FROM ST. MICHEL TO LA BÉRARDE ON THE MONT CENIS ROAD, BY THE COL DES
AIGUILLES, D’ARVE, COL DE MARTIGNARE AND THE BRÈCHE DE LA MEIJE.
When we arrived upon the highest summit of Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphine,
in 1861, we saw, to our surprise and disappointment, that it was not
the culminating point of the district, and that another mountain,
distant about a couple of miles, and separated from us by an impassable
gulf, claimed that distinction. I was troubled in spirit about this
mountain, and my thoughts often reverted to the great wall-sided peak,
second in apparent inaccessibility only to the Matterhorn. It had,
moreover, another claim to attention—it was the highest mountain _in_
France.
The year 1862 passed away without a chance of getting to it, and my
holiday was too brief in 1863 even to think about it; but in the
following year it was possible, and I resolved to set my mind at rest
by completing the task which had been left unfinished in 1861.
In the mean time, others had turned their attention to Dauphine. First
of all (in 1862) came Mr. F. Tuckett—that mighty mountaineer, whose
name is known throughout the length and breadth of the Alps—with the
guides Michel Croz, Peter Perm and Bartolommeo Peyrotte, and great
success attended his arms. But Mr. Tuckett halted before the Pointe des
Écrins, and, dismayed by its appearance, withdrew his forces to gather
less dangerous laurels elsewhere. His expedition, however, threw some
light upon the Écrins. He pointed out the direction from which an
attack was most likely to be successful, and Mr. William Mathews and
the Rev. T. G. Bonney (to whom he communicated the result of his
labors) attempted to execute the ascent, with the brothers Michel and
J. B. Croz, by following his indications, but they too were defeated.
[Illustration: MICHEL-AUGUSTE CROZ (1865)]
The guide Michel Croz had thus been engaged in both of these
expeditions in Dauphiné, and I naturally looked to him for assistance.
Mr. Mathews (to whom I applied for information) gave him a high
character, and concluded his reply to me by saying “he was only happy
when upward of ten thousand feet high.”
I know what my friend meant. Croz was happiest when he was employing
his powers to the utmost. Places where you and I would “toil and sweat,
and yet be freezing cold,” were bagatelles to him, and it was only when
he got above the range of ordinary mortals, and was required to employ
his magnificent strength and to draw upon his unsurpassed knowledge of
ice and snow, that he could be said to be really and truly happy.
Of all the guides with whom I traveled, Michel Croz was the man who was
most after my own heart. He did not work like a blunt razor and take to
his toil unkindly. He did not need urging or to be told a second time
to do anything. You had but to say _what_ was to be done and _how_ it
was to be done, and the work _was_ done if it was possible. Such men
are not common, and when they are known they are valued. Michel was not
widely known, but those who did know him came again and again. The
inscription placed upon his tomb truthfully records that he was
“beloved by his comrades and esteemed by travelers.”
At the time that I was planning my journey, my friends Messrs. A. W.
Moore and Horace Walker were also drawing up their programme, and, as
we found that our wishes were very similar, we agreed to unite our
respective parties. My friends had happily secured Christian Almer of
Grindelwald as their guide. The combination of Croz and Almer was a
perfect one. Both men were in the prime of life, both were endued with
strength and activity far beyond the average, and the courage and the
knowledge of each were alike undoubted. The temper of Almer it was
impossible to ruffle: he was ever obliging and enduring—a bold but a
safe man. That which he lacked in fire, in dash, was supplied by Croz,
who, in his turn, was kept in place by Almer. It is pleasant to
remember how they worked together, and how each one confided to you
that he liked the other _so_ much because he worked _so_ well; but it
is sad, very sad, to those who have known the men, to know that they
can never work together again.
We met at St. Michel on the Mont Cenis road at mid-day on June 20,
1864, and proceeded in the afternoon over the Col de Valloires to the
village of the same name. The summit of this pretty little pass is
about thirty-five hundred feet above St. Michel, and from it we had a
fair view of the Aiguilles d’Arve, a group of three peaks of singular
form, which it was our especial object to investigate. They had been
seen by ourselves and others from numerous distant points, and always
looked very high and very inaccessible; but we had been unable to
obtain any information about them, except the few words in Joanne’s
_Itinéraire du Dauphiné_. Having made out from the summit of the Col de
Valloires that they could be approached from the valley of Valloires,
we hastened down to find a place where we could pass the night, as near
as possible to the entrance of the little valley leading up to them.
