CHAPTER IV.

THE PEAKS AND PASSES OF VAL MASINO (continued).

---

---

CHIAREGGIO—PASSO DI MELLO—PASSO DI BONDO—CIMA DEL LARGO—VAL MASINO—PUNTA TRUBINESCA—MONTE DELLA DISGRAZIA—THE APPROACH TO SONDRIO—A REPLY.

The following year found me in company with Mr. Tuckett, at the head of the western branch of Val Malenco, the valley on the south of the central mass of the Bernina. Our original companions in a campaign, one of the most rapid and brilliant ever planned by our indefatigable leader, had gradually left us to seek the inglorious repose of England or Italy. Their place, however, had been partially filled by H. Buxton, a recruit, but not a raw one; and for guides we were amply provided with François, Peter Michel, and Walther of Pontresina.

The dingy house next the chapel serves as the inn of Chiareggio. Its sole tenant in 1865 was a universal old man, who was a sort of epitomised 'service;' cook, waiter, chambermaid, and host all in one. The resources of his establishment were limited, the cutlery was of the Bronze, and the bread of the Stone period; but the kitchen produced a sort of 'soupe maigre' which sufficed, with the aid of our provisions, to ward off starvation.

Before us stretched a wide semicircle of rock and ice extending from the Muretto Pass on the north to the Monte della Disgrazia on the south. In the centre of the bay stood Monte Sissone. Above the glaciers which poured down valleywards in two principal streams, rose a continuous rock-rampart, impassable so far as we could judge to the right of Monte Sissone, and formidable everywhere. The glacier difficulties we were not afraid of; the question to be decided was whether this final wall could be scaled.

At the point where the valley forks we left the Muretto path, and turned towards the west. A bright ice-stream, having its source under the highest crest of the Disgrazia, as splendid a mountain as any in the Swiss Alps, poured down to our feet. On our right the glacier from Monte Sissone stopped short at the top of a slope of loose rubbish. We soon reached the foot of the long broken staircase. The chasms and towers on either hand were on a noble scale, but, as is often the case, it was possible to turn each in succession by a course of judicious zigzags. After threading our way through the steepest labyrinth we came to the upper region of half-formed ice, where deep continuous trenches cease, and huge icicle-fringed pits—gaping monsters easily avoided—take their place. Mounting steadily toward the Disgrazia and along the base of the rock-wall, we drew near the point of attack already selected. Here a steep snow-bed lay to a certain height against the rocks. Immediately above they were perpendicular, but across their face a ledge, slanting upwards, promised to give access to a part of the cliff on our left where the crags were more broken and practicable. Our pathway soon grew narrow. There was, however, only one troublesome corner, but this happened to be exactly where the meltings of an upper snow-bed poured over on us in an icy stream. The shower-bath did not cool our impatience during the moments we had to wait for one another. This corner turned, a short steep slope of snow and rock led to the crest, a pile of enormous boulders, whence on the further side we looked down on a gently sloping snow-field falling towards the Val di Mello. Over our heads towered a monstrous wall of granite, suddenly breaking off above the pass. Immense wedge-like blocks, supported only at one end, jutted out into the air like the stones of some ruined temple, ever it would seem on the point to fall, yet enduring for centuries.[18] When we set out to descend the snow-field was soon crossed, to a point where it fell away in a steep bank. We cut a few steps, and then glissaded down to a moraine. While unbuckling belts a sudden crash made us look back. A huge boulder was dancing down the slope in our footsteps, pursued by a bevy of smaller followers. The very few stones that were lying at the bottom proved this to be an unusual channel for such missiles. We were just out of range, but a delay of five minutes would have exposed us to a serious risk in a place to all appearance absolutely safe.

Our path now lay across the stony tract which encircles the small glaciers of Val di Mello until we gained the edge of the upper alp, where the collected streams make a deep plunge into the glen below. Here we all separated, Buxton and I descending at once with the water, and Tuckett following the proper path away to the right; Buxton luckily hit a track, and got down without difficulty, but I, less fortunate, took a course on the left side of the waterfall. Swinging myself down the steep hillside by the strong arms of the creeping pines, I was little more than 200 feet above the floor of the glen, when I was suddenly brought to a standstill by an abrupt crag. It was fortunately possible to scramble down to the lowest ledge, and then drop down the last few feet on to the elastic bed of dwarf pines below. The little bag which contained all my wardrobe was an impediment to the close union of my body and the rock which seemed expedient, and I flung it down before me. When I had more slowly followed, the bag was nowhere to be seen; half-an-hour's search was fruitless, and I began to fear lest my companions should become alarmed at my delay. I was now within 250 feet of the valley, and, seeing my way for more than half the short space, had no thought of a further difficulty. But after a few steps I found myself on the brink of a cliff, not very lofty, but still high enough to break one's neck over, and too smooth to allow any hope of a direct descent. For a moment return, which meant a circuit of two hours, seemed inevitable. But a careful study of the rocks on my left showed a sort of slanting groove or gallery running across their face, of which it might be possible to take advantage.

In order to reach this loophole of escape a crag of awkwardly smooth surface had to be crossed, and it was clearly desirable to use every natural means of adhesion. I dropped my ice-axe, and the force with which it rebounded from its first contact with the ground, gave its owner a serious warning to follow in some less abrupt manner. Foothold soon failed, but not before I was within reach of the groove, or flaw in the cliff-structure, just mentioned. How best to profit by its advantages was now the question. Wedging myself into it as far as might be, I pressed with my back and elbows against the lower rock, and with my hands against the overhanging upper lip. My knees and heels formed a second point of support, and by retaining one part of my body always fixed I wormed myself along slowly, but with perfect security. At last the smooth cliff was turned, and it was easy to descend into the glen.

A copious spring burst out of the rocks just where I first touched level ground. I quenched at it the intense thirst produced by the excitement of the solitary climb, picked up my axe, and then hastened onwards, desirous as soon as possible to rejoin my companions, and relieve whatever anxiety they might feel on my behalf. A needless exertion, for on approaching the châlets of La Rasica I saw a cluster of grey forms prostrate in various attitudes on the turf, while a pile of emptied bowls beside them showed the nature of the beverage by which the Circe of the châlet had wrapt them in forgetfulness.

Beyond La Rasica I was treading in my last year's footsteps. Val di Mello, the name by which the eastern head of Val Masino is distinguished, is one of the most savage mountain recesses in this part of the Alps. The highest peaks of the district do not themselves rise immediately out of it, but their granite buttresses are so bold that grandeur is the last element the scenery could be accused of wanting. It does, to me at least, want something, and on contrasting it with two other valleys of similar formation the missing element is easily recognisable. Utter wildness fails to satisfy, and savage crags lose half their beauty when they no longer tower above grassy lawns and out of rich woods of pine, or better still, of glossy chestnuts. Val Bondasca, the Val di Genova under the Presanella, and Val Bavona may be taken as good examples of granite scenery in its highest perfection.

We found but little change in the Bagni and their visitors. The doctor and the priest were still playing bowls, the bell was still ringing, and the same waiter was ready to do for us exactly the same things as he had done ten months before. By his aid we succeeded in repeating a good dinner, and, much more remarkable, an early start.

Our object this year was to effect if possible the traditional pass from the Porcellizza Alp to Val Bondasca, which we had missed at the first attempt.

The stream which flows before the door of the bath-house rushes down the cliff a few yards higher up in a noble fall. A steep zigzag of well-made pavé, better to mount than descend, climbs beside the water. Two hours of steady uphill work lead to a grassy basin, in the centre of which stand the châlets of the Porcellizza Alp. A ring of granite peaks hems in the pasturage, and ice fills the gaps between them. The summits themselves are precipitous, but the ground below them is less broken, and the slopes are gentler and greener, than at the head of the other glens in this group. Hence cows take the place of Bergamasque sheep, and the châlet, known as the Alp Mazza, is one of the largest in the neighbourhood.

We fancied our pass must lie at the eastern foot of the Punta Trubinesca. The glacier was smooth and solid, and we had no difficulty in reaching the gap at its head. But the descent on the other side was far from eligible. We found ourselves at the top of an ice-slope at least 1,000 feet high, very steep, and swept by constant discharges of stones. We naturally resolved to look further along the ridge. Turning our backs on the still unconquered and formidable cliffs of the Trubinesca, we at once climbed the snow-slope on our right, and, crossing a rocky spur, gained the head of the glacier adjacent to the one by which we had ascended. Again we inspected the northern slopes, but with like result. The Bondasca Glacier still lay far—very far—below, at the base of a most repulsive gully, down which stones rattled constantly at a pace likely soon to put a stop to all trespassing on their private pathway. Unwilling to face such a cannonade, we again right-faced. It was fortunately possible, and that without much difficulty, to follow the crest of the chain by keeping a little below it on its southern side. In time we reached the spur dividing the second from yet another ice-stream, the largest and most easterly of those that descend towards the Porcellizza Alp. We saw with disgust that we had yet some distance to go, and that over very rough ground, involving a considerable descent, and the passage of a steep ridge, to reach the Passo di Ferro, the point where we had crossed the previous year.

