Rambling Alone
By K. Aldred
Having spent several holidays in the Alps with companions, and having a month alone in which to wander about pleasing no one but myself, the idea of walking from Chamonix to Austria seemed attractive. If the destination appeared to be a little vague this was for no reason other than it was vague. The BMC bus would deposit me at Chamonix and beyond that the plans were flexible. The limits on the route, especially during the first week, were mainly in avoiding crevassed glaciers but keeping near to the hills where possible. A companion or two would have allowed the use, for instance, of the Haute Route but for a lone walk prudence dictated a less ambitious approach.
Leaving Chamonix just after 2.00 p.m., I made for Lac Blanc with the idea of spending the night there but with plenty of daylight left and a downhill journey to the Cot de Montets that initial plan was soon modified. This early part of my walk coincided with the Tour of Mont Blanc and for anyone undertaking the Tour, an easy day would be enjoyed by taking the path from Argentière to Trient over the Col de Balme, and then crossing the Fenêtre d’Arpette the following day. This, however, takes one away from the mountains unnecessarily and an inviting alternative was to put the two days together and omit the visit to Trient. It made for a long day and meant a fair amount of uphill walking but was well worth the effort.
The metalled road thankfully ends at Le Tour where a few minutes were spent in viewing the house of Michel Croz. A well-trodden path climbs to the Col de Balme at a gentle angle. In winter the slopes are probably in great demand by skiers but apart from three or four walkers and small groups of cows, I had the slope to myself. An English party sat outside the inn on the col, drinking in the views and varying amounts of refreshment. This was the first of only two English parties I met before reaching Austria. As I had brushed up on my German before crossing the French-speaking Valais, a great deal of sign language was to be used before the end of the holiday. A delightful path led from the col across some large areas of snow and then through alpen rose and stunted pines before dropping down to the foot of the Trient Glacier. The stream was crossed by a footbridge just below a refreshment hut evidently popular with people coming up the valley from Trient.
Thc path to the Fenêtre d’Arpette is beautifully situated with the Trient Glacier on the right and the Pointe des Ecandies facing one during the ascent. One guide book described the col as being serious because of the avalanche danger. This seemed to be overstating the case when I crossed it but the northern side of the col was deep in a mixture of snow and broken rock, which, on a steep slope made progress slow but not difficult. After a late lunch at the hut I met no one going in either direction, so the feeling of solitude was almost complete as the sun fell lower in the sky. It eventually became obvious that my fitness was not up to the same standard as my ambition and that a bed in Champex was unlikely that night. I was not carrying tent or sleeping bag hut had plenty of spare clothing including thermal underwear and a small stove which allowed for a fairly comfortable night on one of the numerous patches of grassy bank beside the stream. After a brew of tea I settled down in the polybag to watch the colours change on the mountain tops. It wasn’t long before the new moon disappeared behind the mountains but the stars remained, providing the best possible tent for a warm, dry evening.
At about four o’clock I was awoken by what sounded like Hannibal advancing up the pass. It turned out to be four French-speaking climbers, one wearing a headlamp, presumably making an early morning start for the Pointe d’Orny at the head of the valley. They seemed taken by surprise at the figure lying in a bundle of plastic and excitedly shone torches in my direction. A loud yawn, a cough and a splutter seemed to reassure them that no assistance was needed and that the nearby rucksack still had an owner and they were on their way. After this disturbance, sleep was no longer possible, so after another brew I patiently waited for the Alpine Glow with the camera within easy reach.
Two difficult questions for any mountaineer to answer are what is the best season of the year and what is the best time of the day? The answer to both will depend very much on the individual but a popular answer to the second must surely be the dawn as seen from a hill top. I hadn’t slept on the top of the hill but at 6500 feet the situation was magnificent. The sky to the north-east gradually brightened with various changing hues until quite suddenly behind me the top of the Pointe d’Orny was caught by the sun. Layers of fine mist provided a filter for the increasing light and in a remarkably short time the colours had changed completely together with the temperature.