By nightfall we arrived at the entrance to this little valley (Vallon
des Aiguilles d’Arve), and found some buildings placed just where they
were wanted. The proprietress received us with civility, and placed a
large barn at our disposal, on the condition that no lights were struck
or pipes smoked therein; and when her terms were agreed to, she took us
into her own châlet, made up a huge fire, heated a gallon of milk and
treated us with genuine hospitality.
In the morning we found that the Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve led away
nearly due west from the valley of Valloires and that the village of
Bonnenuit was placed (in the latter valley) almost exactly opposite to
the junction of the two.
At 3.55 A.M. on the 21st we set out up the Vallon, passed for a time
over pasture-land, and then over a stony waste, deeply channeled by
water-courses. At 5.30 the two principal Aiguilles were well seen, and
as by this time it was evident that the authors of the Sardinian
official map had romanced as extensively in this neighborhood as
elsewhere, it was necessary to hold a council.
Three questions were submitted to it: Firstly, Which is the highest of
these Aiguilles? Secondly, Which shall we go up? Thirdly, How is it to
be done?
The French engineers, it was said, had determined that the two highest
of them were respectively 11,513 and 11,529 feet in height; but we were
without information as to which two they had measured. Joanne indeed
said (but without specifying whether he meant all three) that the
Aiguilles had been several times ascended, and particularly mentioned
that the one of 11,513 feet was “relatively easy.”
We therefore said, “We will go up the peak of 11,529 feet.” But that
determination did not settle the second question. Joanne’s “relatively
easy” peak, according to his description, was evidently the most
northern of the three. _Our_ peak, then, was to be one of the other
two, but which of them? We were inclined to favor the central one, but
it was hard to determine, they looked so equal in height. When,
however, the council came to study the third question, “How is it to be
done?” it was unanimously voted that upon the eastern and southern
sides it was certainly relatively difficult, and that a move should be
made round to the northern side.
The movement was duly executed, and after wading up some snow-slopes of
considerable steepness (going occasionally beyond 40°), we found
ourselves in a gap or nick between the central and northernmost
Aiguille at 8.45 A M. We then studied the northern face of our intended
peak, and finally arrived at the conclusion that it was relatively
impracticable. Croz shrugged his big shoulders, and said, “My faith! I
think you will do well to leave it to others.” Almer was more explicit,
and volunteered the information that a thousand francs would not tempt
him to _try_ it. We then turned to the northernmost peak, but found its
southern faces even more hopeless than the northern faces of the
central one. We enjoyed accordingly the unwonted luxury of a three
hours’ rest on the top of our pass, for pass we were determined it
should be.
We might have done worse. We were ten thousand three hundred or ten
thousand four hundred feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a
most picturesque view of the mountains of the Tarentaise, while
somewhat east of south we saw the monarch of the Dauphiné _massif_,
whose closer acquaintance it was our intention to make. Three sunny
hours passed away, and then we turned to the descent. We saw the
distant pastures of a valley (which we supposed was the Vallon or
Ravine de la Sausse), and a long snow-slope leading down to them. But
from that slope we were cut off by precipitous rocks, and our first
impression was that we should have to return in our track. Some running
up and down, however, discovered two little gullies filled with threads
of snow, and down the most northern of these we decided to go. It was a
steep way, but a safe one, for the cleft was so narrow that we could
press the shoulder against one side whilst the feet were against the
other, and the last remnant of the winter’s snow, well hardened, clung
to the rift with great tenacity, and gave us a path when the rocks
refused one. In half an hour we got to the top of the great snow-slope.
Walker said, “Let us glissade;” the guides, “No, it is too steep.” Our
friend, however, started off at a standing glissade, and advanced for a
time very skillfully; but after a while he lost his balance, and
progressed downward and backward with great rapidity, in a way that
seemed to us very much like tumbling heels over head. He let go his axe
and left it behind, but it overtook him and batted him heartily. He and
it traveled in this fashion for some hundreds of feet, and at last
subsided into the rocks at the bottom. In a few moments we were
reassured as to his safety by hearing him ironically request us not to
keep him waiting down there.
[Illustration: THE AIGUILLES D’ARVE FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU
BLANC]
We others followed the tracks shown by the dotted line upon the
engraving (making zigzags to avoid the little groups of rocks which
jutted through the snow, by which Walker had been upset), descended by
a _sitting_ glissade, and rejoined our friend at the bottom. We then
turned sharply to the left, and tramped down the summit ridge of an old
moraine of great size. Its mud was excessively hard, and where some
large erratic blocks lay perched upon its crest we were obliged to cut
steps (in the mud) with our ice-axes.
