THE DOLOMITES
The Dolomites occupy the south-eastern corner of the Tyrol. They are
partly in Austria and partly in Italy, and may be concisely described
as bounded by the cities of Brixen, Trient, Belluno, and Lienz as four
corners of a rectangle. The ground lying between these towns is for the
most part the country of the Dolomites, or at any rate is dominated by
them. The best known and highest mountain, the Marmolata, rises almost
in the centre. The valleys in this remarkable region run generally
from north-east to south-west; one great valley beginning near Trient
extends for nearly eighty miles, and forms the bed of the river Avisio;
this valley is one of the usual approaches to the mountains. Another is
from Belluno, and then there is the valley of Ampezzo, passing Cortina,
which is a very favourite route; these three valleys are like main
clefts or divisions, giving comparatively easy access to the knots of
mountainous country. The name dolomite, as applied to the particular
formation of these curious rocks composed of carbonate of lime and
magnesia, was derived from that of the French geologist, Dolomieu, who
was born at the town of that name at Isère in France, and was known by
it instead of his own, De Gratet. He first “discovered” this stone,
and the name, which, perhaps from association, sounds so appropriate,
has become closely associated with this region where the rocks of this
formation spring up in greater masses than elsewhere.
When we come to describe the scenery of the Dolomites it is difficult
to do it justice. Chief among the weird attractions of these amazing
freaks of nature is the curious red colouring which is seen when the
sunset lights the high peaks and the valleys lie in blue-grey shadow.
Many and many an artist has been fascinated and enthralled by the
difficulty of putting this extraordinary light on his paper or canvas,
and more than one has given up the task in despair. The peaks look like
nothing on earth so much as red-hot glowing masses of iron fresh from
the forge and casting out a rose-red glow. Yet the rocks themselves
are not red, far from it, their usual colour is a grey or deep indigo;
it is only here and there they are stained with patches of umber and
madder, and only in the light of sunrise or sunset that they assume
that amazing glowing red like burning iron.
Their serrated peaks are of a variety indescribable and have been
compared with alligators’ teeth, while the huge isolated pinnacles or
needles of rock, split off, have tempted climbers to vain feats.
[Illustration: KING LAURIN’S ROSE GARDEN, FROM THE SCHLERN]
The first Englishmen to penetrate this region in a holiday spirit
were Josiah Gilbert and G. C. Churchill, who wrote a book called _The
Dolomite Mountains_. They went for the first time in 1856, returning
again and again in subsequent years, long before holiday-makers
or tourists had ever thought of so doing. These adventurous souls
approached the region at first from the Danube by way of Carinthia
and were accompanied by their no less adventurous wives, and, as they
remark, “we were deprived of the abundant aids which surround the
traveller in Switzerland, and other frequented routes, in the shape of
guides, horses, side-saddles, etc., ... moreover our stock of German
at that time was very limited.” Mules for the ladies, with springless
carts as an alternative occasionally, were the means of conveyance;
sometimes goats’ milk cheese and bread with coffee were the only food
after a tremendous day’s climb; yet these things were taken lightly as
all in the day’s work. And that the age had its compensations none can
doubt, for when the party arrived in the Tyrol we read:
Tyrol is a pleasant country for its roadside inns; spacious,
cool, and clean, they welcome the traveller with old-fashioned
hospitality. On the large upper landing on which the bedrooms
open they usually spread your table, if you are “quality.”
Flowers in pots adorn the wooden balconies, and the landlord’s
daughter will present you with pretty bouquets when you leave,
a finishing touch to the little bill, which is hardly a bill
at all in any sense; it is chalked on the table in items so
small as to convince you these people possess every virtue
under heaven; the best bedrooms even at unlikely places are as
comfortable as need be--beautifully kept, and without any of
that frowzy look so common in an English inn. The furniture is
often walnut-wood; neatly-framed prints are on the walls, and
crimson coverlets on the beds. But the Tyrolese country inn,
in its charming and kindly simplicity, will probably not long
survive.
A few of these inns do indeed still exist but they are far in the
recesses of the country, and on the beaten track have been replaced by
“hotels” of the usual type in every district.
On this the first journey the travellers did not really make
acquaintance with the Dolomites, they only saw them from afar; the
first group they saw in the distance, “needle-pointed, pale and
altogether weird-looking, soaring into the evening sky,” bewitched the
party, and they never rested till they came again and yet again at
intervals of years and grew to know them familiarly.
Returning alone in 1860, Mr. Churchill was able to penetrate the very
heart of the district, approaching from the Botzen side. He gives a
word-picture of the famous Marmolata peak as he first saw it:
This mountain--which might be compared in general form to one
of those mahogany cases for stationery which are to be found in
most counting-houses of the present day--has its slope, a very
steep one, to the north. To the south, east, and west it is
perfectly precipitous and presents nothing but walls of bare
rock. Glaciers cover the greater part of the slope, and their
melting supplies the springs of the Avisio which takes its rise
immediately below them; ... its height, variously estimated,
but which may be taken at 11,200 feet, raises it far above its
loftiest neighbours. It stands in a line of ridge that runs
from north to south through the western Dolomite district and
marks the point where the divergent valleys of the Avisio and
Cordevole originate.
[Illustration: MARMOLATA, FROM VERY HIGH ABOVE CANAZEI]
Seeing it from the other side later he adds:
From this side the Marmolata presents the most striking
contrast to the smooth glacier and rock-slopes and bosses which
are seen on its northern aspect. Not a particle of slope except
the profile of the flattish snowy dome is visible; all else is
sheer precipice, presented cornerwise to the eye, while its
jagged edges retreat foreshortened to the north-west and east
till lost to view.
