_WEST OF THE BERNINA._
THE PEAKS AND PASSES OF VAL MASINO.[12]
Il montera, descendra, traversera, remontera, redescendra,
retraversera, etcetera.--_French Play._
And when I most go here and there,
I then do most go right. SHAKESPEARE.
THE MOUNTAINS OF VAL MASINO--THE AVERSTHAL--MADRISER PASS--VAL
BREGAGLIA--ZOCCA PASS--PROMONTOGNO--VAL BONDASCA--PASSO DI FERRO--BAGNI
DEL MASINO--PASSO DI MONTE SISSONE--THE FORNO GLACIER.
To the crowd, which having sat down in a draught on the roof of Europe
spends its time mostly in bemoaning the cold, to the water-drinkers of
St. Moritz or the pensioners of Pontresina, the mountains of Val Masino
are unknown. Yet had they eyes to see they might often be attracted
by the vision of two square towers rising far beyond the blue lakes
and the green ridge of the Maloya, and shining like an enchanted keep
through the warm haze of Italy.[13] They are indeed the ramparts of
Paradise, for on the further side they look down upon the gardens of
Lago di Como.
Even to climbers this western wing of the Bernina has remained little
known. So long ago as 1862 Messrs. Kennedy and Stephen carried at
the second assault its proudest peak, the Monte della Disgrazia. But
I could count on my fingers the names of all the Englishmen who have
since penetrated Val Masino. Foreign Alpine Clubs have for the most
part held aloof. The Swiss have found enough to do elsewhere, and
have not as yet chosen Val Bregaglia--politically a Swiss valley--as
the 'gebiet' of one of the summer 'excursions' in which they contrive
to combine so happily the features of a prolonged picnic and a
mountain-battue. That practical, and in some respects energetic, body,
the Italian Alpine Club, is only beginning to turn its attention to a
district containing one of the few wholly Italian peaks of over 12,000
feet.
Those who have been already somewhat disappointed in the Upper Engadine
and the heart of the Bernina will perhaps argue that there cannot be
much worth seeing in its extremities, where the peaks are lower and
the ice-fields as a whole less extensive. Such an assumption, however,
would be ill-founded. For scenic effects, every one will allow, the
measurement of a mountain must be taken, not from the sea level, but
from its actual base. Moreover the lower the base the richer and more
varied will be the contrast in vegetation. On applying this test we
find that the Punta Trubinesca[14] towers 8,500 feet above the chestnut
trees of Promontogno, while Piz Bernina itself rises 1,000 feet
less, and far more gradually, above Pontresina. The icy ridges of the
Disgrazia soar 11,000 feet above the vineyards of the Val Tellina, or
as much as Mont Blanc above Courmayeur.
The peaks, moreover, are of a durable granite. They have, therefore,
that combined boldness of outline and solidity which often belongs to
this hardy rock. Other mountains have the air of having been built up;
granite peaks seem rather to have been rough-hewn like a sculptor's
block out of a larger mass. In glaciers the group possesses almost
every known variety. The Bondasca and the eastern glaciers of the
Disgrazia worthily represent the frozen cataract type, tumbling in
broken billows from cope to base of the mountain; the Albigna is an
ice-lake fed by huge snow-basins; the Forno a stately stream surpassing
in length the Morteratsch.
Here, however, I gladly break off from the conventional tone of
recommendation in which discoverers are apt to assert their own merits.
For the people who either cannot or will not walk, the large class
which, taking advantage of the shade of contempt already attached
to the epithet by Vatican infallibility, I may venture to call the
'Subalpine Club,' Val Masino has few attractions. Inaccessible on three
sides except to pedestrians, this valley will probably remain for long
a sure refuge for the misanthropic climber driven away from the peaks
of the central Bernina by the demands of the guides or the clatter of
his fellow-countrymen.
In the summer of 1864 I set out from Splugen with two companions and
François Devouassoud for the Bernina. Our route led us through the
Avers Thal, a cross-road of travel still but little frequented, though
no better reason than fashion can be assigned for its neglect. For mile
after mile the Averser Rhein, a strong blue-grey torrent, leaps and
roars between masses of marble crag tinted with lichens, and clasped
about by huge pine-roots. Tributary streams rush down from the rugged
precipices towering on either side the gorge, and shoot with a creamy
rush into the deep cleft which holds the larger flood.
Above the long defile lies a broad grassy upland dotted with some of
the highest villages in Europe, and encompassed by green slopes which
divide the waters of three seas. The landscape is, it is true, tame to
the eye; but on a sunny August morning, when the vast hayfield is alive
with mowers and the air fragrant with the smell of ripe grasses, it
contains much to tickle other senses than sight.
