Time presses, and to gain ChampÉry we must either pass over the Col de la Chavanette or else go back to Troistorrents and thence by the village of Val d’Illiez. Like Villars, ChampÉry has experienced phenomenal development within the past few years. Although for long it has been patronized as a delightful summer resort, it has more than doubled its importance since its condition in winter was discovered to be anything but disagreeable. This, of course, has been the common experience of such places over almost the whole of Alpine Switzerland, and it appears to synchronize with the arrival of the ski from the north. The luge has done something, and so has the bobsleigh, towards Switzerland’s new-found prosperity in winter; but the ski has contributed the most. Nor has the ski brought a revelation only to visitors; it has caused even the peasantry to take a new delight in their surroundings. At ChampÉry, for instance, one may see not alone the men and boys, but also the women and girls—wearing businesslike trousers—practising the art on the rapid snow-slopes.[21] Yet it is but yesterday that the only outdoor winter distraction here was luging down the village street and over the snow-covered pastures; whilst strangers were noticeable by their almost entire absence. It was in those quiet days at ChampÉry, and about Christmas-time, that was enacted one of the most impressive, haunting scenes that ever I have witnessed in the Alps. Two young men from Lausanne (if memory serves me, one was an American) started from Salvan to walk over the Col de Susanfe (about 7500 feet) to ChampÉry. As nothing more was heard from them, parties of guides from both Salvan and ChampÉry started out to find them. The search was ineffectual for several days, but at length the bodies of the poor fellows were found below the Pas d’Ancel. I shall never forget the sight, as the bodies, wrapped in sacking, were brought upon hand-sledges through the village after nightfall—the weird light of the torches upon the snow and the awed faces of the villagers; the sturdy band of guides, sad-visaged and weary; and the tense silence of it all nothing but the scrunch of frozen snow and the bated prayers of women. Here was one of those strong, aery scenes which bring one face to face with the grim side of life in the Alps, and with the people’s stanch devotion, however difficult, however daunting.

It may be that I look upon things Alpine with the particular eye of the enthusiast for solitude; at any rate I think that ChampÉry, in spite of its great gaiety and entrain in winter and summer, is really its most radiant, loveliest self in spring and autumn. The lofty precipices of the Dent du Midi, the great rock-masses of the Dent de Bonaveau and the Dents Blanches are scarcely more bewitching or inspiring than when dressed in the first snows of autumn or the receding snows of spring. With what transporting shine and fire does the Dent du Midi reflect the autumn sunset; with what arresting energy do the Dents Blanches in spring rid themselves of their winter covering! Never can ravishing dreamland seem so real, so concrete, as when, amid autumn’s soft, white, drifting mists, the snowy summits of the Dent du Midi glow clear coral-pink and crimson; never is the renewal of life proclaimed more loudly or impressively than when, beyond a calm foreground of glistening crocus and dainty soldanella, titanic avalanches hurl themselves upon the plateau of Barmaz.

ChampÉry and its surroundings are a nest of beauty-spots, in which flowers flash and sparkle like a myriad jewels. Unfortunately no space remains for detailing these many charms; even not to tell where the white rhododendron grows. There is, however, one spot that cannot pass without some notice: the exquisite vallon of Susanfe, by which climbers usually ascend the Dent du Midi. Small as it is, it has all the sweet severity and wild attractiveness of true Alpine circumstance. Barmaz may possess a potent lure, so may the Col de Coux and the Porte du Soleil, but untamed, unspoilt Susanfe, though more difficult of access, is pre-eminently seductive; it is, in fact, the outstanding jewel in this neighbourhood of ChampÉry. Desolation is there, to be sure, in the hanging glacier and lingering snow, the gaunt rock precipices and tumbled boulders, the avalanche-swept turf, and cold-grey screes; but there, also, are the myriad flowers of brightest Alpine hues, the swift and babbling stream rushing to throw itself into the abyss below Bonaveau, the little blue-green icy lake bordered in part by walls of sunlit snow, and over all the glorious solitude at times quite awesome.

Once upon a spotless autumn day I was sketching there belated spring flowers next the snow. All was still, save for the peek-peek of some small linnet-like mountain bird among the boulders by the glacier-stream, and the occasional shrill alarm-cry of marmots disturbed whilst collecting grass for making tight and snug their prospective winter quarters sounds which, with their echoes, merely accentuated the prevailing silence. Then of a sudden the air was rent as if by a terrible explosion, and, looking up, I saw tons upon tons of sea-green ice split from the glacier and come roaring, hurtling down over the rock-wall. The noise for a while was deafening. Then all once again was silent, with nothing to tell of the giant uproar but the amethyst-blue scar above the precipice. Never in my life have I felt solitude so acutely; never have I felt so insignificant and paltry. Not far off among the edelweiss, I knew, was a shepherd and his flock of three or four hundred sheep; but in the presence of this devastating force of “inert” nature, solitude and loneliness were mine in all their belittling power.