GOBLINS OF THE MIST.
“Who are these, a shadowy band?
Come they from the Spirit-land?”
“You will have a glorious day to-morrow for your climb to the
Fünf-Seen” (Five-lakes), exclaimed the Doctor. “Look! the Königsberg is
quite clear,” pointing to a prominent mountain rising out of a valley
to the right, and upon which the sun is setting with a crimson blush.
“But the barometer has fallen considerably,” broke in the manager, who
was standing by our side.
“The best barometer we have is the Königsberg,” replied the former,
clinging to his pet theory: “and see! there is not an atom of cloud
hanging about its ridges anywhere; the barometer can only have fallen
for _heat_, it cannot be for either rain or fog.”
Horses and guides are consequently ordered to be in attendance at 6
A.M., an early start being necessary, as we cannot in any case be home
until the evening.
[Illustration]
At 6 A.M., however, such is the disappointing habit of mountain
regions, nothing is to be seen but dark pines looming through the mist;
and as we descend the wooden steps of Villa Sontagh and mount our
steeds--whose breath pouring from their nostrils appears so like vapour
let off from the safety-valve of a steam-engine, that we expect every
moment to hear them whistle--we feel instantly enveloped in a wet sheet.
Everything is moist, murky, and miserable, each hair of our guide’s
moustaches and whiskers being furnished with its own particular and
peculiar little globule of moisture, as well as those of the provision
_Träger_ who follows modestly behind. I observe that we are all so
confident of its being fine, “by and by,” that we make no inquiry of
our guide concerning the probable state of the weather in the heights,
taking the fact of its clearing up quite as a matter of course.
Forcing our way along the narrow pathway under the pine-trees, whose
branches, heavy with their weight of moisture, hang their heads and
sweep us as we pass, is not however quite so pleasant as it might
be; and we are perhaps a thought more silent than is customary with
persons starting on a mountaineering expedition. As we proceed, too,
our ardour becomes damped together with our clothes. Still we jog on,
and try to look hopeful at any rate, if not beaming, which is difficult
when you feel the feather of your hat--that once possessed a lovely
curl--hanging down behind your neck with a steady drip.
My horse--I give him this appellation for the sake of euphony, for
he is a nondescript animal not easy to define--has not only a rough
and disagreeable action, but I soon discover that all attempts at
guiding him are unavailing. Possessing as he did a mulish desire
to go directly contrary to the wishes of his rider, I have to pull
persistently with the left rein to insure his going steadily to the
right, and _vice versâ_; and the bit and bridle are evidently an
ornamental arrangement, for the only thing he heeds is the voice of
his master, who walks some little distance behind, and to which he
instantly responds. His master, indeed, talks to him as though he were
not only gifted, like Balaam’s ass, with the power of speech, but with
understanding of the Zipser _patois_ also--the language spoken in
these mountains, a corruption of the German.
“Now then, Minsh”--that being the creature’s name--“look out! see
where you are going! mind that hole there! To the right, Minsh! to the
right! keep back! don’t go so fast down the hill, the path is steep
and stony;” and “Ah! Minsh, _dear_ Minsh, don’t go so near the
precipice, or _she’ll_ be over,” were the warning and consoling,
not to say complimentary, observations that often reached me from afar.
“Minsh” had also a disagreeable habit of looking at everything he
passed; he was a beast of inquiring mind, but the indulgence of that
praiseworthy propensity is not always agreeable to the equestrian in
localities like the present, where one false step might send both rider
and steed tumbling into an abyss below.
“Minsh,” however, was not destitute of good qualities, after all, and
moreover possessed a great notion of his own importance, taking good
care of himself when the road happened to be dangerous; and looking
neither to the right nor the left whenever we chanced to be passing
close to precipices, but picking his way right dexterously among the
large boulders that often beset our path.
[Illustration]
Our little cavalcade is headed by the guide, followed by the Doctor
himself, who had volunteered to accompany us. He is clad in an
appropriate and becoming costume of drab cloth, with a broad-brimmed,
high-crowned hat to match. An ardent sportsman, he carries not only his
gun across his shoulder, but his _Jägerhorn_ hangs from his side;
whilst in the band which surrounds his hat are stuck various trophies
of the chase: a bunch of the long hair of the chamois, sundry black
feathers from the _coq de bruyère_, and a bunch of faded wild
flowers, gathered on some previous expedition. Next comes F., looking
like a species of lichen with which the pines are enveloped, his dark
clothes covered with an infinitesimal number of white particles of a
dewy nature. So striking, indeed, is the resemblance that a spider
mistakes him for it; and letting itself down by its tiny thread as he
passes by, begins forthwith spinning a splendid specimen of cobweb
on his hat. Then comes your humble servant, the chronicler of these
annals, looking much the same; whilst last, but by no means least,
comes the provision _Träger_, who brings up the rear.
