Foreign Parts
The Simplon Pass

Foreign Parts.

From the North Italian Lakes Across the Alps, via Simplon Pass, to Switzerland on Bicycles.

By H. and F. Rieck.

After sending our heavier luggage on to the town of Basle (Switzerland), and making a careful examination of our trusty steel-steeds, we left our homely quarters on the beautiful shore of Lago Maggiore on 8th June en route to Geneva, via Simplon Pass.

In spite of the hot sunshine on our backs, and a breeze against us, in a smart run slightly up-hill through a charming valley, we found ourselves at 11 o’clock at the Italian town of Domo l’Ossola, 40 miles away from Lake Maggiore. After resting a while, and partaking of a greatly appreciated good dinner, we set out again, but had to climb in earnest now, leading our machines, which are so perfect and light (made in Germany) that they run beside us like a goat on a string.

On our left is a very deep gully, with a loud-roaring, foaming torrent hundreds of feet below, and rocky high mountain walls are on our right. Here and there, on apparently inaccessible high and giddy positions, are the remains of castles, where in dark ages the first occupiers and possessors of these rough lands hid themselves and their wealth in security, and waged wars, one family against the other, and one tribe against the other, in frantic hatred. How in these grey ages the people used to travel appears, from this safe and comfortable highway, quite inconceivable, but is partly explained by some high-arched, narrow stone bridges spanning at giddy heights yawning precipices, and colossal rock-hewn parts of such bridges are resting, torn away by avalanches, or perhaps by masses of rocks hurled down from far above upon foreign conquering foemen. These colossal parts of human architecture and raw destructive unhewn boulders, lay now at the bottom of the gulch, amidst the foaming and gurgling waters of the wild mountain stream.

This present broad and comparatively comfortable main road over the height of a saddle of the snow-peaked Simplon Range of the Alps was begun to be built by Napoleon Bonaparte I., in the year of 1801, exactly 100 years ago. The greatest height is at the Hospice, a hospitable monks’ convent, about 7000 feet above the sea level. After having lost several armies in passing his conquering troops through these mountainous parts, by the brave Swiss people fighting hard for their independence and their native heaths, Napoleon ordered this highway to be built, but he saw not the finishing of it, in the year 1825, long after his downfall in the snowfields of Russia.

Although the zig-zag serpentines of this broad highway, in bold cuttings and tunnels, are not too steep for walking or driving, the travelling on bikes is rather tiresome, but the scenery is so highly interesting and so constantly changing that, in spite of the great heat, especially at the outset from Domo l’Ossola, we walked for great distances. In this style, partly riding, and partly leading our bikes, we had, since midday again, done 13 miles, and felt inclined now to look for a village hotel for night quarters; but at the small township of Varzo we came to what looked like a mining village in Australia. Here the first works of blasting enormous railway tunnels through the hard, staring gneiss rocks had just begun. Whole armies of very rough-looking Italian labourers were at work, building stages, quarrying, hewing stones into shape, etc., etc. The labourer-houses are all temporarily built of deal, mostly in the local mountaineer-style, two stories high with verandah.

As it was Saturday evening, many men were sitting outside their houses and before the wine-shops, drinking, smoking, and talking; but all were very decent and well behaved. We met a funeral cortège with brass band playing a solemn march, with children and maidens carrying large wreaths of leaves and wild flowers, on the way to bury a dead comrade, who had been accidentally drowned in the swift rushing torrent. The death march sounded, while the deep grumbling thunder of dynamite explosions far into the mountain tunnels were booming. This long line of newly erected miners’ huts was swarming with women and children, goats, dogs, and an Italian speaking population. We passed two churches built high above on the mountains, where no human habitations are; but the population of the valleys climb up there for service for the good of their souls.

We were a long while riding on our wheels looking for an hotel, where we could put up for the night, but hesitated to call at such rough looking shops. But at last somewhat tired out, having travelled about 68 miles, and not sure when we would reach another village, we inquired in a little newly put up deal-built shanty hotel, “can we get a bed for the night?” in Italian language. To our agreeable surprise the hotelkeeper spoke in German, and answered in the affirmative.

