A Run Through The Dolomites In 1876

By W. A. B. Coolidge

A quarter of a century ago a veil of mystery still shrouded the Dolomites, even in the case of those who do not count themselves to belong to the vulgar crowd. Geologists, like Dolomieu and Sir Humphry Davy, had indeed explored their valleys, and Mr. Ball, by his ascent of the Pelmo in 1857, followed by the exploration of the Marmolata di Rocca in 1860, and the conquest of the Cima Tosa in 1865, had broken the spell that seemed to encircle these seemingly inaccessible peaks. Messrs. Gilbert and Churchill’s book, published in 1864, had revealed the wonders of this region to a large circle of readers, while Dr. Paul Grohmann’s explorations between 1862 and 1869 had further stimulated a small and select band of English climbers (such as Tuckett, Whitwell, Threshfield, Tucker, Utterson-Kelso, and a few others) to walk in the steps of Mr. Ball, and even soar higher. Mr. Ball’s “Eastern Alps” appeared in 1868, while Miss Amelia B. Edwards’ “Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequented Valleys” was given to the world in 1873. Dr. Grohmann in 1875 issued his map of the Dolomites, though his book, entitled “Wanderungen in den Dolomiten,” was not issued till 1877. Most of the great Dolomite summits had been scaled by 1876, though many peaks, later to become fashionable and well known (such as the Funffinger-spitze, the Kleine Zinne, the Pala di San Martino, and the “Towers” in the Rosengarten range), had not then been heard of, save by a very few travellers. The German (born in 1869) and Austrian (born in 1863) Alpine Clubs were still young, and had only lately (1873) been fused, while in 1876 there was not a single Club hut anywhere in the district, though there was an artificial cave hollowed out half-an-hour below the summit of the Marmolata.

In short, the Dolomites were not yet fashionable, and were therefore especially attractive to an energetic young climber like myself, in search of fresh Alps to conquer. I read what could then be read about the Dolomite peaks, and in particular burned to climb again the Cimon della Pala, as yet but once conquered (by Mr. Whitwell in 1870). So in order to celebrate my election (October, 1875) to my Fellowship at Magdalen College, Oxford, I resolved to make an autumn visit in 1876 to the Dolomites to see for myself what they were like, having perhaps some vague ideas of undertaking their minute exploration, if they and I happened to agree. Hence, when preparing for the summer season of 1876 (my twelfth climbing season), I engaged, through the kind offices of Mr. Tuckett (my Alpine god-father), the services of Santo Siorpaes of Cortina, then the crack Dolomite guide, in order that Christian Almer (not yet named “Vater Almer”) and I might have an interpreter in the Italian districts, and also a local man to help us with his local knowledge.

Almer and I (with his second son, Christian, then on his travels for the first time) first made in June-July, 1876, a successful journey to Dauphiné, the Graians, the chain of Mont Blanc, and Zermatt. Then I went off to the Bel Alp to spend August quietly while Almer was elsewhere engaged. We met again by appointment on August 29th at the Rhone Gletscher, and thence started off on our long journey. Like most young mountaineers, I imagine, I had elaborated a splendid cross country route, quite regardless of weather and legs. We did manage on the way to cross the Planura Pass from the Maderanerthal to the Sand Alp (August 31st), and also to cross the Todi thence to Disentis (September 2nd). But then, the weather not being what it should be, we threw up all thoughts of Piz Medel and the Rheinwaldhorn (later also any ideas as to the Disgrazia), and had a most weary three days’ drive by Coire, the Schyn and Julier, the Bernina and the Aprica, to Edolo, at the W. foot of the Adamello group. We arrived there, nearly dead with enforced sitting still, late on the evening of September 5th, and found Santo awaiting us. On the 7th, we crossed the Adamello from the Val Millero to Pinzolo, a very long and dull day, walking hard most of the time, getting no view from the top, and finding the extreme length of the Val di Genova a great drawback to a proper appreciation of its undoubted beauties. At Pinzolo, who should we find but Mr. Ball himself, but while I went obediently to the inn he recommended in his “Alpine Guide,” it was a little disconcerting to find him established at the other. Here at Pinzolo we were close to the real Dolomites. But before entering on that enchanted land it was clearly our duty to climb the Presanella, the monarch of the region. This we accomplished on the 9th, in the day from Pinzolo, up and down. Unluckily Santo took us up by the Passo di Cercen route, which he had followed with Mr. Tuckett, who had strongly warned me against it as being very round about. My local topographical knowledge was too slight to restrain Santo, until we had got a long way up the Val di Genova. But on discovering where we were, we literally ran up hill to gain time, and so even by this most devious route took just seven hours’ walking from the hotel to the top. Mist, as throughout the whole of our journey, hindered us from obtaining much of a view. I insisted on returning by the obvious Nardis glacier route, and though none of the party had ever done this route, we got back by it to Pinzolo in 3 hours 10 minutes walking. I don’t fancy many parties have ever done this climb much quicker than we did, for we were back at Pinzolo at 2.35 p.m. (having left at 2.10 a.m.), and had halted one hour and three-quarters en route, besides half-an-hour on the top.

