MONT BLANC
Mont Blanc, 15,781 feet in height, the highest mountain in Europe,
was almost the first of the great Alpine peaks to be climbed. On
August 8, 1786, two Chamoniards, Dr. Paccard and Jacques Balmat,
starting from Chamonix, made the first ascent. Forty-six years later
Balmat was interviewed by Alexandre Dumas, who shortly afterwards
incorporated the Chamoniard’s tale of the conquest of the great
mountain in his _Impressions de Voyage_. And so the name of Jacques
Balmat has come down to fame. To-day Chamonix boasts of two statues to
his memory; while Dr. Paccard is almost forgotten. Yet recent, patient
investigation tends to show with a fair degree of certainty that the
leading spirit, the driving force throughout the wonderful adventure,
was not Balmat, but Dr. Paccard.
As the years passed by it became almost fashionable to climb Mont
Blanc; and to-day the many who make the ascent for the mere sake of
saying that they have stood on the crown of Europe, still follow the
route of the original discoverers in most of its essential details,
except where, in one or two cases, deviations have resulted in
considerable improvement. The ascent of the mountain from Chamonix by
the well-established route is nothing more than a long, uphill walk; a
good, sound walker could go to the summit with his hands in his trouser
pockets, should he feel so disposed. But since Paccard’s day many other
routes have been discovered; and on all of these climbing is, at one
stage or another, necessary. Indeed, some of these routes involve
expeditions which rank amongst the most formidable that have ever been
undertaken in the Alps, or, indeed, in any other mountain range.
The frontier between Italy and France crosses the summit of Mont Blanc.
From the Col de Miage over to the Col du Géant, a distance of eight
miles, the frontier follows the watershed ridge without once falling
below an elevation of 11,000 feet above sea-level; and two routes,
following more or less this frontier, lead to the summit of Mont Blanc.
From the point of view of mountaineering difficulty, neither of these
can be compared with any of the tremendous routes by which Mont Blanc
may be climbed from the south. Nevertheless, both are sufficiently
difficult to safeguard one against monotony, and the scenery on both
is superlatively wonderful. For these two reasons, Max and I chose to
make our acquaintance with Mont Blanc by these frontier or border-line
routes. We planned to go from Courmayeur to the Col de Miage and pass
the night there in the little Refuge Durier. On the following day
we would climb along the border-line, passing over the Aiguille de
Bionnassay and the Dôme de Goûter, and spend the second night in the
Vallot Refuge (14,350 ft.) within an hour and a half of the summit.
Next morning we would pass over Mont Blanc and Mont Maudit, whence,
deviating from the border-line, we would visit Mont Blanc de Tacul,
and finally make our way across the Géant Glacier to the Col du Géant.
Three days would elapse between our departure from Courmayeur and
our arrival at the Rifugio Torino on the Col du Géant; but, lest bad
weather should delay the carrying out of our projects, we bought in
provisions for five, or at a pinch six, days. Thus our knapsacks, which
contained in addition to the food, a cooking apparatus, camera and
large supply of films, climbing irons and two one-hundred-foot ropes,
were far from light.
From Courmayeur the first three hours of the journey to the Col de
Miage lead one along the carriage road and mule track which winds
through the Val Veni round the southern foot of Mont Blanc. As mules
are readily obtainable in Courmayeur, Max and I strolled forth
unburdened from the village after an early lunch on August 25, 1911.
Leaving knapsack, coats and axes to a mule-driver and his faithful
animal, we marched gaily along the broad path with the tremendous
cliffs and fantastic, jagged outline of the Peuteret ridge towering up
before us, luxuriating in the freedom of shirt sleeves and the even
more unwonted freedom of unladen shoulders, and revelling in the happy
lot of the mountaineer. Dawdling, however, we were not permitted to
indulge in; for the mule, like others of his species in Courmayeur,
seemed eager to get to his journey’s end with all possible speed, and
it was only by the simple stratagem of inviting his driver to drink a
glass of wine at the little Cantine de la Visaille that we succeeded in
snatching a rest.
