“You will have a glorious day to-morrow for your climb to the Fünf-Seen” (Five-lakes), exclaimed the Doctor. “Look! the Königsberg is quite clear,” pointing to a prominent mountain rising out of a valley to the right, and upon which the sun is setting with a crimson blush.

“But the barometer has fallen considerably,” broke in the manager, who was standing by our side.

“The best barometer we have is the Königsberg,” replied the former, clinging to his pet theory: “and see! there is not an atom of cloud hanging about its ridges anywhere; the barometer can only have fallen for heat, it cannot be for either rain or fog.”

Horses and guides are consequently ordered to be in attendance at 6 A.M., an early start being necessary, as we cannot in any case be home until the evening.

At 6 A.M., however, such is the disappointing habit of mountain regions, nothing is to be seen but dark pines looming through the mist; and as we descend the wooden steps of Villa Sontagh and mount our steeds—whose breath pouring from their nostrils appears so like vapour let off from the safety-valve of a steam-engine, that we expect every moment to hear them whistle—we feel instantly enveloped in a wet sheet.

Everything is moist, murky, and miserable, each hair of our guide’s moustaches and whiskers being furnished with its own particular and peculiar little globule of moisture, as well as those of the provision Träger who follows modestly behind. I observe that we are all so confident of its being fine, “by and by,” that we make no inquiry of our guide concerning the probable state of the weather in the heights, taking the fact of its clearing up quite as a matter of course.

Forcing our way along the narrow pathway under the pine-trees, whose branches, heavy with their weight of moisture, hang their heads and sweep us as we pass, is not however quite so pleasant as it might be; and we are perhaps a thought more silent than is customary with persons starting on a mountaineering expedition. As we proceed, too, our ardour becomes damped together with our clothes. Still we jog on, and try to look hopeful at any rate, if not beaming, which is difficult when you feel the feather of your hat—that once possessed a lovely curl—hanging down behind your neck with a steady drip.

My horse—I give him this appellation for the sake of euphony, for he is a nondescript animal not easy to define—has not only a rough and disagreeable action, but I soon discover that all attempts at guiding him are unavailing. Possessing as he did a mulish desire to go directly contrary to the wishes of his rider, I have to pull persistently with the left rein to insure his going steadily to the right, and vice versâ; and the bit and bridle are evidently an ornamental arrangement, for the only thing he heeds is the voice of his master, who walks some little distance behind, and to which he instantly responds. His master, indeed, talks to him as though he were not only gifted, like Balaam’s ass, with the power of speech, but with understanding of the Zipser patois also—the language spoken in these mountains, a corruption of the German.

“Now then, Minsh”—that being the creature’s name—“look out! see where you are going! mind that hole there! To the right, Minsh! to the right! keep back! don’t go so fast down the hill, the path is steep and stony;” and “Ah! Minsh, dear Minsh, don’t go so near the precipice, or she’ll be over,” were the warning and consoling, not to say complimentary, observations that often reached me from afar.

“Minsh” had also a disagreeable habit of looking at everything he passed; he was a beast of inquiring mind, but the indulgence of that praiseworthy propensity is not always agreeable to the equestrian in localities like the present, where one false step might send both rider and steed tumbling into an abyss below.

“Minsh,” however, was not destitute of good qualities, after all, and moreover possessed a great notion of his own importance, taking good care of himself when the road happened to be dangerous; and looking neither to the right nor the left whenever we chanced to be passing close to precipices, but picking his way right dexterously among the large boulders that often beset our path.

Our little cavalcade is headed by the guide, followed by the Doctor himself, who had volunteered to accompany us. He is clad in an appropriate and becoming costume of drab cloth, with a broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat to match. An ardent sportsman, he carries not only his gun across his shoulder, but his Jägerhorn hangs from his side; whilst in the band which surrounds his hat are stuck various trophies of the chase: a bunch of the long hair of the chamois, sundry black feathers from the coq de bruyère, and a bunch of faded wild flowers, gathered on some previous expedition. Next comes F., looking like a species of lichen with which the pines are enveloped, his dark clothes covered with an infinitesimal number of white particles of a dewy nature. So striking, indeed, is the resemblance that a spider mistakes him for it; and letting itself down by its tiny thread as he passes by, begins forthwith spinning a splendid specimen of cobweb on his hat. Then comes your humble servant, the chronicler of these annals, looking much the same; whilst last, but by no means least, comes the provision Träger, who brings up the rear.

