The Grand Route Forbes — a long-distance hike in the Alps

Regular followers of this blog will be aware that I admire the writings of James Forbes, a Scottish geologist best known for his pioneering studies on the glaciers of the Alps. I have written before about the long foot journey he conducted in 1842, and I've even followed the central portion of this route myself.

It turns out that his wanderings of 1842 can be adapted into a truly superb long-distance Alpine trail.

I've been picking at the idea for a couple of years. While reading his book, I plotted the approximate route on the map Forbes used to explore the Alps (a variation on Keller's map, which is very inaccurate). I have not yet plotted all of the route on modern maps to any degree of detail, but I've seen enough to realise that this is potentially one of the best long-distance hiking routes in this part of the Alps.

Forbes's wanderings, plotted on his map of 1842.

Adapting the original route

It's important to realise that Forbes was a nomadic scientist, not a backpacker. Consequently his journey was planned with certain specific objectives in mind, and also the practicalities of travel at a time before the Alps were developed for tourism. He mainly stayed in inns and friendly houses, so sometimes he was forced to make detours towards centres of population. He covered the same ground more than once on several occasions and made one particularly lengthy out-and-back detour to the Great St Bernard Pass.

There's also technical difficulty to consider, and the fact that the glaciers of the Alps have changed considerably since 1842. For example, the traverse of the Col du Geant and Mer de Glace from Courmayeur to Chamonix is a very different proposition in the early 21st century. Following this section of his route would require covering most of the Tour du Mont Blanc twice.

View from Prayayer Alp, above the Valpelline

It's therefore necessary to adapt Forbes's 1842 route if we want to turn it into a modern trail. The purpose of a journey like this today would, after all, be to enjoy a beautiful long walk in the Alps — it would certainly not be to slavishly copy a historical journey, although I believe there is much enjoyment to be had in emulating Forbes's voyage in spirit.

The modern Grand Route Forbes

My adapted "Grand Route Forbes" follows the majority of the original route, with a couple of omissions and modifications. I believe it takes the traveller through some of the finest landscapes in the Alps. Here's a quick mockup on a Google Maps screenshot:

The first portion of the voyage follows the Tour du Mont Blanc from Chamonix to Courmayeur, then up Val Ferret. Instead of heading back towards Chamonix, it passes through Orsieres and enters the Val de Bagnes, crossing the Fenêtre de Durand to Valpelline. The walker then follows the length of Valpelline before crossing the Col Collon and Arolla Glacier to Evolene. From Evolene — which makes a natural midpoint of the route — the glacier pass over the Col d'Herens takes the traveller to Zermatt (this is the most difficult section, and the only leg that will certainly require full glacier travel gear and the experience to use it).

From Zermatt, the hiker then embarks upon a variation of the Tour of Monte Rosa — a superb high-level route circumnavigating that great mountain massif via a number of high cols, and visiting several tributary valleys of the Valle d'Aosta. I have modified this portion of the route to avoid a needless diversion to the village of Chamois. The Theodul Glacier pass takes the walker from Zermatt to Champoluc, Gressoney, Alagna, Macugnaga, and over the Monte Moro pass to Saas Grund. Finally, the stunning Balfrin Höhenweg conveys you along the length of the Saastal to Stalden and finally Visp, where Forbes concluded his journey.

Distance, timings, and practicalities

Oyace, in the Valpelline. Beautiful walking country!

I have not calculated the full length of the Grand Route Forbes, but I estimate it — very roughly — to be between three and four hundred miles. Although it crosses many wild and high cols, it also visits numerous centres of population and is almost certainly possible to complete without having to wild camp or sleep rough, if that's the hike you want to hike. The voyage can be broadly viewed as a variation on three existing long-distance paths: the Tour du Mont Blanc, part of the Haute Route, and the Tour of Monte Rosa. There are numerous facilities along the way. If you have the money to spend, you can probably stay in mountain huts or hotels most nights.

This is not a mountaineering expedition, but some of the cols are high and glaciated. Notably, the route crosses the Col Collon, Col d'Herens, and Theodul Glacier. The first and last of these are not difficult and might be passable without glacier equipment by experienced walkers in good conditions, but the Col d'Herens is a technical, crevassed portion and it would be highly unwise to cross this without a rope and the necessary equipment. Walkers without a background in alpinism will probably need to hire a guide for this section.

The majority of the other cols along the way are below 3,000m, and during the summer season should be passable with standard walking gear. However, weather in the Alps can be fickle and it can snow any day of the year at these altitudes, turning an easy path into a much more difficult proposition. It's also likely that snow will lie on many of the higher areas well into July. The Tour du Mont Blanc, which largely forms the first portion of the route, can be viewed as a gentle introduction to the more difficult sections beyond. This is not a route for a novice walker.

My Grand Route Forbes journey

Mont Brule, from the Col Collon pass to Arolla.

I don't have a month or two to thru-hike the route in its entirety, but I have already walked the central section (Valpelline — Evolene) and intend to complete the entire route in instalments over the next few years. I relish the challenge of taking on my next planned section in September: the Tour of Monte Rosa.

It's a real pleasure to follow in the footsteps of one of my heroes from the history of Alpine exploration, seeing the same sights that Forbes saw, and reading his beautiful descriptions. When I hiked the Valpelline — Evolene section last year, I found the comparison between the landscape in 1842 and the modern era extremely interesting. It really hit home just how much the Alps have changed since then. The glaciers are, sadly, mere shadows of what they once were.

When I walk each section of the Grand Route, I will do so with Forbes's book in hand and my eyes open, trying to see the Alps as he saw them — and recording my thoughts on the changes that have taken place. It's going to be an incredible adventure, and if it takes me years to do it then it will be even more worthwhile in the end.

