still separated from the Argentière glacier by a gigantic
crevasse. The only bridge over this lower schrund was at its eastern end,
and we were obliged to double back to get to it. Cutting continued for
half-an-hour after it was passed, and it was 5.35 P.M. before the axes
stopped work, and we could at last turn back and look comfortably at the
formidable slope upon which seven hours had been spent.(190)
The Col Dolent is not likely to compete with the Col du Géant, and I would
recommend any person who starts to cross it to allow himself plenty of
time, plenty of rope, and ample guide-power. There is no difficulty
whatever upon any part of the route, excepting upon the steep slopes
immediately below the summit on each side. When we arrived upon the
Glacier d’Argentière, our work was as good as over. We drove a straight
track to the chalets of Lognan, and thence the way led over familiar
ground. Soon after dusk we got into the high road at les Tines, and at 10
P.M. arrived at Chamounix. Our labours were duly rewarded. Houris brought
us champagne and the other drinks which are reserved for the faithful, but
before my share was consumed I fell asleep in an arm-chair. I slept
soundly until daybreak, and then turned into bed and went to sleep again.