Guided by the sound of a distant “moo,” we speedily found the highest
châlets in the valley, named Rieu Blanc. They were tenanted by three
old women (who seemed to belong to one of the missing links sought by
naturalists) destitute of all ideas except in regard to cows, and who
spoke a barbarous patois wellnigh unintelligible to the Savoyard Croz.
They would not believe that we had passed between the Aiguilles: “It is
impossible, the _cows_ never go there.” “Could we get to La Grave over
yonder ridge?” “Oh yes! the _cows_ often crossed!” Could they show us
the way? No, but we could follow the _cow_-tracks.
We stayed a while near these châlets to examine the western sides of
the Aiguilles d’Arve, and, according to our united opinion, the central
one was as inaccessible from this direction as from the east, north or
south. On the following day we saw them again, from a height of about
eleven thousand feet, in a south-easterly direction, and our opinion
remained unchanged.
We saw (on June 20-22) the central Aiguille from all sides, and very
nearly completely round the southernmost one. The northern one we also
saw on all sides excepting from the north. (It is, however, precisely
from this direction M. Joanne says that its ascent is relatively easy.)
We do not, therefore, venture to express any opinion respecting its
ascent, except as regards its actual summit. This is formed of two
curious prongs or pinnacles of rock, and we do not understand in what
way they (or either of them) can be ascended; nor shall we be surprised
if this ascent is discovered to have been made in spirit rather than
body—in fact, in the same manner as the celebrated ascent of Mont
Blanc, “not entirely to the summit, but as far as the Montanvert!”
All three of the Aiguilles _may_ be accessible, but they look as
inaccessible as anything I have seen. They are the highest summits
between the valleys of the Romanche and the Arc: they are placed
slightly to the north of the watershed between those two valleys, and a
line drawn through them runs pretty nearly north and south.
We descended by a rough path from Rieu Blanc to the châlets of La
Sausse, which give the name to the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse in
which they are situated. This is one of the numerous branches of the
valley that leads to St. Jean d’Arve, and subsequently to St. Jean de
Maurienne.
Two passes, more or less known, lead from this valley to the village of
La Grave (on the Lautaret road) in the valley of the Romanche—viz., the
Col de l’Infernet and the Col de Martignare. The former pass was
crossed just thirty years ago by J. D. Forbes, and was mentioned by him
in his _Norway and its Glaciers_. The latter one lies to the north of
the former, and is seldom traversed by tourists, but it was convenient
for us, and we set out to cross it on the morning of the 22d, after
having passed a comfortable but not luxurious night in the hay at La
Sausse, where, however, the simplicity of the accommodation was more
than counterbalanced by the civility and hospitality of the people in
charge.[16]
[16] While stopping in the hospice on the Col de Lautaret, in 1869, I
was accosted by a middle-aged peasant, who asked if I would ride (for
a consideration) in his cart towards Briançon. He was inquisitive as
to my knowledge of his district, and at last asked, “Have you been at
La Sausse?” “Yes.” “Well, then, I tell you, _you saw there some of the
first people in the world_.” “Yes,” I said, “they were primitive,
certainly.” But he was serious, and went on—“Yes, real brave people;”
and, slapping his knee to give emphasis, “_but that they are
first-rate for minding the cows!_”
After this he became communicative. “You thought, probably,” said
he, “when I offered to take you down, that I was some poor——, not
worth a _sou;_ but I will tell you, that was my mountain! _my_
mountain! that you saw at La Sausse; they were _my_ cows! a hundred
of them altogether.” “Why, you are rich.” “Passably rich. I have
another mountain on the Col du Galibier, and another at
Ville-neuve.” He (although a common peasant in outward appearance)
confessed to being worth four thousand pounds.
We left the chalets at 4.15 A.M. under a shower of good wishes from our
hostesses, proceeded at first toward the upper end of the ravine, then
doubled back up a long buttress which projects in an unusual way, and
went toward the Col de Martignare; but before arriving at its summit we
again doubled and resumed the original course. At 6 A. M. we stood on
the watershed, and followed it toward the east, keeping for some
distance strictly to the ridge, and afterward diverging a little to the
south to avoid a considerable secondary aiguille, which prevented a
straight track being made to the summit at which we were aiming. At
9.15 we stood on its top, and saw at once the lay of the land.