“It is a good sign when cobwebs are seen,” remarked the sanguine
Doctor, not alluding to the patient little weaver still diligently
plying his art in F.’s wide-awake, but to the number of webs clinging
to the trees above our heads.
But in spite of these auspicious indications, and the predictions of
the Königsberg of the previous evening, the weather does _not_
improve. We look up, but the mist comes down and hangs about the pines
like wreaths of smoke.
In half an hour’s time we reach a pretty little wooden hut or “refuge,”
close to our pathway, called the Rosa-Schutzhütte, standing on a ledge
of jutting rock whence a glorious view is obtained--when you can see
it--of the beautiful valleys of the Little and Great Kolbach, together
with the Lomnitzer-Spitze rearing its pinnacles heavenwards. In the
distance, we hear the roar of the waters of the Great Kolbach Fall,
and, after a quarter of an hour’s further scramble, come in sight of
it, dashing over huge blocks of granite from a height of four hundred
feet, and forming itself into numerous cascades and eddies till it
leaps over an immense wall of rock and covers us with its spray.
Climbing a large boulder, we have a fine view of as much as we can see
of it, as it comes tearing down the gorge with thundering might. The
vegetation on either side is very varied and beautiful; here and there
a Siberian stone-pine (_Pinus cembra_) rears its head grandly
above the deciduous trees which lean picturesquely towards the Fall, as
if attracted towards it by some mysterious and hidden fascination.
Following a little path to the left, we descend to the “Lange-Fall,”
where the gorge becomes more contracted, and the water flowing over
various shelves of rock has fashioned for itself numerous rounded
cavities, or basins, similar to those often seen in Scotland, where
they are designated “witches’ caldrons.” At the bottom of these
cavities, besides a number of small round stones, a large one is
invariably found, which is supposed, when the cascade is full, to be
made to revolve by the water working itself into eddies and whirlpools,
in consequence of which the rock, by the constant friction of the
stone, gets worn away into these smooth, circular, and basin-like
hollows.
Mounting our ponies again, we continue the climb, and follow the
magnificent Fall for a considerable distance, getting glorious glimpses
of it every now and then through the pine-trees to our right; but the
thunder of its waters is so deafening, that it is almost a relief when
we find ourselves standing in a peaceful Alpine meadow, where, leaving
our ponies at the Rainerhütte to await our return, we recommence our
climb on foot.
Above us to the left rises a perpendicular rock, two thousand feet in
height, beneath which the _Kleine_ (Little) _Kolbach_ hastens
to join its larger prototype, and accompany it in its mad career to the
distant and peaceful plains.
Crossing the meadow, which is purple with the Alpine crocus, we pass a
wooden bridge and follow the windings of the _Kleine Kolbach_ over
moss-covered boulders and under the spreading branches of the krummholz
(_Pinus Mughus_), a species of dwarf pine growing three or four
feet from the ground, and whose limbs, knotted and gnarled, assume--as
its name (crooked timber) implies--the most angular and grotesque forms
imaginable.
This pine, which is never found in these mountains at a lower altitude
than 5000 feet, forms a perfect zone of 1000 feet round the whole of
the Tátra, entirely ceasing to grow at 6000. So rigidly, in fact, does
it cling to its own particular circle, that Dr. Sontagh has never been
able to induce it to grow at his little settlement, only 1500 feet
below, his frequent attempts having invariably proved unsuccessful.
As we ascend further, the pink _daphne_ greets us with its
fragrance; whilst the pale mauve _primula_ with its rigid
pinnulate leaves, growing close to the stones as if clinging to them
for shelter, relieves the eye with its beautiful cushions of bloom. The
mist has partially cleared by this time, and we journey on with lighter
hearts, though with no small difficulty; for the loose stones over
which our track leads us, and which is nothing more nor less than the
dry bed of a watercourse, adds greatly to the fatigue of our climb.
Everywhere around us there are footprints of chamois, but we are far
too noisy a party for such shy game to show themselves.
