When we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse we were rather despondent about our prospects of crossing the Brèche, which seemed to present a combination of all that was formidable. There was evidently but one way by which it could be approached. We saw that at the top of the pass there was a steep wall of snow or ice (so steep that it was most likely ice), protected at its base by a big schrund or moat, which severed it from the snow-fields below. Then (tracking our course downward) we saw undulating snow-fields leading down to a great glacier. The snow-fields would be easy work, but the glacier was riven and broken in every direction, huge crevasses seemed to extend entirely across it in some places, and everywhere it had that strange twisted look which tells of the unequal motion of the ice. Where could we get on to it? At its base it came to a violent end, being cut short by a cliff, over which it poured periodical avalanches, as we saw by a great triangular bed of débris below. We could not venture there—the glacier must be taken in flank. But on which side? Not on the west—no one could climb those cliffs. It must, if anywhere, be by the rocks on the east, and they looked as if they were roches moutonnées.

So we hurried down to La Grave, to hear what Melchior Anderegg (who had just passed through the village with the family of our friend Walker) had to say on the matter. Who is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the question cannot have been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of Melchior is as well known as the name of Napoleon. Melchior, too, is an emperor in his way—a very prince among guides. His empire is amongst the “eternal snows”—his sceptre is an ice-axe.

Melchior Anderegg—more familiarly and perhaps more generally known simply as Melchior—was born at Zaun, near Meiringen, on April 6, 1828. He was first brought into public notice in Hinchcliff’s Summer Months in the Alps, and was known to very few persons at the time that little work was published. In 1855 he was “Boots” at the Grimsel hotel, and in those days when he went out on expeditions it was for the benefit of his master, the proprietor: Melchior himself only got the trinkgelt. In 1856 he migrated to the Schwarenbach inn on the Gemmi, where he employed his time in carving objects for sale. In 1858 he made numerous expeditions with Messrs. Hinchcliff and Stephen, and proved to his employers that he possessed first-rate skill, indomitable courage and an admirable character. His position has never been doubtful since that year, and for a long time there has been no guide whose services have been more in request: he is usually engaged a year in advance.

MELCHIOR ANDEREGG IN 1864

It would be almost an easier task to say what he has not done than to catalogue his achievements. Invariable success attends his arms: he leads his followers to victory, but not to death. I believe that no accident has ever befallen travelers in his charge. Like his friend Almer, he can be called a safe man. It is the highest praise that can be given to a first-rate guide.

Early in the afternoon we found ourselves in the little inn at La Grave, on the great Lautaret road, a rickety, tumble-down sort of place, with nothing stable about it, as Moore wittily remarked, except the smell. Melchior had gone, and had left behind a note which said, “I think the passage of the Brèche is possible, but that it will be very difficult.” His opinion coincided with ours, and we went to sleep, expecting to be afoot about eighteen or twenty hours on the morrow.

At 2.40 the next morning we left La Grave, in a few minutes crossed the Romanche, and at 4 A.M. got to the moraine of the eastern branch of the glacier that descends from the Brèche.[[17]] The rocks by which we intended to ascend were placed between the two branches of this glacier, and still looked smooth and unbroken. But by five o’clock we were upon them. We had been deluded by them. No carpenter could have planned a more convenient staircase. They were not moutonnée, their smooth look from a distance was only owing to their singular firmness. In an hour we had risen above the most crevassed portion of the glacier, and began to look for a way on to it. Just at the right place there was a patch of old snow at the side, and, instead of gaining the ice by desperate acrobatic feats, we passed from the rocks on to it as easily as one walks across a gangway. At half-past six we were on the centre of the glacier, and the inhabitants of La Grave turned out en masse into the road and watched us with amazement as they witnessed the falsification of their confident predictions. Well might they stare, for our little caravan, looking to them like a train of flies on a wall, crept up and up, without hesitation and without a halt—lost to their sight one minute as it dived into a crevasse, then seen again clambering up the other side. The higher we rose the easier became the work, the angles lessened and our pace increased. The snow remained shadowed, and we walked as easily as on a high road; and when (at 7.45) the summit of the Brèche was seen, we rushed at it as furiously as if it had been a breach in the wall of a fortress, carried the moat by a dash, with a push behind and a pull before, stormed the steep slope above, and at 8.50 stood in the little gap, 11,054 feet above the level of the sea. The Brèche was won. Well might they stare—five hours and a quarter had sufficed for sixty-five hundred feet of ascent.[[18]] We screamed triumphantly as they turned in to breakfast.

[17] Our route from La Grave to La Bérarde will be seen on the accompanying map.