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ITALIAN ALPS
London: Printed by
Spottiswoode and Co., New-Street Square
and Parliament Street
[Illustration: THE CIMA TOSA,
From Val di Brenta.
F. F. Tuckett delt.]
ITALIAN ALPS
Sketches in the Mountains of Ticino, Lombardy, the Trentino,
and Venetia
by
DOUGLAS W. FRESHFIELD
Author of 'Travels in the Caucasus and Bashan' and
Editor of 'The Alpine Journal'
Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits
Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth _Clough_
[Illustration: THE PUNTA TRUBINESCA AND CIMA DI TSCHINGEL,
FROM ST. MORITZ.]
London
Longmans, Green, and Co.
1875
All rights reserved
TO THE
MOST CONSTANT OF MY COMPANIONS
FRANÇOIS JOSEPH DEVOUASSOUD
NOTE.
The First Chapter is reprinted with corrections and additions from
'Fraser's Magazine.' The Thirteenth and fragments of one or two others
have previously appeared in the 'Alpine Journal,' from which three of
the illustrations have also been borrowed. The remaining seven have
been engraved for this work under the care of Mr. G. Pearson.
* * * * *
The heights throughout the book and in all the maps are given in
English feet.
PREFACE.
I owe a double apology for the publication of this volume; in the first
place to the public, secondly to my friends.
'Mountaineering' has been by this time fully described by very
competent writers. No new book is likely to have any chance of
rivalling the popularity of the first series of 'Peaks, Passes, and
Glaciers,' or of the dramatic story of the Matterhorn, as told and
illustrated by Mr. E. Whymper. There is no longer the least novelty
in the small feats of gymnastics annually performed, or supposed to be
performed, by members of the Alpine Club. Few readers, I think, outside
that body of enthusiasts, are eager to hear anything more of guides
and glaciers, arêtes and séracs, cols, couloirs and crevasses. Such
subjects recur more often than I could wish in the following pages. But
in attempting to give any adequate picture of a mountain region it is
impossible to leave out the snow mountains. My object has been to keep
them as far as possible in their proper place in the landscape. I could
not, like some tourists, ignore everything above the snow-level, but I
have not, I trust, written as if the world began only at that point and
everything beneath it was also beneath notice.
The sketches here brought together are a patchwork from the journals
of seven summers. Their chief claim to interest lies in the fact
that they deal with portions of the Alpine chain, about which English
readers have hitherto found no information in their own language except
in guide-books. General experience proves that the British mind--the
remark does not, I believe, hold equally good of the German--will
not readily take in a new lesson through this medium. Few of our
fellow-countrymen turn their steps towards an unknown region unless
directed thither either by the report of friends or by some book less
technical and abstruse than a Dictionary of Peaks and Passes. Such a
book, I venture to hope, the present volume may be found.
The gap which it is intended to fill has long remained one of the
broadest in our English Alpine literature.
We have already two works of permanent value dealing with the southern
side of the Alps. But Val Formazza was the eastern limit of the late
Mr. King's 'Italian Valleys of the Pennine Alps.' The authors of 'The
Dolomites' did not go west of the Adige. The exquisite valleys round
the head of Lago Maggiore, so easily accessible from the lake or the
St. Gothard road, have been completely passed over. The mountains of
Val Masino and Val Livigno, distant respectively only a day's journey
west and east of the crowded Upper Engadine, are still left to their
bears and Bergamasque shepherds. The Punta Trubinesca, a noble peak,
which, seen from Monte Generoso, heads the army of the Rhætian Alps,
has been but once ascended, although it is accessible to anybody who
can cross the Diavolezza Pass or climb the Titlis. In the highlands of
Lombardy and the Trentino--speaking roughly, the country between Lago
di Como and Trent--Italy and Switzerland seem to join hands. There,
under an Italian sky and girt round by southern flowers and foliage,
the fantastic rock-ridges and mighty towers of the Brenta stand
opposite the broad snow-plains of the Adamello. Yet the beauties of
this region, one of the most fascinating in the Alps, have, but for a
stray mountaineer or a scanty notice in the 'Alpine Journal,' remained
unsought and unsung.
The few friends and companions who have hitherto shared with me its
enjoyment may here ask, 'And why could not you let them remain so?' I
will at any rate offer none but honest excuses. I can make no pretence
to having been overcome by any benevolent feeling towards the public
at large. Had there seemed the smallest reasonable hope of our haunts
remaining undisturbed I should have been disposed still to keep the
secret I have already guarded for some years. But unfortunately, at
least from our point of view, a spirit of enterprise has sprung up
amongst the people of the country, roads are being made, new inns
opened, old ones furbished up, and as a result English visitors are
becoming less and less rare. In the ordinary course of events it
was hardly possible for another year to pass by without some monthly
tourist, with a facility in bookmaking, penetrating the Lombard Alps.
If it was inevitable that these mountains should be brought before
the world, it seemed better that they should be introduced by one
who had with them a friendship of some years' standing rather than
by a new acquaintance. Moreover there was a very obvious advantage
in making the revelation myself. I have outgrown the rash enthusiasm
which leads discoverers to overrate all the merits and understate
half the disadvantages of their last new discovery. I have, so far as
I know my own mind, no desire to deceive anybody. I am prepared, as
new-comers seldom are, to attach at least their due importance to all
difficulties of climate or of transport, from want of accommodation or
from want of guides. In short, I mean to frame a friendly invitation
to those who know how to travel which yet shall not allure the crowd
who tour. As an eclectic wanderer I can afford to state, with perfect
frankness, my conviction that, if you can put up with the crowd,
there is no place where great snow-peaks are so well seen as in the
Bernese Oberland--that there is no climbing which equals that to be
had within twenty miles of Zermatt--that the ice scenery on Mont Blanc
is unsurpassable in Europe, and the climate of the Upper Engadine the
most bracing south of the Arctic circle. And I can heartily agree in
the conclusion that everyone who, wishing for nothing more, crosses
the frontier of Italy, commits an act of folly. I write only for those
who do wish for something more--who, like myself, feel at times in a
mood for less austere society. The Swiss peaks sit erect in a solemn
white-robed row of Monks and Virgins, most noble and inspiring to
contemplate. The Italian Alps I may venture to compare to a gay and
gracious company robed in blue, red, and purple pomp, and setting off
the costume by that most becoming artifice, well-powdered heads.
