FROM VAL LOUISE TO LA BÉRARDE BY THE COL DE PILATTE.
From Ailefroide to Claux, but for the path, travel would be scarcely
more easy than over the Pré de Madame Carle. The valley is strewn with
immense masses of gneiss, from the size of a large house downward, and
it is only occasionally that rock _in situ_ is seen, so covered up is
it by the débris, which seems to have been derived almost entirely from
the neighboring cliffs. It was Sunday, a day most calm and bright.
Golden sunlight had dispersed the clouds and was glorifying the
heights, and we forgot hunger through the brilliancy of the morning and
beauty of the mountains.
We meant the 26th to be a day of rest, but it was little that we found
in the _cabaret_ of Claude Giraud, and we fled before the babel of
sound which rose in intensity as men descended to a depth which is
unattainable by the beasts of the field, and found at the chalets of
Entraigues the peace that had been denied to us at Val Louise.
Again we were received with the most cordial hospitality. Everything
that was eatable or drinkable was brought out and pressed upon us; very
little curiosity was exhibited; all information that could be afforded
was given; and when we retired to our clean straw we again
congratulated each other that we had escaped from the foul den which is
where a good inn should be, and had cast in our lot with those who
dwell in châlets. Very luxurious that straw seemed after two nights
upon quartz pebbles and glacier mud, and I felt quite aggrieved
(expecting it was the summons for departure) when, about midnight, the
heavy wooden door creaked on its hinges, and a man hem’d and ha’d to
attract attention; but when it whispered, “Monsieur Edvard,” I
perceived my mistake: it was our Pelvoux companion, Monsieur Reynaud,
the excellent _agent-voyer_ of La Bessée.
Monsieur Reynaud had been invited to accompany us on the excursion that
is described in this chapter, but had arrived at Val Louise after we
had left, and had energetically pursued us during the night. Our idea
was, that a pass might be made over the high ridge called (on the
French map) Crête de Bœufs Rouges, near to the peak named Les Bans,
which might be the shortest route in time (as it certainly would be in
distance) from Val Louise across the central Dauphiné Alps. We had seen
the northern (or Pilatte) side from the Brèche de la Meije, and it
seemed to be practicable at one place near the above-mentioned
mountain. More than that could not be told at a distance of eleven
miles. We intended to try to hit a point on the ridge immediately above
the part where it seemed to be easiest.
We left Entraigues at 3.30 on the morning of June 27, and proceeded,
over very gently-inclined ground, toward the foot of the Pic de
Bonvoisin (following, in fact, the route of the Col de Sellar, which
leads from the Val Louise into the Val Godemar);[21] and at 5 A.M.
finding that there was no chance of obtaining a view from the bottom of
the valley of the ridge over which our route was to be taken, sent
Almer up the lower slopes of the Bonvoisin to reconnoitre. He
telegraphed that we might proceed, and at 5.45 we quitted the snow-beds
at the bottom of the valley for the slopes which rose toward the north.
[21] The height of Col de Sellar (or de Celar) is 10,073 feet
(Forbes). I was told by peasants at Entraigues that sheep and goats
can be easily taken across it.
The course was north-north-west, and was prodigiously steep. _In less
than two miles’ difference of latitude we rose one mile of absolute
height._ But the route was so far from being an exceptionally difficult
one that at 10.45 we stood on the summit of the pass, having made an
ascent of more than five thousand feet in five hours, inclusive of
halts.
Upon the French map a glacier is laid down on the south of the Crête de
Bœufs Rouges, extending along the entire length of the ridge, at its
foot, from east to west. In 1864 this glacier did not exist as _one_
glacier, but in the place where it should have been there were several
small ones, all of which were, I believe, separated from each
other.[22] We commenced the ascent from the Val d’Entraigues to the
west of the most western of these small glaciers, and quitted the
valley by the first great gap in its cliffs after that glacier was
passed. We did not take to the ice until it afforded an easier route
than the rocks: then (at 8.30) Croz went to the front, and led with
admirable skill through a maze of crevasses up to the foot of a great
snow _couloir_, that rose from the head of the glacier to the summit of
the ridge over which we had to pass.
[22] See map on p. 202. It is perhaps just possible, although
improbable, that these little glaciers were united together at the
time that the survey was made. Since then the glaciers of Dauphiné (as
throughout the Alps generally) have shrunk very considerably. A
notable diminution took place in their size in 1869, which was
attributed by the natives to the very heavy rains of that year.
We had settled beforehand in London, without knowing anything whatever
about the place, that such a couloir as this should be in this angle;
but when we got into the Val d’Entraigues, and found that it was not
possible to see into the corner, our faith in its existence became less
and less, until the telegraphing of Almer, who was sent up the opposite
slopes to search for it, assured us that we were true prophets.
Snow _couloirs_ are nothing more or less than gullies partly filled by
snow. They are most useful institutions, and may be considered as
natural highways placed, by a kind Providence, in convenient situations
for getting over places which would otherwise be inaccessible. They are
a joy to the mountaineer, and, from afar, assure him of a path when all
besides is uncertain; but they are grief to novices, who, when upon
steep snow, are usually seized with two notions—first, that the snow
will slip, and, secondly, that those who are upon it must slip too.
