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Title: Mountain Craft
Author: Geoffrey Winthrop Young, - To be updated
Language: English
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MOUNTAIN CRAFT
[Illustration: THE ALPS [SYDNEY SPENCER]
MOUNTAIN CRAFT
EDITED BY
GEOFFREY WINTHROP YOUNG
WITH 28 ILLUSTRATIONS
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1920
TO
THE MEMORY OF
GALLANT COMRADES IN THE MOUNTAINS
FRANK BERGNE
GUY BUTLIN
C. K. CARFRAE
FOSTER CUNLIFFE
G. T. EWEN
E. N. FINLAY
R. W. FLETCHER
W. G. FLETCHER
H. O. GIBSON
EDMUND HARTLEY
S. W. HERFORD
TERENCE HICKMAN
TREVENEN HUXLEY
H. O. JONES
MURIEL GWENDOLEN JONES
E. L. JULIAN
HORAS KENNEDY
F. M. LEVI
JOSEF LOCHMATTER
FRANK LUCAS
SIDNEY McDOUGALL
NIGEL MADAN
KENNETH MOORSOM
L. E. NOON
L. OPPENHEIMER
HUGH POPE
KENNETH POWELL
PAUL PREUSS
J. E. RAPHAEL
C. J. REID
C. DONALD ROBERTSON
JACK SANDERS
H. JONES-SABIN
LAURENCE SLINGSBY
MORRIS SLINGSBY
FRANK SPARROW
WILBERT SPENCER
THOBY STEPHEN
LOUIS THEYTAZ
H. W. THOMAS
J. M. ARCHER THOMSON
ERIK TODD
KENNETH TRAYES
GEORGINA MARY TUKE
HARRY WALKER
CHARLES WERNER
C. A. WORDSWORTH
C. S. WORTHINGTON
LAWRENCE C. H. YOUNG
PREFACE
This book is for mountaineers; and a mountaineer is not only one who
climbs mountains, but anyone who likes to walk, read, or think about
them.
I do not myself attach much value to mountaineering handbooks: an
open-air pursuit can only be learned by practical attempt and from good
example. I used to read them for the fun of surprising some hero of
my youth as he strained his imagination to squeeze a grave principle
out of a random holiday memory, and for the sympathetic pleasure of
reconstructing for myself the real day of irresponsible adventure the
recollection of which was bringing a thrill of forbidden joy to his
mind before he composed his face to inflict it upon me in the form of
an edifying three-line precept. I can read them now no more than I can
read the ‘climbing accident’ type of fiction popular with magazines,
which used to provide a less sensitive digestion with some acrid food
for mirth. On the other hand I would still set myself to learn Chinese,
if that would enable me the better to understand one more record of
genuine mountain adventure or discover some unfamiliar attitude of the
human mind towards the mountains and their symbolism.
I do not expect other mountaineers to read, or to refrain from reading,
these opinions in a different spirit. Mountaineering, like other arts,
has suffered much, for all its youth, from the limitations imposed by
hasty tradition and by doctrine prematurely crystallized; and, as in
other crafts, if ever a period comes that shall find the traditional
rules too rigid to admit of a wholesome influx of new and original
conception, mountaineering will cease to deserve the name of an art or
craft, and become at best an ‘organized game.’
But the opinions as they stand may yet serve a limited purpose. Some
men are born climbers. They will learn little about climbing from
precepts. At the same time many of the finest climbers fall short of
our ideal of safe method because they have never concerned themselves
with the possible existence of any fundamental principles governing
the various unrelated movements in which they delight; and so it comes
that, though they may do nine things, by instinct, right, they do
the tenth, by habit, wrong. For these climbers I am not without hope
that the statement, made I believe here for the first time, of the
principles which underlie all correct climbing motions, and which have
been steadily emerging during fifty years of practical mountaineering,
may not be entirely useless. If they find that nine spokes of their
practice lead back to my hub, and the tenth does not, they may learn
how to correct the tenth. If, on the contrary, they find that only one
leads back to it, and nine radiate elsewhither, well then, no doubt
they will decide that I am wrong.
But whatever we may be as climbers, no one of us is a born mountaineer.
Mountaineering, in its wider aspects, can only be learned by
experiment; and even the natural climber may be able to get some
guidance from the collective expression of other men’s mountaineering
experience.
Many efficient climbers, again, never bother themselves at all with
mountaineering as a craft. They simply take its pleasures, and leave
its responsibilities to guides or to chance. Mountaineering will
profit, if they can be led to discover something of all that they are
missing.
More of us are, in a sense, specialists; interested in one department
alone, and neglectful or ignorant of the rest. For such of us there
is some benefit in surveying, if only superficially, the immense field
that a man must set himself to traverse who aspires to lead a party
safely.
Yet another group, with whom I have a particular sympathy, who belong
to the class of ‘made’ climbers rather than to that of ‘natural’
climbers, may often find that they have stuck fast at a certain point
in their technique and are abandoning the prospect of improving
further. Experience encourages the hope that they may be able, after
learning something of the essential principles of method, to recast or
amplify their own methods, so as to make further progress on sounder
lines. Or they will discover that a man may be useful to a party as
an expert in one of the less common but no less important branches of
mountaineering craft. Their inferiority in a single department--for
instance, rock climbing, in which excellence is often overrated as
compared with other equally valuable qualifications--will then be seen
in better proportion.
And those who are not climbers, but who are interested in or perhaps
even resentful of the fascination which mountains exercise, may
discover, if they have the patience, that mountaineering as it is
now practised is no simple outlet for an athletic impulse, and no
selfish indulgence in a game which has the demerit of risking lives
often of notable value; but that it is a genuine craft, as well as
a genuine enthusiasm; an education alike in self-development and in
self-subordination; a discipline of character, of infinite variety in
its demands and in its reactions upon strength, endurance, nerve, will,
and temper, upon powers of organization as upon powers of dealing with
men; a test of personality for which no preparation may be considered
excessive, and a science for whose mastery the study of all our active
years is barely sufficient. Of its rewards, in health, self-knowledge,
æsthetic pleasure, and incomparable adventure, it is not the place to
speak in a book of practical counsel.
For the opinions on technical points, and their elaboration in
theory, I must be held alone responsible. Where the multiplication
or repetition of detail may appear tedious, it has been inserted for
the better illustration of some underlying principle, or to provide
the more material for the future settlement of some point still under
discussion among mountaineers. Those who disagree with the methods
recommended may still make use of the advice, much as I should do in
their case, treating it as yet another statement of an individual
point of view, such as may at least act as a serviceable standard of
comparison for their own practice.
Our object will be gained if the suggestions are found to provide
a basis for more general discussion and thought, an available
condensation of a good deal of theory floating and partially formulated
among modern mountaineers of experience, and something of a book of
reference and reminder for those who may not have known, or cared to
admit, that there was so much about which they ought to form an opinion.
* * * * *
In the innovation of giving a prominent position to considerations of
personal management and leadership there has been a special purpose.
For reasons not difficult to assign, most manuals dealing with the
practice of active pursuits have been in the habit of ignoring the
dominant influence that is exerted upon all combined action by the
psychological factor, and the extent to which changing conditions
of mood and humour, and the more stable divergences between the
individual temperaments of men acting in association, must contribute
to success or failure. The accentuation of the human problem, as it
presents itself in mountaineering, has therefore been intentional. In
mountains, where personality counts before everything, men are forced
back upon their elemental selves; they become very different beings
from their drawing-room semblances, and unless they allow for this
in the adjustment of their relations on the hills, they can achieve
only the mediocrity of performance, the barrenness in results, or the
complete break-down which are the common fate of all ill-constituted
parties, for exploration, for mountaineering, for warfare, or for any
other active adventure that depends for its success upon effective
combination.
* * * * *
Mountaineering, in its modern development, involves a large number of
matters for arrangement which cannot be classed under the headings of
technique or of specific equipment for climbing; such as methods of
travel, care of health, choice of districts in less-known countries,
special routes of access, and details of topography and equipment
peculiar to any particular district chosen. Most of these vary in
detail in the different ranges.
It has, therefore, seemed most convenient to deal with the special
conditions which characterize a number of the regions now most
frequently visited in separate chapters, each chapter devoted to one of
the great ranges. These chapters have been undertaken by experts who
will be recognized as speaking with authority by mountaineers of every
school and nationality. Their intention is to give just the amount of
practical information which we all need, and which we find it so hard
to procure, when we are in process of making up our minds what region
we will visit; and to add sufficient indication of where we may find
all the more particular information which we shall require when once we
have decided upon our region.
Captain Farrar’s suggestions on Mountain Equipment, Mr. Arnold Lunn’s
on Equipment and Method for Mountaineering on Ski, Dr. Wollaston’s on
the Care of Health, and Mr. Sydney Spencer’s on Photography, apply,
generally speaking, to all mountaineering regions and to all organized
expeditions. To Captain Farrar’s advice the suggestions on Outfit made
in the regional chapters are complementary, dictated by the special
conditions of the district or of the season.
Besides that which is owing to innumerable contributors to discussions
which have extended over many years and exercised a variety of
languages, I have to acknowledge a very special debt of gratitude
to Mr. H. V. Reade, C.B., for his helpful suggestions and careful
revision; to Captain Farrar, D.S.O., for constant encouragement and
a characteristically kindly criticism; to Mr. Oscar Eckenstein,
for having most generously placed at my disposal the notes of much
accumulated experience and illuminating inductive theory, and for
having provided me with information and reminder in several of the
less-known branches of mountaineering; and to Mr. Sydney Spencer, Mr.
Charles Mead, and Professor Norman Collie, F.R.S., for a group of
illustrations, which may be found to lighten the practical detail of
the text and serve as reminders of the beauty, the mystery, and the
strangeness of the mountain world into which--safely and superficially
or masterfully and understandingly, according to the degree of our
preparation--the study of mountain craft purposes to enable us to
penetrate.
_June 1914_
* * * * *
Six years ago these papers were sent in for publication. For my own
share in them I made the decision, then, with some reluctance. In
mountaineering there is always something new to learn, and they might
all too soon need correction or amplification.
But the chance of battle which delayed their appearance has, in the
event, confirmed the resolution. My colleagues have brought their
regional contributions up to date: I have added the substance of the
notes jotted down during my last climbs in July 1914; and I can now
let the opinions go with much less hesitation, since from the annual
demonstration of their deficiencies by their most obstinate critic they
must, in future, be exempt.
G. W. Y.
_June 1920_
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. MANAGEMENT AND LEADERSHIP 1
By the EDITOR
Management in anticipation--physical
well-being--food--thirst--smoking--ailments--bathing--young
folk--preventable humours--boredom--over-excitement. Leadership in
action--the collective confidence--keeping touch--temper--abnormal
moods--reaction--disappointment--over-confidence--hysteria--vertigo
--the effect of height. Social composition of the party. Walking
manners--some notes on hill-walking. Choice of district. Incidental
duties--hut usages--consideration--some night notes--a last task.
Weather--clouds--wind--signs in general--habit of the
season--persistence. Training--the framework--the organs--will and
nerves--nerve--height and reach. Pace--adjustment of
time--benightment--weight handicaps--continuous
going--combination-halts--the maximum rhythm.
II. EQUIPMENT FOR THE ALPS 80
By J. P. FARRAR
Equipment--boots--clothes--some alternatives (G. W. Y.)--costume
for women (Miss BRONWEN JONES). Outfit--sack--axe--rope--knots
--necessaries--bivouac--tent, etc.
III. GUIDED AND GUIDELESS MOUNTAINEERING 101
By the EDITOR
Old-time errors--the guide of the chronicles--the guide as he is--the
amateur as he may be--the composite mountaineer--the guide as
mountaineer--the amateur as mountaineer--the question for the
leader--the social consideration--the technical
compensation--examples--the expert--the tourist--the beginner--the
moderate mountaineer--summary--a supreme example. Management of
guides--guide nature--the right footing--before the ascent--on the
mountain--fine shades--the terms of the association--the rare
crisis--the reward.
IV. ROCK CLIMBING 138
By the EDITOR
A theory of the development--balance climbing--the individual
standard--solitary climbing--initial practice--the use of the
foot--hard soles--soft soles--foothold--anticipation--the ankle--the
knee--the hand--cling holds--push and press holds--in cracks--on
slabs--chimney climbing--rib riding--wet rock--glazed rock--summary.
Unsound rock--semi-detached--detached--moraine and scree. Unusual
rock--in quarries--along sea cliffs--on freaks. Climbing
down--positions--facing outward--facing sideways--facing inward--down
chimneys or cracks--the rope in continuous descent--the doubled
rope--brakes--springing the rope--the long rope. Pegs and aids.
The axe on rocks--carriage--the extra hand--the Manx leg.
V. CLIMBING IN COMBINATION 209
By the EDITOR
Collective rhythm--imitation--the rope while moving together--to
the man in front--from the man behind--while moving
singly--following and leading--stances--with belays--without
belays--holding the rope--the order on the rope--on ascents
and descents--on traverses--the order of merit--the order with
beginners--the order of moving--the duties of first man--of
second man--backing up metaphysically--backing up physically--of
third man--more about the rope during climbing--with
stones--during halts--coiling--suitable lengths--funicula.
VI. CORRECTIVE METHOD 256
By the EDITOR
Human fallibility--warning--easing--checking on traverses--the
case of the end man--the measure of courage--the second
man’s action--after a fall--accidents. Mountain perversity--falling
stones--snow slides--ice fragments--evil weather.
VII. ICE AND SNOW CRAFT 279
By the EDITOR
The age for glaciers. Ice craft--the nature of ice--ice-claws--cutting
steps--using steps--the rope on ice--glacier work--snow-covered
glacier. Snow craft--some characteristics and counter-moves--snow
travail--snow slopes--the rope and axe--bergschrund and
bridge--cornices--snow in couloirs--snow at home--confusing
weather--the sense of direction. Glissading--on
ice--positions--arrests. On snow--positions--steering--jumping--brakes
--sitting--stone-tests--the rope--some variations--alternate
glissading--face inward--plunging-on claws. On other
grounds--on scree--in winter gullies--on grass and heather.
VIII. RECONNOITRING 370
By the EDITOR
Things seen--snow surface condition--angle on snow--snow cornices--wind
and snow signs--ice--couloirs--rock--faces--ridges--slabs--rocks
in Britain. The Half-seen. The Unseen.
IX. MOUNTAINEERING ON SKI 397
By ARNOLD LUNN
Technique--equipment. The alpine calendar. Snow craft. Winter
snow--powder snow--the effect of wind on powder snow--the effect of
sun on powder snow--summary of winter snow. Spring snow. The effect of
Föhn and thaw--Föhn in winter--Föhn in spring. Summer snow. Snow
avalanches. Classification of avalanches. Summer snow avalanches.
Tactics on avalanche ground. The High Alps in winter--weather
conditions--the approaches to the High Alps--snow conditions in the
High Alps--rock ridges and ice slopes. Glaciers in winter--ski-ing on
a rope. The High Alps in spring--March--April--May--June. The spring
time-table. Summer and autumn ski-ing. Summer ski.
X. MOUNTAIN PHOTOGRAPHY 471
By SYDNEY SPENCER
Camera and apparatus--the choice of subject--colour
photography--stereoscopic photography.
XI. MOUNTAINEERING IN TROPICAL COUNTRIES 479
By A. F. R. WOLLASTON
Health and remedies. Equipment--food--canteen--clothing--furniture
--tents. Management--loads and packing--trade goods, natives,
etc.--carriers--camps, and things in general.
XII. MOUNTAINEERING IN THE ARCTIC (SPITSBERGEN) 497
By Sir W. MARTIN CONWAY
Modes of access--plans of campaign--from the coast--into the
interior--exceptional phenomena--summary, cost, etc.
XIII. THE CAUCASUS 506
By HAROLD RAEBURN
Topography--literature--routes of access--modes of
travel--centres--equipment--organization--maps--expense.
XIV. THE MOUNTAINS OF CORSICA 517
By GEORGE FINCH
Season--equipment--centres, access, and topography--nature
of the climbing.
XV. THE HIMALAYA 522
By T. G. LONGSTAFF
General considerations--configuration--conditions--conduct of the
campaign--season. Chief districts--Eastern Himalaya--Sikkim--Nepal
--Kumaon and Garhwal--Tehri Garhwal--Simla Hill States--Kashmir and
Karakoram--Hindu Khush, etc. Personal matters--expense--outfit--food
--the high camp outfit--clothing--instruments.
XVI. THE MOUNTAINS OF NORWAY 536
By W. CECIL SLINGSBY
Guide-books and literature--season--routes of access, travel,
etc.--expense--equipment--guides--topography--local conditions.
XVII. THE SOUTHERN ALPS OF NEW ZEALAND 548
By MALCOLM ROSS
Routes of access--local conditions, guides, etc.--topography--flora
and fauna--glaciers.
XVIII. THE PYRENEES 556
By CLAUDE ELLIOTT
Topography--centres--guides--maps--huts and
inns--equipment--expense--literature.
XIX. THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS 572
By A. L. MUMM
Topography--the C.P.R. district--the Selkirks--guides and
equipment--the Northern Selkirks--the Purcell range--some minor
ranges--the main chain from Laggan to Jasper--the groups east of the
main chain--the main chain north of the G.T.P.--modes of
travel--outfit--season--the annual camps--access, cost, etc.
INDEX 593
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE ALPS _Frontispiece_
From a Photograph by SYDNEY SPENCER
FACING PAGES
KNOTS FOR USE IN ALPINE ROPES 92, 94, 96, 98
From Photographs by O. ECKENSTEIN
ROCK AND ICE 280
From a Photograph by SYDNEY SPENCER
MOUNTAIN ARCHITECTURE 370
From a Photograph by C. F. MEADE
SNOW WAYS 398
From a Photograph by JEAN GABERELL, Thalwil
THE HIMALAYA 522
From a Photograph by C. F. MEADE
NORWEGIAN PEAKS 536
From a Photograph by NORMAN COLLIE
IN THE TEXT
PAGE
TRICOUNI BOOT-NAILS 83
ICE-AXE 92
DIAGRAMS SHOWING SLOPES 426
SKETCH-MAP OF PART OF CIS AND TRANS-CAUCASIA 507
SKETCH-MAP OF THE PYRENEES 558
MOUNTAIN CRAFT
CHAPTER I
MANAGEMENT AND LEADERSHIP
A party consists usually of from two to four climbers, exclusive of
guides. A larger number inevitably divides into two or more units
for mountaineering purposes. The management devolves upon the most
experienced mountaineer. His selection as leader, in this sense, is
more often than not tacit and unexpressed, especially among British
climbers.
Over-management is fatal to the effective co-operation of a party;
and a formal selection of a leader[1], or a precise insistence upon
the performance of particular duties by individual members, may only
disturb the pleasant relationship of friends on a climbing holiday.
If a man is not felt to be qualified as leader by personality and
experience, no vote will make him so.
Large or democratic parties, of equal inexperience, can carry out very
delightful sub-alpine wanderings without leadership. If they attempt
serious mountaineering, it is usually at the cost to their friends of
sleepless nights and of expensive search parties.
Among men of equal experience, equally able to grasp a situation and
to co-operate without words of command, the duties of leadership
are slight and their operation never obtrusive. Experience teaches
them to accept, as a matter of convenience, the management of their
daily routine by some one of their number, and to acknowledge, as
a matter of security and of economy of time, the leadership of the
most expert in the incidents of the climbing day. In a pursuit so
exacting as mountaineering, charged with the unexpected and dependent
upon continuous harmony of action for its ordinary progress, some such
voluntary subordination is essential. The leader may be only the focus
of the collective opinion of an experienced party: like the conductor
of an orchestra he may not be equally competent to play all the
instruments he directs; but if there is no one to whom to look for the
word, in mountaineering as in music the time is lost and the harmony
vanishes for easy and for difficult passages alike.
In parties of unequal experience the leader’s responsibility
is greater, and his direction has to be the more formally and
unquestioningly accepted. A child has to learn to take his elders’
‘yes’ or ‘no’ as final in the crisis of some new experience: there
is often no time to give him reasons, and his experience would
be insufficient to enable him to convert them into the immediate
action required. But it is more difficult for a man, possibly with a
brilliant record behind him upon British rocks, to accept a decision
unquestioningly, especially if he has been accustomed in moments of
crisis to depend upon his own skill or judgment. To delay, however,
or to argue is as fatal as to disobey. The leader may be wrong, but
his error will probably be on the side of over-caution, since he
will be consciously directing for a party that has not yet learned
to work together. To prove him wrong, by the successful issue of our
disobedience or disagreement, is as destructive of the future harmony
and activity of the party as to prove him right, by its ill-success,
may be to the actual safety of the party at the moment. A good-tempered
party of beginners, with a mild leader, may continue to climb together
on these undefined terms, but there will be hesitation and consultation
where there should be decisive action; it will never grow fit for any
serious expedition. A leader of greater experience or shorter temper
will clear matters up at once. He will know that though his judgment
may not be infallible, the fact that it may be questioned at a moment
of crisis must be dangerous. A mountaineering party has to establish
a habit of friendly discipline. Most young men when first taken out
to the Alps have had experience of this discipline in other pursuits;
but in moments of excitement the national spirit of independence, or
the instinct of self-preservation, is apt to assert itself, and these
moments, if they occur before the party is welded into a climbing
unit, may be fatal to its constitution. A wise leader will insist on a
reasonable discipline or suggest a dissolution as the lesser evil.
If it is the duty of the young mountaineer to learn to accept a
constitutional authority for the good of his party, it is that of the
leader or manager to see that it is used only for the good of the
party, and to make it personally the less obvious, the more it grows to
be accepted in understanding.
An early alpine tradition, historically traceable to the isolated and
responsible position of the first guideless parties, who had to face
the dangers of the mountains, still unfamiliar, and the army of their
hostile critics as if going forth against an enemy, made the leader
an absolute autocrat, the commander of a forlorn hope. Many leaders
of this type were frankly bullies, ordering their friends for their
good like old-time schoolmasters. Occasionally, when one man was
marked out by experience or personality, the results were effective in
climbing. But the tyranny would not now be considered tolerable, and
under modern conditions it would constitute bad leadership. Knowledge
of the craft is far more widely spread, and the climbing attempted is
of a standard that demands an equal share of responsible work from us
all. It is now recognized that the strength of a party lies in its
collective capacity, not in its leader as one outstanding exponent. But
the tradition still survives, and some oppressed parties will still
awaken in the casual climber a wonder at the large amount of hectoring
they will endure from their leader compared with the little which his
methods enable them to achieve.
MANAGEMENT IN ANTICIPATION
Three things only are necessary for the salvation of a mountaineering
holiday: good health, good fellowship and good climbing. These three
conditions are mutually contributory and interdependent; and the last,
the declared object of the association, is only attainable when the
other two are secure.
It goes without saying that a good leader must be able to design and
direct an ascent so far as the actual climbing is concerned; but he
will discount beforehand half his chances of successful performance
unless he has learned how to bring his party on to the glacier, at four
in the morning, fit in health and on good terms with themselves and one
another.
[Sidenote: Physical Well-being.]
Fortunately, in dealing with healthy men, special attention to the
first condition of health is confined to the first two or three days of
a tour. After these are safely passed, air and exercise and increasing
general fitness take over medical charge and deal summarily with the
beginnings of any lesser or local ailments.
There is no need to bother overmuch about the party before the tour
commences. Of course men, for their own sakes, will come as fit as
they can. Attention to the diet and, if it can be got, some regular
exercise in the open air--walking, running or tennis--may be suggested;
but I have never seen any particular benefit accrue from exercising
particular sets of climbing muscles. I return to this elsewhere; and I
would only make one exception here, for a leader’s attention. Some men,
especially as they get on in years, are liable to cramp in the trunk
muscles from the fatigue of general climbing, and in the hands after
severe rock-work. In these cases it is well worth while recommending
anticipatory ‘local’ exercises for the hand and forearm and for the
walls of the trunk, to keep the muscles supple and ‘long.’ Dancing,
skipping, fencing and wood-chopping are all worth mentioning to men who
cannot get into the open air. And, above all, the morning cold bath!
The first few days of the tour, however, are vital. Mountaineers are
sound men, and have usually only two weak points, the feet and the
stomach. New boots or overwork attack the first; unaccustomed food,
changing atmospheric pressures, and revolutionary hours of sleep, food
and exercise upset the second. For the feet precautionary measures
are the safest. In ordinary life we accept their constant service
unconsciously, and it requires an effort to give our own and, even
more, other men’s feet the additional attention they require on the
first few days of any tour. To see that the boots fit, on the second
day even more than on the first; to make sure that one or even two
extra pairs of socks are put on if any boot has become stretched after
wetting; to discover if there is any beginning of rub or blister, and
to check it by boracic powder or other ointment in the sock at once,
even if this means a halt in the middle of a climb; to suggest bracing
with cold water in the evenings or whenever opportunity offers; in the
case of anyone whose skin is tender, to double these precautions: these
are some of the first duties of management.
Internal chill is a constant risk during the first few days of exposure
to unaccustomed changes of temperature. Damp clothes next to the skin
are principally to be avoided. A spare vest, flannel shirt or ‘woolly’
should always be taken in the sack, for a change at hut or bivouac,
even if the other clothes have to be worn wet or slept in. In a hut
it is preferable to take the wet clothes off and to sleep rolled in a
blanket, even though that may be also damp. During the day it is unwise
to sit on damp or cold rocks. A coil of rope may be used as a seat, or
a useful habit is to carry a small square of waterproof, in which the
spare shirt can also be wrapped. When nearing the ‘gîte’ or hut, it is
well to reverse the usual practice, and go slow for the last twenty
minutes, so that the perspiration may dry gradually from the body while
in motion, and not after it is at rest. By the fire in the evening,
during the snooze on the summit, and especially in an enforced bivouac,
the stomach is the vital point to protect. In case we get benighted,
any spare clothes, or even paper, should be wrapped round the stomach.
The coat should be taken off and fastened round the shoulders outside
the arms, so as to concentrate all the body’s warmth within it. The
feet can be put in a rucksack. If possible, the boots should be kept
on, to avoid their freezing hard. If they have to come off so as to
save the feet from frost-bite, they should be sat upon, to keep them
soft. Wind is another enemy to guard against while resting during the
day or sleeping out, and a light wind-cloak is a sound protection.[2]
On returning to the hotel, a hot bath, if procurable, or a hot
sponge-down, should always be taken; it not only clears the pores and
supples the muscles, but it restores the normal circulation and removes
congestion, due to great exertion and changing temperatures, which
often produces a general feeling of discomfort, especially in the head.
[Sidenote: Food.]
Care in the choice of food, discouragement of the inclination to starve
during the day and to overeat in the evenings, insistence upon a
regimen to get the subconscious stomach working by its new time-table,
and, in case of failure, the employment of the simple domestic remedies
at once and in time, these are all indispensable during the first
days. But their observance cannot be left without prompting to the
individual discretion. Especially is this the case in looking after
young mountaineers, who are unacquainted with the treacherous dealings
of odd meals and broken sleep at high altitudes.
In the matter of the choice of food the leader has to overcome the
repugnance natural after a satisfying evening meal to attend himself to
all the rather messy details of provisioning for the next day.
No guide or hotel-keeper can be trusted to do this. During the first
days of hard exercise the average man will eat but little solid food,
and turns from meats and tins such as hotels love to load into the
sacks. He has to be tempted with sweet-stuffs, jams (the small tins
are irresistible), chocolate, and meat-essences and eggs for support.
The disposition to eat little during the effort of the first days, and
to eat largely in the reaction of the evenings, has to be countermined
by the offer, at not infrequent intervals, of pleasant luxuries that
go down easily. It is old-fashioned and entirely wrong, especially
with young people, to give them only what used to be termed wholesome,
nourishing food. In healthy open-air conditions the body knows what it
wants, and the palate interprets the desire. Food that is not palatable
or eaten with pleasure is of little benefit, and cloying sugar
compounds, the best muscle fuel, become again surprisingly attractive.
After the new regimen has become a habit the air and the exercise will
make almost any food welcome, and at any time; but even then the secret
of vigour is still plenty of sweet-stuffs. One of the small matters
that contribute almost absurdly to maintaining the good spirits even
of a trained party is the production at suitable or surprising moments
of small indulgences--chocolate, raisins, preserved fruit, honey or
sweet-meats. They weigh little, but the body’s appreciation of and
response to differences of food is exceedingly fine when it is making
great exertions, and their immediate effect upon muscle and spirit is
as rapid as that of stimulants in ordinary life. A whole summer tour
in a bad season of soft snow has been lightened by a large bag of
acid drops reappearing each day at weary moments with a new delight.
In the plains I am myself a small and careless eater. But among my
mountaineering memories days of fierce sun-glare on interminable white
passes still remain rosy with the recollection of ‘a raspberry-jam
snow’ or golden with the cool glow of a tin of yellow plums scooped up
with ice-splinters.
Good management will consider no such detail of provisioning too small
for attention. And it is not sufficient to order: each bag or packet
should be opened, to see that the order has been fully executed, before
the sacks are packed.
[Sidenote: Thirst.]
Thirst is another difficulty at the beginning of a tour. To a
large extent such thirst is merely feverish; it is impossible of
satisfaction, and to indulge it swamps and upsets the human machinery.
Some resolute men, to avoid the delicious temptation, train themselves
not to drink at all during the day; and then make it up in the evening.
But a certain amount of liquid is as essential, in action, as a certain
amount of food, and the moderate habit has to be acquired by practice.
The exact amount necessary, as distinguished from acceptable, varies
with the individual. The merely feverish thirst of the first day can be
dodged by letting water run through the mouth, swallowing, as a special
indulgence, only a mouthful or so. Sucking a prune-stone, or even a
pebble, keeps the saliva flowing and is a consolation on hot snowy
tramps. To the same end, of prolonging the pleasant assuaging process,
devices such as sipping water slowly from a pearl-shell or cup cool to
the eye, chewing orange peel, sucking a lemon or tea or wine slowly
through lumps of sugar, or crushing a handful of snow till it becomes
an ice-pear in the hand and then sucking the end of it, are all worth
remembering.
Meat-fed men do not require strong stimulants. A little wine in the
water, chilled by snow, is often pleasanter to the taste than water
alone. Mountain water has often a flat flavour of cold stones, or
recalls the flask or pouch in which it has been carried. Wine removes
this suspicion. Spirits should be kept for a last resource, for cases
of injury or collapse, and then used only if the head is not affected.
Their stimulus, under the conditions of climbing, is too evanescent
to be of any service; the reaction is almost immediate, and the
resulting condition worse than before. Cold tea and cold coffee are
popular beverages: or the juice of many lemons can be carried in a
small aluminium flask, to mix with the chosen blend. Sugar lessens the
quenching power. If sugar cannot be dispensed with, a lemon squeezed
into the tea restores its effect upon the saliva-ducts of the mouth.
Snow, crushed ice or water can be added as the supply diminishes.
The danger of drinking snow water is, in my view, a superstition
disproved by experience. Its supposed ill effects are usually to be
traced to the amount of cold liquid actually consumed rather than to
its character.
Some men prefer to take their liquid in the form of snow sprinkled over
any food they eat. This is an excellent way of making food of all kinds
palatable in the early stages of a tour, while the disinclination for
solid food lasts.
A device that never fails to entice even the youngest mountaineer past
the clogged-up ‘can’t eat’ phase of early training, is to make a small
hollow in the snow, empty a jam-tin into it, and mix the jam with loose
snow into a fruit ice. In colour, flavour and immediate effect it is
one of the few undisputed additions that the ingenuity of man has been
able to make to the charms of the mountains.
