We were now again amongst trees, which clothed either bank and added to the beauty of the scenery. The descent was continuous, until a cluster of houses was reached, prettily placed among meadows, in which all the inhabitants were at work, profiting by the fine weather to gather in their hay-harvest. The only creatures left at home were families of white rabbits, which seem to live here on the footing of domestic pets. The elders sat lazily sunning themselves, while the young ones played high jinks without showing the least fear at our presence. The track now became passable for carts, and fearfully stony. From this point to the high-road we met a specimen of every kind of pavement invented for human torture in Italian valleys. First there was the 'pavé au naturel,' formed of native rock and those wandering stones which seem to grow out of the ground everywhere; next came a steep pitch of the 'pavé aux Alpes,' in which the stones are fixed side by side in wild disorder; then, worse than all, a long spell of round pebbles, such as are found at a third-rate watering-place which cannot afford even one flag down the middle of the footpath. Even the natives seemed to revolt against this precious medley, and frequent short-cuts and side-tracks showed how they avoided the work of their own hands. Presently the road swerved round the hillside to the right, and a lovely reach of Val Camonica opened before our eyes. Immediately in front, surrounded by a wood of chestnuts, was Sonico, and in the distance, built up a slope above the junction of Val Corteno with Val Camonica, rose the towers of Edolo, about one hour's walk distant.
The great shining tableland, lifted above all the lofty Lombard ridges, had fascinated my imagination. When another opportunity offered, I laid my plans so as to combine an ascent of its second summit, the Carè Alto, with a passage across its greatest breadth. At first sight on the map this might seem a bold, even an impossible, attempt, for it involved the crossing of no less than five lofty ridges, varying between 9,800 and 10,000 feet in height. But a study of the levels showed that owing to the uniform upheaval of the mass there would be no descent of more than 200 or 300 feet in the ten miles between the first and last. Still we thought it well to sleep in the highest châlet on this side the snows.
On a glorious August afternoon we drove down the high-road from Pinzolo to Borzago, whence a mountain-path leads into the glen to which the village has given its name.
At the top of the first ascent a very happily-balanced view opens. The valley slopes are feathered with light foliage. High above them shine the white folds of glacier, while the Carè Alto, half rock half a glittering ice-comb, is the centre of the landscape. Deeper in the glen, beyond the pine trees and the hay barns, great birches hang over the path which splits into branches in the forest. Here we lost ourselves, and plunged for several minutes amidst broken rocks and dense underwood, tearing our hands and clothes, but filling our mouths with delicious raspberries. On a slope below the cliffs which close the valley stand two summer cottages where we had hoped to sleep. An old woman and her son were cooking their polenta, but no herds were in sight. The old woman seemed only anxious to be rid of the unexpected invaders—she had no milk, no hay to sleep on, absolutely 'niente.' The herd was higher on the mountain, but it was too late for us to reach them—we had better go back. An hour's daylight remained, and we bribed, not without difficulty, the boy to leave his porridge and lead us at once to the herds. We followed him at a swinging cowboy pace up steep hillsides, over rocks, and between waterfalls. But darkness fell and still no friendly tinkle reached our ears. Hurrying on over broken but more level ground, we saw at last something whiter than Adamello granite at our feet. We were among a flock of Bergamasque sheep. A minute later we plunged into unseen filth, and were brought up short before an enormous boulder. The boy's cheerful statement of 'Ecco la malga' was at first simply incredible. A rock, experience affirmed, could not be a 'malga.' But the boy was right. His shrill shout was sleepily answered from the bowels of the earth, and from a hole under the boulder human forms were dimly seen to issue. For the next few minutes a shower of patois filled the air, amidst which we penetrated a low door and found ourselves in a cave constructed by building a wall of stones against the lower side of the boulder where it overhung. A dying fire threw a feeble light over a crowd of pails and cheeses which filled every foot of available space. One of us sat down on a cheese, another found a cover which converted a milk-pail into a seat. The low slanting roof rendered the least movement difficult and perilous. In the furthest corner where the rock left no space except for a prostrate figure was a bed of hay and skins, fully filled by three shepherds and a girl.
The smallness of the accommodation was made more conspicuous by the disproportion between it and the voices which issued from the shepherds as they moved about to help us in our arrangements. Within a few inches of our ears they bellowed every remark in a Homeric roar, which might without exaggeration have been heard half a mile off. Long habit in shouting to their flocks on a distant hillside, or carrying on conversations across a valley, had so taken hold of them that they seemed quite incapable of reducing their voices to the ordinary pitch of regions where population is less thinly scattered.
Our night did not promise to be luxurious. After a frugal supper on bread and chocolate, we made our bed as well as we could. The shelter being far above the forest, logs were not easily procurable, and the shepherds had consequently collected as fuel a heap of slender brushwood. Having piled away some of the pails and cheeses we spread the green branches out on the floor as a mattress. A macintosh served for a sheet, and our entertainers supplied a rug for our feet. The couch was at least not painfully uncomfortable; and though each of us felt sure in the morning that he had not slept, no one had found the night interminable except poor François, who insisted on sitting and smoking over the fire, and was consequently only half awake all the next day.
At daybreak we issued into the open air. We found ourselves in the wild hollow at the eastern base of the Carè Alto, separated from the great Borzago Glacier by a rocky spur. Mounting first towards and then along this ridge, we quickly approached the mountain. Had we remained on the rocks, and then boldly struck up the eastern face, we should, I believe, quickly have settled with our peak. But François did not favour this plan; moreover, our further intentions gave a motive for carrying our baggage to the side of the peak to which it would be most convenient to descend.
We consequently slid down several hundred feet on to the great glacier, and made a flank march towards the much higher northern base of the Carè Alto. This operation caused some delay. The snow, where it curled over from the highest plain, broke into huge chasms. There was, it was true, always an easy way round each of them; but the ways round seldom coincided, and for some time our ascent was conducted in a very crab-like fashion.
Above these obstacles an easy slope led to the mountain, on this side a cocked-hat of ice sharply cut off from the snow-fields by a continuous moat, bridged only at one spot near the southern corner of the peak. Tracks across the snow-arch showed that feet guided by true mountaineering instinct had lately crossed. On approach they turned out to be a broad chamois-trail. The herd which had made them we saw later in the day.
A little step-cutting enabled us to follow our four-footed guides and reach the rocky ridge. As we gained it, our eyes, accustomed for the last hour or two to the white glare of sun-facing snows, suddenly fell on a wide basin of pure green, seemingly at our feet. We were looking on the pasturages of Val di Fum. Some such glimpse, aided by a few clouds to confuse topography, may well have given rise to the legend of the Lost Valley of Monte Rosa, or the Rose Garden of King Laurin.