Another of the most famous peaks, the Rosengarten, thus struck him:
Imagine a gigantic amphitheatre of jagged cleft precipices,
shooting 3000 feet above the spectator, out of a depth far
below him, and reaching, in the Rothewand Spitze, to the
height of 10,200 feet above the sea. Let the arms of this
amphitheatre stretch forward so as to embrace nearly one-half
of his horizon, shutting him up to the one view of a stern
desolate barren face, that presents itself on all sides. Let
successive masses of débris descend from the base of this long
line of precipices through the whole sweep of its circuit, and
threaten to occupy the entire basin below, while still leaving
a small patch of bright green pasture on which a dark spot is
identified as a châlet.
The Rosengarten is a much more typical Dolomite, with its jagged needle
points, than Marmolata with its flatter masses. “The most prominent
impression left on the mind by these Seisser Alp Dolomites was that of
complete separateness and isolation, not only in relation to each other
but to the green slopes on the summits of which they are placed.”
Among the very early travellers to this part was Miss Amelia B.
Edwards, the authoress, who, in 1872, with a woman friend actually had
the temerity to leave behind Switzerland with its luxurious hotels and
“travel made easy” and penetrate into the wild and unknown regions of
the Dolomites, greatly to the disgust of their comfortable well-fed
courier. Writing in the following year she says:
Even now the general public is so slightly informed upon the
subject that it is by no means uncommon to find educated
persons who have never heard of the Dolomites at all, or who
take them for a religious sect, like the Mormons or the Druses.
Such a reproach could hardly be levelled at any one now. The
difficulties encountered by Miss Edwards and her friend may be
concisely summed up in the remark that there were only two side-saddles
at that time in the whole country, and of these only one was for
hire. It was necessary, therefore, for the ladies to bring their own.
Sometimes for days together the friends travelled without meeting a
single stranger to the country either at the inns or on the roads, and
they met only three parties of English during the whole time between
entering the country on the Conegliano side and leaving it by Botzen.
And, even now, over forty years after, the solitary places of the Tyrol
are unspoiled by a crowd of tourists, though fully appreciated by many
a nature-lover.
One of the most remarkable rocks that Miss Edwards saw was the Sasso di
Ronch, which attracts annually hundreds of visitors. This extraordinary
isolated peak stands
... apart and alone, like a solitary remnant of outer
battlement left standing beside a razed fortress; it rises to a
height of at least 250 feet above the grass at its base. Seen
thus in profile, it is difficult to believe that it is the same
Sasso di Ronch which one has been looking at from below. It
looks like a mere aiguille or spire, disproportionately slender
for its height, and curved at the top as if just ready to pitch
over. Some one has compared the Matterhorn to the head and
neck of a war-horse rearing up behind the valley of Zermatt;
so might the Sasso di Ronch from this point be compared to the
head and neck of a giraffe. Standing upon its knife-edge of
ridge--all precipice below, all sky above, the horizon one long
sweep of jagged peaks--it makes as wild and weird a subject as
ever I sat down to sketch before or since. (_A Midsummer Ramble
in the Dolomites_, Amelia B. Edwards.)
The wild confusion of some parts of the Dolomites, their rent and
torn spires, cannot be attributed to volcanic origin, for limestone
is not volcanic; the greater part of the gigantic carving must have
been done by the slow agencies of wind and weather and rain working on
silently through age after age, and in some cases by earthquakes, which
have overthrown the precariously-balanced needles and solid blocks of
stone. One curious peak, which, though attaining to no great height
(9833 feet) is well known owing to its odd form, is the Drei Zinnen or
Three Peaks, rising like three pointing fingers of a giant hand. Miss
Edwards’ description can hardly be improved upon. She says:
As for the Drei Zinnen, they surpass in boldness and weirdness
all the Dolomites of the Ampezzo. Seen through an opening
between two wooded hills, they rise abruptly from behind the
intervening plateau of Monte Piana, as if thrust up from the
centre of the earth, like a pair of tusks. No mere description
can convey, to even the most apprehensive reader, any correct
impression of their outline, their look of intense energy,
of upwardness, of bristling irresistible force. Two barren
isolated obelisks of pale sulphurous orange-streaked limestone,
all shivered into keen scimitar-blades and shark-like teeth
toward the summit, they almost defy the pencil and quite defy
the pen.
[Illustration: THE DREI ZINNEN, FROM THE HIGHEST RIDGE]
Those who have spent an exhilarating holiday among these enchanting
hills will know the freshness of the pure air, the stillness of the
vast solitudes--home of the eagle and chamois--also the comfort of the
rude huts provided by the Alpine Club, where one may shelter and find
warmth and food, paying as he deems right; they will remember days
spent on the glittering glaciers with their treacherous slopes, in
view of the ever-changing ever-new outlines of the tempestuous peaks in
their grotesque formations. No place on earth will ever draw them back
as does the Dolomites, no other can evoke quite the same sensations as
when they gaze on those startling contours or catch their breath to see
the fiery glow rising over a foreground of blue-black firs.
One of the most important of the later improvements is the
Dolomitenstrasse of which the last part was opened in 1909. It leads
through beautiful mountain scenery and over three passes from Botzen to
Cortina, and thence from Cortina to Falzarego. From Botzen it follows
the Brenner road to Kardaun, and then turns into the magnificent gorge
of the Eggental which separates the Latemar group from the Rosengarten
group. This is now one of the most frequented parts of the Dolomites,
with the beautiful blue-green lake of Karer, over which the Latemar
towers with its slender peaks. The road ascends over the green Alps of
the Karer Pass. There are large hotels in all these places now, and
the Tyrolean red wine, at about twopence for a half-pint, is served in
them, also home-brewed beer as well as the familiar Munich or Pilsener.