Slithering somehow down the ice-slope we tramped on through mists until in half-an-hour we reached a moraine which we followed for some distance. Then we took shelter for some time in a cuplike hollow amongst the rocks, in hopes that a partial lifting of the snow-veil might show us something more of the face of the country around. But, far from amending, the storm only grew thicker.
We had barely advanced a hundred yards from the hospitable cranny when François, who was leading, came to a sudden halt. We were standing, so far as we could see, on the brow of a precipice. Nothing was visible below but one mass of mist, dense with snow-flakes; around us whirled the seething clouds, which had already draped the crags in wintry mantles. A more dismal scene I never wish to look upon; we realised the terrors of the Alps in a spring 'tourmente,' when an icy wind is added to the snow and mists. A momentary break revealed a shelf some fifty feet below us. By making a slight circuit a practicable course was found, and we let ourselves from ledge to ledge of a face of rocks, made slippery by the melting snow. Thus we worked slowly downwards, now stumbling over broken boulders, now clambering down ledges by the help of hands and feet. Occasionally we were brought to a standstill; but François' 'Allez seulement' was soon heard, the signal for further progress. A friendly cleft came to our aid, and when forced to leave it we were again in the region of creeping pines. Using their gnarled branches to swing ourselves down by, we finally reached a faint track, which bore to the right across a rough slope of scree, and then descended into a marshy basin. This must have been the head of Val d'Agola, recommended as an excursion from Pinzolo by Mr. Ball.
The track mounted slightly towards the left, until it joined a broad terrace-path winding at a level along the hillside.
Here with the suddenness of enchantment the scene changed. The gloom was broken by a dart of sunshine, blue shone overhead, and in a moment the mists lifted on all sides, disclosing a view of the most dazzling beauty. We were on a green hillside opposite the mouth of Val di Genova, which was flanked on one side by the Presanella, the victim of yesterday's onslaught, on the other by the Carè Alto. These were the outposts of a vast amphitheatre of ice and snow, in the bend of which stood the Adamello.[59] Below us was a group of châlets at the head of a little glen, whose stream trickled down into the Sarca; beyond lay the whole Val Rendena, almost to Tione, a rich mass of verdure, dotted by frequent villages, and set off by the soft moulded mask of new-fallen snow which hid the hills down to the highest pine-forests.