Farther on, where the immense, frontal moraine of the Miage Glacier
advances into and, indeed, almost across the bed of the valley, the
path steepens up; but though the mule walked as fast as ever, we
kept pace in comfort, for the sky was rapidly becoming overcast, and
an invigorating coolness had taken the place of the hitherto close
and oppressive heat. Passing by the little Combal lake formed by the
moraine damming the stream, its black, sunless waters whipped into a
semblance of life by fitful gusts, we turned off to the right along a
dwindling track. Here we dismissed the mule and his driver and, after
collecting firewood for use in the hut, settled down to a meal to gain
strength for the long walk in front of us. At 4 p.m., a few heavy
drops of rain from the lowering sky stirred us up, and, shouldering our
cruelly heavy and distinctly awkward burdens, we climbed up the steep
flank of the moraine and gained the gently-rising, stone-strewn surface
of the Miage Glacier.
White wraiths of mist, sinking from the black thunder-clouds that
overcast the sky, settled over the tops of the magnificent mountain
walls which enclose the glacier. Our loads were oppressive, and, though
we struggled with them to the best of our powers, our pace was slow and
rests were frequent. At twilight, even the foot of the slopes below
the Col de Miage were still far distant, and dense masses of cloud
were rolling down across the col towards us. Realising what a drag our
knapsacks were, we decided to change our plans and make for the Dôme
instead of the Miage hut. We knew that darkness would be upon us long
before the former were gained, but, in spite of that, we felt certain
of being able to find it. After passing below the icefall of the Dôme
Glacier, we turned to the right towards the foot of the Aiguilles
Grises ridge. An inky blackness had already blotted out all surrounding
details before the rocks were reached; but, on lighting the lantern, we
were delighted to find a well-marked track leading up in the desired
direction over steep screes. We were now really tired, and halts to
relieve our shoulders from the depressing weight of the knapsacks were
frequent. During such enforced respites from our labours we consulted
the map and were able to form a fairly good idea as to where to look
for the hut. At ten o’clock, just before the thunderstorm burst, we
found it at last, though not without some searching.
Though tired, we were ravenously hungry, and had energy enough to
prepare a good, square meal. Through the little window we saw frequent
lightning flashes, and the sharp crack that followed within a fraction
of a second of each flare told us that we were very near the centre
of the storm. After dinner we ventured without to see what were the
prospects for the morrow. Snow was falling, and the atmosphere was
charged with electricity. Holding up my hand and spreading out the
fingers resulted in a curious noise as of the tearing of linen, and,
in the darkness, from each finger-tip issued a blue stream of light.
The chimney pipe of the little hut stove was thrown into relief by an
aureole of bluish light, especially intense at the top. It was evident
that the storm had come to stay for the night at least, and that, with
snow falling at its present rate, there was little chance of being able
to continue the climb next morning. I must confess that the prospect of
a day’s rest was anything but displeasing.
The sun was high in the heavens when we awoke on the morning of the
26th. The weather was perfect. All signs of the storm had been swept
away, except for the abundance of new snow which, on the rocks round
the hut, was already yielding to the warm rays. Mont Blanc, a mountain
of quite different aspect on this southern side, is built up of great
rock buttresses, separated from each other by steep and narrow glaciers
which frequently break into formidable icefalls. Our original plan of
following the border-line from the Col de Miage we had naturally set
aside, but from the scenic point of view we did not expect the route
now proposed, _via_ the Aiguilles Grises to the Col de Bionnassay and
thence along the border-line, to be one whit inferior. The afternoon
and evening of that welcome rest day were mostly spent in consuming
our supplies of firewood and demolishing all the weightier articles of
food. In those days Max and I were unduly addicted to the delights of
tinned peaches!