“It is a good sign when cobwebs are seen,” remarked the sanguine Doctor, not alluding to the patient little weaver still diligently plying his art in F.’s wide-awake, but to the number of webs clinging to the trees above our heads.

But in spite of these auspicious indications, and the predictions of the Königsberg of the previous evening, the weather does not improve. We look up, but the mist comes down and hangs about the pines like wreaths of smoke.

In half an hour’s time we reach a pretty little wooden hut or “refuge,” close to our pathway, called the Rosa-Schutzhütte, standing on a ledge of jutting rock whence a glorious view is obtained—when you can see it—of the beautiful valleys of the Little and Great Kolbach, together with the Lomnitzer-Spitze rearing its pinnacles heavenwards. In the distance, we hear the roar of the waters of the Great Kolbach Fall, and, after a quarter of an hour’s further scramble, come in sight of it, dashing over huge blocks of granite from a height of four hundred feet, and forming itself into numerous cascades and eddies till it leaps over an immense wall of rock and covers us with its spray.

Climbing a large boulder, we have a fine view of as much as we can see of it, as it comes tearing down the gorge with thundering might. The vegetation on either side is very varied and beautiful; here and there a Siberian stone-pine (Pinus cembra) rears its head grandly above the deciduous trees which lean picturesquely towards the Fall, as if attracted towards it by some mysterious and hidden fascination.

Following a little path to the left, we descend to the “Lange-Fall,” where the gorge becomes more contracted, and the water flowing over various shelves of rock has fashioned for itself numerous rounded cavities, or basins, similar to those often seen in Scotland, where they are designated “witches’ caldrons.” At the bottom of these cavities, besides a number of small round stones, a large one is invariably found, which is supposed, when the cascade is full, to be made to revolve by the water working itself into eddies and whirlpools, in consequence of which the rock, by the constant friction of the stone, gets worn away into these smooth, circular, and basin-like hollows.

Mounting our ponies again, we continue the climb, and follow the magnificent Fall for a considerable distance, getting glorious glimpses of it every now and then through the pine-trees to our right; but the thunder of its waters is so deafening, that it is almost a relief when we find ourselves standing in a peaceful Alpine meadow, where, leaving our ponies at the Rainerhütte to await our return, we recommence our climb on foot.

Above us to the left rises a perpendicular rock, two thousand feet in height, beneath which the Kleine (Little) Kolbach hastens to join its larger prototype, and accompany it in its mad career to the distant and peaceful plains.

Crossing the meadow, which is purple with the Alpine crocus, we pass a wooden bridge and follow the windings of the Kleine Kolbach over moss-covered boulders and under the spreading branches of the krummholz (Pinus Mughus), a species of dwarf pine growing three or four feet from the ground, and whose limbs, knotted and gnarled, assume—as its name (crooked timber) implies—the most angular and grotesque forms imaginable.

This pine, which is never found in these mountains at a lower altitude than 5000 feet, forms a perfect zone of 1000 feet round the whole of the Tátra, entirely ceasing to grow at 6000. So rigidly, in fact, does it cling to its own particular circle, that Dr. Sontagh has never been able to induce it to grow at his little settlement, only 1500 feet below, his frequent attempts having invariably proved unsuccessful.

As we ascend further, the pink daphne greets us with its fragrance; whilst the pale mauve primula with its rigid pinnulate leaves, growing close to the stones as if clinging to them for shelter, relieves the eye with its beautiful cushions of bloom. The mist has partially cleared by this time, and we journey on with lighter hearts, though with no small difficulty; for the loose stones over which our track leads us, and which is nothing more nor less than the dry bed of a watercourse, adds greatly to the fatigue of our climb.

Everywhere around us there are footprints of chamois, but we are far too noisy a party for such shy game to show themselves.

“There are certain to be plenty in there,” remarks the Doctor, as we pass a more than usually dense clump of krummholz, “and ten to one they are watching our movements narrowly through the dark green branches; they always take refuge in the thick recesses of the krummholz, on the first sound of approaching footsteps.”

