Long Ago at Chamonix

Eaton Cromwell

IT all seems so far away and very long ago. Actually, it is twenty-five years since my mother, wishing to have company on a motor trip abroad, had me sent from school immediately the spring term closed to the Kronprinzessin Cecilie—with her sister ship, the Kaiser Wilhelm II, then the most popular vessels of the North Atlantic ferry—and so on to Aix-les-Bains, where she was spending the month of June. In those days people did not stay merely for a night or two in a watering place, but “took the cure” in a leisurely, determined manner. It was the proper thing to do. The process permitted plenty of dining out and short motor trips about the countryside, to Chambéry, Grenoble—the Grand Chartreuse, of course—Annecy with its lake and mountains, and occasionally Geneva. In the latter place we lunched invariably at the Restaurant du Nord, still on the terrace overlooking the outlet of the Rhone.

From the other terrace across the river one fine day we saw far away, yet huge against the brilliant summer sky, the moon-pale massif of Mont Blanc and its long chain of satellites. The selfsame view, more than a hundred years before, had lured a young scientist, Horace-Bénédict de Saussure, to visit Chamonix and offer a reward to the man who would discover a way to the summit. He intended to make scientific observations there, and eventually did so, but at the same time unconsciously inaugurated the long drawn out conquest of the Alps, terminated only last summer with the ascent of the north face of the Grandes jorasses.

The cure completed, it was the fashion then to take an “aftercure,” which meant staying for a month or so at a slightly higher altitude, and pleasantly idling the time away before returning home to the hardships of a winter season. Among other resorts, the French physician suggested Chamonix, and attracted even as was de Saussure by that distant prospect, we motored over the Col des Aravis, having the road almost entirely to ourselves, a pleasure all too rare today, but incidentally having to halt and fill the radiator several times at roadside torrents.

We were thrilled by the views, and with Chamonix itself, then at its quaintest. Less sophisticated than today, it was already the Clapham Junction of the Alpine world, and the experts had long since begun to desert Couttet’s for the Montanvert. All that meant nothing to us—every tourist with a rope and heavy boots was a hero of the high peaks, and the constantly changing kaleidoscope of nationalities a continuous delight. After all, we were lowland folk, and I had been born on an island, living by the sea all my life.

Sooner or later the inevitable happened. We visited Montanvert and, after much begging for permission, and with the aid of an interpreter, I obtained a pair of woolen socks to pull over my shoes, and a guide, one Jules Claret-Tournier, who led me down to the glacier—the famous Mer de Glace, and around on the ice (real ice!) by hand, as it were, and occasionally cut a step for my edification. All this pleasure and adventure cost but five francs. Somehow Jules managed to break sufficiently through the language barrier to tell me that to go across the Mer de Glace to the Mauvais Pas and the Chapeau would be only fifteen francs, and very exciting.

For some days I deluged mother with tales of the fascination of glacier walking. At last she succumbed, had her boots lightly nailed, and proceeded to the sacrifice. Jules, really a good fellow, gave us full value by descending the Mer de Glace as far as the Glacier des Bois, and there putting us on the path. He had to do a good deal of step-cutting. Then we had quite a scramble over the moraine, and the walk down past the Chapeau inn to the valley is steep and far from short. This was no mean performance for a rather sedentary lady in her forties, but she arrived in good time at the Grand Hotel and Savoy Palace, footsore but triumphantly under her own power.

The ever insidious Jules had meantime told me of another expedition. There was a place called the Jardin, some hours up the glacier, an island meadow in the heart of the world of snow and ice. Nearby, the Couvercle could be visited at the same time, a hut much frequented by real mountaineers, something not to be missed on any account, and quite easily reached by such good walkers as monsieur and his mother.

It appeared, however, that the young gentleman’s mother had had enough mountaineering for the season, but having observed at first hand the perils of the road, was disposed to permit the excursion to take place—without her. Accordingly, my high tan boots, then much favored by the upper forms for dressy wear, were refurbished with nails, a long alpenstock and a green Tyrolese hat, decorated with chamois-beard, procured, and off we went.