I have only to add a few words on matters of detail. The first eleven
chapters deal with ground new[1] to English readers. The twelfth
contains information not given elsewhere, and likely to be useful now
that a large inn is opened at San Martino di Castrozza, in the most
beautiful situation of any stopping-place in Italian Tyrol.[2] The
Pelmo, as in many respects a unique mountain, has a certain novelty.
The last chapter is an expostulation for which the present moment seems
particularly opportune.
In order to meet a difficulty which most authors must have felt, I
have ventured in one respect on an innovation on the ordinary form
of books of Swiss travel. The details as to inns, ascents or paths,
necessary on the spot, are tiresome when a book is read at home; on the
other hand, when travelling it is often difficult at a moment's notice
to extract from the body of the work the exact fact wanted. Such new
remarks therefore as I had to offer on these matters, I have embodied
in an appendix where, without being obtrusive, they will be readily
accessible.
The list of illustrations and maps will explain itself, and show
that by Messrs. Longman's liberality the volume is in these respects
unusually well provided.
My best thanks are due to my friends Mr. J. Gilbert and Mr. F. F.
Tuckett for the use of the accurate sketches which have furnished most
of the illustrations.
Two of the district maps and part of the third are extracts from the
as yet unpublished south-eastern sheet of the Alpine Club map of the
Central Alps. The hill-engraving being still incomplete, the mountains
have been put in from a stone.
The Brenta group is now laid down for the first time with any approach
to accuracy, and some pains have been taken to render this addition
as far as possible worthy of the map of which it forms a natural
extension. For assistance in my endeavours to ascertain the correct
nomenclature I have to thank the Trentine Alpine Society, who appointed
a special committee to make enquiries on the spot,[3] and Mr. M.
Holzmann. I regret to be obliged to add that owing to the churlishness
of the Viennese authorities I have been unable to profit in any way by
the results of the great Survey of the Trentino and South Tyrol lately
executed by the Austrian engineers.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The Livigno district has been touched on in two works, _A
Summer Tour in the Grisons_, by Mrs. H. Freshfield, and _Here
and There in the Alps_, by the Hon. F. Plunket, but the route
here described was not previously known. There is a pleasant
description of Val di Sole, in _On Foot through Tyrol_, by
Walter White. Chapman and Hall, 1856.
[2] See Appendix F on 'Tyrol v. Tirol.'
[3] See Appendix E for further details on this subject.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
VAL MAGGIA.
PAGE
Val Maggia--Bignasco--Val Lavizzara--The Basodine--Val 1
Bavona--Piz Campo Tencca--Val di Prato
CHAPTER II.
VAL VERZASCA AND VAL CANOBBINA.
Passo di Redorta--Val Verzasca--A Broken Road--Locarno--Val 28
Canobbina--Val Vigezzo
CHAPTER III.
_WEST OF THE BERNINA._
THE PEAKS AND PASSES OF VAL MASINO.
The Mountains of Val Masino--The Aversthal--Madriser Pass--Val 41
Bregaglia--Zocca Pass--Promontogno--Val Bondasca--Passo di
Ferro--Bagni del Masino--Passo di Monte Sissone--The Forno
Glacier
CHAPTER IV.
THE PEAKS AND PASSES OF VAL MASINO (_continued_).
Chiareggio--Passo di Mello--Passo di Bondo--Cima del Largo--Val 68
Masino--Punta Trubinesca--Monte della Disgrazia--The Approach to
Sondrio--A Reply
CHAPTER V.
_EAST OF THE BERNINA._
TARASP AND THE LIVIGNO DISTRICT.
The Prätigau--Verstankla Thor--Tarasp--Piz Pisoc--Passo del 94
Diavel--Livigno--Monte Zembrasca--Passo di Dosdè--Val Grosina
CHAPTER VI.
THE BERGAMASQUE MOUNTAINS.
Val d'Esino--The Grigna--Introbbio--Forcella di Cedrino--Val 121
Torta--An Old Traveller--Val Brembana--Branzi--Passo di
Gornigo--Gromo--Val Seriana--Bondione--Monte Gleno--Val Belviso
CHAPTER VII.
VAL CAMONICA AND THE GIUDICARIA.
The Aprica Pass--Edolo--Val Camonica--Cedegolo--Val 154
Saviore--Lago d'Arno--Monte Castello--Val di Fum--Val
Daone--Lago di Ledro--Riva--The Gorges of the Sarca--Val
Rendena--Pinzolo--The Pra Fiori--Val d'Algone--Stenico--The High
Road to Trent
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PRESANELLA AND VAL DI GENOVA.
English and German Mountaineers--The Lombard Alps from Monte 182
Rosa--Nomenclature--Gavia Pass--Ponte di Legno--Tonale
Pass--Vermiglio--Val Presanella--The Presanella--Passo di
Cercen--Val di Genova
CHAPTER IX.
THE ADAMELLO AND CARÈ ALTO.
A Tyrolese Porter--The Bedole Alp--The Adamello--Val Miller--Val 208
di Malga--Val di Borzago--The Carè Alto--A High-level
Route--Passo di Mandron--Val d'Avio
CHAPTER X.
PINZOLO AND CAMPIGLIO.
Pinzolo--The Churches of Val Rendena--History and Legends--Val 229
Nambino--The Brenta Group--La Madonna di Campiglio--Hospice and
Pension
CHAPTER XI.
THE BRENTA GROUP.
Val di Brenta--Bocca dei Camozzi--Val d'Agola--Passo 248
d'Ambies--Val di Sole--Ginevrie Pass--Cima di Brenta--Passo di
Grostè--Val Teresenga--Molveno--Cima Tosa--Bocca di Brenta
CHAPTER XII.
THE PASSES OF PRIMIERO.
The Lower Passes--Paneveggio--San Martino di Castrozza--The 279
Paths to Agordo--Val di San Lucano--Passo di Canale--Passo delle
Cornelle--Passo di Travignolo--Cima di Vezzana
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PELMO AND VAL DI ZOLDO.
The Venetian Tyrol--Val di Zoldo--Passo d'Alleghe--San 308
Nicolò--Campo di Rutorto--On the Pelmo--A Lady's Ascent--The
People of Val di Zoldo
CHAPTER XIV.
MEN AND MOUNTAINS.
Men and Mountains--Mountain-haters--A Literary Example--Poets 327
and Painters--The Place of Art--Alpine Scenery and Art--The
Variety of the Alps--The Snow World--Mons. Loppé's
Pictures--Conclusion
APPENDICES.
Appendix A.
PAGE
Notes for Travellers 347
Appendix B.
Pictures and Antiquities of the Bergamasque Valleys 367
Appendix C.