I am keen to hear from walkers who have already completed this route, or maybe even decide they would like to try it for themselves after reading this introduction. Please get in touch!

One hundred and fifty years

Image from http://1865.chamonix.fr/En/

Next year, in July 2015, the Chamonix valley will begin a series of celebrations marking 150 years since 1865, and paying tribute to one of the most remarkable periods in modern history: the Golden Age of Alpinism.

During this period, which lasted from roughly 1854 to the 14th of July, 1865, the Alps were thoroughly explored by sportsmen for the first time. Before the mid 1850s, people climbed for pleasure in the Alps, but the focus of attention was firmly on Mont Blanc and the majority of ascents were still being made for scientific reasons. That changed, however, when a new wave of leisured travellers (many from Britain) began scaling unclimbed Alpine peaks purely for the adventure.

Fifty-eight first ascents were made in the Alps between 1854 and 1865. Facilities in most Alpine valleys were still spartan. Climbing equipment was extremely rudimentary, consisting of nailed boots, hawser-laid rope, and long ice axes used to hew steps in the ice. Despite this, there were few serious accidents — until the 14th of July 1865.

On that fateful day, Edward Whymper and his companions finally made the first ascent of the Matterhorn after a determined campaign lasting many years with many failed attempts. The expedition famously ended in tragedy and cast a gloomy cloud over the sport of mountaineering for a long time afterwards. It marked the end of the carefree, joyous years of Alpinism.

Chamonix has always been the international centre of mountaineering, and it sounds like the celebrations will be something special to behold. Exhibitions, conferences, readings, performances, and much more are scheduled for July 2015. It appears that a retro ascent of Aiguille Verte is also being planned!

The Ascent of Sasseneire

I must begin this blog post with an apology, because I meant to write up this route weeks ago but life has intervened!

In the first week of July this year I conducted a journey through the Alps, beginning at the city of Aosta and ending at Evolene in the Valais. My original plan had been to climb Mont Brule on my way over the glacier from Italy, but the weather was bad that day so it never happened.

Towards the end of the week I found myself not having climbed a single mountain. On the fourth of July I decided to rectify that situation, and as you shall see, the subsequent climb proved to have a positive influence not only on my Alpine holiday but on my life as a whole.

Sasseneire, 3254m

Sasseneire, whose name means the Black Rock, is a mountain at once mighty and shy. It's actually one of the biggest satellite peaks of the main chain in that part of Valais, but is invisible from any point in the Val d'Herens and the main bulk of the mountain only comes into view once a substantial portion of the ascent has already been completed.

It's one of the easiest 3000m peaks I've done. There are no glaciers to negotiate, no snowfields, and minimal scrambling (although there is a lot of very loose rock). The main challenge is a physical one, because it's a hell of a slog from the valley: almost two thousand vertical metres up and then down again.

A pastoral Alpine walk

I planned my route on the map beforehand. A winding collection of roads, ancient paths, and cattle tracks climb wooded hillside to the odd little community of Villa — which is in one respect a perfectly ordinary pastoral Alpine village, but it displays clear evidence of incursion by wealthy holidaymakers. I would estimate that 50% of the houses are second homes, and the juxtaposition of new, immaculate chalets with the tiny ramshackle structures of the old village is peculiar to behold.

Typical old Alpine architecture at Villa

From Villa, the terrain opens up to a broad Alpine meadow, dotted with hay barns, navigated by a switchback road that climbs steadily higher through the pollen haze and the (at times) deafening buzz of grasshoppers and crickets.

I strode out the miles, enjoying the expanding view backwards. The main chain was displayed to great advantage from this location, and I could see most of the peaks at the head of the Arolla glacier, in addition to the Dent Blanche and the Grand Cornier.

Cattle pasture

The route consisted of a series of convexities, each of which obscured the route onward and had a different character to the one before and the one to follow. Meadows gave way to cattle pasture, which gave way to ancient moraine. These old banks of glacial debris had been softened and grassed over by the centuries, and gargantuan erratic boulders reared from the crests of ridges, fractured by a million frosts and weathered to the hue of old iron. Marmots emerged from their burrows to twitch their noses at me but capered out of sight before I could bring my camera to bear.

The land grew wilder as I climbed. Vegetation gradually gave way to rock, and finally, just before reaching the tarn at Béplan, I saw the upper two thousand feet of the mountain for the first time.

A ridge with a difference

The mountain is appropriately named. A desolate cirque, filled with shattered towers and the waste of ten thousand years of erosion, guards the head and shoulders of a peak that appears at once threatening and indifferent. Dashes of snow here and there only serve to make the rock seem even more stark. Like a Cairngorm giant, Sasseneire sprawls and covers its bulk over a vast area. It certainly did not look inviting to climb.

My first view of Sasseneire

My route climbed steeply to the Col de Torrent: a notch in the satellite ridge thrown down by Dent Blanche far to the south. As I approached the col, any final vestiges of grass disappeared beneath masses of shifting scree. At almost 2,900m it felt like I was finally on an Alpine peak and not a British hill.

The Col de Torrent

The Col de Torrent provided a good view down to the Moiry, and across to the glaciers beyond. I took the opportunity to pause and examine my route onward.

The ridge extended up and to my left: an arête of shale, almost all of which had been pulverised to loose scree by the elements. My first challenge came in the form of a vertical rock step with holds that crumbled under my fingers. I climbed this tottering pitch with care, wary of the gusts of wind that blew with increasing strength from the west.

