Thus from its chance nucleus on the hill-top in the Australian bush, snowball-wise the zest for the mountains grew until it has actually become an integral part of life itself. The health and happiness that the passion has brought with it are as incalculable as the ways of the “divinity that shapes our ends,” chooses our parents for us, and places us in a certain environment. The love that Max and I have for the mountains I cannot but attribute to the fact that we were possessed of a father who taught us from our earliest years to love the open spaces of the earth, encouraged us to seek adventure and provided the wherewithal for us to enjoy the quest and, above all, looked to us to fight our own battles and rely on our own resources.
CHAPTER II
CLIMBING IN CORSICA
Comfortably seated in the depths of Bryn’s favourite and most somniferous chair, I browsed idly and half unthinkingly through the pages of a guide book that had found its way, as such things will, to my host’s address. Cynically amused as far as my sleepy condition would permit by the flights of verbal fancy to which compilers of guide books seem addicted, subconsciously certain plain, unbefrilled facts impressed themselves upon my mind and, eventually marshalling themselves, roused me out of my lethargy to a state bordering on excitement.
“I’ve found it!” I shouted.
Max and Bryn awoke, startled.
“What, you fool?” they growled encouragingly.
“Listen! It is easy of access, thinly populated, few tourists visit the interior, and it has mountains rising to 9,000 feet above sea-level; the very thing we are looking for.” Wide awake now, they were interested enough to ask where this Utopia was. Astonished at such crass ignorance, I answered, “Corsica, of course, fatheads!”
It really was the very thing we had been looking for. The Christmas vacation of 1908 was just over. A few months ago Max and I had made the acquaintance of Alf Bonnvie Bryn, a Norwegian who, like ourselves, was studying in Zürich. Bound together by the common bond of enthusiasm for the mountains, the acquaintance rapidly ripened into friendship, and many were the pleasant evenings spent in each other’s rooms. The topic of conversation was always the same—mountaineering. Gradually our thoughts turned from other mountain groups more and more towards the Himalayas, and we decided some day to combine forces and carry out an expedition to this greatest of the world’s mountain ranges. As far as actual climbing was concerned, we considered that the Alps, as a training ground for Himalayan exploration, could not be bettered. But in one thing which would do much to make or mar the success of an exploring venture in these distant ranges, we could look to the Alps for little assistance. That was organisation, particularly with respect to food and equipment. In the Alps, a mistake or omission of detail in either of these things can be remedied by a descent into the valley, involving a loss of not more than a day or so of climbing time. But for the Himalayas we judged that it would be essential to have everything that one would want with one. Mistakes or omissions would not be easily rectified after one had left one’s base, usually the last outpost of civilization and, even as such, devoid of many of the necessities for mountaineering. From the base onwards one would have to rely entirely upon one’s own resources. These considerations drove us to a decision to spend the Easter vacation in some remote part of Europe; Switzerland would be our advanced base, and the chosen field of our activities a wilder territory to which we would not look for supplies of either food or equipment. Where was such a territory to be found? The more remote mountains of Norway were ruled out on account of the earliness of the season. Considerations of distance, and therefore of time and expense, militated against our going to the Sierra Nevada or the Balkans. Our mental state was one of puzzled despair until by chance the little guide book of Corsica insinuated itself into my attention.
Early in March, 1909, we set to work to put our equipment in order, making sleeping-bags and a tent and buying tinned foods. The latter were selected with a view to nourishing value, variety, compactness and minimum of weight. By the middle of the month our preparations were almost complete. A few days afterwards, Bryn and I set off for Corsica, leaving Max, whose studies kept him in Zürich for the time being, to join us at a later date. We travelled by rail through the St. Gotthard via Milan and Genoa to Leghorn, embarking there for Bastia. The five-hour crossing on a crazy little cargo boat was rough and uncomfortable, and we both dwelt at some length and with much feeling upon the foolishness of setting out on our little expedition instead of spending the holidays in comparative luxury in Switzerland. But when, at sunset, loomed up the snow-capped summits of the bold mountain chain that forms the backbone of the long promontory of Cap Corse, our optimism returned. The first difficulties on landing were those created by Customs officials. On explaining quite frankly the object of our visit, however, they informed us ecstatically that Corsica was the most beautiful country in the world and that we would be sure to enjoy our stay there—and passed our stores free of duty! Such patriotism created a first good impression of the inhabitants, which we saw no reason later to alter. The Corsicans received us with nothing but the utmost kindness throughout our stay on the island.
The following day was spent in purchasing maps and drawing up plans. According to the maps, Calacuccia appeared to be the Zermatt of Corsica, so to Calacuccia we forwarded most of our stores. Leaving the greater part of the remainder in the simple little auberge, the Hôtel des Voyageurs, which was our headquarters in Bastia, we set out to walk and climb over the whole length of the range of mountains in the promontory of Cap Corse. Though none of these peaks exceed 4,300 feet in height, nevertheless, owing to the close proximity of the sea, they appear high. But their chief appeal to us was that they afforded magnificent views into the mountains of the north-west interior of the island, where we expected to find the best climbing. The main groups centre round Monte Cinto which, rising to 8,900 feet above sea-level, is the highest summit in Corsica. Standing well away to the north of the main mass was one bold rock needle that attracted our attention. With the aid of compass and map, we identified this point as being the Capo al Dente, a peak some 7,000 feet in altitude, and decided to lay siege to it before going to Calacuccia, especially as we had every reason to believe that it had not been climbed. Back again in Bastia, we packed up our remaining stores, sufficient for ten days, and took train to Palasca, a station on the line between Bastia and Calvi. In Palasca we were fortunate in securing the services of a mule and his driver. I say “fortunate,” for our knapsacks, containing sleeping-bags, spare clothing, ropes, cooking apparatus, cameras and food, weighed over 80 lbs. each. The mule proved more willing than his master. Our way to the Val Tartagine, at the head of which the Capo al Dente lies, led over a number of passes the crossing of which involved a good deal of uphill and downdale walking. The mule-driver’s strength never seemed equal to any of the rises, as he would persist in sitting on the mule. The upshot was that ere half our thirty-mile journey was accomplished the poor little animal struck work and refused to go an inch farther. There was nothing to do but dismiss both driver and mule and shoulder our burdens ourselves. We struggled on all day, steering for the most part by map. It was a painful business. The knapsacks were inordinately heavy, and their narrow straps bit cruelly into our shoulder muscles. At sunset, completely exhausted and feeling incapable of moving another step, we unpacked the sleeping-bags by the banks of a spring and, after cooking a meal, slept such a sleep as falls to the lot of few.