Suddenly Peter Michel, who had unlinked himself, and was exploring above, shouted to us to follow, and in a few minutes we were all standing in a natural doorway in the ridge, some twenty feet deep by five in breadth. The ice of the Bondasca Glacier was here only 250 feet below us, and the cliff looked broken enough to be practicable, so, the guides being in favour of an immediate descent rather than a long and uncertain circuit, we decided we had reached our pass, and behaved accordingly—that is, made ourselves comfortable in niches and enjoyed the view and iced Asti, a beverage which can only be appreciated at over 10,000 feet. While we were reroping, Michel grew oracular, and to a question on the easiness of our route, replied in a formula we had learnt by experience to dread as much as Cleopatra the 'but yet' of the messenger from Antony—'Es geht,—aber.'

The descent of a partially ice-coated cliff is one of the most ticklish parts of a climber's work. But so long as there is any good hold on rock, and the party can proceed directly downwards, there is no danger if the rope is properly used. When it becomes necessary to move diagonally across the face of the mountain the difficulty is much increased, and the rope is not so easily kept taut. Yet there are few places where with sufficient care a slip of any one man may not be checked before it becomes a fall.

In the present instance it was some time before we met with anything to justify Michel's reservation. But about half-way down the rib which had helped us came to an end, and the rocks grew smooth and mixed with ice. To have descended in a straight line would have brought us to the edge of a gaping crevasse; we tended, therefore, continually to the right, where the glacier rose higher against the cliff, and snow bridged the obstructive chasm. Here a long step down, there a longer straddle round was required, and our progress became of the slowest, as prudence often required a majority of the party to be stationary.

After passing one very obnoxious corner, which each pulled himself round, partly by an imperceptible grasp on an invisible handhold, but principally trusting to the support of the rope, we got on easier ground, and, by cutting a few steps, reached at last (in two hours from the pass) the snow-bridged moat. Once on the ice, François was aided by old experience, and steered us through the labyrinth of the Bondasca Glacier without either delay or difficulty.

After leaving the ice we followed the steep path which leads down amongst the creeping pines and underwood on the right side of the valley, to the lower level of Val Bondasca.

Another plunge, this time through chestnuts, brought us to the maize-fields and vine-trellised villages of Val Bregaglia. Neither at Promontogno nor Castasegna was any carriage to be obtained. In order to arrive at Chiavenna we were compelled, ice-axes in hand, to storm the roof of a diligence, where, intrenched among the luggage, we formed a garrison far too formidable for any guard or postillion to dislodge.

In the summer of 1866 I again found myself with my friend Tucker and François Devouassoud, in eastern Switzerland. The passes of Val Masino were accomplished, but its peaks still remained maiden and unassailed. Having added Fluri to our party, we started one afternoon from Pontresina for the old hospice on the top of the Maloya, then a humble inn, now a familiar house of call for the fashionable society of St. Moritz.

The Cima del Largo, the highest peak in the range between Val Bregaglia and Val Masino, was our aim for the morrow. I spare the reader the long and somewhat tedious march over familiar ground to the head of the Forno Glacier. We had started under a cloudless sky, but before we reached the foot of the Largo no 'Cima' was to be seen, only snow-slopes stretching up into the mists. Fortunately we already knew how to attack our peak. From the N. or E. the Cima del Largo presents itself as a bold round tower rising sheerly above the wall on which it stands. As far as its northern base there could, we believed, be little difficulty. Our expectations were fulfilled: steep snow-banks and easy rocks lifted us to the rim of the snowy basin of the Forno. The ridge which divides it from the Albigna Glacier is a narrow comb of granite; we moved along it in the chink between the rocks and snow. A wall of ice suddenly loomed before us through the mist. We had reached the foot of the tower, and the trial of strength was about to begin. The ice was very hard and the slope very steep, and steps seemed to take a long time. At last a patch of rock was gained. We now followed a ridge, sometimes rock, sometimes ice; steps had still to be cut, and we progressed but slowly. Suddenly our leader said, 'C'est assez,' reversed his axe, and stepped out freely for a few paces. We were on the snow-dome which forms the summit of the Cima del Largo.

View there was none; we could see we were on the top, and that was all. But even in the worst of weather the newness of his plaything offers some consolation to the childlike simplicity of the true climber. Comforting ourselves, like Touchstone, with the reflection that the Largo, if, under the circumstances, but 'a poor virgin, an ill-favoured thing,' was at least 'our own,' we adjourned to a sheltered niche in the rocks a few feet below the summit. The atmosphere was tolerably warm and windless, and in our bivouac under the overhanging eaves of the great rocks we were sheltered from the soft, thickly-falling veil of snow which cut us off from the lower world.

If our surroundings might have seemed cheerless, our feelings were by no means so. I never assisted at a more festive meal than that which celebrated the birth of our stoneman.

Fluri was determined to do his best to compensate for the want of view; he was in his highest spirits, pleased with the mountain, the food, the wine-bag, the 'herrschaft,' and last, but not least, with himself. Now Fluri, whether in good or bad spirits, used in any case to be careful to let you know his mental condition. On this occasion he exploded in a series of small but elaborate jokes. First he got into a hole and played marmot. Then he scrambled after a solitary ranunculus (which, strange to say, was blooming at this great height), and pretended not to be able to get back again, wriggling his body absurdly over the easiest rock in the neighbourhood. Nearly an hour must have thus passed, and yet no break in the mist offered to reward us for revisiting the summit. So about 1 P.M. we set out to return. The descent of the ice-wall called for considerable care, as it was necessary to be prepared for a slip, although such an accident might not be very likely to happen. François, who was leading, had to clear out the fresh-fallen snow from our old steps, which were quite effaced. Here Fluri, who in his early period, before he had learnt snowcraft from English mountaineers and foreign guides, showed a morbid dislike to the commonest and most necessary precautions, raised himself greatly in our esteem. Though screaming and howling every variety of jödel the whole time, I never saw him once without the rope taut and his axe firmly anchored in the ice. The rest of the descent was easy enough, and it does not take long to get down snow-slopes. From the foot of the peak we had a long and heavy walk back to the inn on the Maloya. The snow on the glacier was soft and ridgy, and the path beyond sloppy and slippery, and the light snow-flakes changed into heavy rain when we got down again into the lower world. At Maloya we found the car ordered from Silvaplana to meet us. Our day's journey was yet far from its end. There was much still before us that would be wearisome to relate, and was still more wearisome to endure.

How the postmaster at Silvaplana tried to impose on us, how we relaced our sodden boots and tramped through the rain to St. Moritz, how there Badrutt gave us a car which carried us moist and sleepy to Zutz, this is not the place to tell. Enough that we arrived at Zutz in a state of depression which even the scene of revelry by night offered by the 'Schweizerbund,' where we found Swiss warriors absorbed in the task of conducting village maidens through the solemn revolutions of a national variation of the waltz, failed to cheer. It was the last of our trials that no inducement would persuade a Swiss maiden to make our beds.

In the same summer we visited for the third time the Bagni del Masino. We were forced by weather to enter the valley by its proper gate instead of by one of the irregular but more tempting modes of access open to mountaineers.

For the first hour the car-road between the Val Tellina and the Baths runs through a steep and narrow defile. It is not until the village of Cattaeggio, picturesquely imbedded amongst rocks and foliage, and the mouth of Val Sasso Bisolo have been passed, that the valley opens, and the jagged range near the Passo di Ferro comes into sight. Before reaching San Martino the stupendous boulder, known to the peasants as the Sasso di Remeno, is encountered. On near approach it quite maintains its reputation as the largest fallen block in the Alps. Beside the monster lie several more boulders of extraordinary size. On the top of one of them is a kitchen garden approached by a ladder. The snows melt sooner on such an exposed plot, and the goats cannot get at the vegetables.

The object of our return to so recently visited a region was to complete in peaks the work we had already carried out in passes. The problem which on the whole we looked to with most interest was now immediately before us. Mr. Ball had pronounced the Punta Trubinesca, the highest peak west of the Cima del Largo, and the prince of the rocky summits overlooking Val Bondasca, absolutely inaccessible from this side. But from what we had seen the previous year we were inclined to believe that the prophet had for once spoken hastily. The rocks on the southern face of the peak (both south and west faces overlook the Porcellizza Alp) had then seemed to us difficult certainly, but not impossible.

We arrived in good time at the Baths, and soon went to bed, determined to be prepared for the very early start which should give us a fair chance of success in our venture. My disgust may be imagined, therefore, when I awoke next morning to see the sun already shining brightly in at my window, and my watch conspicuously pointing to 6 A.M. What had become of François? Had our guide for the first time in his life fallen a victim to the potent wines of the Val Tellina, or, more unlikely still, deliberately arranged to shirk the formidable Trubinesca?