We turned up a side branch of the valley, the Madriser Thal. Near
its head a white line seamed the slopes we had yet to surmount. On
nearer approach this resolved itself into a laboriously-built stone
staircase, showing that we were on what was once a frequented passage
for beasts of burden. Judging from the solidity and care with which it
had originally been put together the 'pavé' might have been Roman. I do
not venture to say it is. More probably in the middle ages this was an
alternative route for the Septimer. Perhaps the indefatigable explorer
and describer of his native Alps, Herr Theobald, or some other curious
enquirer, has told the date and story. If so I have failed to fall on
the passage.
It was from the ridge which divides the Rhine from the Maira that I
gained my first general view of the mountains of Val Masino. Opposite,
and separated from our stand-point, the Madriser Pass, only by the deep
but narrow trench of Val Bregaglia, a great mountain-mass glowed in the
afternoon sunshine. Its base was wrapped in chestnut woods, its middle
girt with a belt of pines, above spread a mantle of the eternal snow.
The sky-line was formed by a coronet of domes and massive pinnacles
carved out of grey rocks, whose jagged yet stubborn forms revealed the
presence of granite. Full in front the curving glacier of Val Bondasca
filled the space beneath the smooth cliff-faces, and at one spot a gap
between them irresistibly suggested a new pass for the morrow.
The descent on the southern side of the Madriser Pass, long, rough,
and extremely steep, leads to the village of Soglio, which rests on a
terrace high above the valley, and commands a noble view of the granite
peaks. Here stands a deserted villa belonging to the old Grisons family
of De Salis, surrounded by ruinous gardens and tall poplars, an Italian
intrusion on a landscape otherwise Alpine. Mossy banks shaded by old
Spanish chestnuts slope down to the high-road and the river. On the
opposite side, near the tunnel from which it takes its name, we found
the 'Albergo della Galleria,' which provides clean rooms and moderate
fare for those who are bent on penetrating the Val Bondasca, the most
beautiful of the side glens of Val Bregaglia.
It was not my first visit to this valley. Long before Mr. Ball had
written his handbook I had found in Professor Theobald's excellent
little volume on Canton Graubrunden[15] a most exciting description
of the waterfalls and ice-tables of the Albigna Glacier and the rocky
splendours of Val Bondasca. At the same time the appearance on maps
of the Forno Glacier as a long ice-stream equal to the Morteratsch
had excited in me keen curiosity. But my companions in 1862, although
induced to halt a day at Vico Soprano, and to venture as far as the
level of the Albigna Glacier, could not be persuaded that the Zocca was
'fit for ladies,' and my explorations were reduced to an ineffectual
race against time to reach a point overlooking the Forno.
The Upper Bregaglia, seen from a carriage, is a green Alpine valley
showing, except in such additions as man has made to the landscape,
little trace of the approach to Italy. Pines are still the prevailing
trees; near at hand the mountains are green; higher up naked grey
pinnacles saw the sky or cut through the vapour-wreaths.
A mile or two above Vico Soprano clouds of sunbeam-painted foam shoot
up round the base of a white column, and the tourist, driven by the
first cold days of September from the hill-barracks of the Engadine to
the lake-palaces, takes out his 'Guide' and his notebook and ticks off
as 'visited' another waterfall.
This is the fall of the Albigna, and close at hand the track to the
Zocca branches off through the woods. It is a forest-path known only to
smugglers and shepherds (and, I may add, chamois, for I once met two
here within a mile of the high-road). Every passer-by, who has a real
love of nature, and can endure for it a night in a clean country inn,
is strongly recommended to leave the road and climb at least as far as
the foot of the glacier.
The scenery is best seen as a descent. From the wild bare crags of
the inmost recesses of Val Masino and from the cold snows and savage
ice-peaks of the Albigna, the traveller suddenly plunges over the edge
of the uplands into a region of mountain-sides broken up by deep chasms
fringed with pines and broad-leaved trees, and resonant with the roar
of the great glacier torrent, which, scarcely released from its icy
cradle, 'leaps in glory' down a stupendous cliff.
The Zocca Pass itself I have never crossed, but the omission can be
supplied by the experience of friends. In ordinary years it is a simple
glacier pass. But that it is not to be attempted without a guide or a
rope the following history shows.
Two young converts to mountaineering set out from Val Masino for the
pass, guideless, ropeless, axeless. The top was easily reached, but
only a few yards below, on the northern side, a huge ice-moat, or
'bergschrund,' as a German guide would have called it, yawned suddenly
at their feet. My friends hesitated, but clouds were rapidly gathering
round the peaks, and a snowstorm impended. There was no time to be
lost. The upper lip of the chasm was too steep to stand on until, by
dabbling with the points of their alpenstocks, they had succeeded in
making some sort of a staircase down to the brink at the point where it
seemed best to take off for the jump. How they jumped or tumbled over
they have never been able clearly to explain, but each maintains he did
it in the best possible way, and both agree it was very uncomfortable.
In many seasons this moat is entirely closed, but it is evidently an
obstacle not to be altogether disregarded, and unseen might be more
dangerous than when gaping for its prey.