We were very fortunate in the selection of our summit. Not to speak of
other things, it gave a grand view of the ridge which culminates in the
peak called La Meije (13,080 feet), which used to be mentioned by
travelers under the name Aiguille du Midi de la Grave. It is the last,
the only, great Alpine peak which has never known the foot of man, and
one cannot speak in exaggerated terms of its jagged ridges, torrential
glaciers and tremendous precipices. But were I to discourse upon these
things without the aid of pictures, or to endeavor to convey in _words_
a sense of the loveliness of curves, of the beauty of _colour_ or of
the harmonies of _sound_, I should try to accomplish that which is
impossible, and at the best should succeed in but giving an impression
that the things spoken of may have been pleasant to hear or to behold,
although they are perfectly incomprehensible to read about. Let me
therefore avoid these things, not because I have no love for or thought
of them, but because they cannot be translated into language; and
presently, when topographical details must of necessity be returned to
again, I will endeavor to relieve the poverty of the pen by a free use
of the pencil.
Whilst we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse our attention was
concentrated on a point that was immediately opposite—on a gap or cleft
between the Meije and the mountain called the Rateau. It was, indeed,
in order to have a good view of this place that we made the ascent of
the Aiguille. It (that is, the gap itself) looked, as my companions
remarked, obtrusively and offensively a pass. It had not been crossed,
but it ought to have been; and this seemed to have been recognized by
the natives, who called it, very appropriately, the Brèche de la Meije.
It led to La Bérarde, a miserable village, without interest, without
commerce, and almost without population. Why, then, did we wish to
cross it? Because we were bound to the Pointe des Écrins, to which La
Bérarde was the nearest inhabited place.
When we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse we were rather despondent
about our prospects of crossing the Brèche, which seemed to present a
combination of all that was formidable. There was evidently but one way
by which it could be approached. We saw that at the top of the pass
there was a steep wall of snow or ice (so steep that it was most likely
ice), protected at its base by a big schrund or moat, which severed it
from the snow-fields below. Then (tracking our course downward) we saw
undulating snow-fields leading down to a great glacier. The snow-fields
would be easy work, but the glacier was riven and broken in every
direction, huge crevasses seemed to extend entirely across it in some
places, and everywhere it had that strange twisted look which tells of
the unequal motion of the ice. Where could we get on to it? At its base
it came to a violent end, being cut short by a cliff, over which it
poured periodical avalanches, as we saw by a great triangular bed of
débris below. We could not venture there—the glacier must be taken in
flank. But on which side? Not on the west—no one could climb those
cliffs. It must, if anywhere, be by the rocks on the east, and _they_
looked as if they were _roches moutonnées._
So we hurried down to La Grave, to hear what Melchior Anderegg (who had
just passed through the village with the family of our friend Walker)
had to say on the matter. Who is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the
question cannot have been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of
Melchior is as well known as the name of Napoleon. Melchior, too, is an
emperor in his way—a very prince among guides. His empire is amongst
the “eternal snows”—his sceptre is an ice-axe.
Melchior Anderegg—more familiarly and perhaps more generally known
simply as Melchior—was born at Zaun, near Meiringen, on April 6, 1828.
He was first brought into public notice in Hinchcliff’s _Summer Months
in the Alps_, and was known to very few persons at the time that little
work was published. In 1855 he was “Boots” at the Grimsel hotel, and in
those days when he went out on expeditions it was for the benefit of
his master, the proprietor: Melchior himself only got the _trinkgelt._
In 1856 he migrated to the Schwarenbach inn on the Gemmi, where he
employed his time in carving objects for sale. In 1858 he made numerous
expeditions with Messrs. Hinchcliff and Stephen, and proved to his
employers that he possessed first-rate skill, indomitable courage and
an admirable character. His position has never been doubtful since that
year, and for a long time there has been no guide whose services have
been more in request: he is usually engaged a year in advance.
[Illustration: MELCHIOR ANDEREGG IN 1864]
It would be almost an easier task to say what he has not done than to
catalogue his achievements. Invariable success attends his arms: he
leads his followers to victory, but not to death. I believe that no
accident has ever befallen travelers in his charge. Like his friend
Almer, he can be called a _safe_ man. It is the highest praise that can
be given to a first-rate guide.
