“Today I made the ascent of the highest mountain in this region, which for good reasons is called Ventosum, guided only by the desire to see the extraordinary altitude of the place” (Petrarque [1336] 1880, 6–7). Petrarch's ascent of the Mont Ventoux in 1336, or rather his account of it, established the mountain as a distinctive place for experiencing and understanding nature and self. Since then, the mountain has been sought out in increasing numbers by those pursuing spiritual elevation, bodily exertion, and/or scientific investigation. To this day, a pilgrimage church, several hotels, and an observatory are characteristically perched atop Mont Ventoux. And it is famous among cyclists as a legendarily difficult étape of the Tour de France.

The British Astronomer Royal, Nevil Maskelyne, spent four months on a Scottish mountainside in 1774, making observations of zenith stars and coordinating a detailed survey of the size and shape of the mountain Schiehallion, in order to demonstrate and quantify what was known as “the attraction of mountains.” His endeavors were celebrated in London, where it was stated that he had given proof of the universality of Newtonian gravitation and allowed for a calculation of the relative densities of the earth as a whole and the earth near its surface. This paper argues that the “Schiehallion Experiment” was as much a trial of the precision of Maskelyne's instruments and their expert management as it was a trial of Newtonian theory. By tracing the biography of the key instrument used by Maskelyne, his zenith sector, we see how much personal credibility was a stake for him in Scotland. By considering the mountainside as a place to test and reveal the precision of astronomical instruments we see a link between the Scottish endeavors and Maskelyne's ambitions for the Greenwich Observatory.

The discovery of the Alps in the second half of the eighteenth century spawned an aesthetics of sublimity that enabled overwhelmed beholders of mountains to overcome their confusion symbolically by transforming initial speechlessness into pictures and words. When travelers ceased to be content with beholding mountains, however, and began climbing them, the sublime shudder turned into something else. In the snowy heights, all attempts to master symbolically the challenging landscape was thwarted by vertigo, somnolence, and fatigue. After 1850, physiologists intervened, using the Alpine terrain as a laboratory landscape that was ideally suited to examine one of the most threatening concerns of fin de siècle industrial societies: fatigue. This essay examines how the picturesque voyage turned into an experimental physiology of fatigue, and how the “wordless subjectivity” of romantic travelers turned into the “wordless objectivity” of life scientists.

One of the first high-altitude observatories was a hotel. Established in 1823, the chalet on Mount Faulhorn became a highpoint of nineteenth-century science. In this paper, I take this mountain as my entry point into the examination of the special attraction that mountains exerted on scientists. I argue that Mount Faulhorn stood for three different conceptions of the usefulness of the mountain in science: (1) in observation networks, stations were usually chosen for pragmatic rather than scientific reasons, but mountains represented singular spots in such networks, which deserved special attention; (2) the mountain also was a microcosm where altitude differences were thought to capture essential features of latitude differences; (3) the mountain was sometimes no more than a macro-tool for the pursuit of science, just a middle ground between the heaven and the earth.

Cultural history has investigated the appropriation of mountain wilderness in considerable detail, without however systematically including the contributions of science and technology in the process. This paper suggests a way of filling this gap. It argues that cartography was instrumental in giving mountains their modern shape. In the course of the nineteenth century, mountains arguably gained a new factual existence at the intersection of new aesthetic, scientific, economic, and political concerns with landscape. Taking the case of Swiss cartography, the paper shows how mapmakers strived to represent this matter of concern in ever more perfect ways, culminating in the three-dimensional rendering of mountains as plaster reliefs. The paper concludes with the observation that this transformation is to a certain extent irreversible. The mountains made in Switzerland in the nineteenth century are probably here to stay.

