Douglas William Freshfield

Close to the sun in lonely lands

Ring'd with the azure world he stands.—Tennyson.

A TYROLESE PORTER—THE BEDOLE ALP—THE ADAMELLO—VAL MILLER—VAL DI MALGA—VAL DI BORZAGO—THE CARÈ ALTO—A HIGH-LEVEL ROUTE—PASSO DI MANDRON—VAL D'AVIO.

A year after the ascent of the Presanella I again found myself at the head of Val di Genova, one of a formidable party of seven, including two Swiss guides and a Tyrolese porter. Gutmann was something of a character. A native of Berchtesgaden, in the Bavarian Tyrol, he had been picked up there a year before by Mr. Tuckett, and carried on through the northern valleys of the Venetian Alps. He had then proved an amusing and good-tempered companion, and was in consequence engaged a second time to take the place of the chance peasant whom one picks up to carry a knapsack—an individual whose obstinate prejudice against ropes, and glaciers, and snow-work generally, is, or used to be, a source of difficulty in out-of-the-way parts of the Alps.

Gutmann was a well-grown, fine-looking young man of twenty-five, and became well his national costume, which he always wore. In his short coat and knee-breeches, with his half-bare legs and tall green hat and feather, he might have stepped at once on to any operatic stage. From his watch-chain hung a bundle of silver-mounted charms; true hunter's trophies—teeth of chamois and marmot, and claws of the 'lammergeier.' He was a great dandy, and amongst the other unexpected articles which tumbled out of the large blue bag slung across his back was a brush for his whiskers and a shaving-glass. Naturally the effect on his complexion of the first snow-day quite horrified our Adonis. On the next occasion he came down in the morning with his face completely plastered over with a mixture of soot and tallow, when his appearance, if no longer 'a thing of beauty,' became a 'joy for ever' to the guides, whose talent for small jokes found abundant scope for exercise at the porter's expense.

But in the evening and after a good wash in a wayside fountain, Gutmann had his revenge. Then he was to be seen in the Gaststube, the centre of an admiring crowd, fresh and blooming enough to win the heart of the coyest Phillis—a kind of conquest on which I fear he set far greater store than on the victories over snowy maidens won during the day. The tales of his prowess which at such moments he was heard to recount gave us frequent amusement. For though below the snow-line an active walker, above it Gutmann became a changed man. Once on ice, the quips and cranks with which he usually overflowed gave place to the most dismal of groans. He walked daintily, like a cat afraid of wetting its feet, at slippery corners detained us twice as long as anybody else, and when the top was gained habitually lay down at once and fell asleep.

At home our companion was by profession a poacher—a precarious means of livelihood in a district where the mountains are strictly preserved for Bavarian royalty, and the keepers fire on any man seen carrying a gun. A month before he joined us his brother had had a piece of one of his calves shot away, and he had himself been slightly wounded on more than one occasion. During the past winter he had found for a few months a less hazardous employment in cutting wood near one of the Bavarian lakes, but had gone back in spring to the old and irresistible pursuit, from which he was only called away by our summons. He did not, however, return to it—at any rate for long; before the next summer he had emigrated to America, probably with the money gained in our service, a larger sum than he had ever before had at his disposal.

The position of the Bedole Alp as it is seen in descending from the Presanella has been described in the last chapter. Beyond the final bend in Val di Genova lies a level plain enclosed by sheer granite cliffs. I know few spots so completely secluded from the outer world. Dreaming away the afternoon hours on a pine-clad knoll among the outskirts of the Venezia forest, which stretches[46] for a mile to the foot of the great glaciers, a wanderer easily fancies himself in one of the lost valleys of legend where the people live in a bygone age, where pastoral life is a reality, and the nineteenth century a yet undreamt dream.

The herdsmen were hospitably inclined, but the accommodation they had to offer was of the roughest. By means of a ladder we scaled our bedroom, a platform of hay so narrow that the slightest roll would have ended in a tumble on to the heap of pails twelve feet below. The time has scarcely yet come for a small mountain-inn on this spot to be rendered profitable, but it would be a step in the right direction and a great boon to travellers if the Trentine Alpine Club would incite or assist the herdsmen to build a 'spare' chÂlet and furnish it with beds and cooking materials. Romantic in its situation, the Bedole Alp is also the true centre of the district. From it active travellers might ascend in the day the Adamello, Presanella, or CarÈ Alto, or cross by glacier passes into Val di Fum or Val Saviore, to Edolo by the Val di Malga, to Ponte di Legno, or to the Val di Sole.