I hurried at once to seek the defaulter, who was found in a deep slumber, which he justified by the statement that it had rained at 3 A.M. It is difficult to remedy a bad beginning, and our old friend the nocturnal waiter was now of course in his first sleep. Breakfast was not over until past seven, at which unseemly hour we set out with comparatively slender hopes of success. For three hours we followed our old tracks of the Passo di Bondo. As we mounted the green hillsides above the Porcellizza Alp a new plan was suggested—to try the western instead of the southern face of the Trubinesca. This we had never examined, because it was the side seen and pronounced against by Mr. Ball from the Pizzo Porcellizzo.

A smooth cliff some 200 feet high ran round the entire base of the peak, and there was no breach visible. But there was still one spot which we could not clearly see, the head of the glacier we were about to tread. As we mounted the easy banks of ice the secret of the mountain was suddenly revealed. A snow-gully of very moderate slope led up to the ridge between our peak and the Cima di Tschingel. In half-an-hour more the cliff was outflanked, and we were on the crest of the chain looking down an awful precipice into Val Bondasca.

The final ridge alone remained. It rose beside us in a broad slab of granite. But a convenient crack destroyed the difficulty suggested by a first glance. We were now at the foot of the turret so clearly seen from St. Moritz; we turned it by its southern side, and then with our hands in our pockets walked quietly up a broad terrace of mingled rock and snow. The neighbouring peaks had already sunk below us—a smooth shining surface shone between them. One of us exclaimed 'Voilà Como.' François replied, 'Voici le sommet.' It was just midday. Four hours and a half had disposed of the terrible Trubinesca, and added one more to the very lengthy list of Alpine impostors.

The distant panorama was marred by clouds; in its main features it must be a repetition of the lovely western view gained from every high summit of the Bernina group. It is the near prospect, however, which distinguishes the Punta Trubinesca. It can show two sights not to be seen, perhaps, from any other snowy peak, a large portion of Lago di Como, that coyest of Alpine lakes, and what is still more remarkable, the whole course, I may say literally every inch, of both sides of an Alpine carriage-road—Italy and Switzerland in the same glance.

At our very feet lay the forests and villages of Val Bregaglia, Italian chestnuts and white campaniles; amongst them we caught sight of the thin streak of the high-road, which we followed as it climbed corkscrew-fashion above the woods and waterfalls and up to the bleak wind-swept down of the Maloya. Then our eyes accompanied it past the pine-fringed lakes of Sils and Silvaplana, and up again to the bracing heights of St. Moritz, every house in which was distinguishable through the glasses. Lost sight of for a few miles beneath the dip to Samaden, the road reappeared together with a companion thread, the river Inn, and both finally vanished from our view somewhere between Zutz and Zernetz.

The Baths were regained without adventure. And thus this maiden peak, although capable of deceiving the most experienced judges, yielded without a struggle to the first assault. Its reputation has survived its fall, and I saw it lately catalogued in some foreign publication as 'non ancora scalato.'

The very fact, however, which makes my story short and dull, the surprising easiness of the peak, gives it the greater interest for the ordinary traveller. If some of the native hunters will be at the trouble of making themselves familiar with the route, there is no reason whatever why the ascent should not become a frequent excursion from the Baths. The walk is even within the powers of many ladies, and they might ride to within at most three hours of the top. Any one who can appreciate quality as well as quantity in a panorama will be well repaid; those who do not should confine themselves to Piz Languard.

Our descent had been delayed by the state of my friend's knee, which had been suffering from an old sprain, and now refused plainly to do duty for some days to come. It was vexatious enough, for on the next night we were to have slept out for the Disgrazia. But necessity knows nothing of plans, and he resigned himself to return as he had come to Sondrio, while I resolved to make a push for the same place over the mountains, and if possible to climb the Disgrazia by the way.

Soon after midnight François and I set out under a cloudy sky, which gave no sure token as to the day to follow. The now well-known path up Val di Mello was quickly traversed. As we reached La Rasica thin rain began to fall, and François, prophesying evil, suggested a return to San Martino. But the first gleams of day showed the thinness of the clouds, and our faces were again set against the steep hillside which leads to the upper pasturages. Before these were reached the blue face of heaven was everywhere breaking through the mist-veil, and a fine day was assured. Our spirits, hitherto gloomy, rose rapidly. The Passo di Mello was soon left below on the left, and we pressed rapidly up the steep glacier which fills the corner under the Pico della Speranza.[19] The last bank up to the spur dividing us from Val Sasso Bisolo was steep enough to need step-cutting; but we succeeded in avoiding altogether the difficulty described by Mr. Kennedy.[20] We walked across an ordinary snow-slope on to the crest of the Disgrazia at a point somewhat to the south of the lowest gap between the loftier mountain and the Pico della Speranza. My hopes now ran high. The rocks were singularly easy until we came to a broad ice-trough. Steps were cut across this; then we climbed up a steeper rock-rib and over a tooth. Beyond this we came to a second and wider sheet of hard black ice falling away steeply towards the Sasso Bisolo Glacier. François at once set to work cutting steps; when thirty-two had been cut, and three-quarters of an hour had elapsed, we were less than halfway across the ice. All this time a very strong wind was blowing over the ridge; still the steps were good, and the position an ordinary one to mountaineers. It did not even occur to me to feel doubt as to our final success until François turned round for the first time and remarked on the violence of the wind. A few steps further a second observation showed me that my guide entertained doubts in his own mind as to the prudence of persevering in our attempt.

I replied, however, that I was quite happy, and that the steps were excellent. A few more were cut, and then came a third suggestion of retreat. For once in my life I acted on principle, and I have regretted it ever since. François' doubts were not to be wondered at when the moral strain of his unusual position is considered, alone with a 'monsieur' on a cathedral roof of ice. My old friend has a great deal too much imagination to be merely animally brave, and like all the best guides feels acutely the responsibility of his situation. He knew that if I made a false step he might not be able to hold me. This was a good reason for our retreat. He could not feel, as I did, that I had not the slightest disposition to slip; for indeed his work was so good that no one accustomed to ice-steps could possibly have fallen out of the foothold provided.

We decided, therefore, with a sharp pang to give up the peak, which was about half-an-hour distant, and looked ten minutes.

Despite my defeat, I cannot pretend that the Disgrazia is in any way a difficult mountain for any properly constituted party of mountaineers. I have not as yet revenged myself on the peak, but François some years afterwards took two of my friends to the top, and has given me his report. The slope, which we found hard black ice, was then snow, and was very soon disposed of. Twenty minutes more of rough scrambling brought them to the lower tooth reached by Herr Syber-Gysi. The gap between this and the highest peak cost another ten minutes of stiff, but not in the least dangerous, rock climbing. They started from the lower châlets in Val Sasso Bisolo and took six hours in the ascent. I was eight hours (halts included) from the Baths to where I stopped. It is clear, therefore, that active walkers are under no necessity to sleep out for this mountain, but may do it in the day between two comfortable beds. The reputation of difficulty which the Disgrazia has certainly acquired is due partly to its splendid appearance from the Bernina group, still more to the interested exertions of the Pontresina guides, who have not been ashamed to charge the peak in their tariff at 170 francs; 70, as they explain, for the four days' journey, 100 for the dangers of the climb. Now that Italians from Sondrio and hunters of Val Malenco have found their way up together, it is scarcely likely that any traveller in his senses will seek the services of the gentlemen of the Engadine.

The superb view spread out before us might well have diverted our minds even under a more serious disappointment. It was one of the days, frequent in the Alps after unsettled weather, when the air has a brilliancy and transparency so extraordinary that an Englishman rather fancies himself in another planet than within a day or two's journey of his own misty island. It is difficult to believe that you, who now breathe under an enormous arch of sky rising from pillars four hundred miles apart, are the same being whose vision was bounded but last week by a smoke-canopy resting on the chimney-pots of the other side of the square, and who, in home walks, was rather proud of distinguishing a landmark twenty miles off.

Two vertical miles below lay the broad Val Tellina with its towns and fields, nearer was the bare trench of Val Sasso Bisolo; between the two a broad-backed ridge, covered with green pasturage, seemed to offer a delightful path for anyone descending towards Morbegno.

The higher crest cut off only an insignificant portion of the Bergamasque hills. Beyond the nearer ranges, beyond the tossing hill waves of Como and the wide plain, the long level line of the Apennine melted into the glowing sky. The Disgrazia shares the advantage of all the outstanding Italian Alps, of being well within the great semicircle formed by the chain, instead of like the summits of the Bernese Oberland on its outer ring. From Dauphiné to the Bernina every peak was in sight, the whole array of the central Alps raised their silver spears through the inconceivably pure air.

