Aiguille d’Argentière
It so happened that I had done less climbing at Chamonix than in most of the other districts of the Alps and I was exceedingly glad to go there again. Twenty-four years had elapsed since I had visited it, and numerous were the changes which I noticed. The railroad has resulted in converting what was formerly a quiet mountain village into a small town with up-to-date shops, beer gardens and a theatre, and you are now whizzed in an automobile to your hotel instead of walking to it from the spot where the „diligence“ used to leave you. Arriving as I did at night, I went to bed thinking Chamonix a far less attractive place than formerly, and it was not until I awoke next morning and looked up at the familiar mountains that I fully realized that its principal attractions had not been affected by the onward march of civilization. I put up at Couttet's Hotel, with its beautiful garden, and having secured the services of two excellent guides, Jules Burnet and Jean Devouassoud, arranged to start the following afternoon for the Aiguille d'Argentiere. I owed my good luck in finding two such guides disengaged at the height of the season to the fact that it was one of such variable weather that business was slack. In past years I had ascended Mont Blanc, the Aiguille Verte and the two peaks of the Aiguille du Dru, and the Aiguille d'Argentiere would take me into a portion of the chain with which I was not very familiar. The guides and I first went shopping for food and I was conducted to the „Faisan doré,“ an excellent charcuterie or delicatessen store. We found there just what we wanted, including wonderful cheeses and the best of honey in glass jars of convenient size. Cheese and honey are two of the articles of food on which I have usually relied in climbing, some of the others being bread, butter, chicken and sardines. A curious combination, some may say, and there may be no particular virtue in it, but it has served my purposes well and does not differ widely from that taken by others on mountain excursions. At the evening meal in a hut a thick, nourishing soup forms almost invariably the principal dish. Some climbers drink light wine (usually „vin du pays“), others tea, my personal preference being for the former.
Leaving Chamonix we passed through the village of Argentine and then ascended a steep path to a small mountain inn at Lognon, high up on the Glacier d'Argentière, where we spent the night. We started next morning at 1.30, the moon lighting the way. Mountaineering is the only pastime I know of in which the hours between midnight and five o'clock, when nature may be at her loveliest, are regularly used for out-of-door exercise. It goes without saying that very hard work cannot be done either on rocks or snow while reliance must be placed on moonlight or lantern light, but the approach, lasting from two to five hours, to that part of the climb which is to test one's powers is not as a rule difficult. On the contrary, it will often be across a smooth glacier, or over snowfields with an easy incline, and almost always one is surrounded by and coming nearer to peaks which lose nothing of their magnificence as seen on a clear night.
And when, in addition, it happens that the splendid snow mountains of these regions are bathed in moonlight, I doubt whether there exists a more beautiful scene in nature, or a form of exercise more fascinating and exhilarating than that of walking at such a time and in such a place.
Substantially these conditions existed at the beginning of the walk we were taking on this occasion. On our right was the picturesque Aiguille Verte with its splendid, rugged ridges known as Les Droites and Les Courtes, on our left the Aiguille du Chardonnet; and as we proceeded up the Glacier d'Argentière there came into view its wonderful amphitheatre which vies in beauty with the scenery at the end of the Mer de Glace. As we approached the junction of the Glacier du Chardonnet and the Glacier d'Argentière we crossed the latter to the left and, ascending the moraine of the former, stopped at 4.30 for a light breakfast, starting again at 5 up snowfields which led us near to the foot of our peak. At 7.15 we believed that we would be at the summit in an hour and a quarter; we did not, however, reach it until 10, for we soon came to rocks which, like those on Pollux, had been put into very bad condition through fresh snow. Ascending these we reached a shoulder of snow at the foot of the final pyramid, where another unpleasant surprise awaited us. The summit was not over 300 feet above us, but the route to it was over ice, and for more than an hour the guides were engaged in the slow process of cutting steps up a slope so steep that it was necessary in addition to cut holes for the hands. In returning we went down this slope with our faces to it — „à reculons,“ as the French say.