Looking back along the ridge

Typical crumbling terrain on the South Ridge

With a thousand feet left to climb, I was starting to feel the effects of altitude and had to stop for deep breaths every few minutes. The loose terrain compounded my sense of insecurity. Although the going was never technically difficult, the staggering drop to my left was a constant pressure on my mind because every step had to be kicked in the finest, most unstable scree set on a slope of forty degrees. It was rather like trying to climb a sand dune in places. Where turrets of rock obliged me to climb with my hands, I found myself confronted by crevasses where the poorly-bonded shale had peeled away from the underlying rock, usually in car-sized chunks. I'd never seen anything quite like it on a mountain before.

The dark shale soaked up the heat, so there was little snow in evidence: only the occasional hoary bank of old stuff, coated in debris and melting in the sun.

A final rickety scramble on exposed rock slabs led me to the summit, where the obligatory Swiss cross marked the highest point.

The final scramble

The wind now blew with galeforce strength, and the sun had long since hidden away behind banks of ragged clouds that threatened rain or snow, so I decided against a lengthy summit pause. Five minutes was enough to wolf down a tracker bar, take a few snaps of the view, and goggle at the stupendous drop down to the snowfields at the foot of the north face.

The view North

Battered by the wind, I picked my way back down the way I had come. The combination of high winds, constant exposure, and a surface that slid and shifted under every step made me cautious. I didn't relax until I was back on the relatively firm path of the Col de Torrent.

There aren't many options for variation of route when descending to Evolene, but I found that I enjoyed the walk more in reverse because the best views were in front of me instead of behind. I took my time, and was fortunate to avoid the columns of rain I could see sweeping the Arolla district.

My moment of revelation

All the best ideas of my life, all of the moments when a lightbulb goes "ping!" in my head and the pieces slot together, have occurred while I've been alone and out in the open — usually on a mountain. Ideas don't come to me during the frantic rush of everyday life — at least, not consciously — but they require long periods of time to incubate, and further time alone with my own thoughts to bring them to fruition.

For a long time, I have considered changing career. The idea of taking on work as a freelance editor first occurred to me over a year ago, but the time wasn't right and the idea simmered away, waiting for the stars to come into alignment.

Something about the expansive views on the way down from Sasseneire brought that idea out from the shadows and into the light. Perhaps it was the hours of solitude, immersed in nature, or perhaps it was because I could see the entire landscape of the mythical Pégremont — the legend that will take form in the third volume of my Alpine Dawn series — stretched out on the skyline to the south. The unique perspective of Sasseneire provided a new perspective on my own life. I realised that the time was right to make a change, to stop putting time and effort into things that didn't matter.

A better perspective

I still had to seek advice and investigate the details, but during the course of that descent from a high Alpine peak I made up my mind to quit my day job and dare to do something different: to devote every aspect of my working life to books and writing, to finally find a day job that would work with me instead of against me.

Almost a month later, I'm working out the last two weeks of my notice period and am halfway through my first editorial assignment. Pinnacle Editorial is now up and running and I'm accepting jobs. Would all this have happened if I hadn't climbed Sasseneire that day? Maybe ... maybe not. Mountains have always been places of transformation for me and I think Sasseneire will prove to have caused the most positive transformation so far.

Advice for walkers

Sasseneire is one of the easiest 3000m peaks in the Alps, and during the regular summer tourist season is a practical objective for strong UK summer walkers. Crampons are unlikely to be required in summer but precipitation can fall as snow at this altitude on any day of the year. I climbed the route in approach shoes and with trekking poles; big boots and ice axe will only be required if substantial snow still remains on the route, which is unlikely in July or August. Some experience of easy scrambling and a head for heights is recommended. If you've done Striding Edge you'll be fine on Sasseneire.

Aosta to Evolene - an Alpine journey in the footsteps of Professor Forbes

In 1842, Professor James Forbes undertook an epic voyage throughout the Alps. In 2014, I replicated a 40 mile portion of that voyage: the segment between Aosta in Italy and Evolene in the Valais. In this blog post I'd like to tell you about my adventure and what I have learned about the dramatic changes to the ice world in the last 162 years.

For those of you who might not be aware, Forbes is a main character in my Alpine Dawn series (beginning with book 1, The Atholl Expedition). In real life he was a prolific mountaineer, explorer, and geologist. In his many visits to the Alps he conducted pioneering work on the physics of glaciers and also helped to explore and map the higher regions of the Alps, particularly in the old territory of Savoy.

One reason I wanted to replicate this particular section of the journey was that it crosses the Col Collon, a high glacial pass between Italy and Switzerland. The section in Forbes' book regarding this pass is one of the most memorable; at the time of his crossing he believed he was the first explorer to navigate it, although evidence suggests it had been in frequent use by locals for hundreds of years.

Here's an overview map of my route.

Valpelline

My journey began on the 29th of June in the Italian city of Aosta. I hiked uphill for a few hours to reach the village of Valpelline, my first campsite and the true beginning of my journey. In 1842 Forbes found it to be a tiny settlement with no prospect of accommodation, but managed to secure a room in a friendly household. At that time travellers visited the area extremely rarely and Forbes commented that most of the settlements in the valley were badly afflicted by goitre and cretinism (common afflictions in the high Alps at that time).

The next morning I began the long walk to Prarayer. Most of the route is actually road walking these days but the scenery was so spectacular I hardly minded. The total ascent on my first full day was about 1,200m, and I passed through a number of small villages including Oyace (at a steepening in the valley) and Bionaz. The weather was sunny and very hot, the scenery rather more Italian than quintessentially Alpine.

Typical Val Pelline terrain. The village centre frame is Oyace.

