THE PEAKS AND PASSES OF VAL MASINO (_continued_).
Hee's a foole who basely dallies
Where each peasant mates with him;
Shall I haunt the thronged vallies
Whilst ther's noble hils to climbe?
GEORGE WITHERS.
CHIAREGGIO--PASSO DI MELLO--PASSO DI BONDO--CIMA DEL LARGO--VAL
MASINO--PUNTA TRUBINESCA--MONTE DELLA DISGRAZIA--THE APPROACH TO
SONDRIO--A REPLY.
The following year found me in company with Mr. Tuckett, at the head
of the western branch of Val Malenco, the valley on the south of the
central mass of the Bernina. Our original companions in a campaign,
one of the most rapid and brilliant ever planned by our indefatigable
leader, had gradually left us to seek the inglorious repose of England
or Italy. Their place, however, had been partially filled by H. Buxton,
a recruit, but not a raw one; and for guides we were amply provided
with François, Peter Michel, and Walther of Pontresina.
The dingy house next the chapel serves as the inn of Chiareggio.
Its sole tenant in 1865 was a universal old man, who was a sort of
epitomised 'service;' cook, waiter, chambermaid, and host all in one.
The resources of his establishment were limited, the cutlery was of the
Bronze, and the bread of the Stone period; but the kitchen produced a
sort of 'soupe maigre' which sufficed, with the aid of our provisions,
to ward off starvation.
[Illustration: THE DISGRAZIA,
From the Bernina Group.
Mte. della Cassandra Pico della Speranza Passo di Mello.]
Before us stretched a wide semicircle of rock and ice extending
from the Muretto Pass on the north to the Monte della Disgrazia on
the south. In the centre of the bay stood Monte Sissone. Above the
glaciers which poured down valleywards in two principal streams, rose
a continuous rock-rampart, impassable so far as we could judge to
the right of Monte Sissone, and formidable everywhere. The glacier
difficulties we were not afraid of; the question to be decided was
whether this final wall could be scaled.
At the point where the valley forks we left the Muretto path, and
turned towards the west. A bright ice-stream, having its source under
the highest crest of the Disgrazia, as splendid a mountain as any in
the Swiss Alps, poured down to our feet. On our right the glacier from
Monte Sissone stopped short at the top of a slope of loose rubbish.
We soon reached the foot of the long broken staircase. The chasms and
towers on either hand were on a noble scale, but, as is often the case,
it was possible to turn each in succession by a course of judicious
zigzags. After threading our way through the steepest labyrinth we
came to the upper region of half-formed ice, where deep continuous
trenches cease, and huge icicle-fringed pits--gaping monsters easily
avoided--take their place. Mounting steadily toward the Disgrazia
and along the base of the rock-wall, we drew near the point of attack
already selected. Here a steep snow-bed lay to a certain height against
the rocks. Immediately above they were perpendicular, but across their
face a ledge, slanting upwards, promised to give access to a part of
the cliff on our left where the crags were more broken and practicable.
Our pathway soon grew narrow. There was, however, only one troublesome
corner, but this happened to be exactly where the meltings of an upper
snow-bed poured over on us in an icy stream. The shower-bath did not
cool our impatience during the moments we had to wait for one another.
This corner turned, a short steep slope of snow and rock led to the
crest, a pile of enormous boulders, whence on the further side we
looked down on a gently sloping snow-field falling towards the Val di
Mello. Over our heads towered a monstrous wall of granite, suddenly
breaking off above the pass. Immense wedge-like blocks, supported
only at one end, jutted out into the air like the stones of some
ruined temple, ever it would seem on the point to fall, yet enduring
for centuries.[18] When we set out to descend the snow-field was soon
crossed, to a point where it fell away in a steep bank. We cut a few
steps, and then glissaded down to a moraine. While unbuckling belts a
sudden crash made us look back. A huge boulder was dancing down the
slope in our footsteps, pursued by a bevy of smaller followers. The
very few stones that were lying at the bottom proved this to be an
unusual channel for such missiles. We were just out of range, but a
delay of five minutes would have exposed us to a serious risk in a
place to all appearance absolutely safe.
Our path now lay across the stony tract which encircles the small
glaciers of Val di Mello until we gained the edge of the upper alp,
where the collected streams make a deep plunge into the glen below.