Routes from Santa Catarina to Val di Sole 369
Appendix D.
The Churches of Val Rendena 370
Appendix E.
The Nomenclature of the Brenta Group 378
Appendix F.
Tyrol _v._ Tirol 380
INDEX 381
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS.
WOOD ENGRAVINGS.
1. The Cima Tosa from Val di Brenta _Frontispiece_
2. The Punta Trubinesca and Cima di Tschingel
from above St. Moritz _Vignette_
3. The Monte della Disgrazia from the Bernina
Group _to face p._ 69
4. The Head of Val di Genova " 205
5. From the Adamello--looking East " 213
6. San Stefano and the Cima di Nafdisio " 232
7. Val di Brenta--from the road to Campiglio " 236
8. Molveno " 273
9. The Cimon della Pala and Cima di Vezzana " 295
10. On the Pelmo " 317
MAPS.
1. The Locarno District " 1
2. The Val Masino District " 41
3. The Adamello and Brenta Groups " 155
4. The Primiero Group " 279
5. General Map _at end_
[Illustration: THE LOCARNO DISTRICT.
Stanford's Geogl. Estabm., 56, Charing Cross, London
London: Longmans & Co.]
CHAPTER I.
VAL MAGGIA.
Huge mountains of immeasurable height
Encompass'd all the level valley round
With mighty slabs of rock that sloped upright,
An insurmountable enormous bound;--
That vale was so sequester'd and secluded,
All search for ages past it had eluded. HOOKHAM FRERE.
VAL MAGGIA--BIGNASCO--VAL LAVIZZARA--THE BASODINE--VAL BAVONA--PIZ
CAMPO TENCCA--VAL DI PRATO.
The typical Alpine Clubman has been somewhere described by Mr. Anthony
Trollope as cherishing in his bosom, through the ten months of each
year in which the business of life debars him from his favourite
pursuit, an ever-gnawing desire for the beloved mountains.
For myself, whenever, as I often do, I vent
---- an inward groan
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne
it is accompanied, as in Keats' sonnet, by 'a languishment for skies
Italian.' The bright recollections which at once console and harass me
during the fogs and snows of our Cimmerian winters owe their existence
as much to Italian valleys as to snowy peaks. After a week of hard
mountaineering at Zermatt or in the Oberland, the keen colourless air
of the Riffel or Bell Alp begins to pall upon my senses; the pine-woods
and châlets to remind me, against my will, of a German box of toys.
I sigh for the opal-coloured waves of atmosphere which are beating up
against the southern slopes of the mountains, for the soft and varied
foliage, the frescoed walls and far-gleaming campaniles of Italy. In
such a mood, after a morning spent upon the snows of Monte Rosa or the
Adamello, I plunge with the keenest delight amongst the vines of Val
Sesia or Val Camonica.
For this morbid tendency, as it is considered by some vigorous friends,
I do not propose to offer either defence or apology. Still less do
I wish to become a public benefactor by leading on a mob to take
possession of my pleasure grounds. But there is ample room for a few
congenial spirits, and towards these I would not be selfish.
In truth the unequivocal warmth of the valleys of the southern Alps
in August, the English travelling season, will serve to check the
incursions of cockneydom; for the modern British tourist professes
himself incapable of enjoying life, much less exercise, under even a
moderate degree of heat. Everybody knows how the three warm days which
make up an English summer are received with more groans than gratitude,
and the thunderstorm which invariably ends them is saluted by a chorus
of thanksgiving adequate for a delivery from some Egyptian plague. The
sun so dreaded at home we naturally shun abroad. Italy and the Levant
are already deserted at the season when they become most enjoyable. An
Italian valley suggests to the too solid Englishman not the glorious
glow of summer and a profusion of 'purple grapes, green figs, and
mulberries,' but fever, cholera, and sundry kinds of dissolution.
Lago Maggiore is a name well known to thousands, but I doubt whether,
even in the Alpine Club, ten could be found ready to point out off-hand
the whereabouts of Val Maggia. Yet the valley offers a type of beauty
as rare and worth knowing as the lake into which its waters flow.[4]
Behind Locarno, at the head of Lago Maggiore, is the outlet of a
network of valleys, forming the veins of the mountain mass, Italian
by nature, though Swiss by circumstance, which divides the Gries and
the St. Gothard. The longest and deepest of these valleys is that of
the Maggia. Yet, despite its length, it leads to no pass over the main
Alpine chain. The gaps at its head open only on the high pasturages of
Val Bedretto. It has been thus cut off by nature from any share in the
traffic which has flowed for centuries on one or the other side of it.
I must now ask the reader to imagine himself seated beside me on the
box of the country omnibus which plies daily through this valley. Some
three miles from Locarno in the picturesque defile of Ponte Brolla our
eyes, accustomed to the murky grey of most glacier streams, are first
greeted by the marvellous waters of the Maggia, shining with intensity
of blue out of deep caves and hollows in the heart of the smooth white
granite. But for many miles to come the scenery of Val Maggia does not
rise above the ordinary boldness of a granite district, here graced by
a slender cascade, there marred by a stony waste.
About sixteen miles, or three hours, from Locarno the road crosses
for the first time to the right bank of the stream, and passes through
Cevio, the political centre of the neighbouring valleys, standing on
the confines of the three districts of Val Maggia, Val Lavizzara and
Val Rovana. We drive across an open space, like an English village
green, surrounded by houses more pretentious than are commonly seen in
the mountains.
It was on this spot that De Saussure, while taking an observation
to ascertain the height of the place above the sea, was greeted and
invited to enter by the baillie or chief magistrate of the valley.
I cannot resist quoting the amusing account of the interview which
followed.
'It being some time,' writes De Saussure, 'since I had had any news
from the civilized world, I accepted the invitation, hoping to learn
some. What was my surprise when the baillie told me that though it
was long since he had had any letter from the other side of the Alps,
he should be happy to give an answer to any inquiry I might wish to
make. At the same time he showed me an old black seal, and this was
the oracle which answered all his questions. He held in his hand a
string, to the end of which this seal was attached, and he dangled the
seal thus fastened in the centre of a drinking-glass. Little by little
the trembling of the hand communicated to the thread and seal a motion
which made the latter strike against the sides of the glass. The number
of these blows indicated the answer to the question which the person
who held the string had in his mind. He assured me with the seriousness
of profound conviction that he knew by this means not only everything
that was going on at home, but also the elections for the Council of
Bale and the number of votes each candidate had obtained. He questioned
me on the object of my travels, and after having learnt it, showed me
on his almanac the age which common chronology gives the world, and
asked me what I thought about it. I told him that my observations of
mountains had led me to look on the world as somewhat older. "Ah,"
he answered with an air of triumph, "my seal had already told me so,
because the other day I had the patience to count the blows while
reflecting on the world's age, and I found it was four years older than
it is set down in this almanac."'