Yes, the place was rather rough, but we were very welcome, and we got a frugal but very substantial supper after a good wash in the thundering, splashing mountain waterfall close by, and after a change of clothes. We carried our bikes up the little outside stairs to the second floor to our room, which, after being clean and prepared with very rough but extreme clean linen and tiny ditto curtains, looked not so bad after all. At supper we met again two young newly-married farmer people, whom we passed some hours before on the road. The one young woman is a native of Rome, and the other is from Naples, and they are married to two farmers in these parts. We were very glad, both of us, to be able, with our smattering of Italian, to have a little conversation with these friendly people, and to explain to them our style of farming, cattle-breeding, etc., in our home in far-away Australia.

During the night the fresh breezes from the glaciers in the close vicinity aired our little deal-box bedroom well, and also the everlasting roar of the waterfall reminded us (wrapped up on our rustling maize-husk mattrasses in warm clean blankets) of our own home near Coff’s Harbour, in immediate vicinity of the continuous thundering surf of the Pacific Ocean.

At the entrances of the immense tunnels one sees the constant chains and salves of dynamite explosions, and the enormity of the hard gneiss and granite rock, compared with the very large distance the boring (between Domodossola and Brig, about 63 miles) has to be carried out, shows the greatness of this undertaking. This railway-building work has now commenced on the Italian as well as on the Swiss side at the same time, and the tunnel will meet exactly half-way.

The works in the tunnels (boring into the rocks by steam-drills and blasting) goes on in shifts night and day and also on Sundays uninterrupted, and great numbers of mining men were constantly going, with lamps in their hands, relieved or relieving in their shifts at the work in the tunnels deep in the hard rock of these mountains. They very kindly showed us one of these hard sharp steel-drills used at these works. They are about 2½ inches in diameter, are screwed on shafts, and set (in a great number, in an arch of the size of the tunnel, with a pressure) on to the rock, and are by steam engines swirled round, boring a number of blasting holes at once. These holes are afterwards charged with dynamite, and rocks and large masses of debris are shot out at once, and then removed by trucks running on rails. The shot out rocks and debris are used for filling up of gorges and gullies, and also as material for masonry in building bridges and embankments, to secure the line as much as possible against landslips.

Next morning, from the town of Iselle, where we stayed at night, and which is near the Italian and Swiss boundary, we ran by mistake past the custom house, and were followed by one of the boundary guards for a great distance, shouting and whistling. At last the population in front of us also began to howl like mad, and started to hunt us, thinking we were smugglers trying to escape. At last we stopped and looked back. We were taken prisoners, and proudly escorted back to the scolding boundary chief. After showing our touring club papers, etc., this officer soon turned very polite, and apologies were exchanged. We then mounted and whirled off again very proudly.

At the town of Gonda, on Swiss territory, we took some Swiss cheese, good rye bread, and a liter of beer, in front of a homely looking inn in a small garden, when, with great rattle, the regular running mail coach came along, and stopped for a fresh relay of horses. The coach was uncomfortably filled with travellers of all classes. Then came another coach, and at last arrived a whole string of cumbersome omnibuses and park waggons, all bound, like us, via Simplon to Brig.

We managed to get all our superfluous hand baggage (wheel-lamps, tool-pouches, oil-cans, clothes, etc.,) taken, packed in one of our rack-sacks, by the guard of these coaches to be delivered at the Simplon hospice. Then, after a good rest, we started, leading our bikes, to do the last 25 miles to the top of this Alpine pass on foot. There was now for a while scarcely any riding to be done; but as we advanced higher and higher on to the enormous Simplon tops the ascent became steeper, the air icy and very thin, therefore walking was preferable to riding. As long as the sky kept clear the aspect of the majestic snow and ice bound mountain heads of the Monte Rosa, Matterhorn, and other glaciers to the left, and Jungfrau, Mönch, and the whole row of the Bernese Alps to the right, invite a slow pace of travelling. We were soon in the region of eternal snow. Although by snow ploughing the road was free, there were on many places, now in midst of summer, banks of snow in height of 20 feet. Underneath this snow the waters were wildly rushing towards the valleys.

Our road led through many long dark tunnels, all dripping with water. These tunnels or galleries have occasional openings to let in light, and underneath the Kaltwasser Glacier in a long tunnel we hear the thunder of a gigantic waterfall, and looking out of one of the big arched airholes, we see this waterfall above our heads, under which this wonderful highway had led us. Close to a long slender arched massive stone bridge is the first of the many refuge houses, strongly built, and open for all travellers. These refuge houses are built and kept by Government, as in these parts are no dwellings of farmers and no public houses, and such refuges are necessary in blizzards and avalanches, which frequently, even in summer time, rage here.