By three o’clock next morning we had breakfasted and were preparing to
leave the hut. Wearing climbing irons and roped together, we crossed
over a snow slope and gained the Dôme Glacier. As our destination that
day was the Vallot Refuge, only some three thousand feet higher up,
there was no call for hurry. This was a blessing, for, though we had
done our best to cut down the weight, the knapsacks were still much
heavier than one is wont to carry on a long climb of this nature.
Early in the year the ascent of the Dôme Glacier is usually devoid of
difficulty; but towards the end of the climbing season one’s progress
is likely to be somewhat hampered by huge and inadequately bridged
crevasses. In 1911, however, despite the fact that the summer had
been so hot and fine, we nowhere met with serious obstacles, though
occasionally a more than ordinarily large crevasse demanded a little
thought and care before it could be successfully negotiated. At sunrise
we had gained the uppermost basin of the Dôme Glacier, and, turning
round to the left, we cut steps up a steep ice slope, eventually
climbing the rocks of the Aiguilles Grises ridge to the south of the
highest point on the ridge. The rock was good, and we topped the
highest Aiguille at 7 a.m. The day was wonderfully clear and free from
haze, so that we could look right out into the lowlands of Savoy. The
Aiguilles de Trélatête, which rank amongst the most beautiful mountains
in the Alps, stood boldly up to the south. A north breeze, bringer of
settled weather, blew with somewhat chilly force and hunted us forth.
[Illustration: _Mont Blanc from the Dôme hut._
“... great rock buttresses separated by steep glaciers.”
_Facing page 218._
]
From the Aiguilles Grises we walked in comfort along a broad, almost
level snow ridge, which later became more narrow and inclined until,
just before reaching the point where it meets the border-line ridge,
it was so steep that the use of the axe was necessary. Once on the
border-line, a wonderful vista down into the Bionnassay Valley
opened out. The ridge was narrow and often corniced, but free from
difficulty. Soon it steepened and broadened out and wore a thick
covering of fresh snow through which we toiled knee-deep. To the right
of the ridge the snow was in bad condition, and any attempt to stamp
out steps started avalanches which slid with hissing sound down to the
Dôme Glacier below. Therefore, we kept either to the left of the ridge
or on the crest itself, where progress was simple, if laborious and
thirsty. The loss of moisture by profuse perspiration, however, was
readily compensated for by eating snow--an excellent means of assuaging
thirst. At length the ridge was transformed into a great plateau, over
which we gained the summit of the Dôme de Goûter and looked down into
the Chamonix Valley. In accordance with our usual custom, we fed, and
then, spreading out our belongings in a wind-sheltered spot on the
snow, lay down on them and went to sleep in the warm sun.
At midday we packed up and descended a gentle snow slope to the Col de
Goûter, where the well-trodden track of the ordinary Chamonix route
was joined. A little later we arrived at the Vallot Refuge. The Vallot
Refuge stands at an altitude of about 14,350 feet above sea-level on a
tiny island of rock cropping out from a vast surrounding wilderness of
ice and snow. It consists of a little wooden hut divided into the two
compartments that fulfil the simple requirements of the mountaineer,
namely a “kitchen” and a “bedroom.” It was in a bad state of repair;
the wind whistled through numerous cracks in walls and roof; and the
door was too damaged to permit of its being closed, so that quantities
of snow had drifted within and the floor was deeply covered with ice.
The stove was degenerate and useless; the blankets were full of ice
and fouled with the filth and offal that likewise covered the floor
and formed the contents of the only saucepan which the hut boasted. It
was altogether a disgusting state of affairs, and, as we were to pass
the night here, Max and I set about making our quarters habitable.
Blankets were thoroughly shaken and spread out in the sun and wind.