Here we all separated, Buxton and I descending at once with the water,
and Tuckett following the proper path away to the right; Buxton luckily
hit a track, and got down without difficulty, but I, less fortunate,
took a course on the left side of the waterfall. Swinging myself down
the steep hillside by the strong arms of the creeping pines, I was
little more than 200 feet above the floor of the glen, when I was
suddenly brought to a standstill by an abrupt crag. It was fortunately
possible to scramble down to the lowest ledge, and then drop down the
last few feet on to the elastic bed of dwarf pines below. The little
bag which contained all my wardrobe was an impediment to the close
union of my body and the rock which seemed expedient, and I flung it
down before me. When I had more slowly followed, the bag was nowhere
to be seen; half-an-hour's search was fruitless, and I began to fear
lest my companions should become alarmed at my delay. I was now within
250 feet of the valley, and, seeing my way for more than half the short
space, had no thought of a further difficulty. But after a few steps I
found myself on the brink of a cliff, not very lofty, but still high
enough to break one's neck over, and too smooth to allow any hope of
a direct descent. For a moment return, which meant a circuit of two
hours, seemed inevitable. But a careful study of the rocks on my left
showed a sort of slanting groove or gallery running across their face,
of which it might be possible to take advantage.
In order to reach this loophole of escape a crag of awkwardly smooth
surface had to be crossed, and it was clearly desirable to use every
natural means of adhesion. I dropped my ice-axe, and the force with
which it rebounded from its first contact with the ground, gave its
owner a serious warning to follow in some less abrupt manner. Foothold
soon failed, but not before I was within reach of the groove, or flaw
in the cliff-structure, just mentioned. How best to profit by its
advantages was now the question. Wedging myself into it as far as might
be, I pressed with my back and elbows against the lower rock, and with
my hands against the overhanging upper lip. My knees and heels formed
a second point of support, and by retaining one part of my body always
fixed I wormed myself along slowly, but with perfect security. At last
the smooth cliff was turned, and it was easy to descend into the glen.
A copious spring burst out of the rocks just where I first touched
level ground. I quenched at it the intense thirst produced by the
excitement of the solitary climb, picked up my axe, and then hastened
onwards, desirous as soon as possible to rejoin my companions, and
relieve whatever anxiety they might feel on my behalf. A needless
exertion, for on approaching the châlets of La Rasica I saw a cluster
of grey forms prostrate in various attitudes on the turf, while a pile
of emptied bowls beside them showed the nature of the beverage by which
the Circe of the châlet had wrapt them in forgetfulness.
Beyond La Rasica I was treading in my last year's footsteps. Val
di Mello, the name by which the eastern head of Val Masino is
distinguished, is one of the most savage mountain recesses in this part
of the Alps. The highest peaks of the district do not themselves rise
immediately out of it, but their granite buttresses are so bold that
grandeur is the last element the scenery could be accused of wanting.
It does, to me at least, want something, and on contrasting it with
two other valleys of similar formation the missing element is easily
recognisable. Utter wildness fails to satisfy, and savage crags lose
half their beauty when they no longer tower above grassy lawns and
out of rich woods of pine, or better still, of glossy chestnuts. Val
Bondasca, the Val di Genova under the Presanella, and Val Bavona may be
taken as good examples of granite scenery in its highest perfection.
We found but little change in the Bagni and their visitors. The doctor
and the priest were still playing bowls, the bell was still ringing,
and the same waiter was ready to do for us exactly the same things as
he had done ten months before. By his aid we succeeded in repeating a
good dinner, and, much more remarkable, an early start.
Our object this year was to effect if possible the traditional pass
from the Porcellizza Alp to Val Bondasca, which we had missed at the
first attempt.
The stream which flows before the door of the bath-house rushes down
the cliff a few yards higher up in a noble fall. A steep zigzag of
well-made pavé, better to mount than descend, climbs beside the water.
Two hours of steady uphill work lead to a grassy basin, in the centre
of which stand the châlets of the Porcellizza Alp. A ring of granite
peaks hems in the pasturage, and ice fills the gaps between them. The
summits themselves are precipitous, but the ground below them is less
broken, and the slopes are gentler and greener, than at the head of
the other glens in this group. Hence cows take the place of Bergamasque
sheep, and the châlet, known as the Alp Mazza, is one of the largest in
the neighbourhood.
We fancied our pass must lie at the eastern foot of the Punta
Trubinesca. The glacier was smooth and solid, and we had no difficulty
in reaching the gap at its head. But the descent on the other side was
far from eligible. We found ourselves at the top of an ice-slope at
least 1,000 feet high, very steep, and swept by constant discharges
of stones. We naturally resolved to look further along the ridge.
Turning our backs on the still unconquered and formidable cliffs of
the Trubinesca, we at once climbed the snow-slope on our right, and,
crossing a rocky spur, gained the head of the glacier adjacent to
the one by which we had ascended. Again we inspected the northern
slopes, but with like result. The Bondasca Glacier still lay far--very
far--below, at the base of a most repulsive gully, down which
stones rattled constantly at a pace likely soon to put a stop to
all trespassing on their private pathway. Unwilling to face such a
cannonade, we again right-faced. It was fortunately possible, and that
without much difficulty, to follow the crest of the chain by keeping
a little below it on its southern side. In time we reached the spur
dividing the second from yet another ice-stream, the largest and most
easterly of those that descend towards the Porcellizza Alp. We saw with
disgust that we had yet some distance to go, and that over very rough
ground, involving a considerable descent, and the passage of a steep
ridge, to reach the Passo di Ferro, the point where we had crossed the
previous year.