[Illustration]
Nothing, perhaps, could look much more unpromising to those who do not
know the virtues of couloirs than such a place as the engraving
represents,[23] and if persons inexperienced in mountain-craft had
occasion to cross a ridge or to climb rocks in which there were such
couloirs, they would instinctively avoid them. But practiced
mountaineers would naturally look to them for a path, and would follow
them almost as a matter of course, unless they turned out to be filled
with ice or too much swept by falling stones, or the rock at the sides
proved to be of such an exceptional character as to afford an easier
path than the snow.
[23] This drawing was made to illustrate the remarks which follow. It
does not represent any particular couloir, but it would serve,
tolerably well, as a portrait of the one which we ascended when
crossing the Col de Pilatte.
Couloirs look prodigiously steep when seen from the front, and, so
viewed, it is impossible to be certain of their inclination within many
degrees. Snow, however, does actually lie at steeper angles in couloirs
than in any other situation: forty-five to fifty degrees is not an
uncommon inclination. Even at such angles, two men with proper axes can
mount on snow at the rate of seven hundred to eight hundred feet per
hour. The same amount can only be accomplished in the same time on
steep rocks when they are of the very easiest character, and four or
five hours may be readily spent upon an equal height of difficult
rocks. Snow-couloirs are therefore to be commended because they
economize time.
Of course, in all gullies one is liable to be encountered by falling
stones. Most of those which fall from the rocks of a couloir sooner or
later spin down the snow which fills the trough, and as their course
and pace are more clearly apparent when falling over snow than when
jumping from ledge to ledge, persons with lively imaginations are
readily impressed by them. The grooves which are usually seen wandering
down the length of snow-couloirs are deepened (and perhaps occasionally
originated) by falling stones, and they are sometimes pointed out by
cautious men as reasons why couloirs should not be followed. I think
they are very frequently only gutters, caused by water trickling off
the rocks. Whether this is so or not, one should always consider the
possibility of being struck by falling stones, and, in order to lessen
the risk as far as possible, should mount upon the sides of the snow
and not up its centre. Stones that come off the rocks then fly over
one’s head or bound down the middle of the trough at safe distance.
At 9.30 A.M. we commenced the ascent of the couloir leading from the
nameless glacier to a point in the ridge, just to the east of Mont
Bans. So far, the route had been nothing more than a steep grind in an
angle where little could be seen, but now views opened out in several
directions, and the way began to be interesting. It was more so,
perhaps, to us than to our companion, M. Reynaud, who had no rest in
the last night. He was, moreover, heavily laden. Science was to be
regarded—his pockets were stuffed with books; heights and angles were
to be observed—his knapsack was filled with instruments; hunger was to
be guarded against—his shoulders were ornamented with a huge nimbus of
bread, and a leg of mutton swung behind from his knapsack, looking like
an overgrown tail. Like a good-hearted fellow, he had brought this
food, thinking we might be in need of it. As it happened, we were well
provided for, and, having our own packs to carry, could not relieve him
of his superfluous burdens, which, naturally, he did not like to throw
away. As the angles steepened the strain on his strength became more
and more apparent. At last he began to groan. At first a most gentle
and mellow groan, but as we rose so did his groans, till at last the
cliffs were groaning in echo and we were moved to laughter.
Croz cut the way with unflagging energy throughout the whole of the
ascent, and at 10.45 we stood on the summit of our pass, intending to
refresh ourselves with a good halt; but just at that moment a mist,
which had been playing about the ridge, swooped down and blotted out
the whole of the view on the northern side. Croz was the only one who
caught a glimpse of the descent, and it was deemed advisable to push on
immediately while its recollection was fresh in his memory. We are
consequently unable to tell anything about the summit of the pass,
except that it lies immediately to the east of Mont Bans, and is
elevated about eleven thousand three hundred feet above the level of
the sea. It is the highest pass in Dauphiné. We called it the Col de
Pilatte.
We commenced to descend toward the Glacier de Pilatte by a slope of
smooth ice, the face of which, according to the measurement of Mr.
Moore, had an inclination of 54°! Croz still led, and the others
followed at intervals of about fifteen feet, all being tied together,
and Almer occupying the responsible position of last man: the two
guides were therefore about seventy feet apart. They were quite
invisible to each other from the mist, and looked spectral even to us.
But the strong man could be heard by all hewing out the steps below,
while every now and then the voice of the steady man pierced the cloud:
“Slip not, dear sirs: place well your feet: stir not until you are
certain.”
For three-quarters of an hour we progressed in this fashion. The axe of
Croz all at once stopped. “What is the matter, Croz?” “Bergschrund,
gentlemen.” “Can we get over?” “Upon my word, I don’t know: I think we
must jump.” The clouds rolled away right and left as he spoke. The
effect was dramatic. It was a _coup de théâtre_, preparatory to the
“great sensation leap” which was about to be executed by the entire
company.
