intervening between the Val Tonrnanche and the Val Barthelemy: Mont Rouss (a round-topped snowy summit, which seems so important from Breil, but which is in reality only a buttress of the higher mountain, the Château des Dames), had long ago sunk, and the eye passed over it, scarcely heeding its existence, to the Becca Salle (or, as it is printed on the map, Bec de Sale),—a miniature Matterhorn—and to other, and more important heights. Then the grand mass of the Dent d'Herens (13,714) stopped the way; a noble mountain, encrusted on its northern slopes with enormous hanging glaciers, which broke away at mid-day in immense slices, and thundered down on to the Tiefenmatten glacier; and lastly, most splendid of all, came the Dent Blanche (14,318), soaring above the basin of the great Z'Muttgletscher. Such a view is hardly to be matched in the Alps, and this view is very rarely seen, as I saw it, perfectly unclouded.[1]
- ↑ I have already had occasion to mention the rapid changes which occur in the weather at considerable elevations in the Alps, and shall have to do so again in subsequent chapters. No one can regret more than myself the variable weather which afflicts that otherwise delightful chain of mountains, or the necessity of speaking about it: its summits appear to enjoy more than their fair share of wind and tempests. Meteorological disturbances, it would seem, are by no means necessary accompaniments of high regions. There are some happy places which are said to be favoured with almost perpetual calm. Take the case of the Sierra Nevada of California, for example, which includes numerous summits from 13,000 to 15,000 feet. Mr. Whitney, of San Francisco, says (in his Guide-book to the Yosemite Valley, and the adjacent region), "At high altitudes, all through the mountains, the weather during the summer is almost always the finest possible for travelling. There are occasional storms in the high mountains; but, in ordinary seasons, these are quite rare, and one of the greatest drawbacks to the pleasure of travelling in the Alps, the uncertainty of the weather, is here almost entirely wanting." It is probable that a more thorough acquaintance with that region will modify this opinion; for it must be admitted that it is very difficult to judge of the state of the atmosphere of great heights from the valleys, and it often occurs that a terrific storm is raging above when there is a dead calm below, at a distance perhaps of not more than three or four miles. A case of this kind is described in Chapter vii., and another may be mentioned here. At the very time that I was regarding the Dent Blanche from a height of 12,550 feet on the Matterhorn, Mr. T. S. Kennedy was engaged in making the first ascent of the former mountain, and he described his ascent in a very picturesque paper in the Alpine Journal (1863). I learn from it that he experienced severe weather. "The wind roared over our ridge,