To return to Promontogno and 1864. Although the political frontier
lies beyond Castasegna, several miles further down, the rocky spur
which here closes the valley is the natural gate of Italy, the barrier
between the pines and the chestnuts. The afternoon hours lingered
pleasantly away as, stretched on the knoll behind the inn, we gazed up
at the impending cliffs of the granitic range or fed our eyes with the
rich woods of the lower valley and the purple hills beyond Chiavenna.
François meantime had gone off to the neighbouring village of Bondo
to look for a porter who would consent to accompany us over a pass
utterly unknown to the people of the country. For the 'Passo di Bondo'
of the map became more mythical at every step. To cross the Bondasca
Glacier to Val Masino was at least in the estimation of all Bregaglians
to make a new pass; and this was to us Alpine novices a matter of no
small contentment; for beginners ten years ago were not so audacious
as those of the present day, who are satisfied with nothing short
of the Weisshorn and Schreckhorn. Yet I cannot help thinking that by
venturing only into moderate difficulties, where one guide among three
could help us through, we learnt as much as by tying ourselves to two
or three first-rate men and daring everything through the strength of
our guides.
We knew pretty well what was before us, for from the Madriser Pass the
whole route had been displayed. François, remembering that an unknown
icefall had to be dealt with, was anxious to be off early, and our
own enthusiasm was sufficient to carry us through the ordeal of a
night breakfast with less than the usual moroseness. By two A.M. the
provisions were packed and we were on the march.
There was no moon, but the heaven was throbbing with large white stars,
and coronets sparkled on the heads of the dim giants of the southern
range. Leaving behind us the sleeping hamlet of Bondo, the path climbed
steeply through a fir-wood until it reached the short stretch of level
ground, which is called Val Bondasca. An expanse of grass and wood is
here spread out as a carpet at the very base of the granite cliffs.
Scarcely in the Alps are there finer precipices than those that lead up
the eye to the far-off brows of the Cima di Tschingel and Trubinesca.
In front the glen is closed by steep rocks, over which the glacier
pours in a long cascade.
As we strolled over the dewy lawns we had full leisure to watch the
first signs of the coming day. A faint gleam spread over the eastern
sky, and was reflected on the pinnacles above us, gradually drawing
forth their forms out of the shadow, until at last a rosy blush played
for a few moments on their crags; then the clear light of daybreak was
shed upon peak and valley, and ice and rock alike were bathed in the
universal sunshine.
Near another group of chalets we crossed the stream a second time. A
well-contrived path, winding up by steep zigzags amidst underwood and
creeping pines, lifted us from the glen to the upper alp, a sloping
shelf of pasturage on the east of the glacier. Bearing to the right we
made for the edge of a level portion of the ice, where it rests for
a space between the upper and lower falls. Our porter had halted at
the highest hut to get some milk from the solitary man who tended the
goats and pigs. The herdsman, who now saw us turn our backs upon the
only pass he knew, the gap leading over to the Albigna Glacier, hurried
after us, _jödelling_ at the top of his voice, and pointing violently
in the direction opposite to that we were taking.
He was too far below for words, and signs he would not comprehend, so,
after some fruitless endeavours to quiet his mind, we went on our way,
causing 'le bon garçon' (as François called him) to give vent to a last
expostulatory chaunt before he returned to his goats to meditate upon
our probable fate.
The usual rough borderland between earth and ice scrambled over, we
halted for breakfast on a smooth piece of ice conveniently furnished
with stone stools and tables. Over our heads towered a range of
pinnacles, one of which is known as Piz Cacciabella. In form and
grouping they closely resemble, on a smaller scale, the Chamonix
Aiguilles, as seen from the 'Plan.' Divided from them by a snowy
bay, the source of the glacier, rose the splendid peak of the Punta
Trubinesca. Only granite could show such a tremendous block, free from
flaw or joint, and hopeless to the most fly-like climber. Its broad
grey precipices looked as smooth as if they had been planed; and, Mr.
Ball having pronounced the summit inaccessible on the other side, it
seemed to us at the time a pretty problem for rising Alpine Clubmen.
Our ambition, however, had never soared to such a conquest, and we
were content to discuss a matter nearer at hand, the upper ice-fall
which separated us from the supposed pass. Opinions differed; François
prophesied difficulties and five hours' work to the top; a sanguine
spirit set it down as half an hour's walk. The rope was soon put on,
and we prepared to face the unknown.
I presume everyone who cares to take up these sketches has already felt
sufficient interest in the Alps to endeavour to realise, even if he
has not seen, the nature of an ice-fall. If he has not, he had better
go and look at Mons. Loppé's pictures. No word-painting can give an
idea of anything so unlike the usual phenomena of our temperate zone. A
cream-cheese at once squeezed and drawn out, so that the surface split
and isolated blocks stood up, might, if viewed through a magnifying
glass, slightly resemble in form, though not in colour, the contorted
ice. But the imagination would have to look on from the point of view
of the smallest mite.