From the foot of the ridge we turned to the left down the broad Sasso Bisolo Glacier, descending caverned slopes the concealed treachery of which was, in truth, far more dangerous than the open terrors of the upper crest. Two climbers may safely attack many peaks, but it is undoubtedly wrong for so small a party to venture on any snow-covered glacier. By wrong in matters of mountain-climbing I mean anything which excludes the element of skill in that noble sport, and tends to convert it into mere gambling with hidden forms of death such as the ice-pit or the avalanche. Immediately under the face of the peak we struck the base of the high rocky spur which runs out from it to the south-west. A steep scramble (twenty minutes) brought us to a gap, where we rested awhile to admire the exquisite view of the Zermatt range.[21] On the further side we slid down a hard snow-bed which had very nearly succeeded in developing itself into a glacier, and found ourselves in a desolate hollow, the stream of which forces a way out into Val Torreggio, one of the lower branches of Val Malenco.

The descent lies at first through a narrow funnel between richly-coloured cliffs. The granite has now come to an end, and sharp edges of slate and serpentine crop up against it. A green and level upland valley soon opens before the eyes, watered by an abundance of sparkling fountains which spring up beneath every stone. Here a path gradually asserts itself and leads to a group of châlets. The descent into the depths of Val Malenco is long, but pleasant. Although the high peaks of the Bernina are concealed by lower spurs, the way abounds in charming vignettes of wood and water and warm hillsides.

At Torre we had to wait some time for the carriage sent up to meet us from Sondrio. As we sat by the wayside the village priest joined us. When he learnt that we had come straight over the mountains from the 'Bagni' his astonishment knew no bounds, and he seemed to doubt whether we were not something more or less than natural and wingless human beings.

Our evening drive was swift and exciting. An impetuous horse whirled us down a steep vine-clad hill, rounding the zigzags at a pace which made perils by mountains sink into insignificance compared to the perils by road. Near a beautiful waterfall tumbling from the opposite hills, the Malero was leapt by a bold arch, and for some time we ran along a terrace, high above the strong glacier torrent.

From the last brow overlooking the Val Tellina the eye rests on one of those wonderful landscapes which tell the southward-bound traveller that he has reached his goal and is at last in Italy.

The great barrier is crossed, and the North is all behind us. The face of the earth, nay the very nature of the air, has changed, colours have a new depth, shadows a new sharpness. From the deep-green carpet of the smooth valley to the crowns of the sunset-flushed hills, all is wealth and luxuriance. No more pines stand stiff in regimental ranks to resist the assaults of winter and rough weather. No mountain rhododendrons collect all their strength in a few tough short shoots, and push themselves forward like hardy skirmishers of the vegetable world into the very abode of snow. Here the 'green things of the earth' are all at home and at peace, not as in some high Graubunden valley waging unequal war in an enemy's country. The beeches cluster in friendly companies on the hills. The chestnut-forest rejoicing in a green old age spreads out into the kindly air broad, glossy branches, the vines toss their long arms here and there in sheer exuberance of life. Even on the roadside wall the lizards run in and out amongst beds of cyclamen and tenderest ferns and mosses. The hills seem to stand back and leave room for the sunshine; and the broad, shining town of Sondrio, girt by towers and villas, wears, after the poor hamlets of the mountains, a stately air, as if humanity too shared in the general well-being.

It is one of the peculiar privileges of the Alpine traveller to enjoy, if he pleases, the choicest luxury of travel, a descent into Italy, half-a-dozen times in the space of one short summer holiday.

We drove down through vineyards and past a large villa and church, and through a narrow Via Garibaldi into a Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele. The south side of the square was formed by the hotel, an imposing building which contains within its walls the post and diligence offices. The windows command a view up Val Malenco, terminated by the twin peaks of the Schwestern, which appear from this side as two rocky teeth, hardly to be recognised as the pure snow-cones which look in at every window at Pontresina.

I have now, I hope, given an account of the mountains of Val Masino, which, though far from complete, may suffice to aid mountaineers who wish to visit them, and to direct attention to some of the most enjoyable expeditions within their limits. But, as I put aside the various pamphlets from which I have tried to add to my own information on this group, I notice that a worthy Herr Professor has remarked on the first ascent of the Disgrazia, that it was 'wholly devoid of scientific interest and results.' I fancy my learned friend preparing to lay down this holiday chronicle with a similar shrug of the shoulders; and I feel indisposed to allow him his criticism until he has first submitted it to be examined in detail, and listened to what may be urged on the other side.

'The Alps,' that shrug seems to say, 'are not a playground for idle boys, but a store-room full of puzzles; and it is only on the understanding that you will set to work to dissect one of these that you can be allowed to enter. You have free leave to look on them, according to your taste, as an herbarium, or as a geological, or even an entomological museum, but they must be treated, and treated only, as a laboratory. The belief that the noblest use of mountains is to serve as a refectory at once mental and physical for an overworked generation, that—

is a poetical delusion unworthy of the philosopher who penned the lines. You must not come here to climb for mere health, or to indulge a sensual love of the beautiful, or, still worse, that brutelike physical energy which may be more harmlessly exhausted in persecuting foxes or trampling turnips. Μηδεὶς ἀγεωμέτρητος εἰσίτω. Come with a measuring rod or not at all.'

So far our critic. In his anxiety to claim on behalf of science exclusive dominion over the mountains, he forgets that all great works of nature are not only monuments of past changes but also living influences. The physical history of our globe is a study the importance of which no one at the present day is likely to disallow. Because we refuse to look on mountains simply as so much historical evidence, we of the Alpine Club do not by any means, as has been frequently suggested, range ourselves amongst the Philistines. We listen with the greatest interest to the men of genius whose mission it is to interpret the hieroglyphics of the temple in which we only worship. But we do not all of us recognise it as our duty to try to imitate their researches. Nor would the wiser of them wish for imitation from an incompetent herd of dabblers, who, however much they might gratify individual vanity, would advance the general sum of knowledge about as much as an ordinary amateur sketchbook does art.

Is it always better for a man, when acres of red rhododendron are in full bloom around him, and the insects are filling the air with a delicious murmur, to be engrossed body and soul in poking about for some rare plant or impaling an unfortunate beetle? When two hundred miles of mountain and plain, lake and river, cornland and forest, are spread out before the eyes, ought one to be remembering that 'justification' depends on ascertaining whether the back is resting on granite or feldspathic gneiss?

The preposterous pretension that no one is 'justified' (it is the favourite word) in drinking in mountain glory in its highest forms unless he brings as a passport a profession of research, cannot be too strongly denounced. To require from every Alpine climber some show of a scientific object would be to preoccupy men's minds at the moment when they should, and would otherwise, be most open to enlarging influences; it would in many cases be to throw away moral advantages and to encourage egotism, vanity, and humbug.

An obvious comparison may perhaps render more clear the relative positions of the simple lover of the Alps and the scientific dabbler. Rome is almost as universal a goal of modern travel as Switzerland. There also is a great history to be studied, on many of the problems of which investigation of the ground we tread may throw light.

The world listens with eager attention to anyone who has the requisite training to study such problems with profit, who can tell us what rude remains may be of the time of the Kings, can distinguish between the work of the Republic and the Empire. And amongst the galleries we are glad to meet those who can trace the progress of art and analyse a great picture so as to show the elements drawn from earlier masters which have been crowned and immortalised by the genius of Raphael or Michael Angelo.

But who ever ventured to assert that Rome was the peculiar heritage of the archæologist or the art critic? that the pathetic strength of its world-centring ruins or the glorious beauty of its frescoed palaces was reserved for the few who can explain, or make guesses at, how these things grew, and forbidden to the many who can only appreciate their present charm?

The Alps, we hold, like Rome, are for everyone who has a soul capable of enjoying them. They have been given us by right of birth for the recreation of our minds and bodies, and we refuse to hand over the key of our playground or to accept the tickets of admission which are so condescendingly offered. If anybody—even if a scientific body—calls after us as we pass along the mountain-path, we shall return no other answer than the very sufficient one made under similar circumstances by the hero of Mr. Longfellow's popular ballad. And if, like that unhappy young man, we are doomed to perish in our attempt, I do not fancy our last moments will be seriously embittered by the absence of such consolations as a barometer or a spirit-level might have afforded.

CHAPTER V.

EAST OF THE BERNINA.

TARASP AND THE LIVIGNO DISTRICT.

---

---

THE PRÄTIGAU—VERSTANKLA THOR—TARASP—PIZ PISOC—PASSO DEL DIAVEL—LIVIGNO—MONTE ZEMBRASCA—PASSO DI DOSDÈ—VAL GROSINA.

In the last two chapters I have sketched a route from the highway of traffic and tourists—the Rhine valley—to the Italian Alps, passing to the west of the crowded roads which lead to the Upper Engadine. My design now is to point out a similar track lying to the east both of the Julier and the Albula, which by means of variations may be made equally available either for the foot or carriage traveller.

Our starting-point is the station of Landquart, some miles beyond Ragatz and short of Chur, and opposite the opening of the long, deep Prätigau.

