In the Heart of the Vosges | Page 5

banks of the tossing, foaming little river Vologne, as it
winds amid lawny spaces, on either side the fir-clad ridges rising like
ramparts. Here all is gentleness and golden calm, but soon we quit this
warm, sunny region, and enter the dark forest road curling upwards to
the airy pinnacle to which we are bound. More than once we have to
halt on our way. One must stop to look at the cascade made by the
Vologne, never surely fuller than now, one of the prettiest cascades in
the world, masses of snow-white foam tumbling over a long, uneven
stair of granite through the midst of a fairy glen. The sound of these
rushing waters is long in our ears as we continue to climb the splendid
mountain road that leads to the Schlucht, and nowhere else. From a
giddy terrace cut in the sides of the shelving forest ridge we now get a
prospect of the little lakes of Longuemer and Retournemer, twin gems
of superlative loveliness in the wildest environment. Deep down they

lie, the two silvery sheets of water with their verdant holms, making a
little world of peace and beauty, a toy dropped amid Titanic awfulness
and splendour. The vantage ground is on the edge of a dizzy precipice,
but the picture thus sternly framed is too exquisite to be easily
abandoned. We gaze and gaze in spite of the vast height from which we
contemplate it; and when at last we tear ourselves away from the
engaging scene, we are in a region all ruggedness and sublimity, on
either side rocky scarps and gloomy forests, with reminders by the
wayside that we are approaching an Alpine flora. Nothing can be
wilder or more solitary than the scene. For the greater part, the forests
through which our road is cut are unfrequented, except by the wild boar,
deer, and wild cat, and in winter time the fine mountain roads are
rendered impenetrable by the accumulation of snow.
This approach to the Col is by a tunnel cut in the granite, fit entrance to
one of the wildest regions in France. The road now makes a sudden
bend towards the châlet cresting the Col, and we are able in a moment
to realize its tremendous position.
From our little châlet we look upon what seems no mere cleft in a
mountain chain, but in the vast globe itself. This huge hollow, brought
about by some strange geological perturbation, is the valley of Münster,
no longer a part of French territory, but of Prussian Elsass. The road we
have come by lies behind us, but another as formidable winds under the
upper mountain ridge towards Münster, whilst the pedestrian may
follow a tiny green footpath that will lead him thither, right through the
heart of the pass. Looking deep down we discern here and there
scattered châlets amid green spaces far away. These are the homesteads
or chaumes of the herdsmen, all smiling cheerfulness now, but deserted
in winter. Except for such little dwellings, barely discernible, so distant
are they, there is no break in the solitary scene, no sign of life at all.
The châlet is a fair hostelry for unfastidious travellers, its chief
drawback being the propensity of tourists to get up at three o'clock in
the morning in order to behold the sunrise from the Hoheneck. Good
beds, good food, and from the windows, one of the finest prospects in
the world, might well tempt many to linger here in spite of the
disturbance above mentioned. For the lover of flowers this
halting-place would be delightful.
Next morning the day dawned fair, and by eight o'clock we set off with

a guide for the ascent of the Hoheneck, rather, I should say, for a long
ramble over gently undulating green and flowery ways. After climbing
a little beechwood, all was smoothness under our feet, and the long
_détour_ we had to make in order to reach the summit was a series of
the gentlest ascents, a wandering over fair meadow-land several
thousand feet above the sea-level. Here we found the large yellow
gentian, used in the fabrication of absinthe, and the bright yellow arnica,
whilst instead of the snow-white flower of the Alpine anemone, the
ground was now silvery with its feathery seed; the dark purple pansy of
the Vosges was also rare. We were a month too late for the season of
flowers, but the foxglove and the bright pink Epilobium still bloomed
in great luxuriance.
It was a walk to remember. The air was brisk and genial, the blue sky
lightly flecked with clouds, the turf fragrant with wild thyme, and
before our eyes we had a panorama every moment gaining in extent
and grandeur. As yet indeed the scene, the features of which we