The lower ice-falls differ considerably from the highest. In one case
the material is hard ice; in the other, closely compacted snow. In the
ice the rifts are longer, narrower and more frequent, and fewer towers
rise above the general level; the snow or névé opens in wider but
less continuous chasms, sinks in great holes like disused chalk-pits,
and throws up huge blocks and towers, which the sun slowly melts into
the most fantastic shapes. The higher fall is generally both the most
imposing and formidable to look at, and the easiest to get through.
The maze here is less intricate, and the very size of its features
makes it easier to choose a path. But it is unsafe to shout before you
are well out of the wood. At the very top, where the strain caused by
the steepening slope first cracks the glacier, one huge rent often
stretches across from edge to edge, and unless Providence throws a
light causeway or a slender arch across the gulf, there will be work
for the ice-axe before you stand on the upper edge. Some crack in the
pit's wall must be dug into steps, the huge disorderly blocks which
make a floor must be got through, and then escape must be found in the
same way that entrance was made, by a ladder of your own contriving.
Such a passage may often cost an hour's hard work.
The Bondasca Glacier above where we struck it was riven by a network
of small crevasses. Some could be jumped, and the larger clefts were
generally bridged, and thanks to a sharp night's frost the arches
were in good bearing order. With occasional step-cutting and frequent
zigzags we got clear of the thickest labyrinth and stood victorious on
the upper snow-fields. They rose before us in a succession of frozen
banks to a well-defined gap flanked by two snow hummocks. The western
was connected by a long curtain of rock with the Punta Trubinesca.
After skirting the highest snow-bowl, we crossed the deep moat which
marks the point where the true mountain-form rises out of the folds
of its snowy vestment, and in a moment more stood on the crest of a
curling wave, fringed with icicles for spray.
Where we had expected to see only the rock-surrounded basin of the Val
dei Bagni, we looked down on a deep, long valley, running southwards
towards the Val Tellina.
At the second glance our eyes were caught by an enormous object lying
in the centre of a grassy meadow. We were at once assured as to the
identity of the valley. The block could be nothing else than the
'natural curiosity' of Val Masino, the biggest boulder in the Alps.
Its dimensions are given by Mr. Ball as--'Length, 250 feet; breadth,
120 feet; height, 140 feet;' or as tall as an average church tower,
and large enough to fill up many a London square. Legend has nothing
to tell about this monstrous block, and we are left to determine as
we like, whether it fell from some neighbouring mountain going to ruin
in the course of nature, or was dropped by the devil, on one of those
errands of mischief which are always so fortunately interrupted by the
opportune appearance of the pious peasant.
We had only been two hours from our last resting-place, and the day was
still young, so that we could well afford a halt. As there are some
tourists whose chief object is to get to the end of their tours, so
there are climbers who throughout the day seem to long only to arrive
in as few hours as possible at the end of it. But peaks and passes and
not inns were our goal, and we had no desire to hurry on. We chose a
warm corner in the sun-facing rocks, whence by lifting our heads we
looked over intervening ridges to the Alps of Glarus, and raked the
Punta Trubinesca and its neighbours, now viewed end on, as weird a pile
of granite as I have seen in many a long day's wanderings.
From the snow-dome on our right a lofty and extraordinarily jagged
ridge stretched out at right angles to the main chain, the barrier,
probably, between the two branches of Val Masino.[16] I wanted to climb
the dome and reconnoitre, but clouds had partially covered the blue
sky, and were whisking, now one way now the other, as the gust took
them, as if playing a wild game of hide-and-seek amongst the granite
towers. A storm seemed probable, and François thought it foolish to
waste time.
We were clearly not on the legendary Passo di Bondo,[17] but on another
'Col' of our own contriving, leading somewhere into the Val di Mello,
the eastern branch of Val Masino. The descent looked practicable. Why
not attempt it and complete the pass? The distance to be retraced along
the valley to our sleeping quarters, the 'Bagni,' could scarcely be
worth considering. So after erecting a solid stoneman, and trusting him
with the usual card-filled bottle, we set out.
The last man had not set foot on the ice when François disappeared
to his shoulders beneath the surface. Looking through the hole he had
made we could appreciate the use of the rope. A dark green chasm, some
thirty feet wide, yawned beneath us, its depths scarcely visible in the
light thus suddenly let in upon them. The glacier we were descending
fell away steeply, and became so broken and troublesome that we tried
the rocks on the left. The change was for the worse, and we soon came
back and cut our way through the difficulties.
As soon as the rocks ceased to be precipitous we took to them again.
But they were not pleasant footing. We found ourselves committed to a
slope of boulders so shockingly loose that the slightest provocation
sent half-a-dozen rolling from under our feet, and piled at so high an
angle that when once started they bounded away at a pace which promised
to take them straight to the valley. In such places an impetuous
companion always insists on stopping to take off his gaiters and then
following at a run. You have scarcely missed him before his return is
announced by a whole volley of grape rattling about your ears, while a
playful shout warns you to make way for a 100-pounder boulder which is
ricochetting down on your heels with the force of a cannon-ball. Then
your friend comes up with a pleased air, as much as to say, 'Didn't
I come down that well?' and it is hard not to remonstrate with him in
language the use of which should be restricted to divines.