Suddenly Peter Michel, who had unlinked himself, and was exploring
above, shouted to us to follow, and in a few minutes we were all
standing in a natural doorway in the ridge, some twenty feet deep by
five in breadth. The ice of the Bondasca Glacier was here only 250 feet
below us, and the cliff looked broken enough to be practicable, so,
the guides being in favour of an immediate descent rather than a long
and uncertain circuit, we decided we had reached our pass, and behaved
accordingly--that is, made ourselves comfortable in niches and enjoyed
the view and iced Asti, a beverage which can only be appreciated at
over 10,000 feet. While we were reroping, Michel grew oracular, and to
a question on the easiness of our route, replied in a formula we had
learnt by experience to dread as much as Cleopatra the 'but yet' of the
messenger from Antony--'Es geht,--aber.'
The descent of a partially ice-coated cliff is one of the most
ticklish parts of a climber's work. But so long as there is any good
hold on rock, and the party can proceed directly downwards, there is
no danger if the rope is properly used. When it becomes necessary to
move diagonally across the face of the mountain the difficulty is much
increased, and the rope is not so easily kept taut. Yet there are few
places where with sufficient care a slip of any one man may not be
checked before it becomes a fall.
In the present instance it was some time before we met with anything to
justify Michel's reservation. But about half-way down the rib which had
helped us came to an end, and the rocks grew smooth and mixed with ice.
To have descended in a straight line would have brought us to the edge
of a gaping crevasse; we tended, therefore, continually to the right,
where the glacier rose higher against the cliff, and snow bridged the
obstructive chasm. Here a long step down, there a longer straddle round
was required, and our progress became of the slowest, as prudence often
required a majority of the party to be stationary.
After passing one very obnoxious corner, which each pulled himself
round, partly by an imperceptible grasp on an invisible handhold,
but principally trusting to the support of the rope, we got on easier
ground, and, by cutting a few steps, reached at last (in two hours from
the pass) the snow-bridged moat. Once on the ice, François was aided
by old experience, and steered us through the labyrinth of the Bondasca
Glacier without either delay or difficulty.
After leaving the ice we followed the steep path which leads down
amongst the creeping pines and underwood on the right side of the
valley, to the lower level of Val Bondasca.
Another plunge, this time through chestnuts, brought us to the
maize-fields and vine-trellised villages of Val Bregaglia. Neither at
Promontogno nor Castasegna was any carriage to be obtained. In order to
arrive at Chiavenna we were compelled, ice-axes in hand, to storm the
roof of a diligence, where, intrenched among the luggage, we formed a
garrison far too formidable for any guard or postillion to dislodge.
In the summer of 1866 I again found myself with my friend Tucker and
François Devouassoud, in eastern Switzerland. The passes of Val Masino
were accomplished, but its peaks still remained maiden and unassailed.
Having added Fluri to our party, we started one afternoon from
Pontresina for the old hospice on the top of the Maloya, then a humble
inn, now a familiar house of call for the fashionable society of St.
Moritz.
The Cima del Largo, the highest peak in the range between Val Bregaglia
and Val Masino, was our aim for the morrow. I spare the reader the
long and somewhat tedious march over familiar ground to the head of
the Forno Glacier. We had started under a cloudless sky, but before
we reached the foot of the Largo no 'Cima' was to be seen, only
snow-slopes stretching up into the mists. Fortunately we already knew
how to attack our peak. From the N. or E. the Cima del Largo presents
itself as a bold round tower rising sheerly above the wall on which
it stands. As far as its northern base there could, we believed, be
little difficulty. Our expectations were fulfilled: steep snow-banks
and easy rocks lifted us to the rim of the snowy basin of the Forno.
The ridge which divides it from the Albigna Glacier is a narrow comb of
granite; we moved along it in the chink between the rocks and snow. A
wall of ice suddenly loomed before us through the mist. We had reached
the foot of the tower, and the trial of strength was about to begin.
The ice was very hard and the slope very steep, and steps seemed to
take a long time. At last a patch of rock was gained. We now followed
a ridge, sometimes rock, sometimes ice; steps had still to be cut,
and we progressed but slowly. Suddenly our leader said, 'C'est assez,'
reversed his axe, and stepped out freely for a few paces. We were on
the snow-dome which forms the summit of the Cima del Largo.