A good manager should never fail to remark a man who is constantly
stopping to drink at passing streams. Spartan example in abstinence
will do much to check him, but if this fails, he must use his wits
to substitute one of the devices mentioned, so as to save the man’s
interior without injuring his feelings by direct comment.
[Sidenote: Smoking.]
Smoking I believe to be a question for personal decision. I have
never found the moderate indulgence in pipes or cigars affect wind or
training in the slightest degree during the hardest days. The rule that
halts should be few and short ensures moderation; for smoking during
actual climbing is all but impossible. One famous mountaineer prefers
to light a pipe before any particularly hard problem, but experiment
suggests that the art is not worth learning. It is uncomfortable for
the lungs and costly in pipe-stems. A pipe makes a good temporary
substitute for food, drink or sleep. It comforts many cold moments of
waiting and makes a soothing counsellor in difficulties. Ability to
smoke, and consequently to sustain his part in the effortless silence
which characterizes the true comradeship of mountaineering, should be
among the qualifications of any climbing companion.
[Sidenote: Ailments.]
A manager’s functions are precautionary rather than corrective. It is
well that he should know something of medical treatment and of first
aid. But advice under these headings is best obtained from the many
good handbooks. From them he will learn how to use the contents of the
pocket medical and surgical cases without which no party should ever
attempt to climb.
Without trespassing upon their special province, there are yet certain
practical observations and precautions which a manager should make and
take as part of his routine.
The readiness or unreadiness for food, and the disposition to drink
or abstain between halts, are useful indications of the extent to
which a party is coming into condition, and a leader must observe
them and take them into account in his choice and conduct of the next
climb. The desire to drink early in the morning is a sure sign that
a man is slightly ‘feverish,’ or that he has not slept well, and his
condition must be mentally noted. A sudden inclination to sleep at
odd moments usually means that the nerves are exhausted by some shock
or by over-long strain. The desire to sleep should be indulged, and a
condition of lower vitality must be temporarily allowed for. The slight
trembling of the knee in the tension of climbing that often recurs at
the beginning of a tour is, of course, only a purely muscular sign that
the leg muscles are out of training. It will pass in the first few
days, but it cannot afford to be entirely neglected. While he is liable
to it no man should be allowed to lead a difficult passage. Many men
suffer at first from violent headaches above a certain height, often
with giddiness and an inclination to ‘mountain’ sickness. This occurs
more particularly on snow; usually it passes off after the first few
days, as the changes of altitude become customary. In these cases,
during the initial period, constant supervision is needed in the matter
of food, of bodily regimen, and above all of pace. Easy going is the
best precautionary treatment. Wet handkerchiefs round the head, and
bending forward whilst walking, so as to ease the heart’s action, often
afford partial relief; to cough, or hold the breath, gives a momentary
respite. Rests are of little use, and often increase the pain. The
attack should cease at the particular lower level which suits the
individual circulation. If it persists, a hot bath will cure it for the
night.
Half the sickness that so often spoils climbing or camping parties
during the first few days is due to an interrupted or irregular habit
of the body, such as is imposed by the new topsy-turvy time-table and
the unfavouring conditions of living. A leader must let no reserve
stand in his way, especially with young climbers, in warning against
this risk or in securing its immediate correction.
Frost-bite is an insidious enemy: it attacks young people of weak
circulation without any warning of pain and at very short notice.
Inexperience treats it as just a passing numbness and not worth
mentioning. I have known only one hour’s walking over cold autumn snow,
on the way up to a hut in the evening, to take all life out of a hand;
and it took us another hour’s hard rubbing to restore the circulation.
There should always be spare gloves and socks in all of the sacks; and,
until he knows his men, a manager should insist upon instant notice of
a finger or toe that has ‘no feeling in it.’ Immediate and continued
friction with snow or brandy is the remedy; but it must be applied at
once. The limb affected should be lifted and kept up. Fires and warm
rooms should be avoided. When fingers or toes have once been, if only
partially, touched, they are more liable to a return. Extra socks and
gloves should then always be worn. A mitten, with or without a glove,
is of comfort where the climbing is too difficult to permit of the use
of ‘fingerless’ snow-gloves.
Cold is not only a danger as it produces local chills or frost-bite,
it also has an immediate deleterious effect upon the general climbing
power and confidence. Wind, in this respect also, is the greatest
enemy of the climber. The muscles generate their own warmth, which is
the body’s energy; but once they get chilled from outside by wind or
cold, they lose a great part of their power. A cold limb should at once
be rubbed; and, as a precaution, clothes should always err on the side
of being too thick rather than too light. The human body can endure
great windless cold, but little cold wind. With the chilling of the
muscles the nerve and will-power diminish also. For the reactions of
cold, local and general, a leader must be always on the watch.
The sun has three dangers for inexperience. Snow-blindness rarely
gives warning. It is often only painfully realized on the following
day. Therefore until a man knows the power of his eyes he should use
precaution and put on coloured or smoked glasses when he sees the first
flash from the prisms on glacier or snow-field. But on rock coloured
glasses are a great nuisance, where they are rarely needed however
strong the glare. Again, in traversing snow-covered glacier such
glasses are frequently an interruption to the observation of hidden
crevasses. Further, experience suggests that as many as a quarter of
those now climbing really require no protection at all. For others it
would be sufficient to have their eyes blackened round with burnt cork.
For others again it would be enough protection to wear clear glasses
over eyes so blackened. Experiment alone will find our individual
equation, and, unfortunately, the experiment may often be trying. But
it is one well worth making, on suitable occasions, for the sake of the
permanent gain if we find that glasses can be dispensed with. If a man
who finds he needs glasses has forgotten or lost them, a mask should
be made of any piece of paper, with the smallest possible slits for
the eyes. He should also blacken round his eyes with cork. If only a
single glass is broken, a paper or card, with a minute hole, should be
inserted in the empty frame.
Sun-blistering is as permanent and excruciating in its consequences as
it is gradual in its attack. It may be produced by the direct sun-rays;
more severely by light reflected from snow or water or diffused through
thick mist; less severely by wind and reflected light from rock or
road. Grease is generally useless as protection; colour salves, as
elsewhere recommended, are the only preventive. It is to be noted that
the facets of the face most exposed to the reflection from the snow,
the underside of the nose, the lips and the cheeks, are usually given
an insufficient allowance. Bathing in cold water is deadly, especially
to the lips, once the skin has scorched. One compensation for the
loss of our complexion with advancing years is the lessening of our
susceptibility to this infliction.
Sunstroke in a mild form is constantly mistaken for mountain sickness,
for “poisoning at the hotel,” and so on. The surest precaution is
to wear a loose handkerchief hanging from the hat, to protect the
neck. The coat-collar can also be turned up. It is excellent, on all
sun-glaring days, to make a habit of filling the hollow in the crown
of the hat with snow, and, when it melts and trickles refreshingly
down, of renewing the snow. Until men have got accustomed to being
alternately baked and frozen three times a day, they have to be
reminded of these and similar small precautions. In the event of slight
sun-touches, ice or wet cloths, shade, light food, and no alcohol
are the local treatment. Plenty of moisture outside and inside is
essential, and, as for all other ailments, rest.
[Sidenote: Bathing.]
Bathing in lake or stream, or even in glacier pools, is one of the
most perfect rewards of mountaineering effort. In the very early
morning or at a night-start it is not advisable, as it checks the
necessary business of getting the bodily machinery working; nor is
it often desired at these hours. During the day, the inclination at
great heights fortunately appears to diminish, coincident with the
disappearance of the opportunities to indulge it. When the human
machine is centring all its powers on the continuance of a single
exceptional effort, it has an instinctive shrinking from submitting
itself to processes, however delightful, that will interfere with this
concentration. Rest is a necessary interruption and must be suffered,
but short exposures of the body to hot sunlight upon cold rocks, or
in colder water, in most cases do us more harm by producing a general
relaxation than they benefit us by their momentary refreshment. But
when the main effort of the day is past, and the body has no fear
of calling out its last reserves, the bathe on the descent is an
indescribable delight and refreshment. We may have still some way
to go, but to perform this we shall have, in any case, to summon up
our energies afresh; and at such natural moments of interruption the
bracing impetus of a bathe will help to regulate our circulation anew
and to store mind and nerves with new energy for the new commencement.
We climb for pleasure; and when body and mind are working in harmony
the pleasures our mind suggests are generally the remedies or
relaxations our body needs. If no water is to be found, to get rid of
the stuffiness of alpine clothes, and to give all the skin surfaces
a bath of air and sunlight, is only one degree less pleasant or
stimulating than a bathe in water itself. Caution at the same time is
necessary in encouraging men, and especially young people, of whose
circulation or heart we may have doubts, to risk the intensely cold
shock of glacier water upon baked and sun-congested surfaces. It is
perhaps worth remembering that the risk of actual chill is greater
during the process of drying in cold air or wind after a bathe (always
a lengthy process in the towel-less Alps) than during the bathe itself.
It is unpleasant for the time, but far warmer in feel and after effect,
to put on clothes without waiting to get dry.
Minute attention to such details of provisioning, health, and regimen
can be relaxed as a party of men comes into training and begins to know
its business, but it should never be entirely discontinued. One day’s
carelessness in revising the food, or the disregard of a cold toe, a
blister, or a ‘bad night,’ may at any time upset the plans of a whole
tour.
[Sidenote: Young Folk.]
In the management of boys and girls below twenty-two or so, it is
impossible to exercise too much care. Boys especially, whose activity
depends upon the impulse of their interest and rarely settles to
an automatic rhythm, may ‘shut up’ with startling suddenness, both
mentally and physically. Nor can our observation tell us for certain
beforehand when they are really beginning to draw upon their reserves
of vitality, or when they are only getting bored. They have no
conception of economy in their movement, so long as the impulse of
excitement lasts. As the interest of a climb diminishes, on the evening
tramp or the prolonged snow slope, their mental vivacity may die down,
and with it ends their energy. At such times, if they have not been
allowed actually to exhaust their physical strength, they will revive
as rapidly in response to a new mental stimulus, of talk, or sight,
or varied exertion. In their case it is the mind that calls for first
attention and first aid.
Girls move less on springs and more by rhythm. Their activity is less
reflective of external stimulus, and less dependent upon mental impulse
for its continuance. They have not the boy’s natural armour of nervous
sensibility against overwork. It is, therefore, more possible in their
case to watch the degree of positive physical fatigue in outward signs,
and to anticipate more exactly the moment of exhaustion by suitable
measures. Though their endurance is on the whole greater than that of
boys, or at least fluctuates less in proportion to the amount of mental
distraction or interest present in the physical effort, the effects
of over-fatigue are more lasting. With both boys and girls, the only
safe precaution is to allow very broad margins of time and distance, to
select climbs which both in difficulty and length shall be well within
the powers of young growing bodies, and above all not to be induced by
the suppleness of youth or its momentary enthusiasm to make exceptions
‘just this once’ to sound general rules.
[Sidenote: Preventable Humours.]
The influence of the mind upon the body has its special concern for
mountaineering management. An athletic body, if it be nervously
constituted, may be as susceptible of fatigue after two hours’
walking on a dull road as after twelve hours on an exciting ascent.
Mental distraction is as important as change of movement for the easy
performance of sustained physical effort. Mountaineering owes for
this reason to its infinite variety of motion and interest a record
of feats of sheer endurance such as no other human pursuit or sport
has excelled. But not all mountaineers are conscious of their debt to
this peculiar virtue of the hills, or allow sufficiently for its full
enjoyment in making their plans. Far more than any muscular strength or
even physical fitness, will-power is the dominant force in maintaining
normal energy and in subduing abnormal _accidiæ_, to which reference is
made later. The leader is most efficient who can best protect his party
against influences that irritate the nerves and so interfere with the
power or desire to bring the will into play. Men bored, men irritated,
men disappointed, men overwrought, without pleasure in retrospect or
prospect to refresh them, lose the wish to throw off their mood. It
is against the causes of boredom, the effects of exaltation or of
disappointment, that the leader has to take his precautions. If, in
spite of him, the moods are created, he must be ready, in anticipation,
to provide some remedy of distraction that can release the will from
the oppression of the nerves and associate it in the effort to master
the mood. External distractions are the most effective. The alarm
of fire has been known to banish rheumatism or paralysis; the sound
of an avalanche electrifies a twisted ankle into painless activity;
the sight of the hotel round the corner cures exhaustion like a cold
douche; an ingenious conversational opening will carry a limping
band over unconscious miles of extra effort. Anything that for the
moment can release the consciousness from its over-mastering nervous
affection, nervous in effect however physical in origin, enables the
will to recover control of the muscles. These external provocations
excite states of anger, interest or alarm wholly different in character
and effect from passive states of irritation and obstinacy which are
produced by the reaction from an internal consciousness of fatigue. A
leader will welcome them, in fact, as antidotes to their apparently
kindred humours.
[Sidenote: Boredom.]
It may be assumed that a modern leader will not make the elementary,
although traditional, blunder of taking beginners or young people or
women for their first expedition upon the weariness of snow trudges,
such as the traditional first tour up the Zermatt Breithorn. But even
with an expert party he has to remember that boredom is one of his
chief enemies. Monotonous snow slopes, long moraines before dawn, long
zigzags on the path when the excitement of the day is over, make an
undue call upon the will, such as suggests fatigue to the mind before
the muscles are really exhausted. They are part of the day’s work, but
they put a strain upon the temper of an untrained party that is more
wisely avoided.
With the same danger in view, a leader, while he insists on early
starts, should not give his party too much to do before daylight. Men
without guides lose endless time, energy, and, worse still, temper and
tone in losing their way and their footing on the preliminary paths and
glaciers in the dark. It is better to start an hour later, and recover
half of it from the easier, surer going of daylight progress. But best
of all for a guideless party is to reach the inn, hut or bivouac in
sufficient time the evening before to allow them to make thoroughly
sure of their next morning’s dark exit from the mazy streets and
fields, or of the easy route on to and through the nearer glacier. Men
are irritable enough in the dark, and if they cannot get going at once
to a sure rhythm on a certain route, their harmony of movement and mood
may be impaired for half or all of a day. Of the means of meeting the
special boredom peculiar to snow tramps, something is said under Snow
Craft.[3]
[Sidenote: Over-excitement.]
During the early days of a tour, on the other hand, there is always
the contrary possibility to guard against, that the mere excitement
and novel sensation of meeting difficulty may urge men beyond their
strength and conceal from them that the limit of their endurance is
already crossed. When the nervous tension is over, physical exhaustion
sets in very suddenly. The situation is awkward to deal with; but
physical crises are definite and yield to definite remedies. The
sympathy and efforts of the whole party are at once concentrated upon
the victim. Fatigue is lost sight of in the greater common need and the
supreme effort for which it calls. The individual may suffer, but the
tone of the party, if anything, profits. The leader may take comfort
in this thought, and also in the fact that even if a climb turns out
unforeseenly sensational, it has none the less to be carried through,
and that there is some cause for his gratitude if undue excitement will
help to sustain a weaker member of his party over the serious part of
the day, even at the expense of an off-day on the morrow.
The effects of fatigue from mental suggestion or boredom upon temper,
will and, ultimately, energy are less preventable. They tend to divide
a party socially and to make them irritable, carelessly reckless, or
obstinately languid. Mental tonics, distractions and talk are less
easily administered than helping hands. But a leader, whatever his
own state, has to pull himself together to anticipate or to meet the
occasion, and use all his tact to distract attention and create a new
interest in anything but the individual consciousness of fatigue.
LEADERSHIP IN ACTION
The manager as leader has a special responsibility to himself. He is
the stroke of the party. Like a good stroke, while exerting himself to
the utmost, he has always to keep some strength, nervous and physical,
in reserve, to meet a sudden emergency or to vitalize unexpectedly
depressing hours of dull return. As a duty to the party he should
save himself by making use of the stronger members, should there be
any, to take something of his share of the more laborious and less
vital labour. A party which knows his value as reserve and management
will save him, for instance, some part of his portion in the work of
carrying, of leading in soft snow, or of easy step-cutting. They too
must recognize he has always to keep something in reserve for a crisis.
[Sidenote: The Collective Confidence.]
At the same time, no matter what the crisis or his private doubts, he
must never appear, if he can possibly help it, to have called out his
last reserves, or to be feeling any diminished confidence in his own
ability, or in that of his party, to force a successful issue. He must,
too, avoid mystery. Nothing is more nerve-trying in critical moments,
to men whose experience cannot measure the extent of a crisis, than
tense silence or too obvious self-control on the part of those who can.
It is better, if the situation is genuinely serious, to bring it down
to a human level by blowing off a few words of violent commonplace
expletive, than to leave it in that daunting remoteness of gravity for
which words are inadequate. The more crucial the occasion, the more
does the nerve of the party centre in the leader. Their confidence
in his confidence is a more important asset than their confidence in
his skill. The combined ability of a party, each one confident in the
others and relieved of individual responsibility by his sense of the
general confidence, goes further towards success in the solution of
difficulties or the repulse of danger than the brilliant independent
success which any one individual in it could achieve by reliance on
his single skill and nerve.
For this confidence the leader is the focus, and an important decision,
such as the resolve to advance or retreat in a given crisis, should be
guided by his estimate of the amount of confident capacity represented
by the party at the moment, and not merely by his opinion as to his own
power to force the passage as an individual.
If he decides to turn back on a climb, he should take the odium of
the decision without fear of later criticism. He knew or felt what
the collective ability of the party was at the time in relation to
the effort demanded, and it is unimportant what an individual may
afterwards think might have been his own chances of overcoming the
particular difficulty “had he been allowed to try.” If he continues the
climb, with the same consciousness advising him, it must be his object
to better the chances of success by stimulating the existing confidence
into that cheerful humour in which men do their skill most justice.
[Sidenote: Keeping Touch.]
To keep in touch with every one of a party of friends, so as to
continue aware of the way in which their minds and their bodies are
being affected by the circumstances, is not easy. On severe climbs it
is all but impossible to prevent the rear men, separated by lengths of
rope and interruptions of difficult ground, from remaining in ignorance
of what is being done in front, or of what is guiding the choice of
problems which they are expected in their turn to surmount. For this
reason it is helpful to break the habit of silence which falls upon
men dealing with serious work,--and which, like the inclination to
whisper in a dark room, seems to have behind it some primitive feeling
of fear of provoking further attention from unseen but very present
forces,--and talk down the rope occasionally, passing question and
answer up and down, and cheering the tail with a renewed feeling of
unity and confidence drawn from the confidence of the leader. With the
same object in view, wherever the climb allows it, the party should be
allowed to collect for a moment and forget in talk the depression or
doubt inevitable to solitude, before the leaders start again.
Guides are great offenders in this respect. They have no conception of
the extra force given by a single united consciousness to a party, of
the means to keep in touch with it, or of the help they themselves may
draw from it. They climb absorbedly ahead lost in the sense of their
own responsibility. Consequently they often turn back, from a doubt
of their party or a lack of confidence to carry a climb through on
their single responsibility, on occasions where a good amateur leader,
with or without guides, can feel himself justified in proceeding. He
is in a position to take the even chance of a turn of weather, of the
possibility of a return at a later and more unpleasant stage, of the
crossing of an exposed couloir or the ascent of a snow or ice slope
down which there may be no safe return, because he is confident in his
knowledge of the condition of his party, of their concerted action
and reserves of strength and cheerfulness, and feels that these are
sufficient to carry them over the possible chances of worse weather
or more trying conditions, and to lead them through a longer day to a
later descent even by another line.
He has to earn his right to his more confident decision in thus
matching his men against the mountain by supplementing his single
mountaineering experience and instinct firstly by his precautionary
care for their condition and humour, and secondly by his ability to
keep in close touch with their collective capacity at any and every
moment. His reward will be their increasing confidence in themselves,
in him, and in their united strength, and the increasing power which
this brings with it.
[Sidenote: Temper.]
A mountaineering party, when in action, is dependent for its
good-humoured and hearty co-operation on more than the external
interests of the climbs, however well selected beforehand and
sustained, on more even than its good health and food, however well
cared for. It has to be welded into a fine instrument: its temper is
its strength; and its temper has to be kept at just the right heat. Hot
words on occasions will do it little harm. Men in a state of primitive
well-being are apt to become elemental in temper. A sudden crisis sets
off a shower of sparks of language. These do no harm. No experienced
man looks upon them as personally directed, or remembers them when
the crisis is past. What has really to be guarded against is the
effect of monotony in any form, even the irritating repetition of some
small unconscious personal trick. Slight resentments become magnified
grotesquely during the long hours of silent effort, especially of
monotonous effort, on snow, glaciers or path. Any ordinary mountaineer
will probably remember occasions when some trifling habit of a good
friend, some unintentional or momentary lack of consideration, has
taken advantage of the dull ending of a strenuous day to come back
upon him irresistibly, and fill him unaccountably with sullen growing
resentment. He may realize its foolishness, but, like the similar
insistence of the refrain of some silly comic song, it becomes part
of the mechanical movement in which his whole being is for the time
absorbed.
If he has been fortunate enough to escape such an attack himself, he
must at times have been aware of the dangerous electricity accumulating
in some one or other of the members of a tired party. It is the
commonest symptom of fatigue. A manager has to look out for this. Its
consciousness will disappear with the sight of the hotel door, and be
secretly regretted on the morrow, but in the meantime he has to prevent
the unforgettable being said. Silence is his chief enemy. It is useless
to try and tempt tired men, usually tramping in single file, into
agreeable conversation, unless some happy accident of the way rests
the mind with a new distraction, but he has to seize any desperate
occasion for casual remarks. It does not signify what he chatters,
provided he is not inappropriately cheerful, and shows himself at least
to be completely and seemingly idiotically unconscious of any strain
in the situation. Even if he draws the discharge of temper on himself,
he has averted all serious danger. Song is the best outlet since it
fits in with the mechanical movement while it withdraws attention from
it; but song can only be employed when the ground allows of the feet
moving in accord. If he himself is one of the two between whom one
of these smouldering irritations is getting ominously overcharged in
the silence, he has a harder task. But he will have his reward if he
can sacrifice his own humour to his sense of responsibility. There is
nothing more refreshing to an irritated man who has succeeded, at last,
in forcing himself to make a suitably casual and unconscious remark,
than to watch the visible efforts of his friend, suddenly deprived of
his sure conviction that the resentment was mutually conscious, to pull
himself hurriedly together and answer in the lighter key. Both men are
so fully aware that their savage humour is ungrounded and absurd, that
neither wishes to appear to be left alone in his folly.
Temper is the one permanent peril to all climbing parties, and it
is never allowed for sufficiently, or openly treated in its true
character as a largely physical phenomenon. Men who have to live long
together at great heights, as in the Himalaya, or in great solitudes,
as at sea, know that its outbreaks are practically uncontrollable,
and many an expedition has failed on its account alone. It is best
to treat it frankly as a necessary contingency, and to take the only
two precautions possible: the one, to make sure that the men know one
another well enough to accept each other’s abusive outbursts as a
sick mood, to be answered in like manner, if they will, but not to be
remembered; and the other, to impress on them that it is the keen edge
of silent resentment or sarcasm that leaves permanent scars, and that
blunt abuse or invective, obviously uncontrolled, clears the air like
an electric storm, and can be safely countered by retort as noisy and
superficial.
It is superfluous, no doubt, to make these suggestions for what may
be called the social conduct of a climbing tour. But friends, because
they are good friends, are apt to reckon too little with the severe
strain put upon comradeship by the circumstances of their mountain
association. Personality is tried by the realities of mountaineering in
deadly earnest: your good comrade in the hills is a very different man
from your pleasant neighbour at the mountaineering dinner. And just as
there is no comradeship that can grow so intimate or lasting as that of
men who have climbed long together, and faced death, storm, fatigue,
success and failure in company, so there is no compact which should be
entered upon, with more precaution, or protected with more sedulous
care in the trifles of its daily routine.
Unless it be to men whom he is definitely initiating into the pursuit,
a leader should not give advice or make direct suggestions; in fact,
the less he fusses or appears to be consciously setting the tone, the
better. There is nobody so tiresome, in daily contact, as some one who
is constantly being cheerful or tactful or managing. Example is the
leader’s medium for correction, in humour as in action.
He must see to it that no loophole is left for discord, in small
arrangements as in small talk. For this reason it is helpful to let
each man look after some department: one to see to the ropes, another
to the drinks, and so on; but it is a mistake ever to remind a man
of his duty to the party. Management is the leader’s business in the
end; and he should see to any omission himself rather than suggest
forgetfulness by a criticism. Similarly, as an instance, in dealing
with a foreign language, with a new hotel or with a new guide, the
negotiation should be entrusted to one alone. He may be chaffed
afterwards, but not interrupted at the time. It is feeble in effect
and rather humiliating to see, as one often does, two or more sedate
Englishmen effusively answering a head waiter in chorus, or treating
any remark that has to be made in a foreign language, say to the guide,
as an occasion for a collective assertion of individual capacity to
speak with tongues and of equal right to use them in giving orders.
Again, as a small instance of what I mean, there should be no question
of comparing the weights of respective sacks before a climb. It is
assumed that each man will carry what he can. If a man is a poor
carrier and intentionally lightens his personal luggage, it is a
blunder on all counts to ask him to carry more than he offers to take
of the common provisions. It may seriously handicap him, and will
certainly hurt his feelings. As an exception, however, since it is no
reflection on his comradeship, a man who is found to be constantly
carrying more than his share may be checked for his own physical good.
There are a few men who by development and disposition are unhappy
unless heavily weighted. They may be indulged, especially with the
charge of the agreeable extra luxuries.
Once he has got his party started, fit and fed, and with no failure
or dispute in arrangement or humour that may give room for later
discomfort or irritation, the manager has to be especially on the watch
for the different effects on his men of the hours before dawn and of
the hours of evening return. The habit of talking before sunrise
should be tacitly discouraged. Most men are inclined to surliness in
the early dark hours, which will disappear with the sun and improved
circulation. Silence at this period is fraught with no dangers which
the beginning of active climbing will not remove. During these early
hours mind and nerves and muscles have got to rediscover their
harmonious working for the exertions of the day. Their process of
adjustment should not, therefore, be distracted.
In the morning mechanical action and the automatic reflexes have to be
re-established, and the mind has to be induced to co-operate. In the
evening, as has been shown, when mechanical action tends to degenerate
into monotony, and muscular and nervous fatigue become master of the
mind, an exactly contrary line of action in management is necessary,
and the mind has to be helped to escape from the infection and to
reassert its independence by intentional distraction.
[Sidenote: Abnormal Moods.]
But there are certain abnormal states, unforeseen but inevitable
effects of the direct action of mountain incident upon nerve,
harmony and energy, which on occasion must be met, and which should
therefore be mentioned. Apart from preventable physical exhaustion,
and the languor and ill-humour produced by boredom, there are several
conditions of mind which may evilly affect the power of a party, and
for varying lengths of time.
[Sidenote: Reaction.]
On the first splendid glow of success, when the difficult ascent has
ended triumphantly on the summit, there follows a phase of complete
relaxation, of surrender to the simple realization of rest and physical
enjoyment. It is a period of indescribable sensations, of imagination
run riot, and of will and self-control alike in abeyance.
When the subsequent descent is begun it is at first, for many men,
a matter of real difficulty to recover complete control of their
machinery, and for the leader to reconstitute the different individuals
into a single working unit. For a time the pace must be diminished, and
the care redoubled. Precautions, of remonstrance and doubled ropes and
moving singly, none of them possibly necessary in the same place with
the party in working order must be put into force, until the normal
condition is regained. The assumption that the state of mind makes no
difference, and that a party can descend as securely the final slopes
that it raced up light-heartedly in the bracing moment of success, is
all too commonly made, and only too frequently regretted.
[Sidenote: Disappointment.]
If success has its short following period of danger, disappointment has
a longer and more insidious effect. However necessary or admittedly
correct the decision to turn back may have been, the disappointment
works afterwards, often unconsciously, upon each individual, as he
realizes his wasted effort and envisages his fatigue, with now no
excitement or bracing of hope to counteract it. So come discouragement,
and careless treading, and a resentful attitude towards precautions and
manœuvres which no longer have any triumphant object as their excuse.
Any weakness in condition or humour will grow doubly apparent at such a
time; and as the disappointment is equally present in all minds, it is
impossible to pretend unconsciousness of it, and often vain to attempt
to raise the atmosphere by a counterfeit of cheerfulness. Mental and
social tonics are for the time alike useless. The condition has to be
accepted as an indisputable lowering of tone, which in its effects will
prejudice the physical capacity of the party in many subtle ways. Since
in this one case he cannot check the evil influence at its source in
the mind, the leader must employ every concrete mountaineering device
to prevent its endangering the actual safety. He must bring out all
his reserves of spirit and technique to keep the party concentrated
on the momentary details of their descent, and redouble his own
activities in order to anticipate or correct any slip or mistake that
the lowered tone may induce. On such occasions he can look himself for
no relaxation of effort or release from anxiety until the rope is off
at last and the safe path regained, no matter how little conscious his
party may like to show themselves individually of any depreciation in
their skill or good-will.
[Sidenote: Over-confidence.]
Equally difficult to deal with, and far more frequent in its
appearance, is the state of mind to which most mountaineers are
subject--and guides also--who have accomplished a great climb
successfully and are retracing the comparatively easy passages of the
lower ridges, glaciers and tracks. Conscious of their successful
performance, confident in their skill and unwearied muscles,
intoxicated by air and effort and fortune, they are unaware of
fatigue, and the easier ground lulls their judgment into a condition
of fatalistic confidence, almost of exaltation. Danger, obvious and
immediate, has become familiar, and has been safely avoided; they can
neglect its threat when it is not so present. They jump the bergschrund
rather than look for the bridge; they chance the unseen rock foothold
rather than lose time in using the doubled rope; they glissade the
loose snow slope and scorn its possible avalanche; the rope hampers
them, it is taken off; and recklessly self-reliant, a reliance that
success has fooled them into thinking justified, they rush the risks of
hidden crevasses on the glacier, of false steps or loose stones on the
easy ridges, with an abandon that it will make them shudder the next
day to recall. Even the lower zigzag path to the valley is a danger
in such a condition of mind. Safe as Rotten Row for the sure foot,
it has a dozen times proved a fatal trap for the stumble of fatigue
or the careless swing of over-confidence. Few men can look back on a
long mountaineering record without remembering some such evenings of
mountain madness; and while they blush (let us hope) even in memory
at their folly, they may wish they had had some cool leader to call
them, grumbling, to their senses. For while reaction and disappointment
reflect at once upon the vitality, lowering the tone and, like a flat
liquor, offering little chance of reanimation, over-confidence is
an effervescence, an overflow of spirits, which can be more easily
regulated by apt manipulation. The leader must take control, sharply
and steadily. He has little to fear from the effect of his interference
upon a party in such spirits; any resentment will be temporary, and
his own labour, of repressing and directing a surplus of energy, will
be far less than in the cases where, as has been shown, he may have to
provide a stimulus or even a substitute for its absence.
There is an insidious danger common to all these mental states. As one
of a party working together, a leader must remember that he himself is
subject to infection from a collective mood. He may consider that his
confident action on occasion is entirely individual and calculated; or,
again, he may be certain that his resolution to retreat represents
only his own unbiased judgment; and in either case he may be puzzled
later to account for an obvious error. He must learn to allow for his
‘atmospheric’ error, the unconscious perversion of his saner judgment
by some collective mood of his party. The risk is very subtle. A leader
has no defence against it except to keep its possibility constantly
in mind. He must acquire the habit of challenging, mentally, his own
opinions of the moment, and of confronting them, detachedly, with the
sternest of mountain precepts and rules of thumb. The habit will stand
him in good stead in moments of more dangerous decision, of excitement,
and, therefore of more probable collective infection. It will at
least check him from joining, even in his most ecstatic moments, in
an unroped glacier stampede or in a ‘go-as-you-please’ skelter down a
buttress; it may save him some of the lasting regrets of the leader who
afterwards recognizes that he has turned back prematurely; and it will
certainly protect him on many long tramps from that curious infection,
hours of united, unreasoning mountain gloom.