Halting beside some water which filtered out at the foot of the
boulders, we enjoyed a beautiful view of the Disgrazia and the wild
range behind us. On our right was a long comb, whose teeth had been
tortured by time and weather into all sorts of quaint shapes; one rock
bent over like a crooked finger, in another place a window was pierced
through the crest. At a hasty glance one might have compared the
fantastic shapes to those assumed so frequently by dolomitic limestone,
but closer observation showed the tendency to curving outlines and
to sharpness of edge peculiar to crystalline rock. In the dolomite
districts the separate crags, cut up as they may be by flaws at right
angles to the lie of the strata, have not, except from considerable
distances, the same flamelike outlines. In any near view the layers of
which they are built up become conspicuous, and often, as in the Brenta
chain, have all the appearance of courses of masonry.
Bearing to the left from the first huts on the Alpe di Ferro, we
crossed a stream just below a tempting pool, in which five minutes
later we were all plunging. At the next step in the descent our path
re-crossed the water, and zigzagged steeply down the hillside, which
was covered with broom and Scotch heather. Passing a succession of
pretty cascades, we entered the Val di Mello, near a group of châlets,
whence a stony mule-road led us in half an hour to San Martino, the
village situated at the fork of the valley. It is a cluster of untidy
stone houses, with nothing to delay the passer-by except a douanier's
bureau and a tobacco store.
We now met a car-road running up the Val dei Bagni--the western fork
of the valley. The floor of the glen soon rises suddenly--a granite
valley, like the national prosperity, always advances by leaps and
starts--and the road indulges in a couple of short zigzags. We are
again in the heart of the mountains, hemmed in by pine-clad slopes and
cliffs too steep to allow any view even of the summits behind them. In
this _cul-de-sac_ there are no signs of a village. It is a spot where
one would expect to find no one but a Bergamasque shepherd with his
longtailed sheep. But shepherds do not make roads, nor do they often
receive visitors such as the portly dame who advances towards us,
supported by a scarcely perceptible donkey, and herself overshadowed
by a vast crimson umbrella resembling the mushroom of a pantomime.
Shepherds, moreover, are not in the habit of constructing little paths
like those, too faltering and purposeless for any practical use, which
wander off here and there into the woods; nor do they employ their
leisure hours in planting stems of fir-trees in a futile manner along
the sides of the road, and covering their branches, as the foliage
withers away, with tricolour flags.
The meaning of these attempts to fasten a little paltry embroidery
on nature's robes is explained when as we turn a corner and enter the
bowl-shaped hollow which forms the head of the glen we discover under
the hillside a long, low building--the Bagni del Masino. The presence
of a sulphur spring has caused this remote spot to be chosen as one of
the summer retreats of Northern Italian society.
The bath-houses in the Lombard Alps do not in any way add to the
beauty of the landscape. The consistent regard for economy shown
in the simplicity of their architecture and the roughness of their
construction may possibly delight the heart of some shareholder, and
would perhaps have commended them to the favourable notice of a late
First Commissioner of Works. But to the common eye the result is
not attractive. Outside we see a long two-storied barrack built with
unshaped stones and abundance of mortar, the surface of which, never
having been finished in any way, has a dusky-brown hue and ruinous
aspect; unpainted woodwork; balconies unbalustraded, and to the last
degree perilous. Internally and on the ground floor a long range of
dingy fly-spotted rooms, devoted respectively to smoke, billiards,
literature, and eating, and decorated with portraits of the reigning
family of Italy and full-blown lithographic beauties. Above, equally
long passages, and nests of scantily furnished, but tolerable and, so
far as beds are concerned, clean cabins.
Our first enquiry, whether the house contained baths--at many
so-called bath-houses the waters are only taken internally--called up a
triumphant smile on the countenance of the waiter who had welcomed us.
As he ushered us along the passages a strong smell of sulphur raised a
suspicion that we might find ourselves in hot water. In another moment
this fear was converted into a certainty. The beaming waiter ushered
us into a little room, or rather large stove-heated oven, surrounded
by four wells, each some five feet deep, and full to the brim of
sulphureous waters. On the one hand we had gone too far to retreat
with credit, on the other we were incapable of any prolonged endurance
of the purgatorial temperature. So having made but a hasty plunge we
dashed on our clothes and fled back to our rooms, ignoring the stove on
which we ought to have sat and submitted to a process of slow baking.
This ordeal and a good dinner completed, we had leisure to study the
patients, for the most part Milanese, with a sprinkling of local Val
Tellina priests and farmers. The mineral waters of the place are,
no need to say, like all mineral waters, invincible enemies to every
disease to which humanity, male or female, is exposed. Such being the
case, it was a subject for reasonable regret that with few exceptions
the visitors appeared to suffer from no more serious complaint than
a difficulty in composing their minds to any mental exertion beyond a
game at bowls or a shot at a popinjay.