Above the gorge which secludes this side valley from the Rheinthal a car-track mounts to Seewis, an upland village with 'Pensions,' frequented in summer by Swiss guests, whence the ascent of the Scesa Plana, an isolated block commanding a wide panorama, and enclosing in its recesses a large mountain lake—the Luner See—is often made.

This frontier valley rivals as a specimen of Swiss pastoral scenery the more famous spots in Canton Bern. Its villages, surrounded by fat, wide-spreading meadows of the brightest green, and overshadowed by noble walnuts, wear on the outside an air of long peace and prosperity. The interiors do not contradict the first impression. In the wayside inns one finds rich brown panelled walls decorated here and there with armorial bearings, old mirrors and carved presses. Mountainous stoves tower in peak form to the ceiling, and are cased in tiles, each of which represents some Scripture scene in a style often remarkable both for vigour and humour.

After twenty-four miles of tolerably continuous ascent the road reaches the upper expanse of the Prätigau and the scattered hamlets of Klosters. The scenery is of a character more common in Tyrol than Switzerland. Although it does not awe by sublimity or enchant by richness and variety, it is yet thoroughly Alpine.

Behind a foreground of level meadows and green but bold hillsides the glaciers and snow-peaks shine modestly but invitingly in the distance. They are not, as in the Bernese Oberland, magnificently rampant intruders on the pasturages, but quiet, stream-nursing benefactors, whose acquaintance is never forced on you, and must be sought out with some trouble.

Consequently the charm of such valleys is a self-contained peacefulness; and a troop of cows rather than a herd of chamois represents the animal life in harmony with their sentiment.

At the bridge of Klosters, in 1866, my companion deserted me for England. Francis and I wanted to turn south again to the Engadine, and we determined to take a glance by the way at the retiring beauties of the Silvretta Ferner. This considerable glacier group, scarcely known to Englishmen, runs parallel to the Lower Engadine, separating that valley from the Tyrolese Montafun and Paznaun Thal, and abutting at its western end against the head of the Prätigau. The Swiss Alpine Club made it one year the scene of their summer excursion, and have conquered most of its peaks and passes. At their instigation a hut has been built four and a half hours from Klosters, close to the glaciers, and there we intended to pass the night.

A new inn and pension was just opened on the left bank of the stream, and I did not long remain without society in the salon. First appeared an invalid from the Baths of Serneus, who speedily broke down my German by preferring to talk of war-politics rather than of mountains. Next came a gentleman from Chur bound for Davos, who puzzled me still more by launching into what he gave me to understand was English. Last of all the local guide turned up, armed with testimonials from the Swiss Alpine Club, and aghast at the notion of any traveller crossing the glaciers without his aid. Finding the native willing to accompany us on very moderate terms, and being one too few for a glacier pass, we readily agreed to take him.

Above Klosters the path is level for some distance, and leads through thick woods rich in ferns and flowers. After passing the mouth of the Vereina Thal the forest grew thinner and we reached the châlets of the Sardasca Alp, standing at the true head of the valley on a level meadow where several streams poured down to form the Landquart. A steep hillside was now climbed by sharp zigzags; then, a stream and track leading to an easy pass into the Fermont Thal having been left, the path wound along the hillside until it met the water flowing from the great Silvretta Glacier.

A short distance higher a pole was conspicuously fixed on a large boulder, and a few yards further back we found the hut in a sheltered hollow scarcely 300 yards from the end of the glacier. It was sufficiently large and proof against wind and rain, as we had afterwards good reason to know; but the furniture was scanty and in bad repair. Two benches and a hay-bed were all we found, and there was no stove.

However, this did not matter much for the night. But before we went to sleep the wind had begun to howl, and next morning when we opened the door a great, white gust rushed in, and all without was a seething mist alive with snow-flakes.

Unless we decided to return, there was nothing for it but to make our provisions hold out by submitting to an orthodox 'Vendredi Maigre,' and to amuse ourselves as best we could by toasting cheese and carving wood. Fortunately an inkbottle was discovered which materially alleviated our position. I have heard under similar circumstances of a chess-board being constructed by means of a lead pencil, and the game played with pieces of black bread and cheese appropriately carved; but two are required for this diversion.

About midday we made a hopeless and rather feeble 'sortie,' which the snow-storm speedily repulsed. Two peasants who had brought up wood for the hut paid us a visit in the course of the day, and a stray cow-boy dropped in later for an afternoon call.

To our great delight Saturday, though still cloudy, promised better weather, and we left our prison at 5 A.M. and soon reached the broad ridge of rocks separating the Silvretta and Verstankla Glaciers. It was not our intention to cross the Silvretta Pass, but to find a shorter way to the Engadine through the gap at the head of the Verstankla Glacier, and to descend by the Tiatscha ice-fall[22] into Val Lavinuoz—a course which we did not believe to have been previously taken.

Substitute the Cimes Blanches for the Silvretta Pass, the short cut from Zermatt to Breuil near the Matterhorn for the pass we aimed at, and the Val d' Aosta for the Lower Engadine, and anyone who knows the Zermatt district will understand the relation of the two routes. Only of course the lateral glens of the Lower Engadine are much shorter than the side valleys of Val d' Aosta.

The Verstankla Glacier lies lower than the Silvretta, and to avoid a descent we kept on the spur between them to the point where it was buried by an ice-cascade overflowing from the larger to the smaller flood. We crossed the fall diagonally, and found ourselves in an upper basin of snow, and close to a narrow gap between the splendid crags of the Schwarzhorn and the far lower Gletscherkammhorn. This was our Pass, the Verstankla Thor, already christened but not crossed by Swiss climbers. The view was limited, but wonderfully snowy; on every side stretched broad, white glaciers and dark snow-powdered rocks, and on the south Piz Linard stood up, a bold, isolated pyramid against the blue sky.

We soon reached the spot where the glacier first plunges towards Val Lavinuoz in an ice-fall which in 1865 had turned back Herr Weilenmann, one of the best climbers in the Swiss Club. It made an attempt, at least, to frighten us. We had not reached the open crevasses when François, who was leading, suddenly disappeared like a sprite in a pantomime. There was no great shock given to the rope, but a considerable one to the feelings of the Klosters guide. François had lighted on a ledge, and after popping up his head for a moment to reassure us, withdrew it again down the trapdoor to look for the pipe which had been knocked out of his mouth by the fall. The treasure recovered, our leader was helped out of his hole and we went on. An incident like this, trivial as it is in fact and in telling, is so only because the rope is used, and properly used; had we been unattached, or walking too near one another, the consequences might easily have been very different. If any Alpine novice wishes to learn how to have and to describe moments of 'intensivsten Schrecken' he may turn to Herr Weilenmann's 'Aus der Firnenwelt,' and read how, on almost the same spot, the Swiss climber, walking with the rope in his hand instead of round his waist, nearly lost his life.

We found a fairly easy way through some fine snow-castles and ice-labyrinths to the rocks on the eastern side of the fall. The cliffs close to the glacier are precipitous, but a commodious ledge leads round to some beds of avalanche snow, down which it is easy to glissade. The lower glacier is smooth, and below its end we had a very pleasant walk down Val Lavinuoz, with views of the noble mass of Piz Linard immediately overhead. The glen soon opened, at Lavin, on the high-road of the Lower Engadine, which we reached in 4½ hours' walking from the hut—so that our short cut is not liable to the charge, usually brought against Alpine short cuts, of being considerably longer than the ordinary road.

Lavin, in 1869, suffered the usual fate of Engadine villages, by being burnt to the ground. It is consequently a new hamlet, with substantial, stone-built cottages and broad expanses of whitewash. In their passion for whiteness and cleanness, fresh paint and bright flowers, and, I may add, in a certain slow persistency of character, the eastern Swiss seem to me the Dutch of the mountains. The neighbourhood of Piz Linard makes Lavin a desirable resting-place for climbers. Horses can be taken for three hours in the ascent, and a path has, I believe, been made up to the last rocks.[23] This taller rival of Piz Languard deserves more attention from strangers than it has yet received.

But the ordinary tourist will hasten on until he reaches the great bathing-place of the Lower Engadine, which, if it has not yet equalled St. Moritz in popularity, is only behindhand because in the present generation there are more Hamlets than Falstaffs, more nervous and excitable than fat natures, and consequently a greater call for iron than for saline waters.

The Baths of Tarasp are so named from the commune in which they are situated. Between Tarasp and Schuls, on the verge of Switzerland and within a few miles of the Austrian frontier at Martinsbruck, a number of mineral springs issue from the ground on both sides of the Inn. Their properties are various, but the most in repute with patients are of a strongly saline character. Of late years a large bath-house—the largest in Switzerland, as advertisements continually inform us—has been built near to the principal sources.

