By nightfall we arrived at the entrance to this little valley (Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve), and found some buildings placed just where they were wanted. The proprietress received us with civility, and placed a large barn at our disposal, on the conditions that no lights were struck or pipes smoked therein; and when her terms were agreed to, she took us into her own chalet, made up a huge fire, heated a gallon of milk, and treated us with genuine hospitality.
In the morning we found that the Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve led away nearly due west from the Valley of Valloires, and that the village of Bonnenuit was placed (in the latter valley) almost exactly opposite to the junction of the two.
At 3.55 A.M. on the 21st we set out up the Vallon, passed for a time over pasture-land, and then over a stony waste, deeply chan[pg 128]nelled by watercourses. At 5.30 the two principal Aiguilles were well seen, and as, by this time, it was evident that the authors of the Sardinian official map had romanced as extensively in this neighbourhood as elsewhere, it was necessary to hold a council.
Three questions were submitted to it:—Firstly, Which is the highest of these Aiguilles? Secondly, Which shall we go up? Thirdly, How is it to be done?
The French engineers, it was said, had determined that the two highest of them were respectively 11,513 and 11,529 feet in height; but we were without information as to which two they had measured.[93] Joanne indeed said (but without specifying whether he meant all three) that the Aiguilles had been several times ascended, and particularly mentioned that the one of 11,513 feet was “relatively easy.”
We therefore said, “We will go up the peak of 11,529 feet.” That determination did not settle the second question. Joanne’s “relatively easy” peak, according to his description, was evidently the most northern of the three. Our peak then was to be one of the other two;—but which of them? We were inclined to favour the central one; but it was hard to determine, they looked so equal in height. When, however, the council came to study the third [pg 129]question—“How is it to be done?” it was unanimously voted that upon the eastern and southern sides it was certainly “relatively” difficult, and that a move should be made round to the northern side.
The movement was duly executed, and after wading up some snow-slopes of considerable steepness (going occasionally beyond 40°), we found ourselves in a gap or nick, between the central and northernmost Aiguille, at 8.45 A.M. We then studied the northern face of our intended peak, and finally arrived at the conclusion that it was “relatively” impracticable. Croz shrugged his big shoulders, and said, “My faith! I think you will do well to leave it to others.” Almer was more explicit, and volunteered the information that a thousand francs would not tempt him to try it. We then turned to the northernmost peak, but found its southern faces even more hopeless than the northern faces of the central one. We enjoyed accordingly the unwonted luxury of a three-hours’ rest on the top of our pass; for pass we were determined it should be.
We might have done worse. We were 10,300 or 10,400 feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a most picturesque view of the mountains of the Tarentaise; while, somewhat east of south, we saw the monarch of the Dauphiné massif, whose closer acquaintance it was our intention to make. Three sunny hours passed away, and then we turned to the descent. We saw the distant pastures of a valley (which we supposed was the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse), and a long snow-slope leading down to them. But from that slope we were cut off by precipitous rocks, and our first impression was that we should have to return in our track. Some running up and down, however, discovered two little gullies, filled with threads of snow, and down the most northern of these we decided to go. It was a steep way but a safe one, for the cleft was so narrow that we could press the shoulder against one side whilst the feet were against the other, and the last remnant of the winter’s snow, well hardened, clung to the rift with great tenacity, and gave us a path when the rocks refused one. In half-an-hour we got to the top of the great snow-slope. Walker said—“Let us [pg 130]glissade;” the guides—“No, it is too steep.” Our friend, however, started off at a standing glissade, and advanced for a time very skilfully; but after a while he lost his balance, and progressed downwards and backwards with great rapidity, in a way that seemed to us very much like tumbling head over heels. He let go his axe, and left it behind, but it overtook him and batted him heartily. He and it travelled in this fashion for some hundreds of feet, and at last subsided into the rocks at the bottom. In a few moments we were reassured as to his safety, by hearing him ironically request us not to keep him waiting down there.