I found the walk to the Couvercle marvelous. The alpenstock proved its worth as an aid to vaulting over crevasses in the dry glacier, although it has never seemed of any value since, and the hut and the genuine mountaineers came quite up to expectation. Fortunately no inkling came to my young heart of experiences to be undergone in later years in that same pigsty.

The Jardin was superb. A meadow full of flowers and butterflies, in the heart of an ice-world, surrounded on three sides by gigantic walls of eternal granite. Satiated at long last with the magnificent view of the icefall of the Glacier du Géant, and Mont Blanc beyond, I descended by the left bank of the Glacier de Talêfre, past ruins of the old shelter at Pierre à Béranger, and so back to Montanvert, arriving with joy in my heart but quite devoid of nails in my boots. However, Providence was looking out for me, and not even the ironic admiration of several parties of British climbers for my outfit could disturb my equanimity. In all innocence I accepted their homage as genuine, and determined to try the Tour of Mont Blanc, which Jules had so highly recommended.

By this time we had discovered and read that classic of Chamonix, Running Water by A. E. W. Mason, and were among the best patrons of the big telescope. A young Italian acquaintance went up Mont Blanc by the usual route, and we were thrilled to watch him plugging along through the deep snow. It has since occurred to me that he must have gotten off to a very late start. On his return, much sunburned and rather red about the eyes, he regaled us with lurid tales of his adventures. All of us know how suddenly that comparatively easy tour can become something very serious, but I fear that in this instance there was some embroidery.

With beginner’s luck we had arrived at Chamonix in that never-to-be-forgotten summer of 1911. Day after day was clear and bright, the perfect weather disturbed only by an occasional summer shower. “Is it always like this?” we would ask. “Oh, yes, always,” the hotel would reply. Shades of Ananias!

Mother quite properly objected to entrusting her offspring to a guide who spoke no English. After due consultation with the concierge he promised to secure a good man who did, and produced one Michel Desailloud, the object of my admiration, nay, veneration, for many years. After all, I was only seventeen, ingenuous at that, and Michel turned out to be the protagonist of the old guide in Running Water, and had often led the author himself. While proud of his part in literature, he was at the same time highly indignant that his double should have been described as past his work and sunk to be a muleteer. This story amused Mason hugely some years later; he was, I hope, also a little pleased at his part in the making of a mountaineer.

Michel inspected my outfit, insisting on my buying a proper pair of nailed boots, woolen stockings, an ice-axe and dark glasses. He loaned me mittens and a stocking cap. We then went up the Buet, from Pierre à Bérard, to see the sunrise on Mont Blanc, something no mountaineer should omit. We descended behind the Aiguilles Rouges to the inn on the Col d’Anterne, and next day walked over the Brevent and down to Chamonix.

Michel then considered me ready for higher things—the tour of Mont Blanc would now take place. Mother motored us up to Argentière, and with my modest belongings in the guides’ packs— Jules came along as second—we walked up the dusty path to the Pavillon de Lognan. Michel got me a room, and then left me on the terrace with half a bottle of white wine and some biscuits. This was my very first drink, and shortly after finishing the bottle the Aiguille du Chardonnet began to do astonishing capers, the entire landscape joining in to revolve about my buzzing head. I hid behind a rock until things quieted down.

The chalet was crowded that night, mostly English climbers with guides, among them several ladies. Mr. Young had just then performed his remarkable feats on the Grandes Jorasses, and I recall a hot discussion as to whether the reported “hand traverse” of a 100 ft.—or was it a 100 yards?—was really possible. Finally the gymnast of the foremost guideless party pronounced that such a thing could probably be done, provided one could obtain occasional aid from the feet. My eyes fairly bulged at all this.

In a corner sat an Italian gentleman, who had just crossed the Col d’Argentière. He was too exhausted to move or eat, so his guide took off his boots and led him to bed. Qualms for the morrow crept over me. A kindly Scotswoman inquired whether I was about to do my first serious climb, and assured me that all would go well and that I would have a lovely day. I am still grateful. We all retired early, but I lay awake, wild with excitement, listening to the crash of tumbling seracs in the icefall. In later years it has been less active, or else I sleep better.