Meanwhile the weather, which had begun well, was changing rapidly, and as we arrived on our peak it became enveloped in fog, a most discouraging circumstance, especially as we were at an elevation of nearly 13.000 feet. Fortunately it lifted for a few minutes, so that we had at least a glimpse of the marvelous scenery to the south towards Mt. Dolent and the adjoining jagged peaks, whose steep, furrowed rocks, streaked with snow, presented an appearance almost fantastic. It was sad that we were to see so little of this scenery, but the skies were getting black, and at any moment we might find ourselves in the midst of a storm. We, therefore, proceeded to descend as fast as was prudent and were off the mountain proper by I o'clock. Without further incident worthy of note we reached the Valley of Chamonix at 4.15, having been out approximately fifteen hours, of which thirteen and one-half were spent in walking. I went to bed early but was soon awakened by a violent thunderstorm. It was indeed fortunate for us that it had refrained from breaking until after our excursion — in every way a most interesting one — was over.
Leaving Chamonix we passed through the village of Argentine and then ascended a steep path to a small mountain inn at Lognon, high up on the Glacier d'Argentière, where we spent the night. We started next morning at 1.30, the moon lighting the way. Mountaineering is the only pastime I know of in which the hours between midnight and five o'clock, when nature may be at her loveliest, are regularly used for out-of-door exercise. It goes without saying that very hard work cannot be done either on rocks or snow while reliance must be placed on moonlight or lantern light, but the approach, lasting from two to five hours, to that part of the climb which is to test one's powers is not as a rule difficult. On the contrary, it will often be across a smooth glacier, or over snowfields with an easy incline, and almost always one is surrounded by and coming nearer to peaks which lose nothing of their magnificence as seen on a clear night.
And when, in addition, it happens that the splendid snow mountains of these regions are bathed in moonlight, I doubt whether there exists a more beautiful scene in nature, or a form of exercise more fascinating and exhilarating than that of walking at such a time and in such a place.
Substantially these conditions existed at the beginning of the walk we were taking on this occasion. On our right was the picturesque Aiguille Verte with its splendid, rugged ridges known as Les Droites and Les Courtes, on our left the Aiguille du Chardonnet; and as we proceeded up the Glacier d'Argentière there came into view its wonderful amphitheatre which vies in beauty with the scenery at the end of the Mer de Glace. As we approached the junction of the Glacier du Chardonnet and the Glacier d'Argentière we crossed the latter to the left and, ascending the moraine of the former, stopped at 4.30 for a light breakfast, starting again at 5 up snowfields which led us near to the foot of our peak. At 7.15 we believed that we would be at the summit in an hour and a quarter; we did not, however, reach it until 10, for we soon came to rocks which, like those on Pollux, had been put into very bad condition through fresh snow. Ascending these we reached a shoulder of snow at the foot of the final pyramid, where another unpleasant surprise awaited us. The summit was not over 300 feet above us, but the route to it was over ice, and for more than an hour the guides were engaged in the slow process of cutting steps up a slope so steep that it was necessary in addition to cut holes for the hands. In returning we went down this slope with our faces to it — „à reculons,“ as the French say.
Meanwhile the weather, which had begun well, was changing rapidly, and as we arrived on our peak it became enveloped in fog, a most discouraging circumstance, especially as we were at an elevation of nearly 13.000 feet. Fortunately it lifted for a few minutes, so that we had at least a glimpse of the marvelous scenery to the south towards Mt. Dolent and the adjoining jagged peaks, whose steep, furrowed rocks, streaked with snow, presented an appearance almost fantastic. It was sad that we were to see so little of this scenery, but the skies were getting black, and at any moment we might find ourselves in the midst of a storm. We, therefore, proceeded to descend as fast as was prudent and were off the mountain proper by I o'clock. Without further incident worthy of note we reached the Valley of Chamonix at 4.15, having been out approximately fifteen hours, of which thirteen and one-half were spent in walking. I went to bed early but was soon awakened by a violent thunderstorm. It was indeed fortunate for us that it had refrained from breaking until after our excursion — in every way a most interesting one — was over.
Dieses Kapitel ist Teil des Buches My Summer in the Alps, 1913