[Sidenote: Hysteria.]
From a fourth state, actual hysteria or hill-shock, a leader is
presumably exempt. It occurs more frequently among mountains than
anywhere else off the battlefield, since their conditions may put
an excessive strain upon unaccustomed nerves. Old climbers are
inoculated against most of its risks. If a type of danger has once been
experienced, on any subsequent recurrence, even faintly resembling
it in character, the consciousness flashes out at once to meet it,
in all its possible reactions; the mind takes control of the nerve
communications and blocks the way against any evil effects resulting
from the sudden shock to the subconscious nervous system. Only an
entirely unfamiliar form of danger or an unduly prolonged strain
can rout the presence of mind of a tried climber. But it is well to
remember that every man has his ‘cracking point,’ and that this is
sooner reached in the case of an uneducated guide, however experienced,
than in the person of an expert amateur, whose imagination will widen
his experience.
It may originate in three ways. Firstly, from exhaustion, irritating
brain and nerves until self-control is lost and any slight shock may
cause the hysteria to break out, either in the usual violent symptoms,
or, more intimidating because less anticipated, in silent tears.
Exhaustion, not fear, is the basis. If it has not been possible to
anticipate the crisis by precautionary rest or distraction, immediate
inaction and quiet reassurance, without remonstrance or contradiction,
are the best assistance to recovery.
Or, secondly, it may result from sudden shock, the realization of
completely unexpected danger in a placid moment before the mind has
time to assert its control over its own group of spinal nerves. This
is the moment of panic which is the terror of all who have the charge
of collections of human beings, in a theatre or on shipboard. If
the shock can be anticipated by even the briefest of introductions,
if a collective instantaneous realization of the danger can only be
prevented by any method of more gradual communication of the news,
half the risk of panic ensuing is gone. For if only the mind has the
chance to realize the meaning of the news before the physical shock
to the group of subconscious nerves has time to react, it takes
command; and the man begins to act, and even to overact, for his own
benefit if for no wider audience, in accordance with his conception of
suitable gentlemanly behaviour under the circumstances. In climbing,
indeed, there is often no time for such a gradual introduction. But in
climbing, wherever danger is not cumulative, and therefore gradual, in
its approach, the peril is over and past almost as soon as the shock is
felt: for instance, the rock has fallen--and missed the party; the slip
has occurred--and not pulled them down. So much the leader has in his
favour in meeting its after-effects of fear. The crisis being over, it
is best, if possible, to pretend to ignore its existence altogether,
and to find some reason for a halt and for continued inattention until
the nerves have had time to settle down. If this fails, the incident
should be cheerfully recalled and discussed until its idea has become
familiar, and so harmless. It is useful to remember that no individual
panic, and for that matter no form of extreme emotion, can long
survive the bland disregard of its existence by some one else in the
same circumstances. But if a repetition of the peril still threatens,
as might be the case after a rock or snow avalanche, and therefore
immediate movement is desirable, the orders for action should be sharp
and decided, but quite impersonal: they should neglect any individual
more particularly affected, and apparently be addressed to the whole
party. Personal attention only tends to increase the self-consciousness
and the self-pity which, in the frightened man, will be militating
against the recovery of his self-command.
The third and most difficult manifestation, that of hysterical
obstinacy, may be the outcome of a long-continued state of nervousness
or of, often, groundless fear, accumulating and indulged by
self-compassion until it gets beyond control. The hysteria takes
the form of a refusal to move up or down, and, without any violent
symptoms, remains impervious to reason or direct remonstrance. A halt,
and a deliberate disregard, emphasized by general talk about some
unrelated matter, will often result in a gradual loosening of the
tension, mental and muscular, and the beginnings of unwilling movement.
Once the rigidity is past, the rope and quick and not too gentle
impulse will do the rest. But if the situation does not allow of even
so much delay, stronger measures are necessary. I have seen a guide use
a startling slap on the cheek in an extreme case with good effect; or a
jerk on the rope, that forces the victim to scramble to recover his own
footing, may break the spell. In any case, if the leader is unfortunate
enough to suffer such inconvenience with a beginner, he will be wise
not to risk the like chance on a mountain a second time, in both their
interests.
[Sidenote: Vertigo.]
What is called giddiness, the paralysing effect of sheer height,
suddenly revealed, sometimes produces unexpectedly a similar condition
of immobility. Fortunately, in this case it is not accompanied by the
same objection to being moved into security by others.
Habit also will remove the inclination, sometimes felt on the edges of
sheer walls or cliffs, to ‘throw oneself over.’ This is another of the
symptoms of slight vertigo. In spite of its frequent and sensational
appearance in narrative, the inclination would seem invariably to
confine itself to remaining merely an inclination.
Giddiness, the inclination to fall and the impulse to throw oneself
over, is the result of the inability of the eye at the moment to
obtain an assurance that the body is upright or in balance. When a
child is learning to walk it tumbles all over the place. Then it learns
to fix some point on a level with its eye, and it can retain its
balance in walking just so long as it can keep its eyes moving towards
this point more or less on a level plane. Gradually it learns to get
the same assurance from some distant point on the floor ahead: its eye
has been educated to reason from a diagonal as much as from a level
glance; and the ‘semicircular canal’ has been taught to interpret the
message, and convert it into automatic balance. As it moves forward it
shifts the point ahead, unconsciously obtaining that the third side
of the triangle thus formed by its glance shall always demonstrate
that the other two sides, the line of the floor and the vertical line
through its own centre of gravity, are forming an approximate right
angle. Still later it learns to apply the same principle to uphill
or downhill gradients, where the line of gravity makes, not a right
angle, but an acute or obtuse angle with the visible surface. That
is, it learns to take the constant line of its own centre of gravity
as the base-line of its triangle and not the fickle flooring; and it
still keeps in balance in movement by measuring the third side with its
eye, in order to be assured that whatever angle its body in balance is
making with the ground, be it uphill and acute, or downhill and obtuse,
shall remain the same during its next movement.
Even as men we cannot be sure that we are upright, that is, in
balance--for our muscles permit us a few degrees of sway either way
from our line of gravity--unless we are somehow in contact with the
visible surface at two successive points in the line of direction in
which we are moving, be the contact maintained by the touch of our
second foot, by the hand, or by the glance of our eye. Shut your eyes,
stand on one foot, and you will have proof of this. Men accustomed only
to walking on the level make a habit of selecting the rest-point for
their eye some distance ahead. Consequently, when they find themselves
on a steep hillside, where the fall of the ground below makes a wider
angle with their line of gravity than their eye has been trained to
estimate, their glance wanders helplessly, they lose their assurance of
balance, and they become ‘giddy’ or feel that they ‘must’ fall over.
But habit will correct this. The climber soon learns to shorten his
glance, to accept a reduced distance between his two requisite points
of contact. The few inches of visible surface near his feet, be it only
the edge of a rock ledge or the curve of a snow wall, projected against
nothingness, will serve him, with practice, as sufficient rest-point
for his eye, and give him the assurance that his body is upright and
his balance secure.
Wherever, in climbing, the angle of the surface is so steep that even
these few inches of margin for the eye’s reassurance are lacking,--for
instance, on a precipitous rock wall with only minute stances, or on
an almost vertical ice slope,--then, by the nature of the case, the
climber can use his hands; and from this second point of contact,
through his fingers, the climber gets an even more concrete assurance
of his balance than from the judgment of his eye. There are cases,
however, where the hands cannot or should not be used, and where the
eye is so far confused that it must divide its responsibility for
the second point of contact with some other agent; and for this we
learn to use the second foot. Take the case of traversing along the
summit of a narrow rock ridge, or across a knife-edge of ice. The
hands are useless, and the eyes, unable to remain focused upon the
narrow edge, wander away into the depths. The inexpert man will get
giddy, and will only save himself, on the rock, by crawling across on
hands and knees, thus forcing from his hands the assurance that his
eyes refuse; while on the ice he will get giddy and--not get across
at all. But the expert can step across either, rapidly and securely.
In the first place he learns to focus his eyes undeviatingly upon the
thin edge ahead, or upon some fixed point on the same line with it
beyond; and in the second place he learns, since an expert’s eye is
human and embraces a large field, to divide its balancing duty with
his second foot. This foot, advanced in the direction of progress,
provides a second rest-point for the assurance of balance quite good
enough to complement the eye. He strides out rapidly, so as to shorten
the doubtful interval while this foot is in the air, and for assurance
in this doubtful interval he trusts again to his fixed glance. A
blind-folded tight-rope walker balances on the same principle, only he
obtains his assurance from two points of contact even nearer together,
from one foot only just in advance of the other, or even from one foot
alone, the two requisite points being then represented by his toe and
his heel. Loose-wire walkers, who apparently deprive themselves of all
fixed points for their estimate, substitute the pole or the parasol in
their hands. This their trained sense continues to adjust at such an
inclination to the shifting but relatively fixed point of their feet as
may always give their hand a second relatively fixed point of judgment
by which they can estimate the angle that then body is making, at any
instant of rest or motion, with the line of gravity; and its leverage
enables them to correct this angle whenever hand plus foot give warning
that the body has so far departed from the line as to be entering upon
the ‘forbidden degrees.’
The normal mountaineer, however, need never expect to have to do with
less than two stable points of judgment, for foot and hand or eye, and
these at least a few inches apart. It is entirely incorrect, therefore,
for anyone to assume that, because he feels ‘giddy’ looking down from
the top of a wall, he is disqualified from high mountaineering. Some
degree of giddiness would be excusable in any mountaineer, however
expert, who might be asked to look down off the edge of a sheer wall,
where there was no handhold, no room to shift a foot forward or
backward, and which was too vertical to afford any rest-point below for
the eye. If he were asked to walk along the wall, he would probably do
it cheerfully. In mountaineering, also, we may count upon handholds
when the eye is obstructed or the assurance of a second foot denied
us. We need only train our sense of balance to assure us of security
upon a basis of narrowly spaced but still quite natural points of
judgment. And in the process of learning we shall find that we lose all
inclination to giddiness.
[Sidenote: The Effect of Height.]
There remains one state, of whose nature and origin we at present know
very little. It is generally called the ‘psychological’ effect of
height; which it almost certainly is not. It has none of the bodily
symptoms of mountain sickness; and I know no remedy for it, mental or
physical. It is simply that certain men above certain heights appear
to lose some portion of their nervous energy. Training or habit seem
powerless to restore it. They become incapable of moving with the
certainty or rhythm which are theirs at lower levels. You can watch
the effects in tentative, slower movements, a visible effort in
balancing, clumsiness with the rope, insecurity in steps, sometimes
a vagueness or absence of mind, as if the vitality were running low.
And yet the men will be most vigorous and competent mountaineers up
to their limit of height. Liability to suffer from it appears to
depend on no question of physique or of probabilities. As its result
many fine climbers on lower hills never achieve marked success in the
Alps, and many fine alpinists, including most guides, are failures,
relatively, in the Himalaya. If we were to go high enough, we should
probably find that every man has his limit of height, above which no
training or habit would enable him to climb with his normal vigour or
efficiency. But what concerns a leader in the Alps, or an explorer in
higher ranges, is to discover which of his party is subject to it,
and at what heights, and make his dispositions accordingly if he is
planning an expedition or series of expeditions which will exceed this
limit. Otherwise, just at those heights and in those situations where
the greatest individual skill is called for and the least attention can
be spared to others, he will find that the symptoms will begin to put
in an unwelcome appearance. The mountaineer himself is rarely aware of
his weakness; he probably explains it to himself as a touch of passing
mountain sickness. It is only when he, or more probably his leader,
notices that it recurs at the same height and that the symptoms are
not physical or mental, but affect the mysterious half-way region that
we must call ‘nervous,’ that the true cause suggests itself. A leader
must watch every new member of his party, and if he finds that he has
such a height limit, he must not take him above it, if the ascent is
severe, or he must be prepared to give him much increased attention and
shepherding until the limit is repassed on the descent.
SOCIAL COMPOSITION OF THE PARTY
The social and psychological conditions that regulate the relations
of any collection of human beings associated for a common effort or
pursuit are seldom taken sufficiently into account. The interaction of
individual temperaments in mountaineering and the reactions of common
mood under the stress of elemental conditions or of great physical
effort have, in consequence, seldom been allowed for in anticipatory
organization or made a matter for previous agreement, or for the
acceptance of precautionary control. When the crises have arisen, it
has been often, consequently, too late for remedy or for the exclusion
of the dissonant elements. This must be my excuse for sketching
these superficial classifications of nervous and mental states that
are as positive in their influence upon the success or harmony of
a mountaineering holiday as the possession or lack of a developed
trapezius major or a sound digestion. Explorers of experience sometimes
recognize the importance of choosing men for temper and temperament as
much as for physique, and make their arrangements with this in view, in
practice if not in their printed records. Mountaineering is done under
much the same conditions; but its temporary, holiday character leads us
generally, as we sit at home in the comfort of pleasant prospect, to
overlook in our arrangements the almost primitive conditions of temper,
health and fierce struggle under which we shall be living during our
mountain association.
A mountaineer, in the composition and management of his party, cannot
afford to neglect the action of health and condition upon temper,
or of temperament and mood upon achievement. He must select men,
therefore, not by their promise of the plains, but by what he knows or
concludes will be their conduct under the harder test of the heights.
If he has to take anyone on chance, he must be on the watch from the
first, and, if he finds he has made a mistake, content himself with a
less ambitious programme. In big mountaineering no man has more than
a momentary margin. In less exacting work no man has a continuous
margin of will-power, nerve and temper, to say nothing of skill, for
more than himself and one other. Every party of more than two should
contain two men of tried nerve--that is, of an experience that has
learned to control the effects of shock or of fatigue upon the nerves.
Every party, for its own peace, should contain one expert rock climber
and one reliable iceman. A good second-man, or ‘backer-up,’ and a
weight-carrier are invaluable assets. These parts may, of course, be
doubled in a single individual. The ability to heal, or cook, or
sing may be allowed to outweigh some minor defects--but not temper,
clumsiness or a sluggish vitality.
A manager has also to remember that that party earns the best success
which works with the most collective good-humour and good-will. With
the object of maintaining the genial atmosphere that best resists local
disturbances, mental or physical, one member of a party of three or
four may well be either younger or less experienced than the rest.
Rowing eights in training have discovered the merits of a mascot or
protégé, whom the rest can look after and laugh with or at. No party of
men or women can quarrel if there are children (not belonging to them)
of their number. One considerably younger member of a party, or one
younger in the sense that he or she is a novice to the work, and in so
far is a child, gives the climbing group the pleasant sense of centring
round some one as a common care. He is a permanent distraction. In
moments of excitement, pleasure or fatigue, every member of such a
party unconsciously puts himself first into the new-comer’s attitude of
mind, and speculates how the sensation will present itself to him. The
process provides our individual consciousness with an external interest
that diverts us from the oppression of absorption in ourselves.
In a holiday party of four, which is the best number for serious
guideless climbing, enabling the break into the ideal pairs for rock
climbing, and the safer combination for glaciers, one member may well
be an ‘infant’ or beginner of this sort; but if such an element is
included the ‘breaking’ must be confined to very safe passages. In
a party of three, provided that two are thorough experts, and one
of these possibly a first-class guide, and provided that no severe
climbing is contemplated, maleficent psychic influences may be combated
by the inclusion of our less responsible third. If serious work is in
prospect, the third must be at least strong and efficient; in fact, in
parties of less than four, considerations of skill or experience must
always take precedence of purely social qualifications. In a party
of two, for rock climbing, both must be, primarily, expert, and our
social selection must be confined to this class. For glacier work any
party of two, even though, socially, they speak with the tongues of
angels, must always be unsound. The popularity of the party of two
as a rock climbing combination compels us continually to reconsider
its suitability under new aspects. As a social companionship the
association of two friends, equally expert, is ideal. The association
of two friends, one of them less expert but equally competent to share
in the responsibility for a joint decision, is quite defensible. But
it must be remembered that any external feeling strong enough to
interfere with the complete concentration of a leader upon his climbing
reduces the efficiency of his normal standard and still more of his
standard of the day. His feeling of a particular responsibility for
an individual, other than his general responsibility to a party, may
act as a dangerous distraction. A man, therefore, who climbs alone
with a novice, a younger person or a pupil, towards whom he is in
a position of personal trust, handicaps himself to an extent that
should forbid him to attempt any but absolutely safe and elementary
climbing. The usual risks, even of merely external chance, which
he may take lightly for himself or for a second companion of equal
discretion, he may not take for his charge; and the cheerful consent of
an inexperienced comrade to ‘share’ in taking such a chance cannot be
considered as relieving the single expert of any part of his exclusive
responsibility. If he has the sense of it constantly in mind, the
feeling turns to anxiety in moments of crisis, and interferes with his
coolness of judgment and with the nervous harmony upon which his skill
depends; at more ordinary times its presence materially biases his
ordinary mental and physical climbing habit. If, on the other hand, he
undertakes such a charge, and then does not keep it in mind in all his
decisions and actions, no one will consider him to have been a happy
choice for the responsibility entrusted to him.
Where the sense of responsibility is further complicated by an
emotional relationship its debilitating effect is increased. It
is a commonplace of all active undertakings that relationship is
irreconcilable with cool command and undisturbed performance.
Similarly, a father climbing alone with his child or children,
a husband climbing with his wife, cannot preserve the nervous
concentration or the emotional detachment indispensable for an
unsupported leader. Whatever their normal ability as mountaineers, in
such a companionship both their discretion and their execution must be
subject to a hundred distracting influences. The disturbance, even the
danger, of an emotional state in a member of a party has already been
indicated. In these cases, however, it is the leader, whose business it
should be to correct, who is the man affected; and, further, in a party
of two so constituted, where the leader alone is morally or by nature
responsible, no other can compensate for his abnormality or qualify the
effects of his state or of his action. In my view no mountaineer should
ever climb alone with anyone less competent for whom he must be held
responsible either by relationship or by delegated authority; unless
the climbing is so short and so safe that he can be sure of always
safeguarding his charge against the ill consequence of any and every
form of ‘accident’ however remote or unlikely. Practically this means
that, except for simple ‘bouldering’ or elementary, separate ‘pitch’
climbs, without the addition of a second fully competent mountaineer
all parties of this description are unsound.
In larger parties it is wise to give full value to social
considerations in selecting the members, since we can always secure,
by addition or subtraction, that any element of weakness introduced
by relationship or private responsibility is balanced by a greater
proportion of mountaineering skill. But for combinations of two our
first business is to make absolutely certain that each man is equally
competent, in his own and his friend’s eyes even more than in the eyes
of the world, to take his full share of _responsibility_. We may then,
if we will, treat the separate contributions of skill as a collective
whole, and not quarrel with an expert who takes a less expert
companion, provided he be competent and responsible, if by so doing he
secures a wider field for his social choice.
WALKING MANNERS
There are several points of what may be termed walking manners, common
to all types of long mountain walking and not only to climbing, whose
observance contributes a great deal to the individual peace of mind
during the early and late hours of a long alpine day. Men when they
are off the rope, or who have never been on a rope, almost universally
neglect them, and are blind to the cumulative effect upon a tired
companion’s temper or upon their own humour. Every one thinks he can
walk, and most men never bother to discover why the excellent companion
of the Sunday afternoon ramble proved a failure on a long walking tour.
The first point of manners for the man in control is that of pace. Most
climbers suffer from the weakness of increasing the pace the moment
they take the lead on a path, slope or glacier. This is trying to
the party, consciously or not, and wasteful. A manager should either
block the way himself, or, if he is behind, keep consistently to what
he considers the right tempo. It is better he should be thought to be
getting old or lazy than that the party should be rushed inopportunely.
A second and frequent failing is the ‘half step’ trick. Some fifty per
cent. of fast walkers, whenever they walk abreast on road or path or
hill, persistently keep half a stride in front, their shoulder just
clear of their companion. It may be due to some half-formed feeling
of satisfaction in setting the pace and having a margin to turn round
and talk from. Its effect is that the friend is perpetually straining
to catch up, and the pace thus steadily accelerates till both are
practically racing. Then one gives up, and both lag, until the game
starts again. The habit is often unconscious, but it is extraordinarily
irritating on a long tramp, or to a tired companion.
A third breach of manners, all too common, is passing ahead in the line
of march. Over most broken country, glacier, snow or rough hillsides,
men naturally fall into single file. Cattle tracks or man tracks
are rarely wide enough for two abreast, and if it is a question of
selecting a line, it saves reduplication of the effort to leave the
task to one and to drop in behind him. There are few inexperienced
walkers who do not take advantage of the slightest error in the choice
of route on the first man’s part, to break off and pass him on the
shorter line. In doing so, they take the responsibility of taking all
the rest who follow off the line also. On an ordinary hill walk, when
the going is all free and easy, this is excusable,--no one is compelled
to follow another longer than suits him; as also in the case when the
first man is obviously mistaken, and to cut his line is a distinct
saving of effort for those who follow. But, done as by one of a line
of men either tired or with a big day before them, where one has been
taking the extra burden of route-selecting for the rest, it is a
serious breach of mountain manners. The gain is probably only a yard or
two, and the front man may justly resent having been left the labour of
choosing the route at a hundred points, only to have advantage taken
of his single doubtful choice in order to displace him. He either
runs ahead to regain his place, and the rhythm of the party is broken
in a silly competition none the less irritating that it is rarely
acknowledged in words, or he plods behind with a slight sense of injury.
A more debatable occasion, where the same point comes into prominence,
is on the ascent of steep slopes or open hillsides. An experienced
front man will probably take these on a zigzag. To a less experienced
walker, and to all beginners of energy and leg muscle, it is generally
a temptation to cut the zigzags on the direct line, and so pass ahead.
This is bad walking, but there is the more excuse for it in that on
such slopes men rarely do follow each other exactly, and most of the
party will probably be preferring each to take his zigzag at the most
comfortable angle to himself. The best rule of manners to remember is
that, while every man is free to choose any line and pace he likes on
such places, yet, if one man has been definitely leading and choosing
the line, the others ought to drop into their places in the line behind
him again so soon as the single-file formation is resumed. It is more
politic to be considered a well-mannered tramp than to assert one’s
powers as a limber hill-rusher.
Another blunder, from which many a good walker is not free, is the
inclination to hurry the pace if the line or short-cut he has chosen
takes the party for a while over worse ground, or proves, for other
reasons, not to have been the best route. His almost unconscious
acceleration is due to some impulse to get back quickly and unnoticed
to good going, and so to slur over the mistake, or the momentary
disagreeability of the route for which he is responsible, as much to
himself as to those who follow. It is a trick to notice and avoid. It
forces the rhythm and pace over just the ground where it should, if
anything, be eased. Men who walk much with parties which are afflicted
with the ‘racing’ or ‘passing’ manias, are particularly liable, from a
sort of nervous self-defence, to develop this failing also.
A leader must not walk carelessly or break the rhythm of step
arbitrarily. The man who forces a plodding following to change feet
unexpectedly does not know his business. Again, when walking in single
file, or any way but comfortably abreast, men inexpert in acting as
guides do not realize that although the man in front can hear all
that is said behind him, yet that, unless he turns his head over his
shoulder and throws his words out, he himself is inaudible down the
line behind him. As the remarks from the leader on a long tramp, and
when men are tired, have usually some direct bearing on the way,
those behind him crowd up to hear; they break step, and are often put
irritably on the strain. The complaint of many a young mountaineer,
that his elder companion will never answer at all while walking,
usually finds its explanation in the fact that the young man’s energy
carries him ahead, and as his remarks are addressed to the scenery,
his companion prefers consistent silence and inattention to the strain
of trying to hear, or to the irritation to himself and his friend of
continually repeating, “What d’you say?” These matters may seem too
slight to mention, but neglect of their observance brings many a party
home with some member or other out of harmony and unappreciative of the
sunset.
In the grumpy morning start or during the evening tired return it is
for such details that the manager has to be most on the look out.
He should, if possible, set the pace himself, and keep it without
questioning or remark to what he judges to be the best pace of the
laggard of the day. He should never let himself be pressed by some
one at his heels, race ahead, or allow others to do so, except for
some specified and universally beneficial reason (such as ordering
tea ahead!), merely because the difficulties seem to be over and the
way plain for the stronger members of his party. There is no pleasure
in being left behind; it provokes a tired man and generally makes him
obstinately slower.
It used to be said, and by the best authorities, that with a tired
or tramping party it is essential to keep the pace always the same,
or they will lose the rhythm that alone can keep them going. This
is a mistake. In the first place, variations in pace are a rest in
themselves, provided that the actual effort put into each step does not
vary. In the second place, it is definitely more fatiguing to be held
back to a fixed pace on a sudden downhill gradient; and it is vexatious
to pass from a long uphill grind on to a level stretch without the
relief of a ‘swing out.’ Similarly, it is futile to change from a level
to an uphill gradient and attempt to keep a party to the same rate.
The mistaken teaching has been due to a confusion between actual rate
of movement over the ground and the amount of effort required for each
step.
Rhythm is essential to ensure good tramping, and to minimize fatigue.
To secure rhythm the amount of effort put into each step, and not
necessarily the pace, should be kept constant. Thus, in changing from
uphill to level ground, the pace can be pleasantly quickened and the
step lengthened, without any increase of effort in the stride or any
change of rhythm. A longer stride is often a positive relief. In
changing from level to uphill the length of the step shortens, since
a lifting step is always more fatiguing, and the pace should be taken
more slowly, though the output of effort is kept the same. On a change
to a downhill gradient it is possible to change to a longer stride, or
even a run, without altering the rhythm or increasing the amount of
effort exacted of the muscles or of the lungs.
In resuming, after a halt, a frequent error is to start too fast.
Young climbers, like young giants refreshed with wind, rush off at top
pace. The re-start should always be slow--if anything slower than the
average pace before the halt. Gradually, as the circulation and organs
begin to readjust themselves to their work, the previous pace can be
recovered. But a halt is definitely making reparation for the past, not
accumulating a margin to waste in the immediate future.
When the energy of the party is running out, it is better to avoid
halts altogether. To break the rhythm in such case and relax the
mechanism is to make the resumption each time more difficult and the
recovery of an equal rate afterwards very improbable.
To lead and choose the line is definitely more fatiguing than to
follow. To save strength and maintain pace, during a long day, the
leader ought to be changed at regular intervals. This is too rarely
done.
[Sidenote: Some Notes on Hill Walking.]
There are one or two further points connected with walking up or down
hill which are matters of method rather than of manners, but which in
so far as they affect the individual comfort react upon the peace of a
party.
In walking uphill, the foot should always be placed so that the heel
rests on the ground. It is a beginner’s mistake to rush a hill and
spring from the toes alone. If the flex of the ankle is stiff--men vary
much in this respect--and the gradient is too steep to allow the heel
to drop, look out for any little stone or excrescence, however small,
to set it upon. If the path is very steep, and without stones, it is
more comfortable to set the foot slightly sideways, so that the heel
gets some support. This is often particularly useful at the turns of
the interminable zigzags on alpine paths, where the track is apt to
swoop up steeply round the bend. If the foot is thus placed slightly
aslant at every turn, it is ready to advance at once after the bend in
the direction of the new zag. A very slight economy, you may say: but
multiply it by several thousand zags in a day!
Always take the outside and easiest line round such curves in ascending
tracks.
The secret of all long grinds uphill is to set, and maintain, a regular
pace that becomes rhythmic from the first. The moment you get behind
a good hill walker, you will see the difference between his regular,
restrained swing, more of the whole body than the leg, and the uneven
jumping step, that seems each time to be a separate balancing effort,
of the inexperienced walker.
Do not take long steps uphill, or lift the foot high. Raise it by
slightly swaying the body across the firm leg and let the loose
foot swing forward with its own weight. A good hill walker, of the
‘tireless’ variety, always moves with a slight balance or sway.
Always ‘accept a slip.’ That is, if the foot slips back on a loose
surface, do not tire the muscles by a convulsive effort to stop it and
to keep your balance. Let the foot go till it stops of itself as the
topple of your weight, out of balance, comes upon it; and then swing
from that point with the other foot.
The effort you put into each step should be kept the same, whatever the
change in the angle of the surface.
If you are leading and doubtful of your pace, try to sing. So long as
you can sing or whistle two lines without panting or effort, you are
keeping within your measure.
On a zigzag uphill, do not take the apparent short-cuts. They are made
by men descending, and only waste strength and spoil rhythm.
On an open hillside, zigzag as if on a path, starting at the angle
which lets you comfortably get the heels down. For a step or two, if
there is no room to zag, you can walk with only the one heel down, and
the other foot springing from the toe; but not for more.
If circumstances make it imperative to go fast, lean well forward over
the feet, and as it were ‘tumble up’ the slope. This eases the work of
the heart. If you have to race, and legs and breath begin to give out,
make the hands do their share, and unashamedly pull the knees up to the
stride by the breeches. You can thus keep a long uphill stride at a
fast pace going long after the leg muscles, unaided, would have given
out.
In descending take the shortest cuts you like. There are two weak
points to look to: one the toes, and the other the muscles of the back,
which do most of the balancing. The toes are protected by well-fitting
boots and a well-placed foot. The back muscles are best indulged
by letting the shoulders go loose, as you do when jog-trotting on
horseback. This eases the effort of balance and the amount of holding
back and taut that the muscles have to perform. It also diminishes the
jar.
Except for grown men, of exceptionally strong ankles and knees, it is
best not to plunge ‘all-out’ downhill, leaping straight-legged from
heel to heel. The legs should be kept under control, and the feet
pointed down and kept well under the body. The knees should be bent,
tense, but not rigid; they will serve to take up all the jar, and act
as springs. The step resembles a dancing pace, with a bent knee.
Do not be shy of using the arms and hands, on trees, rocks or scrub, to
ease in any way the effort of balance and the leg-strain during rapid
descents. An ankle or sinew once wrenched is permanently weakened.
Long, hard road-tramping, with the leg swung straight, is not a good
preparation for climbing. It jolts and stiffens the muscles, and fixes
them in certain stereotyped movements. Good climbing guides are rarely
good or fast road walkers. A long trudge often breaks them down and
renders them unfit temporarily for severe climbing.
Standing about on the feet while the arms are being exercised merely
tires the legs, and does not strengthen them. Many guides, who work
hard at wood-chopping or in quarries during the winter, find their legs
are all to pieces when the season begins. The knees are especially
sensitive in this respect.
A climber’s leg machinery is a delicate engine of educated springs and
fine interactions. It can do a rough-and-tumble better than most, at
need, but it should be guarded for its special and exacting work, and
not battered or shaken out of gear unnecessarily.
Hill walking exercises and develops all the movements of foot, ankle,
knee and trunk which we use in balance-climbing on rock or snow. It
is the best training for the fine and precise motions that we need to
educate. There is no doubt of the soundness of a man’s climbing if he
is seen to be a light and tireless hill walker. He may not necessarily
be brilliant on rocks, but what he does he will do in good style.
If we wish to interest our young folk in climbing, the surest way is
to let them walk and run loose by themselves upon the hills in early
years. Rocks will meet them naturally, and if they are going to climb,
they will begin to climb them naturally as they occur, with the feet
and with the balance they have practised on their hill walks. To take
them to rocks too early, as to a gymnasium, is to spoil their taste and
deprive them of the chance of developing a personal enthusiasm and a
natural style. Every good mountaineer must rediscover the hills and the
passion for climbing them as of himself.