With our axes, the snow and refuse was scraped out and the ice chipped
away from the floor. Some of the worst cracks and holes in the wall we
stopped with snow. Two hours’ hard work wrought some slight change, and
the hut looked tidier and more wholesome. Since then, I have been, in
all, five times at the Vallot Refuge. On each occasion it bore a closer
resemblance to a pigsty than a place designed for human habitation.
There is, as far as I can see, no excuse for this. Climbers using
the refuge should have no difficulty in leaving it in a presentable
condition. As it is, its usual loathsome state bears eloquent testimony
to the all-round inferiority of many of those who climb Mont Blanc from
Chamonix. To leave mountain huts and refuges clean and tidy is the
duty of all guides; but the onus of seeing that this duty is properly
performed rests with their employers. The ultra-fashionable world that
nowadays throngs Chamonix and “climbs” Mont Blanc simply because it is
“done” apparently leaves all sense of duty and propriety far below the
snow-line.
It was past 3 p.m. before we were satisfied with the result of our
labours, and from then until sunset a succession of meals--lunch, tea
and dinner--was prepared on our little spirit cooker. All water had, of
course, to be obtained by melting snow; but this had been anticipated,
and our supplies of methylated spirit were ample. The breeze dropped as
the afternoon wore on, and at times we felt almost hot as we sat in the
sun in front of the refuge.
Bedtime came with the sharp night chill that follows the setting of
the sun. There were plenty of blankets, now dry and comparatively
clean, to keep us warm, and we slept well; only occasionally awakening
at the sound of the wind as it whistled through the chinks and shrieked
past the walls of the refuge. Next morning, at 5 a.m., we started to
dress, that is, to put on our boots. This took some time as the uppers
were frozen stiff and had to be nursed against our chests until they
were sufficiently pliable. Breakfast was not a success, at least in
so far as cooking operations were concerned. During the night, snow
dust had been blown into the spirit-burner which, inside the draughty
hut, had no chance to burn itself dry. In the end we made shift with
raw bacon fat, bread and jam, and munched snow in lieu of drinking
coffee or tea. At 6.30, having folded up the blankets and cleared up
generally, we put on the rope and climbing irons and moved off.
A deep-trodden track in the snow, the trail of fashion, led up easy
slopes on to the crest of the border-line ridge. Always keeping to the
ridge and walking at a good, steady pace, we continued our uneventful
journey. No miseries of mountain sickness such as so often attacked
the early climbers of Mont Blanc, and to which many still seem to
succumb, disturbed the monotony; no blood gushed forth from our ears,
nor did we even suffer from lack of breath. Before 8 a.m. we stood
on the summit (15,781 ft.). The little refuge erected here a year
or two previously was all but buried beneath the snow; part of the
roof and a chimney alone remained visible.[8] The day was perfect,
cloudless and exceptionally clear. There is, amongst its neighbouring
mountains, none to challenge the superiority of Mont Blanc. From its
summit one looks down upon Europe, hill and plain. The sea of ice-clad
peaks surrounding it are so much lower or so far off that they appear
immeasurably below one. Whilst engaging in the delightful pastime of
recognising old mountain friends in the distant ranges, we brought
the spirit cooker into action and prepared a belated brew of tea. The
match with which we lighted our cigarettes needed no shielding, and
its faint blue smoke drifted lazily skywards, so still was the air as
we sat and basked in the warm morning sunshine. Such was our first
kindly reception by Mont Blanc. Since then I have stood four times on
the summit; twice surrounded by cold, clammy mists, once chilled to the
marrow by a fierce north-west wind, and once to be driven down fighting
for foothold in the teeth of a snowstorm such as is seldom experienced
in the Alps.
Our stay on the summit lasted but an hour, for the major portion of
the day’s work, namely the descent _via_ Mont Maudit and Mont Blanc
de Tacul, lay in front of us. With France on our left and the great
precipices of the Brenva falling away to Italy on the right, we
descended the hard-frozen snow of the broad ridge. Passing a little
outcrop of rock, now plastered up with wind-driven snow, we arrived at
the top of a rather steep ice slope--the Mur de la Côte. One of the
worst accidents in the history of mountaineering occurred not far from
here in September, 1870. Eleven people were caught by a snowstorm.