The way was now clear for our invasion of the haunted land, and we spent the night of September I0th in a charcoal burner’s hut, on the middle shelf of the Val Brenta. We had hoped to have found someone there, but it was uninhabited, and we had a bad time, as the night was very cold. It froze, we had no wraps at all and there were large interstices in the walls of the log hut. But the marvellous sunset on the Brenta pinnacles almost repaid one in advance for some hours’ shivering. Next morning (September 11th), we walked up, amidst astonishing scenery, of which the memory still, after 26 years, lingers with me, to the Bocca di Brenta (just under two hours from our hut). But then the envious clouds came on again, and we saw nothing from the top of the Cima Tosa, which we ascended by the usual way. I brought away with me a huge fragment from the top, which was originally like the most delicate lace work in rock, and it still reposes on the mantel-piece of my , Oxford rooms, though it was a good deal damaged by its long journey. Clouds pursued us down the Val delle Seghe, and ended in pouring rain, in which we reached a most primitive little inn at Molveno. The afternoon passed slowly by, as there was nothing to look at save a bit of the blue lake. A curé did indeed try to converse with me, but, as his German was as shaky as my Italian, he fell upon mediaeval and ecclesiastical Latin as a means of communication. Now, I have never been a good classical scholar, but even the best classic would, I fancy, have been hard put to if called upon to discuss in conversational Latin the dinner he was busied in eating. At any rate, I could only be attentive, and wonder what my fellow guest was saying, just as he no doubt wondered how much of his conversation I understood. There was, at any rate, much goodwill on both sides.

The morrow we took what, in clear weather (alas denied to us!), must be a very pretty route over the ridge of the Monte Gazza (seeing only the Lake of Garda) to Vezzano, and then drove down in rain to Trent. But there it was very hot after being up in the mountains, though the examination of the historical monuments of this little frontier town whiled away the afternoon pleasantly enough.