Let us sit down for a few moments on the bench before the door and
observe the pastimes going on around. Three leading spirits, the
doctor, a curé with his skirts tucked up to his knees, and a Milanese
visitor clad in a suit of the large yellow check so often affected by
Italians, are in the middle of a contest with bowls, the progress of
which is watched by a deeply interested circle of cigarette-smokers.
The Milanese is nowhere, but the struggle between the priest and doctor
becomes terribly exciting, and the 'bravas' attract even a group
of Bergamasque shepherds, honest fellows despite their bandit style
of dress, who have been lounging in the background. The rest of the
patients are burning powder at a mark set up in the wood a few paces
off, or hanging over a game of billiards, which seems to us a good deal
more like a sort of Lilliputian ninepins.
We have scarcely withdrawn to our rooms satiated with the sight of so
much innocent happiness when a loud ringing of the bell which welcomes
new arrivals assures us that Victor Emmanuel must be appearing in
person to pursue the chamois of the neighbourhood. Hurrying to the
window we see an excited crowd gazing and gesticulating at the sky in a
manner which suggests that they have been visited either by a heavenly
vision or temporary insanity. In fact a small fire-balloon has been
sent up. After a time another peal of the bell announces its descent,
the Bergamasque shepherd boys set off up the hillside to secure the
fragments, and night closes upon the scene.
To most of us there comes a time when the pleasures of infancy pall.
But these water-drinkers seem to have found the true fountain of youth
and oblivion, where
---- they lie reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind,
For they lie beside their nectar ----
and, far removed from the politics and stock-exchanges of a lower
world, can treat even the leading articles which occasionally creep up
to them at the bottom of a fruit-cart
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong.
Happy Milanese! for is not Val Masino better than Margate?
It is difficult, perhaps, to recommend the Baths as a stopping-place
for any length of time to the ordinary traveller. Though so high (3,750
feet) they are too much in a hole for beauty. But the situation, if
it would not satisfy an artist, is not in the least commonplace, and
has even a curious fascination of its own. On every side the eyes
are met at once by almost perpendicular rocks capped here and there
by sharp spires of granite. These cliffs are not bare and harsh like
those of Val di Mello, but green with forest and bright with falling
waters. They seem friendly protectors to the smooth oasis of grass and
pines. The suggestion of savage wildness close at hand added by the few
glimpses of the upper peaks heightens the sense of peace and seclusion
in which the charm of the spot is to be found.
The little plain is quite large enough to suffice for the very moderate
demands of the Italian visitors, but it will hardly satisfy the average
British craving for exercise. You must, however, either stop where
you are or climb a staircase; these upright hills will not easily lend
themselves, like the slopes of the Upper Engadine, to short breaths and
untrained limbs. To enjoy Val Masino you must be either sick or sound;
it is not a place for invalids or idlers.
To the mountaineer the bathing establishment is invaluable. It is
true that as a passing guest he pays a bill large when compared to the
charges made to the 'pensionnaires,' and that his guide will probably
have still greater reason to complain. But he obtains in exchange the
boon of a good bed and an excellent dinner in a situation admirably
chosen for glacier expeditions. Moreover, owing to the general custom
of the patients of keeping up impromptu dances till midnight, a waiter
can generally be persuaded to provide breakfast before he goes to bed;
and not only is the customary difficulty in an early start entirely
absent, but it is sometimes hard to avoid being sped too soon by a host
whose night begins only when yours ends.
At half-past twelve the voice of the inexorable François was heard at
the doors: 'Bonjour, messieurs, il fait encore beau temps.' One of us
who had gone to sleep in the middle of a thunderstorm gave a deep groan
of disappointment at the auspicious news. But in half-an-hour we were
all gathered round the table at a meal which we had ordered, and now
affected to treat in the light of a late supper. I need scarcely say
the pretence was a miserable failure. Though the stars shone brightly
in the narrow strip of sky visible between the steep mountain-crests,
the night was so black that some precaution was considered necessary
to prevent our falling off the edge of the road, and prematurely
ending our Alpine investigations. The obliging waiter dexterously
screwed up in paper a tallow candle after the model of a safety bedroom
candlestick. But soon, as was to be expected, the shield caught fire,
and our impromptu lantern disappeared in a blaze.
François then beguiled the dark hours by an account of the
cross-examination he had undergone the evening before. 'What was our
illness? Should we take the waters? Where had we come from? How long
should we stay? Where were we going?' Such were the enquiries of the
guests; and when they heard that we had come over one glacier and were
departing next day by another with the intention of sleeping at a place
two days' drive off by the only road they knew, they were fairly at
their wits' end.
