On the following day we crossed the last pass and dropped down into the Tartagine Valley. At the entrance to the valley stood a forester’s cottage. The forester and his wife refused to allow us to pass without first partaking of their hospitality. Like all Corsicans, they spoke a good French as well as the peculiar dialect of their country, a mixture of French and Italian. Here, as elsewhere in the island, we met with nothing but courtesy and kindness. In response to anxious inquiries, our host assured us that the Capo al Dente had never been climbed. From his house we could see it, a wonderful rock pinnacle bearing a certain resemblance to the Aiguille du Dru and standing up boldly at the very head of the valley. In the afternoon we took our leave and followed a diminutive track leading along the right bank of the Tartagine River.
Photo A. B. Bryn.
Climbing the Capo al Dente.
“... we espied a diminutive crack ... the solution to the problem.”
Facing page 24.
At an altitude of about 4,000 feet above sea-level, above the snow-line which at this season of the year extends to below 3,000 feet, we found a suitable camping site, a huge rock platform on the face of a cliff. It was sheltered from the wind on three sides and, being partially overhung, might also be expected to be protected in the event of snow or rain falling. For nine nights we camped on this spot. The cold during the long hours of darkness was bitter and ruthlessly demonstrated the flaws in the design of our sleeping-bags. Day after day we made our way up to the head of the valley and searched in vain for a route up the black cliffs of the Capo al Dente. On the ninth day we at last espied a diminutive crack threading the first hundred feet of the precipitous lower ramparts of the mountain. We had discovered the solution to the problem. Within an hour of effecting a lodgment on the rock we had gained the summit and felt truly recompensed for those long, cold nights of shivering endured in camp. The climbing had been steep but by no means excessively difficult.
There is a peculiar charm about the view from the summits of these Corsican mountains. They have the lure of sea cliffs. From most of them you look down upon the ocean. From the Capo al Dente we could see the tiny little harbour of Calvi and, fascinated, follow the movements of a Lilliputian steamer that was leaving on its voyage over the smooth, broad, blue expanse of the Mediterranean. To the south the great range of the Cinto reared its snow-clad, precipitous peaks, and, looking, we felt satisfied that, in coming to Corsica in quest of mountaineering adventure, we had made no false step. Flanking the Val Tartagine were other mountains of interest, such as Monte Corona and Monte Padro; but our provisions were almost at an end. In any case, time was up, for we had arranged to meet Max in Calacuccia on April 5.