Aimé Civiale's attempt at a complete photographic coverage of the High Alps seems to be a peculiar project at first sight. Carried out between 1859 and 1868, this was the earliest systematic attempt to introduce photography as a medium for studying the earth sciences. But as precise and determined as Civiale's approach appears, it was still quite unclear at the time how exactly photography could be useful in geology. This paper asks where the great confidence in the new medium in regard to mountain representations came from. The answer is not an easy one, as sources on Civiale's project are scarce. To make things even more difficult, the confidence in photography in the earth sciences during that time seems to have been based more on hope than on actual results. It is difficult to extract hope from written sources, let alone from images. I argue that this confidence was not so much based on photography's classic attributes of exactness or objectivity, but on its promise to produce unexpected results. Therefore this argument will inevitably have speculative elements. Thus, this paper can also be understood as an attempt to deal with a specific historiographical problem that regularly occurs when writing about images.

The article examines the organizational patterns of nineteenth-century Swiss Alpine geology. It argues that early and middle nineteenth-century Swiss geognosy was shaped in genealogical terms and that the patterns of genealogical reasoning and practice worked as a vehicle of transmission toward the generalization of locally gained empirical knowledge. The case study is provided by the Zurich geologist Albert Heim, who, in the early 1870s, blended intellectual and patrilineal genealogies that connected two generations of fathers and sons: Hans Conrad and Arnold Escher, Albert and Arnold Heim. Two things were transmitted from one generation to the next, a domain of geognostic research, the Glarus Alps, and a research interest in an explanation of the massive geognostic anomalies observed there. The legacy found its embodiment in the Escher family archive. The genealogical logic became visible and then experienced a crisis when, later in the century, the focus of Alpine geology shifted from geognosy to tectonics. Tectonic research loosened the traditional link between the intimate knowledge of a territory and the generalization from empirical data.

What, if anything, uniquely defines the mountain as a “laboratory of nature”? Here, this question is considered from the perspective of meteorology. Mountains played a central role in the early history of modern meteorology. The first permanent year-round high-altitude weather stations were built in the 1880s but largely fell out of use by the turn of the twentieth century, not to be revived until the 1930s. This paper considers the unlikely survival of the Sonnblick observatory (3105 m.) in the Austrian Alps. By examining the arguments of the Sonnblick's critics and defenders, it reveals a seemingly paradoxical definition of the mountain as a space that simultaneously maximized isolation and communication. Drawing on the social and environmental history of the Alps, it shows how the Sonnblick came to appear as the perfect embodiment of this paradox.

The administration of mountain expeditions from the ground created special managerial problems. The Harvard College Observatory's Boyden Expeditions of 1887–1890 sent men and materiel to three sites: Pike's Peak, Colorado; Mount Wilson, California; and Chosica, Peru. Their goal was to test sites in order to find a suitable site for a permanent Boyden station to conduct astrophysical work in service of Harvard's preexisting projects. The logistical difficulties of living on the mountainside combined with the organizational difficulties of administrating a station at a distance. The men who lived on the mountain were professionally vulnerable, and often cut off from their home observatory both by the weather conditions at their own altitude and local politics on the ground below them. Only when an unbroken line of communication could be established between the mountain station and the Harvard Observatory could the astronomers on both ends work together to create a successful expedition.

From 1893 to 1909 when it definitely sunk into the glacier, the Mont-Blanc Observatory (MBO) struggled to find its scientific purpose. In this article, we use recent literature on the social characterization of place to analyze this struggle. Our first goal is to investigate where the observatory may fit in the laboratory-field dyad. We investigate various kinds of conceptual “borderlands” between these places and look at the networking activities between particular knowledge production sites. We argue that part observatory, part laboratory, and part field station, the place of the MBO was “heterotopic” space in Foucault's sense. We then examine the social underpinnings that led to the foundation of this observatory in the context of French Third Republic at the turn of the century. Following some of the ways the MBO was connected to other scientific sites and surveying some of its visitors' scientific practices, we finally hint at the fact that some of these practices played a part in the emergence of a regime of science production that endured into the twentieth century (astrophysical aeronautical practices, spatial stations, polar exploration, etc.)