THE VAL TOURNANCHE—THE BREUILJOCH—ZERMATT—ASCENT OF THE GRAND
TOURNALIN.
I crossed the Channel on the 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 travelers,
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 portmanteaus! One
of them has discovered something. He has never seen its like before,
and he holds it aloft in the the face of its owner with inquisitorial
insolence: “But _what is_ this?” The explanation is but half
satisfactory “But what is _this?_” says he, laying hold of a little
box. “Powder.” “But that 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-travelers—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 baton in its bowl, and caused the baton 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 Hotel 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 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
learned 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.” Carrel and all the men who had been with me knew of the
existence of the cleft at this point, and of the pinnacle which rose
between it and the final peak, 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 gradually to the right or to the left, to avoid
coming to the top of the notch. But Tyndall’s party, after arriving at
“the shoulder,” were 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 acomplished.” He greatly
deceived himself: by the barometric measurements of Signer 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 four hundred feet over one of the most
difficult parts of the mountain.
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.
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 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 archaeologist, but some difficulty will be found in
approaching them closely.
[Illustration]
We sauntered up the valley, and got to Breuil 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 nine thousand 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 neighboring 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. 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. Carrel and I wandered out again in the
afternoon, and went, first of all, to a favorite spot with tourists
near the end of the Görner 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 afterward appears at the _table d’hôte._
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.
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 forward. 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.
[Illustration: WATER-WORN ROCKS IN THE GORGE BELOW THE GÖRNER GLACIER]
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.
[Illustration: STRIATIONS PRODUCED BY GLACIER ACTION (AT GRINDELWALD)]
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. 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 recognized 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 Seller, excellent man! knowing this, called us
himself, and when he came to my door I answered, “All right, Seller, I
will get up,” and immediately turned over to the other side, saying to
myself, “First of all, ten minutes’ more sleep.” But Seller 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 Seller has acquired his enviable
reputation.
At four A.M. we left his Monte Rosa hotel, and were soon pushing our
way through the thickets of gray alder that skirt the path up the
exquisite little valley which leads to the Z’muttgletscher.
Nothing can seem or be more inaccessible than the Matterhorn upon this
side, and even in cold blood one holds his 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
toward the Z’muttgletscher. Stones which drop from the top of that
amazing wall fall for about fifteen hundred feet before they touch
anything, and those which roll down from above and bound over it fall
to a much greater depth, and leap wellnigh one thousand 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 the 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 is less savage in appearance, but it
is not less impracticable; and 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 but 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. 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 Breuil.
Three years afterward, 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, he is courteous, he can (and probably will)
act as the _master_ of Prerayen if his position is _not_ recognized,
and with all the importance of a man who pays taxes to the extent of
five hundred francs per annum to his government.
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 southwest 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 southwestern 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,
counseled ascending by the long buttress of the Tête de Bella Cia
(which descends toward 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, propose 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), make directly toward 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 favor of Carrel’s
route, and it was accordingly adopted.
The first part of the programme was successfully executed; and at
half-past ten A.M. on the 6th of August we were sitting astride the
western ridge, at a height of about twelve thousand five hundred 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 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 very
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. 1 doubted the
possibility of another man standing upon it without bringing it down.
Then I rebelled. There was no honor to be gained by persevering, or
dishonor 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 reascend by the other route, which was
subsequently shown to be the right way up the mountain.
Four days afterward a party of Englishmen (including my friends W. E.
Hall, Crauford Grove and Reginald Macdonald) arrived in the Valpelline,
and (unaware of our attempt) on the 12th, under the skillful 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, but 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. I have not heard that another
ascent has been made of the Dent d’Erin.
On the 7th of August we crossed the Va Cornère pass, 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 neighborhood, that it was
bound to give a very fine view; and (as the weather continued
unfavorable 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 Breuil, 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 five
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 zigzag 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 conies 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
thirty-five hundred feet above Val Tournanche, and fifteen hundred 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, but 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
toward 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
a 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.
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, clustered around the summit,
totally unaware of our presence; and they scattered in a panic, as if a
shell had burst amongst them, when saluted by the cries of my excited
comrade, plunging 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 toward 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 afterward 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. I recommend the ascent
of the Tournalin to any person who has a day to spare in the Val
Tournanche. 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 ten or
eleven A. M. Toward sunset the equilibrium of the atmosphere is
restored, and the clouds very commonly disappear.
[Illustration: CARREL LOWERED ME DOWN.]
I advise the ascent of this mountain, not on account of its height or
from its accessibility or inacessibility, 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, Dauphine,
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 vapors of the Val
d’Aoste, extends the long line of the Graians, with mountain after
mountain twelve thousand five hundred feet and upward 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 toward 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 downward 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.
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. Marvelous 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 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 most satisfactory
stand-points 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 favorable 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, but thence, down the
glacier, the way was straightforward, and we joined the route taken on
the ascent at the foot of the ridge leading toward the east. In the
evening we returned to Breuil.
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
Maquignazes 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 Maquignazes 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, but it exhibits in a much more
notable manner the characteristic action and power of running water.
The length of the chasm or _gouffre_, is about three hundred and twenty
feet, and from the top of its walls to the surface of the water is
about one hundred and ten feet. At no part can the entire length or
depth be seen at a glance, for, although the width at some places is
fifteen 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 twenty-eight feet across at its largest diameter,
and fifteen or sixteen feet high, roofed above by the living rock, and
with the torrent roaring fifty 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 chiseled 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 with minute depressions, much as the face of one is who has
suffered from smallpox. The edges of these little hollows are
_rounded_, and all the surfaces of the depressions are polished nearly
or quite as highly as the general surface of the fragment. The water
has drilled 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 Breuil 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.
But 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; but 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.