Near Cevio the landscape takes a more romantic character. The
valley-walls close in and bend, and huge knobs of ruddy-grey rock
thrust themselves forward. The river, confined to a narrow bed,
alternately lies still in pools, whose depth of blue no comparison can
express, or rushes off over the white boulders in a clear sparkling
dance. Chestnut-trees hang from the crags overhead; higher on the hills
every ledge is a stripe of verdure fringed with the delicate shapes of
the birch and larch. In the far distance a snow-peak in the range above
Val Leventina gleams behind the folds of the nearer mountains.
But up to the last moment nothing foreshadows the wonderful surprise
in store. As we draw near the first scattered houses of Bignasco,
the mountains suddenly break open, and reveal a vision of the most
exquisite and harmonious beauty, one of those master-pieces of nature
which defy the efforts of the subtlest word-painters, and are perhaps
best left alone by a dull topographer. Yet I cannot refrain, useless
as the effort may be, from at least cataloguing some of the details
which come together in this noble landscape. The waters at our feet
are transparent depths of a colour, half sapphire and half emerald,
indescribable, and, the moment the eye is taken away, inconceivable, so
that every glance becomes a fresh surprise. In the foreground on either
bank of the stream are frescoed walls and mossy house-roofs; beyond is
a summerhouse supported by pillars, and a heavily laden peach-orchard
lit with a blaze of sunflowers. At the gate of Val Bavona a white
village glistens from amidst its vineyards. Sheer above it two bold
granite walls rise out of the verdure, and form the entrance to a long
avenue of great mountain shapes. Behind these foremost masses the hills
fall valleywards in noble and perfectly harmonious lines. Each upper
cliff flows down into a slope of chestnut-muffled boulders in a curve,
the classical beauty of which is repeated by the vine-tendrils at its
feet. In the distance the snows of the Basodine seen through the sunny
haze gleam, like a golden halo, on the far-off head of the mountain.
Is human interest wanted to give completeness and a motive to the
picture? As daylight faded I have watched the swinging torches and
low chaunt of those who carried the Host to some passing soul. In the
morning-glow I have seen a white-robed procession pour slowly with
banners and noise of bells from the yet dark village, then suddenly
issuing into the sunshine, surge, a living wave of brightness, over the
high-arched bridges.
Bignasco lives in my memory as one of the loveliest spots in the
Italian Alps. Planted at the meeting-place of three valleys, the view
up Val Bavona is only the fairest of the fair scenes which surround
it. In every direction paths strike off through the woods. Across the
river rises a bold bluff of rock; behind it the hillside curves in, and
forms an ample bay filled with chestnut forest; at intervals a sunny
spot has been cleared and planted as a vineyard, the unstubbed ground
is covered by a carpet of Alpine rhododendron, here tempted down to its
lowest limit in the chain.[5] Little tracks, wandering in alternate
'forthrights and meanders' from one haybarn to another, lead at last
to a white chapel placed on a conspicuous brow. By its side stands an
older and humbler edifice. The gates of both are bolted, but the bolt
is held fast only by a withered nosegay, and it is easy to make an
entrance into the smaller chapel and examine its frescoes. They have
been atrociously daubed over; but the pattern of the child's dress in
the central picture, and a certain strength in the figures and faces
on the side walls, still bear witness to a time when the great wave
of Italian art spread even into Val Maggia. A date in the first twenty
years of the sixteenth century may be read above the altar.
We are here on the verge of the chestnuts; a few hundred feet above
us the woods change into beech and ash groves; higher still birch and
larch feather the mountain spurs. The valleys meet at our feet. On the
left, sloping lawns fall away abruptly into a deep torrent-worn ravine;
far beneath are the white houses of Cevio. Val Bavona with its mountain
curves and crowning snows lies immediately opposite.
Why, we ask, as we sit on the chapel steps, does this combination of
rocks and trees touch our senses with so rare and subtle a pleasure?
On the lakes we have left landscapes more 'softly sublime, profusely
fair.' But those belonged to the class of hill-scenery; even the waving
crests were to their tops clothed in green and the whole landscape
pleased and contented us by its aspect of unbroken domestic repose and
richness. Here the bold dark outlines of the granite precipices hanging
over the luxuriant yet untamed loveliness of the valley appeal to our
emotions with the strong power of contrast. The majesty of the central
ranges wedded to the beauty of Italy excites in us that enthusiasm
beyond tranquil admiration which is our tribute to the highest
expression of the Romantic whether in Art or Nature. We can contemplate
calmly a rich lake-scene or an Umbrian Madonna; we feel disposed to cry
out with delight before a figure of Michael Angelo or this view in Val
Maggia.
For in this valley the strength of granite is clothed in the grace of
southern foliage, in a rich mantle of chestnuts and beeches, fringed
with maize and vines, and embroidered about the skirts with delicate
traceries of ferns and cyclamen. Nature seems here to have hit the
mark she so often misses--to speak boldly but truly--in her higher
efforts: she has avoided alike the trough-like uniformity which renders
hideous much of the upper Engadine and diminishes even the splendours
of Chamonix, the naked sternness of Mattmark or the Grimsel, the rough
scales of muddy moraine and torrent-spread ruin which deface Monte Rosa
herself, where she sinks towards Macugnaga and Italy.
It is easy to return more directly down the face of the rocks. In these
valleys the industry of centuries, by building up stone staircases
from shelf to shelf, has made paths in the least likely spots. Even
the narrowest ledge between two cliffs is turned to profit. Across
the bridge behind the inn rises an abrupt crag, up the face of which
a dwarf wall runs at a very high angle. This wall, at first sight
purposeless, proved to be in fact a stone ladder, the flakes of
gneiss which projected along its top serving as steps for the active
peasantry. The ascent to some of the alps lies up stone staircases,
three hours--to measure distance in the local manner--in length.
To these the wiry little cows of Canton Ticino speedily accustom
themselves. Indeed, so expert do they become in getting up stairs
that the broad flights of steps leading to the church doors have to be
barricaded by posts placed at narrow intervals to prevent the parting
herd from yielding to a sudden impulse to join in a body in morning
mass, or a stray cow from wandering in unawares to browse on the tinsel
vegetation of the high altar.