A perfect morning relieved our spirits from the otherwise depressing influence of climbing a rough track in the dark.

The head of Val di Genova is almost too perfect a 'cul de sac' for the mountaineer who wants to get higher. Some way up or by the side of the icefall of the Lobbia Glacier is yet to be found, but is probably possible. The upper regions of the Mandron Glacier, the Adamello, and all the passes to Val Camonica are, except in one place, completely cut off by the continuous cliffs which hem in the valley.

To reach the upper pasturages and the hut of Mandron, sometimes very needlessly used as night-quarters by foreign climbers, it is necessary to turn northwards and hit on a rough track which finds a way up the crags near a slender waterfall. A herdsman with a lantern guided us up the steepest part of the ascent, and was then sent back, leaving us and our Swiss guides to find our own way, a task to which we were all pretty well accustomed.

We now turned again sharply southwards, making for the side of the Mandron Glacier. A considerable extent of ground had to be traversed, rough and boulder-strewn, yet bright with flowers. Amongst them was a profusion of 'Edelweiss,' a plant which may doubtless be found in dangerous positions, but is quite as often plucked where cows might crop it. But ground safe for cows is not always safe for amateur botanists in high-heeled and nailless boots.

We climbed steadily the slopes of snow on the (true) left bank of the ice. From the top of the last we looked over a smooth expanse of gloriously bright snow-field, bounded on the west by a range of peaks, and on the east by a long white crest, terminating in the rock peak of La Lobbia, first ascended by Von Sonklar. The Presanella, on this side massive and less graceful than from the north, closed the backward view. The still frost-bound surface was crisp and crackling under our feet, and we made quick progress, passing the gap on our right through which eight years afterwards I crossed into Val d'Avio. A shapely snow-peak at the head of the glacier was at first sight assumed to be our mountain, but a reference to the map saved us from repeating Payer's mistake, and convinced us that this was the Corno Bianco, and that the Adamello must be further round to the right. Accordingly after reaching the slightly higher plain whence the ice falls also into the upper branches of Val Saviore, we rounded the snow-peak, and ascended slopes in its rear which brought us up to the highest reservoir of all, a snow-basin sloping downwards from the foot of a conical peak, a steeper but scarcely loftier Cima di Jazi, the Adamello itself. On gaining the ridge at its eastern base we looked down precipices on to the head of Val d'Avio and its lake. The side of the peak above us was steep, but thanks to some rocks and the splendid condition of the snow it took but twenty minutes to gain the summit, a snow-crest some fifty yards long rising at either extremity, the north-eastern point being the highest.

From its position as an outlier of the great chain, we had expected much from the Adamello, and now we were not disappointed. The morning had held good to its promise and brought forth one of those golden midsummer days which, as some think, are best spent on the tops of mountains.

Far away in the east we could trace the line of our wanderings from their very commencement. There were the dolomite peaks of Primiero, a little further the Marmolata, Pelmo, and the pyramidal Antelao; then the eye had only to leap the broad gap of the Pusterthal to run over the Tauern from the Ankogel (above Gastein) to the Brenner. The Glockner was as well defined as from Heiligen Blut, only that its snows were tinted an exquisite rose colour, as if they had made prisoner of a sunset. The Orteler and Bernina, from which we were nearly equidistant, made a fine show of snow and ice; still closer at hand we surveyed the great snow-fields of our own group, overlooked by our two rivals, the Presanella and CarÈ Alto. To the south lay a labyrinth of granite peaks and ridges, separating the many glens which ran up from Val Camonica. This great valley was visible for miles, and the eye rested with pleasure on its fields of Indian corn and chestnut woods, until led on by the white thread of road to the blue waters of Lago d'Iseo basking amidst bright green hills. When tired of this prospect we could take a bird's-eye view of the Val Tellina, a long deep trench of cultivation, heat, and fertility, closed at its lower end by the mountains round the head of Lago di Como. These were crowned by a coronet of snowy peaks, which, so clear was the air, almost seemed part of them, but were in reality the Pennine giants encircling Zermatt. Most notable of all was the splendid pyramid of the Matterhorn, seen in its sharpest aspect, towering immediately over the Weissthor. In another direction far away across the shoulders of lower hills the wide waters of Lago di Garda glowed like burnished metal beneath the cloudless sunshine, while further still the mounds of Solferino were faintly seen through a haze of heat.

