JUDGE
and the roar when a mass of ice falls from the end, the streams of melted water galloping in a mad rush down the mountain sides and the horses standing knee-deep in the ice-cold torrent, because the natives regard it as good for their feet (they don't stand there themselves), other streams pouring over precipices and disappearing in mist before they reach the ground, the vast masses of rock, stretching toward the skies with the whitened vales between, all held our attention and fixed themselves in our memories. We had solemnly and resolutely determined we would do no Alpine climbing. The next morning, early, we bought alpenstocks and followed on foot the zigzag path which leads up the Mont Aubert. It is a narrow path. The mules coming down insisted upon having the inside next the mountain. But about noon we reached the hotel which overhangs the Mer de Glace. From the outer court we could see, far below, men and an occasional woman crossing the glacier. The temptation was too great and good resolutions were consigned to the pavement. We secured a French guide. He supplied us with alpenstocks and woolen socks to pull over our shoes, and he led the way, with a hatchet cutting steps in the hillocks of ice and helping us to avoid the dangerous crevasses. We looked down into some of these splits in the ice. The man who falls into one comes out in about thirty years at the foot of the mountain. I do not know the width of the Mer de Glace, but it seemed to be like crossing about two seven-acre fields. On the far side was a moraine which we climbed. Then the guide asked whether we wanted to go around “le Mauvais Pas.” I said to him:
“Je n'aime pas les Mauvaises Pas. Qu'est que c'est?”
He replied that it would be no worse than to go back over the Mer de Glace, and that after getting to the other end we would have a good road back to Chamounix. We knew the difficulties behind, we did not know those in the front, and we went ahead, trusting to Providence and a French guide. What the Swiss have named a “Bad Path”