Next day (the 13th), we went by rail to Neumarkt, and then drove up, hauled by a poor pair of horses, to Predazzo, but it rained most of the day, and all the next. The only distractions were seeing Santo coming out in the character of a dancer in the evening, and the arrival of two young Oxford men with whom to gossip. Luckily, next morning, Count Welsperg arrived, and as he had made the second ascent of the Cimon with Santo a few weeks before, he was able to give me much information, as well as some sketches, all of course most acceptable. At last, on the afternoon of the 15th, we managed to get up to Paneveggio. As I have said, one of my chief objects in this journey was the ascent of the Cimon della Pala. But really when I saw it and the Vezzana peering at me over the forests, and raising aloft what seemed to be literally spires of rock, I became rather uneasy. Certainly this seemed to me to be one of the most striking views that can be had in the Dolomites, and its memory is still very vivid. We were kept at Paneveggio another day by the weather, and so finally decided not to bivouac out for our peak, which we finally climbed on the 17th. There was a vast amount of snow on the rocks (we took the then usual route from the Travignolo glacier, which, I believe, is now called the ” old route “), but this did not hinder them from peppering us with stones, and I think that we were all three struck, though not seriously hurt. Mist as usual hid most things from us, and so we could not fix the position of the Pala di San Martino, then a mysterious peak the very situation of which was uncertain, and which was believed to be utterly inaccessible. We came down the same way, and reached the pastures in the gloaming of a September evening. A thick mist complicated matters, while Santo lost his head and the way (though we could not have been far from the high road). Finally, after ascending a long time, I insisted on descending at least, and we spent the night shivering and supperless in a lonely hut-altogether a provoking mis-adventure, especially as next morning we did reach the high road, despite our numbed and hungry condition, in 55 minutes, and the Inn at San Martino di Castrozza (no luxurious Grand Hotel in those distant days) in 50 minutes more. Here I made amends for previous fasting by ordering and consuming two substantial breakfasts in rapid succession. I was young and hungry in those days, and never but once later (at Engelberg in 1886 after a night out on the Uri Rothstock) did I ever repeat this feat. It turned out, now that it was clear enough to trace the scene of our previous night’s wanderings, that we had actually been in sight of San Martino, had it not been for those treacherous mists, and even within a quarter-of-an-hour of the inn. Such are the worries caused by mists and like hindrances in the mountains. The morning passed away pleasantly in the fashion I have indicated, with intervals for admiration of the extremely fine view that San Martino commands. The Sass Maor seemed to me then as it seems to me still to be the beau-ideal of a Dolomite, and often has it since disturbed my dreams. Our experiences with the snow on the Cimon had rendered us unwilling to take difficult rock peaks for a time. So we gave up all idea of the Pala di San Martino, as it was necessary to find it before attempting it, and for two years longer did it defy all attacks. We simply drove down in the afternoon by a very pretty road to Primiero. Here I was immensely pleased by really in person experiencing one of the minor sensations that were common in the Dolomites in those days-I dined on the landing place, between two flights of stairs, at Bonetti’s Inn. l cannot imagine the why and the wherefore of this practice, but it was the thing in those days, though now no doubt it is a mere legend.

By Mr. Tuckett’s advice, we took (on the 19th September) the Passo di Canali from Primiero to Agordo. My notes and letters speak highly of the remarkably beautiful scenery of this pass. But my recollections of it are very vague, save in two respects. It was very stony and led over much white limestone, which not merely blinded one more than snow, but cut one’s boots up terribly. In the evening I was pleasantly surprised by a visit from Signor Cesare Tomé, who had been up the Cimon with Count Welsperg a few weeks before. At Agordo, l seem also to recollect a huge and wandering inn, set in an even huger Piazza, both unmistakably Italian.

Next day, we drove up to Caprile, revelling on the way in the view of the superb cliffs of the Civetta, with the blue Lago d’ Alleghe at its foot. It was either that day or on our return to Caprile that an amusing incident befell me. Mr. Tuckett had authorised me to invoke his name in case of need, and I thought I would try the effect here at Caprile. So I announced myself at Pezzé’s inn as a friend of “il Tuckett.” The result was not, at first at any rate, the warm reception I expected. But after a time an aged dame was seen descending the stairs, supported by various members of her family. This turned out to be old Signora Pezzé, who had come to embrace the friend of “il Tuckett.” But
he
was too shy to profit by the proffered opportunity, and never again, in the Dolomites at least, did he invoke the name of the great magician, with his embarrassing gifts.

That afternoon (September 20th), we walked up to the village of Andraz, and slept in a charming little inn, which was just like a toy house, being all of pine wood, and so clean and nice. Somehow or another I had got an idea into my head that the Tofana could be climbed from the Val Travenanzes. So I had determined to take that route over to Cortina. However, after reaching that Val from Andraz, via the Falzarego Pass and Hospice and the Colle dei Bos, it was decided that though the proposed route might “go,” it was now too late to try it. So we simply tramped down our Val, amidst very grand rock scenery, and reached Cortina in time for lunch. Perhaps it was vexation at this mishap of missing the Tofana, perhaps not, but certainly the position of Cortina seemed to me to be far from coming up to its reputation. The Pelmo, the Tofana, and the Cristallo, are indeed striking, but the valley is too broad for them, since their height is relatively small, though their forms are grand. In any case, Cortina did not leave a deep impression on my mind, and I have never again seen it, so as to correct, if necessary, my first impressions. We had been so much delayed on our journey that my time and the season were ending. So, to my everlasting regret, I gave up all idea of going farther eastwards to the Misurina lake, the Drei Zinnen, Sorapiss, Cristallo, etc. At the time, I thought my visit was simply deferred. But it has been deferred for 26 years, and may now never come off.