Instead of fighting their way out of its clutches, they sat down to
wait until it passed. All were frozen to death. In a snowstorm on the
mountains, as in war, safety lies in action. It is far better to do
something, even if it be the wrong thing, than do nothing but sit and
wait.
With our sharp, long-pointed climbing irons, the Mur de la Côte was
descended without the cutting of more than a few steps. Below it, easy
snow slopes led down to the Col de la Brenva, the broad depression
between Mont Blanc and Mont Maudit. Beyond this, a succession of
trackless snow fields and slopes, sometimes almost level, at other
times fairly steep but never steep enough to demand the use of the
axe, provided such easy going that we were able to devote much of our
attention to the beauty of the surroundings. A pathway fit for the
gods, this wonderful border-line ridge whence the eye may travel beyond
the snow-free mountains of Savoy to the rolling blue hills of the
Jura, or up the tremendous ramparts of the Brenva face and along the
magnificent sweep of the Peuteret ridge to the heavily corniced summit
of Mont Blanc de Courmayeur. We paid but a brief visit to Mont Maudit
(14,669 ft.), a little rock pinnacle just emerging from the snow; and,
after a glance over the great precipices above the Brenva Glacier, we
turned down the snowy ridge which falls away to Chamonix, to seek a
means of descent into the depression between Mont Maudit and Mont Blanc
de Tacul. At first the ridge was a slender snowy crest on which the
snow was in splendid condition, but later the rocks emerged. As these
were good and never difficult, we were once again, while climbing, able
to devote much of our attention to the view. Mont Blanc showed up to
wonderful advantage, an enormous snowy dome, the brilliance of its wide
flanks almost entirely unrelieved by the darkness of rock. Far below
lay the valley of Chamonix, its detail filtered softly through the
grey-blue haze of a fine summer’s day. Beyond the Buet and the lesser
mountains of Savoy, the gaze roved over a purple mistiness shrouding
the Lake of Geneva, to the sombre wooded curves of the Jura. On our
right were the tapering spires of the Chamonix Aiguilles and the wider
snows of Mont Blanc de Tacul, our next objective.
After descending the ridge for some considerable length, a fairly
broad, snowy saddle, the Col Maudit, was reached. To the right a
rather steep, but to all appearances short, ice slope fell away
towards crevassed snow slopes, down which we felt sure of finding a
convenient way. After once more donning climbing irons--for they had
been taken off on gaining the summit of Mont Maudit--Max took charge
of my knapsack, while I set to work to cut the necessary steps down
the slope. The ice rapidly steepened but merged into snow, too hard
to kick steps in, but ready to yield a secure step for two, or at the
most three, blows of the axe. Noticing that the slope did not run out
directly into the snowfields below, we suspected the presence of an
intervening bergschrund of more than ordinary proportions. Our surmise
proved only too true. Within a quarter of an hour of leaving the Col
Maudit, we foregathered in a large step hewn out just above the upper
lip of a great bergschrund which gaped to right and left with never a
sign of a snow bridge within reach. The lower lip was at least fifteen
feet below where we stood, but as the schrund seemed to be at its
narrowest here, it was obviously the most suitable place to effect a
passage. Three ways of doing this suggested themselves: to jump down
the fifteen feet, to cut out a belay in the snow and rope down, or to
use one of our axes as a belay. On reconsideration, the second and
third courses were discarded; the one because it was getting late in
the day and the time necessary to hew out a suitable belay would be
considerable; the other because it would mean the sacrifice of an axe.
