An Expedition In The Range Of The Grand Muveran

“Si parva licet componere magnis.”

By Geoffrey L.  Corbett

Many of us, as the Visp “express” rattles noisily up the Rhone valley, look with interest, if not with admiration, on the bold precipices rising so abruptly on our left.  Some few of us can tell our more ignorant friends the names of the different peaks, which successively come into view.  Fewer still have turned aside from the glory of Pennine ascents to enjoy the neglected beauties of the Western Oberland.  And yet it is a district full of interest for the botanist and the geologist; it is an excellent training – ground for the young mountaineer or the would – be guideless climber; and, lastly, it possesses an unrivalled beauty that cannot fail to charm – the grey crags rising sheer from amidst dark pine woods, the green alps beneath; studded with farmsteads, from which the sound of cow-bells ever rises, the bright torrents tumbling headlong down the valleys, while from every point of view the glittering snows of Mont Blanc and the Cornbin, and the sharp peaks of the Pennines and the Oberland, vie with the deep blue of the Lake of Geneva, surrounded by the green slopes of the Alps of Vaud and Savoy.  It was not without some justification that Edmund Gosse, when in 1883 he visited Les Plans in company with the two Waterhouses and Hamo Thornycroft, wrote in the Visitors’ Book at the Pension Tanner:-

“An architect, a sculptor and a poet,
A younger gentleman from learned Isis,
All think no place in Switzerland more nice is
Than fair Les Plans, and hope their faces show it.”

Late in the August of last year our party, consisting of the Leader, the Interpreter, and one other, arrived at Bex, with the object of making a few ascents in the range of the Grand Muveran.  An electric railway, recently constructed, runs up the valley of the Avengon to Gryon; but our destination being Les Plans, we were forced to forego this convenience of the modern mountaineer, and rest content with the old-fashioned diligence.  Les Plans is a picturesque little village, lying in the midst of green pastures at the foot of the grey cliffs of the Muveran, while on either hand rise pine-clad slopes.  Pensions take the place of hotels, and to one of these, the Pension Tanner, we made our way.  Our arrival unfortunately coincided with the break-up of the weather, and for three days rain fell almost continuously.  But taking “weather or no” as our motto, we were able, at the expense of a few soakings, not only to take exercise, but to get into fair condition.  A very pleasant walk, which can be strongly recommended to travellers similarly storm-bound, is the ascent of the Lion d’Argentine, the sharp limestone crag which rises directly over the village.  It commands an excellent view, and, as a further attraction, edelweiss grows plentifully on its slopes.

The fourth morning broke fine and clear; and while the majority of our party, insensible to Phobus’ reappearance, were still enjoying the diviner gifts of Morpheus, our Leader, with commendable vigilance, had interviewed the leading guide of the valley, a genial and sturdy Vaudois, by name Felix Cherix, and had arranged to start at 2 p.m. for the S.A.C.Cabane on the Frête de Sailles.  The morning was devoted to amassing a goodly store of provisions.  So complete was our success, so large and varied our collection, that Cherix hazarded that we intended to open a restaurant at the Cabane, and expressed his willingness to stand in with us in the enterprise.  He further asserted that, not being a mule, he could not possibly carry all our “stock” as far as the Frête de Sailles without the assistance of a porter, casually mentioning that he was so fortunate as to be the father of a beau fils whose strength and courage eminently fitted him for so arduous an undertaking.

Determined for once in our lives to make an expedition de luxe, we engaged the “beau fils,” and at 2 p.m. precisely our caravan set out from the Pension Tanner.  Les Plans is no Zermatt, made blasé of mountaineers by continual feminine conquests of its Matterhorn.  An ascent of the Muveran by a
pensionnaire is considered an event in the season.  The whole population turned out to bid us adieu, and we could not escape without submitting to the ordeal of the camera.