The view was perhaps the most beautiful, though not the most extensive,[47] I have seen from a snowy Alp, and the pleasure of it even in memory must be my excuse for having to some extent recalled its details.

But it is impossible to infuse into a catalogue of names any trace of the colouring of the original. I can only hope to induce some reader sceptical of the beauties of the snow-world to climb one of these Italian Alps for himself. But he must remember that it is not, as some critics of the Alpine Club seem to think, enough to have scaled a peak once or twice under unfavourable conditions in order to be capable and entitled to express an authoritative opinion on the scenery of the upper Alps. Time as well as place is required. One of those days, not rare in a southern summer, must be chosen, when the mountains are at rest from their task of moisture condensers, and stand basking in the sunshine and well-earned idleness.

At such moments the climber's toil is richly paid. Over his head stretches the pure vault of the sky, below lies a vast expanse of earth; the mountain-top seems poised between the two, a point in the centre of a hollow globe. From the refulgent snows of the neighbouring peak, glittering with such excess of light as to be scarcely endurable, the eye turns for relief to gaze up into the intense colour of the zenith, or wanders over miles of green and countless changes of blue distances to the saffron of the extreme chain which forms the link between earth and heaven.

Surely no one who has enjoyed such a view would deny the beauty of the forms and colours gathered round him. To represent to others the glory of the mountain-tops requires, it is true, either a poet or one of the greatest and rarest landscape painters. But even if these fail, if the scenery of the highest Alps proves altogether unpaintable and indescribable, it may yet be in the highest sense beautiful. The skill of the interpreter cannot be accepted as the measure of that which is to be interpreted, nor can the noble and delightful in nature be made subject to the limitations of art.

But the vision of those hours[48] on a great peak stretches beyond what is actually before the eyes. At such moments even the dullest soul shares with inarticulate emotion the feelings which poets have put into words for all ages. Our pulses beat in tune with the great pulse of Life which is breathing round us. We lose ourselves and become part of the vast order into the visible presence of which we seem for a brief space to have been translated. On a lesser height, whence some town is seen like a great ant-heap with the black insects hurrying backwards and forwards across its lanes, the insignificance of the human race is often painfully prominent. But here, removed by leagues of snow and ice and a mile or two of sheer height from the rest of our race, no such thought oppresses us. Man is merged in nature, cities have become specks, provinces are spread out like fields, the eye ranges across a kingdom. Through the stillness which fills the upper air the ear seems to catch from time to time some faint echo of

On its lofty standpoint the mind feels in harmony with the soul of the universe, and almost fancies itself to gain a glimpse of its workings.

Seen from the valley the sublimity of the mountain precipice may be due to a sentiment at root akin to terror. Grandeur is there shown in its most overpowering—a Frenchman might say brutal—form by some giant peak towering defiantly skywards, 'remote, serene, and inaccessible,' a chill colossus alien to human life. But on the peak we are conquerors; its terrors are left below and behind us. In our new scale of vision the Titans gathered in silent session round us are brothers. The masses which appeared from below 'confusedly hurled' have become ordered. The valleys unfold their labyrinths. The rivers, cleansed from all stain of early turbulence in the calm of heaven-reflecting lakes, are seen to set forth, at first gently directed and compelled by the lower hills, for the great plain where each has its own mission of life and bounty to fulfil. We are no longer, like the old-world theologian, frightened into thinking our mountain a monument of man's wickedness and God's anger, or like the modern philosopher, oppressed by the bulk of the giant; we know him in his true character as a

The sense of the sublime excited in us is due not to mere 'extension of space,' but to admiration of the excellence revealed by our larger range of vision. The barren ice-field is seen to water a thousand meadows, the destructive torrent to fertilise a whole province. The evil of the world seems for once contained within the good.

Had Mr. Mill lived a generation later, and wandered upon Tyrolean snows as well as amongst the meadows at their feet,[49] he would probably have hesitated to state so broadly that 'what makes the greater natural phenomena so impressive is simply their vastness,' and that no 'admiration for excellence' enters into the feeling they inspire.

So far (except that we had not crossed over the top of the Corno Bianco) we had followed in the footsteps of Lieut. Payer, who had first conquered the Adamello in the previous year. Henceforth our course lay over unknown ground. The descent from the Adamello snow-fields into Val Camonica had never been attempted, and, from the configuration of the range, was likely to be a matter of difficulty. We had, however, a large space to search over and a choice of several glens to descend into, any one of which would bring us, with more or less circuit, to the great valley. We naturally determined to try first the nearest gap, looking down into the Val Miller and leading directly to Edolo; if that failed we were prepared to go further and force a passage down one of the glaciers falling towards Val Saviore.