View there was none; we could see we were on the top, and that was all.
But even in the worst of weather the newness of his plaything offers
some consolation to the childlike simplicity of the true climber.
Comforting ourselves, like Touchstone, with the reflection that the
Largo, if, under the circumstances, but 'a poor virgin, an ill-favoured
thing,' was at least 'our own,' we adjourned to a sheltered niche in
the rocks a few feet below the summit. The atmosphere was tolerably
warm and windless, and in our bivouac under the overhanging eaves of
the great rocks we were sheltered from the soft, thickly-falling veil
of snow which cut us off from the lower world.
If our surroundings might have seemed cheerless, our feelings were by
no means so. I never assisted at a more festive meal than that which
celebrated the birth of our stoneman.
Fluri was determined to do his best to compensate for the want of
view; he was in his highest spirits, pleased with the mountain, the
food, the wine-bag, the 'herrschaft,' and last, but not least, with
himself. Now Fluri, whether in good or bad spirits, used in any case
to be careful to let you know his mental condition. On this occasion
he exploded in a series of small but elaborate jokes. First he got
into a hole and played marmot. Then he scrambled after a solitary
ranunculus (which, strange to say, was blooming at this great height),
and pretended not to be able to get back again, wriggling his body
absurdly over the easiest rock in the neighbourhood. Nearly an hour
must have thus passed, and yet no break in the mist offered to reward
us for revisiting the summit. So about 1 P.M. we set out to return.
The descent of the ice-wall called for considerable care, as it was
necessary to be prepared for a slip, although such an accident might
not be very likely to happen. François, who was leading, had to clear
out the fresh-fallen snow from our old steps, which were quite effaced.
Here Fluri, who in his early period, before he had learnt snowcraft
from English mountaineers and foreign guides, showed a morbid dislike
to the commonest and most necessary precautions, raised himself greatly
in our esteem. Though screaming and howling every variety of jödel
the whole time, I never saw him once without the rope taut and his axe
firmly anchored in the ice. The rest of the descent was easy enough,
and it does not take long to get down snow-slopes. From the foot of
the peak we had a long and heavy walk back to the inn on the Maloya.
The snow on the glacier was soft and ridgy, and the path beyond sloppy
and slippery, and the light snow-flakes changed into heavy rain when we
got down again into the lower world. At Maloya we found the car ordered
from Silvaplana to meet us. Our day's journey was yet far from its end.
There was much still before us that would be wearisome to relate, and
was still more wearisome to endure.
How the postmaster at Silvaplana tried to impose on us, how we relaced
our sodden boots and tramped through the rain to St. Moritz, how there
Badrutt gave us a car which carried us moist and sleepy to Zutz, this
is not the place to tell. Enough that we arrived at Zutz in a state
of depression which even the scene of revelry by night offered by the
'Schweizerbund,' where we found Swiss warriors absorbed in the task of
conducting village maidens through the solemn revolutions of a national
variation of the waltz, failed to cheer. It was the last of our trials
that no inducement would persuade a Swiss maiden to make our beds.
In the same summer we visited for the third time the Bagni del Masino.
We were forced by weather to enter the valley by its proper gate
instead of by one of the irregular but more tempting modes of access
open to mountaineers.
For the first hour the car-road between the Val Tellina and the Baths
runs through a steep and narrow defile. It is not until the village
of Cattaeggio, picturesquely imbedded amongst rocks and foliage, and
the mouth of Val Sasso Bisolo have been passed, that the valley opens,
and the jagged range near the Passo di Ferro comes into sight. Before
reaching San Martino the stupendous boulder, known to the peasants
as the Sasso di Remeno, is encountered. On near approach it quite
maintains its reputation as the largest fallen block in the Alps.
Beside the monster lie several more boulders of extraordinary size. On
the top of one of them is a kitchen garden approached by a ladder. The
snows melt sooner on such an exposed plot, and the goats cannot get at
the vegetables.
The object of our return to so recently visited a region was to
complete in peaks the work we had already carried out in passes. The
problem which on the whole we looked to with most interest was now
immediately before us. Mr. Ball had pronounced the Punta Trubinesca,
the highest peak west of the Cima del Largo, and the prince of the
rocky summits overlooking Val Bondasca, absolutely inaccessible from
this side. But from what we had seen the previous year we were inclined
to believe that the prophet had for once spoken hastily. The rocks on
the southern face of the peak (both south and west faces overlook the
Porcellizza Alp) had then seemed to us difficult certainly, but not
impossible.
