By three o’clock next morning we had breakfasted and were preparing to leave the hut. Wearing climbing irons and roped together, we crossed over a snow slope and gained the Dôme Glacier. As our destination that day was the Vallot Refuge, only some three thousand feet higher up, there was no call for hurry. This was a blessing, for, though we had done our best to cut down the weight, the knapsacks were still much heavier than one is wont to carry on a long climb of this nature. Early in the year the ascent of the Dôme Glacier is usually devoid of difficulty; but towards the end of the climbing season one’s progress is likely to be somewhat hampered by huge and inadequately bridged crevasses. In 1911, however, despite the fact that the summer had been so hot and fine, we nowhere met with serious obstacles, though occasionally a more than ordinarily large crevasse demanded a little thought and care before it could be successfully negotiated. At sunrise we had gained the uppermost basin of the Dôme Glacier, and, turning round to the left, we cut steps up a steep ice slope, eventually climbing the rocks of the Aiguilles Grises ridge to the south of the highest point on the ridge. The rock was good, and we topped the highest Aiguille at 7 a.m. The day was wonderfully clear and free from haze, so that we could look right out into the lowlands of Savoy. The Aiguilles de Trélatête, which rank amongst the most beautiful mountains in the Alps, stood boldly up to the south. A north breeze, bringer of settled weather, blew with somewhat chilly force and hunted us forth.
Mont Blanc from the Dôme hut.
“... great rock buttresses separated by steep glaciers.”
Facing page 218.
From the Aiguilles Grises we walked in comfort along a broad, almost level snow ridge, which later became more narrow and inclined until, just before reaching the point where it meets the border-line ridge, it was so steep that the use of the axe was necessary. Once on the border-line, a wonderful vista down into the Bionnassay Valley opened out. The ridge was narrow and often corniced, but free from difficulty. Soon it steepened and broadened out and wore a thick covering of fresh snow through which we toiled knee-deep. To the right of the ridge the snow was in bad condition, and any attempt to stamp out steps started avalanches which slid with hissing sound down to the Dôme Glacier below. Therefore, we kept either to the left of the ridge or on the crest itself, where progress was simple, if laborious and thirsty. The loss of moisture by profuse perspiration, however, was readily compensated for by eating snow—an excellent means of assuaging thirst. At length the ridge was transformed into a great plateau, over which we gained the summit of the Dôme de Goûter and looked down into the Chamonix Valley. In accordance with our usual custom, we fed, and then, spreading out our belongings in a wind-sheltered spot on the snow, lay down on them and went to sleep in the warm sun.
At midday we packed up and descended a gentle snow slope to the Col de Goûter, where the well-trodden track of the ordinary Chamonix route was joined. A little later we arrived at the Vallot Refuge. The Vallot Refuge stands at an altitude of about 14,350 feet above sea-level on a tiny island of rock cropping out from a vast surrounding wilderness of ice and snow. It consists of a little wooden hut divided into the two compartments that fulfil the simple requirements of the mountaineer, namely a “kitchen” and a “bedroom.” It was in a bad state of repair; the wind whistled through numerous cracks in walls and roof; and the door was too damaged to permit of its being closed, so that quantities of snow had drifted within and the floor was deeply covered with ice. The stove was degenerate and useless; the blankets were full of ice and fouled with the filth and offal that likewise covered the floor and formed the contents of the only saucepan which the hut boasted. It was altogether a disgusting state of affairs, and, as we were to pass the night here, Max and I set about making our quarters habitable. Blankets were thoroughly shaken and spread out in the sun and wind. With our axes, the snow and refuse was scraped out and the ice chipped away from the floor. Some of the worst cracks and holes in the wall we stopped with snow. Two hours’ hard work wrought some slight change, and the hut looked tidier and more wholesome. Since then, I have been, in all, five times at the Vallot Refuge. On each occasion it bore a closer resemblance to a pigsty than a place designed for human habitation. There is, as far as I can see, no excuse for this. Climbers using the refuge should have no difficulty in leaving it in a presentable condition. As it is, its usual loathsome state bears eloquent testimony to the all-round inferiority of many of those who climb Mont Blanc from Chamonix. To leave mountain huts and refuges clean and tidy is the duty of all guides; but the onus of seeing that this duty is properly performed rests with their employers. The ultra-fashionable world that nowadays throngs Chamonix and “climbs” Mont Blanc simply because it is “done” apparently leaves all sense of duty and propriety far below the snow-line.
It was past 3 p.m. before we were satisfied with the result of our labours, and from then until sunset a succession of meals—lunch, tea and dinner—was prepared on our little spirit cooker. All water had, of course, to be obtained by melting snow; but this had been anticipated, and our supplies of methylated spirit were ample. The breeze dropped as the afternoon wore on, and at times we felt almost hot as we sat in the sun in front of the refuge.