By degrees, while slowly progressing, the valley gets narrower, with steeps and overhanging granite and glittering mica-slate rocks, and the rushing of waterfalls sounds from underneath in the valley.

As we sit on a protruding rock and look in silence around in this wonderful spot, high over the clouds, we are overtaken by an old couple going over the Simplon and down the other side with some goats. We get in conversation with them. They are the first German speaking peasants we have met for a long time, and after a friendly chat we push on and soon get in sight of the wild Gondo valley. Then we pass through more dripping galleries, and reach a small grassy spot, which lays in this rocky wilderness like an oasis, some Senner huts and also a fine looking public-house, apparently constructed for town people to reside here during the hottest time of summer. We did not intend to stay, but a big St. Bernard dog kept on barking vehemently at us, and would not let us pass. When we entered the verandah and took seats, this clever animal came up to us friendly wagging his tail, went then into the house, and by a long drawn howl called the landlord. So we ordered a pot of wine and some bread and cheese, and complimented the owner of this clever dog. We had a long and very agreeable chat with the hotelkeeper, who, as we soon found out, spoke German and English, as he had been 10 years in America. The principal topics here are the last terrible avalanches and earthslips, which, in consequence of the last winter’s extraordinary heavy and late snowfall in the Alps, and the sudden melting of the snow in the month of March, went down in the whole route from Domodossola to Brig.

In the valley of Domodossola we saw the previous day the place where an earthslip buried a whole village with 24 men, women and children, and a great number of cattle. About 8 miles north of this hotel, the latest terrible avalanche and earthslip occurred between 6 and 7 o’clock a.m. on the 19th March. On the top of the highest peak of the glacier the weight of the melting snow broke masses of ice and rock off, which, commencing to roll, carried everything with it for miles down the valleys, and covered a whole landscape, called the Rossboden Alp. Many square miles of fertile grass land, houses, barns, and cattle were covered from 10 to 50 feet deep with debris of all sorts and sizes. Slate rock ground fine like powder, and pieces of granite stone up to sizes of big churches, mixed with ice-blocks, came whirling and thundering down that steep heaven-high mountain wall. The Switzerland Government has ordered a rough road to be constructed over the earthslip, as for weeks the whole traffic was made impossible. The village of Simplon, containing about 50 houses, only escaped by a hair breadth—indeed, some of the houses on the outskirt of the village are half-buried by clouds of fine debris, and some are fearfully knocked about. In this large earthslip, which extended up and down the valley over about eight miles and across about two miles, only two human lives were lost. Several houses on the Rossboden Alp, with furniture, etc., barns, stables (only occupied in the summer), and many acres of first-class pasture land, with a great number of cattle, are for ever destroyed. Many claims for assistance have, as we are informed, been laid before the Swiss Government without success; but by private people comparatively small sums have been divided amongst the most needy of the inhabitants.

We had hard and dangerous work to follow the wheel tracks across this earth slip. The boulders of ice and layers of hard snow, embedded with earth, gravel, trees and stones, are melting, and suddenly parts of the road will sink down, forming dangerous holes of all sizes and forms; pitfalls for waggons and foot passengers. On this very rough passage, one of our bikes, in leading them along over these rough stones, got a puncture, which took some time to repair next morning.

We, at last, could leave the woeful place of this horrid catastrophe and hurried, as fast as possible, towards the Hospice, whereto we had sent some very necessary articles ahead in the morning from Gondo. A thunderstorm was coming on, and as we passed the refuge house No. 7 (No. 8 Refuge is buried under the earthslip) some tourists who had taken shelter therein called us to join them, as heavy weather was threatening, and indeed under loud thunder and flashing lightning big drops of rain had already began to fall; but we blew the punctured wheel up again, and as the road on top of this mountain, about 2 miles from the Hospice, runs quite level, we jumped up and, under pouring rain, arrived in front of the broad and large mansion of this hospitable cloister.

The old Hospice, an old tower-like grey building, we passed. This is at present inhabited by herdsmen, but only during the summer months. The new building looks very friendly and spacious, and can give shelter to 300 people. No payment for a short board and lodging is taken; but there hangs within the cloister’s church a box, wherein honest people drop an honest reward for the good received in need.