“There are certain to be plenty in there,” remarks the Doctor, as
we pass a more than usually dense clump of _krummholz_, “and
ten to one they are watching our movements narrowly through the dark
green branches; they always take refuge in the thick recesses of the
_krummholz_, on the first sound of approaching footsteps.”
Game abounds in the Tátra. In the forests lying at their base nearly
all kinds common to other countries are found, besides wolves, bears,
and polecats. In the higher regions chamois and marmots abound, while
the rocks are the haunt of the golden eagle and the vulture.
At length, after two hours’ climb, during which we have been getting
into deeper and deeper snow, the mist that had partially cleared now
gathers over us again. We can scarcely see a yard ahead of us, and I
lose all sight of my companions. They too had lost sight of me, but I
soon heard a voice proceeding from the darkness shouting in stentorian
accents “Where are you?” so close to me that I was quite startled,
and, looking up, saw their shadowy forms looming through the mist like
goblins, almost at my elbow. In a few minutes we recognise, crouching
beneath an overhanging rock, the welcome form of the provision
_Träger_, evidently engaged in making a fire, for we have arrived
at the _Feuerstein_.
We are now above the region of vegetation, except that of herbaceous
kinds, and nothing is visible above the sheet of snow save the long
coarse grass which hangs in brown and matted tufts from the more
sheltered ledges of the rocks. The scene, surrounded as we are by an
ocean of white, relieved only by blocks of granite, which appear black
upon their bed of glistening snow, is dreary in the extreme.
A great deal of _krummholz_, brought hither by a previous party
of excursionists, is lying near us; for the _Feuerstein_ is
the invariable place of bivouac for ascending tourists. It is damp,
however, and does not easily ignite, but we beguile the time meanwhile
by unpacking the provision-basket, and spreading its contents before
us, until, having shivered philosophically for the space of half an
hour, our patience is at length rewarded by a blaze.
During the time occupied by these interesting proceedings the guide has
been on ahead in the direction of our further climb, for the purpose
of ascertaining whether it is clear in the higher ridges, but he now
returns with the intelligence that it is impossible to reach the
Fünf-Seen to-day.
I think that in our secret hearts, though each expressed the due amount
of disappointment at the ill-success that had attended our expedition,
we were all rejoiced at this announcement. Nothing in the whole world
is equal to a really thick mountain mist for taking the “go” out of
one, and we were wet, worn and weary.
By this time the fire is burning cheerily, and crouching round it
we form, if a dishevelled, at any rate a picturesque group. But
_krummholz_, from its pungency, is not the most pleasant wood to
burn, and we are nearly blinded from its effects; whilst an aggravating
current of air blowing round the north side of the _Feuerstein_,
drives it in our direction. But these little annoyances do not
interfere with our appetites, and like real mountaineers we try to
think everything is charming and delightful, though I fear, after all,
with but a sorry counterfeit.
Tourists often spend the night under the shelter of this overhanging
rock to see the sunrise. It also enables them to have an early climb
should they wish to ascend the Lomnitzer-Spitze, the second highest
mountain in the Tátra, a feat which takes, starting from this point,
from three to four hours to accomplish. Until a comparatively recent
period the Eisthaler-Spitze, 8690 feet, was believed to be the loftiest
of the whole chain. The latest measurements, however, declare the
Gerlsdorf to be sixty-six feet higher still. The two most difficult
mountains to ascend are the Eisthal and the Lomnitz. To climb the
latter the tourist has to proceed in a northerly direction, when,
after passing over a mass of shattered rock-fragments, he reaches a
narrow cleft called the “_Grosse-Probe_,” on account of its great
difficulty.
The summit of the Lomnitz consists of a block of granite about
forty-five feet in circumference, and the ascent is both dangerous and
difficult, but the view from its summit is magnificent, and Tátra-Fűred
looks a mere speck in the dark forest at its base.
Dr. Sontagh, a bold mountaineer and “cunning” huntsman, was just
entertaining us with an exciting account of a chamois hunt in which he
took part a few months ago, when there was a shout from below.
“Come down quickly, the clouds are lifting, and there is a glorious
view of the Lomnitz and Eisthaler Spitzen.”