Some unseen cause, some cliff or obstruction in the rocks underneath,
had caused our wall of ice to split into two portions, and the huge
fissure which had thus been formed extended on each hand as far as
could be seen. We, on the slope above, were separated from the slope
below by a mighty crevasse. No running up and down to look for an
easier place to cross could be done on an ice-slope of 54°: the chasm
had to be passed then and there.
A downward jump of fifteen or sixteen feet, and a forward leap of seven
or eight feet, had to be made at the same time. That is not much, you
will say. It was not much: it was not the quantity, but it was the
quality of the jump which gave to it its particular flavor. You had to
hit a narrow ridge of ice. If that was passed, it seemed as if you
might roll down for ever and ever. If it was not attained, you dropped
into the crevasse below, which although partly choked by icicles and
snow that had fallen from above, was still gaping in many places, ready
to receive an erratic body.
Croz untied Walker in order to get rope enough, and, warning us to hold
fast, sprang over the chasm. He alighted cleverly on his feet, untied
himself and sent up the rope to Walker, who followed his example. It
was then my turn, and I advanced to the edge of the ice. The second
which followed was what is called a supreme moment. That is to say, I
felt supremely ridiculous. The world seemed to revolve at a frightful
pace and my stomach to fly away. The next moment I found myself
sprawling in the snow, and then, of course, vowed that it was nothing,
and prepared to encourage my friend Reynaud.
He came to the edge and made declarations. I do not believe that he was
a whit more reluctant to pass the place than we others, but he was
infinitely more demonstrative: in a word, he was French. He wrung his
hands: “Oh what a _diable_ of a place!” “It is nothing, Reynaud,” I
said, “it is nothing.” “Jump!” cried the others, “jump!” But he turned
round, as far as one can do such a thing in an ice-step, and covered
his face with his hands, ejaculating, “Upon my word, it is not
possible. No, no, no! it is not possible.”
[Illustration: “WE SAW A TOE—IT SEEMED TO BELONG TO MOORE—WE SAW
REYNAULD A FLYING BODY.”]
How he came over I do not know. We saw a toe—it seemed to belong to
Moore; we saw Reynaud, a flying body, coming down as if taking a header
into water, with arms and legs all abroad, his leg of mutton flying in
the air, his baton escaped from his grasp; and then we heard a thud as
if a bundle of carpets had been pitched out of a window. When set upon
his feet he was a sorry spectacle: his head was a great snowball,
brandy was trickling out of one side of the knapsack, Chartreuse out of
the other. We bemoaned its loss, but we roared with laughter.
I cannot close this chapter without paying a tribute to the ability
with which Croz led us through a dense mist down the remainder of the
Glacier de Pilatte.
As an exhibition of strength and skill it has probably never been
surpassed in the Alps or elsewhere. On this almost unknown and very
steep glacier he was perfectly at home, even in the mists. Never able
to see fifty feet ahead, he still went on with the utmost certainty and
without having to retrace a single step, and displayed from first to
last consummate knowledge of the materials with which he was dealing.
Now he cut steps down one side of a _sérac_, went with a dash at the
other side, and hauled us up after him; then cut away along a ridge
until a point was gained from which we could jump on to another ridge;
then, doubling back, found a snow-bridge, across which he crawled on
hands and knees, towed us across by the legs, ridiculing our
apprehensions, mimicking our awkwardness, declining all help, bidding
us only to follow him.
About 1 P.M. we emerged from the mist, and found ourselves just arrived
upon the level portion of the glacier, having, as Reynaud properly
remarked, come down as quickly as if there had not been any mist at
all. Then we attacked the leg of mutton which my friend had so
thoughtfully brought with him, and afterward raced down, with renewed
energy, to La Bérarde.
Reynaud and I walked together to St. Christophe, where we parted. Since
then we have talked over the doings of this momentous day, and I know
that he would not, for a good deal, have missed the passage of the Col
de Pilatte, although we failed to make it an easier or a shorter route
than the Col du Selé. I rejoined Moore and Walker the same evening at
Venos, and on the next day went with them over the Lautaret road to the
hospice on its summit, where we slept.
So our little campaign in Dauphiné came to an end. It was remarkable
for the absence of failures, and for the ease and precision with which
all our plans were carried out. This was due very much to the spirit of
my companions, but it was also owing to the fine weather which we were
fortunate enough to enjoy, and to our making a very early start every
morning. By beginning our work at or before the break of day on the
longest days in the year, we were not only able to avoid hurrying when
deliberation was desirable, but could afford to spend several hours in
delightful ease whenever the fancy seized us.
I cannot too strongly recommend tourists in search of amusement to
avoid the inns of Dauphiné. Sleep in the châlets. Get what food you can
from the inns, but by no means attempt to pass a night in them. _Sleep_
in them you cannot. M. Joanne says that the inventor of the insecticide
powder was a native of Dauphiné. I can well believe it. He must have
often felt the necessity of such an invention in his infancy and
childhood.