A RACE FOR THE SUMMIT.

The morning of August 29th was cloudless, and with the same outfit as before, but with a scion of the house of Balmat for porter in place of the man who had filled that office on the first occasion, I started once more for the frosty topknot of Europe.  At the Grands Mulets we found two Germans with their retinue of guides and porters, six persons in all, who were also bound for the summit.  They left the Grands Mulets at midnight, and we followed them three-quarters of an hour later.  There was no moon, and Couttet carried a lantern.  On reaching the Petit Plateau we saw the lights of the other party flashing ahead of us, and at the foot of the Grands Montees we overtook them.  They had talked confidently of making the ascent in extraordinarily quick time, and some good-natured chaffing now passed between Couttet and the rival guides.  I had had no thought of a race; but I defy anybody, under the circumstances in which we were placed, not to experience a little spurring from the spirit of emulation.  Jerking the rope to attract Couttet’s attention, I told him in a low voice to pass the others at the first opportunity.

“We’ll do it on the Grand Plateau,” he whispered.

Five minutes later, however, the advance party paused to take breath.  We immediately broke out of their tracks in the snow and started to pass around them; but they instantly accepted the challenge, and a scrambling race began up the steep slope.  Sometimes we sank so deep that time was lost in extricating our legs, and again we slipped back, which was even more annoying than sticking fast.  The powdery snow flew about like dust, and was occasionally dumped into my face by the piston-like action of my knees.  The lanterns jangled and flickered wildly, and in their shifting and uncertain light, with our odd habiliments, we must have resembled a company of mad demons on a lark.

Such a race in such a place could only last a couple of minutes, and it was soon over, the American coming out ahead.  Getting upon the Grand Plateau, we did not stop to rest, but broke into a dog trot.

“Whatever happens, Couttet, we must be first at the top.”

“Very well, monsieur.”

From the Grand Plateau there are two ways to the summit:  one by the Bosses du Dromadaire, which we followed on the first attempt; the other, which we now adopted, by the “Corridor.”  This is a steep furrow, crossed by an ice precipice with a great crevasse near its foot, which leads upward from the left-hand border of the Grand Plateau to a snowy saddle between the Mont Maudit and a precipitous out-cropping of rock called the Mur de la Cote.  A faint glimmer of approaching dawn now lay on part of the rim of mountains surrounding us.

When we reached the foot of the Corridor the lights of the other party were not visible.  But here step-cutting became necessary, and this delayed us so much that presently I caught dancing gleams from the pursuing lanterns moving rapidly at the bottom of the bowl of night out of which we were climbing.  They were fast gaining upon us.