PASSES
A peak is primarily a thing to be looked at. It was only after the
aspect of peaks had smitten the imagination of men that the desire to
climb them arose. The climbing impulse is subordinate to the eye's
delight. A pass, on the other hand, is a thing to be climbed and looked
from, but only in a minor degree to be looked at. It is an experience
rather than a sight. Few passes indeed are striking objects in a view.
The Col Dolent, the Guessfeldtsattel, the Col du Lion, and a few more are
imposing when you approach the foot of their final slopes, but it would
be difficult to distinguish between such slopes and a similar mountain
face. The fact that the slope leads to a notch or saddle in the sky-line
does not give it dignity; that comes to it from its own character as a
slope, and would be the same if it led to any other kind of sky-line.
Passes, therefore, in and for themselves, are not conspicuously striking
and beautiful elements in any great mountain panorama, and do not call
for discussion by us from that point of view.
As experiences, however, they take another rank. I have long been
prepared to maintain their general superiority to peaks in that respect.
Passes generally lead through finer scenery than is commanded from the
flank of a peak. A peak climbed rewards you with a panorama which no
pass can offer; but, that excepted, the average pass is superior to the
average peak for the scenery it reveals, and in the nature of things it
must be. In climbing a peak, unless you are going up an arete, you
normally have a steep slope rising straight in front of you. A few
square yards of rocks or snow fill most of your vision as you look
ahead. If you raise your eyes up the slope, you see it in its least
impressive form, foreshortened into a mere belt. The real view is behind
you, and you must turn round to behold it. That involves standing still
and may mean delay. But in traversing a pass you normally ascend the
bottom of a glacier valley, and the fine views are ahead and on both
hands. The valley is not likely to be so narrow that you are not far
enough away from its two sides, or at least one of them, to be able to
behold the slope as a whole, from bottom to top, and not unduly
foreshortened. Of course this general character of pass-routes is
subject to infinite variation. The final slope is often steep, and the
ascent of it will then be like the ascent of a mountain face; but,
broadly speaking, it must be obvious that passes offer better chances
for enjoying continuous fine scenery than peaks, and experience proves
it.
Pass-traversing, to me, however, and doubtless to many others, seems to
possess more elements of romance than peak-climbing; for this reason--to
climb a peak is to make an expedition, but to cross a pass is to travel.
In the one case you normally return to the spot whence you set out; in
the other you go from the known to the unknown, from the visible to what
is beyond. The peak, which is before you when you set out to climb it,
is only explained, not revealed, as you ascend; but every pass is a
revelation: it takes you over into another region. You leave one area
behind and you enter another; you come down amongst new people and into
fresh surroundings. You shut out all that was familiar yesterday and
open up another world.
This is true of all passing over; it is of course especially true
when you are making a new pass for the first time. Then you have to find
the way down as well as the way up, and the interest is sustained to the
last moment. It has been my good-fortune to have had opportunities of
climbing many new peaks and crossing several new passes--one of them the
longest mountain-glacier pass in the world. Beyond all question the
passes have been more interesting and exciting than the peaks. When you
reach the summit of your peak the excitement suddenly ends; on the top
of a pass it only culminates. The long pass to which I have above
referred took about a fortnight to reach from the highest habitations.
We could see the saddle ahead all the time, and we slowly drew nearer to
it. The wonder increased as to what we should find on the other side.
Whither should we be led on? Where should we come out? What difficulties
might bar our progress? Not till the very moment when we topped the
ascent and stood upon the col could any of these questions begin to be
answered. Nor could any of them be fully answered till the week of
descent had been actually accomplished. But the first sight over, the
first glimpse into the new world, that was worth toiling for--that, and
the last long regretful look back down the valley up which we had come,
whose details had fastened themselves durably upon our memories.
[Illustration: 44. THE ROAD FROM VITZNAU TO GERSAU. The _Obere nase_
corner. Pilatus group in the distance.]
What the travelling explorer in previously untraversed places feels so
keenly is, after all, only a slightly stronger form of the emotion that
every pass affords to every climber who traverses it for the first time.