CHOICE OF DISTRICT
One consideration remains for the leader, if it has not been already
decided by the preferences of his party--that of the district he will
choose for the season. A few general principles may help to guide his
choice.
The tour may be either concentric, with ascents made from one or from
a succession of centres, or eccentric, in which case the party will
be moving forward and carrying its own luggage. The first is the more
luxurious, the second the more attractive, holiday. The choice depends
upon the character of the party and upon the weather of the season.
With beginners, in a good season, it is more instructive and
independent to move along a range, crossing passes and taking only
the climbs that come. The same progressive type of tour is the best
to follow in a really bad season, when the big peaks are out of the
question, for the time at least, and when there may yet be a delightful
holiday spent in wandering among the lower Alps below the cloud-level.
Even for those who may be ambitious of big peaks, this is a better
alternative than sitting cooped up with other murmurers waiting for the
impossible in high hotels.
On the other hand, in good but uncertain weather, if the party is
desirous of big climbs, and has to economize its time, it is better to
move by express routes from centre to centre, and to strike for the big
peaks without loss of days, when the good weather comes, and while it
lasts.
In more doubtful weather, when the days are playing at ‘alternates’
but the peaks are still possible on fair days, and when consequently
we are not forced down to the pleasures of low rambling, it is well
to climb still from centres, and from the hotel itself. If, indeed,
the party is aiming at a special peak, it should occupy the nearest
hut, and provision it as a centre, ready to start on the first clear
morning. But if, as is wiser in a bad season, it is wishful to take
anything that offers, it is even better to stay at the central hotel
below--since peaks enclosing a valley are often differently affected
by different kinds of weather--and the party is then in a position to
set out at once for whichever mass first becomes feasible. It can start
overnight, and so avoid the hut altogether. The fatigue and romance of
an all-night tramp are less prejudicial to the chances of a successful
climb on the following day than the depression of a dull and stiff
morning start after a comfortless night.
On the other hand, there is no more memorable experience than to
sleep out in the open air during a spell of settled weather, with
the stars for company and the first stir of wind before dawn as a
strange awakening. The man who wishes to taste the full pleasure of a
mountaineering day should sleep out whenever he can the night before,
and he should lie far enough from his companions to be able to feel
himself alone.
Possibly the pleasantest holiday of all is obtained by a combination
of the concentric and eccentric methods, according as weather and
inclination direct. To wander forward independent of times and plans,
and to make pauses when we wish for more prolonged assaults upon peaks
that tempt us, is a twofold delight. But it postulates leisure.
At home it is natural to base our calculations upon an estimate of a
climb every day. Only when we are faced with the facts on the spot, the
distances, portages and weather, do we recognize that we are lucky if
we can make two or three good climbs a week. We must allow two days for
each big climb, and leave a margin for the off-days. Younger heads or
less experienced legs must be taught this last doctrine for their own
good. The more practised will more easily recall that contrast is the
essence of enjoyment, and that the days of hard going on ice and heated
rocks are only fully realized and remembered if they are relieved by
occasional lapses into tranquil lounging in the grassy valleys, amid
the cool temptations of lemon-ices and clinking teetotal glasses.
If the party, having settled its general plan, has no preference for
any particular district, it may be guided, in the Alps, by a few broad
distinctions as between the best known districts.
The Oberland offers the best opportunities for snow and ice work of
almost all kinds. For this reason the Oberland is often the best choice
in a moderately fine or uncertain summer when the snow has stayed late.
The snow slopes of the gentler Oberland peaks are climbable when the
big ridges of the Pennines or the Mont Blanc region are still closed
to us by snow cloaks and cornices. On the other hand, in a bad summer
the weather is usually at its worst in the Oberland, and the long snow
wades may become intolerable, unless we are prepared to snatch a winter
tour from a bad summer month by traversing the Oberland, with its high
connecting glaciers and summits of easier angle, on ski.
Again, the comparative easiness of the ascents and the training they
offer on ice and snow suggest the Oberland as a good choice for an
introductory tour with beginners, and as an equally good choice for the
preliminary week’s training in any later season. There is no better
introduction, or reintroduction, to alpine work than practice on the
ice of the Aletsch glacier, varied by ascents of the snow and small
rock peaks in the vicinity.
The Pennines offer finer individual peaks, with greater names, and
they are more specially adapted for those who prefer concentric
mountaineering, with bigger single efforts and the company of their
kind. Their variety of type and aspect makes them suitable for
selection in ‘alternating’ weather. Often when other regions are closed
up, and when even its neighbours are shrouded, personal idiosyncrasies
will keep some single Pennine peak open for quick, comfortable ascent.
The merit of the Pennines is their mixed general climbing. They have
fewer great ice and snow climbs to offer than the Oberland or Mont
Blanc, and their rock is inferior to the Aiguilles.
The Pennines of the west, more especially the Val d’Evoléna, have the
pleasant characteristic of offering short, condensed and possible
climbs in bad seasons, when the bigger peaks are unapproachable, and
when the Oberland may be indulging its habit of making bad weather
worse. They, too, are an excellent introduction to mountaineering; but
their miniature attractions have a somewhat dangerous fascination for
British climbers, whom they are apt to hold spellbound even in good
seasons, and withdraw from hardier and greater enterprise.
In a fair summer, the Chamonix Aiguilles are the flame-points on the
crown of great rock climbing. For length, and as a test of skill, they
have no equal in Europe. They also include some magnificent snow and
ice ascents. But it is their rock that marks them out as supreme. As a
consequence, many British climbers make the mistake of going to them
too soon, before they are equal to their demands. It is better to keep
them as a great reward for labour when our developed mountaineering
technique can enable us not only to overcome, but to enjoy the infinite
variety of problems, and when we can feel not only participators in an
ascent, but masters of ourselves and of the difficulties throughout
their exceeding length. I have seen more than one of the most noted
performers on British rocks and from the eastern Dolomites, men who
could frolic up the Grépon crack, forced, from pure muscular fatigue,
to ask for the rope before the Grépon summit was reached, and only
rediscover the pleasure of the ascent of the Dru a full day after their
return from the traverse.
To men who can get all that they want of difficult rock in our own
islands, the Dolomites of the Eastern Alps present fewer attractions in
sunny seasons. Their greater distance is a disability, and they offer
small snow and ice practice. But in bad seasons they are an admirable
last resort, and an escape to their warm, dry and coloured levels, or
rather heights, may send many a party, disappointed elsewhere by ill
weather of its alpine season, home in good health and firm muscle.
The great southern wall of the Alps, from Courmayeur to Macugnaga and
farther, offers the greatest combined ice and rock mountaineering
on the largest and most formidable scale. For those who know its
secrets there is also the attraction of many smaller ascents, with
the incomparable views as background. But it is not a region for bad
weather, or for any but very competent parties.
Early in the season the Southern Alps, from Savoy and Cogne almost
down to the Mediterranean, make an exquisite wandering-ground, all too
little visited. In May and June we can often enjoy among them flowers,
clear climbing and free wandering, long before their big northern
brothers have shaken off their winter coats of snow and storm. They
retain much of the undiscovered charm of the great Alps in earlier
days, and a variety of beauty that can challenge comparison with the
impressiveness of greater heights.
I have intentionally avoided mentioning those secluded and particular
districts which it must be the fortune of all faithful mountaineers to
discover for themselves, and where every enterprising party may gain
the reward of its independence and experience in the certainty that
it has found, at last and alone, the one perfect region, perfectly
contrived, for all purposes of climbing and enjoyment.
INCIDENTAL DUTIES
[Sidenote: Hut Usages.]
Launched in his chosen region, and with his chosen comrades, the
management of a leader has to observe, beyond his primary duty to his
own party, one or two usages of an extraneous or incidental character.
If he is using huts, in the Alps or elsewhere, he should acquaint
himself with the rules, written or not, of hut usage. Most will suggest
themselves. To tidy up and leave everything in better order than he
usually finds it. If other parties are in the hut, to keep the axes
from cumbering the ground, and confine the wet clothes and wet boots to
harmless corners. To arrange provisions and the rest the night before,
so as to diminish the general confusion in starting by at least the
quiet exit of his own party. To disturb sleepers as little as their
customary assumption, that they are the only tired men who may, or
will, ever use the hut again, will generally allow. Not to break open a
hut or use any part of it for firewood except in desperate need; and to
pay somewhere, or somehow, for any inevitable or accidental damage.
There is a further duty, which he owes to the position of his own
party and to that of others also occupying the huts. If his party
are merely guests, they are dependent upon the courtesy of other
inhabitants for any treatment they receive more cordial in character
than the sufferance usually extended to uninvited guests. But if,
as every mountaineer in his chosen region should do, they have made
themselves members of the local organization, he should insist, without
demonstration, for the sake of sound hut tradition as well as for the
improvement in the morals and manners of the other occupants (supposing
they show themselves disobliging), upon the relations being those of
courteous equality. As between his own and other amateur parties this
insistence will rarely be needed; for the tradition of comradeship
among amateur climbers of all nations has seldom to be recalled by
remonstrance. But as between his own guides and other guides, or other
guides and his own guideless party, the footing sometimes calls for a
prompt clearing away of the stones. Local guides are apt to take any
advantage of a foreign or younger guide who appears. As is elsewhere
described, the mental attitude of a guide in hut or hotel becomes
generally that of the servant or dependent of his employer. He is no
longer the free man on the hills, who will be himself the first to
resent any incursion on the rights of his party. Once in the hut the
amateur, in his turn, becomes responsible for looking after his guide.
A guide’s hut manners prevent him making any fuss, even though his own
party’s interests are suffering; as, for instance, when he is deprived
of his precedence at the cooking-stove, or is left an unfair share of
the collective washing-up. Like a swan on a new reach of a river, the
young or stranger guide is very shy. He will often let himself be put
upon by some parochial swaggerer or bullied by a lazy senior of his own
valley. It is in our own interests, and the interests of the future, to
protect him.
Apart from the local or obstreperous guide, the worst offenders against
hut manners are not the guideless parties, who are usually anxious to
do as they would be done by, but the chance ‘professors,’ and other
cunning folk, who have discovered that alpine huts provide free summer
lodging for themselves and their families, or the erratic solitary
wanderers and grouped holiday trippers, who have never learned mountain
manners. With these types decided action, or the decided appearance of
passion, is sometimes the only course.
It is only courteous to use the hut books which are provided for
entries; even though the sight of our own names and objectives in other
company may offend our British habit of climbing hauteur, to which
we ourselves give the titular rank of modesty. The information has a
sentimental interest; it is required by the maintainers of the hut,
and, further, it may be of real service if anything untoward happens
and it becomes necessary to follow the traces of our party.
[Sidenote: Consideration.]
Outside the huts we have a duty also to the fragile paths, which lead
us to the glacier or the hut. They are easily depreciated by careless
use, especially in wet weather, by breaking away the edges, kicking
down boulders, slithering down inclines, etc.
Beyond the paths and the huts, there is a first law not to spoil the
mountains: to leave no traces of meals on the summits or hillsides.
Whoever discovers a portable contrivance for atomizing old bottles will
confer an incalculable benefit upon conscientious mountaineers.
There is also an obligation not to spoil the mountains for others by
heedless manners. This means not merely not to throw or kick stones
on to other parties, or to pass them without their consent, which are
matters that are regulated by positive mountaineering tradition, but
also not to treat them ‘negatively’ when we meet them on the hills, as
if we were all passers-by in the City at the luncheon-hour. I can call
to mind still the annihilating stare of a lady whom I met on the top of
the Weisshorn, because I ventured to remark about the weather without
waiting for the introduction which there was no third party present in
the vast panorama to perform; and again, two sterling Britons passing
on a track in the highlands of Arcadia without greeting, because it
transpired they did not feel that their slight degree of acquaintance
was sufficient to cover a general conversation in which two other
members of their parties, not similarly acquainted, would have had to
be included! These are somewhat fine shades to preserve under primitive
conditions, and foreigners are apt to misunderstand their respectable
origin. It is better, on the whole, to be thought a cheerful idiot by
our own countrymen if we hail their distant appearance on the chance
of their belonging to a more sociable nationality, than to earn the
reputation of racial surliness by allowing our shyness of what our
own party may think to prevent us replying to the shouts of strangers
of possibly more Gallic temperament. It costs little effort to make
a cheerful remark to another party on the hills when we meet or pass
them, and it saves an awkward restraint on both sides if we are fated
to meet them afterwards again, in a hut or somewhere where we have
to be together in harmony. In other countries we may safely imitate
more demonstrative ways without loss of self-respect. A courteous
manner and a ready explanation will take the edge of offence off many
a decided course of mountaineering action, that may run us for a while
beside or across the way of other human beings. It might even be better
if we could introduce into our chance encounters on our own hills
something more of a superficial cordiality, so as to acquire the habit
of conveying to strangers less obscurely the undoubted fellowship we
feel with all other pilgrims of the mountains.
Of course every leader must acquaint himself with the code of rescue
signals now recognized in the mountains, by waving or flashing or
shouting. But he should further consider it as more than discourteous
to refrain from replying to any shout directed at himself or his
party. It is impossible for him to know by instinct what is merely the
salute of high spirits and what may express some more urgent need.
Similarly, if one member of a party gets separated from the rest, and
is out of sight, it is not sufficient for him merely to guide himself
back secretly by their shouts; he should reply to each of their calls,
and so indicate that he is approaching. It is oddly irritating to
keep shouting for an unseen man, realizing that his silence may mean
that he is getting more and more astray, and then see him walk round
the next rock, reproving by his silent proximity both our growing
anxiety and our clamorous waste of breath. Our co-Britons will never
shout unnecessarily, and we should reply each time, and leave the
interpretation to them.
[Sidenote: Some Night Notes.]
In using paths or tracks at night, if a light cannot be procured, it
is worth while remembering that the instinct of the feet is often a
better guide than the straining of the eyes to see. The feet, left
to themselves, will balance naturally along the track, much as the
original makers of the natural paths found it expedient to balance
over the same ground. They will be able to keep the track better of
themselves than if they are driven forward by an ill-balanced body
along an ill-seen line. A leader following a track by daylight may
often wonder in advance at small wanderings which seem to the eye
unaccountable; but as soon as the body in balance reaches the spot, it
follows their sequence quite naturally. Left to themselves, the feet
and body will do much the same in the dark, and keep surprisingly well
upon a track that is not arbitrarily interrupted.
In following a lamp, unless the leader holds it himself, his best place
is not that immediately behind the lamp-bearer, which the selfish will
press for. Detail and dim outline ahead are better seen from farther
back in the line, where the actual glare of the lamp is hidden and
the light is diffused over the way. The eye soon accustoms itself to
half-light, but not to the dazzle of a flame.
(To procure light for a lamp, fire or pipe, especially in a wind, a
familiar method may not be universally known. Part of the stern of a
wax match should be unravelled and a few strands wound loosely round
the head, so as to catch the first flare. To light a wood fire, in camp
or hut, without paper, the wood should be shaved thinly upwards towards
one end of a stick. The shavings should not be completely detached, but
left curling up at the end like the flower on a stalk. Lit at this end,
the stick easily burns and the fire follows.)
A compass and watch with radium points are always useful for all night
hours or hut intervals.
If a path or track is lost in the dark, especially on snow-covered
ground, the party should rope up at the full length of the rope, and
make casts round the end man, who waits at a fixed point ’till it is,
or may be, recovered. The motionless man at the fixed point acts as
pointer for the original direction, and will prevent the complete loss
of orientation in the circle of search.
In the dark on a track the increased risk from the axe-points before
and behind us, as well as from our own, must be kept in mind, and extra
intervals maintained.
Where there is no track, the last man on the rope should carry the
radium compass and correct the direction, as in mist. Even without a
compass he is the better able to keep a line, guided by the rope ahead.
A leader measuring the remainder of a climb against the coming of
darkness must recollect that snow retains light very late--in summer,
in fact, it rarely becomes quite dark. But the snowless lower slopes,
which he will reach last, will be far darker. He must not be deceived,
therefore, by the apparent amount of light still illuminating the
higher snows, into taking things easily.
A party frankly benighted, if it has only a short distance to descend
over ground known to be safe, supposing that a right route, not
difficult to find, can be followed, does best to rope up. This has
the merit of keeping the party together and in line, and confines the
disturbances of falling over rocks and into holes to the person of the
responsible leader.
If he gets benighted on higher ground, as in the Alps, or sees that he
must necessarily become so, the leader should look about for a good
bivouac before the light fails; not press on to the last and then take
the chance of hurriedly finding a suitable shelter or ledge.
Whenever there is no short or easy descent in near prospect, and night
is at hand, it is always wiser to sit out for the few hours of darkness
than to let impatience risk the chance of a sprained ankle or broken
leg.
In selecting a rock for a bivouac in doubtful weather, he has to
remember that unless the roof is absolutely concave, rain will trickle
in and across the roof and make trouble even far within the shelter;
also, that in sleeping on rock or sand or turf it is more important to
comfort to secure a hole for the hip-bone than a pillow for the head of
his charges.
Where only a ledge is available, the members of a party should rope
together, to prevent anyone wandering away or slipping off in sleep.
Song promotes warmth, and preserves harmony--in a sense.
[Sidenote: A Last Task.]
Of the management of the guides during the tour something is said in
a later section. If he has employed them, the leader’s last task of
management, one of regretful but presumably proud memory, will be to
write up the guides’ books. His fashion of entry is governed by no
tradition; which makes these books the more entertaining and varied
reading during dim days in the huts. But if he does not wish to blush
in later years over his early paragons and phrases, and desires to make
the notice, as it should be, of some service to other leaders, he may
be guided by one or two common-sense principles.
A mountaineer of experience, when he looks at a guide’s book before
engaging him, looks first for the signatures he knows, then at the
opinions about the guide which they underwrite, and makes his allowance
for the opinions according to his knowledge of the mountaineering
equation of the owners of the names. Secondly, he looks at what the
man has done, both with the names he knows and with the names he does
not know. The opinions of those whom he does not know he reads merely
in relation to the actual climbs which the man is stated to have done
with them. Thus, when we are writing, since our name is likely to be
known but to few, especially among climbers of other races, it is of
importance first to state clearly what the man has done with us, and
under what conditions, of weather, party, etc.; more particularly, to
state if he has ‘led,’ and what, or if he has come as second guide or
porter. Then, for the benefit of our own race, who will know how to
interpret the ‘atmosphere’ of an English testimonial even though they
do not know our name, we may add an opinion of the man, written very
carefully so as to be read in relation to that which we have stated he
has done with us. For instance, if we have included several big snow
climbs among our list, and then write our opinion that the man is a
‘brilliant rock climber,’ those who can read testimonials will know
what to conclude about his icemanship. If we wish to guard against
such a conclusion being drawn, and yet have had no opportunity of
forming a clear opinion, we should add something conventional, such
as that the man ‘had no opportunity to lead on snow,’ or that ‘the
climbs must speak for themselves:--the conditions were perfect.’ At
the end of a list of fine ascents to say only that a man is ‘willing,’
leaves us in the dark as to how far he took any real part. To say that
he is ‘enterprising’ gives a clearer idea of his initiative. If the
conditions of any climbs on the list are stated to have been trying,
and the opinion adds that he is ‘safe and good-tempered,’ we have
learned something positive to go upon. These are small instances.
The comments should only be made with definite regard to what we
have seen and what we state to have been executed in our employment.
Unrelated generalities are valueless. Similarly, we must confine our
appreciations to what our experience enables us to say with authority.
It is better for this reason to refer our estimate to an absolute
standard of merit, such as other mountaineers will understand, than
to indulge our friendship by writing a character that means nothing
to the initiated, and may get the man a place of responsibility
with the uninitiated for which he is not fit. Our first duty is to
other mountaineers. To say a man is a ‘first-class rock climber,’
if we feel ourselves competent to pronounce so much, is a definite
classification; but to say he is a ‘first-rate rock climber’ is to err
into the meaningless weakness of superlatives. To say he is a ‘fine
iceman’ gives the guide the benefit of an authoritative reference to an
accepted standard; but to say ‘there is no finer iceman in the Alps’
risks the calling of our own experience in question by those to whom
our qualifications for making such a statement are unknown, and does
the guide little good.
We are all inclined to think that our first good guide, or the man who
has brought us well through a difficult situation, must be the finest
fellow in the Alps; and in the moments of generous after-enthusiasm we
are in a hurry to say so with an emphasis that we hope will convince
a cold-blooded later reader that he is at least a very fine fellow.
We produce the same effect better by stating exactly what he did, and
our opinion of this rather than of him, leaving it to other leaders to
draw their own conclusions about the man himself. We avoid then for
the guide the peril of that natural revulsion towards an attitude of
antagonistic criticism into which all northern humanity is prone to
lapse in the presence of other people’s enthusiasm, and for ourselves
the tolerant smile of the time and guide worn mountaineer.
When we read in a guide’s book, returning like an echo from the
records we wrote in our own earlier and romantic days, that ‘there
is no greater rock climber in the present generation, a born iceman,
an intuitive route-finder, a delightful companion and an unrivalled
cook,’ we turn on hastily to another reference, with yet a half-sigh of
good cheer and thankfulness for the assurance that one more very young
climber has started wholeheartedly on our pleasant mountain ways.
WEATHER
There is one variable which belongs to the mountaineering rather than
to the human division of the problems with which management has to
deal. The weather is the background, foreground and middle distance of
all big mountaineering. A change can upset the nicest adjustment of
a climb to the strength of a party or to the length of a day. Every
climber keeps one eye on this irresponsible neutral, which may at any
time turn the scale of the campaign against him.
As a result, no mountaineer will endure, and no leader can afford,
not to be thought a good weather prophet, even though the reputation
be confined to his own mind. In reality, so unaccountable are changes
in the hills, any fame acquired for infallibility must be the result
of a large share of good fortune. The happy confidence in his own
forecasts, that every leader owes it to his party to display, can only
be based upon a few broad considerations, and upon bluff. No previous
appearance of a mountain sky can be taken as sure ground for certain
prophecy. A particular wind or ‘sign’ may mean totally different
weather in two adjacent valleys; or the whole doctrine of the winds may
be unaccountably reversed in an exceptional season. In the Alps, for
instance, a north wind usually means clear, brisk, settled weather;
a west wind, the continuance of unsettled weather; a south wind, a
succession of storms that come and pass. But the seasons from 1909 to
1912 will provide instances of the north wind blowing continuously
through alternate days of excessive and moderating rain and snow,
and of the south and west winds attending an unbroken season of hot
sunshine.
A leader, therefore, besides his groundwork of elementary knowledge,
has to make himself acquainted with local signs of wind and weather in
every season and in any new district; with such details, for instance,
as that in the Zermatt valley “the weather comes from the west,” or
that in Courmayeur we watch the south and west and do not bother
with anything north of the range. Further, that in the Oberland a
north-west wind brings storm, but a north-east wind brings clearing
weather; that bad weather follows closely on a wind blowing over Col
Theodule and round the west of the Matterhorn, but that a wind over Col
du Lion and round the Matterhorn to the east is a fair-weather sign.
He has to discover the relation which the prevailing wind bears to the
weather conditions of a particular season or month. The one thing he
can count upon is the habit that weather establishes in the Alps during
two summers out of three of remaining one thing or the other for a
continued period, once it has started, and of returning to this ‘habit
of the season’ whenever there are not evident signs that it means to
recommence or continue a spell of change.
The scientific study of weather, and its prediction by the barometer
and thermometer, are matters for a whole book, and the authoritative
textbooks are available. Instruments larger than of pocket size are
something of an encumbrance to a climbing party, although I have
always made an exception in favour of the pocket aneroid, because of
the excellent humour with which it blesses its possessor whenever its
statements and those of the atmosphere or the map happen to coincide.
I limit myself here to recalling briefly some of the visible, ordinary
and less esoteric ‘signs’ which have proved of common use in my own
experience, more especially in the Alps.
[Sidenote: Clouds.]
Clouds form our principal sign. It is important to remember that
clouds, while they continue to retain their original form, whatever
that may be, will inflict no rain on us. It is their changes, when they
alter, that we watch, and we predict rain or not according to their
character during and after the changes.
We distinguish between the upper strata of clouds, whose character and
direction are important as giving us the eventual direction of the wind
and the more permanent character of the weather, and the lower strata,
which have only a meaning for the day or hour, and are not prophetic.
In general, clouds in the east alone are a fair sign; clouds in the
west, especially dark clouds, mean rain soon.
High-travelling cirrus clouds portend rain. In the Alps, where the
winds are our real prophets, a distinction is introduced: cirrus,
high and fast on a south or south-west wind, has its usual meaning;
but cirrus on a north, east or south-east wind may accompany or, more
rarely, precede good weather. Castellated cirrus is always a bad sign,
and, where the horizon can be seen, the appearance of cirrus in bands
lengthening up towards the zenith (cirro-stratus) is an unwelcome
event. Dappled cirrus, the so-called ‘roses’ of the south and the
‘sheep flocks’ of the north, implies a change of wind and weather. As
the presence of high cirrus, upon which the change of wind can produce
the dappling, usually means, in the mountains, that uncertain or bad
weather has been preceding the change, the dappling is most often, and
with justice, taken as a good sign. If, however, the weather has been
dull, with merely clouds of heat, and the wind has been good before,
the change portended will be probably for the worse.
Cumulus clouds, when they tower rapidly, and more especially when they
‘topple over,’ or show a tendency to do so, are signals of a change to
rain. A sure method of observing cumulus is to watch some small portion
of the cloud for a space of time. If it grows larger, the sign is a
change for worse weather; if it ravels out and disappears on the warm
air round it, the sign is for good, and the cloud can be disregarded.
Stratus, the long stratified bands of cloud at any height, means bad
weather, and the tendency of cirrus or cumulus to stratify is ominous.
The edges of clouds tell us much of their import: harmless if they are
filmy and ravel out on the warmer air; suspicious if they are hard,
heavily outlined or charged.
An approaching rain-cloud in action is recognizable by the vertical
or slanting lines in the air below it, or by the ‘torn lace’ on the
lower edge. A hail-cloud shows heavier lines. A snow-cloud carries
fuller, harder marginal protuberances, and may be lighter in tone.
Heavy cumulus of this cumbrous sort may often surprise strong sunlight
by a sudden snow-break. Usually we go by temperature and height in
predicting if a ‘wet’ cloud will break in rain or snow.
High ‘mare’s-tails’ betray wind, and predict rain according to their
direction.
‘Fish’ clouds pointing east and west usually mean foul weather;
pointing north and south, fair weather.
Black wisps of cloud before sunrise, especially in a clear sky, mean
early rain. Lighter-toned wisps at this hour have no signification. But
if the lower edges of cloud-films are charged and dark, looking like
ink which has run down into the borders of blotting-paper, we look out
for rain.
Long fingers of cloud radiating from a peak portend storm, particularly
if any one of them betrays the typical thunder-curve. Thunder on a peak
means snow, so we must look out for a cold and electric day.
Thunder-clouds are easily distinguishable. Their form is always
similar. The duplicated outline in the masses of cloud above and below,
the connecting darker neck between, and the leaf-like and invariable
curve of strength where the neck runs out into the profile line of the
upper mass, are sufficiently distinctive. A little further observation
will enable their lines of system and the probable direction of their
movement to be located. The lower mass of cloud may, in cases, be
absent, but the truncated ‘neck’ and the leaf-like ‘curve’ will always
enable us to identify them.
[Sidenote: Wind.]
Even more than the clouds, once we have discovered the habit of the
year and the local signs, the winds are our firm basis for forecast.
The north wind in the Alps is usually for good, though in a bad
season of habit it may, if long continued, bring snow. The south wind
is always fraught with suspicion, until it justifies it. It brings
a succession of storms, but leaves fine intervals. The west wind,
if continuous, means the continuance of unsettled weather, with an
inclination to preserve whatever may be the habit of the year. It is
perhaps the most forcible and trying of winds to encounter on the
ridges exposed to it. The east wind is infrequent and rarely long
continued. Its portent is favourable. The south-west wind means rain
to follow. A change from north to north-west threatens rain. A change
from south-west to north-west--generally a wind on its way to becoming
a north wind--means a change for the better in bad seasons. South-east,
and especially north-east, winds share the good qualities and projects
of the east wind.
The current of the Föhn is recognizable by its accompanying oppression
of warm-parched, or in cases of warm-moist, atmosphere, and by its
depressing effect upon our spirits. It is a harbinger of evil of all
kinds. Its own forerunners are often a massing of heavy-bordered clouds
accompanied by a threatening vividness in all visible coloration. The
Föhn is said to be able to infect, or more probably alternate with,
any wind from any quarter; but we know of it in summer usually in the
south or south-west winds. In the south it is ‘dry,’ in the south-west
it is ‘wet,’ Föhn. Its presence ruins the best-directioned wind; it
underthaws the snow dangerously and spoils our tempers inexplicably.
Sudden gusts and round-the-compass winds are of ill omen. As between
cross-currents of wind, at different levels, the higher alone is worth
attention. Valley currents, particularly those off glaciers, are only
misleading.
The simple sky signs, familiar not only in mountains, give us further
assistance.
[Sidenote: Signs in General.]
A red sunrise is bad; a red sunset good. Sunrise on a grey sky means a
fair day; sunset on a grey or pale yellow sky means a rainy day, on a
bright yellow sky a windy day.
A ‘high dawn,’ the sun showing first over a vapour belt, is an ill
sign; a ‘low dawn,’ the sun leaping from the horizon, a good sign.
If the distant sky at dawn, especially to the west, is low and dark,
there will be breaking weather by noon.
A dark blue sky tells of wind, and probably rain to follow; a light
blue sky is of fair weather.
All over bright or gaudy colours at sunrise or sunset, and all hard
outlines, foretell rain and wind. Delicate colours, well-blended tones
and filmy cloud edges are fine-weather prophets.
Rings round the sun or moon, and vivid twinkling stars in the later
night, are bad signs. Clear nights of cold, and calm and quiet stars
before dawn, are good.
Heavy dews and the falling of the wind at sunset are good signs.
The clearness and nearness of distant hills, except just after rain, is
a bad sign; but here we may distinguish between a clear landscape when
we face towards the sun, which is an ill sign, and a clear landscape
as we stand with our back to the sun, which is quite usually a fair
sign.
Ascending mists on hillsides are bad. Mists in valleys at evening,
clouds lifting at sunset, and hilltops smoking their pipe of evening
peace, are good.
Warm airs as we pass up the lower alps or through the pinewoods mean us
well; but warm nights on the height and in the hut, or the sickly puffs
of warm breath that meet us from the large crevasses as we start up the
glacier before dawn, are omens of ill weather.
Early rain, ‘rain before seven,’ has no serious meaning; it rarely
lasts.
Early white mists should never frighten us from starting, but we must
judge them by feel, texture and direction of movement. An early ominous
mist has a different quality, and lies differently from a simple mist
of the hour.
During the day feeling or instinct is still our principal guide as
to the durable character of changes or of threats of changes. More
especially we go by the feeling of the wind. With a good wind, local
clouds may be disregarded. The eye learns to distinguish between the
heavy leaden-edged look of an increasing mist, and the peculiar silvery
wet aspect, markedly round its edges, of a mist that is in process of
absorption in warm atmosphere.
One of the most beautiful, and baleful, warnings in the Alps is the
view out and across a golden sea of clouds washing up out of Italy or
from the south. They often signify the Föhn. So long as the wind blows
off the mountains, they will be kept below for the day; but once they
begin to make breaches in the walls and surge over the battlements, a
bad afternoon or morrow is in prospect. The change from their golden,
fairy-like distant greeting to their wet, cold and gloomy embrace makes
us reluctant to recall that they are really the same clouds we admired
those hours before.