At this point mountains of considerable height hugged the valley on both sides, but no glaciers were in evidence and little snow. Forests of larch and pine predominated, and the communities were generally agricultural and deeply traditional. In 1842 Italy as we know it today did not exist; this region belonged to the territory of Piedmont, part of the Kingdom of Sardinia.

Bionaz

Forbes writes:

The village of Biona is the last of any size in the valley,— the last, I think, which has a church. We halted there, and made a hearty meal in the open air upon fresh eggs and good Aostan wine. The village of Biona is 5315 feet above the sea, by M. Studer's observation.

Bionaz remains a tiny hamlet clinging to the edge of a precipice, and indeed it hardly seems to have changed in the last 162 years. It had a peculiarity in the 19th century: virtually all of the male inhabitants were also named "Biona," and that was the name of the guide Forbes engaged there to take them over the Col Collon into Switzerland. They nicknamed him l'habit rouge due to his habit of wearing scarlet clothes at all times, which was apparently a common trait in the Pays d'Aoste at that time.

Bionaz

Prarayer

About an hour after Bionaz I reached the reservoir of the Lac des Places de Moulin, the waters of which are held back by an enormous dam. For the first time I gained a view of some of the 4000m mountains, notably Dent d'Herens, which rose as the highest point of a jagged chain above a glacier.

Forbes and his companions stayed at the "Chalets of Prarayon," today a hut known as the Rifugio Prarayer. However, since the formation of the reservoir has obliterated the old road, necessitating a path slightly higher up the hill, I selected a campsite at a flat alp above a larch wood. It had excellent views of the nearby mountains and was a peaceful place to stop for the night.

Camp one. Quite a view!

Alpenglow on the Dent d'Herens and satellite peaks

The Comba d'Oren

My third day was rather short as I wanted to spend as much time as possible exploring the Comba d'Oren. This is a deep valley leading from Italy to the Col Collon and the border of Switzerland. In 1842 it was reported to be substantially occupied by a glacier:

It was an hour's walk to the commencement of the glacier, which fills the top of the valley, and which descends directly from the great chain. Having gained an eminence on the south-east side of the valley which commanded the glacier, I saw that the ascent of it must be in some places very steep, though, I should think, not wholly impracticable.

And:

We there find a deep gorge, completely glacier-bound at its upper end...

 It's also interesting to note that, although the Comba d' Oren is only a few hours' walk from Valpelline and a day's ride from the city of Aosta (in 19th century terms), the region was almost completely unknown to explorers:

All our maps were here at fault ... no kind of resemblance to the outlines even of the great chain, and the passage must have been put down at random.

The Comba d'Oren

Today the Glacier d'Oren, which Forbes and his companions followed to the Col Collon, is dead. Only semi-permanent snow patches remain, and the other two glaciers in the valley have dramatically retreated. I think it very probable that in 1842 there was only one much greater glacier here.

In 2014 the ascent to the Col Collon travels over a variety of scree slopes and small snow fields. It's astonishing to think that in a mere 162 years what was once a large glacier has completely disappeared.

The dead Glacier d'Oren. You can see the stubs of the Glaciers d'Oren Sud (left) and Nord (right) in the background.

A night on the glacier

I reached the Col Collon (3069m) early in the afternoon and made my camp. The snow was fairly soft so I took my time digging out and consolidating a tent platform. This was actually my first experience of camping on snow with a tent!

Camp Two, beneath the desolate cliffs of La Vierge.

It was a wild location. L'Eveque (3716m) towers above, spitting rocks down its central colour every now and again. The Cairngorm-like expanse of Mont Brule (3578m) looked a bit more friendly, and my original plan was to get up before dawn the next morning and make an attempt on that mountain.

Mont Brule

However, the weather soon took a bad turn, and by late afternoon I was starting to wonder if camping on the col had been a wise idea after all.

Bad weather coming in from Italy

I made the decision to stay the night. The only reasonable alternative would have been to descend towards Arolla, but with an entire glacier to traverse I didn't fancy my chances of finding a better campsite before dark.

A spooky descent of the Haut Glacier d'Arolla

When I woke at 3am, I looked out of the tent and saw that the clag had come in fast, so I went straight back to sleep, not waking again until 7. However, between 3 and 7 quite a lot of snow fell (about 6 inches altogether) and when I awoke the second time my tent was almost buried in it. Visibility had reduced to about twenty feet.

After digging the tent out

Alone on a glacier at over 3000m and in dreadful conditions, I knew I had to get out of there pretty quickly! I struck camp in ten minutes flat and began the descent to the Haut Glacier d'Arolla in poor visibility. The fresh snow also made the going treacherous, balling up under my feet, but crampons were necessary due to the patches of bare ice on the slope.

A rare view through a break in the cloud

Fortunately, the Haut Glacier d'Arolla is an easy glacier, relatively flat for the most part and with no real crevasses to worry about. The navigation was no more challenging than a day out in the Cairngorms, and once I focused on my situation and started using the map and compass, the descent proved to be straightforward.

The upper basin

In 1842, Forbes and his companions found the corpses of no less than three people on or near the Col Collon, attesting to its popularity at the time amongst traders and (often) smugglers. The sight of the second skeleton particularly affected the guide Biona, who refused to return that way home by himself after that leg of the voyage:

The effect upon us all was electric ; and had not the sun shone forth in its full glory, and the very wilderness of eternal snow seemed gladdened under the serenity of such a summer's day as is rare at these heights, we should certainly have felt a deeper thrill, arising from the sense of personal danger. As it was, when we had recovered our first surprise ... we turned and surveyed, with a stronger sense of sublimity than before, the desolation by which we were surrounded, and became still more sensible of our isolation from human dwellings, human help, and human sympathy, — our loneliness with nature, and as it were, the more immediate presence of God. Our guide and attendants felt it as deeply as we. At such moments all refinements of sentiment are forgotten, religion or superstition may tinge the reflections of one or another, but, at the bottom, all think and feel alike. We are men, and we stand in the chamber of death.