Game abounds in the Tátra. In the forests lying at their base nearly all kinds common to other countries are found, besides wolves, bears, and polecats. In the higher regions chamois and marmots abound, while the rocks are the haunt of the golden eagle and the vulture.

At length, after two hours’ climb, during which we have been getting into deeper and deeper snow, the mist that had partially cleared now gathers over us again. We can scarcely see a yard ahead of us, and I lose all sight of my companions. They too had lost sight of me, but I soon heard a voice proceeding from the darkness shouting in stentorian accents “Where are you?” so close to me that I was quite startled, and, looking up, saw their shadowy forms looming through the mist like goblins, almost at my elbow. In a few minutes we recognise, crouching beneath an overhanging rock, the welcome form of the provision Träger, evidently engaged in making a fire, for we have arrived at the Feuerstein.

We are now above the region of vegetation, except that of herbaceous kinds, and nothing is visible above the sheet of snow save the long coarse grass which hangs in brown and matted tufts from the more sheltered ledges of the rocks. The scene, surrounded as we are by an ocean of white, relieved only by blocks of granite, which appear black upon their bed of glistening snow, is dreary in the extreme.

A great deal of krummholz, brought hither by a previous party of excursionists, is lying near us; for the Feuerstein is the invariable place of bivouac for ascending tourists. It is damp, however, and does not easily ignite, but we beguile the time meanwhile by unpacking the provision-basket, and spreading its contents before us, until, having shivered philosophically for the space of half an hour, our patience is at length rewarded by a blaze.

During the time occupied by these interesting proceedings the guide has been on ahead in the direction of our further climb, for the purpose of ascertaining whether it is clear in the higher ridges, but he now returns with the intelligence that it is impossible to reach the Fünf-Seen to-day.

I think that in our secret hearts, though each expressed the due amount of disappointment at the ill-success that had attended our expedition, we were all rejoiced at this announcement. Nothing in the whole world is equal to a really thick mountain mist for taking the “go” out of one, and we were wet, worn and weary.

By this time the fire is burning cheerily, and crouching round it we form, if a dishevelled, at any rate a picturesque group. But krummholz, from its pungency, is not the most pleasant wood to burn, and we are nearly blinded from its effects; whilst an aggravating current of air blowing round the north side of the Feuerstein, drives it in our direction. But these little annoyances do not interfere with our appetites, and like real mountaineers we try to think everything is charming and delightful, though I fear, after all, with but a sorry counterfeit.

Tourists often spend the night under the shelter of this overhanging rock to see the sunrise. It also enables them to have an early climb should they wish to ascend the Lomnitzer-Spitze, the second highest mountain in the Tátra, a feat which takes, starting from this point, from three to four hours to accomplish. Until a comparatively recent period the Eisthaler-Spitze, 8690 feet, was believed to be the loftiest of the whole chain. The latest measurements, however, declare the Gerlsdorf to be sixty-six feet higher still. The two most difficult mountains to ascend are the Eisthal and the Lomnitz. To climb the latter the tourist has to proceed in a northerly direction, when, after passing over a mass of shattered rock-fragments, he reaches a narrow cleft called the “Grosse-Probe,” on account of its great difficulty.

The summit of the Lomnitz consists of a block of granite about forty-five feet in circumference, and the ascent is both dangerous and difficult, but the view from its summit is magnificent, and Tátra-Fűred looks a mere speck in the dark forest at its base.

Dr. Sontagh, a bold mountaineer and “cunning” huntsman, was just entertaining us with an exciting account of a chamois hunt in which he took part a few months ago, when there was a shout from below.

“Come down quickly, the clouds are lifting, and there is a glorious view of the Lomnitz and Eisthaler Spitzen.”

It was the voice of the guide. Hastily leaving the Träger to “pack up,” we descend from our place of bivouac, where the overhanging rock above us had entirely shut out all view, and, looking upwards, what a magnificent scene presented itself to our gaze! Gradually, as though a giant but invisible hand were drawing aside a curtain, the vapour, which had previously shrouded all in mystery and gloom, rose higher and higher, disclosing one mighty cone after another, till with a final effort it rolled away entirely and displayed peak after peak in endless succession, but far too precipitous for any snow to rest upon—pinnacles and spires and mighty domes piled one above another, rugged, denticulated, and sharp as needles; the whole scene rendered all the more savage by portions of the mist itself, which in rising had become caught in the jaws of the inner pinnacles, where, unable to make its escape, it rested in the hollows, and, separating one cone from another, caused each to stand out single and distinct.