From Verbier a good track may be followed to the Mont Fort Cabane but during the heat of the morning it was easy to rationalise that the cable-car to Ruinette was not really cheating as it allowed for more time in the hills. The path from the top station at Ruinette to the cabane follows the course of the bisse for much of the way. The bisse was probably built to carry water from the Glacier de la Chaux round the hillsides to Verbier and Medières. Many of these structures carry water along the sides of very steep, and in some cases vertical, faces as they contour round the mountains with a fairly uniform, gentle angle of fall. On steep faces a wooden trough supported on iron rods or stone pillars carries the water and some also carry a right of way. Being ancient in origin, many are not to be recommended as footpaths because they can be about as safe as some of the timber supports in a Derbyshire lead mine. The bisse of Mont Fort, however, was not like this. It twisted round gentle hillocks below the main peak, entering the occasional gully but generally heading in an easterly direction so that the Grand Combin was in view throughout.
The northern end of the Bec des Rosses was interesting as large areas of it had been denuded of snow by recent avalanches, the bare patches being bounded by straight margins showing where huge slabs had broken free. The adjacent snow which remained was marked by faint lines where the next fractures would, no doubt, take place. Up to the Col de Ia Chaux the snowfield provided a welcome change from the track, and a Belgian family in front of me gave some human interest and a feeling of not being completely alone. When we met on the col we exchanged cameras in order to have some sort of record; or was it to inflate egos?
This was probably the best day of genuine mountain travel. After taking leave of the Belgians I headed east dropping into a snow-filled basin which appeared from some viewpoints to be totally enclosed but which, in fact, opened to the south allowing a descent to the Val de Bagnes. Presumably this was the route taken by the family after they had finished their lunch. My way continued in an easterly direction to reach the Col de Louvie at 9600 feet. The whole area was covered with the slight depressions which indicate a hot sun on old footprints and it was obviously a popular place. However between lunch and evening I saw no one and no evidence of recent passage a delightful situation. A total of three cols was crossed before reaching the Glacier Grand Desert. This was very wet with calf-deep slush present in many places but wearing shorts under a blazing sun meant that it wasn’t uncomfortable, the wetness drying very quickly. My intention at this stage was to cross the Col de Prafleuri and stay at the cabin of the same name. As the map showed a crevassed area to the south of the col, I swung round in an arc to avoid crossing at that point. With no sign of a track it was interesting to come across a prominent stone bearing, in red paint, the legend “route 18B.” As it meant that I was either on the track or just crossing it, whatever route 18B was, it was of limited value. Later events proved, in fact, that I crossed the track. A long scramble up patches of snow but mostly large, angular pieces of rock was interrupted by the sighting of a large herd of chamois. They declined my attempts to photograph them so I continued up the slope to reach the ridge at a point to the south of the Fenêtre d’Alleves, a superb viewpoint. It showed that the Col de Prafleuri was an easy crossing over terrain no different from that just covered. A ridge ran away from me in an easterly direction and the cabin was in the valley beyond the ridge. The easiest way to reach it would be to drop back down to the end of the glacier and then to climb the col directly. As I was unsure of reaching the cabin in daylight, a comfortable night at Super Nendaz seemed called for. That hope was eventually dashed and it was nearer midnight before I found accommodation. In retrospect a night’s bivi at Plan de Ia Chaux would have been cheaper, would have saved time the following day and would have provided a site as attractive as the Val d’Arpette. Below the glacier was an abundance of comfortable pasture with attractive flowers everywhere. Again, this would provide an ideal camp site for anyone wishing to avoid the crowds.
The next intended pass was the well known Pas de Chèvres between the Dix hut and Arolla. From Le Chargeur the path zig-zags up the Barrage de Ia Grande Dixence, the collecting ground of vast quantities of water which are tapped from not only the Val d’Heremence but also from surrounding valleys by means of tunnels cut through the mountains. The rock at the southern end of the Lac de Dix is a micaceous schist which makes the narrow footpath, twisting towards the Monts Rouges, a bit greasy in places. A detour now avoids the worst part but it was not well-marked. The Glacier dc Cheilon is bounded on the east by the Monts Rouges and the Pointes de Tsena Refien but the long impressive ridge is broken by an obvious gap at the Pas de Chèvres and the Col de Riedmatten, two passes only 250 metres apart. The Pas de Chèvres is slightly lower and has the support of an iron ladder but the Col de Riedmatten has the advantage of being reached first as one approaches from the Dixence.