We arrived in good time at the Baths, and soon went to bed, determined
to be prepared for the very early start which should give us a
fair chance of success in our venture. My disgust may be imagined,
therefore, when I awoke next morning to see the sun already shining
brightly in at my window, and my watch conspicuously pointing to 6
A.M. What had become of François? Had our guide for the first time in
his life fallen a victim to the potent wines of the Val Tellina, or,
more unlikely still, deliberately arranged to shirk the formidable
Trubinesca?
I hurried at once to seek the defaulter, who was found in a deep
slumber, which he justified by the statement that it had rained at
3 A.M. It is difficult to remedy a bad beginning, and our old friend
the nocturnal waiter was now of course in his first sleep. Breakfast
was not over until past seven, at which unseemly hour we set out with
comparatively slender hopes of success. For three hours we followed
our old tracks of the Passo di Bondo. As we mounted the green hillsides
above the Porcellizza Alp a new plan was suggested--to try the western
instead of the southern face of the Trubinesca. This we had never
examined, because it was the side seen and pronounced against by Mr.
Ball from the Pizzo Porcellizzo.
A smooth cliff some 200 feet high ran round the entire base of the
peak, and there was no breach visible. But there was still one spot
which we could not clearly see, the head of the glacier we were
about to tread. As we mounted the easy banks of ice the secret of the
mountain was suddenly revealed. A snow-gully of very moderate slope
led up to the ridge between our peak and the Cima di Tschingel. In
half-an-hour more the cliff was outflanked, and we were on the crest of
the chain looking down an awful precipice into Val Bondasca.
The final ridge alone remained. It rose beside us in a broad slab of
granite. But a convenient crack destroyed the difficulty suggested by
a first glance. We were now at the foot of the turret so clearly seen
from St. Moritz; we turned it by its southern side, and then with our
hands in our pockets walked quietly up a broad terrace of mingled rock
and snow. The neighbouring peaks had already sunk below us--a smooth
shining surface shone between them. One of us exclaimed 'Voilà Como.'
François replied, 'Voici le sommet.' It was just midday. Four hours and
a half had disposed of the terrible Trubinesca, and added one more to
the very lengthy list of Alpine impostors.
The distant panorama was marred by clouds; in its main features it
must be a repetition of the lovely western view gained from every high
summit of the Bernina group. It is the near prospect, however, which
distinguishes the Punta Trubinesca. It can show two sights not to be
seen, perhaps, from any other snowy peak, a large portion of Lago di
Como, that coyest of Alpine lakes, and what is still more remarkable,
the whole course, I may say literally every inch, of both sides of an
Alpine carriage-road--Italy and Switzerland in the same glance.
At our very feet lay the forests and villages of Val Bregaglia,
Italian chestnuts and white campaniles; amongst them we caught sight
of the thin streak of the high-road, which we followed as it climbed
corkscrew-fashion above the woods and waterfalls and up to the bleak
wind-swept down of the Maloya. Then our eyes accompanied it past the
pine-fringed lakes of Sils and Silvaplana, and up again to the bracing
heights of St. Moritz, every house in which was distinguishable through
the glasses. Lost sight of for a few miles beneath the dip to Samaden,
the road reappeared together with a companion thread, the river Inn,
and both finally vanished from our view somewhere between Zutz and
Zernetz.
The Baths were regained without adventure. And thus this maiden peak,
although capable of deceiving the most experienced judges, yielded
without a struggle to the first assault. Its reputation has survived
its fall, and I saw it lately catalogued in some foreign publication as
'non ancora scalato.'
The very fact, however, which makes my story short and dull, the
surprising easiness of the peak, gives it the greater interest for
the ordinary traveller. If some of the native hunters will be at the
trouble of making themselves familiar with the route, there is no
reason whatever why the ascent should not become a frequent excursion
from the Baths. The walk is even within the powers of many ladies, and
they might ride to within at most three hours of the top. Any one who
can appreciate quality as well as quantity in a panorama will be well
repaid; those who do not should confine themselves to Piz Languard.
Our descent had been delayed by the state of my friend's knee, which
had been suffering from an old sprain, and now refused plainly to do
duty for some days to come. It was vexatious enough, for on the next
night we were to have slept out for the Disgrazia. But necessity knows
nothing of plans, and he resigned himself to return as he had come to
Sondrio, while I resolved to make a push for the same place over the
mountains, and if possible to climb the Disgrazia by the way.
Soon after midnight François and I set out under a cloudy sky, which
gave no sure token as to the day to follow. The now well-known path
up Val di Mello was quickly traversed. As we reached La Rasica thin
rain began to fall, and François, prophesying evil, suggested a return
to San Martino. But the first gleams of day showed the thinness of
the clouds, and our faces were again set against the steep hillside
which leads to the upper pasturages. Before these were reached the
blue face of heaven was everywhere breaking through the mist-veil, and
a fine day was assured. Our spirits, hitherto gloomy, rose rapidly.
