CHAPTER XIV
THE DOLOMITES
The Dolomites occupy the south-eastern corner of the Tyrol. They are partly in Austria and partly in Italy, and may be concisely described as bounded by the cities of Brixen, Trient, Belluno, and Lienz as four corners of a rectangle. The ground lying between these towns is for the most part the country of the Dolomites, or at any rate is dominated by them. The best known and highest mountain, the Marmolata, rises almost in the centre. The valleys in this remarkable region run generally from north-east to south-west; one great valley beginning near Trient extends for nearly eighty miles, and forms the bed of the river Avisio; this valley is one of the usual approaches to the mountains. Another is from Belluno, and then there is the valley of Ampezzo, passing Cortina, which is a very favourite route; these three valleys are like main clefts or divisions, giving comparatively easy access to the knots of mountainous country. The name dolomite, as applied to the particular formation of these curious rocks composed of carbonate of lime and magnesia, was derived from that of the French geologist, Dolomieu, who was born at the town of that name at Isère in France, and was known by it instead of his own, De Gratet. He first “discovered” this stone, and the name, which, perhaps from association, sounds so appropriate, has become closely associated with this region where the rocks of this formation spring up in greater masses than elsewhere.
When we come to describe the scenery of the Dolomites it is difficult to do it justice. Chief among the weird attractions of these amazing freaks of nature is the curious red colouring which is seen when the sunset lights the high peaks and the valleys lie in blue-grey shadow. Many and many an artist has been fascinated and enthralled by the difficulty of putting this extraordinary light on his paper or canvas, and more than one has given up the task in despair. The peaks look like nothing on earth so much as red-hot glowing masses of iron fresh from the forge and casting out a rose-red glow. Yet the rocks themselves are not red, far from it, their usual colour is a grey or deep indigo; it is only here and there they are stained with patches of umber and madder, and only in the light of sunrise or sunset that they assume that amazing glowing red like burning iron.
Their serrated peaks are of a variety indescribable and have been compared with alligators’ teeth, while the huge isolated pinnacles or needles of rock, split off, have tempted climbers to vain feats.
The first Englishmen to penetrate this region in a holiday spirit were Josiah Gilbert and G. C. Churchill, who wrote a book called The Dolomite Mountains. They went for the first time in 1856, returning again and again in subsequent years, long before holiday-makers or tourists had ever thought of so doing. These adventurous souls approached the region at first from the Danube by way of Carinthia and were accompanied by their no less adventurous wives, and, as they remark, “we were deprived of the abundant aids which surround the traveller in Switzerland, and other frequented routes, in the shape of guides, horses, side-saddles, etc., ... moreover our stock of German at that time was very limited.” Mules for the ladies, with springless carts as an alternative occasionally, were the means of conveyance; sometimes goats’ milk cheese and bread with coffee were the only food after a tremendous day’s climb; yet these things were taken lightly as all in the day’s work. And that the age had its compensations none can doubt, for when the party arrived in the Tyrol we read:
Tyrol is a pleasant country for its roadside inns; spacious, cool, and clean, they welcome the traveller with old-fashioned hospitality. On the large upper landing on which the bedrooms open they usually spread your table, if you are “quality.” Flowers in pots adorn the wooden balconies, and the landlord’s daughter will present you with pretty bouquets when you leave, a finishing touch to the little bill, which is hardly a bill at all in any sense; it is chalked on the table in items so small as to convince you these people possess every virtue under heaven; the best bedrooms even at unlikely places are as comfortable as need be—beautifully kept, and without any of that frowzy look so common in an English inn. The furniture is often walnut-wood; neatly-framed prints are on the walls, and crimson coverlets on the beds. But the Tyrolese country inn, in its charming and kindly simplicity, will probably not long survive.
A few of these inns do indeed still exist but they are far in the recesses of the country, and on the beaten track have been replaced by “hotels” of the usual type in every district.
On this the first journey the travellers did not really make acquaintance with the Dolomites, they only saw them from afar; the first group they saw in the distance, “needle-pointed, pale and altogether weird-looking, soaring into the evening sky,” bewitched the party, and they never rested till they came again and yet again at intervals of years and grew to know them familiarly.
Returning alone in 1860, Mr. Churchill was able to penetrate the very heart of the district, approaching from the Botzen side. He gives a word-picture of the famous Marmolata peak as he first saw it:
This mountain—which might be compared in general form to one of those mahogany cases for stationery which are to be found in most counting-houses of the present day—has its slope, a very steep one, to the north. To the south, east, and west it is perfectly precipitous and presents nothing but walls of bare rock. Glaciers cover the greater part of the slope, and their melting supplies the springs of the Avisio which takes its rise immediately below them; ... its height, variously estimated, but which may be taken at 11,200 feet, raises it far above its loftiest neighbours. It stands in a line of ridge that runs from north to south through the western Dolomite district and marks the point where the divergent valleys of the Avisio and Cordevole originate.
Seeing it from the other side later he adds:
From this side the Marmolata presents the most striking contrast to the smooth glacier and rock-slopes and bosses which are seen on its northern aspect. Not a particle of slope except the profile of the flattish snowy dome is visible; all else is sheer precipice, presented cornerwise to the eye, while its jagged edges retreat foreshortened to the north-west and east till lost to view.