Soon the rain came down in torrents, and in spite of our swift ride we were drenched to the skin. The air was thin, sharp, and icy cold when we climbed up the high stone staircase in front of the stately building. Six great shaggy St. Bernard dogs received us friendly, and ran speedily to the kitchen, announcing by loud barking the arrival of two weather-beaten guests. As we also pulled the string to a mighty bell, a young servant lad came running out, telling us the father monks were at present occupied in church service, but we might in the meanwhile walk into the kitchen. This we did, and found a warm, spacious and scrupulously clean cooking saloon, and several venerable middle-aged dames and females occupied with kitchen work. They very friendly invited us, in French and Italian (German and English they did not understand), to step into a by-room, where a dining table was laid. This friendly hint we understood quickly; we answered also in a choice mixture of most thankful and friendly Italian and French as bowls of hot strong beef-tea and fresh white bread, and afterwards a bottle of delicious white wine, cheese, bread, etc., were put before us.

The small servant lad then came along with our rucksack, containing also our most necessary dry changes of dress, which we put on after a refreshing wash. At supper we were invited by Monsieur l’Abeè to dine in the Refactory, with the venerable old Fathers. The order whereto this convent belongs is the Bernardine Order, and a real good kind of Christianity it is which is carried out by this Order. The Prior, or Abeè, could speak German well, and conversation went on very animated, never touching religion or politics. All the five old Patres were fine real gentlemen, of high learning and very refined manners. To this convent belong many serving patres (brethren), and also several old venerable female servants. Many cattle are kept, also six dogs, but no fowls, as these do not thrive in these great heights. The convent is the whole year inhabited, and gratis shelter is given to travellers, which very often are in these regions of everlasting snow, and in cruel blizzards, in great need of shelter, where no public-house, inn or hotel is kept, and no farmers, etc., live.

We were the only visitors at a large dining table, and Monsieur l’Abeè was a very interested listener to our tales from Australia. He, who has also travelled in Italy, Egypt and the Holy Lands, retold our anecdotes to the other monks. We had a very substantial supper, and were chatting long afterwards, when another traveller, an Englishman, came in, who had walked up from the other side of the Pass, from Brig.

We were glad to turn in early, and “rose with the lark,” as the saying is; but in this landscape far above the clouds larks are not in existence. We thought to see the sun rise; but he refused to shine till about eight o’clock. At seven the big gong sounded again, this time for breakfast, and we found nice hot coffee and milk, with toast, butter and honey, waiting for us, which we heartily enjoyed. After mending a puncture in one of our bikes, and saying adieu to our kind hosts, the good old Bernardine monks, we started away, but this time all down hill, where the constantly necessary putting a strong hand on the brake and a heavy back step on the pedals is very tiresome. The landscape is—under the rising sun and sinking of rain clouds far downwards—of extreme and everchanging beauty, and as we met numerous herds of the splendid mountain cattle (small yellow ones like the Alderneys, and small dark-brown and black and white ones like those called Jerseys in Australia) on the road, which were not accustomed to seeing bike people. We had a great deal of walking to perform, which in this wonderfully light fresh air is quite easy. The cattle are driven in this advanced summer time on to the high situated grass plots (called Alms), wherefrom the snow is melted away. The young and old herdsmen and horsewomen (called senner and sennerin) were so jolly that they sang, and we also joined heartily as well as we could.

We had to pass again through many dripping tunnels; some were so long that there were 18 arches cut on the sides to give light. These tunnels or arches are partly cut through the rock on the side of the road, as partly erected by masonry as protection against ever falling avalanches of snow or pieces of rock. Some are made to save the travellers from overhead rushing mighty waterfalls. The tunnels are constantly dripping with water, and we had mud up to our ankles. It is freezing cold in these moist excavations. We were always glad to get out of them into the dry, fresh sunshine again.

As we descend the day gets warm and bright. We pass the lively small Kur-Ort Berisal, full of highly elegant English, American, etc., society people, and had a chat with three kind ladies fresh from London. They regretted very much that they did not, like us, take their bikes along. We had, as the sky became very clear, a splendid view all round over the different groups of snow altitudes and majestic Alpine highlands: the Berne Alps in the north, with Jaugfran, Mouch, etc., and the Walliser group, left now behind us in the south with Monte Rosa, Matterhorn, Kaltwasser, Glacier, etc. The Rhone valley, with the town of Brig, lay, although very deep below and in great distance, in the wonderfully thin air quite clear before us, and we reached this town in a brisk run on a good but rather steep downhill road at about two o’clock in the afternoon of 10th June.