He awaits the arrival at the summit for the moment of supreme
revelation. He has the same slow development of desire to see over; the
same sudden burst of illumination at the top; the same regretful look
back; the same pleasurable anticipation of novel experiences awaiting
him on the descent. He too leaves one world and comes into another;
leaves if it be but the home of a night in exchange for untried
quarters. It is this similarity between ordinary Alpine climbing and new
exploration that gives to the former one of its greatest charms. The
fact that a thing is new to us suffices. It is almost, perhaps quite, as
good to behold for the first time what we have heard speech of, as to
behold what no one has ever beheld before. We shall find friends to
converse and share memories with about the one; we are liable to be
considered bores if we talk too much about the other. The explorer
writes his book and then dwells with his memories alone, but the Alpine
traveller lays up a store of experiences and reminiscences, the pleasure
of which he can share with a goodly number of friends, old and young.
Passes, like peaks, admit of classification. The first and most
beautiful is the long snow pass, the kind of pass which is reached by
ascending one long glacier, and from which the descent leads down
another long glacier, so that the point of departure is as widely
separated as possible from the point of arrival, and the divergence of
scenery between the two extremities most pronounced. These may be called
the great snow highways.
The longest snow highway-pass, and to my thinking one of the finest in
the Alps, leads right through the heart of the Bernese Oberland from the
Loetschen valley at one end to the Grimsel at the other. It is really not
one pass but a succession of three, for three ridges have to be
crossed--which, however, only increases its interest. It leads through
snow scenery of superlative pomp and extent, and reveals that scenery in
the most fascinating manner, continually opening out and presently again
closing up the wildest vistas, and always providing new interests and
fresh culminations. Bietschhorn, Aletschhorn, Jungfrau, Finsteraarhorn,
not to mention other less important peaks, in turn dominate the view,
and one glacier after another opens out a vision of remote blue valleys
and lower ranges. I am aware that this long traverse does not oppose to
the climber the smallest real difficulty from end to end, and that it is
what is commonly described as "a mere snow pound." It calls for
endurance and that is all. Unless the climber counts scenery first among
the attractions of the way, he will be well advised to select some other
expedition. He who does so count it will agree with me that this is _par
excellence_ "the" pass of the Central Alps. It lacks only one element of
charm: it brings the traveller down into the same kind of scenery as
that from which he started. A similar remark may be made on the
Strahleck, which is likewise a glorious snow highway. Both passes, it
may be observed, are eminently suited for ski experts to traverse in
winter, under suitable conditions of weather and equipment.
To find the long snow pass in its most romantic form one must look for
it in a region where a great mountain range divides districts of
strongly contrasted scenic character. There can be no doubt whither we
should turn. The great range that gazes southward over Italy and
northward into Switzerland perfectly fulfils the conditions. This
culminates along the watershed south of Zermatt, which place is
therefore indicated as the starting-point at one end. Of the long snow
passes leading southward from Zermatt, the Lysjoch undoubtedly takes
first place for magnificence of scenery throughout the whole length of
its route. Gymnastic climbers may ask, Why not the Sesiajoch? On the
north its route coincides with that of the Lysjoch, but on the south
they diverge, and the easier route lies through finer if less
catastrophic scenery. The Sesiajoch plunges down a great wall, and the
view does not vary for a long time. The Lysjoch leads down one of the
loveliest glacier valleys in Europe and affords endless variety. There
is really no comparison between the two.
We may therefore select the Lysjoch as type of the noblest kind of
Alpine pass. Consider what wealth of interest it supplies to those who
traverse it from Zermatt at one end to Gressoney at the other; for to
enjoy a pass properly it should be followed from village to village
throughout its full length, and not merely from hut to hut. The modern
method of zigzagging across the crest of a chain without descending far
below the snow-line, taking one pass one day and another the next, is, I
am aware, not without fascinations, to which who has not succumbed? but
it is not the best way to enjoy scenery, for it lacks the enforcing
emphasis which the exchange of levels yields.
