An Impromptu Ascent of Mont Blanc

Excerpt

On a delightful evening in the month of July, 1881, table d'hôte being over, my friend S—— and myself were seated under the verandah of the hotel d'Angleterre at Chamonix; there were many others besides ourselves, chiefly English and Americans, grouped in parties, some taking their coffee, others smoking, and all devoting their attention to the summit of Mont Blanc whose diadem of snow was being warmed in colour if not in reality by the last rays of the setting sun. Though seven miles off as the crow flies it seemed much nearer, and it was hard to realize that some twelve or fourteen hours of incessant toil must be undergone before the foot could be planted on that rounded crest of eternal snow, that guide and porter must be employed, and that ropes and ice-axes must be brought into requisition before those apparently gently-sloping hills of pure white down could be traversed. They looked so smooth, so inviting, and so incapable of doing any one harm.

The summit changed from gold to grey, the dome and Aiguille du Goûté faded from view, the Grands Mulets were no longer to be seen, and the form of the Glacier des Bossons could scarcely be distinguished from the Montagne de la Côte. Gradually and imperceptibly they vanished into night, the stars came out, the guests retired, and following their example I climbed up to my room on the sixth floor. We had left Martigny at four in the morning, and had walked most of the way to Forclaz, and the whole of it from thence over the Col de Balme, so I was not sorry to get to bed. Not having the remotest intention of making the ascent my slumbers were undisturbed by the excitement which they say invariably precedes the undertaking, from which even professionals are said not to be exempt. On getting up next morning I was very agreeably surprised to find that the sun was shining brightly on the summit which was entirely free from clouds—a somewhat unusual circumstance, as lofty mountain peaks more often than otherwise are enveloped in them, especially in the morning.

Feeling lazy and somewhat stiff after our long walk of the previous day, we loitered about till nearly twelve o'clock, and then decided upon taking advantage of the splendid weather by making an excursion to the Brévent, a mountain on the north side of the valley, from which the view of the Mont Blanc chain is one of the finest in the neighbourhood. A mule was hired with a boy to attend it, and a stout muscular young guide named François Ravanel was employed—not that there was any need of his good services, but the rules and regulations of the "Bureau des Guides" must be complied with, and one of these stipulates that a guide must in all cases accompany a mule.

After crawling upwards for a couple of hours, we arrived at a newly erected hut, where refreshment was provided, and here the remainder of the afternoon was devoted to the inspection of the magnificent scenery which surrounded us on every side. The Valley of Chamonix lies nearly east and west, and is so narrow that it might almost be termed a ravine. It is rather more than ten miles long and less than half a mile in width. The mountains of the Mont Blanc range on the south, and those of the Brévent, on the north, rise abruptly on either side, their bases being covered with thick forests of pine for some two thousand feet above the valley. On the south side countless "aiguilles" pierce the sky, from le Tour on the east to the Aiguille du Goûté on the west.

These graceful spires are of warm tinted rock, and here and there streaks of snow are to be seen in the crevices and gullies which are shaded from the sun. Several large glaciers descend from the northern slopes of the Mont Blanc chain, the first at the east or upper end being the Glacier du Tour; the next is the Glacier d'Argentière, which is the largest of them all, being no less than seven miles long between its upper and lower extremities and about a mile wide for two-thirds of its length, at which point it tapers off—as all glaciers do on approaching the valley....