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 mountams there must be a
pass, and they believe that the end for which big peaks were
created—the office they are especially designed to fulfill—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 endeavor 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. 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 châlets of Pré 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. At a quarter-past eight 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 (Mont Dolent and the Aiguille 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.
[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE COL DOLENT.]
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 Aiguille 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 Argentiere side I could not see anything.
Croz was tied up with our good manila rope, and the whole two hundred
feet were paid 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 of more than a thousand feet long, set at an
angle of about fifty degrees, 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’Argentiere was
reached. The entire basin of that noble glacier was spread out at our
feet, and the ridge beyond, culminating in the Aiguille d’Argentiere,
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 fifty degrees. The
process was repeated, Croz again going to the front, and availing
himself very skillfully of the rocks which projected from the cliff on
our right. Our two hundred 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 three hundred 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 halfway 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 toward 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 rope to them as they advanced. 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. 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]
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.
[Illustration: KENNEDY ICE-AXE]
[Illustration: KENNEDY ICE-AXE]
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 overlies the ice is
consolidated and of a reasonable depth. But if, as is more likely to be
the case upon an angle of fifty degrees (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: CRAMPONS]
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 afterward 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 Argentiere 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.[56]
[56] It occupies about one-sixth of an inch upon the map. I estimate
its height at 1200 feet. The triangulation of Capt. Mieulet places the
summit of the pass 11,624 feet above the sea. This, I think, is rather
too high.
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’Argentiere our work was as good as over. We drove a
straight track to the châlets 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 labors 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.