[7] “Impossible.”
CHAPTER XV
MONT BLANC
Mont Blanc, 15,781 feet in height, the highest mountain in Europe, was almost the first of the great Alpine peaks to be climbed. On August 8, 1786, two Chamoniards, Dr. Paccard and Jacques Balmat, starting from Chamonix, made the first ascent. Forty-six years later Balmat was interviewed by Alexandre Dumas, who shortly afterwards incorporated the Chamoniard’s tale of the conquest of the great mountain in his Impressions de Voyage. And so the name of Jacques Balmat has come down to fame. To-day Chamonix boasts of two statues to his memory; while Dr. Paccard is almost forgotten. Yet recent, patient investigation tends to show with a fair degree of certainty that the leading spirit, the driving force throughout the wonderful adventure, was not Balmat, but Dr. Paccard.
As the years passed by it became almost fashionable to climb Mont Blanc; and to-day the many who make the ascent for the mere sake of saying that they have stood on the crown of Europe, still follow the route of the original discoverers in most of its essential details, except where, in one or two cases, deviations have resulted in considerable improvement. The ascent of the mountain from Chamonix by the well-established route is nothing more than a long, uphill walk; a good, sound walker could go to the summit with his hands in his trouser pockets, should he feel so disposed. But since Paccard’s day many other routes have been discovered; and on all of these climbing is, at one stage or another, necessary. Indeed, some of these routes involve expeditions which rank amongst the most formidable that have ever been undertaken in the Alps, or, indeed, in any other mountain range.
The frontier between Italy and France crosses the summit of Mont Blanc. From the Col de Miage over to the Col du Géant, a distance of eight miles, the frontier follows the watershed ridge without once falling below an elevation of 11,000 feet above sea-level; and two routes, following more or less this frontier, lead to the summit of Mont Blanc. From the point of view of mountaineering difficulty, neither of these can be compared with any of the tremendous routes by which Mont Blanc may be climbed from the south. Nevertheless, both are sufficiently difficult to safeguard one against monotony, and the scenery on both is superlatively wonderful. For these two reasons, Max and I chose to make our acquaintance with Mont Blanc by these frontier or border-line routes. We planned to go from Courmayeur to the Col de Miage and pass the night there in the little Refuge Durier. On the following day we would climb along the border-line, passing over the Aiguille de Bionnassay and the Dôme de Goûter, and spend the second night in the Vallot Refuge (14,350 ft.) within an hour and a half of the summit. Next morning we would pass over Mont Blanc and Mont Maudit, whence, deviating from the border-line, we would visit Mont Blanc de Tacul, and finally make our way across the Géant Glacier to the Col du Géant. Three days would elapse between our departure from Courmayeur and our arrival at the Rifugio Torino on the Col du Géant; but, lest bad weather should delay the carrying out of our projects, we bought in provisions for five, or at a pinch six, days. Thus our knapsacks, which contained in addition to the food, a cooking apparatus, camera and large supply of films, climbing irons and two one-hundred-foot ropes, were far from light.
From Courmayeur the first three hours of the journey to the Col de Miage lead one along the carriage road and mule track which winds through the Val Veni round the southern foot of Mont Blanc. As mules are readily obtainable in Courmayeur, Max and I strolled forth unburdened from the village after an early lunch on August 25, 1911. Leaving knapsack, coats and axes to a mule-driver and his faithful animal, we marched gaily along the broad path with the tremendous cliffs and fantastic, jagged outline of the Peuteret ridge towering up before us, luxuriating in the freedom of shirt sleeves and the even more unwonted freedom of unladen shoulders, and revelling in the happy lot of the mountaineer. Dawdling, however, we were not permitted to indulge in; for the mule, like others of his species in Courmayeur, seemed eager to get to his journey’s end with all possible speed, and it was only by the simple stratagem of inviting his driver to drink a glass of wine at the little Cantine de la Visaille that we succeeded in snatching a rest.
Farther on, where the immense, frontal moraine of the Miage Glacier advances into and, indeed, almost across the bed of the valley, the path steepens up; but though the mule walked as fast as ever, we kept pace in comfort, for the sky was rapidly becoming overcast, and an invigorating coolness had taken the place of the hitherto close and oppressive heat. Passing by the little Combal lake formed by the moraine damming the stream, its black, sunless waters whipped into a semblance of life by fitful gusts, we turned off to the right along a dwindling track. Here we dismissed the mule and his driver and, after collecting firewood for use in the hut, settled down to a meal to gain strength for the long walk in front of us. At 4 p.m., a few heavy drops of rain from the lowering sky stirred us up, and, shouldering our cruelly heavy and distinctly awkward burdens, we climbed up the steep flank of the moraine and gained the gently-rising, stone-strewn surface of the Miage Glacier.
White wraiths of mist, sinking from the black thunder-clouds that overcast the sky, settled over the tops of the magnificent mountain walls which enclose the glacier. Our loads were oppressive, and, though we struggled with them to the best of our powers, our pace was slow and rests were frequent. At twilight, even the foot of the slopes below the Col de Miage were still far distant, and dense masses of cloud were rolling down across the col towards us. Realising what a drag our knapsacks were, we decided to change our plans and make for the Dôme instead of the Miage hut. We knew that darkness would be upon us long before the former were gained, but, in spite of that, we felt certain of being able to find it. After passing below the icefall of the Dôme Glacier, we turned to the right towards the foot of the Aiguilles Grises ridge. An inky blackness had already blotted out all surrounding details before the rocks were reached; but, on lighting the lantern, we were delighted to find a well-marked track leading up in the desired direction over steep screes. We were now really tired, and halts to relieve our shoulders from the depressing weight of the knapsacks were frequent. During such enforced respites from our labours we consulted the map and were able to form a fairly good idea as to where to look for the hut. At ten o’clock, just before the thunderstorm burst, we found it at last, though not without some searching.
Though tired, we were ravenously hungry, and had energy enough to prepare a good, square meal. Through the little window we saw frequent lightning flashes, and the sharp crack that followed within a fraction of a second of each flare told us that we were very near the centre of the storm. After dinner we ventured without to see what were the prospects for the morrow. Snow was falling, and the atmosphere was charged with electricity. Holding up my hand and spreading out the fingers resulted in a curious noise as of the tearing of linen, and, in the darkness, from each finger-tip issued a blue stream of light. The chimney pipe of the little hut stove was thrown into relief by an aureole of bluish light, especially intense at the top. It was evident that the storm had come to stay for the night at least, and that, with snow falling at its present rate, there was little chance of being able to continue the climb next morning. I must confess that the prospect of a day’s rest was anything but displeasing.
The sun was high in the heavens when we awoke on the morning of the 26th. The weather was perfect. All signs of the storm had been swept away, except for the abundance of new snow which, on the rocks round the hut, was already yielding to the warm rays. Mont Blanc, a mountain of quite different aspect on this southern side, is built up of great rock buttresses, separated from each other by steep and narrow glaciers which frequently break into formidable icefalls. Our original plan of following the border-line from the Col de Miage we had naturally set aside, but from the scenic point of view we did not expect the route now proposed, via the Aiguilles Grises to the Col de Bionnassay and thence along the border-line, to be one whit inferior. The afternoon and evening of that welcome rest day were mostly spent in consuming our supplies of firewood and demolishing all the weightier articles of food. In those days Max and I were unduly addicted to the delights of tinned peaches!