Part 4 (1/2)

Oftener the climber starts beneath the stars. His first attention is paid to their aspect. If they seem unusually bright and twinkling, he augurs ill of his prospects, but holds on, hoping for the best. Dark sky-islands indicate the presence of clouds here and there. He trusts that the rising sun may clear them away. In due season the dawn breaks, perhaps in unusual and threatening grandeur, the light pouring along ”wreathed avenues” of advancing clouds and illuminating with its rich tints the cloud-banners flying from precipitous peaks. Worst of all is it if umbrella clouds seem to float stationary above the tops of rounded snowy summits. Then indeed there is little ground left for hope. These cloud-caps, just lifted off the heads of the mountains to which they belong, consist of vapour in rapid movement and always imply a strong wind. The mist condenses to windward of the summit, blows over it, and dissolves to leeward, thus making the cloud-cap appear stationary, though every particle composing it is in rapid motion. Similar is the internal composition of a cloud-banner, though the movement of its parts is more easily perceived.

Oftenest, however, at the hour of dawn there is little wind, and the mists condense lazily, forming, fading, forming again in the most whimsical fas.h.i.+on. Or they eddy in hollow places, and reach forth over depressions uncanny arms, which grasp and wither away and return again as though in doubt what to attack. An hour may pa.s.s in this weird performance, and then after all the sun may conquer and the misty battalions be swallowed up. But that is unusual. Generally, after some preliminary skirmis.h.i.+ng, the moment comes when they gather themselves together, as by word of command, and, coming on in united force, swallow up the mountain world.

This final onrush is often a most magnificent and solemn sight. The gathering squadrons of the sky grow dark and seem to hold the just departed night in their bosoms. Their crests impend. They a.s.sume terrific shapes. They acquire an aspect of solidity. They do not so much seem to blot out as to destroy the mountains. Their motion suggests a great momentum. At first too they act in almost perfect silence. There is little movement in the oppressively warm air, and yet the clouds boil and surge as though violently agitated. They join together, neighbour to neighbour, and every moment they grow more dense and climb higher. To left and right, one sees them, behind also and before. The moments now are precious. We take a last view of our surroundings, note the direction we should follow, and try to fix details in our memories, for sight will soon be impossible. Then the clouds themselves are upon us--a puff of mist first, followed by the dense fog. A crepitating sound arises around us; it is the pattering of hard particles of snow on the ground. Presently the flakes grow bigger and fall more softly, feeling clammy on the face. And now probably the wind rises and the temperature is lowered. Each member of our party is whitened over; icicles form on hair and moustache, and the very aspect of men is changed to match the wild surroundings. Under such circ.u.mstances the high regions of snow are more impressive than under any other, but climbers must be well-nourished, in good hard condition, and not too fatigued, or they will not appreciate the scene. No one can really know the high Alps who has not been out in a storm at some great elevation. The experience may not be, in fact is not, physically pleasant, but it is morally stimulating in a high degree, and aesthetically grand. Now must a climber call up all his reserves of pluck and determination. He may have literally to fight his way down to a place of shelter. There can be no rest, neither can there be any undue haste. The right way must be found and followed. All that can be seen is close at hand and that small circle must serve for guidance. All must keep moving on with grim persistence, hour after hour. Stimulants are unavailing and food is probably inaccessible. All depends upon reserve stores of health and vigour, and upon moral courage. To give in is treason. Each determines that he for his part will not fail his companions. Mutual reliance must be preserved.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 31. THE GROSSER ALETSCH-FIRN FROM CONCORDIA HUT. The Lotschenlucke on the extreme left.]

At first the disagreeable details are most keenly felt by contrast, but, when an hour has pa.s.sed and the conflict is well entered upon, they are forgotten. We become accustomed to our surroundings and can, if we will, observe them with a deliberate interest. How the winds tear the mists about! There is no constant blast of air, but a series of eddying rushes, which come and pa.s.s like the units of an army. Each seems to possess an individuality of its own. Each makes its attack and is gone.

One smites you in the face; another in the back. Some seem not devoid of humour; they sport with the traveller in a grim way. Others are filled with rage. Others come on as it were reluctantly.

The aspect of the foreground rapidly changes. Rocks and stones disappear under a thickening blanket of snow. What was a staircase on the way up is found to be a powdery snow-slope in the forced descent.

The new snow is soft like a liquid. It flows into the footprints and blots them out. Can it be that there are places somewhere where it is warm and dry--places with roofs over them and snug chimney corners and hot things to eat and drink? How strange the idea already seems! We belong to another world and feel as though we had always belonged to it.

