Studio: international art (56.1912)

Photographing at High Altitudes

ON PHOTOGRAPHING AT

HIGH ALTITUDES. BY

DONALD McLEISH.

A sport offering an abundance of exercise of
the most exhilarating kind amidst the cleanest
atmosphere in the world is one that would not
seem to stand in need of further attractions. But
mountaineering means much more than this. One
of the greatest charms of travel above the snow-line
consists in the intimate relation it has to interests
of a graver and more intellectual kind; and its
varied aspects, scientific and artistic, have much to
do with its increasing popularity.

The wonderful variety of vegetation and scenery
that exists within the compass of a few thousand
feet is one of the commonplaces of Alpine travel.
Probably in no other locality can be experienced
greater diversity than in the Alpine regions, where
at one time the climber may be in the midst of the
polar landscapes of Mont Blanc or Monte Rosa,
with nothing surrounding but snow and ice, and
after a four hours’ descent be among the olive
groves and vineyards of an Italian valley.

Amidst all this variety there is abundant material
for picture-making, yet strangely enough the artistic
side is the most neglected. Few painters have
attempted to portray the beauties of the high Alps,
and most of the pictures in existence appear to be
the result of anything but observation at first hand.
The works of M. Gabriel Loppe stand almost alone
in their striking resemblance to the wonders of the
snow world as mountaineers know them ; and in
a phase of nature that is particularly well rendered
by the camera few photographers have given more
than the mere outlines of the mountains.

It is difficult to give a reason for this, unless it be
that the sport is so fascinating in itself that most
people cannot give attention to other details. It is,
however, true that infinitely more pleasure will be
gained by the man who combines with the pastime
some definite aim, artistic or otherwise; he is also
likely to become a better mountaineer than one
who treats a mountain as a treadmill, or, to quote
Ruskin, “regards the peaks as so many greased
poles.”

At one time mountaineering was much rougher
work than it is at present; the ascent of any peak of
more than 12,000 feet generally involved a night
spent in the open or in a cave of the earth. Native
huts were few and far between, and offered sorry
entertainment for the weary Alpinist. 1 he cries of
sheep and goats and other horned cattle combined
with the mining operations of myriads of leaping

insects made sleep in them an impossibility.
Mountaineers naturally entered such places with
extreme reluctance, and only then on the principle
of “ any port in a storm.” The establishment of
a series of well-equipped huts throughout the
mountain districts has done much to abolish these
discomforts, and the opportunities afforded of
seeing some of the grandest scenery under varied
conditions of light might well tempt the artist into
spending a few days at some of them.

As a rule, more artistic opportunities occur during
the traverse of a pass than on the ascent of a
mountain. Wonderful as are the views obtained
from the great peaks, where the eye frequently
ranges over snowy domes and myriad spires for
more than a hundred miles in every direction, they
are unsatisfactory in a pictorial sense. The most
impressive views are generally obtained at lesser
elevations, where the height of surrounding moun-
tains is added to the depth of the valleys below.

With some such ideas as these a party of four,
including the writer, started out recently from the
Montanvert for the traverse of the Col du Geant.
We had left Chamonix the previous afternoon, glad
to be quit of its noise and dust and petrol-perfumed
atmosphere. At 2 a.m. we were stumbling along by
lantern light over the rocky track that leads to the
Mer de Glace. An awkward scramble down the rocks
brought us to the broken ice masses just as the
sun’s first rays struck the summits of the surrounding
peaks. Their topmost snows were suddenly ablaze
with points of crimson light, which flashed and
gleamed like a series of watch-fires simultaneously
lighted on every eminence.

We passed ice pinnacles, pale and ghostly in the
shadow, and carefully skirted the edge of many a
gloomy chasm, from the depths of which came the
subdued roar of rushing water. We did not hurry
past these details, as the huge tower of the Dent
du Requin, which I intended to photograph, was
still in shadow. As the sun crept over the glacier
a convenient ice serac was selected and a few steps
cut to the top, from which a picture was taken with
the necessary human element in the foreground.
The glacier at this point was almost level; we en-
countered few crevasses that could not be jumped,
and met with no other obstacles till reaching the
icefall. Here the whole width of the glacier was
split and fractured in the wildest confusion; seracs
of ice towered above us, varying in size from
a cottage to a church, and crevasses of enormous
depth and width yawned on all sides ready to
receive any erratic body. We often found that the
only way to negotiate these chasms was to cut steps

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