We had settled beforehand in London, without knowing anything whatever about the place, that such a couloir as this should be in this angle; but when we got into the Val d’Entraigues, and found that it was not possible to see into the corner, our faith in its existence became less and less, until the telegraphing of Almer, who was sent up the opposite slopes to search for it, assured us that we were true prophets.
Snow couloirs are nothing more or less than gullies partly filled by snow. They are most useful institutions, and may be considered as natural highways placed, by a kind Providence, in convenient situations for getting over places which would otherwise be inaccessible. They are a joy to the mountaineer, and, from afar, assure him of a path when all besides is uncertain; but they are grief to novices, who, when upon steep snow, are usually seized with two notions—first, that the snow will slip, and, secondly, that those who are upon it must slip too.
Nothing, perhaps, could look much more unpromising to those who do not know the virtues of couloirs than such a place as the engraving represents,[[23]] and if persons inexperienced in mountain-craft had occasion to cross a ridge or to climb rocks in which there were such couloirs, they would instinctively avoid them. But practiced mountaineers would naturally look to them for a path, and would follow them almost as a matter of course, unless they turned out to be filled with ice or too much swept by falling stones, or the rock at the sides proved to be of such an exceptional character as to afford an easier path than the snow.
[23] This drawing was made to illustrate the remarks which follow. It does not represent any particular couloir, but it would serve, tolerably well, as a portrait of the one which we ascended when crossing the Col de Pilatte.
Couloirs look prodigiously steep when seen from the front, and, so viewed, it is impossible to be certain of their inclination within many degrees. Snow, however, does actually lie at steeper angles in couloirs than in any other situation: forty-five to fifty degrees is not an uncommon inclination. Even at such angles, two men with proper axes can mount on snow at the rate of seven hundred to eight hundred feet per hour. The same amount can only be accomplished in the same time on steep rocks when they are of the very easiest character, and four or five hours may be readily spent upon an equal height of difficult rocks. Snow-couloirs are therefore to be commended because they economize time.
Of course, in all gullies one is liable to be encountered by falling stones. Most of those which fall from the rocks of a couloir sooner or later spin down the snow which fills the trough, and as their course and pace are more clearly apparent when falling over snow than when jumping from ledge to ledge, persons with lively imaginations are readily impressed by them. The grooves which are usually seen wandering down the length of snow-couloirs are deepened (and perhaps occasionally originated) by falling stones, and they are sometimes pointed out by cautious men as reasons why couloirs should not be followed. I think they are very frequently only gutters, caused by water trickling off the rocks. Whether this is so or not, one should always consider the possibility of being struck by falling stones, and, in order to lessen the risk as far as possible, should mount upon the sides of the snow and not up its centre. Stones that come off the rocks then fly over one’s head or bound down the middle of the trough at safe distance.
At 9.30 A.M. we commenced the ascent of the couloir leading from the nameless glacier to a point in the ridge, just to the east of Mont Bans. So far, the route had been nothing more than a steep grind in an angle where little could be seen, but now views opened out in several directions, and the way began to be interesting. It was more so, perhaps, to us than to our companion, M. Reynaud, who had no rest in the last night. He was, moreover, heavily laden. Science was to be regarded—his pockets were stuffed with books; heights and angles were to be observed—his knapsack was filled with instruments; hunger was to be guarded against—his shoulders were ornamented with a huge nimbus of bread, and a leg of mutton swung behind from his knapsack, looking like an overgrown tail. Like a good-hearted fellow, he had brought this food, thinking we might be in need of it. As it happened, we were well provided for, and, having our own packs to carry, could not relieve him of his superfluous burdens, which, naturally, he did not like to throw away. As the angles steepened the strain on his strength became more and more apparent. At last he began to groan. At first a most gentle and mellow groan, but as we rose so did his groans, till at last the cliffs were groaning in echo and we were moved to laughter.
Croz cut the way with unflagging energy throughout the whole of the ascent, and at 10.45 we stood on the summit of our pass, intending to refresh ourselves with a good halt; but just at that moment a mist, which had been playing about the ridge, swooped down and blotted out the whole of the view on the northern side. Croz was the only one who caught a glimpse of the descent, and it was deemed advisable to push on immediately while its recollection was fresh in his memory. We are consequently unable to tell anything about the summit of the pass, except that it lies immediately to the east of Mont Bans, and is elevated about eleven thousand three hundred feet above the level of the sea. It is the highest pass in Dauphiné. We called it the Col de Pilatte.