Civilised life is like some dream of a bygone night, and this that we are in is the only reality. It, in its turn, we know, will hereafter seem to have been a dream, but now it is the only fact. Here is the world of ice in the making. This is what snow-fields and glaciers come from. Unpleasant is it? Well perhaps! but it is good to have had such experiences. They develop a man's confidence, employ his powers, and enrich his memory.

After all it is the snow regions in their days of storm that I remember best. One tempest that overwhelmed us on the flanks of Mount Sarmiento in Tierra del Fuego--how clearly even its details arise upon the lantern-screen of recollection! We were looking back northward over the Magellan channels towards the southern extremity of the South American continent, and a storm was pouring down thence upon us. ”The darkness in the north was truly appalling. It seemed not merely to cover, but to devour the wintry world. The heavens appeared to be falling in solid ma.s.ses, so dense were the skirts of snow and hail that the advancing cloud-phalanx trailed beneath it. Black islands, leaden waters, pallid snows, and splintered peaks disappeared in a night of tempest, which enveloped us also almost before we had realised that it was at hand. A sudden wind shrieked and whirled around us; hail was flung against our faces, and all the elements raged and rioted together. All landmarks vanished; the snow beneath was no longer distinguishable by the eye from the snow-filled air.”

Sometimes the wind blows with a fury that is almost irresistible. I have this note of such an experience. ”The wind struck us like a solid thing, and we had to lean against it or be overthrown. It lulled for an instant, and we advanced a few yards; then it struck us again, and we gripped the mountain and doubted whether we could hold on. A far milder gale than this would suffice to sweep men from a narrow arete. It was not only strong, but freezing. It dissolved the heat out of us so rapidly that we could almost feel ourselves crystallising like so many Lot's wives. We stood up to it for a minute or two, then rushed back into shelter and took stock of our extremities. My finger-tips had lost all sensation. It was enough.”

Such raging tumults of the air are not a very common alpine experience, though most climbers have had to encounter them. Sometimes the air is still, or only gently in motion, while dense clouds envelop peak and glacier. Then a great silence reigns, which yet is not like the silence of night. It seems of a denser, more positive sort. Strange sounds punctuate it in times of heavy snow-fall. There are slidings from rocks, dull sunderings of snow-drifts grown too heavy to retain their unstable positions. There are crackings in deep beds of snow, newly formed. Small avalanches of snow fall with a cat-like, velvety movement, more of a flowing than a fall. Stones plunge with a dim thud into snow-drifts. All these sounds are heard, but the moving objects, though perhaps quite near at hand, remain invisible. We feel ourselves to be in the midst of unseen presences and activities, and instinctively picture them as hostile.

In the midst of such a silence the first boom of thunder breaking on the ear sounds solemn indeed. It may be a distant discharge, and the next will be nearer. But often the very cloud that envelops us is the thunderer, and the first clap is quite close at hand. If so, it will not so much boom as rattle, re-echoing from the rocks amongst or near which it strikes. It has not come unforeseen. The air has been electrical for some time. We have felt cobwebs upon our faces. Perhaps our ice-axes are hissing, and we may have felt a shock or two from them. With the breaking of the storm comes hail that spatters the rocks and p.r.i.c.ks over the snow. The discharges multiply in frequency, and if we are in the heart of the storm we hear them now on one side, now on the other--rattling like the volley-firing of scattered companies. Seldom, at high alt.i.tudes, are the individual discharges very violent, though being near at hand they sound loud enough. The mountain is exchanging electricity with the clouds over all its surface at a number of suitable points. Many climbers have been struck by lightning, but few are known to have been killed, though lightning-stroke may have been the cause of mysterious accidents never accounted for. As a rule there is noise enough to produce a great impression; there is a sense of the power and activity of nature's forces; but there is little absolute danger.

Very different is the sensation of being in the midst of fine weather clouds, such as are often encountered before sunrise, but dissolve and disappear as the power of the sun increases. I well remember a beautiful experience of the kind upon the Rutor. The night had been overcast; when dawn appeared, the mists only seemed to thicken. We reached the summit crest and felt our way over the other side and down. We knew from the map that a great snow-field was sloping away before us in gentle undulations.

”We could not see it, nor indeed could we see anything except a small area of flat ripple-surfaced snow, losing itself in all directions in the delicate sparkling mist, through which the circle of the soaring sun now began to be faintly discerned. With compa.s.s and map we determined the direction to be followed, and down we went over admirably firm snow.