It is of the essence of such a pass as the Lysjoch that it leads you
from the foot of a great glacier, up through its whole length to its
head, and then from the head of another glacier down to its foot. It
thus traces a definite and natural succession of the features of a
glacier. It is like following the course of a river from mouth to
source, or passing through the progress of the seasons of a year. From
step to step there is a succession of related features, each being
another stage of the one before and of the one next to follow. Thus
there is a growth of interest. What you behold is not a mere succession
of unrelated vistas. Each foreground in turn implies all that has been
passed and all that is yet to come on the upward way. True, convenience
generally dictates that you shall not actually enter upon a glacier at
its extreme foot, and mount right up it to its head. There is probably
better going for part of the way along the bank. But the glacier is
commonly close at hand and in full view most of the time, so that you
become familiar with it at all points of its course. To ascend it is to
advance through stages of increasing glory and purity. First you have
its shabby moraine-strewn extremity; then its cleaner surface and open
white crevasses. Higher up they turn continually bluer and the ice grows
still whiter. The glacier widens; the slopes that border it become less
grassy. You are leaving the habitable, profitable world behind, and
approaching the clean undevelopable lands, which man may visit but where
he must not dwell. The naked crags stand forth on either hand, furrowed
with snow couloirs, and clothed with white raiment. Now you come to the
snow-covered surface of the glacier itself. Blue-looking pools of water
may be seen here and there. The snow becomes purer as you advance. There
are no more dust-patches or groups of rocks interrupting the clean
surface. Higher up, the glacier breaks into bolder forms as it pours
down over steeper and more rugged slopes. The seracs tower aloft,
fantastic in form and unstable in position. Great crevasses marvellously
coloured in their depths yawn all about. You wind your way amongst them,
creeping over snow-bridges and under impending walls and pinnacles of
ice, all decked with sparkling icicles. Finally, you emerge on to some
gentler-sloping, wide-expanding field of spotless snow, that only a
gentle undulation diversifies with the most delicately displayed
modelling. All around are steep slopes of snow or ice, cliffs of
newly-riven rock, avalanche tracks and heaps of ruin. The details of the
high peaks can be distinguished, their overhanging cornices, their
furrowed sides. Ahead, and not so far away, is now the pass--a broad
opening between great heaped-up domes of snow, perhaps with crests of
rock cutting through. The slope grows easier. At last the ground is
level, and a distant view opens before you as behind. You are on the
top.
The ascent has been marked, as a morning's work should be, by steady
growth of interest. The descent, though it merely reverses the order of
events and succession of interests, is not a simple inversion of the
experiences of the ascent. It would be if you descended backwards,
facing the pass, but such is not the human method of going. You now face
downwards, and have before you the blue valley, the distant lower
ranges, and perhaps some fragment of the broad lowlands in view, whereas
in going up you look at the heights. The valleys promise rest and
refreshment to your growing fatigue. The way becomes less laborious as
you descend. You leave the snow behind gladly. The first flowers welcome
you. And now as you quit the ice and traverse the high meadows the
steady increase of fertility is delightful to observe. You enter the
tree-level through a fringe of skimpy and wind-beaten scouts. The timber
becomes finer as you advance. After all, this fertile earth is the place
for man. Down you go into a new valley, the torrent hurrying and
tumbling beside you. You come to a poor village and then to one more
thriving. Fruit-trees begin to find place, and then chestnuts. How
delightful it is to come down to the chestnut-level! It is then no far
cry to the figs and the Italian lakes, and all the luxury of north
Italian nature--its rich atmosphere, its colour, its suave forms, and
picturesque surprises.
[Illustration: 45. AMSTEG IN THE REUSSTHAL. On the St. Gotthard Railway.
Entrance to the Windgelle Tunnel above the last house on right of
picture.]
To cross thus and through such stages from the austere Swiss valleys to
Italian frolic and ease, is to enjoy one of the greatest pleasures. You
can do it by going over a peak, but clearly peaks are not natural
passage-ways. They do not suggest themselves for traverse, whereas
passes do. The whole idea of a peak is a provocation to the climber to
get to the top. A pass invites him to come over; it calls from valley to
valley. Who would ever think of going to a col and then returning in his
tracks to the starting-point unless misfortune compelled him? The
suggestion is absurd. Passes are the natural gateways of the hills--at
first the easiest and lowest gaps; next the best gaps that could be
found from valley to valley; lastly, any notch between two peaks, even
if they are twin-culminating summits of a single mountain. Indeed,
provided the point of crossing is a notch, so that, when you stand in
it, you see a peak rising on either hand of you, you have the feeling
that you are going over a pass--that the wall Nature has erected in your
way has been overcome; and that feeling is the thing.
