_OVER THE MORO._
I had only seen one half of Monte Rosa; and from the Italian side the
aspect of the mountain was unknown to me. I had been upon the Monte
Moro three years ago, but looked from it merely into an infinite sea
of haze. To complete my knowledge of the mountain it was necessary to
go to Macugnaga, and over the Moro I accordingly resolved to go. But
resolution had as yet taken no deep root, and on reaching Saas I was
beset by the desire to cross the Alphubel. Bennen called me at three;
but over the pass grey clouds were hanging, and, determined not to mar
this fine excursion by choosing an imperfect day, I then gave it up. At
seven o’clock, however, all trace of cloud had disappeared; it had been
merely a local gathering of no importance, which the first sunbeams
resolved into transparency. It was now, however, too late to think
of the Alphubel, so I reverted to my original design, and at 9 A.M.
started up the valley towards Mattmark. A party of friends in advance
contributed strongly to draw me on in this direction.
Onward then we went through the soft green meadows, with the river
sounding to our right. The sun showered gold upon the pines, and
brought richly out the colouring of the rocks. The blue wood-smoke
ascended from the hamlets, and the companionable grasshopper sang
and chirruped right and left. High up the sides of the mountains the
rocks were planed down to tablets by the ancient glaciers. The valley
narrowed, and we skirted a pile of moraine-like matter, which was roped
compactly together by the roots of the pines. Huge blocks here choke
the channel of the river, and raise its murmurs to a roar. We emerge
from shade into sunshine, and observe the smoke of a distant cataract
jetting from the side of the mountain. Crags and boulders are here
heaped in confusion upon the hill-side, and among them the hardy trees
find a lodgment, asking no nutriment from the stones--asking only a
pedestal on which they may plant their trunks and lift their branches
into the nourishing air. Then comes the cataract itself, plunging in
rhythmic gushes down the shining rocks.
The valley again opens, and finds room for a little hamlet--dingy
hovels, with a white little church in the midst of them; patches of
green meadow and yellow rye, with the gleam of the river here and
there. The moon hangs over the Mischabelhörner, turning a face which
ever waxes paler towards the sun. The valley in the distance seems shut
in by the Allalein glacier, which is approached amid the waterworn
boulders strewn by the river in its hours of turbulence. The rounded
rocks are now beautified with lichens, and scattered trees glimmer
among the heaps. Nature heals herself. She feeds the glacier and planes
the mountains down. She fuses the glacier and exposes the dead rocks.
But instantly her energies are exerted to neutralise the desolation,
clothing the crags with beauty, and sending the wandering wind in
melody through the branches of the pines.
At the Mattmark hotel, which stands at the foot of the Monte Moro,
I was joined by a gentleman who had just liberated himself from an
unpleasant guide. Bennen halted on the way to adjust his knapsack,
while my companion and myself went on. We lost sight of my guide, lost
the track also, and clambered over crag and snow to the summit, where
we waited till Bennen arrived. The mass of Monte Rosa here grandly
revealed itself from top to bottom. Dark cliffs and white snows were
finely contrasted, and the longer I looked at it, the more noble and
impressive did the mountain appear. We were very soon clear of the
snow, and went straight down the declivity towards Macugnaga.
We put up at the Monte Moro, where a party of friends greeted me with
a vociferous welcome. This was my first visit to Macugnaga, and, save
as a caldron for the generation of fogs, I knew scarcely anything about
it. But there were no fogs there at the time to which I refer, and the
place wore quite a charmed aspect. I walked out alone in the evening,
up through the meadow towards the base of Monte Rosa, and on no other
occasion have I seen peace, beauty, and grandeur so harmoniously
blended. Earth and air were exquisite, and I returned to the hotel
brimful of content.
Monte Rosa with her peaks and spurs builds here a noble amphitheatre.
From the heart of the mountain creeps the Macugnaga glacier. To the
right a precipitous barrier extends to the Cima di Jazzi, and between
the latter and Monte Rosa this barrier is scarred by two couloirs, one
of which, or the cliff beside it, has the reputation of forming the
old pass of the Weissthor. It had long been uncertain whether this
so-called ‘Alter Pass’ had ever been used as such, and many superior
mountaineers deemed it from inspection to be impracticable. All doubt
on this point was removed this year; for Mr. Tuckett, led by Bennen,
had crossed the barrier by the couloir most distant from Monte Rosa,
and consequently nearest to the Cima di Jazzi. As I stood in front of
the hotel in the afternoon, I said to Bennen that I should like to try
the pass on the following day; in ten minutes afterwards the plan of
our expedition was arranged. We were to start before the dawn, and, to
leave Bennen’s hands free, a muscular young fellow named Andermatten
was engaged to carry our provisions. It was also proposed to vary the
proceedings by assailing the ridge by the couloir nearest to Monte
Rosa.