On large peaks there may be severe local storms even while the sky in
general remains undisturbed. Rock peaks, for example the Matterhorn,
are conspicuous offenders. A small blister of dark, steady cloud may
imply a raging storm on the face below it. Not only at the moment, but
as it affects the later condition of the mountain, the occurrence of
these storms has to be reckoned with.
From a spell of covered or of broken weather we look for a clearing
snowfall as our deliverance; and the more confidently if the wind has
continued throughout to blow from a good quarter, north or east. If the
fall is followed by clear days and three cold nights, we shall find our
high ridges in perfect condition again. If the weather continues broken
and therefore warmer, the snow will at least not have made things
worse; it will have thawed rapidly. It is also worth remembering that
in warmer, broken weather what has fallen as snow at one level may have
been only rain at another, even at a higher, and the moment the clouds
clear we shall, be able to profit by the calculation. I have known the
same storm to have fallen as rain in the valley, snow on the slopes,
and rain again on the high ridges.
[Sidenote: Habit of the Season.]
The habit of the season is always the first matter of study on
returning to the hills. In a habitually fine season, it is safe to go
up to a hut even on a bad day, on the fair chance of a fine recovery
on the morrow. For the same reason, in a habitually bad season, it is
too late to wait for the fine day, and then go up to the hut or out to
the camp. A leader who braves the ridicule of the hotel and the gloom
of the glass, and takes his party up to the hut, with hope undiminished
by failure, on bad days in uncertain seasons, will catch each short
break as it comes, and get a record of climbs that will shock his
valley advisers. He must base his choice, as between the bad days,
upon his observation of the habit that is governing the vagaries of
the season. A very common feature, in unfavourable alpine months, is
the alternations of possible and impossible weather occurring almost
every day--a wet day, followed by a fine morning; a breaking afternoon,
and again a wet day. It is thus most important to “get the alternate
right,” and to correct the order of his going, if to ascend to the hut
on each first fine day proves disappointing. In a recent so-called
‘bad’ season a party ascended thirteen peaks in three weeks, by getting
their ‘alternates’ right at the start, while most parties got only four
or five expeditions in the same time. Occasionally the alternate is one
fine day, or fine half-day, in every three. To meet this habit, or to
discover the order of the alternates in the first place, it is sound
to take up two full days’ provisions to the hut, and to wait there for
a day, if the first day fails to change. A fine morning will suffice
for most climbs suitable for uncertain weather, and a party who have
had courage, and faced the mist, and enjoyed the empty hut at night and
a long fair morning’s climb, will often be granted the extra pleasure
of meeting the usual crowd swarming up to the hut in the afternoon,
attended by every sign of the regular return of clouds and rain.
[Sidenote: Persistence.]
The real principle is to keep on trying in unchancy seasons, and
back up the effort by whatever weather instinct or opportunity of
observation we may enjoy. In valleys continuously cloud-covered
observation becomes uncertain; often the weather may be already clear
at higher levels while it lurks in mist in the valleys. Instinct as
much as judgment must then tell us if we may chance a start, on the
probability that the cloud is really thin and the summits in sun. An
attempt is always worth while if the party is getting depressed by
a succession of days of idle cloud in the hotel. Chance often helps
our predictions. The occasions when instinct or a momentary sight
of the higher and important clouds has given the impulse, added to
the occasions when a bold face has been assumed, in spite of a low
blanket of mist round the hut or hotel, and a start has been ordered
on the chance at the best of clear weather above and at the worst of a
bracing tramp up and back, all taken together have made many a lasting
reputation for miraculous weather wisdom. Some of the most enduring
mountain memories are of days thus retrieved from weeks of ill weather,
and spent upon sunny peaks projecting, with only a few isolated and
lofty companions, from the seas of cloud that covered all the valleys
and lower heights, and with them most of our less fortunate fellows.
Until we possess local weather knowledge, and have rather more to
go upon than bluff, a climb should never be actually started in
threatening weather, still less persisted in against bad weather; which
is a different thing from insisting upon going up to the hut or to the
base of the peak on the chance of a change.
Snow, and continued rain, which may mean snow at higher levels, must
be accepted as definite bars to starting at all.
Cloud, however, is less justifiably used as an excuse for delay in
leaving a warm hut on a dull morning. The personal bias in prediction
must be allowed for before dawn. Guides, who are too often treated
as infallible prophets, are as susceptible as amateurs, at this hour
especially, to specious promptings from the spirit of comfortable
inaction. They are apt to delay a start hour after hour, in a hut or
camp, for the mist-bank to clear and the day to show its hand; and this
with entire unreason. If the weather is going to clear at all, it will
do so at the earlier hour at higher levels; and it is common sense not
to lose valuable time. The sooner we go up the sooner shall we meet the
sun, or find out that it is not there for the day.
Even a stay in a hut is more tolerable than confinement in an hotel.
For this reason, and to save the time and patience spent upon going up
and down from the hut, as well as to be on the spot to catch the right
day, it is often pleasanter to stay up at the hut, and send down a
porter each day for provisions. We are then ready when the change comes
in uncertain seasons.
Snowfall, however, with its hopeless prospect and unpleasing chilly
presence, will suffice to send us down without question. Continued snow
will send us yet further; unless we can arm ourselves with the short
summer ski. In that case we may still refuse to admit defeat, and mint
golden days out of the ashes of a heartless season.
I am speaking here only of weather in the Alps. In more distant
and less hospitable ranges, where the base camp and the rescue of
civilization are more remote, the same persistent course cannot be
maintained in face of continued bad or changeable weather. In small
climbing, as in Britain, we need not regard weather at all. It enforces
all the observation it deserves by the definite limits which wet or
snowy rocks put upon the degree of difficulty which it is safe or
comfortable for us to attempt, and by the temporary discomforts and
restrictions that wind or snow inflict upon our daily expeditions.
TRAINING
[Sidenote: The Framework.]
If any layman in anatomy has ever kept his fingers on trunk or sides
while walking down or up hill, he will have been astonished at the
amount of work that is done by groups of muscles wholly remote from
the calves or thighs upon whose development he has proudly relied.
Suppleness and an even development of hardened muscle all over the body
are what tell in climbing, not local bulges. Most men are designed by
nature to develop most spring, suppleness and strength at a point of
general muscular development which will never earn their portraits a
place beside the corrugated limbs of the gentlemen on the hoardings.
Of course a naturally big-muscled man must remain big-muscled. But it
is the quality of the muscle that counts. Whatever there is, large or
small, it has to be spun into fine silk. Any effort to develop unduly
some group of muscles, in arm or leg, will even prejudice the ease
with which a man can recover in training the harmonious control of his
machinery at its best, and the artificial muscle is apt to degenerate
into fat when he goes out of training. A man, evenly developed
according to his potential strength, even when he goes out of training
has little difficulty in preserving a level, if lower, plane of general
fitness and suppleness; and when the time comes for winding up or for
relaxing, his condition moves evenly and easily up or down, and he is
ready, in a few days if he is young, in rather more as time goes on, to
climb again at his best.
To keep in moderate training out of season, any regular exercise in
the open air is sufficient which exercises different parts of the
apparatus of the body in their relation to one another, and which holds
the attention. Monotonous repetitions of particular muscular movements
are of little service. They bore the mind and weary the nerves; and it
is the interworking of his nerves, muscles and will that a climber has
to train. If he is prevented by circumstances from getting open air
exercise, he may find fencing the most effective, concentrated and
lasting indoor practice which he can fit conveniently into his working
day. An hour’s hard fencing with both hands, comprising exercises, free
play and a cold douche to finish, uses every muscle and connection of
the body to the full, but risks no local strain. For in fencing every
movement must be supple and yet controlled; the whole system is kept
concentrated, and at full tension, upon movements minute, quick and
fine. The training in rapid adjustments and lightning reactions is
invaluable to the climber, and its unboisterous character makes it
possible of continuance without prejudice well into old age.
If he can face them, dancing and skipping are admirable exercises to
the same end. Tree climbing, or even haystack climbing, where possible,
are also fine climbing practice. Swimming and sculling exercise organs
and muscles smoothly and develop them evenly. Swimming has no equal
as an exercise for growing strength. It runs no risk of violent local
strain, and it cannot be continued beyond the point of wholesome
fatigue. In all its varieties and attendant circumstances it combines
more educative merits than any other form of open air sport.
My own view is that the development of special groups of muscles
is best left for the climbing days themselves to effect. ‘Morning
exercises,’ before the cold bath, are excellent to get the circulation
right, and better than nothing for climbers whose day allows them no
more wholesome outdoor activity. Among special exercises I should put
first those that strengthen the forearm and fingers, for ‘gripping’;
those that build up the muscles of the trunk, which have the greatest
share of work to do in climbing; those that train the body to balance
easily up and down on one leg, for balance; and those (if there are
any but wood chopping) which prepare the shoulders and trunk for the
movement of step cutting. But the working in easy combination of
groups of muscles is what the climber aims at. Excessive exercise
of independent groups is apt to militate against quick muscular
interaction. It is well, therefore, to make movements in combinations,
and constantly to vary them. This helps to keep the attention
concentrated. So does a looking-glass. Boredom invalidates the whole
effort. Each movement should represent a separate effort of the will.
[Sidenote: The Organs.]
For a climber the lungs and heart must be the chief care. The action
of walking uphill, the lifting of foot and arm continuously and with
effort, make a sustained extra demand upon these organs especially. In
climbing they have to supply the fuel consumed in muscular effort, and
to throw off the poisonous residue, in greater quantity than in normal
action, and at an increased pace. The effects of the extra effort,
shortness of breath, fatigue, exhaustion, even, in cases, suffocation,
are symptoms of the failure of the heart and lungs, in varying degrees,
to maintain the equilibrium between the supply and discharge of fuel.
The muscle cells and the lungs are being starved of their substance,
and the acids are accumulating too rapidly to be naturally got rid of.
The heart is consequently enfeebled, the lungs get choked, and the
exhaustion increases progressively. The severe muscular strain of a
difficult rock feat is in this way doubly exhausting. The local tension
is consuming the muscle cells at an abnormal rate, and therefore
putting an excessive demand upon the heart and lungs to keep them
supplied; and at the same time the contraction of all the great muscles
of the trunk, involved in the local effort, is compressing the great
organs from outside, and thus impeding their action in producing the
increased supply required. Hence the ‘panting’ of an untrained climber
after any severe rock passage, however short the effort.
Now, both heart and lungs can learn by practice to perform their normal
functions at more than double their normal rate, and yet to maintain
the equilibrium in the supply and discharge of fuel such as is needed
to allow them to continue their free action.
Hence a climber is concerned to accustom his heart to accelerate,
without enfeebling its action and thus diminishing the amount of fuel
which each pulsation is supplying. Also, so to exercise his lungs that
a number of breathing sacks, not usually employed, may be ready and
accustomed for easy use whenever the extra call may be put upon them.
By practice a number of dormant lung sacks, as well as those in normal
use, may be actually increased in elasticity and volume, so that the
lungs as a whole will be prepared to receive a far greater quantity of
‘breath,’ whenever that may be required for a greater effort.
The training for the heart is a regular and increasing graduation of
effort, developed in healthful exercises such as walking, running,
swimming, wood chopping, etc., and practised until even a violent or
long-sustained effort can be made without panting or discomfort.
The training for ‘breath’ is deep breathing; from the bottom of the
lungs, and through the nose as much as through the mouth; practised
either in the course of natural open air exercise, or, almost as
effectively, by slow inhalation and exhalation, for a few moments each
day, in the best air obtainable. To increase the capacity of the lungs
is to increase the chest measurement, that healthful vanity which
mountaineering, above all exercises, flatters. Contrary to our ideas
as boys, this is effected from the inside, by breathing, and not from
the outside, by arm exercises, etc. ‘Chest’ exercises, indeed, help
to make supple the ligaments of the outside framework, and so permit
of a greater elasticity in the breathing cells within. Otherwise they
are only of use in so far as they demand, or are accompanied by, deep
breathing.
[Sidenote: Will and Nerves.]
A climber has also to remember the very active share that his will
power must take in difficult or prolonged mountaineering. He depends
upon his will to supply to a large extent the impulse, physical and
moral, when nerves and muscles begin to show signs of unwilling
service. Among some of the greatest of mountaineers, will has to a
notable extent supplied the place of physique. They have climbed
on their ‘vitality,’ as we say; on the success of their will in
maintaining the impulse to movement long after the muscles have
protested their inability to continue the rate of consumption of energy.
The impulses of the will are communicated physically. Their
transmission exhausts nerve-fibre as materially as muscular action.
As the muscles tire, the messages from the will quicken and increase.
The nerve transmitters get irritated, and finally revolt. As a result,
we have the frequent mountaineering symptoms of ennui, irritation,
conscious fatigue and, in extreme cases, of complete nervous incapacity
to resolve upon making another step. But the nerves call for a truce
before the muscles are actually exhausted. The muscles, male fashion,
invariably protect themselves by retaining some reserve of energy, if
only a way can be found of exacting it. Some new interest or excitement
may do this; the messages are then switched on to other nerve-lines,
the congestion of monotony is relieved, and the will resumes control of
the communications, to the extent of obtaining whole hours of further
effort from the striking muscles.
But training offers us a surer way of postponing or avoiding these
strikes. The body is animated in two fashions from the spinal nerves:
by the messages that pass through the brain--I speak as a layman--and
by those which serve that mysterious but autocratic regent of our
habits, the ‘subconsciousness.’ Under the latter are grouped all our
automatic actions, and the more actions we can qualify for admission
to its extremely select group of well-ordered subjects, the fewer
sequences of orders will the dictator-brain have to promulgate on
their account, and the less congested will be the nerve-lines of
communications. Walking, for instance, is, with most people, a
subconscious action. Once the impulse to step out has been given, the
legs will continue to walk automatically so long as the look or feel of
the familiar smooth surface continues to suggest the familiar reflex. A
change of surface may disturb and therefore make the effort conscious;
otherwise the walking can be maintained without fatigue for a much
longer time than the same group of muscles could have held out had they
been performing some unfamiliar action, and therefore been under the
direction of conscious impulses.
The human frame, in attaching itself at two, three or four points
to any ordinary surface, is capable of only a limited number of
positions. Holds upon rock or ice, suitable for use, not unnaturally
recur frequently in similar groupings upon the same type of surface.
Consequently, there are whole series of positions of the body and
limbs which are constantly repeating themselves in climbing. The more
of these subconscious associations which a climber can succeed, by
practice, in establishing, as between familiar sequences of holds and
automatic adjustments of his motions to their requirements, the fewer
calls will he have to make upon nerves and will, and the greater,
therefore, will be his endurance. It is largely on this account that
a climber, as he gets experience, finds that he can climb with always
decreasing effort. It is for this reason also that long, continuous
rock ridges, with oft-recurring situations, form the best initial
training for young mountaineers and the best annual reintroduction for
their elders.
A climber who can get away, if only for a day or so, at frequent
intervals, to rocks small or big behind his house or on convenient
hills, secures the best training for his balance, his nerves and
his muscles, not by attempting extravagant gymnastic problems, but
by practising, and always adding to, the number of his sequences of
familiar climbing movements. He must learn to perform these with such
facility that, finally, their execution becomes subconscious. On a
long climb ten out of every twelve situations will be familiar to
experience. Suitable training will enable him to meet these ten with
the right motions, without conscious effort, automatically. The nerves
and the will-power are thus economically kept in reserve for the
remaining two.
[Sidenote: Nerve.]
Many of us take a day or two at the beginning of the season to get
back our ‘nerve.’ We boggle at a bold reach, or feel inclined to
crawl where we know we should stride. This is not due to any fine new
sensitiveness to mountain danger, acquired during our civilized sojourn
in the plains; it has nothing to do with vertigo or effect of height.
It is simply lack of condition. By inaction we have allowed sets of
automatic motions to become unfamiliar. The will has, therefore, to
take charge, and does so tentatively, like a professor of metaphysics
left in charge of a class of elementary school-children. The nerve
communications are sluggish from disuse; the muscles are out of
control, and distrustful of what the arbitrary will may ask of them. We
become ‘nervous,’ and potter. This can all be avoided by reasonable and
light practice. Regular exercise of the heart, the lungs, the muscles
and the nerve-lines of communications, with occasional repetitions of
our groups of familiar subconscious motions, will maintain a general
level of fitness even out of training. If the machinery is kept working
smoothly, we can soon get it going at high pressure again, and can
return to top condition without any local strikes or nerve signals.
The final tuning up to meet the call of the mountain holiday will then
proceed easily, of itself, in action. For a man whose system is set,
and who practises a consistent habit of living, the amount of actual
exercise required during the intervals to preserve his elasticity is
usually small, and tends to diminish. This is one of the compensations
of advancing years.
[Sidenote: Height and Reach.]
No man by any pleasing afterthought can add to his height; although by
suppling his shoulders and lengthening by exercise his trunk muscles
he can extend his apparent upward reach. The stride of the tall man
before us over soft snow; the long-armed man’s careless caress of a
salvation hold well beyond our reach; the inimitable and perpetual
rhythm maintained by the Agile Gibbon of the Zoological Gardens, on the
security of his four whiplash limbs,--these are natural advantages,
whose injustice we may challenge but not compete with. Their regretful
contemplation suggests, however, the possible usefulness of a warning,
and some consolations.
A man of great reach, whose span from toe to upstretched finger
approaches or exceeds eight feet, has one undoubted advantage on
difficult rocks, where holds are rare and precious. If his legs are
long enough to allow him to sit across the smooth sheer walls of a
chimney or to straddle it on small footholds, he has yet another. But
he must expect to suffer from the drawbacks incidental to height. A
tall man may be weak in the body muscles, with less suppleness and ease
of balance, or, if he is muscularly developed all over, his weight is
apt to increase with time out of all proportion to the suspensory power
of his fingers on small holds. If he is tall, slight and sinewy, his
strength of arm and hand is rarely proportionate to his greater weight,
or equal to the greater expenditure on leverage which height requires
of arms in balance climbing. If he is tall, muscular and heavy, this
weakness pursues him in the same ratio. If chimneys are narrow, he
is too long to ‘bridge’ them securely; if the holds are tricky and
slight, he finds greater difficulty and effort in ‘folding up’ so as
to use them, and in keeping his centre of balance well in and above
his feet. It is a consolation for a short or slight man that great
experts in climbing are to be found among men of every build, with a
preponderance in favour of those of medium height and of sinewy and
supple rather than of big muscular development. The outside feats of
rock climbing, the abnormal climbs made by a few men in recent years,
undoubtedly require abnormal strength of finger and arm, not seldom
accompanied by great size of hand. But these men have also possessed
an equal development of strength and rhythm in body and leg; their
all-round design has been abnormal. When, as in one or two cases, their
exceptional physical development has been assisted by great height
or great reach, without loss to rhythm or balance or to the sterling
quality of supple sinews, the perfection of the climbing machine has
been attained.
For the normal climber to imitate the performance of these men is to
incur a proportion of danger, the measure of the interval between their
abnormal reach and power and his own, expressed in terms of all too
distant or too indefinite rock holds, such as no sane man has the right
to risk from any emulative or competitive feeling.
Every climber has to recognize that there is an absolute upper limit
to that which it is physically possible for a body of his design, when
developed to its utmost, to perform. If he concentrates upon an even
and efficient training of his own measure of power, and climbs always
well within his confident capacity, he will have the gratification, as
time goes on, of finding that his improving knowledge of himself, added
to his increasing experience, enables him, little by little, to reduce
the margin between his own achievements and the humanly impossible.
By a pleasing accident in rock structure, rock is either utterly
impossible, smooth or stratified at gigantic intervals, or its
cleavages and intrusions, and consequently its holds, occur at
intervals within the average man’s reach. While a tall man has,
therefore, a greater choice of holds, qualified in his case by a
greater effort in using them, a shorter man has only to perfect his
skill, and to profit by his lightness and balance, to be able to keep
level with him in performance on all normal rock. Again I except
the superman climbs, which are climbs made by exceptional men upon
exceptional accidents in rock structure.
As a further compensation, peculiar to advancing years, a lightly
built man who lives healthily finds less difficulty in recovering
a condition of hard training and in keeping up his standard of
achievement. Failure in wind or increase in weight may make the
process of recovery longer each year by a few days, but he has not the
handicap to contend with which threatens the big or heavily muscled
man, who requires constant and intensive exercise to check the local
degenerations which increase with time.
Climbing is one of the few exercises that can be continued well into
what used to be deemed old age. Trained nerve, tough sinew, supple
muscle, experience in adjustments, in balance, in foresight and in
economy of strength, compensate for the loss of youth, for its fire
and spring. An old climber of the balance school can mountaineer in
the front rank until the last, and, by a happy compensation which no
other interest enjoys, when the deterioration of the body finally
begins and the natural powers fail, the desire for the fiercer emotions
of difficult climbing contentedly diminishes. In their place the
inexhaustible mountains discover a whole range of subtler sensations;
returning for our feet the echo of lost rhythmic movements perfected
by complacent memory, and using even the shadows of our sunset years
to throw into relief treasures both of human and picturesque interest,
which were unnoticed or hurried over in the daylit enthusiasm of
athletic youth.
PACE
Pace is a matter of vital importance in mountaineering of any
magnitude. Unfortunately, guide-books of recent years, by recording
the ‘best times’ taken on ascents for future guidance, have given
a certain amount of encouragement to racing for records and so to
competitive climbing. A confusion has thus been produced between pace
and racing in the minds of many sound mountaineers. The mere mention of
the word ‘pace’ provokes them to a protest against record-breaking. A
natural, but equally dangerous, reaction has followed, which condemns
consideration of ‘times’ altogether, and advocates “idling on the
great ridges” as the peculiar joy of the guideless or the true-hearted
mountaineer.
[Sidenote: Adjustment of Time.]
Pace does not mean racing. It means the adjustment of the length of the
climb to the length of the day, and the adjustment of the progress of
the of climber to the length of the climb. A certain amount of ground
must be covered in all great ascents, and there are only certain hours
of daylight in which to cover it. No mountaineer is competent who
cannot relate in advance the measure of daylight at his disposal to the
measure of the distance to be traversed, and keep to that measure in
action. Only the men who know how to save time upon this calculation
have it to spend upon hours of luxurious rest and interval. There is
nothing more fatal to pleasure or to safety than to realize, perhaps
too late, that the race with darkness and benightment has begun. Those
who are loudest in the valley in their protest against climbing by the
watch are the most often challenged or beaten by night in this, the
most dangerous form of racing.
[Sidenote: Benightment.]
Getting benighted is not a pleasure, and it is rarely necessary.
It has been given a false halo of romance by the practice and the
picturesque descriptions of a number of guideless mountaineers, who
first render it inevitable by attempting what is beyond them, or by
carrying great weights, and then seek to convince themselves and the
world that the consequent night out on a lofty ledge or glacier forms
an essential and agreeable part of mountaineering. It is neither. On
a rare occasion it may be unavoidable, as the result of unforeseen
circumstances, bad weather or altered conditions coming on too late
to allow of the proper alternative, which is to turn back in time. If
benightment is frequently incurred, it is a sign of some grave defect
in mountaineering judgment. As a habit it is folly.
By daylight the climber has the hundred chances of activity, warmth and
sight in his favour. At night he is the passive and blinded recipient
of any evil chance that storm, cold, wind, illness or accident may
bring him. To be on a mountain unprepared at night is to increase the
percentage of danger incalculably; and stars, sunrise and sunset can be
enjoyed without its unaccountable risk.
Most European mountains are of a height to be climbed, with a
reasonable calculation of pace, in a single day. When they are beyond
this range, huts are to be found, or a bivouac can be contrived. The
night out by intention at the beginning of an ascent has more than the
romantic pleasure, because none of the dangerous discomfort, of the
night out by miscalculation at its end. This reasonable anticipation
presupposes a precise estimate in advance of the pace required, as well
as of the length of the climb. Such an estimate does not mean fixing
such and such hours for so much of the ridge, and so much time for
every halt, which is slavery; but it implies a general preconsideration
of what ground must be covered and within what general divisions of
time certain fixed points should be reached in order to allow of a safe
return by daylight.
Pace is the regulation of the progress, and of the halts, of the party
in relation to these general fixed points.
[Sidenote: Weight Handicaps.]
To carry unnecessarily heavy loads as a precaution against cold or
hunger in case of benightment--a very common custom--is to increase
the actual probability of the event by further checking the rate of
progress. It is better to go as light as possible, with the minimum
of portable protection sufficient to preserve life in case of
ill-fortune, and to concentrate all the energy upon a timely conquest
of difficulty, such as will ensure a return before night. The muscles,
not unduly weighted, must see to it that there is always a margin of
time in hand upon the estimate, to allow for unforeseen checks.
With regard to this there is another common error. Those who confuse
pace with racing, picture a party rushing breathlessly over easy and
difficult alike, and panting at their rest-points watch in hand. As a
reaction from the picture, they themselves make the long, easy passages
that constitute the major part of most ascents the occasion for a
relenting rather than a quickening of pace; with the result that they
have no margin of time for the unforeseen or the unexpectedly difficult
passages.
A party that does good times takes each passage at the maximum pace
consistent with comfort, allowing for its degree of difficulty. It has
consequently always time in hand to allow of leisurely exploration,
when found expedient, and of a more careful overcoming of the real
problems when they occur.
[Sidenote: Continuous Going.]
Pace means the continuous progress of a party over the whole length of
a climb, allowing reasonable variations for more complicated passages
or for halts. It will be found that a party that does good times rarely
hurries. It is, after all, human, and it dislikes being pressed. Nor
has it any need to be. An experienced party starts slowly--more slowly,
usually, than less expert climbers. It knows that pace to be good must
be effortless, and must become mechanical, and that the muscles must
be given time to get warm and work up to their automatic rhythm. Once
this rhythm is attained it will, for the sake of good progress, avoid
alike both hurrying and frequent halting. To hurry will interfere with
the bodily functions, and react upon heart and lungs and will; and to
halt will disturb the rhythm and chill the muscles. It will aim at
continuous steady going, and save its seconds and minutes over ground
of easy movement, ready to spend time freely again so as to economize
effort on more difficult passages.
[Sidenote: Combination.]
Combination is the secret of saving seconds. Consider for a moment the
case of a roped party that has not learned the secret of pace, and is
moving all together on easy rock. Inattentive to a common rate, one man
lags, one goes unevenly, there is constant check or turning round to
talk, each with its break of continuity of rhythm. On a three hours’
traverse of broken ridge half an hour will have been lost only in
disentangling the rope on such interrupted, uneven going. The leader,
at the end, will be vexed at the shorter time given in the guide-book,
and expostulate, with justice, “Why, I was hurrying all the time!”
Or again, watch a party of average amateurs moving one at a time on
steep rock. The first man reaches his ledge, preens his plumes for
a second or two in the sun of his success, possibly discusses it in
detail with his second man below, looks round for a hold or belay,
takes a position, alters it, and shouts, “Come along.” The second
calls, “Are you all right?” The first man is disturbed, readjusts
his body, gets back to the old position, and says “Yes,” or “Half a
moment.” Thirty seconds or more will be gone before the second man can
start. He reaches the ledge, does not take note of the first man’s
position for holding before it is surrendered to him, and has to
rediscover it anew, all with the same delay; and another half-minute is
gone. If this performance is repeated, as it will be, several hundred
times in the day, by one or more of a party, two invaluable hours at
least will have dropped completely out of the allowance of time for
the climb! The party will remember that they did their actual climbing
fast; on their return they will look up the better ‘times’ of the book,
and abuse their predecessors for ‘racing,’ for ‘dangerous pace,’ etc.,
whereas the only difference has been that their predecessors saved,
while they wasted, innumerable, all-important, intervening seconds.
[Sidenote: Halts.]
Continuous progress is the essence of pace. While a party is in motion,
the effort should be directed at keeping the pace constant, not at
hurrying it. There will then be larger margins for completer rests at
the proper halting times and places. Time can also be saved during
halts. It is a great mistake to hurry men over their food; a due
allowance of time should be made both for food and rest. But the time
of rest should be used for resting. Too much of it is usually lost, and
more than intended is often taken, in standing about at the beginning
of a halt, or by slackness at the end: one man has misplaced his axe;
another finds out for the first time that his puttie wants rewinding;
and so on. Once the time allowed for the halt is over, the packing and
restart should be brisk and immediate. Rest intervals are assuredly a
part of the day’s measure, but dawdling at their edges is time lost
from the climbing hours, not time added to the resting.
[Sidenote: The Maximum Rhythm.]
Moving slowly is not less effort than moving reasonably fast. The
muscles in movement generate their own warmth, which is the body’s
energy. Muscles when in training can consume and create their own
energy at more than their normal rate without more effort. The maximum
pace for a man is the highest rate of effort at which his system will
carry on its functions without demanding direct impulses of will
from the brain, and without generating more waste matter than it can
naturally consume and discharge. Each man has his maximum rhythm,
which varies according to his condition. Up to this maximum he can
climb, when in training, without feeling increased fatigue. Above it,
his system will soon feel symptoms of exhaustion; below it, he gets
no profit from the relaxation, and even suffers some prejudice to his
energy in the loss of a sustained rhythm.
The pace of a party is the maximum rhythm of its weakest member.
A good mountaineering party moving continuously and in combination in
the common time of its comfortable maximum rhythm will gain steadily on
a less experienced rope, although it may allow itself longer definite
intervals of “idling on the great peaks,” and spend even more moments
on its difficult passages. The margin in time which it will save
will serve, on a well-calculated day, to see the party of sustained
pace down to easy going before darkness. The one party will be home
to dinner; the other may be still struggling at midnight with the
quadrupling of difficulties night brings in its train, or sitting out
and relieving its feelings by accusing the former party of ‘racing.’
Gradual beginning, gradual acceleration and uninterrupted moving on
a steady top-gear of comfortable pace keep a party fresh, and leave
it free to appreciate the beauty of the day or of the climb. Its mind
is relieved of care as to a timely return, and it can enjoy a margin
of leisure, when it pleases, in pleasant exploration, in essaying
experimental routes or in the meditation that mimics slumber.
The real freedom to rest, to idle and to enjoy themselves where and
when they will, is only for those who have the measure of their day
well in hand, and who know that their collective pace, their maximum
rhythm of comfort, before it can rise to a rate of disagreeable effort,
has a point or two of pressure still to spare, to recover lost ground
or to meet emergency.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Except where it is expressly stated, or is plain from
the context, that the word ‘leader’ refers to the ‘first man’ on the
rope, it is used of the most experienced mountaineer of a party, the
one who exercises the functions of manager in matters of organization
or arrangement and of leader or director in the actual business of
climbing.
[2] See “Equipment,” pp. 82 and 86.
[3] See “Snow Craft,” p. 332.
CHAPTER II
EQUIPMENT FOR THE ALPS
BY J. P. FARRAR
EQUIPMENT
Too much attention cannot be paid to the question of equipment. The
careful mountaineer must always be prepared to face bad weather and
the possibility of an involuntary bivouac when the exposure maybe very
severe. At the same time, his outfit must be as light and simple as
possible. My recommendations are based on the experience of a great
many years’ active service in mountaineering, during which I have had
to face most of the contingencies which the pursuit involves.
[Sidenote: Boots.]
Boots should be made of very stout cowhide, _unlined_, worked to the
softness of thick buckskin. The back and sides should be in one piece
(‘navvy back’) and of rather thinner hide, and as soft as buckskin
gloves. The front part must, above all things, not be tight over the
big toe-joint which needs plenty of play, or over the toes, i.e. there
must be plenty of _height_ (i.e. like a modified ski-boot) as well as
width for the toes. The test is, that one must be able to move one’s
toes readily--in fact, crumple them up inside the boot.