The broad portals of the great mountain highways offer, as I have said,
and obviously must offer, scenery of the grandest and most logically
consistent type along all the way; but there are passes of other kinds
richly endowed with power to please. I would choose next, as a
delightful type, the most opposed in character to the broad snow col,--I
refer to those range-traversing routes which lead over steep
mountain-walls. Such on a great scale for the Alps are the Col du Lion,
the Domjoch, and the Col de Miage. I think, however, that the classical
pass of this kind is the Triftjoch. It will at all events perfectly
serve as an example of the rest. Seeing that, by definition, the final
slope of all such passes is a steep wall, that wall, dropping from the
watershed, must be at the end of some deep glacial recess. Herein lies
the distinguishing feature of the way. The lower part of the route will
resemble the lower part of any other pass, but ultimately somewhere in
the _neve_ region the traveller is led into a deeply embayed cirque.
The snow-field may and often does lie almost level at the foot of the
wall, perhaps above some final ice-fall which it has been difficult to
surmount. These high _neve_ basins that look so lake-like and restful in
the heart of the hills are always lovely. Imposing precipices rise
around them, and in fact feed them with showers of avalanches on active
days. But in fine summer weather the avalanches have all fallen. The
surrounding walls are like a defensive fortress, towering so high and
steeply, and excluding the world and all its vicissitudes and violences.
It is only a seeming, for nowhere, in fact, do storms eddy and surge
with more violence than in these theatres of the mountains. But seeming
is the very substance of beauty, and all the fine-weather aspect of
these places is suggestive of peace. The further you advance the more
completely are you enclosed. Sometimes a bend in the hollow may actually
so shut you in, that no glimpse of the lower regions is to be seen in
any direction. Such isolation is delightful for a while. Besides
yourselves there is no other trace to be found of the existence of the
human race, or of its ever having existed; you might be on the surface
of the moon and discover nothing more indifferent to mankind and their
motions. A few hours of sunshine will blot out every sign of your
passing. This entire cleanness and invulnerability is specially
delightful to men who have grown up in crowded cities, where, save
sometimes in the sky, the very reverse is the case, and nothing is
visible that does not imply the handiwork of man.
The final climb is like all wall-climbing, and commands no view
unless you can turn round; but so much the more does the last step tell,
the step that lifts your eyes above the crest and suddenly displays to
you the great vista on the other side. In peak-climbing, the views to
right and left rapidly develop and approach as you near the top; it is
only in the ascent of these wall-ended passes that the view is kept back
to the last, and then suddenly revealed. In the case of the Triftjoch,
as you climb to it from Zermatt, the result is even more than usually
impressive; for what bursts upon your vision, right opposite to you, on
the far side of a splendid and vast circle of snow-field, is the whole
pyramid of the Dent Blanche, from base to summit, with its finest side
turned towards you. For the view thus to burst upon the traveller with
overwhelming suddenness, the steepness of the wall of ascent must be
continued to the very top. If it rounds off for the last few feet, as
sometimes happens, the effect is spoiled. The Triftjoch view is one of
the best arranged, because the gap you pass through is so narrow, and
the distance is beheld as it were in a frame of rocks, which form a
foreground. Most saddles of the kind are wider. Then the view lacks
foreground and is no better than part of a mountain-top panorama. The
narrow gaps are the ones to look for. They can be found all over the
Alps, but not usually along the crest of the main ranges.
[Illustration: 46. THE DENT BLANCHE FROM THE RIFFELBERG. July 22, 1903.
The Dent Blanche and all the other peaks mostly engaged in powdering
their heads behind a curtain of cloud. The water in foreground is not a
lake, merely a pond of rain-water.]