Having returned in our old footsteps to the base of the peak, we traversed the snow out of which it rises to its further or south-western foot. On the rock-face overhead I noticed several small ranunculuses in flower at an elevation of 11,500 feet above the sea. A projecting crag on the right of the gap which we had selected as our first point of attack enabled us to reconnoitre what lay below us. We were in a position very much resembling that of the traveller from Zermatt, when he has reached the summit of the Weissthor and gazes down at Macugnaga, except that in our case the valley was not more than 3,500 feet below us. On the other hand, we were on unknown ground and had to trust entirely to our own judgment. That of the guides was prompt and favourable. A nasty tongue of glacier curled over the ridge, but soon broke short from the steepness of the cliff; so long as we gave a wide berth to the stones discharged by this ill-conditioned neighbour they foresaw no impossibilities or dangers ahead. The rocks proved worthy of our estimate. Although steep—quite as steep as those leading up to the Schreckhorn Sattel—they were thoroughly safe, and gave firm foothold on broad shelves and rough ridges. We went on without check, until within a hundred feet of their base we found ourselves apparently cut off from the snow-field below by a smooth cliff. We underwent a few minutes' grim suspense while Michel and FranÇois searched right and left for some ledge or crack. But soon the welcome shout of 'es geht' rose to our ears, and we found our escape. Swift glissades followed, and we shot quickly down the slopes of the little glacier which nestles beneath the crags. Nothing now remained but to scramble over the huge boulders to the stream below us and follow its waters until we struck a path. The Val Miller is a wild upland glen, hemmed in by cliffs, above which are seen the twin snow-crests of the Adamello. In an hour from the glacier we reached the only chÂlets in the upper valley, known as the Casetta di Miller.[50] The rock on which the hut was founded was highly 'moutonnÉe,' or polished by glacier action, as our scientific companion did not fail to point out. A few moments later he impressed the fact still more forcibly on our memories. A large bowl brimming with delicious milk had been brought out for our refreshment. Either in the excitement of draining it the drinker overbalanced himself, or a perverse barometer chose that moment to swing between his legs. Anyhow,

The consequences of the fall were serious: a thick coating of cream, quicksilver and chÂlet dirt, a bruised knee and—worst of all in the sufferer's mind—several broken instruments.

Opposite the huts we crossed to the left bank of the stream, and followed a cow-path which soon brought us to the verge of the long, abrupt descent separating Val Miller from its continuation the Val di Malga. The path corkscrewed through a gully in quaint little zigzags, built up toilsomely with stones, steep as an attic staircase and odious enough to wind down under a hot afternoon sun. The cows whom we had seen above can scarcely look upon the day of their move for the summer months with the same pleasure which their sisters throughout the Alps are said to exhibit. An English farmer would as soon think of driving his herd to the top of the Monument as up such a place.

We were now again amongst trees, which clothed either bank and added to the beauty of the scenery. The descent was continuous, until a cluster of houses was reached, prettily placed among meadows, in which all the inhabitants were at work, profiting by the fine weather to gather in their hay-harvest. The only creatures left at home were families of white rabbits, which seem to live here on the footing of domestic pets. The elders sat lazily sunning themselves, while the young ones played high jinks without showing the least fear at our presence. The track now became passable for carts, and fearfully stony. From this point to the high-road we met a specimen of every kind of pavement invented for human torture in Italian valleys. First there was the 'pavÉ au naturel,' formed of native rock and those wandering stones which seem to grow out of the ground everywhere; next came a steep pitch of the 'pavÉ aux Alpes,' in which the stones are fixed side by side in wild disorder; then, worse than all, a long spell of round pebbles, such as are found at a third-rate watering-place which cannot afford even one flag down the middle of the footpath. Even the natives seemed to revolt against this precious medley, and frequent short-cuts and side-tracks showed how they avoided the work of their own hands. Presently the road swerved round the hillside to the right, and a lovely reach of Val Camonica opened before our eyes. Immediately in front, surrounded by a wood of chestnuts, was Sonico, and in the distance, built up a slope above the junction of Val Corteno with Val Camonica, rose the towers of Edolo, about one hour's walk distant.