The road which had seemed so long the day before was soon traversed,
and leaving our old track to scale the hillside, we continued in the
trough of Val di Mello, until just as dawn was breaking behind the
Disgrazia we reached the châlets of La Rasica. The incident which now
followed, interesting to me as the origin of a valued friendship, must
find a place here on account of the influence it had on all my further
wanderings.
People were heard stirring inside one of the barns, and lights seen
moving--a very unusual phenomenon at such an hour. For a moment we
imagined we had caught a party of smugglers starting for the Zocca.
But, conspicuous even in the darkness, a pair of white flannel
trousers, such as no smuggler ever wore, issued from the door.
Before we had time to speak they were followed by another and still
more startling apparition. All we could at first make out was a
large lantern, surrounded on all sides by long yellow spikes like
conventional sunbeams or the edges of a saint's glory. A moment later
the human being who carried the light became distinguishable, the
rays resolved themselves into the bright leather cases of scientific
instruments, and a voice announced that we were in the presence of Mr.
Tuckett and his guides.
Still young and inexperienced as a mountain-climber, and knowing only
by hearsay of the Alpine Club, I was at this time penetrated by a
profound respect for that body. Its rank and file I believed to be as
little hampered by the laws of gravity as the angels of the Talmud,
of whom three could balance themselves upon a single pinnacle of the
Temple. To its greater heroes I looked up as to the equals of those
spirits whom their leader reminded--
That in our proper motion we ascend
Up towards our native seat; descent and fall
To us are adverse.
For me, therefore, it was an awful moment when I found myself thus
unexpectedly in the presence of the leader himself--the being whose
activity, ubiquity, and persistence in assault have made, at least
in the lips of wearied guides, 'der Tuckett' almost equivalent to
'der Teufel.' Conscious, moreover, of intentions on the new pass
of the country--the one possible link by which Val Masino could be
brought within a day's walk of the Upper Engadine--I felt an inward
presentiment that this great mountain-slayer must be there on a similar
errand, and a fear that he might punish our poaching in some very
serious manner.
Perhaps it was partly the guilty expression of our countenances which
caused our suspicions to be returned and our party also to be taken
for a band of smugglers whose acquaintance Mr. Tuckett had made on
the Albigna Glacier the previous day. The mutual misapprehension
having been speedily removed, our further fears were set at rest.
The Disgrazia was the immediate object of Mr. Tuckett's ambition; and
though he did intend to cross next day to the Engadine, his quiver was
already so full of new peaks and passes that he could well afford to
leave some small game for others.
It would have been pleasant to have united our parties, but we had
an appointment to keep at St. Moritz, and could not venture to risk a
detention by bad weather on the wrong side of the chain.
A steep ascent led to a miserable shelter where Mr. Tuckett and his
friend left us, and to which they subsequently returned to spend
an uncomfortable night. We were now on the upper pasturages, a wide
desolate tract merging into the rocky heaps which fringe several small
glaciers descending from the highest summits.
Three ice-streams flowed towards us--one from immediately under the
Pico della Speranza; the second from the angle in the chain under Monte
Sissone; the third lay far more to the left, and was barred at its head
by steep cliffs extending to the Monte Sissone, and broken only near
that peak by a narrow snow-trough. The head of the central ice-stream
was a broad saddle, and for this we determined to steer. I had a
presentiment that it would overlook Val Malenco. But that point gained,
it would be easy to reach the ridge of Monte Sissone, and probably
without losing much time by the circuit.
We ascended for a long way over the boulders on the south of the
central glacier. They offered villainous foothold, but the ice was so
slippery that we gave them the preference, and were rewarded for our
pains by finding some remarkably fine crystals. Leaving solid ground
only a few hundred yards below the crest, we soon found ourselves
on its summit. Beneath us, only at a much lower level, and cut off
by an apparently impracticable cliff, was the glacier-field which
encircles the head of Val Malenco. Beyond it rose the massive forms
of the Bernina group. We lost no time here in looking at the view, but
turned again upwards, following the ridge for some distance; then, at
François' instance, we crossed a treacherous snow-slope to the left,
and, after losing some of the height we had gained, reached the rocks.
We and the porter took a pretty straight course up the peak of the
Sissone, leaving François to make more to the left for the head of the
snow-trough. Towards the summit the rocks became steep, and afforded an
exciting scramble. As we worked up a gully the first man put his arm
round a large and apparently firmly-wedged stone, which tottered with
his weight. Had it fallen, we should have had a sensation something
like that of jumping out of the way of a cannon-ball. When our heads
rose above the level of the ridge, we were glad to see snow-slopes on
the other side, falling away steeply to a great glacier basin. Now we
felt our pass was secured. A pile of broken crags still rose above us;
a short race, and we were seated on the highest boulder, one of the
corner-stones of the Bernina chain.