Following the char-road, which runs eastward through the village, on the left bank of the Avençon, we soon reached Pont de Naut and the Botanical Gardens of Lausanne University.  Here the road is succeeded by a rough track, which, after continuing for a few hundred yards in an easterly direction, branches off from the path leading to the Col des Essets, and turning sharp to the right, winds upwards through a pine forest to the chalets of Larze.  Crossing a broad pasture, which, so Cherix told us, is frequently used by the chasseurs for driving Chamois, we soon struck the precipitous western face of the Pointe des Encrennaz.  A well-defined path ascends by ledges past the Barma Teule and the Roc du Chasseur, and a final shale slope leads to the summit of the Frête de Sailles, which we reached in rather less than three hours (including halts) from Les Plans.  During the ascent, clouds and mist had been gathering ominously from the west, but eastward the view was unobscured.  Almost at our feet the grey waters of the Rhone rushed straight as a turnpike road down the valley.  Directly opposite rose the snowy Combin, the Ruinette, and Mont Blanc de Seilon; further to the left the Dent Blanche and Grand Cornier, and behind them the Dent d’Hérens, the Matterhorn, and Monte Rosa; while still further to the east the view terminated in the Gabelhorn, Rothhorn, and Weisshom.

The Cabane, which is named after the Vaudois poet, Eugène Rambert, lies on the east side of the Col, about 100 feet below the summit.  We found it ,already occupied by a party of Swiss engineer officers engaged on the new Federal Survey^[1].  They proved charming companions, with only one fault, to wit, ignorance of the rules of whist.  A heavy supper, prepared from our vast stores, had filled us with an irresistible longing for a rubber, and we were almost reduced to playing “dummy,” when a deux ex machina descended in the person of a genial Italian, who was not only versed in the canons of Cavendish, but was also the invariable possessor of the ace and at least four other trumps.  With him as partner, our Leader, to his infinite satisfaction, walked out easy winner of a one-sided game.

At five next morning Cherix woke us with the welcome words, “C’est beau, Messieurs”; and at breakfast we decided to take advantage of the weather and go for the Muveran.  An examination of the larder showed that the ravages of the previous night had left their mark even on our seemingly inexhaustible stores; in particular, the liquor supply had been dangerously diminished, a disaster which we could only ascribe to the lavish way in which our Leader had added a “flavour” to the soup.  So the porter was sent down to Les Plans for more provisions, while the rest of us, including our Italian friend, set out for the Muveran.  We left the Cabane at 6.45, and following the track which runs northwards past the spring, reached in half-an-hour the summit of the ridge connecting the Grand Muveran with the Pointe de Cheveloz.  Here we turned sharp to the left, and ascended by ledges in the rock to a big rib, which runs right down the south face, known to the natives by the name of the Tournerette.  Crossing this rib without difficulty, we continued to ascend by rock-ledges, always trending to the left, until, at 9 a.m., we reached the summit, after less than two hours’ actual climbing.

The ascent of the Muveran cannot be described as an exciting climb.  Practically the whole of the south face can be easily scaled, and it is wise to keep to the face and avoid couloirs, which are simply channels for falling stones.  But any trouble that may seem unnecessarily spent on so insignificant a climb is amply repaid by the wonderful view from the summit, a view that for variety and extent is perhaps only surpassed in Switzerland by the yet more splendid panorama from the neighbouring peak, the Dent de Morcles.  It was our good fortune to make the ascent on a day that was absolutely cloudless.  For more than two hours we lay in the warm sunshine on the summit, and gazed on a scene such as is not often revealed even to the mountaineer.  From the mountains of Binn to the range of Mont Blanc, from the Dent du Midi to the Finsteraarhorn, one after another the Alps appeared, not a single peak was obscured.  Conway, in describing a similar prospect, requires for the ideal view a deep valley, a lake, and on one side at least green and fertile land^[2].  On the summit of the Muveran all these conditions are fulfilled.  On one side the valley of the Rhone lies more than 8000 feet beneath, accentuating the great height of the giant peaks beyond; on the other side the silvery plain of the Lake of Geneva disappears into the hazy distance, while towards Châateau d’Oex and Bulle green pastures and grassy hills stretch away to the grey slopes of the Juras.