The great shining tableland, lifted above all the lofty Lombard ridges, had fascinated my imagination. When another opportunity offered, I laid my plans so as to combine an ascent of its second summit, the CarÈ Alto, with a passage across its greatest breadth. At first sight on the map this might seem a bold, even an impossible, attempt, for it involved the crossing of no less than five lofty ridges, varying between 9,800 and 10,000 feet in height. But a study of the levels showed that owing to the uniform upheaval of the mass there would be no descent of more than 200 or 300 feet in the ten miles between the first and last. Still we thought it well to sleep in the highest chÂlet on this side the snows.

On a glorious August afternoon we drove down the high-road from Pinzolo to Borzago, whence a mountain-path leads into the glen to which the village has given its name.

At the top of the first ascent a very happily-balanced view opens. The valley slopes are feathered with light foliage. High above them shine the white folds of glacier, while the CarÈ Alto, half rock half a glittering ice-comb, is the centre of the landscape. Deeper in the glen, beyond the pine trees and the hay barns, great birches hang over the path which splits into branches in the forest. Here we lost ourselves, and plunged for several minutes amidst broken rocks and dense underwood, tearing our hands and clothes, but filling our mouths with delicious raspberries. On a slope below the cliffs which close the valley stand two summer cottages where we had hoped to sleep. An old woman and her son were cooking their polenta, but no herds were in sight. The old woman seemed only anxious to be rid of the unexpected invaders—she had no milk, no hay to sleep on, absolutely 'niente.' The herd was higher on the mountain, but it was too late for us to reach them—we had better go back. An hour's daylight remained, and we bribed, not without difficulty, the boy to leave his porridge and lead us at once to the herds. We followed him at a swinging cowboy pace up steep hillsides, over rocks, and between waterfalls. But darkness fell and still no friendly tinkle reached our ears. Hurrying on over broken but more level ground, we saw at last something whiter than Adamello granite at our feet. We were among a flock of Bergamasque sheep. A minute later we plunged into unseen filth, and were brought up short before an enormous boulder. The boy's cheerful statement of 'Ecco la malga' was at first simply incredible. A rock, experience affirmed, could not be a 'malga.' But the boy was right. His shrill shout was sleepily answered from the bowels of the earth, and from a hole under the boulder human forms were dimly seen to issue. For the next few minutes a shower of patois filled the air, amidst which we penetrated a low door and found ourselves in a cave constructed by building a wall of stones against the lower side of the boulder where it overhung. A dying fire threw a feeble light over a crowd of pails and cheeses which filled every foot of available space. One of us sat down on a cheese, another found a cover which converted a milk-pail into a seat. The low slanting roof rendered the least movement difficult and perilous. In the furthest corner where the rock left no space except for a prostrate figure was a bed of hay and skins, fully filled by three shepherds and a girl.

The smallness of the accommodation was made more conspicuous by the disproportion between it and the voices which issued from the shepherds as they moved about to help us in our arrangements. Within a few inches of our ears they bellowed every remark in a Homeric roar, which might without exaggeration have been heard half a mile off. Long habit in shouting to their flocks on a distant hillside, or carrying on conversations across a valley, had so taken hold of them that they seemed quite incapable of reducing their voices to the ordinary pitch of regions where population is less thinly scattered.

Our night did not promise to be luxurious. After a frugal supper on bread and chocolate, we made our bed as well as we could. The shelter being far above the forest, logs were not easily procurable, and the shepherds had consequently collected as fuel a heap of slender brushwood. Having piled away some of the pails and cheeses we spread the green branches out on the floor as a mattress. A macintosh served for a sheet, and our entertainers supplied a rug for our feet. The couch was at least not painfully uncomfortable; and though each of us felt sure in the morning that he had not slept, no one had found the night interminable except poor FranÇois, who insisted on sitting and smoking over the fire, and was consequently only half awake all the next day.

At daybreak we issued into the open air. We found ourselves in the wild hollow at the eastern base of the CarÈ Alto, separated from the great Borzago Glacier by a rocky spur. Mounting first towards and then along this ridge, we quickly approached the mountain. Had we remained on the rocks, and then boldly struck up the eastern face, we should, I believe, quickly have settled with our peak. But FranÇois did not favour this plan; moreover, our further intentions gave a motive for carrying our baggage to the side of the peak to which it would be most convenient to descend.

We consequently slid down several hundred feet on to the great glacier, and made a flank march towards the much higher northern base of the CarÈ Alto. This operation caused some delay. The snow, where it curled over from the highest plain, broke into huge chasms. There was, it was true, always an easy way round each of them; but the ways round seldom coincided, and for some time our ascent was conducted in a very crab-like fashion.

