Soon after leaving Ponte di Legno, the road, a rough cart-track, climbs a wooded hillside by the steepest possible zigzags. The air was hot and steamy, and dark clouds were creeping up Val Camonica. The mists soon enveloped us, all further view was lost, and the rain began to pour as it only can pour among the mountains. Thunder boomed away behind us like heavy artillery, each report followed by a sharp fire of musketry, as the echoes ran along the crags.
The top of the pass is a wide tract of pasture, in the absence of distant view more Scotch than Alpine. At last the road, which, to avoid a swamp, rises higher than the actual gap, began to descend, and tall black and yellow posts, crowned by two-headed eagles, announced the Austrian frontier. The country road of the Italian side suddenly came to an end, and a military highway, marked by a long line of granite curbstones, wound down before us. A deep hollow, the head of Val Vermiglio, presently opened at our feet, and the road, swerving to the left, approached the Tonale Hospice, a massive, modern, whitewashed house. Unfortunately for our comfort it was crowded with labourers, employed on the new fort which the Austrians were then erecting to protect themselves against their neighbours.
The kitchen fire lighted up a picturesque scene. Over the flames hung a huge caldron of polenta, into which two dark-haired girls dashed from time to time some new ingredient, while a hungry crowd of men, young and old, sat round, watching eagerly the progress of their supper. Room was made for us in the chimney-seats, where we steamed in our damp clothes until the crowd had been fed, and some one could find time to give us our meal of potatoes and butter. By the time this was over it was already late, and we were ready to distribute ourselves between the two spare beds which the house afforded, while François went off to join the workmen in the barn. The inmates retired into an inner room, and all was still by nine o'clock, save for the ceaseless patter of the rain. Before five next morning the women came out of their chamber, and from that time there was a constant flow of company backwards and forwards through our room. Seizing on propitious intervals, we dressed in spasms, and, seeing the weather still hopeless, made up our minds to set out at once for the nearest village in Val di Sole, where we might hope to obtain better fare and possibly some further information; for at the Hospice our endeavours to learn anything of the Presanella had again been fruitless. No one had ever heard of such a mountain. One fact alone was ascertained before leaving. The stream which waters Val di Sole has its highest source in a wild glen at the back of Monte Piscanno, named in the Lombard map Val Presena. This I had believed would lead us up to the Presanella, but through the glimpses of the storm no conspicuous snow-peak appeared in that direction, and it was plain we must look further for our mysterious mountain.
On a projecting knoll, about half way to Vermiglio,[41] stands an Austrian blockhouse, mounting seven guns. It is commanded by many neighbouring heights, but would be of use against a Garibaldian inroad. As we passed it a momentary break revealed a lofty snow-peak at the head of a glen opening immediately opposite.
There at last was the Presanella. A fir-forest clothed the lower slopes; higher up a large glacier spread out its icy skirts. The vision, though sufficient for our purpose, lasted only a few moments. In clear weather the view from this spot must be one of the most picturesque glimpses of a great snow-peak anywhere to be seen from a carriage-pass. Clinging still to the northern slopes of the valley, the road presently entered Pizzano. The first house was the Austrian douane; the second, the inn. We of course gave up our passports, but François, being unprovided, handed the officers his 'livre des voyageurs,' containing his certificate as guide.[42] The Austrian, with much show of sternness, pushed it away contemptuously, and delivered himself in this wise:—'You have no passport. You must go back to your country. At any rate you can enter no further into the Imperial and Royal dominions.' Here was a serious crisis. We felt our only chance was to temporise. 'Very well,' we replied, 'if you must refuse our servant permission to enter Austria, at least there can be no objection to his getting something to eat next door before he returns.' This concession the officers did not deny; and entering the inn we ordered breakfast, and prepared to wait for better weather. A scout was posted outside by the douaniers to prevent François from giving them the slip. In the meantime we of course again enquired after the Presanella, and, almost to our surprise, everyone in Pizzano was acquainted with the name. 'Oh, yes!' said our host, 'a German Herr Professor from Vienna tried the mountain a year or two ago, and found it quite impracticable. The final peak is like the stove in this room, and all ice.' 'Well,' said I, 'but the stove is easy,' and climbed to the top. Staggered by this argument, he offered to bring the man who had accompanied the Viennese Professor in his attempt. In due time a native made his appearance, who satisfied us that he really knew where the mountain was, and could lead us to its foot; which was all we wanted.
The name of our predecessor was at the time unknown to us, but I learnt afterwards[43] that he was Dr. von Ruthner, then the Vice-President of the Austrian Alpine Club. From the account given of his attempt it is clear that he followed the same route as ourselves; our Italian in fact led us in his footsteps, up to the saddle at the north-west base of the mountain. His failure to get further was entirely owing to his guides, who, unused to such expeditions, and appalled by the sight of a broken and somewhat steep snow-slope, refused to proceed. The Italian, as our experience proved, was a poor creature, his second guide, Kuenz, though, as we are told, renowned as a keen chamois and bear-hunter, declared to Dr. von Ruthner 'that he had once in his youth descended amongst the wild chasms of the glacier which pours steeply over into Val Cercen, and that he would never do it again,' This descent we subsequently found an admirable spot for a glissade!
Watching from our window the rain, which after a deceitful lull now fell again in torrents, we saw the scout, who was still on duty, in deep converse with a friend. In a few minutes the friend sauntered casually into our room, and enquired our plans with an air of indifference. I assured him that our intention was to climb the Presanella, without thinking it necessary to add—and find a way down the other side of it. His object thus satisfactorily attained, the man soon left us, and no doubt imparted the valuable information to his brother officials, for their demeanour suddenly changed, and one of them told us that they should not object to our guide's accompanying us to the Presanella. We of course expressed ourselves duly thankful for their small mercies, and in fact felt much relieved at this happy issue of a dilemma which might easily have become serious. Soon after three o'clock the clouds grew gradually lighter, the sun struggled through, and patches of blue broke the leaden monotony of the sky. No more watery storms swept down from the Tonale, but a steady northern breeze carried away the vapours, except one or two unfortunates which had sunk so deep into the valley that they could not find the way out again. We hurried our dinner, got together our provisions, and sent the porter to look for a rope—a necessary which we were too young in Alpine travel to have brought with us from England, according to the custom of experienced mountaineers. Vermiglio did not possess a cord more than thirty feet long; but after a good deal of delay some leather thongs were procured, and about 5 P.M. we finally got off, leaving the douaniers to look out at their leisure for our expected return.
Instead of remounting the Tonale road we kept by the side of the river for half-an-hour, until it was joined by the torrent from the lateral glen which we had passed in the morning. A well-made path led up a steep hillside covered with bilberries and Alpine strawberries, and turned some precipitous rocks by picturesque wooden galleries.
After passing a group of charcoal-burners' huts the ascent ceased, and winding round a wooded brow we entered a secluded basin shut in by steep ridges, where the stream rested for a while in its troubled course before plunging into the valley. Far above gleamed the object of our expedition—the long-talked-of, and at last almost-despaired-of Presanella, no longer shrouded in mist, but sharp cut against the darkening sky. It presented an apparently level wall, turreted at either end; the western tower was of rugged rock, the eastern more massive and snow-clad, rising in the centre to a sharp shining point, evidently the true 'cima' of the mountain.
A flock of Bergamasque sheep were huddled together in our way; disregarding the protests of the shaggy sheep-dog we forced a passage through them, and reached the hut—a rough shelter, half open on one side to the sky.