The Passo di Mello was soon left below on the left, and we pressed
rapidly up the steep glacier which fills the corner under the Pico
della Speranza.[19] The last bank up to the spur dividing us from Val
Sasso Bisolo was steep enough to need step-cutting; but we succeeded
in avoiding altogether the difficulty described by Mr. Kennedy.[20] We
walked across an ordinary snow-slope on to the crest of the Disgrazia
at a point somewhat to the south of the lowest gap between the loftier
mountain and the Pico della Speranza. My hopes now ran high. The rocks
were singularly easy until we came to a broad ice-trough. Steps were
cut across this; then we climbed up a steeper rock-rib and over a
tooth. Beyond this we came to a second and wider sheet of hard black
ice falling away steeply towards the Sasso Bisolo Glacier. François
at once set to work cutting steps; when thirty-two had been cut,
and three-quarters of an hour had elapsed, we were less than halfway
across the ice. All this time a very strong wind was blowing over the
ridge; still the steps were good, and the position an ordinary one to
mountaineers. It did not even occur to me to feel doubt as to our final
success until François turned round for the first time and remarked
on the violence of the wind. A few steps further a second observation
showed me that my guide entertained doubts in his own mind as to the
prudence of persevering in our attempt.
I replied, however, that I was quite happy, and that the steps were
excellent. A few more were cut, and then came a third suggestion of
retreat. For once in my life I acted on principle, and I have regretted
it ever since. François' doubts were not to be wondered at when the
moral strain of his unusual position is considered, alone with a
'monsieur' on a cathedral roof of ice. My old friend has a great deal
too much imagination to be merely animally brave, and like all the best
guides feels acutely the responsibility of his situation. He knew that
if I made a false step he might not be able to hold me. This was a good
reason for our retreat. He could not feel, as I did, that I had not the
slightest disposition to slip; for indeed his work was so good that
no one accustomed to ice-steps could possibly have fallen out of the
foothold provided.
We decided, therefore, with a sharp pang to give up the peak, which was
about half-an-hour distant, and looked ten minutes.
Despite my defeat, I cannot pretend that the Disgrazia is in any way a
difficult mountain for any properly constituted party of mountaineers.
I have not as yet revenged myself on the peak, but François some years
afterwards took two of my friends to the top, and has given me his
report. The slope, which we found hard black ice, was then snow, and
was very soon disposed of. Twenty minutes more of rough scrambling
brought them to the lower tooth reached by Herr Syber-Gysi. The gap
between this and the highest peak cost another ten minutes of stiff,
but not in the least dangerous, rock climbing. They started from the
lower châlets in Val Sasso Bisolo and took six hours in the ascent. I
was eight hours (halts included) from the Baths to where I stopped.
It is clear, therefore, that active walkers are under no necessity
to sleep out for this mountain, but may do it in the day between two
comfortable beds. The reputation of difficulty which the Disgrazia has
certainly acquired is due partly to its splendid appearance from the
Bernina group, still more to the interested exertions of the Pontresina
guides, who have not been ashamed to charge the peak in their tariff
at 170 francs; 70, as they explain, for the four days' journey, 100
for the dangers of the climb. Now that Italians from Sondrio and
hunters of Val Malenco have found their way up together, it is scarcely
likely that any traveller in his senses will seek the services of the
gentlemen of the Engadine.
The superb view spread out before us might well have diverted our
minds even under a more serious disappointment. It was one of the
days, frequent in the Alps after unsettled weather, when the air has a
brilliancy and transparency so extraordinary that an Englishman rather
fancies himself in another planet than within a day or two's journey
of his own misty island. It is difficult to believe that you, who now
breathe under an enormous arch of sky rising from pillars four hundred
miles apart, are the same being whose vision was bounded but last week
by a smoke-canopy resting on the chimney-pots of the other side of the
square, and who, in home walks, was rather proud of distinguishing a
landmark twenty miles off.
Two vertical miles below lay the broad Val Tellina with its towns and
fields, nearer was the bare trench of Val Sasso Bisolo; between the two
a broad-backed ridge, covered with green pasturage, seemed to offer a
delightful path for anyone descending towards Morbegno.
The higher crest cut off only an insignificant portion of the
Bergamasque hills. Beyond the nearer ranges, beyond the tossing hill
waves of Como and the wide plain, the long level line of the Apennine
melted into the glowing sky. The Disgrazia shares the advantage of all
the outstanding Italian Alps, of being well within the great semicircle
formed by the chain, instead of like the summits of the Bernese
Oberland on its outer ring. From Dauphiné to the Bernina every peak
was in sight, the whole array of the central Alps raised their silver
spears through the inconceivably pure air.