Above these obstacles an easy slope led to the mountain, on this side a cocked-hat of ice sharply cut off from the snow-fields by a continuous moat, bridged only at one spot near the southern corner of the peak. Tracks across the snow-arch showed that feet guided by true mountaineering instinct had lately crossed. On approach they turned out to be a broad chamois-trail. The herd which had made them we saw later in the day.

A little step-cutting enabled us to follow our four-footed guides and reach the rocky ridge. As we gained it, our eyes, accustomed for the last hour or two to the white glare of sun-facing snows, suddenly fell on a wide basin of pure green, seemingly at our feet. We were looking on the pasturages of Val di Fum. Some such glimpse, aided by a few clouds to confuse topography, may well have given rise to the legend of the Lost Valley of Monte Rosa, or the Rose Garden of King Laurin.

The last scramble was easy except in one place, where the rocks failed to give foothold for a few yards, and steps had to be cut between them and the ice. An accident might easily happen here with careless guides; but, as one steady man can ensure the safety of a party, the spot can hardly be called dangerous.

The mountain culminates in a double peak; the furthest point is a broken tooth of bare granite. The gap between this and the snow-crest is narrow and not deep, and a convenient crack supplies a way to the highest crag. On it we found traces of a stoneman built probably by Messrs. S. Taylor and Montgomery who made the first ascent in 1865.

This peak, if less favourably placed than the Adamello, commands a noble view. In the east deep forested glens, fertile valleys and green ridges crowned by ruddy crags contrast with the eternal snow-fields which stretch away for miles towards the west. From the CarÈ Alto, as from an outpost, the genius of winter may look down on the country he has lost since the great ice-epoch, on the trenches through which his rivers flowed, on the hills they rounded, and see even, far off in the haze, the mounds which he erected as monuments of his widest power, the huge terminal moraines of Somma and Solferino. Behind him lies his last refuge, the great granite castle from whose summit his forces cannot be dislodged even by the summer sun of Lombardy.

Across this fastness we intended to make our way. For the next six hours we steadily pursued a westward course over the snow-fields. Now we wandered at the foot of Monte Folletto[51] amongst snow-caves huge enough to puzzle for a moment even the herd of chamois whose gambols we had interrupted. Then we passed through a narrow gap, the Passo di Cavento, on each side of which the grey and red pinnacles shot up in a fantastic fence, while at their base a great ditch waited the unwary mountaineer. Beyond it we found another snow-reservoir, almost as flat as a cricket-field, feeding the ice-streams of Val di Fum and the Lobbia Glacier. A broad gap, the Passo della Lobbia Alta, let us through to another basin, that of the Mandron Glacier, where we crossed the track to the Adamello. At its further extremity—it is about three miles broad—we saw before us the fifth ridge, the last which divided us from Val d'Avio.[52]

As we approached the pass a family group of three chamois were seen moving before us on the snow. Presently a gun was fired from among the rocks of the Corni del Confine, and a solitary hunter sprang forward. The shot had missed, and the chamois, whom we had been unconsciously driving, raced past us. One of them was quite young, and it was touching to see how the two parents not only would move no faster than the pace of their child, but placed themselves on either side of it, as if purposely sheltering it from danger. My condolences with the sportsman were not very heartfelt.

A steep gully, an easy glacier, a pathless hillside, helped us quickly down to the first chÂlet in Val d'Avio. A few yards beyond it the valley is broken by a lofty cliff. At the foot of a steep zigzag beside the thundering waters we entered one of the level platforms common in this group. Its smooth expanse of meadow was alive with cows and goats, now collected for the night round the herdsmen's huts. Two torrents—one the grey child of the glaciers, the other clear and spring-born—rushed down upon us in splendid cascades. In the background the Adamello raised its icy horn.

Immediately below the alp lies a large lake. The scene somewhat resembles the Lac de Gaube, but the features of the landscape are more savage, bolder, and on a larger scale. The lake itself, however, is unfortunately of the ordinary murky-grey colour of Swiss glacier water.

Beyond the platform of the lake the glen falls with extraordinary rapidity, and a very stony path, mainly on the left bank, leads down past a succession of waterfalls, any one of which in another country might become famous.

The lower level of the valley is devastated by the torrent. For Ponte di Legno it is best to cross its stony bed and follow a cart-track joining the Tonale road a little below Pontagna. When we entered the high-road night overtook us, and we walked the three uphill kilomÈtres to Ponte di Legno at our fastest pace, killing distance and fatigue with the present pleasure of rapid motion.