Unable to endure any longer the impatient snorts of Cherix, who had not yet learnt to appreciate our leisurely movements, we at last bestirred ourselves and started on the descent.  We had not been going many seconds when an accident, which might have proved serious, warned us that caution is as necessary on the Muveran as on the most difficult and dangerous peak: the Italian, who was an agile but florid climber, without a word of warning started on an involuntary glissade down the north precipice, but our stalwart Leader had pulled him back into safety before the rest of us were aware of his misadventure.  We continued the descent by easy stages, and shortly before two reached the Cabane.  A delightful afternoon, devoted for the most part to healthful slumber, passed only too quickly; and as the shades of evening gathered on the Frête, the prolonged absence of our porter and the fate of our reserve supplies, filled us with alarm.  Brigands and stone-avalanches were discussed as possible explanations.  The Interpreter, with untimely levity, suggested that the “beau fils” had found it more convenient to carry our six bottles of wine under his belt than on his back.  The tension was at length relieved by the arrival of a Swiss, who brought word that our stout porter had broken down en mule beneath the grievous burden imposed upon him by our gluttony!  Cherix was at once despatched to his son’s assistance, but it was not until the moon rose that our anxiety was relieved by the safe arrival of father, son, and the provisions.

After a sumptuous supper, consisting of soup, hot fried beef, bread and cheese, and white Wine, plans for the next day were warmly debated.  Our inclinations turned towards the Haut de Cry, the mountain on which the famous guide Bennen met his death in attempting a winter ascent.  But Cherix objected that an impracticable cliff barred the ascent by the western arête, and that only by a long and exhausting détour could the summit be reached from the Frête de Sailles.  Abandoning the Haut de Cry, we  fixed upon the Dent de Morcles.  The Italian had returned to Les Plans, but the new arrival, who held an important official position at Lausanne, expressed his willingness to accompany us.

Punctually at six next morning, we started for the Dent de Morcles.  The weather was again beautifully fine; and mindful of the heat the day before our Leader decided to take the porter to carry his coat!  The Swiss official, who is a member of the S.A.C. and an enthusiastic mountaineer, turned out in a smart yachting cap; carrying a very long hazel bâton, he travelled with much vitesse, as our Leader remarked, but without much control over his legs, particularly downhill: his other characteristics were a charming manner and a portable Etna.  The many intervening ridges, which must be crossed or turned, make the ascent of the Dent de Morcles from the Frête de Sailles rather a long day, and an early start is advisable.  Many alternative routes present themselves, but the least fatiguing, if not the most interesting, combination is that which we adopted on the present occasion.

Following the path which runs southwards from the Cabane, we turned the Petit Muveran by descending a short distance on its western face, and ascended again to the Trou d’Aufallaz, the col which connects the Petit Muveran with the Pointe d’Aufallaz.  Keeping due south, we mounted the snow slopes and screes to the col between the Sexoneire and the Pointe d’Aufallaz, and after ascending almost to the summit of the latter peak, descended by an easy couloir to the Trou de Bougnonnaz, the pass which lies between the Pointe d’Aufallaz and the Dent Favre.  From here it is usual to traverse the east face of Dent Favre to a conspicuous niche on the east arête about 200 feet below the summit, and descend by a couloir to the shale slopes which lead to the Col de la Loex.  But it will be found quicker and less fatiguing to descend by the Creux de Bougnonnaz to the depression between Dent Favre and the Pointe des Armeys, and thence follow the left bank of the stream, which runs down into the valley of the Grand Pré, to the summit of the Col de la Loex.  Following the latter route on the present occasion, we came upon a herd of chamois feeding in the Creux, and envied the wonderful speed with which they mounted the rocks of Dent Favre.  On the banks of the stream above the Grand Pré, we halted for déjeuner, and a tinned chicken, encased in a most seductive jelly, elicited loud expressions of approval from our Swiss companion.  Refreshed by an hour’s rest, we soon reached the Col de la Loex.  Steep rocks, which afford a fair scramble, lead on to the arête of the Tête Noir, and care must be taken in passing a large spring, as in the early morning the rocks are liable to be badly glazed.  The summit of the Tête Noir is avoided by traversing a steep snow slope on its western face: here we found the rope necessary, for the rocks fall away sheer below the snow to the Glacier des Martinets, and the Interpreter was the recipient of an uninsured pension.  From the ridge connecting the Tête Noir with the Dent de Morcles, forty minutes’ easy climbing brought us to the summit of our peak, which we reached at 12.45, after four-and-a-half-hours’ actual walking from the Frête de Sailles.