The way down to Arolla in the evening was very pleasant; steep at first but then more gently through a herd of bell-ringing sheep overshadowed on the right hand by the Pigne d’Arolla and finally through the Cembra pines from which the valley and the village take their names. The sun had set before a room was obtained but the view of the Pigne from the window was breath-taking, bringing back memories of an earlier holiday.
An obvious route from Arolla for anyone wishing to traverse the Pennine Alps would take one over the Col de Bertol and a long glacier crossing to Zermatt. To avoid the glacier crossing I walked down the Val d’Arolla to Les Haudères and then climbed to the Col de Torrent. This is a convenient way to the Val d’Moiry, passing the tiny Lac des Autannes before dropping down to the artificial Lac de Moiry. Below the barrage the path twisted among a profusion of alpine rose which gave off a heady perfume, a memorable accompaniment on the descent to Grimetz. This was the prettiest village of the whole trip, perhaps having too much of a chocolate box setting for some tastes but the prohibition of traffic together with an attractive church, working water-wheel and paved streets made for a happy night’s stay.
From Grimetz in the Val d’Anniviers to the Turtmanntal meant crossing a range of mountains which runs from Bella Tola to the Weisshorn. One attractive route crosses the Meidpass to Gruben, a straightforward walk which included a very fine viewpoint for admiring many of the mountains to the south. To the north BelIa Tola added its own beauty to an area replete with excellent walks, scrambles and restful picnic sites among snow patches and alpine flowers
After a night spent in the matrazenlager of the Hotel Schwartzhorn the long grind over the Augstbordpass was completed under the blazing sun. A great deal of spring snow remained on the eastern side .of the pass and a few glissades soon brought me to a small lake where the track to St. Nicholas forked to the south. I had no map of this section of the walk and consequently continued in an easterly direction to reach the village of Embd, about four kilometres from my destination at St. Nicholas. It was of no consequence as the way was pleasant and I enjoyed the company of a Dutch couple for part of the way.
From the Mattertal to the Saastal no passes were involved, but a high level path from Grachen to Saas-Fee took me close to some of the Mischabel peaks. The path, protected in places with steel cables, had enough variety to provide interest throughout its length. Woods, alpine meadows, exposed traverses, a short tunnel and an amusing stream crossing were sufficient at times to distract from the views of the Fletschhorn and Weissmies across the valley.
One of the highlights of the walk was the crossing of the Monte Moro Pass. An early morning bus to Mattmark gave a good start and avoided the walk up the valley among the debris of past disasters. The Mattmark lake was the result of the valley being dammed by moraine from the Allalin Glacier. Advances of the glacier destroyed the natural dam on more than twenty occasions between 1580 and 1920. Since then the glacier has retreated and a relief tunnel has been cut. The waymarked route over to Italy was one taken in reverse by many escaping Allied prisoners during the Second World War, an interesting account of which is given by Dr. Clare Engel in ‘History of Mountaineering in the Alps’. This year the snow line almost coincided with the head of the lake so that as soon as the lakeside path was left, the track rose gently among the snow by the side of an attractive stream. The Swiss side of the pass was magnificent, mostly snow-covered but with a few short rock cliffs which needed scrambling. Arguments are waged regarding the merits and drawbacks of solo walking in the hills, and there is no doubt that apart from the question of safety there is also a lot to be said for the company of a friend on many mountains. At the risk of sounding anti-social, however, the day on Monte Moro and the hour-long rest on the col, would not have been as enjoyable had the moments been shared. Sitting in the warm sun with Monte Rosa to the south-west, its huge glaciers and moraines filling the view, I saw merchants, soldiers, ecclesiastics and adventurers crossing and recrossing the ridge, all helping to make a fascinating history. After a beer at the Italian Alpine Club hut below the col, I dropped down to Macagnaga for my first night in Italy.