Seldom have I been in lovelier surroundings than those afforded by the rippled _neve_ and the glittering mist. The air was soft. A perfect silence reigned. Nothing in sight had aspect of solidity; we seemed to be in a world of gossamer and fairy webs. Presently there came an indescribable movement and flickering above us, as though our bright chaos were taking form. Vague and changeful shapes trembled into view and disappeared. Low, flowing light-bands striped the white floor. Wisps of mist danced and eddied around. A faint veil was all that remained, and through it we beheld with bewildered delight all the glory of the Mont Blanc range, from end to end and from base to summit, a vision of bridal beauty. Last of all, the veil was withdrawn and utter clearness reigned all around.”

Such sudden and unexpected withdrawals of the cloud curtains, such revelations and surprises are amongst the most transcendently beautiful effects that the mountain-climber is privileged to behold. They amply repay hours of fog, and compensate for days of bad weather. But even if the fog remain, blotting out all distant views, it often provides a setting for near objects, which gives them an emphasis amounting to a revelation. Many of my readers must have beheld great serac towers of ice looming out of mist, and magnified by it into excess of grandeur.

Never is an ice-fall so imposing as when traversed in not too dense a fog. What a sense of poise between heaven and earth is received when one is in a steep couloir which vanishes into mist above and below.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 32. THUNDERSTORM BREAKING OVER PALLANZA. Sketch made out of window. Dust of the streets swept before it in clouds.]

I look back with special pleasure to several days of wandering over a series of snow pa.s.ses, which had never been traversed before by any member of our party, when we had to feel our way over, through snow-storms and clouds by help only of map and compa.s.s. They were easy Tirolese pa.s.ses, which might have proved monotonous in fine weather, but the prevailing conditions made them intensely interesting and even exciting, for the easiest pa.s.s may prove difficult if you miss the actual col. How closely we watched the undulations of the glacier, and how keenly we a.n.a.lysed the formation of the rocks. Every hint of structure was important. None could be neglected. No step could be taken without thought. An ordinary creva.s.sed glacier required careful negotiation. Those occasional rifts in the clouds that made manifest now some isolated point of rock, now some icy wall, now some corniced crest of snow, were a series of framed pictures pa.s.sed in review. We enjoyed no panoramas, but the mountain detail that was forced upon our close attention was no whit less beautiful.

As for the low-level bad weather views, it is seldom that a traveller can bring himself into a mood to regard them sympathetically. We are not seals, and water is not our element. The oncoming of bad weather, beheld from below, is a grievance to the holiday-maker. He may admit that it is accompanied by impressive appearances, but he cannot pretend to appreciate them. It is not till days of rain have followed one another, and disgust has given place to resignation, that he is driven to face the elements and seek for consolation in activity. Clouds lie low and rain is pouring from them, but he must sally forth. Before long he loses sense of discomfort and finds himself entering into the spirit of the day. The pouring clouds are a low roof over his head; their margins rest on the pines, defining the tops of some and half-burying others. Every outline is softened, every form vague. Perhaps a glacier snout looms dimly forth, with all the stones upon it glistening with wet. Everything is wet and all local colours are enhanced. The gra.s.s glistens in every blade; so do the flowers, and the pebbles on the foot-path. How sweetly everything smells. All has been washed clean. There are no dusty bushes.

Water drips and tinkles everywhere. Little springs arise every few yards; runlets fall down every bank. An infinite number of little treble voices unite in the chorus, and can be heard near at hand alone. Further off they are lost in the great ”whish” that fills the air. Surely the clouds must be draining themselves dry! But, no! They form as fast as they fall. One sees them gathering at the edge by the trees. Long stretches of mist lie on the hills below the general level, or move slowly along,

”Reach out an arm and creep from pine to pine.”

Soon he is up amongst them. There it is not so much rain that falls, it is a general dissolution.

From such a walk one returns a happier creature. Next day, perhaps, the weather will clear. The sun will s.h.i.+ne on a glistening world and the clouds will melt away. Then we see the low-lying fresh snow s.h.i.+ning on the green alps, and all the great rock-peaks glittering aloft in a new-shed glory. The sky is unwontedly clear and so definitely blue; the trees and gra.s.s so green; the snow so white. The early morning moments of such a day are precious indeed. Diamond rain-drops deck gra.s.s and pine-needles. There is radiance upon all the earth and freshness in the air. The discomforts of the past are forgotten. We are rested and eager for movement, and the world summons us forth. Nature, after all, knows best, and he is happiest who yields himself, whether in the mountains or elsewhere, to perfect sympathy with her many moods.

CHAPTER VI

MOUNTAINS ALL THE YEAR ROUND

In the chequer-boards of most men's lives, the squares they can allot to the joys of mountain travel are coincident with summer seasons. Thus most of us cannot know the snow mountains all the year round, but only in their warm-weather garb. It may be claimed that then they are at their best, but such claims, in the case of Nature, are untenable.