The view was again magnificent, and in one respect at least surpassed the Wonderful spectacle that we had enjoyed from the summit of the Muveran.  For from the Dent de Morcles, which forms the southernmost buttress of the range, the eye travels unimpeded across the valley to the range of Mont Blanc.  Instead of the confused mass of Aiguilles that is seen from most points of view the whole length of the range appears, every peak can be distinguished, culminating in Mont Blanc, the Monarch of the Alps, rising to his full height from the depths of the valley of Chamonix.

We were still enjoying the beauty of the scene, and pointing out the different peaks of the Pennines and the Oberland to our Swiss friend, when Cherix announced that luncheon was served.  With the aid of the Etna, he had prepared the following menu:

Sardines à Huile.

---

Langue.

---

Poulet.

---

Chocolat à la Neige.

---

Fromage.

---

Dessert.

---

Café Noir.

---

Liqueurs.

At the end of an hour we felt little inclination for the long walk home, and wished our friendly Cabane several miles nearer.  But we were still less inclined to spend the night on the mountains, and as the afternoon was now advancing, at length summoned up enough energy to make a start.  Varying our route,^[3] we descended the east face of the Dent de Morcles to the Col de Fénestral, leaving on our right the Mayens de Fully, where in the hollow between the Grand Chavalard and the Sex Trembloz we came upon two charming lakelets, surrounded by green pastures – a noted spot for botanists.  Crossing the Col de Fénestral and skirting the Grand Pré, we joined our route of the morning at the ridge connecting the Pointe des Armeys with Dent Favre.  Here, at Cherix’ suggestion, we made yet another variation, and crossing the Creux de Bougnonnaz, mounted by very steep grass-slopes, terminating in a stony couloir, to an unmistakable col, which at present has no name, lying between the Sexoneire and the jagged ridge to the east of it.  Traversing the north face of the Sexoneire, we reached the base of the Petit Muveran in an hour, and half-an-hour later were once more safely ensconced in our sardine-packed Cabane .  The sardines were not the only occupants.  For the climbing residents of Lausanne are in the habit of spending every week-end at the Cabane Rambert, where they enjoy fresh air, free lodging, and beautiful scenery at the cost of a return ticket to Bex.  A score or so of these enthusiasts – men, women, and children – had already assembled at the hut, and as more were expected every minute, there was every prospect of a crowded house.

At dinner, we decided, after some discussion, to explore next day the northern end of the range, and fixed upon an interesting route, namely, to traverse the Forclaz and Derbon glaciers, cross the Col de Pacheu, and descend by the Glacier de Plan-Névé to Les Plans.  But is was not to be.  The weather had now kept fine for three consecutive days, and more than that could not reasonably be expected in Switzerland last summer.  The evening was suspiciously warm, and about midnight the rattle of hail on the roof and the rumble of thunder amongst the crags warned us that the anticipated change had indeed come.  Sleep was almost an impossibility.  To say nothing of the noise of the storm outside, our numbers had now risen to twenty-six, and the hut is small.  True, we lay down with but seven in our bed, but our comparative comfort was not destined to last throughout the night.  About 2 a.m. we were aware of an increased atmospheric compression, but it was not until morning that we discovered that a surreptitious foreigner had insinuated his form, all dripping with the rain, into our serried ranks.

Daylight revealed a cheerless prospect of rain and mist, and we at once abandoned our expedition.  The Swiss, with an enthusiasm that outran their judgment, set off in a mob for the Muveran.  Having, breakfasted and collected our chattels, we bestowed the remnant of our provisions on the owner of the Etna, and soon after ten left with great regret our comfortable Cabane.  The descent to Les Plans was an impressive spectacle.  Although beaten by the weather, we were not routed. The retreat was carried out in good order.  Many and merry were the meals with which we wiled away the day.  At last when Cherix was beginning to despair of ever seeing home again, we reached Les Plans, in the record time of 6 hours 33 minutes.  Our arrival was not unexpected, and our entry into the village resembled a triumph rather than a retreat.  For we had despatched our porter as an
avant-courier to announce to M. Tanner and all whom it might concern, ”
L’expédition est terminée!”