The Monte Sissone, although insignificant in height compared with the
giants which encircle the Morteratsch, claims an important place in
the orography of the group. It stands at the angle of the range, where
the main ridge is met by the spur which connects the Disgrazia with the
rest of the chain. This mighty outlier was the one object which riveted
our eyes, quite eclipsing the more distant glories of the Bernina. The
noble mass (scarcely three miles from us as the crow flies) rose tier
above tier out of the great glacier which extended to our feet; its
rocky ribs protruded sternly out of their shimmering ice-mail, and the
cloud-banner which was now flung out from the crowning ridge augured
no good to its assailants. Deep below lay Chiareggio and the Muretto
path, so that the mountain was visible from top to bottom. For massive
grandeur united with grace of form, the Disgrazia has few rivals in the
Alps. Between us and the Muretto stood the fine snow-peak of the Cima
di Rosso, and then the eye swept along the red cliffs which lie at the
back of Piz Guz and the Fedoz Glacier to the giants of the Bernina,
crowded too closely round their queen for individual effect. In the
west were the Cima del Largo, and the more distant peaks surrounding
the Bondasca Glacier.
Immediately from our feet on the north broken snow-slopes fall steeply
on to a wide level basin, the head of the Forno Glacier. Yawning
chasms forbad a direct descent, and when we left the peak, the higher
by several feet for our visit, we followed for a little distance
its eastern ridge. There were a legion of enormous pitfalls, but no
continuous moat, so that after some circle-sailing we were able to
slide swiftly down to the snow-plain. A circular hollow formed the
reservoir into which cascades of névé tumbled from the enclosing
ridges. These, like the walls of an amphitheatre, stretched round from
the Cima di Rosso to the Cima del Largo; to the west of Monte Sissone
they became almost perpendicular, and it seems doubtful whether a more
direct pass can profitably be forced in this direction. A large block
of ice had detached itself from the upper séracs and now lay at their
base--a bright mass of cobalt amidst the pervading greys and whites.
I have nowhere seen a more perfect 'cirque,' and we could fancy that
our feet were the first which had ever penetrated it, for the Forno,
though the second glacier of the Bernina group, and within an easy walk
of the Maloya Inn, has never been the fashion with tourists, and no
record of its earlier exploration exists.
Looking downwards a green mound close to Maloya was visible. It can
scarcely be half-an-hour from the road, and must command the whole
length of the glacier. Our course lay straight before us; we had
nothing to do but to follow the great valley of ice. Two fine masses of
secondary glacier poured in from the eastern range, over which the Cima
di Rosso rose pre-eminent, a noble peak sheeted in snow and ice. Since
leaving the Pennines we had seen no such glacier scenery.
The crevasses were frequent, but generally small,--the right size for
jumping over. At one place, however, it was easier to leave the ice
and to pick our way through the hollow between the moraine and the
mountain-side. A few sheep, which must have been driven at least a
mile over the ice, were cropping the scanty herbage. The herdboy seemed
simply stupefied at seeing five people drop suddenly on him from heaven
knows where, and could scarcely answer our questions except with a
prolonged stare.
Clouds had now risen over the sky, and a fine sleet began to fall. The
mists, however, did not descend on the mountains, and looking back we
enjoyed the peculiar effect of the upper peaks seen through a watery
veil and lit by fitful gleams of sunshine. Having returned to the
ice we followed it to the end,--a fine ice-cave, whence the Ordlegna,
the stream of Val Bregaglia, rushes out in an impetuous torrent. In
a few minutes we passed the Piancaning châlets and made our junction
with the dull but well-established path of the Muretto Pass. An hour
more brought us to the Maloya Inn and the high road; and after a
pleasant stroll along the Silser-See our walk came to an end at the one
picturesque village in the Upper Engadine, Sils Maria.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] This and the following chapter were originally written
as a paper to be read before the Alpine Club.
[13] See Vignette.
[14] Herr Theobald states that the villagers of Bondo
give the name of Trubinesca to the Cima di Tschingel of
the Federal map. Herr Ziegler, the author of a new and
very beautifully executed map of this portion of the Alps,
confirms this statement, adding that 'Turbinesca' is the
correct spelling, and he has accordingly changed the names
of the two peaks. As a rule, local usage should, no doubt,
be followed. But in the present instance, the mistake is
of such long standing, that an endeavour to correct it
would only lead to confusion, and I have adhered to the
nomenclature of the Federal map. It is much to be regretted
that Herr Ziegler's map is wholly inaccurate with regard to
the glaciers of Val Masino, and the position of many of the
ridges dividing its lateral glens.
[15] _Naturbilder aus den Rhätischen Alpen_: Chur, 1861.
[16] The junction of this spur, the Cima Sciascia, with the
principal ridge, has been placed too far east in all maps
previous to the Alpine Club Map of Switzerland.
[17] I am disposed to doubt whether a direct pass from the
Bondasca Glacier to the western branch of Val Masino was
ever effected before 1865. It is true there is a tradition
embodied in the Swiss Federal map of such a pass. It is
possible, however, that smugglers may have gone up to the
Passo di Ferro, and then scrambled westward over the rocks
into the basin of the Porcellizza Alp.