The greater part of the population of Bignasco cluster closely under
the hillside, where a long dull village street squeezed in between
two rows of stone walls opens out here and there into a tiny square or
'piazzetta,' with a stone bench and a stone fountain overshadowed by a
stone-propped vine. These houses resemble in nothing those of a Swiss
hamlet. The abandonment of the use of wood in favour of an equally
handy and more solid material, joined to something in the external
construction of the houses, carried my thoughts, on our last visit, far
away to the stone towns of central Syria. Here, as there, I noted that
the principal entrance to each tenement was by a gateway eight to ten
feet high, and proportionately broad. Remembering how in my youth I had
been taken to task by a worthy missionary for not recognising in such
doors the work of giants, I enquired eagerly for traditions of some
local Og, perhaps a link between the giant of the Mettenberg and the
present Swiss. But such was the ignorance of the country folk that I
could obtain no further answer than that the gateways were a convenient
size for a laden mule.
The well-to-do people of Val Maggia seem to be sensible of the charms
of the spot where the waters of Val Bavona and the main valley meet.
On the promontory between the two rivers, each crossed just above the
junction by a bold arch, stands a suburb of what would be described by
an auctioneer as 'detached villas,' houses gay with painted shutters
and arched loggias, where grapes cluster and oleanders flush. One
of these, commanding from its upper windows the perfect view up Val
Bavona, is the 'Posta,' the home of Signor Patocchi, who entertains
the rare strangers who visit the village. Our host is a man of high
standing and substance in his own country. For three generations the
office of President of the United Districts of Val Maggia has remained
in his family. He has represented Ticino on public occasions and is a
member of the Cantonal Council and of the Swiss Alpine Club. The energy
of the race is represented also by a vivacious active sister who dwells
with family pride on her brother's successes in life, and most of all
on a bridge for the new St. Gothard railway, for which he had accepted
the contract; a 'cosa stupenda,' a 'vera opera Romana.'
The example of their foregoers has assuredly not been lost on the
modern Italians. Not only in great works such as the Mont Cenis tunnel
or the coast railway from Nice to Spezzia, but also in the country
roads of remote valleys the traveller finds frequent evidences of
the survival of the Roman tradition and genius for road-making.
The industry and skill displayed in opening and improving means of
communication by the most obscure communes--frequently, it is true,
when they expend themselves in the laborious construction of pavés,
misdirected--contrast very favourably with the sloth in the same matter
of many northern 'Boards' apt to pride themselves on their energy.
Sometimes, however, this inherited zeal outruns discretion, witness the
following story taken from a local newspaper. Caspoggio is a hamlet
perched high on a green hillside in Val Malenco, at the back of the
Bernina. The lower communes had in 1874 just completed a new road
to which Caspoggio naturally desired to link itself. There were two
ways of effecting this, one estimated to cost 40,000 lire (£1,600),
the other 15,000 (£600); the cheapest road was, however, twenty-two
minutes the longer. The bold patriarchs of Caspoggio were all for
saving time as against money. Whereon the 'Corriere Valtellinese'
solemnly protested against the intended extravagance, and pointed
out its inconsistency with the facts that the annual income of the
commune was not more than £80 a year, and that it could only afford its
schoolmaster and mistress annual pittances of £6 apiece. 'My good sirs
of Caspoggio,' said this sensible adviser, 'is it worth while to create
a communal debt in order to bring your butter and cheese a few minutes
earlier to market?' How Caspoggio decided I have yet to learn.
To return to Val Maggia and its President. Signor Patocchi is a man of
position among his neighbours, and his house shows it. But he is also
a Southerner, and his floors show it. Having confessed this, however,
the worst is said, and for the rest English people accustomed to travel
will find little to complain of. The beds are clean, fish and fowl
the neighbourhood supplies, and a few hours' notice will collect ample
provisions for the carnivorous climber.
But it is time for us to leave Bignasco and follow the road up the main
valley henceforth known as Val Lavizzara.
For four or five miles we mount through a picturesque ravine, where
the mountains rise in rugged walls tier above tier overhead. Yet every
cranny is filled with glossy foliage, and the intervening ledges are
no monstrous deformities, only fit to be 'left to slope,' but each
a meadow closely mown, and dotted with stone haybarns. If some gash
is noticed in the cliffs it is only as a brighter streak of colour;
the ruin wrought below has long been buried out of sight, cottages
grow against the fallen rocks, and vines fling themselves over their
roughnesses. The river, no murky grey monster--like those fitly
transformed into dragons by the legends of the northern Alps--runs
through a narrow cleft, in the depths of which we catch alternate
glimpses of deep blue pools or creamlike falls.
A little farther the defile opens, the stream flows more peaceably, and
we shall see fishermen armed with huge jointless rods strolling along
its banks. Though still early morning, some are already returning,
amongst them a curé with a well-filled basket for his Friday dinner.
Several clusters of houses hang on the hillside, but the first village
is Broglio, shaded by groves of gigantic walnuts; a mile beyond the
valley bends, the shoulders of the hills sink sufficiently to allow
their rugged heads to come into view, and a glen opens on the right
backed by the jagged snow-streaked range of the Campo Tencca. The first
sunbeams which have reached us stream through the gap, and bathe the
forest in a golden flood of light. A great pulpit-shaped boulder rises
beside the road, and is seized on as a post by the telegraph wire. Soon
after we cross the stream and enter two adjoining villages. Beyond them
is a small cemetery, decorated with paintings in somewhat better taste
than those usually found in the mountains. There is further evidence
of culture in the couplet from Dante, which under one of the frescoes
takes the place of the usual Latin text.
Amidst a rocky waste, where the torrent from Val Peccia joins the
larger stream, stands the dirty hamlet of Peccia. The glen to which it
gives a name seems here the true head of the valley, but the entrance
to the longest branch is by a steep ascent up the right-hand hillside.
Above the first level, a grassy dell occupied by some saw-mills, the
river has cut its way through a rock-barrier. Here on my first visit
the air resounded with the hammering and sawing of a large company of
labourers, some clinging on the rocks and boring, others wheeling away
the rubbish, whilst another party were building up the piers of a lofty
bridge. The excellent and boldly engineered road then in construction
is now completed, and leads as far as Fusio.