Another of the most famous peaks, the Rosengarten, thus struck him:
Imagine a gigantic amphitheatre of jagged cleft precipices, shooting 3000 feet above the spectator, out of a depth far below him, and reaching, in the Rothewand Spitze, to the height of 10,200 feet above the sea. Let the arms of this amphitheatre stretch forward so as to embrace nearly one-half of his horizon, shutting him up to the one view of a stern desolate barren face, that presents itself on all sides. Let successive masses of débris descend from the base of this long line of precipices through the whole sweep of its circuit, and threaten to occupy the entire basin below, while still leaving a small patch of bright green pasture on which a dark spot is identified as a châlet.
The Rosengarten is a much more typical Dolomite, with its jagged needle points, than Marmolata with its flatter masses. “The most prominent impression left on the mind by these Seisser Alp Dolomites was that of complete separateness and isolation, not only in relation to each other but to the green slopes on the summits of which they are placed.”
Among the very early travellers to this part was Miss Amelia B. Edwards, the authoress, who, in 1872, with a woman friend actually had the temerity to leave behind Switzerland with its luxurious hotels and “travel made easy” and penetrate into the wild and unknown regions of the Dolomites, greatly to the disgust of their comfortable well-fed courier. Writing in the following year she says:
Even now the general public is so slightly informed upon the subject that it is by no means uncommon to find educated persons who have never heard of the Dolomites at all, or who take them for a religious sect, like the Mormons or the Druses.
Such a reproach could hardly be levelled at any one now. The difficulties encountered by Miss Edwards and her friend may be concisely summed up in the remark that there were only two side-saddles at that time in the whole country, and of these only one was for hire. It was necessary, therefore, for the ladies to bring their own. Sometimes for days together the friends travelled without meeting a single stranger to the country either at the inns or on the roads, and they met only three parties of English during the whole time between entering the country on the Conegliano side and leaving it by Botzen. And, even now, over forty years after, the solitary places of the Tyrol are unspoiled by a crowd of tourists, though fully appreciated by many a nature-lover.
One of the most remarkable rocks that Miss Edwards saw was the Sasso di Ronch, which attracts annually hundreds of visitors. This extraordinary isolated peak stands
... apart and alone, like a solitary remnant of outer battlement left standing beside a razed fortress; it rises to a height of at least 250 feet above the grass at its base. Seen thus in profile, it is difficult to believe that it is the same Sasso di Ronch which one has been looking at from below. It looks like a mere aiguille or spire, disproportionately slender for its height, and curved at the top as if just ready to pitch over. Some one has compared the Matterhorn to the head and neck of a war-horse rearing up behind the valley of Zermatt; so might the Sasso di Ronch from this point be compared to the head and neck of a giraffe. Standing upon its knife-edge of ridge—all precipice below, all sky above, the horizon one long sweep of jagged peaks—it makes as wild and weird a subject as ever I sat down to sketch before or since. (A Midsummer Ramble in the Dolomites, Amelia B. Edwards.)
The wild confusion of some parts of the Dolomites, their rent and torn spires, cannot be attributed to volcanic origin, for limestone is not volcanic; the greater part of the gigantic carving must have been done by the slow agencies of wind and weather and rain working on silently through age after age, and in some cases by earthquakes, which have overthrown the precariously-balanced needles and solid blocks of stone. One curious peak, which, though attaining to no great height (9833 feet) is well known owing to its odd form, is the Drei Zinnen or Three Peaks, rising like three pointing fingers of a giant hand. Miss Edwards’ description can hardly be improved upon. She says:
As for the Drei Zinnen, they surpass in boldness and weirdness all the Dolomites of the Ampezzo. Seen through an opening between two wooded hills, they rise abruptly from behind the intervening plateau of Monte Piana, as if thrust up from the centre of the earth, like a pair of tusks. No mere description can convey, to even the most apprehensive reader, any correct impression of their outline, their look of intense energy, of upwardness, of bristling irresistible force. Two barren isolated obelisks of pale sulphurous orange-streaked limestone, all shivered into keen scimitar-blades and shark-like teeth toward the summit, they almost defy the pencil and quite defy the pen.
Those who have spent an exhilarating holiday among these enchanting hills will know the freshness of the pure air, the stillness of the vast solitudes—home of the eagle and chamois—also the comfort of the rude huts provided by the Alpine Club, where one may shelter and find warmth and food, paying as he deems right; they will remember days spent on the glittering glaciers with their treacherous slopes, in view of the ever-changing ever-new outlines of the tempestuous peaks in their grotesque formations. No place on earth will ever draw them back as does the Dolomites, no other can evoke quite the same sensations as when they gaze on those startling contours or catch their breath to see the fiery glow rising over a foreground of blue-black firs.
One of the most important of the later improvements is the Dolomitenstrasse of which the last part was opened in 1909. It leads through beautiful mountain scenery and over three passes from Botzen to Cortina, and thence from Cortina to Falzarego. From Botzen it follows the Brenner road to Kardaun, and then turns into the magnificent gorge of the Eggental which separates the Latemar group from the Rosengarten group. This is now one of the most frequented parts of the Dolomites, with the beautiful blue-green lake of Karer, over which the Latemar towers with its slender peaks. The road ascends over the green Alps of the Karer Pass. There are large hotels in all these places now, and the Tyrolean red wine, at about twopence for a half-pint, is served in them, also home-brewed beer as well as the familiar Munich or Pilsener.