The Alps

by Sir William Martin Conway

Passes, like peaks, admit of classification. The first and most beautiful is the long snow pass, the kind of pass which is reached by ascending one long glacier, and from which the descent leads down another long glacier, so that the point of departure is as widely separated as possible from the point of arrival, and the divergence of scenery between the two extremities most pronounced. These may be called the great snow highways.

The longest snow highway-pass, and to my thinking one of the finest in the Alps, leads right through the heart of the Bernese Oberland from the Lötschen valley at one end to the Grimsel at the other. It is really not one pass but a succession of three, for three ridges have to be crossed—which, however, only increases its interest. It leads through snow scenery of superlative pomp and extent, and reveals that scenery in the most fascinating manner, continually opening out and presently again closing up the wildest vistas, and always providing new interests and fresh culminations. Bietschhorn, Aletschhorn, Jungfrau, Finsteraarhorn, not to mention other less important peaks, in turn dominate the view, and one glacier after another opens out a vision of remote blue valleys and lower ranges. I am aware that this long traverse does not oppose to the climber the smallest real difficulty from end to end, and that it is what is commonly described as "a mere snow pound." It calls for endurance and that is all. Unless the climber counts scenery first among the attractions of the way, he will be well advised to select some other expedition. He who does so count it will agree with me that this is par excellence "the" pass of the Central Alps. It lacks only one element of charm: it brings the traveller down into the same kind of scenery as that from which he started. A similar remark may be made on the Strahleck, which is likewise a glorious snow highway. Both passes, it may be observed, are eminently suited for ski experts to traverse in winter, under suitable conditions of weather and equipment.

To find the long snow pass in its most romantic form one must look for it in a region where a great mountain range divides districts of strongly contrasted scenic character. There can be no doubt whither we should turn. The great range that gazes southward over Italy and northward into Switzerland perfectly fulfils the conditions. This culminates along the watershed south of Zermatt, which place is therefore indicated as the starting-point at one end. Of the long snow passes leading southward from Zermatt, the Lysjoch undoubtedly takes first place for magnificence of scenery throughout the whole length of its route. Gymnastic climbers may ask, Why not the Sesiajoch? On the north its route coincides with that of the Lysjoch, but on the south they diverge, and the easier route lies through finer if less catastrophic scenery. The Sesiajoch plunges down a great wall, and the view does not vary for a long time. The Lysjoch leads down one of the loveliest glacier valleys in Europe and affords endless variety. There is really no comparison between the two.

We may therefore select the Lysjoch as type of the noblest kind of Alpine pass. Consider what wealth of interest it supplies to those who traverse it from Zermatt at one end to Gressoney at the other; for to enjoy a pass properly it should be followed from village to village throughout its full length, and not merely from hut to hut. The modern method of zigzagging across the crest of a chain without descending far below the snow-line, taking one pass one day and another the next, is, I am aware, not without fascinations, to which who has not succumbed? but it is not the best way to enjoy scenery, for it lacks the enforcing emphasis which the exchange of levels yields.

It is of the essence of such a pass as the Lysjoch that it leads you from the foot of a great glacier, up through its whole length to its head, and then from the head of another glacier down to its foot. It thus traces a definite and natural succession of the features of a glacier. It is like following the course of a river from mouth to source, or passing through the progress of the seasons of a year. From step to step there is a succession of related features, each being another stage of the one before and of the one next to follow. Thus there is a growth of interest. What you behold is not a mere succession of unrelated vistas. Each foreground in turn implies all that has been passed and all that is yet to come on the upward way. True, convenience generally dictates that you shall not actually enter upon a glacier at its extreme foot, and mount right up it to its head. There is probably better going for part of the way along the bank. But the glacier is commonly close at hand and in full view most of the time, so that you become familiar with it at all points of its course. To ascend it is to advance through stages of increasing glory and purity. First you have its shabby moraine-strewn extremity; then its cleaner surface and open white crevasses. Higher up they turn continually bluer and the ice grows still whiter. The glacier widens; the slopes that border it become less grassy. You are leaving the habitable, profitable world behind, and approaching the clean undevelopable lands, which man may visit but where he must not dwell. The naked crags stand forth on either hand, furrowed with snow couloirs, and clothed with white raiment. Now you come to the snow-covered surface of the glacier itself. Blue-looking pools of water may be seen here and there. The snow becomes purer as you advance. There are no more dust-patches or groups of rocks interrupting the clean surface. Higher up, the glacier breaks into bolder forms as it pours down over steeper and more rugged slopes. The séracs tower aloft, fantastic in form and unstable in position. Great crevasses marvellously coloured in their depths yawn all about. You wind your way amongst them, creeping over snow-bridges and under impending walls and pinnacles of ice, all decked with sparkling icicles. Finally, you emerge on to some gentler-sloping, wide-expanding field of spotless snow, that only a gentle undulation diversifies with the most delicately displayed modelling. All around are steep slopes of snow or ice, cliffs of newly-riven rock, avalanche tracks and heaps of ruin. The details of the high peaks can be distinguished, their overhanging cornices, their furrowed sides. Ahead, and not so far away, is now the pass—a broad opening between great heaped-up domes of snow, perhaps with crests of rock cutting through. The slope grows easier. At last the ground is level, and a distant view opens before you as behind. You are on the top.

The ascent has been marked, as a morning's work should be, by steady growth of interest. The descent, though it merely reverses the order of events and succession of interests, is not a simple inversion of the experiences of the ascent. It would be if you descended backwards, facing the pass, but such is not the human method of going. You now face downwards, and have before you the blue valley, the distant lower ranges, and perhaps some fragment of the broad lowlands in view, whereas in going up you look at the heights. The valleys promise rest and refreshment to your growing fatigue. The way becomes less laborious as you descend. You leave the snow behind gladly. The first flowers welcome you. And now as you quit the ice and traverse the high meadows the steady increase of fertility is delightful to observe. You enter the tree-level through a fringe of skimpy and wind-beaten scouts. The timber becomes finer as you advance. After all, this fertile earth is the place for man. Down you go into a new valley, the torrent hurrying and tumbling beside you. You come to a poor village and then to one more thriving. Fruit-trees begin to find place, and then chestnuts. How delightful it is to come down to the chestnut-level! It is then no far cry to the figs and the Italian lakes, and all the luxury of north Italian nature—its rich atmosphere, its colour, its suave forms, and picturesque surprises.

AMSTEG IN THE REUSSTHAL

On the St. Gotthard Railway. Entrance to the Windgelle Tunnel above the last house on right of picture.

To cross thus and through such stages from the austere Swiss valleys to Italian frolic and ease, is to enjoy one of the greatest pleasures. You can do it by going over a peak, but clearly peaks are not natural passage-ways. They do not suggest themselves for traverse, whereas passes do. The whole idea of a peak is a provocation to the climber to get to the top. A pass invites him to come over; it calls from valley to valley. Who would ever think of going to a col and then returning in his tracks to the starting-point unless misfortune compelled him? The suggestion is absurd. Passes are the natural gateways of the hills—at first the easiest and lowest gaps; next the best gaps that could be found from valley to valley; lastly, any notch between two peaks, even if they are twin-culminating summits of a single mountain. Indeed, provided the point of crossing is a notch, so that, when you stand in it, you see a peak rising on either hand of you, you have the feeling that you are going over a pass—that the wall Nature has erected in your way has been overcome; and that feeling is the thing.