A TYROLESE PORTER—THE BEDOLE ALP—THE ADAMELLO—VAL MILLER—VAL DI MALGA—VAL DI BORZAGO—THE CARÈ ALTO—A HIGH-LEVEL ROUTE—PASSO DI MANDRON—VAL D'AVIO.
A year after the ascent of the Presanella I again found myself at the head of Val di Genova, one of a formidable party of seven, including two Swiss guides and a Tyrolese porter. Gutmann was something of a character. A native of Berchtesgaden, in the Bavarian Tyrol, he had been picked up there a year before by Mr. Tuckett, and carried on through the northern valleys of the Venetian Alps. He had then proved an amusing and good-tempered companion, and was in consequence engaged a second time to take the place of the chance peasant whom one picks up to carry a knapsack—an individual whose obstinate prejudice against ropes, and glaciers, and snow-work generally, is, or used to be, a source of difficulty in out-of-the-way parts of the Alps.
Gutmann was a well-grown, fine-looking young man of twenty-five, and became well his national costume, which he always wore. In his short coat and knee-breeches, with his half-bare legs and tall green hat and feather, he might have stepped at once on to any operatic stage. From his watch-chain hung a bundle of silver-mounted charms; true hunter's trophies—teeth of chamois and marmot, and claws of the 'lammergeier.' He was a great dandy, and amongst the other unexpected articles which tumbled out of the large blue bag slung across his back was a brush for his whiskers and a shaving-glass. Naturally the effect on his complexion of the first snow-day quite horrified our Adonis. On the next occasion he came down in the morning with his face completely plastered over with a mixture of soot and tallow, when his appearance, if no longer 'a thing of beauty,' became a 'joy for ever' to the guides, whose talent for small jokes found abundant scope for exercise at the porter's expense.
But in the evening and after a good wash in a wayside fountain, Gutmann had his revenge. Then he was to be seen in the Gaststube, the centre of an admiring crowd, fresh and blooming enough to win the heart of the coyest Phillis—a kind of conquest on which I fear he set far greater store than on the victories over snowy maidens won during the day. The tales of his prowess which at such moments he was heard to recount gave us frequent amusement. For though below the snow-line an active walker, above it Gutmann became a changed man. Once on ice, the quips and cranks with which he usually overflowed gave place to the most dismal of groans. He walked daintily, like a cat afraid of wetting its feet, at slippery corners detained us twice as long as anybody else, and when the top was gained habitually lay down at once and fell asleep.
At home our companion was by profession a poacher—a precarious means of livelihood in a district where the mountains are strictly preserved for Bavarian royalty, and the keepers fire on any man seen carrying a gun. A month before he joined us his brother had had a piece of one of his calves shot away, and he had himself been slightly wounded on more than one occasion. During the past winter he had found for a few months a less hazardous employment in cutting wood near one of the Bavarian lakes, but had gone back in spring to the old and irresistible pursuit, from which he was only called away by our summons. He did not, however, return to it—at any rate for long; before the next summer he had emigrated to America, probably with the money gained in our service, a larger sum than he had ever before had at his disposal.
The position of the Bedole Alp as it is seen in descending from the Presanella has been described in the last chapter. Beyond the final bend in Val di Genova lies a level plain enclosed by sheer granite cliffs. I know few spots so completely secluded from the outer world. Dreaming away the afternoon hours on a pine-clad knoll among the outskirts of the Venezia forest, which stretches[46] for a mile to the foot of the great glaciers, a wanderer easily fancies himself in one of the lost valleys of legend where the people live in a bygone age, where pastoral life is a reality, and the nineteenth century a yet undreamt dream.
The herdsmen were hospitably inclined, but the accommodation they had to offer was of the roughest. By means of a ladder we scaled our bedroom, a platform of hay so narrow that the slightest roll would have ended in a tumble on to the heap of pails twelve feet below. The time has scarcely yet come for a small mountain-inn on this spot to be rendered profitable, but it would be a step in the right direction and a great boon to travellers if the Trentine Alpine Club would incite or assist the herdsmen to build a 'spare' châlet and furnish it with beds and cooking materials. Romantic in its situation, the Bedole Alp is also the true centre of the district. From it active travellers might ascend in the day the Adamello, Presanella, or Carè Alto, or cross by glacier passes into Val di Fum or Val Saviore, to Edolo by the Val di Malga, to Ponte di Legno, or to the Val di Sole.
A perfect morning relieved our spirits from the otherwise depressing influence of climbing a rough track in the dark.
The head of Val di Genova is almost too perfect a 'cul de sac' for the mountaineer who wants to get higher. Some way up or by the side of the icefall of the Lobbia Glacier is yet to be found, but is probably possible. The upper regions of the Mandron Glacier, the Adamello, and all the passes to Val Camonica are, except in one place, completely cut off by the continuous cliffs which hem in the valley.