The boots must fit tightly over the instep, so as to prevent the foot
jamming forward when descending. The eyelet holes should be close
together, not more than half an inch centre to centre, the first and
last ones being put close to the ends of the lacing. The tongue of
thin, soft leather must be sewn to the sides.
For many years I have had the uppers of my boots made very short--just
over the ankles like a rather high shoe (four inches from the top of
the heel to the upper edge). They leave the foot very free, lighten the
boot, and, when properly fitting and of soft leather, lace up tightly
and prevent any snow or stones getting into the boot, thus dispensing
entirely with putties or gaiters except on big, cold snow-mountains.
The soles should be not over ⅝-inch thick, and the same thickness in
the waist. They should not project, but must give width enough for a
full tread. The heels should be not more than one inch thick, made long
and _rather projecting_, so as to give a firm, wide tread. They must be
sewn--not pegged--to the sole. Fatal accidents have occurred through
the heel tearing away from the sole. Attention must be paid to the
inner sole or floor of the boot, the edges of which must be bevelled
off or they will damage the sole of the foot. A loose sole of cork or
felt should be worn inside the boot.
I dispense with toecaps, or have a very short one just covering the
ends of the toes, as I have never found a bootmaker who could put on a
toecap of the regular length without contracting the end of the boot
and compressing the toes in a dangerous manner.
The ordinary bootmaker knows nothing about an alpine boot, which
is very different from a shooting boot. The fault of Swiss-made
mountain boots is that the leather is very hard and the boots much
too cumbersome and heavy. A guide’s equipment is the very last to be
imitated.
The measurements for boots should be taken standing evenly on both
feet and over the mountain sock and stocking intended to be worn. The
boots must not press uncomfortably at any point even when quite new.
They need not permit of the inner sole being worn for the first time or
two of using, but must after then permit of _lacing up quite tightly_.
No hesitation must be permitted in rejecting boots that do not fit
perfectly well, as damaged feet may lay a man up and cause his party
delay and loss.
Of course, a mountain boot should be broken in beforehand.
A good pair of London-made boots will cost, pre-war, from £2, 10s. to
£3, and are worth the money. The fit and make of boots is of the utmost
importance. Boots tight in the toes cost one of my companions the loss
from frost-bite of the toes of both feet.
_Never let your boots out of your possession._ Boots burnt in the
drying caused severe frost-bite to a very well-known alpine climber and
Himalayan explorer.
An _unlined_ boot such as described will dry very quickly if stuffed
with dry paper, hay, straw or oats--changed at intervals--and only
requires a little castor-oil rubbed in before each expedition to render
it quite supple and able to turn a lot of water. Boots should never be
dried by a fire nor put in a hot sun for more than a very few minutes.
The _unlined_ boot is also more porous, so that the foot has less
tendency to get hot and damp and subsequently cold.
In a hut, boots should always be stuffed as described, and this is
even more important in a planned as well as an impromptu bivouac, as
otherwise they freeze hard in a bent or twisted shape, and are very
awkward to get on. A pair of light cloth slippers may be carried, or a
pair of very light shoes for walking on occasion.
[Sidenote: Nailing Boots.]
Do not use too many nails. The so-called wing-nails overlapping each
other all round the soles are absurd, and wear perfectly smooth. About
six wing-nails kept in position by flanking hobnails as described may
be used for the toes.
Wrought-iron cube-headed nails with long shafts, obtainable in the
alpine centres, set all round the edge of the soles ¾-inch centre to
centre, including the waists, and clenched through, do all right. About
seven or eight nails placed at suitable intervals are enough for the
tread part of the soles.
The front edge of the heel should have about six nails set close
together, as it takes a lot of strain downhill; the others can be
placed as on the sole-edges. One nail is enough for the centre of the
heel.
Several patent nails have been introduced, among which the so-called
=U.H.U.= Stollen, which are screwed on, are very efficient, but require
some attention to see that the screws do not work loose. I have used
them for years with satisfaction. They are obtainable from Max Seib,
Karlsruhe.
An even better nail appears to be the lately invented Tricouni nail
obtainable from W. Stern, 40 Brazennose Street, Manchester, illustrated
opposite. The notched pattern (Model D), price now 11s. per 100, are
best. They must be set _as close to the edge_ of the sole as possible,
with intervals of ¾-inch to 1 inch, and continued right up to the
heel. They must, of course, not be driven in the sewing of the boot.
Along and close up to the front edge of the heel should be set four of
the nails _broadside_ on, the two outer ones reinforced close behind
by two nails _endwise_ and with three others round the heel at equal
intervals. Tricouni nails can be used for the tread of the soles, or
almost preferably half a dozen wrought-iron hobnails suitably spaced.
Tricouni nails are specially hardened, and are said to retain their
sharpness till quite worn out. The plates, no doubt, protect the sole
somewhat. They certainly give a firmer stand than any ordinary nail,
besides saving considerable weight.[4] A few small hobnails may be set
in the waist of the boot.
[Illustration]
[Sidenote: Stockings.]
A short sock of Norwegian natural wool--thick and coarse--and
_perfectly easy_, especially over the toes, should be worn. They are
obtainable at the alpine centres, and also at Lockwoods, 42 Jermyn
Street, S.W., being used for ski-boots. Over this should be worn a long
woollen stocking of stout, rough wool. The feet must be big enough to
fit _comfortably_ over the inner sock _without contracting the toes in
the least_. They should be long enough to come 4 to 6 inches above the
knee in case of an impromptu bivouac or very cold weather. Continental
climbers wear ‘Wadenstutzen,’ i.e. stockings without feet. With these
only spare socks need be carried.
Buy socks and stockings big enough, as they shrink.
The double sock and stocking and inner sole are meant not only for
warmth, but also to save the foot from damage ensuing from long days on
rocks and rough paths.
Remember your whole journey may be spoilt, and your own and your
companions’ time and money wasted by damaged feet.
[Sidenote: Gaiters.]
Gaiters are not really needed except for long snow expeditions. Putties
are, however, often worn even for an ordinary climb; since they tend
to stop the circulation they must be used with caution in very cold
weather. If for big snow mountains, the pattern with spat keeps the
foot warmer, and can be kept tight on the boot by a bit of stout
string passing under the instep. This is easily replaced when worn.
If an ordinary puttie is worn, it is best, in order to prevent the
end slipping loose on the greasy upper of the boot, to have a large
size of hook (‘hook-and-eye’ pattern) sewn to the end of the puttie.
This can be hooked into the lacing of the boot at the start of the
winding. A good gaiter is the old-fashioned buttoned gaiter to come
well down nearly to the toes, made fairly loose of _unlined_ loden,
kept in position by bits of stout string attached to leather lugs sewn
_outside_ the lower edges of the gaiters, on each side, the string
passing under the waist, and brought over to tie on the spat, which is
thus kept in place and prevents any snow working up. Such gaiters are
warm, light and effective.
[Sidenote: Clothes.]
The coat should be of stout tweed. I use a specially made ‘Double
Twist’ Scotch Cheviot, treated with alum, which renders it showerproof.
The coat must button up tight round the throat to exclude driving snow.
The sleeves must be made with gussets like shirt sleeves, so that one
can lift one’s arms without stirring the body of the coat. This is very
important when climbing rocks and step-cutting. A belt to the coat is a
nuisance.
_No lining whatever_, except a bit of woollen lining to protect
the _outside_ of the arm from shoulder to elbow--not even padding
or stiffening pieces. Four outside pockets, _all unlined_, and all
made with flaps and buttons. Two large inside pockets with flaps and
buttons. The pockets should be rather larger at the bottom than at the
opening. If safe pockets are desired, to protect watch or glasses on
severe rock-climbing, small pockets with flaps should be placed inside
and high up, almost under each armpit.
The coat should be made double thickness of cloth on the front, and
should be perfectly loose everywhere.
The buttons should be closer together than usual, so as to keep out
driving snow.
The lower pockets should be set high enough, so that when full they do
not catch in the groin when mounting steep slopes. The sleeves must
have a second button to button tight round the wrist in storm.
Such a coat, if taken off now and again and shaken, will stand quite a
little rain, and will in any case be lighter and _dry far quicker than
a lined coat_. Pin half a dozen stout safety pins under the collar.
Waistcoat should be of the same cloth throughout, _including the
back_--_unlined throughout_--made rather longer than the ordinary
waistcoat, especially at back--no back strap--four pockets outside with
flap and button--all unlined--one inside pocket with flap and button
for letter-case. Collar to button close up.
Knickerbockers of the same cloth, made very long in the seat so that
they do not catch at the knee when mounting steep slopes--waistband to
be unlined--two outside hip-pockets with flap and buttons besides the
ordinary pockets--to be made wide at the knees, but the width to be on
the outside of the knee, as if on the inside the crampons are apt to
catch. The riding-breeches pattern is no good, as the knees get wet
much quicker and remain wet longer.
I myself have my knickerbockers made wide enough to turn right up over
the knees, being kept there by safety pins; one walks thus bare-kneed
with great ease and comfort.
The seat and knees may be made double by means of patches. Pin half a
dozen stout safety pins in the waistband.
[Sidenote: Hat.]
The best hat is a grey or buff stout felt (unlined) ‘smasher’
hat--medium width brim and with a felt Jäger lining-band instead of the
usual leather one. If too thin, the brim flaps about in the wind and
needs pinning back with a safety pin. Fit a ‘sweat-band’ of oiled silk
under the lining band, to prevent the hat getting stained with sweat.
The cow-boy pattern with stiff brims does not do, as it is apt to get
knocked off by contact with rocks, and one cannot sleep in it. Carry
some sort of light cap.
[Sidenote: Shirt, etc.]
The ‘K’ or ‘KK’ Jaeger shirts answer well. Their short ‘G’ pants also
answer well. No undervest should be worn.
_Remember, if you do not want to feel cold, avoid getting hot._
The proper place for the coat, except in very cold weather or on
difficult work, is over the shoulders or in the sack, the sleeves being
tucked through the shoulder straps. Even when starting very early do
not pile on clothes.
[Sidenote: Extra Clothes.]
Carry a light woollen sweater and a very light woollen muffler, about
one foot wide and six feet long at least. In very cold weather, or if
sleeping out, pass this tight twice _round the stomach_ and fasten with
safety pins. Carry two or three large silk handkerchiefs. The coat,
sweater and a silk handkerchief will protect the throat enough.
_Keep your stomach warm, as it furnishes the heat to the rest._
Carry a light waterproof cape. They are obtainable at Fritsch & Co.,
Zurich, made of Japanese silk--cost about 30s., weight about a ½ lb.
They save one the annoyance of getting wet going up to a hut or bivouac
or in the valley, and are useful in the case of an impromptu bivouac,
as they keep off the wind. They cannot, of course, be well used when
climbing.
Carry a light woollen helmet or _passe-montagne_ to come right over the
head and neck, with opening for eyes, nose and mouth.
Carry, _without fail_, an extra pair of stockings a bit thinner, since
weight counts, than your heavy climbing stockings, but strong enough
to use in an emergency or to change if benighted. And it is also very
desirable to carry a light spare shirt on long-exposed expeditions.
Carry two pairs of gloves made of coarse, thick wool, without separate
fingers and amply large. They should also be long enough to cover the
wrist of the sleeve. Short gloves are useless. Pin each pair together
with a safety pin. Carry one pair at the bottom of the sack, the other
pair in the outside pocket of the sack. A pair of mittens is useful.
* * * * *
Captain Farrar allows me to insert some suggestions on an alternative
dress suitable for men sensitive to sudden changes of temperature.
[Sidenote: Some Alternatives (by G.W.Y.).]
THE COAT.--Unlined except for the lining on the outside of the arms,
before mentioned, and a single strip of loose Jaeger fabric, stitched
only at the upper edge and ends, across the shoulders. I prefer also
a lighter material, very close woven, for both coat and breeches.
Heavy friezes, as often worn, absorb wet and admit wind as the fabric
slackens with wear.
[Sidenote: For the Alps.]
So-called ‘tropical’ and ‘waterproof’ materials dissolve like paper on
rough rock work. The collar turns down well away from the neck, and,
when needed, buttons in front with a flap which is sewn on to the coat,
under the collar, along its _lower edge_, so that when buttoned up to
the two sides of the collar the flap leaves no hole where snow or wind
can enter.
THE BREECHES.--Trousers, such as used to be worn, had the advantage
of leaving the knee free; but they are uncomfortable with putties and
clumsy at the ankle. Best of all leg-gear, in some respects, are the
‘shorts,’ as worn by the Tyrolese; but these leave the knee unprotected
for rocks or against bad weather. I prefer a compromise: the breeches
made loose to the knee, as above described, but the leg of the breech
below the knee carried on and down, in the same material and shaped
to the calf, low enough to be easily covered at the end by a sock. To
allow passage to the foot, the extension opens down the _inside_ of
the calf, and is secured there by a row of four small press springs.
Buttons or buckles at the knees are always breaking on rocks, and can
be painful. Lacing is better, but apt to be too tight. One set of
these small press springs, in spite of warnings, has lasted me for
five years, without a single one coming open or losing its strength.
They are, of course, well protected, as placed on the inside against
the ‘give’ of the calf. The advantage of such long breeches is that
they do not, like the usual type, constrict the knee or calf, and they
do not, like trousers, drag over it, since the weight of the leg is
partly carried by shaping and by the support of the sock. They are worn
with socks and not stockings. This both economizes carrying and avoids
the clumsy ‘gump’ where a puttie is twisted at its upper end over the
stocking top. With two pairs of socks worn, one holding the end of
the breech leg and one turned down over the boot, the climber need
only put on the puttie for deep snow, or to protect the shin on sharp
rocks. In contact with rough surfaces the cloth leg is, of course, more
durable than any woollen stocking. They should be made ample between
the legs, and the seam stitched strongly and far up the front, closing
with a flap or fob, as in riding-breeches. For snow, wind and wear
this is a better protection than the usual single row of buttons. Two
buckle-straps above the seat behind, the lower set rather far down
and kept the tighter, enable one, if the breeches are well cut, to do
without braces or belt. At the same time, they avoid constricting the
waist or lower part of the lungs, as the line of tension, or close-fit,
hangs thus round the outside of the hip-bone, and the waistband can be
left quite loose.
UNDERWEAR.--I prefer, as an alternative to a shirt, two or three very
light silky-woollen ‘Shetlands,’ opening down the front and sitting
close to the body all the way. One at least should come right down
to the thighs. The lowest, a zephyr or almost silk-web, with short
sleeves; the second, an ordinary warm light Shetland, with longer
sleeves over the elbow; the third, thicker, of looser fabric, with no
sleeves. These can be thrown open, put on or taken off, one or more, in
a few seconds, as the temperature varies. They dry at once, in wind or
sun, or from the heat of the body, and are at once warmer, drier and
less oppressive wear than a full absorbent shirt. I wear no waistcoat.
A silk scarf is pleasant to the feel, and protective against sun or
cold. I find the best and cheapest to be a yard and a half of silk
motor veiling. This dries at once, and can be used for any purpose,
from a sling to a turban or dressing-gown.
[Sidenote: For Rock Climbing in Britain.]
Corduroy or close-woven frieze provides the best wear. Coat and
breeches should be _unlined_. The knees can be strengthened by a double
thickness or by buckskin. In the latter case ordinary ‘strapping’ will
do, set over and not inside the knee. It is well to have removable
oilskin bags for some of the pockets, to keep food, etc., dry in rain,
or, at need, to sit upon.
A sweater worn, as is often done, without a coat is a mistake. It
catches on rocks, absorbs mist and rain, admits wind, and has no
pockets. Experience teaches that the wet or windy cold of British hills
can be far more trying than the dry cold of alpine days.
Boots may be lighter and more lightly nailed than for the Alps. For
this see “Rock Climbing,” p. 154. As they are liable to get over-wet
on British hills, and over-dried and warped in British kitchens, it is
well to have a pair of very light aluminium toe-trees, adjusted to the
size of the boot, which can be inserted the moment the boots are taken
off in the evening. These serve to keep the shape.
Rubber or rope soled boots or shoes are now considered almost
indispensable: made of light canvas, to go in a pocket.
Putties are superfluous; a light leather anklet, or a couple of feet
cut off an old puttie and twisted round the boot-top, sufficiently
prevents the entrance of small scree. For wear in snow, and this
applies also to the winter snow of the Alps, it is a good device to
have a narrow band of strong, soft material sewn on round the top of
the boot, which laces up, close round the ankle, in a line with the
bootlacing. This is adequate protection for all but prolonged snow wear.
A good British head-wear is a strong tam-o’-shanter. It is better wind
and rain protection, and cooler, than a cap, and leaves the forehead
freer than a felt hat. Best of all is no head-gear at all.
For those whose hands suffer from cold on wet rocks, or who, like
myself, have once had their fingers frost-touched, some sort of gloves
are necessary. In rock climbing, gloves, and still more fingerless
‘gubs,’ destroy the touch and grip. I find the best compromise to be
strong woollen finger-mittens, with fingers extending as far as the
first joint. Some climbers profess to get comfort from warming their
fingers (and thawing out their rock holds) with the small pocket
Japanese ‘Instra.’
It is well to have everything _marked_, or of distinctive colouring. In
Britain, the orgies of the ‘drying-room’ are a daily trial to temper
and time.
It is well also to remember that, in all mountaineering, we are to
form the foreground of our companions’ holiday views of great scenery,
and that it is our duty not to inflict a larger proportion of the
incongruous or ugly upon their daily outlook than is required by the
first condition of our own comfort and protection.
* * * * *
Women have learnt by experience that convention must give way to common
sense in the matter of costume.
[Sidenote: Costume for Women (by Miss Bronwen Jones).]
For alpine work, clothing should be entirely woollen; the suit,
comprising coat, breeches and skirt, of light weight and colour,
and--this is essential--wind-proof. For British climbing, gaberdine or
cord can be substituted for wool, as, here, protection against rain is
of more importance than protection against wind. The coat should be
shaped like a man’s jacket, furnished with an adjustable collar, storm
sleeves, and an ample supply of pockets, closed by flaps. It should be
of such a length as to reach within eight inches of the knee.
The skirt is still often looked upon as a necessity in the Alps, but
it is discarded early in an ascent. It should therefore be of a soft
and light material, so as to be easily carried in a rucksack. It should
stop at least ten inches from the ground, and be not more than two
yards wide.
The breeches should be as close-fitting as those of a man, as
over-fullness is apt to be a hindrance on rocks. They should also be
laced rather than buttoned at the knee, buttons being a source of
discomfort when kneeling.
A sweater is generally preferred to a blouse for wear under the coat,
as it is loose-fitting, warmer and does not impede the movements of the
arms.
The most suitable hat is made of either grey or white soft felt, wide
enough to provide a shade from the sun. A stiff brim should be avoided
on account of the discomfort caused by its coming into contact with the
rope. Hatpins should obviously be replaced by an elastic.
It is not advisable to wear gloves for rock climbing, as they lessen
the sense of touch. Woollen gloves, with no divisions for the fingers,
are recommended for wear on snow or when stationary.
A silk scarf, tied tightly over the hat, has been found a great boon
during high winds in the Alps.
Boots, stockings, etc., are the same as those advised for men.
In order to avoid great subsequent discomfort, the face and neck
should be carefully protected against sunburn. For this purpose an
even layer of some good colour salve is most effective. Failing this,
a layer of lanoline covered with toilet powder has proved a fairly
good substitute. A small pocket-mirror should be carried for use
when applying the mixture, so that one can see that no place is left
uncovered. Should the face become sunburnt it should be bathed in very
hot water and then covered with grease.
OUTFIT
BY J.P. FARRAR
Even the beginner had better accustom himself to carry a sack, which
may contain his gloves, sweater, etc.
[Sidenote: Rucksack.]
A good size is 21 inches wide and 21 inches deep, the bottom and
side walls 4 inches wide, as this gives a flatter sack. Two outside
pockets with flap and button--the carrying straps of woollen webbing
1½ inch wide--the whole made of waterproof sailcloth with a flap. A
good pattern is supplied by Alpine outfitters such as Fritsch & Co.
of Zurich, who issue elaborate catalogues of alpine equipment. The
Continental dealers supply a very light frame which goes between the
back and the sack, thus preventing the back getting hot. The best
I know is the “Touristenfreund Rucksackstütze,” No. 20, 3½ marks,
supplied by Fritsch. The Norwegians make a novel kind of sack, the
weight of which is carried partly by the hips.
[Sidenote: Ice-axe.]
The best ice-axes I know are made by Schenk in Grindelwald (difficult
to get delivery). The same pattern is also made by Fritz Jörg,
Zweilütschinen, near Interlaken, from whom I have had several good
axes. It is necessary, however, to specify the pattern, as he makes
several. Sizes are as follows:
Length of adze-side of head from centre of
handle 5” (12 cms.)
Length of pick-side of head from centre
of handle 7” (18 cms.)
Width of blade of adze 2½” (6 cms.)
Depth of socket of head (to give weight) 2” (5 cms.)
Length of side irons of head from lower
edge of socket 7” to 8” (about 20 cms.)
Side Irons should be fastened to the stock
by 3 copper rivets, not screws.[5]
Length of ferrule of axe handle 2½” (6 cms.)
Length of point of axe handle 2” (5 cms.)
The point must not be sharp, and if longer
than stated, may tear one’s clothes when
cutting. The point and ferrule made in
one piece are very objectionable, as they
allow the point no play if caught.
Length of stock or handle, including point 39” (1 m.)
This is a good average length for general
purposes. Longer axes offer no advantages,
and are awkward. I use a
36-inch axe, which is very handy, but
it is short for cutting downhill.
Diameter of handle immediately under
socket of axehead 1⅛” by 1⅜”, say 30 by 35 mm.
Diameter of handle immediately above
ferrule 1-1/16” by 1-5/16”, say 27 by 33 mm.
These sizes give strength enough. If exceeded,
they fill the grasp of an ordinary
hand so that, as is often needed,
nothing else can be gripped. If the
lower end is thinner it will cramp the
hand when cutting.
The axe should balance at about 9 inches
from the top.
An axe as described weighs 3 lb., and will be equal to any work usually
met with on a mountain expedition. If the balance and the curves of the
head come out well, it will cut ice clean and without any recoiling jar
to the arms. Notches on the underside of the head of the axe, often
seen in shop axes, are very objectionable.
[Illustration]
Mr. Eckenstein has designed an ice axe differing radically from the
normal type, to be used in conjunction with his crampons. It is
34 inches long over all, and has a much smaller head. The few who
have used it in conjunction with the special crampons claim for the
combination advantages in difficult ice. The subject has been treated
by Dr. J. Jacot Guillarmod in an elaborate paper with scale drawings
and many sketches in the _Jahrbuch des S. A. C._, vol. xlv. pp. 344-53,
and undoubtedly deserves the closest attention.[6]
This axe, and crampons, are made by A. Hupfauf, Einsiedeln,
Switzerland.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.--THUMB KNOT. CORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 2.--INCORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 3.--FIGURE OF 8 KNOT. CORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 4.--FIGURE OF 8 TIE. CORRECT]
[Sidenote: Axe Sling.]
When climbing rocks the axe has often to be slung on the arm. A good
sling for rocks only is made of lamp wick joined to form a circle of 25
inches. This is carried in the pocket, and is easily put on and off.
The fixed hemp sling, so often seen, gets wet and cut if any steps have
to be cut.
The best combined sling, invented by Mr. V. Fynn, and supplied by
Fritsch & Co., Zurich, consists of a leather loop attached to a brass
ring running on the axe handle between the head and a stop. This sling
serves for rock work like an ordinary sling, and, in addition, is
looped round the wrist when step-cutting, thus preventing the loss of
the axe, which to a party of climbers engaged in difficult work might
be a source of danger. I always use it.
[Sidenote: Rope.]
The greatest attention must be paid to ropes, as fatalities due to the
breakage of these have been very numerous.
I was, in consequence, induced to institute some very careful inquiries
into the question of the most suitable ropes for alpine work, and some
very exhaustive tests were thereupon made of various ropes by Mr. O.
Eckenstein, which have been confirmed by subsequent tests made by Swiss
climbers. The result was the evolution of a flax rope, which, in point
of ultimate tensile strength and extension (i.e. elasticity), surpasses
considerably any other rope, weight for weight.
The following table gives the ascertained results of the two best ropes
tested:
+---------+--------+--------+---------------+--------+---------------+
| | | | Ultimate | | Work required |
| | | | tensile | | to break test |
| | | | strength, | Exten- | length of 5 |
| | | | in | sion, | feet, in |
| |Circum- | Weight | pounds. |measured| foot-pounds. |
| Make. |ference,|per 100 +-----+---------+ on test+-----+---------+
| | in |feet, in| |Relative,| length | |Relative,|
| | inches.|pounds. |Abso-|for rope | of 5 |Abso-|for rope |
| | | |lute.| of | feet, |lute.| of |
| | | | |standard | per | |standard |
| | | | | weight. | cent. | | weight.|
+---------+--------+--------+-----+---------+--------+-----+---------+
|No. 1.-- | | | | | | | |
| English,| | | | | | | |
| Flax | 1·4 | 4·375 |1904 | 2176 | 16·3 | 451 | 515 |
|No. 2.-- | | | | | | | |
| English,| | | | | | | |
| Manila | 1·4 | 4·65 |1792 | 1927 | 12·3 |331·5| 356 |
|No. 3.-- | | | | | | | |
| No. 1, | | | | | | | |
| worn | 1·4 | 4·69 |1456 | 1552 | 13·2 | 288 | 307 |
+---------+--------+--------+-----+---------+--------+-----+---------+
The No. 1 rope is manufactured by Frost Brothers Ltd., 342 Commercial
Road, London, E., and is known as Frost’s left-hand alpine rope, 1¼
inch.
It is beautifully flexible to handle and knot, and after the first
wetting shows no tendency to kink. I do not know much of its wearing
capacities--in this respect it is probably excelled by the harder
Manila ropes. For the haulage of duffers where the rope is constantly
dragged against rocks, no doubt a much heavier rope of Manila or
possibly wire would be preferable. The Frost rope now described is
designed for the use of trained mountaineers. All that I demand and all
that ought to be demanded of an alpine rope is that it shall not show
undue wear during a single season.
I never use for a _second_ season a rope on which life may depend when
a new one can be obtained for a few shillings. Even when a rope shows
no appreciable wear, it may have been subjected to some sudden severe
strain which has robbed it of a portion of its virtue. I go so far as
to say that used ropes ought _not_ to be given away to guides who will
go on using them for an indefinite time.
The No. 3 rope in the table was a Frost rope used by the late Mr. H.
O. Jones for one season. The decline in its resisting power is marked,
although it is still a fairly strong rope.
[Sidenote: Knots.]
With respect to knots for use in alpine ropes, Mr. Eckenstein was
again good enough to investigate the question, and the accompanying
illustrations have been prepared from photographs taken under his
instructions. They are all applicable to a _left-hand rope_.
[Illustration: FIG. 5.--SINGLE FISHERMAN’S BEND. CORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 6--INCORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 7.--INCORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 8.--BOWLINE AND OVERHAND KNOT. CORRECT]
The following is an extract from his covering letter to me:
“A laid rope usually consists of three strands twisted together. Each
strand thus forms a helix. The strands are ‘laid’ together to form
the rope, and the way in which they are laid together is called the
‘lay.’ Now if we begin to tie a knot, we similarly ‘lay’ together,
two ropes, and each rope then forms a portion of a helix. The general
rule is this: if the strands of the rope used form right-hand helices
(as is the case with the old Alpine Club rope), then in that part
of the knot which is subjected to the greatest strain (I use the
word ‘strain’ in its popular sense) the two ropes must each form a
left-hand helix. Conversely, if we use a rope the strands of which
form left-hand helices (as is the case with the new Frost rope), then
in that part of the knot which is subjected to the greatest strain
the two ropes must each form a right-hand helix. [See also my paper,
“Knots with the Lay,” in the _Climbers’ Club Journal_, vol. xi., No.
44, p. 144, June 1909.]
“The annexed figures include three classes of knots: simple or
elementary knots; knots for uniting two ropes; loop knots. All are
shown tied with left-hand rope. The correct way of tying the knots is
shown in each case, as well as some incorrect ways. Each knot is shown
open, before it is drawn taut.
“The single fisherman’s bend, shown in Fig. 7, is excellent for
uniting two ropes of similar size for temporary purposes, as it can
readily be undone. Hence it has a tendency to work loose in course of
time, and if it is necessary to unite two ropes of similar size for
longer periods, it is better to use the figure of 8 tie, also known as
the Flemish tie, shown in Fig. 4. This, though somewhat complicated,
is strong and reliable and has no tendency to work loose.
“As regards making a loop in the middle of a rope, no entirely
satisfactory knot has yet been devised. The ‘middleman noose,’ shown
in the 1892 Alpine Club Report of the Special Committee on Equipment
for Mountaineers (p. 4), has the fatal disadvantage that under certain
conditions, when a pull is applied in a certain direction, it acts
as a true noose--that is, as a slip or running knot. The best middle
loop at present known is the open-handed loop, which is free from this
disadvantage, and which is shown in Fig. 14.
“For an end loop, the bowline, shown in Fig. 11, is excellent. The
loose end should be secured by a half-hitch (see 1892 Report, p. 4),
or by an overhand knot; the latter, shown in Fig. 12, is preferable.
“Finally, a bowline on a bight, the most important ‘first aid’ knot
for transporting an injured person, is shown in Fig. 16.”
Messrs. Kirkaldy made in my presence some interesting tests of knots,
with the following results:
Middleman Knot. Strength relative to rope.
Manila rope 44 per cent.
Flax rope 50 per cent.
Single bowline Knot. Strength relative to rope.
Manila rope 55 per cent.
Flax rope 59 per cent.
This again shows that a knot reduces the efficiency of a flax rope less
than that of the Manila rope.
_New ropes should not be wetted or stretched before use_, but the kinks
should be carefully worked out by hand. And a wet rope must be dried
_in the shade_.
The best length of rope for a party of three is 100 to 120 feet. It is
a good plan on long, snow-covered glacier expeditions to carry a spare
50-foot rope, and on some difficult rock climbs a long spare rope is
necessary. This can be of a lighter kind, about 1 inch circumference.
Beale, 194 Shaftesbury Avenue, London, supplies a Manila alpine line
very suitable for such a purpose.
[Sidenote: Pitons.]
Pitons are occasionally necessary for difficult rock climbs.[7] They
are spikes of Swedish iron ½-inch in diameter and about 6 to 9 inches
long, turned over to form a loop at one end, through which the rope can
be passed, and drawn at the other to a wedge-shaped edge so as to allow
of driving into a crevice of rock.
[Sidenote: Kletterschuhe.]
Kletterschuhe are much used in the Dolomites, and it has lately been
shown that they can be used with advantage not only on dry rocks but
also in great climbs like the Ecrins and the Ailefroide. A good kind is
the so-called Sexten pattern, the soles of which are built up of layers
of cloth.
[Sidenote: Crampons.]
Crampons add security, and are very useful in saving step-cutting on
great ice climbs; but otherwise, especially on journeys, are scarcely
worth carrying.
Mr. Eckenstein has designed a very effective kind, the only drawback
being their weight (about 3 lb. the pair). A useful crampon is the
so-called Allgäuer model, 8-spiked, weight about 1⅝ lb. per pair. A.
Hupfauf of Einsiedeln, Switzerland, is a reliable maker (also of
ice-axes if pattern is sent). The crampons should have a hemp strap
with branches sewn on to the two pairs of back rings and buckling over
the instep, and a separate toe-strap sewn on to the front pair of rings
and buckling over the fore-foot. This strap must not be buckled tight,
as hemp shrinks when damp, and pressure might cause frost-bite.