From the foot of the ridge we turned to the left down the broad Sasso
Bisolo Glacier, descending caverned slopes the concealed treachery
of which was, in truth, far more dangerous than the open terrors of
the upper crest. Two climbers may safely attack many peaks, but it is
undoubtedly wrong for so small a party to venture on any snow-covered
glacier. By _wrong_ in matters of mountain-climbing I mean anything
which excludes the element of skill in that noble sport, and tends to
convert it into mere gambling with hidden forms of death such as the
ice-pit or the avalanche. Immediately under the face of the peak we
struck the base of the high rocky spur which runs out from it to the
south-west. A steep scramble (twenty minutes) brought us to a gap,
where we rested awhile to admire the exquisite view of the Zermatt
range.[21] On the further side we slid down a hard snow-bed which had
very nearly succeeded in developing itself into a glacier, and found
ourselves in a desolate hollow, the stream of which forces a way out
into Val Torreggio, one of the lower branches of Val Malenco.
The descent lies at first through a narrow funnel between
richly-coloured cliffs. The granite has now come to an end, and sharp
edges of slate and serpentine crop up against it. A green and level
upland valley soon opens before the eyes, watered by an abundance of
sparkling fountains which spring up beneath every stone. Here a path
gradually asserts itself and leads to a group of châlets. The descent
into the depths of Val Malenco is long, but pleasant. Although the high
peaks of the Bernina are concealed by lower spurs, the way abounds in
charming vignettes of wood and water and warm hillsides.
At Torre we had to wait some time for the carriage sent up to meet us
from Sondrio. As we sat by the wayside the village priest joined us.
When he learnt that we had come straight over the mountains from the
'Bagni' his astonishment knew no bounds, and he seemed to doubt whether
we were not something more or less than natural and wingless human
beings.
Our evening drive was swift and exciting. An impetuous horse whirled us
down a steep vine-clad hill, rounding the zigzags at a pace which made
perils by mountains sink into insignificance compared to the perils
by road. Near a beautiful waterfall tumbling from the opposite hills,
the Malero was leapt by a bold arch, and for some time we ran along a
terrace, high above the strong glacier torrent.
From the last brow overlooking the Val Tellina the eye rests on one
of those wonderful landscapes which tell the southward-bound traveller
that he has reached his goal and is at last in Italy.
The great barrier is crossed, and the North is all behind us. The face
of the earth, nay the very nature of the air, has changed, colours have
a new depth, shadows a new sharpness. From the deep-green carpet of the
smooth valley to the crowns of the sunset-flushed hills, all is wealth
and luxuriance. No more pines stand stiff in regimental ranks to resist
the assaults of winter and rough weather. No mountain rhododendrons
collect all their strength in a few tough short shoots, and push
themselves forward like hardy skirmishers of the vegetable world into
the very abode of snow. Here the 'green things of the earth' are all at
home and at peace, not as in some high Graubunden valley waging unequal
war in an enemy's country. The beeches cluster in friendly companies on
the hills. The chestnut-forest rejoicing in a green old age spreads out
into the kindly air broad, glossy branches, the vines toss their long
arms here and there in sheer exuberance of life. Even on the roadside
wall the lizards run in and out amongst beds of cyclamen and tenderest
ferns and mosses. The hills seem to stand back and leave room for the
sunshine; and the broad, shining town of Sondrio, girt by towers and
villas, wears, after the poor hamlets of the mountains, a stately air,
as if humanity too shared in the general well-being.
It is one of the peculiar privileges of the Alpine traveller to enjoy,
if he pleases, the choicest luxury of travel, a descent into Italy,
half-a-dozen times in the space of one short summer holiday.
We drove down through vineyards and past a large villa and church, and
through a narrow Via Garibaldi into a Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele. The
south side of the square was formed by the hotel, an imposing building
which contains within its walls the post and diligence offices. The
windows command a view up Val Malenco, terminated by the twin peaks of
the Schwestern, which appear from this side as two rocky teeth, hardly
to be recognised as the pure snow-cones which look in at every window
at Pontresina.
I have now, I hope, given an account of the mountains of Val Masino,
which, though far from complete, may suffice to aid mountaineers
who wish to visit them, and to direct attention to some of the most
enjoyable expeditions within their limits. But, as I put aside the
various pamphlets from which I have tried to add to my own information
on this group, I notice that a worthy Herr Professor has remarked
on the first ascent of the Disgrazia, that it was 'wholly devoid of
scientific interest and results.' I fancy my learned friend preparing
to lay down this holiday chronicle with a similar shrug of the
shoulders; and I feel indisposed to allow him his criticism until he
has first submitted it to be examined in detail, and listened to what
may be urged on the other side.