It was long before we could take our eyes from this wondrous scene. Never even in the Switzerland of my affections had I beheld aught so wild, so majestic, or so perfectly awful in its grandeur.

As we descend the valley, what a world of chaos greets us, everywhere hidden, when we climbed the slope, by the mist, which, partially if not wholly, had concealed it from our view!

In regions like these how old the world appears, and what pigmies we feel ourselves to be as we stand in the midst of such primeval formations! We no longer regret our inability to reach the Fünf Seen—our destination at starting. We have seen enough for one day—enough, that is, for those who realise in their heart of hearts the appalling grandeur of such sights in nature, and who love to photograph them for ever on the retina of their memory. As we turn our backs upon them and resume the descent we endeavour to close our minds to all other impressions, and occupy ourselves in collecting Arctic mosses and lichen, and, at a lower altitude, small seedling trees of krummholz, hoping that although—jealous of its rocky mountain habitat—it has baffled the attempts of Dr. Sontagh to induce it to grow in Tátra-Fűred, it may yet do so in our English home.

“Bestow one last look on the Lomnitzer-Spitze ere it fades entirely from our view,” exclaims the Doctor behind us.

Thus summoned, we look back upon it once more. There it is, beautiful still, but how changed is its aspect! The mist that clung to the base of the cones and caused them to stand out solitary and alone has vanished into air, and a glory of sunlight is resting upon them; for, although hidden to us in the valley, the sun is shining full upon the summit of the mountain; but the scene has lost its mystery and weird grandeur, and we feel thankful we saw it as we did. Cloud and mist harmonise far better than sunshine with the savage spirit of such a scene.

There is great variety in the colouring of this part of the Tátra region. The different shades of green, not only in the carpet of moss and lichen which we tread beneath our feet, but also in the small coniferæ which vegetate at the highest limits of the larger growth of flora; the rich dark green of the krummholz with its brown stems; the light and delicate green of the feathery and prickly juniper; the red trunks of the small pines above mentioned, and others rent in some instances from top to bottom lying upon the ground, or across the granite rock-fragments, bleached and wan—all form such a beautiful harmony of tints that there is no monotony anywhere.

Just as we were completing the descent of the mountain, the mist, which had completely cleared away from the valleys and the base of the peaks, and concentrated itself into cumuli high above us, opened for an instant, and permitted us to behold the lofty summit of the Schlangendorfer-Spitze—the pearl of the Southern Tátra—and which, surrounded by billows of cloud, and clad with newly-fallen snow, looked almost too beautiful to belong even to this beautiful earth.

Those who come only a fortnight later in the season miss a great deal; for these mountains are inconceivably grand when their summits are covered with their glistening mantles. On the other hand, many of the passes are closed to the ordinary climber, being still blocked by snow.

Arriving at the Rainerhütte, we find our steeds already saddled in readiness for us.

As a rule “Minsh” was not given to violent spirits, but he had been waiting long and patiently in the cold, and the thought of his warm álás forced itself on his mind, and in fancy he scented his provender from afar, so that I was no sooner on his back than, whinnying to his companions and shaking his head wickedly as much as to say to the others “I’m off home,” he cantered away, and endeavoured to take me by a short cut through the dense pine-woods. In vain I pulled at the reins as hard as I was able; all remonstrance on my part proved unavailing, till the voice of his master sounded from a distance in loud and deprecating accents.

“Ah, Minsh! Minsh! Stop, dear! stop! She’ll be killed. The trees are close together! There’s no room to pass! She’ll be killed to a certainty. Ah, Minsh, may the Saints forgive you!”

Minsh thus apostrophised could hold out no longer, and came to a standstill; when, retracing our steps, I rescued my hat, which was hanging to a branch at the entrance to the forest, and, soon rejoining the rest of our party, we reached Villa Sontagh without further incident.