From Macagnaga to Bellinzona the route was in a reasonably straight line, at first mainly downhill to Domodosolla, away from the main mountain chain hut nevertheless still enjoyable following a route along the Valle Azasca. Many of the buildings on the outskirts of Macagnaga were showing signs of having seen better days. The firmly fastened shutters matched the walls in having a need of a fresh coat of paint as the colour of the old was barely discernible. An interesting place on the way to Locarno was the village of Re, not far from the Swiss border. The Centovalli is full of interest along its whole length but Re with its cobbled streets, decaying houses and magnificent church, out of all proportion to the size of the village, provided some peculiar accommodation and a fascinating evening.
No accommodation was available at Soazza in the Val Mesoleina so I spent the night at Mesocca at the foot of the San Bernardino Pass. My intention was to cross the del Forcola Pass into Italy. The pass was shown on a map of Switzerland, and a tobacconist in Bellinzona assured me that a detailed map was unnecessary as the route was followed by all and, in fact, William Wordsworth had crossed it in 1790. All this was probably true but a Iast-minute purchase of a 1:25000 map in the village turned out to be a wise move as the path was not waymarked and its beginning at the foot of the valley was extremely well hidden. I saw only one other walker on the way up to the col, an Italian in shorts and training shoes and carrying binoculars and a leather satchel. He explained, or I think he explained, that he was a chamois hunter hut with no signs of weapons he didn’t look like a chamois hunter. Nor did he look like all and sundry. The path at the obvious crossing point of the col was not at all well-worn but over the Italian side the familiar red and white flashes of paint indicated a reasonable way down the rock-covered slope. Four female climbers were making their way up the slope towards me but they veered off to the north before we met. A coincidence I’m sure. When I reached the first farm down the valley I made the mistake of getting into conversation with a youth working among some pigs. An even bigger mistake was to accept his advice to travel to Chiavenna along a faint path via Predemascarin. This path became less distinct until I found myself traversing across a steep slope through very thick broom and associated undergrowth. The sun was uncomfortably hot, large horseflies were having their fill of me and I was feeling more tired than at any time during the holiday when I fell, caught a foot in the lower branches of a shrub and finished lying among some thick, prickly vegetation with my head lower than my feet. For a few seconds the idea of spending the night just there appeared attractive but common sense and a scarcity of water, persuaded me to make my way over to the hamlet of Foppo. A polite enquiry for a hotel caused much merriment among some of the locals and a vague wave of the arm by the spokesman indicated that I couldn’t expect any accommodation before reaching Chiavenna. The prospect of a further two or three hours walking was not attractive and the interest I had aroused appeared to preclude the chance of a secret bed in a barn. After walking for about half an hour down a dusty track through the woods I was overtaken by a young man on a large motorcycle. Like me, he was dressed in tee shirt and shorts and he wore no obligatory crash helmet. His dialect was difficult to understand hut his gestures indicated a possible lift to the Val San Giacoma. It should be pointed out that the altitude of Foppo is 983 metres and that of the valley is about 250 metres. As the crow flies the distance between them is two kilometres. A series of tight hairpin bends, first on an unmade track and then, thankfully, on a metalled road, brought us to the main road in what could have been but a few minutes. Having displayed his skill at cornering, the rider, who informed me that one of his ambitions was to have a scar on his face so that he could join a Swiss equivalent of the Hell’s Angels, then proceeded to impress me with the straight line potential of his bike. A few minutes later we were enjoying a beer at a local filling station. While I puzzled over his preference for a Swiss club, for his riding certainly suited the Italian temperament, he used the German-speaking petrol attendant as an interpreter to discover where I had been and where I was going. Regarding my origin they were both reasonably impressed by the mention of Chamonix but far more interested when I explained that Huddersfield was between Leeds and Manchester. Apparently football is not unheard of in some Alpine valleys. An unsuspecting motorist who called in for petrol was bullied by these two into taking me to a cheap but good hotel, and so I came to spend two nights at the Hotel Crimea in Chiavenna.
Chiavenna, lying at the foot of the Val Bregaglia is a pretty enough town but not one where anyone on a mountaineering holiday would normally spend two nights. After two weeks of walking however, it seemed time for a rest and the town appeared to be a suitable place to laze for a day. The hotel was extremely clean and the food superb. The only surprising thing about it was that the proprietor admitted to having a vacant room when I presented myself at the desk. Fortunately I had washed off most of the scratches, dust and bite marks in a trackside trough hut it needed a bit more work with soap and razor before I was confident enough to enter the dining room.