'The Alps,' that shrug seems to say, 'are not a playground for
idle boys, but a store-room full of puzzles; and it is only on the
understanding that you will set to work to dissect one of these that
you can be allowed to enter. You have free leave to look on them,
according to your taste, as an herbarium, or as a geological, or even
an entomological museum, but they must be treated, and treated only,
as a laboratory. The belief that the noblest use of mountains is to
serve as a refectory at once mental and physical for an overworked
generation, that--
Men in these crags a medicine find
To stem corruption of the mind,
is a poetical delusion unworthy of the philosopher who penned the
lines. You must not come here to climb for mere health, or to indulge a
sensual love of the beautiful, or, still worse, that brutelike physical
energy which may be more harmlessly exhausted in persecuting foxes or
trampling turnips. Μηδεὶς ἀγεωμέτρητος εἰσίτω. Come with a
measuring rod or not at all.'
So far our critic. In his anxiety to claim on behalf of science
exclusive dominion over the mountains, he forgets that all great
works of nature are not only monuments of past changes but also living
influences. The physical history of our globe is a study the importance
of which no one at the present day is likely to disallow. Because we
refuse to look on mountains simply as so much historical evidence,
we of the Alpine Club do not by any means, as has been frequently
suggested, range ourselves amongst the Philistines. We listen with the
greatest interest to the men of genius whose mission it is to interpret
the hieroglyphics of the temple in which we only worship. But we do not
all of us recognise it as our duty to try to imitate their researches.
Nor would the wiser of them wish for imitation from an incompetent herd
of dabblers, who, however much they might gratify individual vanity,
would advance the general sum of knowledge about as much as an ordinary
amateur sketchbook does art.
Is it always better for a man, when acres of red rhododendron are
in full bloom around him, and the insects are filling the air with a
delicious murmur, to be engrossed body and soul in poking about for
some rare plant or impaling an unfortunate beetle? When two hundred
miles of mountain and plain, lake and river, cornland and forest,
are spread out before the eyes, ought one to be remembering that
'justification' depends on ascertaining whether the back is resting on
granite or feldspathic gneiss?
The preposterous pretension that no one is 'justified' (it is the
favourite word) in drinking in mountain glory in its highest forms
unless he brings as a passport a profession of research, cannot be
too strongly denounced. To require from every Alpine climber some
show of a scientific object would be to preoccupy men's minds at the
moment when they should, and would otherwise, be most open to enlarging
influences; it would in many cases be to throw away moral advantages
and to encourage egotism, vanity, and humbug.
An obvious comparison may perhaps render more clear the relative
positions of the simple lover of the Alps and the scientific dabbler.
Rome is almost as universal a goal of modern travel as Switzerland.
There also is a great history to be studied, on many of the problems of
which investigation of the ground we tread may throw light.
The world listens with eager attention to anyone who has the requisite
training to study such problems with profit, who can tell us what rude
remains may be of the time of the Kings, can distinguish between the
work of the Republic and the Empire. And amongst the galleries we are
glad to meet those who can trace the progress of art and analyse a
great picture so as to show the elements drawn from earlier masters
which have been crowned and immortalised by the genius of Raphael or
Michael Angelo.
But who ever ventured to assert that Rome was the peculiar heritage of
the archæologist or the art critic? that the pathetic strength of its
world-centring ruins or the glorious beauty of its frescoed palaces was
reserved for the few who can explain, or make guesses at, how these
things grew, and forbidden to the many who can only appreciate their
present charm?
The Alps, we hold, like Rome, are for everyone who has a soul capable
of enjoying them. They have been given us by right of birth for the
recreation of our minds and bodies, and we refuse to hand over the key
of our playground or to accept the tickets of admission which are so
condescendingly offered. If anybody--even if a scientific body--calls
after us as we pass along the mountain-path, we shall return no other
answer than the very sufficient one made under similar circumstances by
the hero of Mr. Longfellow's popular ballad. And if, like that unhappy
young man, we are doomed to perish in our attempt, I do not fancy
our last moments will be seriously embittered by the absence of such
consolations as a barometer or a spirit-level might have afforded.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] The pass was at first named the Disgrazia Joch; but
Passo di Mello, suggested by Mr. Ball, seems the most
appropriate title.
[19] So named by Messrs. Stephen and Kennedy, who apparently
considered the gloominess of the surrounding names required
some relief. The Monte della Disgrazia is supported on the
other side by the Monte della Cassandra.
[20] Judging from the map appended to Mr. Kennedy's paper in
the first vol. of the _Alpine Journal_, he crossed the spur
at a much lower point than we did.
[21] This gap is probably the Passo della Preda Rossa of an
Italian party who in 1874 ascended the Disgrazia from the Alp
Rali in Val Torreggio.