There is, however, a great charm attached to many passes across minor
ridges. They enable an expedition to be made, out and back, from a
single centre, with variety of scenery all the way--up one side valley
and down another. The side valleys often deserve more attention than
they get. A climber's natural tendency is to go for the big
expeditions--the highest mountains and the greatest passes. It is worth
observing that the greater the scale on which mountains are built, the
more widely are the main features separated. Minor peaks and lower
ridges have their different members nearer together. Juxtaposition often
produces admirable results, and may educate the eye to look for effects
on a great scale which have once been observed in little. After all,
variety is the great thing,--variety and the emphasis that contrast
gives to beauty of different kinds. It is so easy to grow accustomed, so
easy to become dull to an effect that is constantly before the eyes. How
tired of ourselves, and one of another, we should become, if we were not
always growing older! In the mountains, if we would have our sense of
their beauty ever fresh, our appreciation of it ever keener and keener,
we should alter our point of view: exchanging great for small, arid
magnificence for fertile attractiveness, snow for rock, peak for pass,
alp for valley. We should beware of specialisation. Why climb only
aiguilles? Why scramble up nothing but rock-faces? There may be breadth
or narrowness even in our play. We are likely to manifest in life as a
whole the qualities that we show in sport. Why not make play react on
life?
A highway-pass penetrates a range by help of a corridor, a wall-pass
leads right over a cliff. These are the two most definitely marked types
of col. We might feel ourselves compelled to assign most cols to one
type or the other, if we allowed our freedom to be restrained by the
bondage of scientific definition. There is, however, a kind of pass
which I prefer to capture for a group by itself, though no descriptive
name for it occurs to me,--I mean passes like the Weissthor or the Col
du Geant, which are approached by regular snow highways on one side, and
fall very rapidly on the other. They and their like are always popular,
and there are many of them. Their chief general characteristic is the
contrast that must strike every one between the ascent and the descent,
on one side and on the other, and between the views in opposite
directions from the col. This side, you look down a glacier valley with
a broad white foreground limited by a mountain avenue, along which some
great glacier flows, winding away. That side, a cliff plunges from your
feet, and such foreground as there may be consists of the nearest
mountains before you. Thus the near view fixes your attention in one
direction, the remote distance in the other. One is essentially a view
among mountains, the other an outlook over the wide earth. One impresses
by its wildness, the other by its extent. You keep facing about, and,
each time you turn, the contrast of scenery enforces the charm of either
outlook.
Obviously the right way to enjoy such a pass to most advantage is to
ascend by the gentler slope and to go down the cliff. It is not the
easiest way for the climber, who is likely to prefer to mount the cliff
and descend the slope. The technically and aesthetically best are here at
variance. In ascending by the highway side the fine view is always
before you, but if you go up the cliff nothing faces you but a few acres
of snow and rock. On the contrary, when you descend the cliff, the
uninteresting outlook is at your back and the fine view in front all the
way.
The crest of some passes of this sort, notably of the Weissthor, is a
point of vantage for enfilading a great mountain face. Usually one looks
up or down such faces, or, being actually upon them, can only look a
short distance to right or left. But from the crest of a suitable pass
you may see the great curtain of ice and rocks edgewise, and the view
has an impressiveness of its own. Those who have seen Niagara, or any
wide waterfall of considerable height, will remember how fine it is to
stand and look along the edge of it. Fronting it, you obtain a sense of
its width; below it, you feel its force and volume; but in profile its
grace is its leading quality. So is it with a wide mountain-wall. It is
not enough to see it from below, or from over against. It must also be
looked along. Then its surface modelling, its outsets and insets, its
ribs and gullies, the meandering as well as the slope of its front
become apparent. Few great walls of this kind do not grandly curve
round. They are most impressive when that curvature is apparent. Once
thus beheld, a wall takes on a new meaning when seen again from some
more common standpoint. It no longer looks flat. Its bays and buttresses
become perceptible to the trained eye, which is thus better enabled to
appreciate the complexities of form and the true architecture of any
other mountain-wall afterwards encountered.
There remains but one more type of pass that appeals for special
mention before our space is exhausted. It is the Couloir Pass, a col led
up to by a narrow snow-or ice-filled gully. The Col du Mont Dolent and
the Col du Lion are the grandest examples of the type, which however is
not an uncommon one. For me these passes always possess singular charm.
They are really a subdivision of the wall-pass group, but they arouse
emotions altogether their own. Once in the couloir you are completely
isolated, almost as though perched in the air. A wall of rocks close at
hand shuts you in on either side. The steep slope rises in front.