It was the voice of the guide. Hastily leaving the _Träger_ to
“pack up,” we descend from our place of bivouac, where the overhanging
rock above us had entirely shut out all view, and, looking upwards,
what a magnificent scene presented itself to our gaze! Gradually, as
though a giant but invisible hand were drawing aside a curtain, the
vapour, which had previously shrouded all in mystery and gloom, rose
higher and higher, disclosing one mighty cone after another, till with
a final effort it rolled away entirely and displayed peak after peak
in endless succession, but far too precipitous for any snow to rest
upon--pinnacles and spires and mighty domes piled one above another,
rugged, denticulated, and sharp as needles; the whole scene rendered
all the more savage by portions of the mist itself, which in rising had
become caught in the jaws of the inner pinnacles, where, unable to make
its escape, it rested in the hollows, and, separating one cone from
another, caused each to stand out single and distinct.
* * * * *
It was long before we could take our eyes from this wondrous scene.
Never even in the Switzerland of my affections had I beheld aught so
wild, so majestic, or so perfectly _awful_ in its grandeur.
As we descend the valley, what a world of chaos greets us, everywhere
hidden, when we climbed the slope, by the mist, which, partially if not
wholly, had concealed it from our view!
In regions like these how old the world appears, and what pigmies
we feel ourselves to be as we stand in the midst of such primeval
formations! We no longer regret our inability to reach the Fünf
Seen--our destination at starting. We have seen enough for one
day--enough, that is, for those who realise in their heart of hearts
the appalling grandeur of such sights in nature, and who love to
photograph them for ever on the retina of their memory. As we turn our
backs upon them and resume the descent we endeavour to close our minds
to all other impressions, and occupy ourselves in collecting Arctic
mosses and lichen, and, at a lower altitude, small seedling trees of
_krummholz_, hoping that although--jealous of its rocky mountain
habitat--it has baffled the attempts of Dr. Sontagh to induce it to
grow in Tátra-Fűred, it may yet do so in our English home.
“Bestow one last look on the Lomnitzer-Spitze ere it fades entirely
from our view,” exclaims the Doctor behind us.
Thus summoned, we look back upon it once more. There it is, beautiful
still, but how changed is its aspect! The mist that clung to the base
of the cones and caused them to stand out solitary and alone has
vanished into air, and a glory of sunlight is resting upon them; for,
although hidden to us in the valley, the sun is shining full upon the
summit of the mountain; but the scene has lost its mystery and weird
grandeur, and we feel thankful we saw it as we did. Cloud and mist
harmonise far better than sunshine with the savage spirit of such a
scene.
There is great variety in the colouring of this part of the Tátra
region. The different shades of green, not only in the carpet of moss
and lichen which we tread beneath our feet, but also in the small
coniferæ which vegetate at the highest limits of the larger growth
of flora; the rich dark green of the _krummholz_ with its brown
stems; the light and delicate green of the feathery and prickly
juniper; the red trunks of the small pines above mentioned, and others
rent in some instances from top to bottom lying upon the ground, or
across the granite rock-fragments, bleached and wan--all form such a
beautiful harmony of tints that there is no monotony anywhere.
Just as we were completing the descent of the mountain, the mist,
which had completely cleared away from the valleys and the base of
the peaks, and concentrated itself into cumuli high above us, opened
for an instant, and permitted us to behold the lofty summit of the
Schlangendorfer-Spitze--the pearl of the Southern Tátra--and which,
surrounded by billows of cloud, and clad with newly-fallen snow, looked
almost too beautiful to belong even to this beautiful earth.
Those who come only a fortnight later in the season miss a great deal;
for these mountains are inconceivably grand when their summits are
covered with their glistening mantles. On the other hand, many of the
passes are closed to the ordinary climber, being still blocked by snow.
Arriving at the Rainerhütte, we find our steeds already saddled in
readiness for us.
As a rule “Minsh” was not given to violent spirits, but he had been
waiting long and patiently in the cold, and the thought of his warm
_álás_ forced itself on his mind, and in fancy he scented his
provender from afar, so that I was no sooner on his back than,
whinnying to his companions and shaking his head wickedly as much as to
say to the others “I’m off home,” he cantered away, and endeavoured to
take me by a short cut through the dense pine-woods. In vain I pulled
at the reins as hard as I was able; all remonstrance on my part proved
unavailing, till the voice of his master sounded from a distance in
loud and deprecating accents.
“Ah, Minsh! Minsh! Stop, dear! stop! _She’ll_ be killed. The trees
are close together! There’s no room to pass! She’ll be killed to a
certainty. Ah, Minsh, may the Saints forgive you!”
Minsh thus apostrophised could hold out no longer, and came to a
standstill; when, retracing our steps, I rescued my hat, which was
hanging to a branch at the entrance to the forest, and, soon rejoining
the rest of our party, we reached Villa Sontagh without further
incident.
[Illustration]