Philosophising aside, the thing that truly struck me was the contemporary description of the Arolla glacier:

The glacier on which we now were stood is the Glacier of Arolla, that which occupies the head of the western branch of the Valleé d'Erin. It is very long ... The lower extremity is very clean, little fissured, and has from below a most commanding appearance, with the majestic summit of Mont Collon towering up behind.

Nowadays the "Glacier of Arolla" is no longer one single stream, but broken into two: "Haut" and "Bas," both of which are rather small by the standards of Alpine glaciers. I calculate that the snout of the upper mass is at least two miles further uphill compared to its location 162 years ago, and moreover, the level of the ice has dropped significantly, leaving vast fields of scree and waste. This illustration from 1842 demonstrates what I mean very well, I think.

The Arolla glacier in 1842. Note the enormous convex snout,
evidence of a glacier until recently in advance; although Forbes noted
that it had already retreated from its recent maximum.

From a similar viewpoint today. The Haut Glacier d'Arolla has retreated completely out of view.

It really is astounding to see direct evidence of glacial retreat on such a scale. The same story is being played out all over the Alps, and it just goes to show what a completely different world it was for the early Alpine explorers. They climbed in a time when the ice was much more extensive than it was today ... and yet even by the 1840s the glaciers were in retreat. The damage was being done two centuries ago.

The ruins of the Bas Glacier d'Arolla

Evolene

I reached Arolla fairly early in the afternoon so decided to keep walking. The weather remained misty and rather cold, and I followed the old road through the forest to Les Hauderes, and finally to Evolene, the ancient capital of Val d'Herens.

I first visited Evolene in 2010. It's something of a place of pilgrimage for me. In 1899, Owen Glynne Jones (the main character of my novel The Only Genuine Jones) stayed at Evolene for an Alpine climbing holiday. He and three of his guides perished on the Dent Blanche during an attempt on the Ferpecle Arete. It was one of the worst climbing accidents of the 1890s and his remains were interred in the cemetery in Evolene, but certain relics, including his hat and ice axe, eventually found their way to the Alpine museum in Zermatt, where they can be viewed today.

Forbes, Studer and co also stayed at Evolene during their voyage. They found it to be an unwelcoming place:

We knew too well what accommodation might be expected even in the capital of a remote Valaisan valley to anticipate any luxuries at Evolena. Indeed, M. Studer had already been there the previous year, and having lodged with the Curé, forewarned me that our accommodation would not be splendid. The Curé, a timid worldly man, gave us no comfort, and exercised no hospitality, evidently regarding our visit as an intrusion.

They eventually managed to haggle a single bed, for which the travellers were obliged to draw lots; Forbes won, and poor Studer wouldn't admit where he had been forced to spend the night (probably in a hay barn). He was so traumatised by the experience that he cut his trip short and refused to accompany Forbes any further!

Fortunately my welcome in Evolene was somewhat warmer and I pitched my tent in exactly the same spot I found in 2010, at the campsite in the village. I spent a rest day wandering around the town and making notes — it hasn't changed much since the 19th century, after all — and reflecting on how lucky I had been to repeat this small fragment of Forbes' epic journey, to witness for myself how things had changed in the last 162 years, and enjoy three days of beautiful mountain scenery in the Alps.

Altogether, the route I took was about 40 miles. Strong walkers could easily do it in two days, particularly by taking the bus or driving to Valpelline itself instead of starting from Aosta on foot.

In a future blog post I will write up a trip report of the mountain I climbed from Evolene: Sasseneire, 3254.

A return to the Western Alps

My blog has been far too quiet this year, and that's a reflection on the fact that the day job has been occupying more of my time, and (as I recently lamented) I have been able to enjoy fewer trips to the mountains.

However, that is about to change.

Between 2007 and 2010 I visited the Alps three times. It was a natural progression from my mountaineering in Scotland, and my trips (usually accompanied by James) had a focus on getting to the top of big peaks. We had some stunning days out — quite literally high points in my life, the most notable being the moment we stood on the west summit of Lyskamm at 4,479m above sea level.

The ice world is completely unlike anywhere else I've ever been. It's a place of ferocious heat and cold, low oxygen levels, harsh light, and skies a far deeper shade of blue than anything experienced on the surface of the earth. Everything is exaggerated. Timekeeping and a lightweight pack are critical to the preservation of life.

My climbs in the Alps changed my thinking forever and directly spawned the books I continue to work on to this day. Unfortunately, since 2010 I have been unable to return due to work commitments.

I booked a week of holiday at the end of June, and my original plan was to return to the Cairngorms and do a bit of backpacking. However, something made me change my mind and look a bit further afield for my adventure.

The Voyage of Professor Forbes

In 1842, Professor James Forbes (a main character in The Atholl Expedition) conducted a grand voyage throughout the Western Alps. One of the earliest British explorers to turn a critical and scientific eye on the ice world, his achievements that year included laying the foundation of modern glaciology and a pioneering survey that rewrote the map of Savoy (now part of Switzerland, Italy, and France). His writeup of that momentous summer can be read today in the form of Travels Through the Alps of Savoy and Other Parts of the Pennine Chain.

