An Ascent of Mont Ventoux 



tinuous carpet on the lower slopes; in a few 

 hours, they will be treading the dark hassocks 

 of the opposite-leaved saxifrage, the first 

 plant to greet the botanist who lands on the 

 coast of Spitzbergen in July. Below, in the 

 hedges, you have picked the scarlet flowers 

 of the pomegranate, a lover of African skies; 

 above you will pick a shaggy little poppy, 

 which shelters its stalks under a coverlet of 

 tiny fragments of stone and unfolds its 

 spreading yellow corolla as readily in the icy 

 solitudes of Greenland and the North Cape 

 as on the upper slopes of the Ventoux. 



These contrasts have always something 

 fresh and stimulating about them; and, after 

 twenty-five ascents, they still retain their in- 

 terest for me. I made my twenty-third in 

 August 1865. There were eight of us: 

 three whose chief object was to botanize and 

 five attracted by a mountain expedition and 

 the panorama of the heights. Not one of 

 our five companions who were not interested 

 in the study of plants has since expressed a 

 desire to accompany me a second time. The 

 fact is that the climb is a hard and tiring one; 

 and the sight of a sunrise does not make up 

 for the fatigue endured. 



One might best compare the Ventoux with 

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