The first disease on the long list prepared by the local doctor of those likely to be benefited by a course of the waters is 'general fattiness.' Hither, accordingly, from the furthest parts of Germany, and even from Spain and Denmark, repair a crowd of patients to seek relief from the bonds of the corpulency to which nature or their own appetites have condemned them.

In short, if St. Moritz is, as Mr. Stephen thinks, the limbo of Switzerland set apart for the world—that is, for kings, millionaires and people who travel with couriers—Tarasp is its purgatory, providentially created for the class whom the flesh has rendered unfit for such Alpine paradises as Grindelwald, or even Pontresina.

The bath-house, planted as it is beside the river at the bottom of a steep-sided trench, in a position very like a deep railway cutting, is never, I think, likely to become a favourite resort of mountaineers. It is difficult even to feel mountain enthusiasm in an establishment tenanted chiefly by invalids or Italians whose walks are limited to the extent of their own bowl's throw. The social atmosphere of the place is, as might be expected, utterly unalpine. The use of guides is unknown, as excursions are habitually undertaken in carriages and have villages for their object; riding-horses for ladies are a rare luxury, and their owners attempt to bargain that they shall never be taken off the car-roads of the valley.

It is only fair, however, to say that travellers need not stay at the Baths. They have the choice of two neighbouring villages, at both of which inns have sprung up of late years. Neither of these situations, however, struck me as attractive. Schuls, on the left bank of the Inn, lies on a bare hillside at a considerable distance from the commencement of all the pleasantest walks; while the pensions at Vulpera, although better placed for excursions, look straight on to the dreary slopes behind Schuls, a prospect to which eyes accustomed to other Alpine scenery will scarcely reconcile themselves.

The neighbourhood of Tarasp is not, however, so wholly ugly as appears probable to the traveller who arrives at the bath-house by the high-road. The slopes on the northern side of the valley remain, it is true, from whatever point they are seen, amongst the most naked and featureless in the Alps, and the knobs which crown the lower spurs of the Silvretta Ferner can only by an extreme stretch of courtesy be called peaks. But the natural features of the country on the opposite bank of the Inn are far bolder and more varied. There the ground rises above the river in a succession of wooded banks and grassy terraces, cut by the deep ravines of torrents issuing from wild lateral glens. Copses of birch and fragrant pine-woods afford shelter to a host of rare ferns and wild flowers, while the sides of the path are garlanded with dog-roses blooming with a profusion and brilliancy peculiar to the spot.

On the lowest and broadest of the meadow-shelves or terraces stands the hamlet and castle of Tarasp; the latter a whitewashed building perched on a rocky knoll, and mirrored in a shallow tarn. Seen from a certain distance, it forms a picturesque element in the foreground. From this point, where an hotel ought to be built, a charming forest-path follows the right bank of the Inn to Steinhaus, and numerous sledge-tracks, commanding fine views of the stern limestone peaks which encircle the entrance to the Scarl Thal, lead to upper shelves of the mountain.

The Piz Pisoc, Piz St. Jon, and Piz Lischanna, are in their own way really fine objects, challenging, of course, no comparison with the snow-clad giants of the Upper Engadine, but rather recalling to mind some of the wilder and least beautiful portions of the Venetian Alps.

Piz Lischanna is easy of ascent, and nourishes a glacier oddly described in 'Bradshaw' as 'the finest of the higher glaciers of Switzerland.' It is in fact a broad ice-lake which rests sluggishly on its uplifted limestone platform, and, finding sufficient difficulty to maintain existence where it is, has not energy enough to make a push for the valley. A slight increase of temperature—say to the climate of Primiero—would melt its masses and lay bare the rocky bed.

Piz Pisoc, the highest of the group, enjoyed for long a local reputation for inaccessibility, until, in 1865, Fluri took the trouble to come down from Pontresina, and, untroubled with any impediment in the way of 'herrschaft,' but with for companion a young native of Schuls, who has since left the country, planted a flag on the summit. This is not the only first ascent that has been made by Pontresina men on their own account: two of them repeated the unusual proceeding afterwards on Piz d' Aela near Bergun. One ought to be glad, I suppose, to see such evidence of a genuine love of sport in a class sometimes represented as the unwilling victims of foreign gold. But to the Alpine clubman such conduct looks a little like the gamekeeper turning poacher, and selecting moreover the moment when his employer's game is nearly exhausted to go out by himself and shoot off the few remaining pheasants. And the mountaineer recollects further as an aggravation of the offence that maiden peaks cannot like pheasants be bred in the farmyard or sent down by the morning express from town. Fortunately for the Engadiners they are not subject to the jurisdiction of a bench of climbing county magistrates. From their own countrymen they have nothing to fear. Swiss 'Klubists' do not seem to find the point or interest of a 'first' ascent seriously diminished by the fact that their guides have made it beforehand; and as the guides of Pontresina have never got on particularly well with our countrymen they are quite right, perhaps, even from a professional point of view, in their practice.

Fluri furnished some details of his ascent for Herr Tschudi's 'Schweizerführer;' and, I presume, it was on the same authority that in the new Grisons guide-tariff the mountain is described as 'schwierig,' and taxed at 30 francs a guide. No one had followed the two Engadiners until, in 1870, I climbed the peak in company with François Devouassoud. Our experiences, both as to the length and difficulty of the expedition, differed considerably from those of our predecessors, who probably did not hit off the best way. The following directions will, I think, be found useful by future climbers:—Turn off the road leading from Vulpera to Schloss Tarasp by a cart-track, mounting steeply at first, and then traversing meadows to the entrance of Val Zuort. At the corner take the higher of two paths, following a watercourse until it reaches the stream. Cross and ascend by an ill-marked track, which soon fails, and leaves you to find your own way through rhododendron bushes and over stony slopes beside the rocky barrier closing the glen. Climb the bank of snow above the barrier to the level of the Zuort Glacier. A large snow-filled cleft now opens among the rocks on the left, offering an unexpectedly easy means of surmounting the lower cliffs of Piz Pisoc. Ascend this gully for some distance, until, above a slight bend in its direction a recess is seen on the left, with a small bed of snow in it divided from the great snow-slope by a bank of shale.

This spot is the gate of the mountain. A short sharp scramble places one on the rocks above the small snow-bed, and there is no further difficulty in climbing straight up them towards the gap at the northern base of the final peak. A few yards only before reaching it, turn sharply to the right, and, by keeping below the ridge and choosing with some care the easiest spots at which to pass a succession of low cliffs, the summit will soon be gained. The blindness and intricacy of the route form the only difficulty. If the right course is hit off, there is no hard climbing on the mountain, but the general steepness and abominably loose nature of its stony slopes render mountaineering experience or a good guide essential.

Of the panorama as a whole I saw, and therefore can say, nothing. The near view has a strong character of its own. The cornfields and white villages of the Engadine enhance by contrast the savage effect of the wild limestone crags and gloomy glens which surround the peak on every side but the north. The drop from our feet on to the path which threads the defile of the Scarl Thal was absolutely terrific, and the precipices did not appear less tremendous when I looked up at them afterwards from their base.

The return to Tarasp may probably be varied without difficulty by turning to the left at the foot of the great gully, and crossing by the gap at the head of Val Zuort into a branch of the Scarl Thal. That valley well repays a visit. There will be found scenery the very reverse of the pastoral landscapes of the Prätigau. If the former is a country for cows, this is the very home for bears, and some of the 'ill-favoured rough things' do in fact still find shelter among the dense thickets of creeping pine which cover every patch of level ground. Not that there are many such patches. The first part of the Scarl Thal is a gorge of the most savage wildness; and if the lower walls are not so unbrokenly perpendicular as in some other Alpine defiles, there are probably few valleys where the peaks on either side stand at so short a distance apart. The face of Piz Pisoc in particular is built up as a whole at an angle of appalling steepness.[24] The path through the gorge is called by courtesy a car-road, but it is barely possible, and not very safe, to drive along it.

From Tarasp to Zernetz is but a short morning's drive through the pleasantest portion of the Swiss Inn valley. The latter village, situated at the junction of the Ofen road with that leading to the Upper Engadine, is the best starting-point for the next stage in our journey.

The country immediately east of the Bernina is an unknown land. Its mountains are worse mapped and less accurately measured than those of many much more remote Alpine districts. To a certain extent it deserves the ordinary fate of mediocrities placed by the side of greatness. Val Livigno and the surrounding glens cannot rival the Bernina or the Orteler. Yet the foot-traveller taking this country on his way southwards discovers much to reward him. He meets with green bowls of pasture cut off from the outer world by miles of pathless defile, wild rock recesses crowded with chamois and famous for bears, dolomitic crags and snowy peaks streaming with glaciers, which, planted in the Pyrenees, would have had long ago an European reputation, further east in Tyrol at least a monograph apiece.

Yet I must repeat that in comparison with most of the ranges here spoken of these mountains are mediocre. Val Masino is pre-eminent for rugged grandeur. Val Maggia blends perfectly strength and grace. Pinzolo contrasts them. The Brenta group, with its horns and pinnacles shooting up above secluded dells, reminds us of fantastic romance, of goblin castles, and woodland fays.