[Illustration: FIG. 9.--BOWLINE. CORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 10.--INCORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 11.--INCORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 12.--INCORRECT]
This form of fastening (as on the old wooden skate) cramps the foot
less, and is much more quickly adjusted than a single long cross-over
strap. The crampon requires careful fitting to the sole of the boot (a
stiff cardboard template of each sole should be sent to the maker of
the crampon), and when nailing the boots, gaps should be left for the
limbs of the crampons.
In using crampons care must be taken to keep the feet apart and not
lift them more than necessary, as serious accidents have occurred
through the spikes catching in the stockings or even knickerbockers.
Crampons are not for use on rocks, except possibly when iced, but they
are particularly necessary on steep grass mountains, like the Höfats.
[Sidenote: Spectacles and Grease.]
Both spectacles and grease are very necessary on glacier expeditions.
The spectacles can either be smoked glasses or, better still, the new
green-yellow glasses. I prefer 1½ inch convexo-concave glasses in
strong steel or horn frames without any wire netting.
The best grease for the face which I know is the Pomade Sèchehaye; but
there are other similar preparations which rightly depend upon colour
for their effectiveness. Lanoline is too thin. Blackening the face and
all round the eyes with burnt cork is also an efficient remedy against
sunburn, and suffices in the case of loss or breakage of spectacles. Or
a mask of paper, with eye-slits, can be made.
[Sidenote: Field-glass.]
A Zeiss 8-power _monocular_ prismatic glass weighs about a ½ lb., and
can be carried in the pocket without any case for instant use.
The binocular glasses are too cumbersome.
This glass can also be used for sweeping terrain for chamois, but for
detailed work a 30-power aluminium telescope is better.
Less effective, but lighter to carry, and sufficient for most alpine
prospecting, is the pocket telescope, made by Messrs. Ross, for
sporting purposes. It is about 4 inches in length, and weighs only a
few ounces.
[Sidenote: Aneroid and Compass.]
Good mountain aneroids, graduated to 5000 metres, are made by Casella,
London, and by Usteri-Reinacher, Zurich. Even on an ordinary expedition
they are interesting, and can be useful to elucidate one’s position in
thick weather.
_A compass must always be carried._ Hughes, 59 Fenchurch Street, E.C.,
make an excellent liquid-filler compass which renders the needle very
steady.
[Sidenote: Maps.]
The best map of the district must always be carried with the party.
[Sidenote: Water-bottle and Drinking-cup.]
I have for many years used bottles made of Para rubber with wide
(1¼-inch) mouth and screw stopper. Contents 1 litre, weight 6 ounces,
price 6½ marks (H. Schwaiger, Munich). If cured for a few days with
weak white wine and water or coffee they do not impart any taste to
contents, even if left in for a couple of days. When empty, they take
next to no room.
The full bottle must, of course, be perched on top of the other things
in the sack.
Guides prefer a tin or aluminium receptacle to hold two or three
litres, and the goatskin bottles usual in Dauphiné are also very
practical. As a drinking-cup I know nothing better than the ¼-litre
oval aluminium mug of the Federal troops.
Carry an aluminium dessertspoon.
[Sidenote: Lantern.]
Several patterns of folding lantern are made. Schwaiger supplies one in
aluminium (Alpenvereins), weight 6 ounces, price 6¼ marks.
[Sidenote: Cooking Apparatus.]
I have never carried cooking apparatus, as cooking on an expedition
takes far too long and is a needless luxury. A good one is the
Ideal-Kocher in aluminium supplied by Schwaiger and others, size 1
litre, 6 marks; 2 litres, 8 marks. They are useful for guideless
climbers in crowded huts.
It is not at all a bad plan to carry an aluminium saucepan with lid
(about 1 quart), which will often enable one to cook in a crowded
hut without waiting one’s turn. For a bivouac, a couple of aluminium
saucepans fitting into each other save carrying heavy cooking pots.
[Illustration: FIG. 13.--OPEN-HANDED IKOP. CORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 14.--INCORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 15.--BOWLINE ON A BIGHT. CORRECT]
[Illustration: FIG. 16.--INCORRECT]
[Sidenote: Outfit for Bivouac.]
The best sleeping sack I know is made of thin Willesden canvas lined
with opossum. The sack should be made to button all round--not sewn.
A suitable size is 6 feet 6 inches long and 2 feet 6 inches wide when
done up. Opossum fur is, however, now expensive, and a very efficient
lining is eiderdown made up in thin merino covering. W. Ratcliff,
saddler, Olney, Bucks, can supply a good sack, made with straps to
roll up, cost £3 to £4, according to the weight of down used (price
pre-war). A light silk sack is made by Heal & Sons, Tottenham Court
Road, cost £2, 10s., but requires a waterproof sheet.
For putting under the hip, a square rubber air-cushion about 2 feet
square is very desirable.
A tent is rarely necessary for a bivouac for one night, as if the
weather were bad enough to need a tent, the conditions next day would
not permit a big climb. The Mummery silk tents are well spoken of. A
light tent of the Mummery pattern, tested and improved upon by Dr.
Longstaff in the Himalayas, and with further improvements by Mr. Young,
is made by Messrs. Piggott, Bishopsgate Street Without. The Cottage
tent of the Amateur Camping Club, London (address, 4 New Union Street,
E.C.; sub., 5s. per annum), is very light, roomy and strong. Their
catalogue is well worth study.
For extended expeditions I have used a tent made of Egyptian flax,
so-called silk. A good size is 9 by 6 by 6 feet to ridge, or better, 12
by 8 by 6 feet to ridge, unless the country is too mountainous. It only
needs two poles, which can in some countries be improvised on the spot;
or the ridge cord can be tied to trees or other obstacles, and poles
dispensed with. These tents are quite waterproof and stand weather
well, whilst they are very light.[8]
One’s endurance and enterprise are not improved by sleeping on the
ground, even on spruce, night after night. The X Compactum bed is a
good portable bed, folds up to 3 feet by 5 inches by 5 inches, weight
20 lb., cost 24s. 6d. This, with a sleeping sack, a couple of Hudson
Bay No. 4 red blankets, a waterproof sheet 7 feet by 5 feet and a hair
pillow, make a good sleeping outfit for a main camp.
[Sidenote: Medicine.]
For alpine purposes I find chlorodyne, Cockle’s pills, a couple of
bandages and a roll of ½-inch American plaster very useful to carry in
the sack.[9]
Small and very light pocket-cases, suitable for mountaineering purposes
(one of medical and the other of surgical remedies), are now supplied
by Messrs. Burroughs & Wellcome.
These notes cover the _special_ requirements of the mountaineer in the
Alps, and I have not thought it necessary to enumerate the many small
things which he needs anyhow, and of which he is the best judge.
_Note._--All prices are pre-war except where stated.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Cf. an article by O. Eckenstein in the _Climbers’ Club
Journal_, 1914.
[5] See article in the _Climbers’ Club Journal_, 1912, p. 147.
[6] See also pp. 206, 292.
[7] See “Pegs and Aids,” p. 200.
[8] See also “The Himalaya” and “Mountaineering in the Tropics.”
[9] For further medical outfit, see “Mountaineering in the Tropics.”
CHAPTER III
GUIDED AND GUIDELESS MOUNTAINEERING
The question of climbing with or without guides is one of traditional
importance. But the long controversy has proceeded without taking
into account the change in modern conditions; and the terms ‘guided’
and ‘guideless’ are still used with a signification that now bears
little relation to actual circumstance. Consequently the discussion
for mountaineers has become profitless, for it is based upon definite
misconceptions.
[Sidenote: Old-time Errors.]
The great public, or that part of it which has reached the point of
accepting mountaineering as a legitimate background for sensational
magazine stories, cherishes one fixed idea on the subject of
climbing--that the guide is a providence who knows and shows and goes
the one sacred and impeccable ‘path’ which every genuine mountain
possesses: to go without him is to tempt destruction deliberately;
something like ejecting the engine-driver, starting the lever and
retiring to smoke in a first-class carriage. The importance of the
error is that its persistence permits it to dominate the minds of a
large number of men who ‘do mountains’ every year from the hotels.
To them, mountaineering means only the traditional route up in
the traditional way; and tradition demands the surrender of their
intelligence and personal inclinations for a day to the unimaginative
tyranny of any two chance peasants between whom they are advised to
suspend the exercise of their own finer faculties and the direction of
their very differently constituted frames. Their ambition is laudable,
but they are in no sense mountaineers, and they may never become so,
any more than those who cross the Channel in a steamboat are qualifying
as sailors. But they form a considerable portion of those who go among
the mountains, and include a large number of those who give the public
their experiences. In so far their patronage contributes to confirm and
perpetuate the long-lived error.
Among a large number, also, of climbers proper the error, though
different in kind, is as constant. The magnificent school of foreign
rock climbers which has of late years grown up in the regions of lesser
peaks north, east and south of the Alps, and which, with some notable
exceptions, has little conception of what independent mountaineering on
the great peaks means, accepts the performance and narration of these
tourists in the big Alps as typical of ‘guided climbing,’ and very
justly condemns it for its obvious lack of many of the features which
constitute the pleasure or merit of their own mountaineering. In so far
as they accept the popular and mistaken classification into guided and
guideless, these climbers help in continuing it. Our equally brilliant
school of British rock climbers, recognizing the absurdity of taking
guides on the short climbs of Scotland or the Lakes or Wales, often
adopts the same attitude. Only by slow experience, and in individual
cases, when they meet the problems and actual conditions of real
mountaineering in the great Western Alps, do they learn the magnitude
of the traditional fallacy. There is, therefore, excuse for the Press
and the lay public.
[Sidenote: The Guide of the Chronicles.]
There is yet further justification to be found for them in the only
literature accessible to them--the famous alpine classics, and
the original relationship of amateur and guide therein set forth.
We mountaineers owe so much to these early explorers and to their
inspiring records, which first set our feet on the mountain way and
which remain our most cherished and revered companions, that it is an
ungrateful task to have to forsake them for a moment in the interests
of veracity and of our modern mountain craft. But many of these notable
pioneers, or at least those whose personality is most permanent in
literature, were not mountaineers in the technical sense in which
we understand the word to-day. Mountaineering, as an art, has made
immense strides among amateurs and professionals alike since their
time, due largely to the force of their original impulse. What was true
of their time is no longer true; and while their writing will remain
the source of every climber’s inspiration until mountaineering may be
forgotten in the passion for winter sports and aviation, it is not in
the best interests of the sport that their pronouncements should be
considered as absolutely or, even on technical points, as relatively
true of modern conditions. They were undoubtedly fortunate in their
guides. When they were not, we do not hear of it, or only in a passing
sentence. The amateurs were themselves few in number, and the most
enterprising naturally attracted to themselves the few considerable
personalities among a race of as yet unspoiled mountain peasants and
hunters. They found them companions, men of intelligence, manners and
courage. The knowledge of mountaineering conditions was in its infancy,
and the peasant was accustomed from childhood to such knowledge as
existed. Relatively to the present day he was better physically
equipped than his employer, who was primarily an explorer or a walking
enthusiast. He was therefore not undeserving of the implicit confidence
placed in his judgment and skill.
[Sidenote: The Guide as he is.]
Conditions have changed. Guides have no longer the opportunity of
travelling up and down the Alps to secure the same wide basis of
experience. Only a few of them are taken beyond their own valleys;
and when they are, they are associated in most cases with local
experts, who relieve them of the necessity of exerting their brains
to discover the new conditions. Only in very rare cases among their
multiple employers do they ever get the same opportunity of long
contact with more active or educated intelligences, such as could
react upon their own appreciation of their own mountain problems.
The organized conditions for tourist life in the Alps, the separate
quarters in hotel and hut, the rapid succession of engagements with
men of different nationalities and divergent types, and their own
guide-schools, inculcating precise codes of manners to use with
‘Herren,’ forbid the old freedom of intercourse. The best and most
travelled of guides has a different manner on the mountain and in the
hotel. There is no authority so absolute as that of the hotel-keeper
in a small democratic Swiss community in all that affects the tourist
traffic. And the ideas of an average hotel-keeper as to the nature
of tourists and as to the proper behaviour towards them on the part
at least of his, the hotel-keeper’s, dependents or inferiors are not
unlike those of a head waiter in a city restaurant. The tradition that
the guide is a professional servant has become engrained. The stoutest
of mountaineering democrats has to accept its restrictions, once off
the mountains, if only to save his guide’s discomfort. And the average
guide on his side, dealing every summer with succeeding varieties of
incapable amateurs often ignorant of his language, and accustomed to
the passive acceptance of his service to hoist them up conventional
peaks, has grown up in a traditional atmosphere of aloofness and of
courteous disregard for his employers as mountaineers in his own
professional sense. A collective professional attitude has established
itself of which the early days knew little or nothing; the most
independent of guides, however well he may know his employer’s capacity
by experience, cannot but find the utmost difficulty in discarding
tradition and associating himself with the amateur’s judgment if it
happens to conflict with local hear-say or with the view of some
inferior professional using the familiar patois. And just in so far
as a collective opinion, in theatre or crowd or guild, is inferior to
the individual judgment of the majority of intelligent individuals
who compose it, and echoes, as if unanimously, the more blatant voice
of the more vulgar elements, in so far is the capacity, even of good
individual guides of the present day, inferior to that of their
predecessors in matters requiring the exercise of wider intelligence
upon unforeseen problems or new conditions. Just in so far, also, are
guides hampered by their body of tradition and prejudice from profiting
by their contact with more educated minds, or from learning to apply
new principles to the special circumstances of their profession. With
the formalizing, even in details, of the route up every regular peak,
the stimulus of romance and adventure has gone for them far more than
for the amateur. The new generation finds its only outlet in the autumn
chamois-hunting, if at all. Its mountaineering is just business.
There are some rare and notable exceptions--perhaps as many in
actual number as formed the chosen band of guides who led the early
mountaineers in their pleasant comradeship of triumph--but they are
attached in almost all cases for each season to affectionate and
jealous employers, and for the general mass of climbers there exists
only a general mass of guides of the limited and professional cast of
mind. In continuance of early pioneering tradition some great amateurs
of the old school still maintain that the guide’s word should be law in
all tactical and even strategical decisions. These are the fortunate
men, whose knowledge and reputation can command the services of the
surviving body of exceptions. If they were not so fortunate, they would
have to reconsider their view, or they would, at the present date, see
more of hotels than of huts, of pastures than of peaks.
[Sidenote: The Amateur as he may be.]
If guides have, as a whole, not progressed in the responsible and
sympathetic qualities essential for management, amateurs have improved
out of all proportion. Mountain craft, the mastery of the laws that
govern ice and rock and of their application, has become an exact
science, and the educated intelligence, under right guidance, is able
in a season or so to enter upon a whole inheritance of knowledge, of
detail and principle, which it took decades of tentative experiment to
discover. In the matter of purely technical skill also, of physical
performance, of balance, the use of the feet, of the axe, the rope
and the eyes, the phenomenon common to all sports has made itself
evident: each new generation of climbers appears to inherit, almost
as an instinct and without visible or conscious study, a greater
adaptability, an easier apprehension, as it were, of the necessary and
improving physical adjustments which had to be laboriously acquired by
the previous generation. Consequently the good amateur now brings to
the partnership a mountaineering qualification unimagined fifty years
ago, possessed of an accumulated knowledge of all varying and recorded
conditions and of a transmitted instinct for the novel athletic
requirements.
In stating this, I do not wish for a moment to be thought to undervalue
either the spirit or the skill of the few great early guideless
parties who first broke loose from the growing oppression of the
professional guiding traditions. They had to face a hostile criticism
of whose intensity we have now little conception. In the then condition
of mountaineering knowledge their independent action, undertaken
deliberately in the best interest of mountaineering as a great pursuit,
postulated a resolute courage and a readiness for responsibility that
proved to be as well justified by their record of performance as it
remains deserving of our wholehearted admiration. The relations of
amateur and guide would probably in any case have followed the same
line of development. But these pioneers did more than anticipate. They
first taught the amateur that it was safe for him, if he wished, to
prosecute the craft for himself, and that he possessed advantages that
could make him, if he followed them up independently, all but the equal
of the best guides.
A guide is, in fact, only a ‘guide’ in the sense that he belongs to a
professional class. The name can no longer be used to imply an inherent
supremacy in all fields of mountaineering. Similarly an amateur
possesses an inheritance and opportunities which make it possible for
him to make himself as good as a guide in many, and better than a guide
in several, important qualifications.
[Sidenote: The Composite Mountaineer.]
The title mountaineer can no longer be confined to the man of the
mountains. It connotes the perfect mastery of a difficult craft to
which guide and amateur alike aspire. This mountain science consists
of several departments of equal importance, in some of which the
amateur, in others the guide, starts with an initial advantage. In
relation to its absolute acquisition there are bad professionals and
medium professionals, and bad amateurs and moderate amateurs, according
to their personal and not their class values. If they develop their
experience and skill at an even rate, either will retain his initial
advantage over the other according as the degree of difficulty or
the special character of the climbing gives the greater opportunity
to the special qualities of the one or of the other. Ultimately,
in the highest flights of mountaineering, a point of difficulty is
reached which calls for the highest degree of efficiency in all
the departments; and since human endurance is limited and economy
is essential for emergencies, the ideal combination for swift and
secure progress in these ultimate expeditions is to be found in the
association of the qualities of the guide and the amateur, each
supremely qualified in his own department.
[Sidenote: The Guide as Mountaineer.]
A good guide is acclimatized, accustomed from his youth to the food,
heights and discomforts of sleep. The necessary muscles have been
hardened by years of practice. No average amateur, coming out for a few
weeks each year and unaccustomed to manual labour, whatever his skill
or talent, can hope to compare with him in endurance and consistent
pace, be it in step-cutting for long hours on an ice slope or in
facing struggle after struggle on an exhausting rock climb. The guide
is inured to snowstorms and cold winds, and his fingers can usually
outlast an amateur’s in clearing out and clinging to snowy holds or
iced rocks. He possesses thus more powerful reserves against unexpected
bad weather or against unforeseen difficulty or exertion continued for
an undue length of time. He has also another advantage. Amateurs who
attempt big climbs are accustomed only to climb with safe companions.
They have had, therefore, little practice in dealing with unexpected
slips in easy places. Even if they have trained their observation and
protective movement by leading beginners on British rock climbs, the
duration of the attention demanded has been short, and they have known
where to be on their guard, and with whom. But in the Alps the larger
part of the day is spent in traversing comparatively easy ground well
within the power of the party, but where the height and position may
always convert an inattentive stumble into a fatal accident. A guide
has been accustomed to looking after the unaccountable vagaries of
beginners and incompetents over long days on easy and difficult ground
alike. In his association even with a strong party this survives as
an instinct. He is not caught napping by the misstep into which even
fine amateurs or other guides in his party may be entrapped at the
end of a long day by fatigue, wind, darkness or over-confidence. A
good guide has, thus, special initial qualities which make him a sort
of insurance policy in certain very important respects. His gifts
reduce the percentage of accidental risk present on every climb, and
his consistency of pace and endurance ensures a larger margin of time
for emergencies. He can also carry more. He brings to the partnership
physique, endurance, professional technique and watchfulness, and a
local instinct for time or weather. His opinion in his own sphere is
invaluable; it has generally the additional weight of freedom from the
enticements of romance and enthusiasm. The amateur in control should
give it every consideration; but it does not relieve him of his own
responsibility. A first-class workman may make a very bad managing
director.
[Sidenote: The Amateur as Mountaineer.]
On his side the good amateur has antecedents and opportunities, such
as the guide cannot possess, for developing his initial advantages in
his own peculiar department. He has, or ought to have the superiority
of the educated mind over the uneducated, of the liberal intelligence
over the narrow, of contact with men, of reading, of the chance of
learning principle and precedent from books and men instead of from
small experience, and of the application of imagination and a trained
mind to the acquisition of all the details of mountain craft. He can
learn how to judge of the individual capacity of his amateur party and
of their condition on the day. He can estimate the guide’s ability
in his own line, by comparison, better than the guide can himself,
and from knowledge of his character he can judge of the value of the
guide’s opinion on technical points. In an important decision as to
advance or retreat he is, consequently, in a better position to weigh
the value of the party against the resistance of the mountain. In all
that may be called the human department of mountaineering, the judgment
and management of the men, the application of wider experience, of
accepted general principles, of imagination and reasoning powers to
the solution of particular problems, the good amateur is, _or can be_,
the good guide’s superior. He has also the advantage of being able to
make up rapidly, by means of reading, imitation and the progressive
adaptability already mentioned, much of his inferiority to the guide
in pure technique. In route finding and local knowledge he can run the
guide close by availing himself of previous records, of maps (always
a mystery to most guides), of local information, of the tracks or
presence of other parties, and of the admirable climbers’ guide-books
of all nations.
It is in fact no longer possible to designate climbing done under these
conditions by amateurs of this class as ‘guideless’ climbing in the
sense that climbing fifty years ago was entitled ‘guideless’ and looked
upon as unjustifiable. It is therefore easily to be understood that
a large number of modern mountaineers, conscious of the amount of the
field that their own qualifications and those of their party can cover,
prefer to be free from any professional check upon their enjoyment of
the mountains.
[Sidenote: The Question for the Leader.]
If good leaders know the power of their companions, where they fall
short of those of a guide and how they can be supplemented, and if
they choose climbs within those powers so far as is personally or
climatically calculable, they have a right to decide whether the
balance of pleasure and efficiency is on the side of using or of not
using professional assistance, with its merits and demerits. There is
an immense area in mountaineering where the special superiority of a
guide in the directions I have indicated has no opportunity of making
itself apparent. For the majority of difficult rock peaks, which are
by nature short, for the ordinary route finding up big mountains,
for the endless variety of climbing on passes and in regions of the
lesser ranges, a first-rate amateur can make himself as effective as
a first-rate guide. He can climb exhausting rocks as brilliantly,
provided it is not for as long; he can cut steps on the steepest ice
only a little less fast, for a sufficient number of hours; he can be
as watchful on all but the most fatiguing expeditions. If the leader
and party are efficient and know and observe their limitations, no
mountaineer in more than name will now criticize them for going without
‘guides,’ even if the occasional accident, against which no knowledge
is security, may in the course of time select their ‘guideless’ party
for its undiscriminating attack. A mountaineer who has qualified
himself as a good leader of a party as well as a sound climber has
earned the right to weigh the social disadvantage of taking a guide
against the technical strengthening his presence will contribute, in
relation to the character of the climbing he intends to undertake, and
to make his own decision.
[Sidenote: The Social Consideration.]
The technical advantage of taking a guide has been explained; the
social objection may be shortly stated. There is an inherent restraint
upon the feeling of independence and holiday fun among a party of
friends in the presence of some one of foreign speech and of different
habits of thought and body; above all, of one who climbs with them for
pay and not for their common pleasure. The association is intimate in
climbing, and the atmosphere is inevitably affected, and the spirits
checked, if any one of the party is not in key with the rest, does not
use their shibboleths or is unable to laugh with their jokes. When
a party consists of more than one amateur, and often in the case of
only one, etiquette usually insists upon a second guide being taken.
If there is a second guide, a division into two camps is formed--one
felt if not expressed--which no geniality or linguistic ability can
dissolve. The second professional is nearly always, by the nature of
the case, an inferior, more bound by his caste and with less interest
in, because less responsibility for, the success of the party. He will
generally voice valley prejudices and professional doctrines which are
enemies to enterprise and individual achievement, and he will form
a sort of unreasoning counterpoise to any effect that less hampered
amateur opinions might otherwise have upon the views of the first
guide. Situations are thus created whose solution demands more tact and
attention than a man on holiday feels disposed to devote to his sport.
The possibility of their occurrence forces him to put a constraint
upon himself, in view of contingencies, which is antagonistic to the
complete comradeship of mountaineering. He cannot, as the leader of
such a party, merge his identity, and therefore his authority, in the
pleasant fluctuations of the common mood. The association of guides
also throws upon him many small additional details of daily management,
if he is going to get the best use out of them and keep them in
good temper. His attention to health, food, personal variations and
humour has to embrace a whole new and foreign group of traditions and
idiosyncrasies of which he has small experience. He has not only to
attend to these, but also to bring them into harmonious co-operation
during all the incidents of the day with the preferences, conditions
and peculiarities of his amateur members, and with their--to the
guides--incomprehensible ideals of adventure and fun. Other things
being equal, a leader who knows that his party is competent should be
free, on the ground of the extra call their presence puts upon his
management, to decide to do without guides.
[Sidenote: The Technical Compensation.]
But if he is not sure of himself, or if his party is unequal or
inexperienced, he has no right to risk the possibility of disaster
to his party and the certainty of premature grey hairs for himself
by omitting to take a good guide on this social ground alone. And
supposing him to be a man of conscience and competence, and not a
reckless ‘kraxler’ of no mountaineering claims, he will not allow his
decision to take a guide to be influenced by any fear that the credit
of his party will be diminished in any competent mountaineer’s eyes by
the fact that a prejudiced or a thoughtless modern virtuosity might
jeer at it as ‘guided.’
[Sidenote: Examples.]
[Sidenote: The Expert.]
In proportion as the collective efficiency of the amateur element
is less, the necessity of taking a guide on the technical grounds
described is emphasized. The good amateur, if he is alone in the Alps
with one beginner or with two beginners, should certainly always take
a guide. If he has one beginner and a man of second-rate skill or
experience, he should in most cases take a guide; but something then
depends upon the nature of the climbing he has in view. Similarly, if
he is alone with a second-rate amateur, he should take a guide for
glacier work and for all ‘mixed’ climbing, unless it be of a character
to be well within the second amateur’s powers as well as within his
own. If he is aiming only at what may be called ‘one-man climbs,’
such as short, difficult rock peaks, his own skill may be considered
adequate for the safe mastery of the difficulties, and the second
man need only be responsible and capable of following without undue
exertion to both. But in this case he must remember that he is making
no allowance for accident, injury or the unforeseen.
In all cases the first-class amateur remains the leader or manager of
any party. He is always supreme in his own department of management;
and the fact that the unequal or doubtful competence of his party,
technically speaking, or the difficulty of the climb in prospect, may
make it advisable to take a guide, and may render the party during the
day more dependent upon the guide’s single contribution than would
be the case in a party of more equal technical skill, should only be
considered to give the guide a rather larger share in the general
responsibility. The fact that a guide is taken does not justify the
leader in throwing the whole responsibility upon him or in allowing his
party to do so; and in the event of any unfortunate issue it will be no
defence for his surrender of his proper functions in the eyes of good
mountaineers that he is able to plead that he was technically ‘guided.’
On the descending scale of climbing competence, when parties are in
question which contain no first-class amateur, a guide is, of course,
essential; and in this case his supremacy in skill, accompanied by any
proportion of managing ability which he has acquired,--and which will
naturally be greater than that of such inexperienced amateurs,--entitle
him to all the control, and consequently to much of the responsibility
which in former days used to be considered his alone in every
department of mountaineering.
Such parties may be of three kinds: moderate mountaineers of some
experience, who by choice confine themselves to modest climbs and wish
to do them with the utmost security and the least personal exertion;
beginners, who have still to learn all their business; and those
tourists already mentioned, who merely wish to ‘do a mountain.’
[Sidenote: The Tourist.]
To take the last first, that of the tourists (and there are many of
them), whose ambition it is to be taken up a big peak with a big name,
without concerning themselves with learning anything of the craft. In
such cases they do well to tie themselves between the strongest and
most highly recommended peasants they can secure and leave everything
to them. After the experience they will either desire to become
mountaineers, when they will join the class of beginners, or they will
desist. I should be the last to depreciate any manifestation of the
spirit that has brought us all to the hills, but in this chrysalis
condition their performance is not titularly mountaineering, and--it
is bad for the guides! An occasion comes back to mind--an ascent of
the Matterhorn on one of the two days upon which it was climbable
in a bad season. Nine members of a far-western gymnastic club chose
the same day for the one ascent of their lives. Each was led on a
short rope by a more or less competent peasant. They climbed with
a magnificent output of muscle. On reaching the summit, with its
incomparable view and terrific memories, they looked neither down nor
round, but joined hands in a circle facing inwards, and gave nine
fearful and prolonged college yells. The bear-leaders, each gravely
holding his separate radiating rope, stood contemplating them in a
silent outer circle. The simple ceremony accomplished, each guide
gave a solemn twitch to his spoke, or rather to his rope. The hub of
the universe obediently dissolved itself, and the descent began. One
wonders what passed through the guides’ minds. If any of these men
had been killed on the descent,--and it was a miracle in view of the
condition of the mountain and of the way they climbed that they all
escaped, with nothing worse than a night out on the rocks for seven
of the couples,--popular censure would have spared their memories:
they were not guideless. Whereas, if any one of our experienced and
cautious guideless party had been hit by one of the countless stones
with which the athletes converted the mountain side for long hours into
an active volcano, there would have followed the inevitable outcry
over “reckless guideless climbing”; not only from Press and public but
even, I fear, from some of the guardians of ancient mountaineering
tradition in our climbing associations. To the chance of this absurdity
does the perpetuation of the outworn distinction between ‘guided’ and
‘guideless’ condemn any modern mountaineer of enterprise.
[Sidenote: The Beginner.]
Beginners call for more careful consideration, though they may be the
least likely to be tolerant of advice. For I include among beginners
not only those who have had no experience of adverse alpine conditions,
but also all prophets who are in the habit of asserting that alpine
mountaineering only differs from crag climbing in degree, as well as
all climbers who, because their modern balance technique has proved
sufficient to carry them through a season or so of standard expeditions
in fair weather, consider themselves fully qualified to exercise all
the discretionary functions of management and leadership without first
learning them. Men are all beginners who have never discovered what a
lot there is that they do not know. There are men climbing in the Alps
to-day who, finding that their first guide was inferior to themselves
in pure cragsmanship, have dispensed with guides altogether; and a very
slow progress in mountain craft and in achievement has been the result.
There are also mountaineers, and good ones, whose competence appeared
to justify them in doing without guides from the start, but whose
brilliant performances are still marred by mountaineering errors which
a more thorough grounding would have eliminated in time. Where the
preparation has been deficient, management and leadership must remain
voyages of unnecessarily slow discovery.
For beginners or ought-to-have-been beginners of these sorts I can
only hope that the awakening may be as harmless, if not as prompt, as
mine was in like case. Looking back from the summit of our second peak
in our first season, I remarked to my single companion: “Look where
that fool of a fox has run up our ridge all along the edge of the
snow-cornice! And yet they say that animals----” And then I realized,
with an amused horror that has never been forgotten, that we were
looking at our own ascending tracks! Well; on the descent we found
that, though we _had_ ascended without a thought for cornices, we were
equally in error on the summit in thinking we saw a cornice to the
ridge over which our tracks passed! The next season we were content
to take guides. So will any sage beginner in the Alps or other great
range, if he is not fortunate enough, and few are, to be introduced to
the science between two first-rate alpine amateurs.