We are now at the limit of the romantic Italian valley, and are
leaving behind us not only the vine and the chestnut, but also the
granite. The mountains as we approach them seem to sink before us. The
precipices of the lower valley give place to smooth lawns shadowed by
spreading beeches. The gentle hillsides which surround the headwaters
of the Maggia rise up into low rounded crests, and the scenery is only
redeemed from monotony by the rich variety of the foliage and verdure.
The highest village, Fusio, is a cluster of houses crowded round a
church, and clinging to a steep slope, at the foot of which flows the
blue torrent in a deep bridge-spanned cleft. The inn ten years ago
was of the most primitive kind. It was kept by a worthy couple whose
shrewd puckered faces recalled some portrait of an early German master.
But they were as lively as they were old, and no emergency, not even
the arrival of three hungry Englishmen, found them without resources.
On the occasion in question they boldly proceeded to sacrilege on our
behalf. The village knew that the curé was going to have a fowl for
dinner; the good dame hurried off to the parsonage, and like David
robbed the tables of the priest.
The old inn and its owners are no longer to be found. A new hotel has
lately been built, and is said to be frequented by Italians seeking
refuge from the summer heat of the Lombard plain.
Thus far we have simply followed the main valley. Of its numerous
tributary glens, Val Bavona and Val di Prato are the most likely to be
visited by mountaineers, for they lead to the two highest summits of
the neighbouring ranges, the Basodine and Piz Campo Tencca. But their
beauties ought to attract others besides those who may wish to use them
as means to a higher end--in a literal and Alpine Club sense.
The finest entrance to Val Maggia is through Val Bavona. The traveller
descending from the cold heights and bleak pasturages of the Gries
finds a warm welcome from the storm in the little inn opened some years
ago on the very edge of the cliff over which the Tosa rushes in the
most imposing cataract of the central Alps.[6] An afternoon is well
spent in resting on the rocks beside the tearing, foaming flood, and
watching the endless variety of the forms taken by the broken waves
in their wild downward rush. Waterfalls are too seldom studied at
leisure. Such a view is far more impressive than the hurried glance
ordinarily taken from some point whence the cascade is seen in face,
and all detail is sacrificed to a general effect, which often fails to
be either imposing or picturesque.
The host of the inn will with pleasure undertake to place you next
morning in from three to four hours on the top of the Basodine. The
ascent is simple, and not at all tedious; a steep path up a moist
flower-sprinkled cliff, rolling alps commanding views of the red
mountains of the Gries, then steep banks of frozen snow, and a short
exciting scramble up the highest rocks.
The mountain is a natural belvidere for the Bernese Oberland and
Monte Rosa, and rising a good head above its fellows, must give a
glorious view towards Italy. But to me the mountains of Val Maggia are
unfriendly. Here as on Piz Campo Tencca I saw only a stoneman and a
world of seething mists.
The night before our ascent had been black and wild. The wind had
roared against the waterfall, and the thunder had rocked the house
as though it had a mind to shake it bodily over the cliff. But the
grey sad sunrise was not without hope; the scarves of mist which
still clung about the mountains seemed remnants of an outworn grief;
the upper sky, pale and tremulous, rather spoke of a storm past than
threatened further ills to come. But the crisis had been more violent
than we dreamt at the time, and twenty-four hours of reparation were
needed before the face of heaven could again shine in its full summer
fairness.
The loss of the view was not our only disappointment. It had been
determined to find a new and more direct way down to San Carlo through
Val Antabbia. But in a blind fog it is best to avoid precipices, and
we knew there were plenty in that direction, so we quietly returned
to the gap between our peak and the Kastelhorn, and put on the rope
preparatory to descending the Cavergno Glacier.
The slopes of snow, cut here and there by deep rifts, offered easy
passage until hardening into blue ice they curled over steeply. Some
rocks stuck out on our left, and at their base, at a depth of several
hundred feet, abysses innumerable gaped through the mists. This was an
unexpected difficulty, and we should have been perplexed what to do had
not the wind slightly shifted the cloud-curtain, and shown enough to
enable us to understand our exact position.
The glacier is divided into two terraces by a wall of rock, which
towards the base of the Kastelhorn is covered over by an icefall,
passable no doubt with ease near that peak. We had descended too
directly, and were to the right, or south, of the fall. We must either
remount and go round, or else get down the rocks. With a little trouble
we found a passage, and François, boldly taking advantage of a narrow
bridge between two ice-pits, led us safely on to the lower branch of
the glacier.
Its surface was broken only by contemptible crevices, and we ran down
without interruption to the huge terminal moraine. Sitting amongst its
blocks, we looked back at the great shining slope, on which the sun was
already shining. High up under the Basodine long shadows fell from an
isolated group of snow-towers or 'séracs,' amongst the most prodigious
I had seen in the Alps; a glacier Karnac of ponderous columns and huge
propylons. The smoothness of the surrounding ice, like the flatness of
the Egyptian plain, added to the effect of this mountain temple.
We wished we had missed our way a little more and passed through
its midst. Had we done so we might have followed out the upper or
southern branch of the glacier, and found our way into the glen below
the meeting of waterfalls afterwards mentioned. Close to the ice, in
a sheltered basin, spread with a carpet of verdure, and watered by a
smooth-flowing stream, we found the highest châlets. Great was our
surprise when our eager enquiries for milk were answered in broken
English. The herdsman had worked as a miner in Cornwall, and had now
returned in good circumstances to his native valley.
The narrowness of their granite walls drives the Val Maggians far
afield in search of subsistence.[7] A wayside chapel in Val Bavona has
been recently erected, as its inscription narrates, with Australian
gold, and the driver of the Locarno omnibus in 1873 had learnt English
in the Antipodes. Most of these wanderers come back, some rich, to
build large, white, cheerful houses--'palazzi' their friends call
them--amongst the familiar chestnut-groves; others, like our friend,
less successful, but still not wholly unrewarded, to revert contentedly
to the old solitary life on the hills with the cows and goats.
There can be no stronger proof of the real fascination of mountains
over minds which have grown amongst them than the fidelity of these
peasants, who hurry back from all the excitements of the Antipodes to
the monotony of the alp in summer and the hamlet in winter.[8]
Beyond the huts, path and stream make a sudden plunge into a deep
hollow, the meeting-place of the waters which, springing from the
tarns and snows that lie on the upper shelves, rush over the granite
precipices in a succession of noble falls. The shadeless glen is
closed at its lower end by a buttress projecting from the eastern
mountain. On climbing the spur we saw deep below us a trough-like
valley. Steep mountains encircled the basin, and its floor was strewn
with huge masses torn from their rugged sides. High overhead rose the
southern bulwarks of the Basodine, gigantic cliffs, on whose topmost
verge sparkled a glittering ice-cornice. At our feet San Carlo, the
highest village in Val Bavona, peeped out from amidst rich foliage.