Travels is one of the first pieces of truly engaging British literature from the dawn of the Alpine golden age. Its tone, which reads more like a story than a travel narrative (although it has been compared with an epic poem) was widely imitated by other Alpine classics and echoes of Forbes' voice can be detected in the works of Whymper, Mummery, and Stephen.

I have wanted to follow his grand journey for years, and now I have found the opportunity to replicate a small portion of his route.

My route of choice

On the 29th of June I will fly from Heathrow to Geneva, travel to Aosta, and begin my backpacking route. I plan to walk the length of the Valpelline, cross the Col Collon and descend the Haute Glacier d'Arolla to Arolla itself. My journey will end at Evolene, the ancient capital of the Val d'Herens. The total length is about 40 miles, and I've allowed myself five days to do it, which should permit a leisurely pace with plenty of time to take in the scenery and climb a mountain or two on the way.

This section of Travels Through the Alps is one of the most memorable, in my opinion. When Forbes stood on the Col Collon with his companions he discovered the skeleton of a traveller in the snow. Surrounded by such remote grandeur, he was moved to write a few lines on the awesome nature of the landscape.

"... we turned and surveyed, with a stronger sense of sublimity than before, the desolation by which we were surrounded, and became still more sensible of our isolation from human dwellings, human help, and human sympathy — our loneliness with nature, and, as it were, the more immediate presence of God. At such moments all refinements of sentiment are forgotten; religion or superstition may tinge the reflections of one or another, but, at the bottom, all think and feel alike. We are men, and we stand in the chamber of death."

I think this passage reflects the views of a vanishing age in the history of Alpinism. By 1842 the golden age of mountaineering was only a decade away, modern maps were being drawn, travellers were starting to penetrate the deeper valleys, and the Alps would not remain a fearful realm of ghosts and demons for much longer. Today there is a C.A.I hut just beneath the Col Collon and it is a popular route with hikers, but I shall try to see an echo of the old Alps as I follow in the footsteps of James Forbes.

19th century glacier travel - a brief analysis

Before the summits of the Alps could be reached, terrain arguably more hazardous than the upper slopes themselves - and certainly less predictable - had to be negotiated. A frozen raiment guards the greatest peaks of the world, and two centuries ago this mantle of ice extended deeper into the valleys than it does today. The rampaging ice crushed villages, terrorized citizens, and presented formidable barriers to early explorers.

Such a place is called a glacier, and the history of glacier travel is central to the history of mountaineering as a whole.

The hazards

The Brenva Glacier, Mont Blanc, in 2008

As you can see from the photo above, glaciers often present a baffling confusion of holes - called crevasses or schrunds - caused by stresses beneath the surface. The substance of a glacier is continually moving downhill (a process documented and explained by my character James Forbes in 1842) and the varying terrain beneath the ice itself is mirrored in the pattern of crevasses on the surface. Twists and turns in the flow, and constrictions or widenings, also have an effect. Crevasses vary in depth from a few feet to many hundred.

Crevasses are never the same from one year to the next, and therefore any effort to map a consistent path through a crevasse field is futile.

There are two regions on a glacier. The 'dry' region further down is characterised by bare ice, ablated by the action of the sun and water, and crevasses are obvious. The higher 'wet' region is carpeted with snow of varying thickness, and travel is complicated by the presence of snow bridges whose stability varies with the time of year and hour of the day. Many crevasses will be entirely hidden under the snow and present deadly traps for the unwary. For these reasons a wet glacier is generally more dangerous than a dry one, although at a glance it may seem to offer a less complicated route of ascent.

Crevasses vary in size from little slots to gaping monstrosities. If the climber falls into big a crevasse, he might get stuck in a constriction or fall to his death. Only a rope connecting him to a companion, and the means to extract the climber from the hole, will prevent a fatal accident. As I'm sure you're beginning to see, planning a safe route through such terrain is a significant challenge.

Modern glacier travel

The author kitted out for glacier travel

Today, climbers have access to a wealth of equipment and knowledge specifically developed to keep them safe while crossing glaciated terrain.

Ropes

Climbing ropes are incredibly strong, lightweight, never break when used correctly, and generally 50-60m in length. They are flexible enough to be easily knotted and unknotted, even when frozen (which rarely happens, as most climbing ropes are specially treated to avoid freezing). They are smooth enough to work properly with belaying equipment but grippy enough not to slip through the hands.

Hardware

Modern glacier travellers have stiff boots, lightweight crampons, and ice axes used for a variety of tasks including aiding traction, arresting falls, and as an anchor. Lightweight aluminium karabiners, ice screws, and snow stakes make it easy to set up anchors. Pulleys and Prusik loops enable us to set up hauling systems if required. Most climbers will choose to wear a helmet to protect the head in the event of a fall.

Techniques

During the 20th century a range of techniques were devised to both prevent falls into crevasses and to extract the climber if and when a fall occurs. In the picture above I am wearing a number of rope coils, both to shorten the rope between me and my partner and to give me some rope to work with in case I need to build an anchor. The 'live' end of the rope is tied off to my harness with a Prusik loop to isolate the coils and concentrate force in the correct way. If my partner were to fall into a crevasse, I would fall on my front and dig my ice axe into the snow, arresting the fall, before building an anchor to take the strain away from my body. This would then give me the freedom to set up a hauling system using pulleys, karabiners, and Prusik loops to aid my partner in climbing out of the crevasse. Experience has also taught me how to identify safe snow bridges, and even how to spot the telltale signs of crevasses completely hidden beneath the snow.

An informative video from the Mountaineering Council of Scotland detailing crevasse rescue can be viewed here.