We started well before dawn. The night was clear and cold. To this day the clink of steel on stone sets thrills coursing up and down my spine. Daybreak found us crossing the Glacier d’Argentière to the left bank of the Glacier du Chardonnet, which we ascended in company with the Scotch party, the latter turning off to the right after second breakfast to do the Aiguille d’Argentière. We continued straight on to the Col du Chardonnet, over the undulating surface of the upper glacier basin, and through what is to me the loveliest and most impressive scenery in the Western Alps. The northeast side of the pass usually offers some trifling technical difficulties. We couldn’t get over the bergschrund on the true left bank, and had to make a somewhat delicate traverse to the other side to find a snow-bridge. Once down, the rest was plain sailing. We crossed the Glacier de Saleinaz to the Fenêtre, then as now quite easy, but a splendid viewpoint, and had a long rest and lunch.

In the afternoon we descended the Glacier d’Orny, visiting the cabane in passing, and down the interminable stony way of the Col de La Breyaz to the Arpette Valley and the Lac de Champex, hung on the mountainside like a swallow’s nest in a chimney. In the early evening we went for a row on the lake. It was probably the first time Michel had ever been in a rowboat, and he was intensely interested. The sunset on the Combin seen from here was splendid.

Next day was an easy one. We walked up the Swiss Val Ferret through the Col du Petit Ferret, a shortcut, and down the Italian Val Ferret to Courmayeur. The carriage road comes far up this valley and we rode much of the way. At the Hôtel du Mont Blanc I requested a bath, and was puzzled when what appeared to be a “Charles of London” chair done in tin arrived in my bedroom. A sheet was draped over this, and before it were arranged six pitchers of water, three hot, three cold. After some thought I deduced the system to be followed, and had quite a good wash.

Our next stage took us up the Val Veni past the foot of the Brenva Glacier and the great southerly cliffs of Mont Blanc. At the Cantine de la Visaille we lunched on sardines and an excellent soufflé omelet. It was charming to observe how the pigs and chickens wandered unhindered in and out of the combination kitchen-bedroom behind the restaurant. Some years later their descendants were doing the same thing, but the omelet, alas, was not so good. As we passed the enormous terminal moraine of the Miage Glacier, once considered one of the wonders of the world, mist closed in and it commenced to drizzle. We crossed the frontier at the Col de la Seigne, and reached the hamlet of Les Mottets in clearing weather. At both frontiers there had been customs guards, but they did not so much as honor us as to put their heads out of doors, and as for passports, I had heard of them as something one needed in Russia, but so far had never seen one. He may well sigh for the old days who now endeavors to repeat this once favorite tour !

At dinner I sat by a young Englishman who had been climbing in a small way with a guideless party. He told me some very tall stories, and made the usual slighting remarks about Americans. This was my first experience of the sort and I must confess that I became indignant. The next day Michel was unwell, as was I, so Jules carried most of the load and led, announcing that he was both guide and porter. The ascent to the Col du Mont Tondu is quite easy, though here and there it was necessary to slice steps in the hard frozen snow of the early morning.

From the pass one has a magnificent view of the peaks around the Trélatête Glacier. It is a pity that this district is so little visited. The descent to the glacier is rather steep in places, and one keeps to the right side for the most part. I well recall Michel walking immediately behind me, and practically carrying me over the steeper bits. He was taking no chances with his novice. Once on the flat we arrived early at the Pavillon de Trélatête, where I indulged for the first time in that delicious mixture of much cold milk with a little cold tea, brandy and plenty of sugar.

The car which we expected to meet us at Notre Dame de la Gorge, by some confusion had instead taken a party of friends to Geneva, so we were obliged to walk all the way to St. Gervais, and go on to Chamonix by the train. My mother had never seen a really tired youth before, and was somewhat alarmed. But a hot bath, a good dinner and a night’s rest put all to rights again, and only the delightful recollection of my journey around the Great White Mountain remained.

1The moral, if any, of this paper is that “Great oaks from little acorns grow.” The writer ascended more than sixty peaks in various districts of the Alps during the summer of 1935, beginning with Piz Scerscen by the ice-nose.—Ed