So we decided to jump. Leaving my axe and climbing irons with Max, I
screwed up my courage and leapt wildly out into space, to strike with
my feet into the deep, soft snow below the bergschrund with such force
that I was almost submerged, and snow found its way into my clothing
in a most disconcerting fashion. Then came Max’s turn. He first threw
down the axes, climbing irons and other paraphernalia. Then, while
I trained the camera on him, he jumped and landed with such a thud
that he likewise was almost buried in the powdery snow. After a rest
and a meal to soothe shattered nerves, we gathered up our belongings
and commenced stamping down towards Mont Blanc de Tacul. Crevasses
and ice cliffs enforced a zig-zag course and deep snow made the work
toilsome, but we forged steadily ahead, leaving a deeply-furrowed trail
in our wake. Passing beyond the depression between Mont Maudit and our
objective, we finally mounted up gentle snow slopes and a few simple
rocks to the summit of Mont Blanc de Tacul (13,941 ft.), and thus
gained our third mountain-top for the day. The view from here was one
of the most striking of the marvellous series of changing panoramas
which marked this trip. The great rocky buttresses and escarpments of
the precipitous south face of Mont Maudit, seamed with appallingly
steep ice-filled gullies, the shimmering ice cliffs of the Brenva face
of Mont Blanc, and the bold yet almost unearthly graceful outline of
the Peuteret ridge formed a peerless picture of nobility and majesty.
[Illustration: _Descending Mont Maudit._
“... a slender snowy crest.”]
[Illustration:
_Aiguille Noire de
Peuteret._
_Dames
Anglaise._
_Aiguille Blanche
de Peuteret._
_Col de Peuteret._
_Mont Blanc de
Courmayeur._
_Mont Blanc._
_The Peuteret ridge from the Col du Géant._
_Facing page 224._
]
It was two o’clock. To judge from what could be seen of the snow
slopes leading down to the Col du Midi, where we intended to spend the
night, no serious difficulty appeared to be in store for us. We had,
therefore, time to spare; so, while the spirit cooker did its work,
we dozed and sunned ourselves on the sun-warmed rocks of the summit.
At 4 p.m., though loth to leave, we packed up and tramped off in the
direction of the Aiguille du Midi. The slopes became steeper and were
covered with great quantities of fresh snow. Here and there a crevasse
or minor bergschrund had to be negotiated, but all went well. We had
descended a considerable distance, and could already overlook the
greater part of the easy, almost uncrevassed slopes leading into the
Col du Midi, when an immense bergschrund pulled us up short. The upper
lip was fully fifty feet above the lower. Tracks leading up to, and
then retreating from, the lower lip were visible. A party of climbers
had evidently quite recently sallied forth from the Col du Midi to
climb Mont Blanc, but had been repelled by the formidable obstacle
which was now causing us no little concern. A search to the left
revealed nothing of value. To work out to the right would entail much,
and perhaps purposeless, step-cutting. So, without more ado, we hewed
out a huge step as close to the upper lip of the schrund as possible,
cleared away the snow from a suitable spot, and worked away at the
ice underneath until a great projecting block had been formed. Over
this improvised belay we laid the middle of the only spare rope, and
shinned down it. With this the last of the difficulties was overcome.
We plunged knee-deep down gently inclined slopes, whose snows, almost
unbroken by chasms, waxed softer and wetter as the Col du Midi was
approached; and at 6 p.m. we were shaking free from dust and filth the
torn remnants of what had once been blankets in the little Col du Midi
refuge.
Next day, after discovering a new and rather difficult route up the
Aiguille du Midi (12,608 ft.), we tramped wearily across the vast,
white expanse of the Géant Glacier to the Rifugio Torino. There we
saw the first human being we had set eyes upon since bidding “adieu”
to our mule-driver on the Miage Glacier. For five whole days we had
roamed over the lonely snows of Mont Blanc without meeting a single
fellow-creature. In our daily life we jostle each other cheek by jowl;
and sometimes it is good to be alone.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] To-day (1924) no building or structure of any kind mars the
sweeping majesty of Mont Blanc’s snowy dome.