Behind, you look straight away to some far distance with nothing to
interrupt the vision. So indeed you do from the face of a wall or cliff,
but the effect is greatly enhanced by your enclosure on either hand. The
contrast between those near rocks to left and right and the absolute
openness behind makes the steep drop of the slope appear much steeper
than it is. Perhaps you may be compelled to remain for hours in the
narrow gully. So much the more striking becomes the view revealed at the
top and the sudden sense of being in the open. It has been implied that
the couloir has to be ascended, for such is usually the choice, and
sometimes the only wise choice; but it is far more delightful to descend
one, with the view in front all the way and the valley bottom slowly
approaching. Never is the depth beneath better appreciated than under
such circumstances.
[Illustration: 47. THE VILLAGE OF SOLDIMO, AT THE ENTRANCE OF THE VAL
MAGGIA.]
I have thus far been referring to passes from the climber's point
of view, as leading from one mountain centre to another. Truly, however,
the whole of a pass is the route through a mountain region from plain to
plain. Few mountaineers nowadays ever cross a range in that way except
by train, and yet it is one of the most delightful experiences.
Motor-cars will enable us to enjoy such traverses by road, when the
Swiss have learnt the wisdom of granting free passage across the Alps to
any kind of vehicle. It is only when a range of mountains is approached
from the plain that its mass and geographical value as a dividing wall
can be felt. Arriving by train among mountains is a very different
thing, for you can see nothing from a train unless you are the
engine-driver--all revealing views being necessarily ahead. Afoot there
is usually some definite point, immediately perceptible, where you first
come in contact with the slope. You enter the mouth of a valley; the
hills reach forth their arms to embrace you, and you consciously enter a
new world. Beside you is now a riotous river on the one hand and a
steepening slope on the other. It is not long before you know that you
have begun to ascend. The flatness of the valley's mouth presently
changes into a gentle slope. At first the fertility of the plain
accompanies you into the hills, but the fields grow smaller, the
villages may be cramped for space and forced to adapt themselves to
difficult ground, attaining a new picturesqueness in the process. Thus
for long miles, hour after hour, and, in large mountain regions, day
after day, the character of the scenery slowly changes. The mountains
grow bigger; vegetation varies with level and aspect; Nature grows more
austere, and therewith more magnificent. You traverse some vast defile,
like the gorge of Gondo perhaps, where road and river find passage
beneath opposite cliffs, water-worn and of imposing height. You enter
secluded basins, where the valley widens to close again; you pass round
the margin of lakes that hold the hill-tops, as it were, in their
depths. And always the flanking heights grow greater, and their tops,
when visible, further and further away. Side valleys radiate, leading
around romantic corners to invisible fastnesses. The slope of the main
valley steepens again. You reach the foot of the forest region, the
snouts of glaciers begin to appear, and high aloft the snows look down
upon you. Now you traverse the last village and approach the foot of the
glacier that fills your valley's head. You mount beside it through the
tree-belt and out on to the grassy alp, then up that to the region of
broken rocks and stones, and so to the margin of the snow. It is only
the last stage of your traverse which now arrives, but that last stage
is the beginning and end of the mere climber's pass. To you it means
much more--it is the crest of the great range that you have been so long
penetrating to these its uttermost recesses. The final wall is before
you, the great white wall that looked so ethereal, so cloud-like, when
first beheld from afar. You toil up it, stand on the crest, and look
abroad over the world of mountains. Then down to the stones, to the
grass, to the trees, the high village, and the valley road. So onward
again by the roaring torrent, down the ever more fertile, more luxuriant
valley, till you come to the low hills and the wide flat stretches that
at last lead you out on to the plain once more.
[Illustration: 48. FLUeELEN AT END OF LAKE OF URI, SOUTH ARM OF LAKE OF
LUCERNE. The pyramid of the Bristenstock in the background. Foehn wind
blowing.]
A long traverse of that kind is a real pass, a whole pass; nothing else
is more than a fragment--a choice fragment it may be, but still a part
and not the whole. The old mountaineers, such as John Ball, used to take
their passes in this complete form. So did the old coach-travellers like
John Ruskin in his early days. Now mountaineers scorn to waste time on
so lengthy an experience and to remain for so long at low levels. It is
not their way. They have continual business aloft. They leave to
motorists that kind of expedition. What good-fortune, then, that
motor-cars should have been invented in time to provide such possible
delights for climbers when their days of activity are done.