I was lured by the hope of seeing Venice from above, and it was impossible for me to quit Cortina without at least climbing the Antelao. But the ill fortune that dogged us during the whole journey tormented us in this matter. We started early from Cortina, but on arriving at San Vito pouring rain put an end to all further progress, and a wretched day had to be spent in a rather nice little inn there. Even next morning (September 23rd), the weather (most hateful as usual) delayed our start till 7.10 a.m. Now, Mr. Ball reckons, in his “Alpine Guide,” eleven hours for the ascent from San Vito, up and down, so we clearly had no time to lose. Hence we ran up to the Forcola Piccola in two hours, distancing a lonely traveller who desired us to guide him to the top of our peak, which in 2 hours 10 minutes more we at least attained-pretty quick time, I fancy. But fate was against us, for though the sky was clear, there was a sea of clouds that covered the plains and Venice, though some peaks raising themselves above it had a rather quaint effect, and one that at the time I had not seen very often. A short half-hour on top was enough, and then back to the Forcola Piccola in just over the hour, and 1 hour 10 minutes more down to San Vito. So we had taken but 6 hours 25 minutes’ actual walking, or 8 hours 20 minutes including all halts, and I was proportionately elated at having beaten the “Alpine Guide” himself. In 1876, I was still young and unsophisticated enough to rejoice in such small triumphs.

The following day (September 24th) was, for a wonder, fine; at least, in the morning. So we set off from San Vito for the Pelmo, intending to sleep at the head of the Zoldo Valley. We went up the Val Ruton nearly to the ridge at its head overlooking Zoppe, and breakfasted, I fancy, not far from the site of the present Rifugio Venezia. Then we attacked the Pelmo by the ordinary route. I had heard much of the wonderful rock gallery that wound round the mountain, and I had a picture in vol. vi. of the “Alpine Journal” ever in mind. Of all the extraordinary and wonderful things I saw in the Dolomites, this gallery ranks easily first. My anticipations fell far short of the reality, and never, before or since, have I seen anything in the Alps which at all approaches this quaint freak of nature. Then, too, the fact that Mr. Ball was the first traveller (in the days just before the birth of the Alpine Club) to explore it lent it a very special interest in my eyes, for during the whole of my Alpine career Mr. Ball’s example has been steadily kept before me. The last stony slopes of the Pelmo after quitting the gallery are rather tiresome, and, of course, mist greeted us on the summit -at any rate on one side- though we heard through them very clearly the sound of voices coming up from the Val Fiorentina. We took just over six hours walking from San Vito. Returning to the Col di Rutorto, we next commenced to traverse the various spurs that extend south of the Pelmo, but soon we had had enough of this wearisome work, so on gaining a hut descended by a rough way to the Val di Zoldo, and thus attained our goal, Pecol, its highest hamlet. There we found a very modest “osteria” indeed, in which a dance went on all night, so that our slumbers in a neighbouring hay barn were somewhat disturbed. l don’t suppose that many climbers have ever spent a night at Pecol di Zoldo, and according to my recollections I cannot advise anyone to do so, unless the accommodation is better than it was. l had chosen the spot as a bivouac for the ascent of the Civetta, a mountain which had strangely attracted me. But Santo had once been up it with Mr. Tuckett at the very end of May, and not unnaturally had had a narrow escape from being carried away by an avalanche. Hence he was much disinclined to undertake the ascent, though of course he did not like to refuse point blank. He got round the obstacle very ingeniously by not calling us early enough next morning, so that, to my intense vexation, for it was a fine day, we had simply to walk over the Forcella d’ Alleghe to Caprile, which we reached at 10.25 a.m. There were some curious guests here, including a young Prussian tourist, who was seized with an insane desire to go up the Marmolata, when learnt that that was the next item on my programme. I was only able to shake him off by resolving to do the peak in the day, without sleeping out, though Santo was strongly in favour of the latter course. As it turned out, we had plenty of time, though unluckily we had to go through the fine gorge of Sottoguda in the dusk (it was September 26th). However, we got up to the Fedaja Pass in 3 hours 10 minutes’ sharp walking, and thence, without encountering any difficulty whatever, we attained the top of the Marmolata (the culminating point of the entire range of the Dolomites) in 2 hours 50 minutes. On the way we paid a visit to the curious artificial cave, which was then full of icicles. On the summit there were many clouds, and a very high wind blowing, so that our stay was limited to twenty minutes. I remember looking down into the Val Ombretta on the south, and planning to make the ascent next time from that direction. In an hour and a quarter from the top, we were back on the Fedaja, and there met the young Prussian, with whom we descended by a very pretty path to Campitello. Here we halted for the night, but he went on to Vigo.

