The scenery we were entering was at once strange and exciting. The common features of Alpine landscapes were changed; as if by some sudden enchantment we found ourselves amongst richer forests, purer streams, more fantastic crags.
The rocks which pierced the sky seemed solid, yet how could limestone take the form and subtle colours of flame? We could see ice overhead, yet how could the stream which sparkled at our side between mossy banks be a glacier child, or any relation to the noisy and muddy Swiss torrent? Later in the day we learnt the secret of its purity; the water as it creeps from the ice is filtered underground until it is fit company for the delicate trees and flowers which it soon joins.
Where a barrier of rock completely closed the glen we began to climb the southern hillside, zigzagging steeply amidst wet mossy crags and the tangled branches of a wood of creeping pines. The path suddenly reached the rim of an upper platform lying in the centre of the great peaks. Hitherto we had been wandering amidst woods and over broken ground, whence no general view could be gained. But the lawn on which we now lay was in the very heart of things. Full opposite to us rose a colossal rock, one of the most prodigious monuments of Nature's forces. Its lower portion rose in diminishing stories like the Tower of Babel of old Bible pictures. Above it was a perfect precipice, an upright block, the top of which was 4,000 to 4,500 feet above our heads. Behind this gigantic keep a vast mountain fortress stretched out its long lines of turrets and bastions. But as we approached its base the great tower rose alone and unsupported, and the boldness of its outline became almost incredible. It fairly challenges comparison with the Matterhorn from the Hörnli, or the Cimon della Pala from above Paneveggio; and it combines to a great extent the noble solidity of the Swiss peak with the peculiar upright structure which gives dolomite its strange resemblance to human architecture.
But if the central object of the picture was enough to keep our attention fixed in growing astonishment, there was much else which called for notice. On our left was a second massive rock castle, the Cima di Brenta, connected with the Cima Tosa by the Fulmini di Brenta, a long line of flame-like pinnacles of the strangest shapes, some of them seeming to bulge near the top like a Russian steeple. Before us, between one of the loftiest of these spires and the Cima Tosa, lay a deep snowy gap which I pointed out as the Bocca di Brenta. Our peasant guide at once corrected me; he declared that the only passage to Molveno was to be found at the head of a long glacier ribbon crumpled up amongst the cliffs of the Tosa. As he professed to have stood on the summit and looked down the other side, we were unwillingly forced to believe him.
A very steep goat-track led us through rhododendron bushes to the level of the glacier, from which no visible stream came forth. After traversing a huge and unusually crumbling moraine, we entered upon the ice which, though steep, was little crevassed. The rock scenery was now most extraordinary. On either hand a line of ramparts rose sheer out of the glacier in precipices of mingled murky red and ashy-tinted grey; behind us lay the massive block of the Cima di Brenta, its precipices relieved by slender snow-streaks. In the distance was the Orteler group, with ominous clouds hanging about its summits. As we penetrated further the valley of ice rose in long steep steps before us. Overcoming these by the occasional use of the axe we reached a recess, the reservoir of the winter snows, at the back of the great tower of the Cima Tosa. On the right was a well-marked gap, which the guide pointed out as the Bocca. We were soon standing on it; at the same moment a pair of horns appeared on the opposite side, and we found ourselves face to face with a chamois. For some seconds we stared at the animal, and it at us, in mutual surprise. The moment some one spoke the chamois started off over the snow-field, and when we shouted after it took to the almost perpendicular rocks of the Cima Pra dei Camozzi, halting occasionally for a moment at François' whistle.
A considerable ice-field now lay before us, apparently slanting away to the west, in the direction of Pinzolo. The porter nevertheless insisted that we were on the true pass; but I soon saw that instead of having crossed the real backbone of the range we were only on one of its ribs, a secondary ridge which joins the Cima Tosa with the peak marked in the Austrian Ordnance Survey as the Cima Pra dei Camozzi. What was to be done? We were in the centre of a wilderness, clouds were rapidly sweeping up from behind, and we had fairly lost our way. The glacier before us must come down from the main ridge. Would this afford a passage? We determined to try, the porter following in sullen silence. After climbing a hard-frozen bank we reached the crest and looked down on a sea of mist. As we stood there the clouds enveloped us and snow began to fall heavily. Sheltering in a niche among the rocks on the eastern side of the ridge we turned to that universal resource under difficulties, the provision-sack, while François explored the cliffs below. Our guide soon returned with a face portending failure. After descending about 100 feet, he had reached an absolute precipice, so lofty that no noise announced the fall of the stones he rolled over its edge. The shouts of herdsmen rose tantalisingly out of the depths below, coming, no doubt, from the highest alp in Val d'Ambies, a lateral glen which falls into the Sarca valley near the Baths of Comano.
What was to be done? We were, like Bunyan's pilgrims in the Enchanted Ground, amidst the ruins of Castle Doubting, with no clue to guide us out of the wilderness. My companions appreciated the position and played their parts accordingly,—one, as Giant Despair, sallying on us with frightful prognostications of a night in the snow, while another, as Hopeful, maintained that we should still sleep at Molveno. Finally we determined to follow wherever the glacier led us.
The porter, the source of all our misfortunes, had been discovered to be profiting by our discussion to pocket a large share of our already small stock of provisions. He had been engaged only as far as the Bocca, and as he still insisted that we were on it we took him at his word and dismissed him on the spot.
Slithering somehow down the ice-slope we tramped on through mists until in half-an-hour we reached a moraine which we followed for some distance. Then we took shelter for some time in a cuplike hollow amongst the rocks, in hopes that a partial lifting of the snow-veil might show us something more of the face of the country around. But, far from amending, the storm only grew thicker.
We had barely advanced a hundred yards from the hospitable cranny when François, who was leading, came to a sudden halt. We were standing, so far as we could see, on the brow of a precipice. Nothing was visible below but one mass of mist, dense with snow-flakes; around us whirled the seething clouds, which had already draped the crags in wintry mantles. A more dismal scene I never wish to look upon; we realised the terrors of the Alps in a spring 'tourmente,' when an icy wind is added to the snow and mists. A momentary break revealed a shelf some fifty feet below us. By making a slight circuit a practicable course was found, and we let ourselves from ledge to ledge of a face of rocks, made slippery by the melting snow. Thus we worked slowly downwards, now stumbling over broken boulders, now clambering down ledges by the help of hands and feet. Occasionally we were brought to a standstill; but François' 'Allez seulement' was soon heard, the signal for further progress. A friendly cleft came to our aid, and when forced to leave it we were again in the region of creeping pines. Using their gnarled branches to swing ourselves down by, we finally reached a faint track, which bore to the right across a rough slope of scree, and then descended into a marshy basin. This must have been the head of Val d'Agola, recommended as an excursion from Pinzolo by Mr. Ball.