These systems are learned and practised by modern climbers who venture onto glaciers. They were developed after decades of far more rudimentary methods - methods which had a far smaller margin for error, sometimes resulted in the deaths of those who used them, and yet (surprisingly) often did the job.

Glacier travel in the 19th century

The picture above dates from the 1860s, a period in the late 'golden age' of Alpine exploration. In this era climbers often invented techniques on the spot, and there were no agreed safety standards whatsoever. However, men like Edward Whymper had begun to turn an analytical eye towards safety techniques, and a few basic principles had emerged: safety in numbers (the more people on a rope, the easier it is to pull someone out); never cross a glacier without a rope; keep the rope between climbers short and taut; glaciers are safer early in the day or at night; and finally, experienced climbers knew how to identify hidden crevasses and safe snow bridges.

Twenty years before, these principles were either unknown, or applied only haphazardly. The mid-1850s boom in Alpine climbing helped to accelerate the development of safety techniques.

Ropes

Until scientific methods were first applied to the testing of climbing ropes in the 1860s, the ropes used for mountaineering were of dubious quality. They were hawser-laid, often made of whatever material came to hand. Some would hold the weight of a man, others would snap easily. They were stiff, weak when wet, and froze into solid cables. Tying knots was a difficult task even when the rope was in perfect condition.

Hardware

Modern climbing hardware simply did not exist. Rudimentary crampons were popular in the first two decades of the 19th century, but by the late 1840s they had largely died out. Most travellers wore simple hobnailed boots; some of the earlier and poorer chamois-hunters-turned-guides wore smooth-soled wooden clogs.

Relics from 1888, found on the Weisshorn

None of the karabiners, pulleys, Prusiks, slings, or harnesses we use today existed. Climbing hardware began and ended with the ice axe, an invention of the 1840s - 50s when Chamouniard guides thought to combine the ice hatchet with the baton or alpenstock used in previous decades. Early ice axes were mainly used for chopping steps and were absolutely useless for arresting a fall. In fact, there was no standardised pattern in axe design until Edward Whymper invented the format we use today. One major advantage these older axes had was the extreme length of the shaft: a property that made it far easier to probe snow bridges and seek crevasses hidden beneath the surface.

A typical early ice axe

John Tyndall's ice axe

The Whymper axe. Note the pick and horizontal adze, features
which aid self-arrest.

Techniques

As I'm sure you can imagine by this point, if you fell into a big crevasse in the 19th century then getting out would be difficult.

Picture the scene. You suddenly break through a thin crust of snow and fall into darkness. On the surface, your companions are struggling to hold you, some of them plunging their axes into the snow, others flat on their faces being dragged in themselves. If they don't manage to arrest the fall then chances are everyone on the rope will be pulled into the hole and killed. Even if they manage to hold the fall, you aren't wearing a harness so the loop of rope around your waist is gradually crushing the breath out of your body.

Now your companions are faced with the challenge of getting you back to the surface without the aid of anchors or pulleys that can be used to create a hauling system. This is why glacier travel was often conducted in larger groups: more muscle to help pull out a stricken man, and a greater chance of holding the fall in the first place.

If the crevasse is shallow or narrow, or at an angle which lets you partially climb back out, the job is made easier. If you are dangling in space with no way of assisting the hoist then you're in big trouble. There is also no mountain rescue, so you can expect no outside help.

Such situations were frequently lethal. Perhaps not surprisingly, most of the glacier travel techniques of the time were oriented towards prevention rather than cure, and experienced climbers became very good at avoiding hazards and navigating complex routes across crevassed terrain.

Some contemporary sources

From Glaciers of the Alps by John Tyndall (1860):

"Three or four times he [Bennen] half disappeared in the concealed fissures, but by clutching the snow he rescued himself and went on as swiftly as before. Once my leg sunk, and the rink of icicles some fifty feet below told me that I was in the jaws of a crevasse; my guide turned sharply - it was the only time that I had seen concern on his countenance :- "Gott's Donner! Sie haben meine Tritte nicht gefolgt." - "Doch!" was my only reply, and we went on. He scarcely tried the snow that we crossed, as from its form and colour he could in most cases judge of its condition."

From Scrambles Amongst the Alps by Edward Whymper (1871):

"[Some] Guides object to the use of the rope upon snow-covered glacier, because they are afraid of being laughed at by their comrades ... We arrived at the edge of the ice, and I requested to be tied. My guide (a Zermatt man of repute) said that no one used a rope going across that pass. I declined to argue the matter, and we put on the rope; although very much against the wish of my man, who protested that we should have to submit to perpetual ridicule if we met any of his acquaintances." 

"I believe that the unwillingness to use a rope upon snow-covered glacier which born mountaineers not unfrequently exhibit, arises - First, on the part of expert men, from the consciousness that they themselves incur little risk; secondly, on the part of inferior men, from fear of ridicule, and from aping the ways of their superiors; and, thirdly, from pure ignorance or laziness." 

"I often meet, upon glacier-passes, elegantly-got-up persons, who are clearly out of their element, with a guide stalking along in front, paying no attention to the innocents in his charge. They are tied together as a matter of form, but they evidently have no idea why they are tied up, for they walk side by side, or close together, with the rope trailing in the snow. If one tumbles into a crevasse, the rest stare, and say, "La! What is the matter with Smith?" unless, as is more likely, they all tumble in together." (Note: today this is known as "death-roping.")

From the Badminton Book of Mountaineering by C.T. Dent (1892):

"The process of extricating the temporarily absent friend must be conducted in a methodical manner. He will not be got out by hauling vigorously at him from both sides, though he may be partly suffocated by this proceeding. Firstly slacken the rope a very little. The submerged man will often then be enabled to work his way up again through the hole by which he entered, or can break down the edges and widen the gap, and so make a way out ... The rope, in fact, cannot do much more than give him material assistance, and he will have to do the major part of the work for himself." 