Many women were scattered over the meadows, cutting and gathering in
their hay; and, as we rested, a boy came up from them, and told us
that to reach the valley we must return and cross the stream. A rough
path on the right bank led us through beautiful copses, where the
beech and birch mingled their branches with the pines, and tall ferns
and bright-berried bushes wove a luxuriant undergrowth. Chestnuts and
walnuts greeted us for the first time as we approached the high-arched
bridge leading to San Carlo.
The path, now a good cart-track carried on a causeway between purple
boulders and gnarled old chestnuts, passed by the way a brightly
coloured chapel and two villages. Near the second, a cluster of poor
huts hemmed in by enormous blocks of granite, a pretty jet of water
shoots out of the western cliff, the valley bends, and the sunlit
mountains behind Bignasco close the distance.
A short plain, ruined by a torrent which has recently carried away
half a hamlet, is now passed. To such disasters Val Bavona is always
exposed, and a law formerly forbad any one to live in it through the
winter.
Henceforth, keeping beside the clear blue waters, we descended with
them, through a tangle of white stream-smoothed boulders, and under the
shadow of the prodigious cliffs from which they have fallen. One of the
blocks bears this simple record: 'Qui fu bella Campagna,' and the date
1594. Yet despite the ruin and destruction of which the defile, within
an even historically modern epoch, has been the scene, its beauty is
in no way of a stern or savage nature. If the mountain shapes are as
majestical as those of Giotto's Duomo, their walls are also decorated
with the most lavish hand; and even where the granite is bare time
and weather have tinted it with the mellow hues of an old Florentine
façade.
No more typical passage from the Alps to Italy can possibly be found
than that we had chosen. A few hours ago we had been in the frigid zone
among the eternal snows, and above the level of all but the hardiest
plants. Now the green pastures and the pines were already past, the
chestnut had become our companion, and the first vine threw its long
branches over the rude woodwork of a sheltered hut. Soon three or four
were found in company under the sunny side of a heat-reflecting rock,
until as we drew near Cavergno the whole slope became a vineyard,
and the path an overarched alley between a double row of tall granite
pillars, from which the ripe clusters hung down into our faces in too
tempting luxuriance.
* * * * *
A straight line drawn from Faido, on the St. Gothard road, to Bignasco
nearly passes through Piz Campo Tencca, the three-domed snow-crest
which dominates the eastern range, and, like its loftier rival, the
Basodine, peers down on that charming halting-place. The pass between
the two highest of these summits was, therefore, clearly the proper
path for two mountaineers coming from the east to Val Maggia.
To the driving public Faido is known for an excellent inn and a
waterfall, the latter the outflow of the glacier we proposed to cross.
A much-used track climbs in a long zigzag to the cultivated tableland
which lies above the steep slope overshadowing the village. Beyond
the large upland hamlet of Dalpe, our path pursued the stream into the
hills, mounting steeply by its side to an upper plain, whence several
tracks, some for goats and some for cows, led over broken ground to the
Crozlina Alp, a broad pasturage at the base of a wall of rocks, over
which the streams falling from the upper glaciers shiver themselves
into spray. A few yards south of a boldly projecting crag, and by the
side of one of the cascades, we found it easy to scramble up the broken
rock-faces until the level of the ice was reached; then it seemed best
to bear to the right, and follow a long ridge connecting the buttress
and the highest peak.
The morning had been uncertain, and now the clouds, which we had hoped
were only local and passing, fell upon us with a determination which
promised little chance of deliverance.
What is the duty of a traveller and his guides overtaken on the
mountains by bad weather is a question which the sad death on the Mer
de Glace brought not long ago prominently before the public, and which
will be argued as often as some fatal accident calls attention to the
subject. It is one which does not admit of any offhand answer. Climbers
are of various constitutions, there are mountains and mountains, and
divers kinds of bad weather. Still it may be useful to endeavour to
lay down such leading principles as will probably meet with general
consent.
Where the travellers are new to high mountains, and uncertain of
their own powers of endurance, the guide, in every case where going
on involves long exposure to storm, should suggest, and his employers
agree to, a retreat. The moral courage necessary for this is one of
the requisites of a guide's calling; and if by its exercise he may
sometimes expose himself to the hasty ridicule of an ignorant tourist,
he will not suffer in his profession or in the estimation of real
climbers.
Again, an attempt on one of the more difficult peaks, such as the
Schreckhorn or the Weisshorn, ought not to be persevered with in
doubtful weather; that is, by perseverance in such a case the risk to
life becomes so serious that, whatever the travellers' own value of
themselves may be, they have no right to ask guides to share it. For
it should always be remembered that it is where difficulties prevent
rapid movement that the bitter cold grasps its victim. Except, perhaps,
in the very worst, and fortunately rare, _tourmentes_ circulation can
always be maintained by constant motion.
Thirdly, exposure to this worst kind of storm, which comes on with an
insupportable icy blast, should be as far as possible shunned even on
a mule-pass. The simple monuments which line the track of the Col de
Bonhomme and the Gavia Pass, near Santa Catarina, bear witness to the
dangers of such weather, even on a comparatively frequented route.
There remain, however, a large class of cases where more or less
seasoned climbers are overtaken by clouds, rain, or snow, in each of
which the decision must depend on the circumstances, and for which no
general rule can be laid down. A wet day in the valley is often far
from intolerable above the snow-level, where the gently falling flakes
sink slowly through an air of moderate temperature. In such weather
many high passes may be safely accomplished by men of sufficient
experience, who understand how to apply their local knowledge, or to
use a good map and compass.
Of course, it will be asked, _Cui bono?_--why wander amidst the mists
when you might be comfortable below them? The answer is, that when
the day changes the traveller is often far on his way. It is a case,
perhaps, of going back four hours or going on five; there is, besides
the natural disinclination to return and to have had one's walk for
nothing, the hope, often justified, that the change for the worse may
be only temporary. These are motives which must strongly influence
everyone in such a position.