Livigno has at most a quiet charm; the wilder recesses of its mountains are singular and savage rather than noble and majestic. The country suffers scenically from the defect of all the source-valleys of the Inn; its mountains have never been dug out to their foundations, their lower limbs, like those of some half-wrought statue, are still buried out of view.

The ranges between the Bernina and Buffalora roads on the east and west, the Engadine and Val Tellina on the north and south, are, roughly speaking, disposed in three parallel chains, separated by the troughs of Val Viola and Val Livigno. The northernmost of the three ridges is steep-sided and rugged, and the gorge broken through it by the Spöl inaccessible except by circuitous and uneven paths, which render it equal in length and fatigue to the neighbouring passes. The central chain, although the Alpine watershed, sending down on one side waters which ultimately join those of Elbruz in the Black Sea, on the other streams which feed the Adda and the Adriatic, is easy of passage. Hence Livigno has from early times been united to Bormio instead of to the Engadine, and since the surrender of Savoy to France remains the only piece of ground north of the Alps owned by Italy, with one insignificant though interesting exception.[25] The southernmost of the three ridges, that which divides Val Viola from the lower lateral valleys of the Val Tellina, is the loftiest.

It bears on its northern slopes a considerable quantity of snow and ice, and in the Cima di Piazza (11,713 feet) rises into a snow-dome, which but for the immediate neighbourhood of the Orteler group would have before this attracted the attention of English climbers.

Such local traffic as there is through this secluded region follows well-marked lines. It passes along the Livigno valley and over the easy gaps at its head to the Bernina Haüser, or La Rosa; by the trench of the two Val Violas from La Rosa to Bormio; or from Zutz to Bormio, crossing the northern and central ridges by the Casana and the Passo di Foscagno. Those routes have been described in guide-books or by earlier writers.[26] But, as is often the case amongst second-rate peaks and in districts where the main valleys are more or less commonplace, the byways open to a climber are far more interesting than the ordinary traveller is led to expect.

In 1866 I struck out a new way from Zernetz to the Val Tellina, which in three days' very easy walking showed us a great variety of scenery. In the absence outside the Swiss frontier of any trustworthy map, we were very much in the dark as to the best course. Our route therefore is capable of improvement, and I do not fear that anyone in want of a day or two's training will complain of having been persuaded to take this country on his way to the Lombard Alps.

A considerable mass of dolomite crops out in the range which separates the parallel troughs of the Upper Engadine and Val Livigno. The head of Val Cluoza, which opens close to Zernetz, is entirely surrounded by dolomite ridges. This valley, besides being recommended in German guide-books to 'passionate mountain-tourists and friends of characteristically wild Alp scenery,' has the attraction of being one of the few recesses of the Alps where bears are 'at home,' even if they will not always show themselves to visitors, and where chamois can still be seen in herds. When therefore in the summer of 1866 I carried out, in company with my friend Mr. Douglas Walker, an old plan of striking straight across the Livigno district, we naturally decided to pass through Val Cluoza, and make a way across the mountains at its head in the course of our first day's march. At Zernetz we put up, by Jenni's advice, at an inn kept by a certain Filli, well known in the Lower Engadine as a great bear-hunter. The rooms were decorated with highly-coloured sporting pictures, presented to our host by various German and Austrian archdukes whom he had initiated into the mystery of his craft. But the most striking ornament of the house was a specimen of the natives of the wild country we were bent on exploring, in the shape of a huge stuffed bear, six feet high, who, standing up on his hind legs in one corner of the salle-à-manger, threatened us with an hitherto undreamt-of Alpine danger on the morrow.

Our host the bear-slayer was of course consulted on our plans, into which he entered warmly, entertaining no doubt of their being practicable, although he assured us that no Zernetz hunter had ever taken the route we had planned. Being himself unwell, he procured us a strong youth, who knew the footpath up the lower part of Val Cluoza, to act as porter.

The next morning broke grey and showery, and we delayed our start until nearly 7 A.M., when we filed off across the meadows behind the village. The Ofen road is left, and the Spöl crossed by a covered bridge, about half a mile from Zernetz. From this point a cart-track leads up, first amongst underwood, then through a pine-forest, to a brow overlooking the narrow wooded gorge by which the stream of Val Cluoza finds a way into the Spöl. The path through this ravine is a mere hunter's track, overgrown by creeping pines, and almost destroyed in places by torrents and earthslips. As it winds round the frequent gullies, at a great height above the foaming torrent, the views are very striking, whether the eye dips down into the ravine or rests on the opposite mountain side—a mass of broken crag and wood. Close to the stump of an old fir-tree, scored with numerous initials and dates, carved by the hunters of the neighbourhood, the first view of the inner valley is obtained. We saw before us a green glen covered by primeval forests, and destitute of any signs of human habitation. The rugged crags and scanty glacier of Piz Quatervals, the highest crest of this range, rose at its head.

A screen of fir-logs was here raised across the track; this, we were informed by our porter, was a hunter's lair, the situation of which was determined by some herb, esteemed a special delicacy by Bruin, growing close by, and often attracting him to the neighbourhood. About two hours' walking from Zernetz, the path returns to the level of the torrent, and recrosses to its left bank. After roaming on for half an hour through fir-woods, where the trees seemed to decay and fall unheeded, and the moss and lichens hung in long streamers from the boughs, we crossed a small stream flowing from the glacier of Piz Quatervals. Just beyond it we found a hunter's hut, a snug little den built of pine-logs, with the interstices stuffed with moss, and fitted inside with shelves and a bed. The clean solitary cabin, so unlike the usual populous and filthy châlet, the dense pine-woods, the bold bare peaks around, and, above all, the romantic flavour imparted to the whole by the possibility of bears, gave an unusual zest to our midday meal. From this point a mountaineer, not wishing to cross to Livigno, can ascend Piz Quatervals, and descend through Val Trupchum, one of the lateral valleys of the Engadine, to Scanfs or Zutz.[27]

Beyond the hut all definite path ceases. The character of the scenery remains the same as far as the bifurcation, where Val Cluoza splits into two utterly desolate glens, forcibly and appropriately named the Valley of Rocks and the Valley of the Devil. The latter probably offers the shortest way to Livigno; it seems also the wildest and most striking of the two valleys. After the mouth of the Val del Sasso has been passed, the Val del Diavel assumes a savage sublimity in accordance with its name. Huge dolomitic cliffs—not so fantastically broken as this rock often is, but stained with the strangest colours—close in on all sides. In the bottom of the glen vegetation entirely ceases, and the stream itself disappears, buried even in September under the snow avalanches, which, falling in spring from the impending crags, lie unmelted through the summer in these sunless depths. Their hard consolidated surface affords an agreeable path, and enables the explorer to avoid the rough boulders and advance rapidly towards the barrier of mingled rock and snow which closes the view. We had here an encounter with seventeen chamois, who were feeding above us, until, disturbed by our shouts, they scampered off among the wild crags which separated us from Val del Sasso. Only once, in the Graians, had I seen a larger herd; but a meeting with small families of three or four is to the climber a matter of daily occurrence. How far chamois are from being 'nearly extinct,' as newspaper-writers and tourists are apt to believe, may be judged from the following fact. An old man of the name of J. Kung, who died last year at Scanfs, was reported amongst his neighbours to have shot, besides eleven bears and nine great eagles, 1,500 chamois. The larger figure may not be strictly accurate, but its local acceptance bears sufficient witness to the abundance of game which could alone render it credible. The eleven bears I see no reason whatever to doubt. There is no lack of evidence of the presence of these animals, and many stories are current about their depredations. In the year of our visit the following anecdote went the round of the Swiss press:—

A boy living at an alp close to the Passo di Verva came upon a bear in the act of devouring one of his sheep. The young shepherd fell at once upon the animal with his staff, but the bear was quite ready for a round, and our David soon began to get the worst of it. When he ran away the bear came after him. Pressed hard the boy leaped one of the narrow clefts which the streams of this district often burrow through. The pursuer blundered into the chasm and was found dead at the bottom.