The Val Bregaglia is steep-sided, and many of the larger peaks, lying back, cannot be seen from low down. My choice was to travel up the valley at a modest height above the floor in one day or to spend several days nearer the summits using Alpine huts to reach the Maloja Pass. I chose the former and did not regret it. The valley is beautiful with some remarkable buildings and occasional views up side valleys to snow-covered peaks. The whole area looks promising for a future holiday. How often do we all say that?
After a night at Cassacia. at the foot of the Maloja Pass, I walked westwards to pick up the Septimer Pass which crosses to Bivio Some years ago with my wife, I came across this path which, in the Middle Ages, was a main thoroughfare across the Alps. In places it is paved and it is obvious that a large amount of work must have been involved in constructing it. It is interesting to speculate on the cause of its construction and its subsequent decline. With the Maloja Pass so close it may appear that there are two parallel passes from the head of the VaI Bregaglia with a common destination but this is not so. Whilst many walkers travel from the top of the Septimer Pass over the Passo Lunghin to the town of Maloja, thereby achieving the same result as going directly over the Maloja Pass, it must be realised that the main route continues north to Bivio. One clue to the structure of the local hills is given by a remote signpost on the Passo Lunghin. With no inns, huts or farms in view one could be excused for expecting directions to the nearest hamlet hut the three arms merely indicate North Sea, Black Sea and the Mediterranean. The pass is a main watershed with the rain falling on the western side finding its way into the Rhine whilst that on the east flows down the Inn into the Danube. Any falling to the South flows down to Lake Maggiore.
At the present time the Passo Lunghin is covered in snow the whole year round but at the margins the flowers are as spectacular as almost anywhere in the moutains. A great variety of gentians, soldenalla and dryas carpeted large areas of what would otherwise have been bare scree and glacial debris. Piz Lunghin was climbed for old times’ sake and for the views it affords of the Val Bregaghia and the Bernina hills. A slight heat-haze spoiled any chance of clear photographs and the top of the peak proved to he the coldest of the whole holiday. It was, in fact, the first time when anything thicker than a cotton shirt had been necessary during the day.
The Oberengadine is a wonderful valley for walkers, with high hills and easy passes on both sides. A number of the passes to the south-east cross over into Italy and make a pleasant and fairly easy day.
From the Engadine my route led up the Val Sulsanna to the Scarletta Pass into the Dischma at Durrboden. This route is probably done best in reverse as then the Searletta Glacier and Piz Kesch are in view during the walk. A jeep runs from Durrhoden to Davos but as the service was irregular I set off walking with the intention of finding accommodation in the Dischma valley. Having covered less than a mile from the hamlet however, I was overtaken by a motorist who had his offer of a lift to Davos accepted, the lift enabling me to press on and spend the night at Klosters.
Having used good accommodation in Klosters on a previous occasion, I made for the same hotel to he met by an elderly resident with outstretched hand who addressed me as “Der Englander Bergfuhrer”. She remembered me from the earlier visit and I could see at once that she was a lady of charm and perception. For the last leg of my journey the hotelier, himself a keen mountaineer, suggested that the Silvrettahorn would make an obvious finale. He had apparently overheard the elderly lady and was full of enthusiasm for me. A freshening, warm southerly wind, which was a forecast of a change in the weather convinced me otherwise. A pleasant climb up the Schlappintabel to have a final Swiss beer at the village of Schlappin before crossing the col into Austria seemed a far more civilised approach to what was rapidly becoming the end of the journey. The border crossing at 7000 feet still bears the remains of what could he customs posts or fortifications. This part of the Rhaetican is a beautiful area and with more time I should have liked to pay a return visit to the Douglas hut at the head of the Brandnertal hut I enjoyed a leisurely stroll down to Gargellan where I stayed the night. That evening the weather changed with a vengeance and the next morning it was much cooler, the rain was steady and the scenery began to look fresher.
It took two days to walk down the Montafon. There could be a number of motorists who puzzled over the lone traveller who preferred walking down the valley in the rain to riding in upholstered comfort; but they may not have seen the hills as I had.