Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860-69

by Edward Whymper

When we arrived at these moraines we had a choice of two routes—one continuing to the east over the moraines themselves, the débris above them, and a large snow-bed still higher up, to a kind of col or depression to the south of the peak, from whence an easy ridge led toward the summit; the other, over a shrunken glacier on our north-east (now, perhaps, not in existence), which led to a well-marked col on the north of the peak, from whence a less easy ridge rose directly to the highest point. We followed the first named of these routes, and in a little more than half an hour stood upon the col, which commanded a most glorious view of the southern side of Monte Rosa, and of the ranges to its east and to the east of the Val d’Ayas.

Whilst we were resting at this point a large party of vagrant chamois arrived on the summit of the mountain from the northern side, some of whom, by their statuesque position, seemed to appreciate the grand panorama by which they were surrounded, while others amused themselves, like two-legged tourists, in rolling stones over the cliffs. The clatter of these falling fragments made us look up. The chamois were so numerous that we could not count them, clustered around the summit, totally unaware of our presence; and they scattered in a panic, as if a shell had burst amongst them, when saluted by the cries of my excited comrade, plunging wildly down in several directions, with unfaltering and unerring bounds, with such speed and with such grace that we were filled with admiration and respect for their mountaineering abilities. The ridge that led from the col toward the summit was singularly easy, although well broken up by frost, and Carrel thought that it would not be difficult to arrange a path for mules out of the shattered blocks; but when we arrived on the summit we found ourselves separated from the very highest point by a cleft which had been concealed up to that time: its southern side was nearly perpendicular, but it was only fourteen or fifteen feet deep. Carrel lowered me down, and afterward descended on to the head of my axe, and subsequently on to my shoulders, with a cleverness which was almost as far removed from my awkwardness as his own efforts were from those of the chamois. A few easy steps then placed us on the highest point. It had not been ascended before, and we commemorated the event by building a huge cairn, which was seen for many a mile, and would have lasted for many a year had it not been thrown down by the orders of Canon Carrel, on account of its interrupting the sweep of a camera which he took to the lower summit in 1868 in order to photograph the panorama. According to that well-known mountaineer, the summit of the Grand Tournalin is 6100 feet above the village of Val Tournanche, and 11,155 feet above the sea. Its ascent (including halts) occupied us only four hours. I recommend the ascent of the Tournalin to any person who has a day to spare in the Val Tournanche. It should be remembered, however (if its ascent is made for the sake of the view), that these southern Pennine Alps seldom remain unclouded after mid-day, and indeed frequently not later than ten or eleven A. M. Toward sunset the equilibrium of the atmosphere is restored, and the clouds very commonly disappear.

CARREL LOWERED ME DOWN.

I advise the ascent of this mountain, not on account of its height or from its accessibility or inacessibility, but simply for the wide and splendid view which may be seen from its summit. Its position is superb, and the list of the peaks which can be seen from it includes almost the whole of the principal mountains of the Cottian, Dauphine, Graian, Pennine and Oberland groups. The view has, in the highest perfection, those elements of picturesqueness which are wanting in the purely panoramic views of higher summits. There are three principal sections, each with a central or dominating point, to which the eye is naturally drawn. All three alike are pictures in themselves, yet all are dissimilar. In the south, softened by the vapors of the Val d’Aoste, extends the long line of the Graians, with mountain after mountain twelve thousand five hundred feet and upward in height. It is not upon these, noble as some of them are, that the eye will rest, but upon the Viso, far off in the background. In the west and toward the north the range of Mont Blanc and some of the greatest of the Central Pennine Alps (including the Grand Combin and the Dent Blanche) form the background, but they are overpowered by the grandeur of the ridges which culminate in the Matterhorn. Nor in the east and north, where pleasant grassy slopes lead downward to the Val d’Ayas, nor upon the glaciers and snow-fields above them, nor upon the Oberland in the background, will the eye long linger, when immediately in front, several miles away, but seeming close at hand, thrown out by the pure azure sky, there are the glittering crests of Monte Rosa.

Those who would, but cannot, stand upon the highest Alps may console themselves with the knowledge that they do not usually yield the views that make the strongest and most permanent impressions. Marvelous some of the panoramas seen from the greatest peaks undoubtedly are, but they are necessarily without those isolated and central points which are so valuable pictorially, The eye roams over a multitude of objects (each perhaps grand individually), and, distracted by an embarrassment of riches, wanders from one to another, erasing by the contemplation of the next the effect that was produced by the last; and when those happy moments are over, which always fly with too great rapidity, the summit is left with an impression that is seldom durable because it is usually vague.

No views create such lasting impressions as those which are seen but for a moment when a veil of mist is rent in twain and a single spire or dome is disclosed. The peaks which are seen at these moments are not perhaps the greatest or the noblest, but the recollection of them outlives the memory of any panoramic view, because the picture, photographed by the eye, has time to dry, instead of being blurred while yet wet by contact with other impressions. The reverse is the case with the bird’s-eye panoramic views from the great peaks, which sometimes embrace a hundred miles in nearly every direction. The eye is confounded by the crowd of details, and unable to distinguish the relative importance of the objects which are seen. It is almost as difficult to form a just estimate (with the eye) of the respective heights of a number of peaks from a very high summit as it is from the bottom of a valley. I think that the grandest and most satisfactory stand-points for viewing mountain scenery are those which are sufficiently elevated to give a feeling of depth as well as of height—which are lofty enough to exhibit wide and varied views, but not so high as to sink everything to the level of the spectator. The view from the Grand Tournalin is a favorable example of this class of panoramic views.

We descended from the summit by the northern route, and found it tolerably stiff clambering as far as the col, but thence, down the glacier, the way was straightforward, and we joined the route taken on the ascent at the foot of the ridge leading toward the east. In the evening we returned to Breuil.

There is an abrupt rise in the valley about two miles to the north of the village of Val Tournanche, and just above this step the torrent has eaten its way into its bed and formed an extraordinary chasm, which has long been known by the name Gouffre des Busserailles. We lingered about this spot to listen to the thunder of the concealed water, and to watch its tumultuous boiling as it issued from the gloomy cleft, but our efforts to peer into the mysteries of the place were baffled. In November, 1865, the intrepid Carrel induced two trusty comrades—the Maquignazes of Val Tournanche—to lower him by a rope into the chasm and over the cataract. The feat required iron nerves and muscles and sinews of no ordinary kind, and its performance alone stamps Carrel as a man of dauntless courage. One of the Maquignazes subsequently descended in the same way, and these two men were so astonished at what they saw that they forthwith set to work with hammer and chisel to make a way into this romantic gulf. In a few days they constructed a rough but convenient plank gallery into the centre of the gouffre, along its walls, and on payment of a toll of half a franc any one can now enter the Gouffre des Busserailles.