My Dolomite trip was now rapidly drawing to an end. Botzen was my object, and I had settled to find my way thither over a pass strongly recommended to me by Mr. Tuckett. In those far-off days it bore the name of Falbanjoch, but now I understand that it is called the Tierseralpeljoch. Our way lay up the Val Duron, at the head of which was our pass. We took two hours and a quarter walking to a point then called “Auf der Schneid,” and now the Mahlknechtjoch, whence we looked down on the rolling downs of the Seisser Alp, a visit to which was reserved for my next journey in this region. Forty minutes later we attained our own proper pass, and then started on a most picturesque descent amidst very grand rock scenery down the Tschamin glen. One spot especially struck me, but of course in those days there were no sign posts, or chains, or paths marked by patches of red or blue paint. In I hour 10 minutes from the pass we passed a hut commanding a very fine view of the pinnacles of the Rosengarten range, and fifty minutes later (4 hours 55 minutes walking from Campitello) we entered the extremely quaint establishment dignified by the name of “Tiers Bad.” It was my first experience of a Bath house frequented entirely by peasants (like Kemmeriboden at the head of the Emme Valley in Switzerland), and I found great entertainment in watching the visitors, while lunching in the same room with them. A pleasing uncertainty reigned here as to the exact time at which the train left the station of Blumau for Botzen, so after lunch we put our best foot forward. Thirty-five minutes below the Baths, we passed through the village of Tiers, and an hour and a half later, almost breathless, pulled up at Blumau. By good luck, we were half an hour too early, and a quarter of an hour’s journey in the train (the first time I had been in one since June) brought us to Botzen. We had left Trent on September 13th, so that we had been away just fifteen days on our round in the main group of the Dolomites. The guides left me next day, but I had to tarry for a missing knapsack which had not been sent on from Cortina. At last it came, and I started off on the morning of September 30th direct for Paris, via Munich, a long journey which then took thirty-seven hours.

I had left the Tyrolese Dolomites with the firm intention of returning thither pretty soon, and I find in my notebooks many hints for expeditions to be carried out later. But that second visit, despite many many plans, has never yet come off. I have never since been nearer the Dolomites than the Ortler group. Yet, occasionally, when catching a distant glimpse of their ghostly forms dimly outlined on the horizon, I have felt a strange longing to wander through them again. Nowhere else in the Alps (not even among the Swiss or the French Dolomites) have I ever seen rocks twisted into such nightmare-like shapes, or splashed with such startling colours, or quaint phenomena like the gallery on the Pelmo. On the other hand, the almost complete absence of ice and snow in the Dolomites marks them off very distinctly from the rest of the High Alps, and cannot (in my opinion at least) quite compensate for their other advantages. Still, I have longings after this marvellous region. But my attention became gradually fixed on the more westerly portion of the Alps. Yet in the autumn of 1876 it for a while hung in the balance whether I should follow in the steps of my master, Mr. Tuckett, in the East or in the West. The South Western Alps won the day; yet I should like once more, after a quarter of a century has elapsed, to re-visit the Dolomites, and have not eyen yet quite given up all hopes that some day, by the aid of the good paths now laid out, and the well-provided Club huts, even such an old stager as myself may look up at the Dolomites from below, though it is no longer granted to him to scale their heaven-soaring spires.