Early in the afternoon we found ourselves in the little inn at La
Grave, on the great Lautaret road, a rickety, tumble-down sort of
place, with nothing stable about it, as Moore wittily remarked, except
the smell. Melchior had gone, and had left behind a note which said, “I
think the passage of the Brèche _is_ possible, but that it will be very
difficult.” His opinion coincided with ours, and we went to sleep,
expecting to be afoot about eighteen or twenty hours on the morrow.
At 2.40 the next morning we left La Grave, in a few minutes crossed the
Romanche, and at 4 A.M. got to the moraine of the eastern branch of the
glacier that descends from the Brèche.[17] The rocks by which we
intended to ascend were placed between the two branches of this
glacier, and still looked smooth and unbroken. But by five o’clock we
were upon them. We had been deluded by them. No carpenter could have
planned a more convenient staircase. They were _not moutonnée_, their
smooth look from a distance was only owing to their singular firmness.
In an hour we had risen above the most crevassed portion of the
glacier, and began to look for a way on to it. Just at the right place
there was a patch of old snow at the side, and, instead of gaining the
ice by desperate acrobatic feats, we passed from the rocks on to it as
easily as one walks across a gangway. At half-past six we were on the
centre of the glacier, and the inhabitants of La Grave turned out _en
masse_ into the road and watched us with amazement as they witnessed
the falsification of their confident predictions. Well might they
stare, for our little caravan, looking to them like a train of flies on
a wall, crept up and up, without hesitation and without a halt—lost to
their sight one minute as it dived into a crevasse, then seen again
clambering up the other side. The higher we rose the easier became the
work, the angles lessened and our pace increased. The snow remained
shadowed, and we walked as easily as on a high road; and when (at 7.45)
the summit of the Brèche was seen, we rushed at it as furiously as if
it had been a breach in the wall of a fortress, carried the moat by a
dash, with a push behind and a pull before, stormed the steep slope
above, and at 8.50 stood in the little gap, 11,054 feet above the level
of the sea. The Brèche was won. Well might they stare—five hours and a
quarter had sufficed for sixty-five hundred feet of ascent.[18] We
screamed triumphantly as they turned in to breakfast.
[17] Our route from La Grave to La Bérarde will be seen on the
accompanying map.
[18] Taking one kind of work with another, a thousand feet of height
per hour is about as much as is usually accomplished on great Alpine
ascents.
[Illustration: SCALE, THREE MILES TO AN INCH]
Our day’s work was as good as over (for we knew from Messrs. Mathews
and Bonney that there was no difficulty upon the other side), and we
abandoned ourselves to ease and luxury; wondering alternately, as we
gazed upon the Rateau and the Écrins, how the one mountain could
possibly hold itself together, and whether the other would hold out
against us. The former looked so rotten that it seemed as if a puff of
wind or a clap of thunder might dash the whole fabric to pieces, while
the latter asserted itself the monarch of the group, and towered head
and shoulders above all the rest of the peaks which form the great
horseshoe of Dauphiné. At length a cruel rush of cold air made us
shiver, and shift our quarters to a little grassy plot three thousand
feet below—an oasis in a desert—where we lay nearly four hours admiring
the splendid wall which protects the summit of the Meije from assault
upon this side.[19] Then we tramped down the Vallon des Étançons, a
howling wilderness, the abomination of desolation; destitute alike of
animal or vegetable life; pathless, of course; suggestive of chaos, but
of little else; covered almost throughout its entire length with
débris, from the size of a walnut up to that of a house: in a word, it
looked as if half a dozen moraines of first-rate dimensions had been
carted and shot into it. Our tempers were soured by constant pitfalls:
it was impossible to take the eyes from the feet, and if an unlucky
individual so much as blew his nose without standing still to perform
the operation, the result was either an instantaneous tumble or a
barked shin or a half-twisted ankle. There was no end to it, and we
became more savage at every step, unanimously agreeing that no power on
earth would ever induce us to walk up or down this particular valley
again. It was not just to the valley, which was enclosed by noble
mountains—unknown, it is true, but worthy of a great reputation, and
which, if placed in other districts, would be sought after and cited as
types of daring form and graceful outline.
[19] This wall may be described as an exaggerated Gemmi, as seen from
Leukerbad. From the highest summit of La Meije right down to the
Glacier des Etançons (a depth of about 3200 feet), the cliff is all
but perpendicular, and appears to be completely unassailable. The
dimensions of these pages are insufficient to do justice to this
magnificent wall, which is the most imposing of its kind that I have
seen; otherwise it would have been engraved.
[Illustration: THE VALLON DES ÉTANÇONS (LOOKING TOWARD LA BÉRARDE)]