Besides, the inside of a cloud is not quite so dismal a place as might
be thought, and the snow-region, even when the distant view is hidden,
offers attractions for those who have learnt to appreciate it. The
fretted ice-chasms, the toppling towers and fragile arches of the upper
glacier, the keen white pyramid seen suddenly through a wreath of mist,
or the snow-wave caught in the act of breaking over the highest crest,
have a loveliness of their own as delicate as, and from its strangeness
to inhabitants of a temperate zone sometimes even more fascinating
than, the charm of streams and forests. It is not, it is true, visible
to all eyes. A Reverend Principal lately instructed his audience that
'a more hideous spectacle than a yawning crevasse, with its cold,
blue, glassy sides, can scarcely be conceived.' But Mons. Loppé and the
Alpine Club know better than this. Most of us can probably remember, in
the Regent's Park Colosseum, a sham Switzerland: what that in a sorry
enough way attempted to be to the reality, the reality is to the Polar
regions--a specimen near home of Arctic scenery. Much of this beauty
can be seen even in a partial fog. But there is also the chance of
that most glorious of transfigurations of earth and sky, when towards
evening some breath of air sweeps away the local storm, and through the
melting cloud-wreaths we see the wide landscape glittering with fresh
rain, and the new snows shining opposite the setting sun--a scene the
full splendour of which can scarcely be recalled even in the memory of
those who have often witnessed it.
In the present instance two hours would, we knew, put us well on the
other side of the mountain, where our friends were waiting for us; and,
though neither my guide nor I knew anything of the ground, we could
trust to General Dufour's map. The Swiss traveller has here an enormous
advantage over his brother in Great Britain. If anyone is rash enough,
in Wales for instance, to put his faith in the English Ordnance Survey,
and to seek a passage where light shading seems to indicate an absence
of precipices, he will soon find himself brought to a standstill.
The present state of our national maps is far from creditable to our
Government and our engineers.
For the moment all we had to do was to stick to the ridge, which must
and did lead us straight to the stoneman, in such weather the only
indication of the summit. A short halt for the chance of a break in the
clouds and to settle clearly our route on the map, and we started on
the unknown descent. The first point was to strike the gap south of the
peak. A few minutes sufficed for this, then we had only to descend with
a constant bearing to the left. The ground was steep and rough, and
there were cliffs in every direction, but we managed to avoid them. In
half an hour we had reached the lower skirts of the cloud, and passed
out of gentle snow into pitiless rain.
Cattle tracks now led us past the highest huts to a cabin from the
chimney of which smoke issued. The solitary herdsman welcomed us with
a courtesy and coffee worthy of an Eastern sheikh. The pouring rain,
perhaps, flavoured the beverage, but François Devouassoud and I both
fancied that, west of Constantinople, we had never tasted so aromatic
a draught.
The head of the valley seemed to be a basin surrounded on all sides by
rugged cliffs; in the present weather it was nothing but a caldron of
mist. How should we escape from it? The hill-shoulders pressed us in
on all sides; yet the shepherd promised a _strada buona_. In a quarter
of an hour we were at the meeting-place of the mountain-torrents,
where from their union sprang a stream, the bluest of all the blue
waters of Val Maggia, full of a life now bright and dashing, now calm
and deep, such as might fitly be personified in a Naiad. This was
the fairy who would unbar the gates of our prison. We followed the
guidance of the waters into the jaws of the mountain, where they had
seized on some flaw or fissure to work for themselves a passage. But
the stream had thought only for itself. No room was provided for a
path, and the ingenuity of a road-making population had evidently been
taxed to the utmost to render the ravine passable for cows as well as
water. A causeway was built up on every natural shelf, and, where the
level could no longer be kept, the hanging terraces were connected
by regularly-built stone staircases. A rough balustrade formed a
protection on the outside, and prevented a hasty plunge into the gulf,
where the brilliant waters wrestled with the stiff crags which every
now and then thrust out a knee to stop their flow, and gave them a
tumble from which they collected themselves at leisure in a deep still
pool before dancing off again to fresh struggles and fresh victories.
From the shelves above the bright-berried mountain ash and delicate
birch stretched out their arms to the stream, which, as if impatient
for the vines, hurried past them and at last broke away with a bold
leap, flying down over the rock-faces to the lower valley in a shower
of foam and water-rockets.
Near the junction of a glen through which the track of the Passo di
Redorta climbs over to Val Verzasca, a steep descent beside the fall
leads to the hamlet of San Carlo. The path here crosses a bridge and
keeps henceforth along a broken, richly wooded hill-side until, having
swerved to the right, it joins at Prato the main valley.
And so down the moist high-road under the dripping walnuts of Broglio,
and again, after ten years, back to Bignasco, beautiful even under the
grey cloud-pall with its hill-shapes only suggested between the mists.
Most beautiful when with the sunset a northern breeze gathered up the
vapour-wreaths and a full moon shone down into Val Bavona marking
with clearest lights and shadows all its buttresses, and drawing a
responsive gleam from the pure snows at its head. A change too sudden
to last. For while sitting on the bridge we watched the moonbeams
strike over the southward hill, and fall full on the eddying water
at our feet and the flowery balconies on either hand, a white drapery
stretched slowly round the Cevio corner, and, as in the immortal Chorus
of Aristophanes, a gleaming company of clouds sailed up on their way
from the deep hollows of the lake to the wood-crowned heights of the
mountain. The leader advanced but slowly with misty folds clinging to
each crag; but it had scarcely passed when the whole body was upon us,
and the bright upper heaven was obscured by their fleecy forms.
After midnight we were awakened by the rush of mountain rain and the
crash of thunder, while in the white blaze we saw the Maggia blue no
longer, but turbid with the grey granite atoms which it was hurrying
down to swell the delta of Locarno. The storm spirits were in earnest,
and in the morning every cliff had its cascade, bridges had been swept
away, and great heaps of mud and stones, washed out of the overhanging
crags, blocked even the high-road which offers the only escape from the
mountain world.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] I have not succeeded in discovering any connection
between the word, Maggia and Maggiore.
[5] Bignasco is only 1,400 feet above the sea.
[6] The falls of Krimml in Tyrol are probably on the whole
the Alpine cataract in which height of fall, force of water,
and picturesque surroundings are most thoroughly united.
There are many falls in the Adamello group which a painter
would prefer to the cascade of the Tosa.
[7] Between the years 1850-56, one-eighth of the whole
population, and one-fourth of the male population, left their
homes. Amongst the emigrants were 324 married men, only two
of whom took their wives with them!
[8] The herdsmen of these châlets have a way to the Val
Formazza without crossing the Basodine. The 'Bocchetta di Val
Maggia,' a gap in the rocky ridge at the north-eastern corner
of the Cavergno glacier, brings them on to the pasturages
near the San Giacomo Pass, whence either Airolo or the Tosa
Falls can be gained without further ascent.