Jenni, in getting out his telescope to inspect the herd, had laid down his umbrella, an implement of enormous size and splendid colouring. The Gamp was somehow forgotten, and, unless it has been discovered by some fortunate hunter, probably remains to this day as a monument of our passage. Down the rocky barrier already referred to the stream from a glacier on the nameless summit marked 3,127 mètres on Dufour's map pours in a waterfall. Mounting beside it we found ourselves on the level of an elevated table-land, surrounded by rugged peaks, and resembling, but on a much smaller scale, the interior of the horseshoe of Primiero. At its further extremity was the low ridge in which our pass lay. Advancing over beds of shale and snow, we soon came to the foot of a small glacier, which we crossed, making for the lowest portion of the ridge on the north-west of a tooth of rock which jutted out conspicuously from its centre. A steep bank of snow had to be climbed; this surmounted, our work was done, and we were looking away to the west over the wild ranges which enclose Val Livigno. Deep below us lay the head of Val Viera, ending in an amphitheatre of rock. The descent into it was evidently steep. We found a way at first down shale gullies; then came cliffs, much broken and presenting no serious difficulty, although anyone who missed the right spot to take them might easily get into trouble. Once beside the stream, we followed it closely through the remains of avalanches. Val Viera soon bent abruptly amidst the wildest rock scenery we had lately seen. Quaint red and grey pinnacles of every variety of form rose above; pale, lemon-coloured cliffs, stained by weather and spotted by the dark mouths of caves, shut in the view, while, looking backward, the ridges from which we had descended towered precipitously overhead. We were constantly arrested by the fantastic and perpetually shifting character of the landscape.

At a second bend in the valley, where it turns back sharply to the east, the path makes some ascent; but we encountered no difficulty, and found some amusement in following the stream through a miniature gorge, jumping from bank to bank as occasion required. When the crags retired a little, the path rejoined us, and we met first some cows, then an old woman gathering sticks, who was either dumb or rendered speechless by fright at our sudden appearance. Travellers at Livigno at all are few and far between; and as no human being had probably ever entered the valley by our route, the old crone might well see in us a party of gnomes descending from their rock castles on some errand of mischief.

When the picturesque ravine came suddenly to an end, we emerged without any descent on to the broad meadows of Val Livigno, and, turning a corner, saw the whole of its upper and inhabited portion before us.

The landscape had a distinctive and unusual character. The wide expanse of the valley, its pervading greenness, the scanty fringe of forest, clothing only the lowest hillsides, the glimpses of snow close at hand suggested Norway rather than Italy. Yet nature, if no lavish, seems a kindly friend to the peasantry of Livigno. No rude torrent tears up their elastic turf, no avalanche-track scars the smooth hillsides, no overshadowing mountain raises its bulk between the Diogeneses of the valley and their sunshine. Behind the walls of dolomite which shut them out from the nineteenth century, they spend in their remote tub a quiet and patriarchal existence, of which the news that a mad dog has been seen in a neighbouring valley is the greatest excitement. The total population of the valley is said only to amount to 600 souls. The figure seems small considering the number of houses which dot the broad meadows. But the difficulty is explained when we find that each Livigno farmer shifts his residence two or three times a year according as the crops call for his attention. Half-an-hour's stroll over the softest and smoothest of turf, on which all the croquet clubs in England might find room to practise, brought us to the 'osteria' near the central of the three churches, and just beyond the stream issuing from Val Federia.

Even in its inn Livigno is conservative; that is, averse through habit to all improvements not forced on it from without. The external pressure appears here to be small; at any rate, the cottage which receives strangers is the same now as it was twelve years ago. No daring innovator, fired by the success of the next valley, has tapped a mineral spring or borrowed money to build a guest-house. Nor have the inhabitants as yet succeeded in grasping even the existence of the mountaineering spirit, much less the profits to be gained from it. When we announced our intention of crossing to Val Viola by the head of Val Tressenda, the boy who had engaged to carry our provisions at once demurred to having any part in so perilous an undertaking. He was heartily supported by the patriarchs of the valley, who had gathered to watch our preparations, and now quavered forth a chorus of which 'vedretta' and 'impossibile' formed the refrain. At its conclusion the youth's father stepped forward, and in a solo recitative, illustrated by appropriate gestures, forbad his son to peril his precious life, no matter what the 'signori' might offer for his services. The difficulty was only arranged by our giving a solemn pledge that the boy should not be in any way tempted to enter on the horrible 'vedretta.' On this understanding the parent consented to dismiss him with his blessing and a huge baker's basket in which to stow away our small stock of eatables.

As it turned out, we were not tempted to break our promise, for grass and stone slopes lasted up to the gap we meant to cross. Four hours after leaving the village we had planted our ice-axes in the snow-crest of Monte Zembrasca, one of the highest summits of the range dividing Val Livigno from Val Viola. From this mountain, despite its moderate height—it is several hundred feet lower than Piz Languard—we enjoyed a view more picturesque if less panoramic than the prospect from that now famous belvedere. The peaks on the opposite side of Val Viola surprised us by their fine forms and glaciers. The Cima di Piazza stood up boldly as their leader, a noble mountain which almost persuaded us to change our plans and rush off at once to its assault. West of the green gap of the Passo di Verva rose a cluster of peaks about the head of the Dosdè Glacier, and further distant we recognised the sharp heads of the Teo and Sena, the former crowned by a stoneman of my own building. The whole mass of the Orteler group, from the long zigzags of the Stelvio road to the Gavia, was in sight. In the centre the black, stumpy point of Monte Confinale was conspicuously thrown out against the white snows of the Forno Glacier. Below us lay the two Val Violas separated by broad, rolling pasturages.

The Swiss valley, or Val Viola Poschiavina, had just been the scene of the one active exploit by virtue of which the Swiss forces could claim to have taken part in the campaign of 1866. I tell the story as it was told me.

Irregular troops were fighting on the Stelvio, and there seemed a prospect of the Italians, if worsted, flying for refuge towards Poschiavo. To prevent any violation of Swiss neutrality a considerable force was stationed in the Engadine. Its head-quarters were at Samaden. The large dining-room of the Engadiner Hof was just completed, and it occurred to the inhabitants to celebrate the event by a banquet to their brave officers. But scarcely had everyone sat down when a scout entered with the, at the moment, particularly unpleasant news that a Garibaldian force was advancing from Bormio. There was no help for the officers: they had to saddle and away, taking with them their men, at the greatest speed country carts could carry them.

La Rosa was fortunately reached before the invaders, but the force had scarcely been carefully disposed so as to command the path, when the enemy was caught sight of in the distance. Soon the glitter of steel and the glow of red shirts could be distinguished through the field-glasses: then for a few minutes the advancing band was hidden behind a knoll. When it emerged again there was wrath among the officers and mirth among the men. The supposed bayonets were short scythes, the Garibaldians a party of Italian hay-cutters coming over on their annual visit to the Engadine.

We spent the night near the head of the Val Viola Bormina, in the principal châlet of the Dosdè Alp, a building of unusual size, and boasting a staircase with an upper storey. The 'padrone' of the establishment, a well-to-do native of Bormio, who lived for pleasure on his alp during the summer months, volunteered to accompany us in our attempt to find a direct passage over the Dosdè Glacier into Val Grosina, a neglected but, in size at least, important side-glen of the Val Tellina.

Favoured by a cold morning and hard snow, we reached in little more than two hours the crest close to a little rock-turret conspicuous from our night-quarters. At our feet lay Val Vermolera, one of the heads of Val Grosina, a cheerful expanse of bright green woods and pastures dotted with countless châlets.

Here we left the 'padrone,' greatly satisfied at having acquired a knowledge of what lay behind the horizon of his daily life. Ambition pushed us up to the nearest snow-top on our right, where we were disappointed to find ourselves overlooked by a loftier summit to the west, probably the Corno di Lago Spalmo of the Lombard map. It was separated from us by a deep gap, offering a fine pass to the head of Val Vermolera, which, on the south side, would lead over a glacier unmarked in any map. The summit we had climbed is nameless, and I shall not venture to anticipate the carefully-weighed decision of the painstaking German, who will some day set himself to map and name the peaks, passes, and glaciers of this remote corner.[28]

We soon slid down again to the gap at the eastern base of the turret. A steep rock-wall cut us off from a snow-filled hollow. The difficulty, such as it was, was soon over, and the rest of the descent was only a trial for weak knees. A long hillside like that of the Monte Moro was below us; the whole drop from the pass to the valley must be over 4,000 feet, and the distance is very small. For some time we followed a stream, sometimes sliding down a snow-bed, sometimes stumbling over rocky slopes. On the pasturages we found a track leading eastwards and downwards. As we drew near the level of the valley the scenery became very picturesque. On our right the river of Val Vermolera fell over a rocky shelf in a fine fall. A few yards beyond a stone bridge over a charmingly-wooded ravine we found a shady nook, tempting to a long hour's siesta. It was very warm when we again set forward, but the path was excellent and the valley delightful. After a time, however, the woods came to an end, and we found ourselves amidst shadeless hay-meadows. The way now grew stonier and hotter, and the scenery somewhat monotonous. We were glad to reach a brow, whence we looked down on the Val Tellina. A steep paved zigzag led us through chestnut woods, past a dirty village, then through more chestnuts, fields of Indian corn and vines, all overshadowed by the stern ruins of a mediæval fortress. At last it fell into the straight, white Stelvio road, midway between two campaniles which closed either vista. A few minutes later we entered the shade of Grossotto, a little town gay with new paint and Italian red, white and green, and blessed, at least in our recollections, as the possessor of ripe fruit and Asti at a franc a bottle.