"Guides do not always show much method on these occasions. They exert themselves with a hearty good will, it is true ... Too often guides will pull until they can pull no more." 

"If he is suspended in mid air, or finds only soft loose snow to support his feet below, the difficulty of getting out will be very considerable." 

"On a dry glacier only extreme carelessness ... could lead to any accident ... and it will not be found very difficult to extricate a man directly from any fissure into which he may have chanced to fall."

Related articles from this blog

Oscar Eckenstein: the first true innovator of climbing equipment?
The Ice World
Climbing with an Alpenstock
Constructing an ice axe of the Alpine Golden Age

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Book Spotlight - The Summits of Modern Man by Peter Hansen

The Summits of Modern Man: Mountaineering After the Enlightenment

by Peter H. Hansen

I have a confession to make. The author of this book was kind enough to send me a review copy some time ago, but it has been a busy summer and I've only recently got round to reading it.

I was attracted to this book by the subject: a scholarly analysis of mountaineering in the context of Enlightenment, Romanticism, and modernity. These four concepts are tightly interwoven, and Hansen's objective is to analyse their relationships fully.

I'm about halfway through, and while I initially found the writing dry - it is a scholarly work, after all, not for mass appeal - I was drawn in by details of mountaineering history I have never seen elsewhere. The insights are very revealing and have forced me to look at facts I thought I understood in a new light.

This is not a book for those new to the subject. To the general reader I commend Mountains of the Mind by Robert Macfarlane. The Summits of Modern Man, by contrast, is for the dedicated student of mountaineering history who has read all the standard works and wants a deeper understanding.

I will be writing a full review when I have finished reading this very interesting book.

Visiting the Grave of Owen Glynne Jones

There comes a time in the career of an author when the seemingly impenetrable veil between reality and the imaginary worlds we write about is lifted. We are touched by the very stuff of our stories. Characters who were real enough to us in our heads become suddenly tangible human beings of flesh and blood; human beings with a voice more real than any we could give them.

Such moments are incredibly profound. I am lucky enough to have experienced such a moment precisely three years ago when I visited the grave of O.G. Jones in Evolena, Switzerland.

Dent Blanche from the streets of Evolena

Followers who have read The Only Genuine Jones will be familiar with Jones, the primary hero of the book. He's a complex man who seeks progress in the world of mountaineering yet frequently sabotages his own efforts - a man who can be reckless and myopic, yet is steered by a deep-seated sense of right and wrong. My character is based strongly on the real historical figure of Owen Glynne Jones, and in 2010 I undertook an Alpine voyage to visit the area where he spent his last days.

Dent Blanche

In summer 1899 Jones climbed extensively in the quieter regions of Switzerland. True to character, he did everything at breakneck speed and hardly stopped to eat or sleep; on one occasion he was observed to come down from two days of hard climbing, tweed jacket in rags, and paused merely to gulp down a glass of beer before setting out into the mountains once again.

When he was asked why he felt the need to cram so much mountaineering into such a short space of time, his reply was, tragically, "You see, I won't be able to do this sort of thing for much longer, so I must make the best of it while I can."

Within a matter of days he was dead, killed in one of the worst mountaineering accidents of the 1890s.

Together with his friend Mr Hill and three Swiss guides, he set out to climb the Ferpècle arête of Dent Blanche, a fearsome peak between Arolla and Zermatt. Near the top of the ridge one of the guides slipped and fell to his death, dragging everybody else off as well; only Hill survived, who was fortunate in that the rope broke before it could pull him after the others. Poor Mr Hill had a devillish time getting down off the mountain and finally arrived in Zermatt after a trying ordeal to raise the alarm.

A search party scoured the glacier at the foot of the mountain for remains. Only a few sad items were found: scattered body parts, a hat, and the broken shaft of Jones' ice axe. These relics (minus the body parts) can today be seen and touched at the Zermatt Alpine museum, which I had first visited in 2007. Touching the ice axe of O.G. Jones had been a pivotal moment in my book's conception.

But in 2010 I finally gained the chance to stand at his grave, take off my hat, and gaze up into the summer heat at the summit of the mountain that had killed my main character and one of my greatest heroes.

The grave of O.G. Jones

The moment was one of profound connection with this man whose life story had inspired my entire creative input and output since 2007. Suddenly I felt I knew him a little better; I had come to the place where his friends, family and guides had assembled one chilly morning in September 1899 to pay their respects to a great man. Evolena is an isolated and quiet sort of place and the chapel where he is buried is a tiny stone building, hardly big enough for a congregation of a dozen. The village has changed little since the 19th century and to this day retains a little of the atmosphere of "der alte Alpen". There are no ski lifts here, and (unlike Zermatt!) no MacDonalds.

The Hotel Dent Blanche, where Jones frequently stayed.

I returned from my trip to the Alps that year with a profoundly different appreciation of Jones and his life and death. It had ceased to be a story of purely academic interest to me some time before, but now it was more personal; I felt far more intimately connected with his tale. In understanding his last days and death (which were, I think, exactly as he would have wished them to be) I felt able to understand his life and character better than ever before.

Every writer whose work is grounded in reality should seek out these moments of connection with their characters. Their transformative powers are remarkable, and you won't look at your work in the same way again.

You can buy my novel, The Only Genuine Jones, here for £1.99 on Kindle or £7.99 in paperback. It's inspired by the life of Jones and has gained a lot of 5* reviews!