If he is well advised, he will choose his first trainer as much for his
knowledge of management--that is, his experience of amateurs, his power
of estimating their potentiality and of encouraging their interest--as
for his skill. Good second-class local guides in small centres, in
contact with moderate but faithful local patrons, have often had more
opportunities in this respect than more brilliant experts at large
centres in constant engagement with changing employers. He should
follow his trainer implicitly, note what he does and how he does it,
and accept his judgments; but he should watch him persistently, and
discover upon what he bases his actions or directions. Few peasants
will be able to help him much by explanation. They act on instinct or
experience; the reasons they may be induced to give are less likely
to be correct than the conclusions which an intelligent amateur can
draw for himself. They are also easily daunted. For this reason the
amateur, even if he thinks he knows better on occasion, should hold
his tongue. His object is to learn all he can, not to choke the
possibly adulterated springs of wisdom. He will soon acquire a mass of
small precedents, and out of them he will evolve a number of general
principles such as will enable him to take an increasing share in the
management of his climbs. A very small amount of principle, acquired
and intelligently applied, will prove often of even more service than
the local guide’s instinct, which, unless he be a really first-class
man, is apt to prove faulty under novel conditions of weather or of the
unforeseen.
During his novitiate he should keep off the big exacting ascents,
where he will have little leisure to observe, and where the amount he
can learn of the reasons for following accepted lines, for avoiding
others and so on, is small compared to the mere physical exertion that
is called for. He should confine himself to the less known regions
where some route finding is necessary, and to the glaciers and near
rock ridges, where points of technique can be studied in repetition
and variety, and beginnings and endings and alternatives of route and
all the other matters common to small and big peaks alike--and vital
to his education--are to be found in far greater numbers in proportion
to the ground that an active man can cover in the day. One helpful
variety he should allow himself during his study under a single guide
in a home region. He should take an occasional tour of two days or
so to climb a big peak in a different valley. This is a rapid way to
acquire experience of all that guides can teach. It will be advisable
to take on a second and really good guide from the new district to help
the permanent trainer, who will generally have been, if he works in a
less important centre, a man of second-rate technical, and of intensive
rather than wide, guiding experience. The contrast in their styles
will be worth watching; and the expense is in any case less than that
of engaging two regular guides for a longer period--an alternative
which, if he climbs in his first season from a popular centre, he will
be unable to avoid. In his second season he may, if he wish, attempt
some guideless expeditions, in a suitable region, with friends of equal
or greater competence. But he should not allow this or any subsequent
season in his early experience to pass without spending at least some
period under a good guide or a first-rate amateur. He has so much to
learn that he should not try to rediscover it all for himself. A genius
who devotes years to rediscovering the first propositions of Euclid
merely wastes time.
[Sidenote: The Moderate Mountaineer.]
The last case is that of mountaineers of some standing, who either
on account of marriage, or of years and a comfortable habit, or from
the philosophical attitude of mind which succeeds the enthusiasm of
youth and smiles at its ambitions while it still enjoys a measured
indulgence in its pleasures, prefer to be relieved of any kind of
responsibility. These men take guides as a matter of course, and leave
to them from choice the management even in those departments which
their own experience would entitle them to direct. Their interest
in mountaineering is a personal one, as an occasion for healthful
exercise, for air and refreshing views. They pursue it for its
distraction from other more worldly interests, not simply for its own
sake. They are not concerned with its higher developments as a fine
art, and as much from a modest appreciation of their own powers as
from a deliberate depreciation of its possibilities, they renounce
on their own behalf all the further opportunities which it offers
for self-discovery and self-training, in the management of men and
the progressive mastery of physical difficulty. The attitude has our
sympathy. Those whose graver appreciation of the mountains, whose less
tutored spirit of romance and adventure impel them to accept labour,
responsibility, hardship, danger and sorrow as integral parts of their
mountain service, and as a high discipline for body and spirit such
as no other outlet from the enervating oppression of civilized life
now affords, will recognize in this gentler manifestation of their own
impulse a grateful proof of the fascination which mountaineering can
still exercise upon every variety of civilized brain and character,
upon men of finer intellect, wider opportunities for usefulness, and
perhaps more balanced temperament than their own.
This considerable and often distinguished body needs no advice
with regard to the conduct of its guided climbing; but it may not
be superfluous to remind it of an obligation which it owes to
mountaineering as an institution. If only because of their number
and their more frequent meetings in centres--for the minority of
wholehearted devotees are generally isolated, and guideless parties
are independent and migratory by choice--these somewhat temperate
mountaineers form the central body of alpine opinion. Whatever their
desire to make their climbing merely a personal pleasure trip and to
avoid the more strenuous currents, yet in so far as they use many
guides and make with them the large majority of the guided ascents made
in any year, they must be held responsible for the training of the
guides, mentally and morally, while in their pay. They are assisting
to create a considerable amount of abstract alpine doctrine both for
the present and the future, and are establishing many more particular
conventions affecting the attitude of guides towards amateurs, and
of amateurs towards guides, and of the public towards both. But the
attitude of mind in which they prefer to approach the pursuit makes
them too often neglectful of the charge and of the lasting effect of
their participation. Some from mere passive acceptance of the treatment
as part of the game, others with an amused inward detachment, encourage
young guides and old guides alike to manage every moment and movement
of their day; satisfied that they themselves are getting all the profit
in health and safety which is their limited holiday object. They are
like genial uncles who join in a game and submit with an interior
smile to the hectoring of their nephews, retiring when they please to
make criticisms for their own and their neighbours’ amusement in the
pavilion. But in mountaineering the rigour of the game is essential
to its good conduct. A guide indulged is a guide spoiled. An amateur
indolently criticized may mean a position permanently falsified.
Our small public opinion is not easily corrected. From the start, a
right reputation is as essential for our social influence with the
guides as it is vital for our mutual climbing safety. In the Alps
we have a large number of professionals whose living depends upon
their maintaining a satisfying relationship with their employers, and
a small number of amateurs whose pleasure in their holiday depends
upon maintaining a suitable influence with their guides. The balance
is difficult to preserve, and there is no room for dilettantism.
Irresponsible handling of guides may in any decade result in a mass of
amateurs speeding, by preference, guideless and insecurely uphill in a
mountain sense, and in a mass of vocationless guides speeding surely
downhill in a financial sense.
[Sidenote: Summary.]
A first-rate amateur, therefore, will take guides without hesitation,
whenever he considers the powers of his friends too weak in general for
absolute safety on the technical side, or the particular climbs they
desire on occasion to attempt too exacting for their normal collective
efficiency. His own concern with guides is to learn how to manage them
and to get the best use out of their special qualifications.
Responsible, but less expert mountaineers, who wish to be independent,
will nevertheless take first-rate guides for the same reason on
occasions when their experience advises them of the advantage of their
particular services to the party. They have to learn how to reconcile
the retention of their own proper share of management with the greater
share of responsibility in all departments which in this case falls to
the first-rate guide.
Mountaineers who wish to be free of all responsibility will take guides
because they choose to. They have to learn how not to spoil them, and
how to prevent the example of their own voluntary surrender of their
heritage from biasing their own and the public view of such of their
contemporaries as may attempt to enjoy a different form of independence.
Novices will take guides as soon as they have discovered that there is
anything they themselves do not know. They have to learn from guides
all they can, so as to earn the right to do without them later if they
desire.
Tourists, or experimentalists, intent to ‘do a mountain,’ will take
guides.
It will be seen that the question of taking guides is no longer to
be decided on the traditional single issue, whether the guide is
‘better’ than the amateur. The question has now two aspects, even as
‘leadership’ has now developed two main divisions.
In the earliest stages of amateur accomplishment, while the beginner
has no qualifications, the guide is taken because he is technically
better qualified and has also, by local knowledge, instinct, etc., a
larger proportion of the qualities necessary for management. The guide
enjoys in this case his historic position of single responsibility.
In the second stage, where the climber may be only a novice in the
alpine sense, the guide may possibly be technically inferior to his
employer as a rock climber, a pace maker and so on; but in the absence
of the amateur’s alpine experience the guide deserves to retain his
‘leadership’ when his qualifications in both mountaineering fields are
considered together.
As we move up the scale of experience, and the amateur is found to
have developed more and more his initial advantages in the qualities
necessary for management, the decision to employ or not to employ a
guide depends more and more upon how far it may be thought advisable
to supplement the technique of the party. Again, in proportion as the
amateur and his party continue to remedy their technical inferiority,
while they improve their experience in management, _pari passu_ the
need of a guide, in either department, diminishes. If he is employed,
however, his general responsibility is proportionately decreased.
In these later stages the relation of guide and employer is one of
expert with expert, and the guide’s position, if he is employed at
all, corresponds to that of a professional in a team, who is selected
for some individual qualification which he is able to supply. It would
be as ludicrous nowadays to rate the performances of such climbing
combinations as praiseworthy or censurable, according as they were
‘guided’ or ‘guideless,’ in the old sense of the term, as it would be
for us to assume that any cricket team which contained a professional
must be _ipso facto_ captained by him, or to refuse our recognition to
any team which did not contain professionals among its members.
When, therefore, we are considering the case of a party of finished
amateurs, men who are first rate in both divisions of mountain craft,
as climbers and as leaders in management, and who have no need of
guides as a technical complement, we must be prepared to concede that
for them there is now no rule. The matter becomes purely a question of
personal preference and of personal discretion in the choice of the
climb.
[Sidenote: A Supreme Example.]
I have left to the last the consideration of the one exceptional case
where, for want of sufficient material as a basis for judgment, no
clear crystal of modern mountaineering opinion has had opportunity
to fashion itself, and where the old debate as between ‘guided’ and
‘guideless’ still survives with something of its old vivacity. This
is the case of the highest flights possible in mountaineering, the
ascent of the limited number of really great ridges and faces in
the Alps and in less explored ranges. These climbs provide the most
magnificent exercise of strength, endurance, nerve and spirit, all
acting in harmony and all at their utmost tension, that human daring
or ingenuity has yet discovered or invented. If they do not represent
the limit of possible human achievement, they represent the limit of
achievement possible with security in a single day of human effort.
They are the ambition of every wholehearted mountaineer, but they fall
to the lot of only the few. Many of them are seldom repeated; on others
the conditions vary greatly between the rare ascents. Even among the
fortunate few who succeed, it will be still fewer who can honestly
say that they remained sufficiently masters of themselves and of the
situation throughout the long day of extraordinary effort, sufficiently
in command of muscle and nerve to meet all the physical demands
unassisted and with a critical judgment, sufficiently conscious of all
the tactical, human and technical manœuvres by which the success was
finally won, to be able to recover from memory a detached opinion as to
the relative difficulty of the climb, or to be able to estimate fairly
their own ability to repeat the day ‘unguided’ in all its problems
for leadership as well as in its tests of pure skill and endurance.
It is a common failing among even the best of mountaineers to forget
how much they have been ‘morally’ assisted by their company, or how
little they may have personally contributed to the actual carrying
through of a great climb, in the afterglow of its success. The more we
allow for the unusual physical and emotional reaction of these great
ascents, the less security we feel in applying standards of common
judgment to the opinions and narratives of their few conquerors. The
body of ordinary expert mountaineering opinion is of little assistance.
Mountaineers whose experience is limited to normal ascents, or who
may even have ‘done’ some of these greater climbs between two expert
professionals with their bodies and their judgments equally in a
condition of suspense, are only a few degrees better qualified than
the climbing public to judge of the combination of human faculties
required for leadership and management in their secure conquest. We
are forced, therefore, to take as our basis for comparison in forming
our opinion the few records of such supreme ascents as have been
performed by both guided and guideless parties. If, then, we examine
these dispassionately, and allow for the golden spectacles of a natural
exaltation, the greater where it is the less professional and the more
personal, we may decide that the sum of purely dangerous incident, of
benightments, races with darkness, breakages of cornice, etc., which
they narrate, adds up to the disadvantage of the guideless ascents. The
proportion of danger incurred is the one absolute standard by which all
mountaineering can be judged. Between danger and difficulty there is a
clear line of demarcation, which shifts according to our ability, but
which is always perceptible. In doing without guides, these gallant
parties, from their own accounts, while they triumphed equally over
the difficulties, skirted more closely and more continuously along the
border-line of danger.
Reason would bring us to the same conclusion. When we are estimating
the limit of what is humanly safe in mountaineering, we are considering
not what is securely possible for a single individual, a comparatively
low standard, but that which it may be possible for an ideal
combination of mountaineering qualities to achieve in one day. Up to
the present time we find in certain of the best of the guides the
highest development yet attained in one of the two groups of necessary
qualifications; in certain of the best of the amateurs we find the
highest development in the other. Until guides are enabled to enjoy
all the advantages of the amateur’s education and mental training
while they still retain their own natural conditions of life, or until
amateurs can live the lives of guides and yet remain all that wider
circumstance and opportunity assist to make them as amateurs, the
finest mountaineering combination will and must still remain that of
the associated group-qualities of guide and amateur, each group in its
highest degree of individual development.
If a small but concrete proof were needed that neither the combination
of the best of guides alone nor of the best of amateurs alone
represents the most efficient type of mountaineering machine, it might
be found in the history of the conquest of a number of great alpine
climbs, which for years defeated alike good guides in association and
good amateurs in association, but finally yielded in almost all cases
to the combination of good guides and good amateurs.
But it is dangerous to dogmatize. When we are talking of exceptional
ascents we are dealing with exceptional men; and if we say that for
the safe performance of these exceptional ascents the best amateur
parties will be strengthened by the addition of the best of guides,
it is with the knowledge that amateur climbing has made extraordinary
strides of recent years, and that in any season the conjunction of
two or more hitherto unimagined amateur stars may yet further raise
the recognized limits of the safely possible in guideless climbing.
In such case, the time-honoured discussion as to what degree of
difficulty makes a guide indispensable to an expert amateur party, in
order to minimize its dangers, with all its heartburnings and rash
intrusions, will be removed into an even more remote sphere than the
already rarefied atmosphere of exceptional climbs in which alone it is
still permissible. The matter may then be for super-mountaineers to
debate. The discussion is now, in all but these extreme cases, dead.
Sentiment or ignorance may still return to the old war-cries ‘guided’
and ‘guideless,’ used with the old significance, in fireside journals;
in safe print moonshine may yet confuse the climbing ways which troops
of stars have illuminated; but in the mountains new developments have
established new doctrine, and a mountaineer is safe from criticism
worthy of the name if he regulates his practice according to modern
interpretation.
THE MANAGEMENT OF GUIDES
If or when a leader decides to take guides, he has to know how to
manage them. I have already said that he is not now entitled merely to
engage the best guides available, and then leave all the direction and
responsibility to them. Few modern guides expect or deserve this. His
abdication will be followed by starts on wrong days, amazing meals,
more visits to huts than mountains, unaccountable retreats, and final
disgust with guides altogether. His party, at the close, will have
attained no harmony and have lived divided into two camps. The amateur
members will have been the least considered; they will either have been
dry-nursed or oppressed. The surrender of their leader’s functions to
the guides will have left them with no authoritative channel through
which to secure their proper share of responsibility and independence.
They will have become discontented and adopted the conventional
language of the lower criticism, abusing the guides for their tobacco,
their peaty clothes, their drinking and want of enterprise; much as is
still set forth in accredited climbing books of the ‘picture-me-then!’
class. The guides for their part, undirected and uninspired, will
have fallen back upon their professional traditions and caution,
meeting the unsympathetic atmosphere, which they do not understand,
with taciturnity, aggravating interference or childish assertiveness.
The whole blame will have lain with the leader. Just for a handful of
silver he left them, renouncing his entire responsibilities because one
or two of his party were to receive certain shillings in return for
their skilled companionship. The party has had no leader, no focus for
authority and opinion, and it could attain no success.
[Sidenote: Guide Nature.]
A guide is as much a human being as any amateur in the party. If it
is necessary for the manager to have constant care of the health and
_morale_ of his friends, it is doubly so in the case of his guides. The
_average_ guide is a peasant, with the limitations that frame peasant
virtues. His guiding motive is the struggle for existence under hard
conditions. His winters are spent in wood chopping, hard work and
keeping warm, with cards, wine and village gossip for distraction.
His public is preponderatingly masculine: in many mountain villages
the proportion of boys to girls is five to three. His winter society
consists of a fluctuating population, crudely packed for the cold
months, and dispersed in parasitic occupations during the summer; it
has therefore not even a parochial sense of responsibility in the
creation of its prejudices. All talk circulates round ‘francs.’ His
short summer season is a succession of conflicts with varying degrees
of incompetence, in a business in which his conscious superiority
is seldom challenged. It is impressed upon him that his most paying
accomplishments are an obliging manner and a smattering of spoken
tongues. He has small occasion to measure himself against other men or
get an idea of his own personal value, because the world comes to him
in its most artificial form, and plays him only at his own game with a
fantastic handicap. He is a child, with a precocious development on a
special line which gives him his one standard for manhood in general.
Outside his valley he has to fear the antagonism, even the petty
violence, of any local trade union; inside it he has all a schoolboy’s
fear of outraging some point of rigid local etiquette. There is no
more of William Tell and the edelweiss post card in the material life
of a Swiss valley than there is of Robin Hood and Merrie England in
an agricultural village. If the guide turns back on an ascent, after
hearing some incomprehensible patois from a fellow-villager the evening
before in a hut, or if he refrains from bullying a surly official on
our behalf, on whose good offices he may be dependent, or if he shows
no active sympathy in our condemnation of a recalcitrant porter,
who may be his wife’s cousin, we have no right to expect anything
different. If after a gorgeous sunset and a romantic ascent he still
cares more for our francs than our fellowship, it is perfectly natural.
We should look for nothing else, if we had not fashioned our typical
guide in youth from the narrative of the great literary pioneers, who
still found here and there a sympathetic village unspoiled by hotels
and tourists, or a natural son of the hills whose responsive courtesy
could reflect, if it did not comprehend, the symbolical attributes,
born of the realization of romantic success and physical well-being,
with which the imagination of the contented employer invested his
guide’s leadership. We too find a few such men. But we recognize them
as exceptions, or as beings who visit us in their full splendour only
in the roseate hours of reminiscence following on a great climb.
The guide as we know him is hill-born, hill-bred,--that is, a child,
with a child’s capacity for becoming much what we make him,--a
companion, a valet or a machine,--and with a child’s suspicion and
shyness, which he hides under an appearance of professional reserve or
a formal politeness.
[Sidenote: The Right Footing.]
A leader must not be content with either the polite manner or the
professional aloofness. He must first get to know his man thoroughly,
watch his reactions on a climb, and notice his weak and strong points,
where he is confident from knowledge and where he is merely bluffing.
From his movements or silences he will soon be able to deduce more than
from his speech. He should avoid direct opposition or discussion during
the actual climbing. The guide is as sensitive and as inarticulate
as any other uneducated handicraftsman on points that touch his
professional skill or caste pride, and ill-timed interference will
drive him to the polite manner for his protection. It is a mistake,
also, to allow the relationship to become too personal, to expect a
guide to act as valet or to perform small menial services in bivouac
or hotel. There are many offices which a guide performs as part of his
business,--cooking and carrying and the care of the party’s comfort as
a whole. But when an amateur has been indebted to his guide for putting
on his putties in peace-time, it is impossible for him to resent
being treated as equally dependent when the crises of battle take
place. The relationship cannot be changed in a moment, much less in a
crucial moment. The footing established in the valley, in the hut or
on the long tramp, will remain the footing on the mountain side. Small
hardships and small comforts have to be shared equally, that there may
be an equal sharing of the big responsibilities of the campaign and in
the decisions that go to meet difficulty or danger.
Start with your guide on a right footing, so that he sees that you
recognize your duties towards him as much as his towards you. See that
he gets decent food in the hotels; some head-waiters, portly with that
authority which a tourist traffic inevitably confers, never learn
to handle a guide as anything but a servant in your employment and
something less in their own; but the guide is generally too loyal or
too aloof in spirit to tell you so. Let him have what wine he desires:
he will have to carry it himself. No good guide drinks to excess,
some not at all. But fine-drawn men, not regularly nourished on meat,
will frankly admit that failing such reserves the extra stimulus is
occasionally really needed if some feat calling upon all their strength
or endurance has to be carried through. A well-trained body, under
primitive conditions, knows by instinct what particular nourishment it
needs, and responds to its stimulus with startling suddenness. A good
guide, on serious work, will never take more than nature tells him
is required, whatever your opinion of that amount may be. Of course
if he is a regular or irregular sipper in idle moments it is best to
get rid of him. Be careful that he has not too much to carry; when
there are several of a party, and each adds some trifle of personal
luggage without knowing that the others may have done the same, the
load often gets far beyond what the leader intended in selecting
the provisions. His own food--he generally prefers his own of its
kind--should be unrolled and seen to with the other packages. Sleepy
hotel-porters, under the heading of “provisions for guide,” are apt to
stuff in mosaics of strange meats; and again the guide is too polite to
tell you: it is not manners to worry the gentlemen. This is just the
distinction which on all accounts you have got to break down. Consider
his comfort as that of any other member of the party during the day,
without seeming to fuss or to be condescending. It is hopeless to try
and make him ‘one of yourselves’; he has his own pride, and would shrug
his shoulders over premature familiarity. But quiet consideration will
gradually convert the relations into a pleasant mutual understanding.
Take his sack as well as your own if he is leading and you judge
the extra weight is taxing him unduly. Take your turn at leading in
deep, soft snow. This is the only task of sheer endurance in which I
believe good amateurs can outlast good guides. Look after his getting
his food and a proper place to sleep in, unobtrusively, when you get
down from a big climb to new quarters, no matter how tired you are.
It is in your own interest for the morrow. If possible, laugh him out
of the common trick of dropping behind and making a sort of tail to
your triumph as you return into the village or meet another party. He
is taught that this is good manners and will please your touristship;
but it is really insulting to both, if a man has been your companion
or leader during a great climb of united effort, to accept this mock
tribute to your poor dignity when there is no longer any chance of
going a step wrong. The transparent imposition impresses nobody you
meet, and least of all yourself or him. In the valley let the guide
see that, as between yourselves, you consider that the fellowship
remains unaltered, that you do not barter your right to be treated as
his equal as a mountaineer for the sake of posturing as his ‘Herr.’
At the same time accept, for the sake of his comfort and his opinion
of your tact, the outward appearance of differentiation which his
training has taught him to consider consistent with his position and
yours in this valley and hotel life. You will soon find out what you
can or cannot do. You cannot traditionally invite him to dinner at the
same table with other strangers in a large hotel, but he will join
you for coffee at your separate table. Let him pay for you as you go.
The confidence will make him feel of the party, and has the advantage
of getting you large reductions through his local knowledge! Once he
recognizes you as a human being and you have found the way through
the crust of his professional suspicion and local upbringing, you
will know him to be very human also, with a temperament as easy as a
child’s to understand and as difficult as a child’s to manage; loyal,
sympathetic, often sensitive, and naturally honest. He enters more into
your aspirations than he ventures to show. Without sentiment, without
sharing your thoughts or being able to exchange a word about all the
varied interests that make up your own different outlook, without even
understanding your motives, you may yet, if you are fortunate, find
him a man who will become your close friend, with whom you can share
silence and danger and sorrow in a community of feeling that needs
no speech. In contact with elemental realities, it is the essential
personalities, not their different decorations of race or education,
that count and that make contact.
Anyone who has followed me so far will probably be yawning, and asking,
“Is this really all necessary in order to enjoy a mountain holiday?”
It is not. If you want to follow a hunt, you have only to learn to
stick on; if your object is to cross the Atlantic, you can do it in a
liner; if you want just to do mountains, you can engage guides, behave
like a gentleman, and you will have got your desire. But if you ever
wish to realize the incomparably greater pleasures of hunting your
own pack or sailing your own boat, you will have to set about it in a
different fashion. Ask a platoon-leader or good company-officer what
proportion of time he gave to the study and training of his men before
an offensive. And then be assured that mountaineering is a pursuit in
which, just as there is no limit to the ascending scale of pleasures
which it offers, æsthetic and physical, so also there is no end to
the progressive study and preparation it demands from those who would
follow its higher walks.
The better a man knows his child-guide, the more he will know how to
manage him, so as to get the best out of his mountaineering precocity.
The happiest arrangement is no doubt to keep a careful eye open, during
your preliminary years of training under the first professional, so
as to mark down any enterprising young guides or porters. The young
guide need not yet be an expert; it is for the amateur to give him the
opportunity for developing his technical skill in their seasons of
progressive climbing, while _pari passu_ the amateur is establishing
his own position in the partnership and perfecting himself in his own
department.
The companionship of amateur and guide as friends is the ideal
combination for great mountaineering wherever the ground permits of it.
So soon as a second professional is added the amateur is in a minority;
and no matter how close his personal association with his first guide,
the professional comradeship, recalling the atmosphere of youth, may
always override his influence for the day. A single amateur, therefore
when he finds it necessary to take on extra help for a season or
for some expedition, will do well to choose some young man, the most
athletic possible, who has his name to make and is still only thinly
crusted with professional tradition. His inexperience may keep him at
least silent in the discussion of important decisions.
[Sidenote: Before the Ascent.]
The principles of management are the same, whether the amateur is alone
or with friends, and whether the guides are old friends or comparative
strangers taken on for the season or even the day. Your concern is
primarily with the guide’s state of mind, so that he may make the
best use of his skill. If your object is merely an ordinary ascent,
it is still important that the leading guide should be kept in the
right mood, both because of the greater contribution to the social
pleasure of your party if things go rightly, and because, if checks of
weather or of circumstance arise, as they always may, you have then
neglected nothing that can contribute to a successful continuance of
your climb. If your intention is something beyond the ordinary, your
task of preparation is more difficult. For the greater the technical
difficulties of a climb, the larger must be the technical expert’s (or
guide’s) share in deciding whether they can or cannot be overcome.
The idea of the ascent has generally first to be made the guide’s
own by subtle suggestion at convenient moments. If you have got him
up out of the valley in good health and spirits, you have still the
danger of the hut to meet, where the patois of local guides, should
your plan leak out, will affect his next day’s humour fatally, even
if it does not turn you back at once. In view of this danger it is
sometimes best to treat your attempt as an ‘exploration’ only, until
you are safely off on to the lower glaciers, otherwise you may find,
when you wake in the hut, that the ‘wrong rope’ has been brought or
‘the weather’ is miraculously portentous. A mountaineer may hear these
and similar whispered euphuisms, which are the preliminary to retreat,
passing between a ‘prompted’ guide and his expostulating employer any
night in any full hut. He will not feel it his business to intervene
on behalf of another employer unless he is very sure of his ground.
After all, the guide may have good reason to mistrust his employer’s
competence, and have chosen this polite way of saving his life or
comfort in anticipation. But the leader will be wise if he takes
good note of the machinations, and of all their meanings, for his own
protection in like case. Of course this kind of excuse may, in cases,
be dictated by actual cowardice and not only by hut talk. My disregard
of this possibility lost me one of the finest climbs I have planned.
After all the gambits of hut excuses, ‘weather’ and ‘rope,’ had been
countered, and we were actually on the mountain, my single guide, of
fine reputation and great name, at the first sight of our formidable
final ridge developed a ‘sprained wrist.’ It was a forlorn hope, which
put an end to our association, and proved the downward turning-point in
a promising career.
I must instance one other weakness that comes into special prominence
in the bivouac or hut under the influence of other guides or of those
fluctuations in mood to which the peasant is very subject in the
prospect of some formidable climb. Very few guides know anything about
‘weather’ except a few local signs. But they will make use of their
supposed instinctive knowledge to the utmost if they feel lazy in the
morning or nervous of the undertaking. Possibly the ‘head-shaking’ is
half genuine, as a guide has a child’s fear of two things chiefly: a
cloud and a falling stone. But the leader must not be imposed upon, and
must use his own judgment about starting. I remember once in a bivouac,
literally under a huge stone, beside the Mer de Glace, twice sending
out quite a decent guide to see if his ‘cloud-bank’ was thinning. On
the third occasion, when I asked if there were really no stars visible,
he murmured drowsily, “Only two now,” and snuggled down to sleep again.
It is unnecessary to add that the guide and the party were wafted out
of the gîte on the wind of the unspoken and ate their breakfast on the
run.
I recall these instances only to emphasize the necessity of a close
observation of character, so that flaws may be discovered in time,
as well as the weak points shielded past the times of contact with
external influences.
[Sidenote: On the Mountain.]
Once the climb is begun the task of shepherding is simpler; there
are only the effects of untoward or premature mountain incident upon
mood to guard against. But even so, occasionally, the effect of other
parties on the same climb may have to be reckoned with. Their presence
often extends the debilitating effect of ‘hut’ promptings to the
mountain side. If the feeblest of several parties on a mountain turns
back, it requires a serious effort to prevent panic, and the fear of
later valley criticism, from inducing a general retreat. To relieve
your guide of this chance you may have to make it very audibly apparent
to the other parties that it is you, and not he, who are insisting upon
the advance.
Similarly, a guided party ahead of you, which may happen to take even
an obviously wrong route, will exercise a paralysing attraction upon
your leading guide’s mind. It is overpowering if the two guides are
acquainted. Once on a famous ridge of the greatest of Swiss peaks,
when the guide of the party ahead of us chose the traditional but, on
the day, the more dangerous of two lines, I had to say firmly that I
should retreat rather than take the risk, before my own admirable guide
could shake off the spell and consent to try the demonstrably better
alternative route. Incidentally I may add that we had the satisfaction
of sitting and watching from a secure ledge the sensational struggles
of the other party for fully half an hour before they caught us up
again. On the other hand, if the party ahead is led by a ‘foreigner’
or enemy guide, you may have to look out for the repellent effect upon
your own guide, who will be only too ready to break off on any freakish
alternative line which may give him the chance of cutting out his rival
in front.
These cases illustrate a particular danger; but as a rule once the
climbing commences the good guide is best left as much as possible
to his free devices. Your authority must encourage the idea that in
tactics the technical expert’s responsibility becomes greater, and that
in details the leading guide conducts the operations without question
or dissent.
[Sidenote: Fine Shades.]
If he has been judiciously nursed on to his mountain, a good leading
guide will be equal, unaided, to all ordinary situations and to
exceptional ones according to his ability. But if your climb proves
to belong throughout to the exceptional class, you must remain on the
watch, ready to employ in time those fine shades of management to
which alone nerves and muscles working near their limit respond. A
good first man on the rope, guide or amateur, is always an emotional
subject, though his self-control may conceal his inward fluctuations.
The leading guide’s mood in the early morning hours of climbing will
frequently be clouded by his sense of the serious work before him and
the threat of responsibility it shadows for him. If difficult problems
present themselves before he has warmed to his work, as they are apt
to do on a severe climb, or before he has realized the support of the
harmonious working of the party behind him, his mood will exaggerate
their difficulty and the discouraging prospect of a long day of such
problems. If you can then lift him over the crucial point without risk
to your party, your pains and study will have been well justified. You
must not give direct orders. A guide who will hurl himself against
anything because he is told to, against his judgment, is a bad guide,
or at least one whose temper and discretion are spoiled for the day.
Nor must you abuse the power of indirect suggestion which your study of
your man will have given you. A guide’s instinct on technical points
is an invaluable asset, and it may be harmed if it is tampered with
tactlessly. You must first make up your own mind whether his objection
to proceed is really based on genuine instinct or is only the outcome
of a depressed and cumulative mood. And here your knowledge of the
man and your observation of his condition before the crisis will help
you even more than your examination of the obstacle which is checking
him. Once you have decided that his objection is only due to mood, it
is your business to bring him into the right key again; to make him
feel that, while you realize the seriousness of the problem, yet your
judgment, unbiased by the infection of gloom, is cheerfully confident
that his skill can surmount it. Undue cheerfulness or obviously
pretended confidence will defeat your object by merely making him think
that you are out of touch with the situation or unaware of the gravity
of the decision. Both words and tone, therefore, need very delicate
choosing. The clouds must be given both time and a constant gentle
impulse to clear off. Once the black hour is past, as it passes with
most men as they warm to their work, the point comes, sooner or later,
when every good guide catches fire. The amateur can then relax much
of his attention even on a severe climb, enjoy the fun and attend
to the lighter problems of mere climbing. A day comes back to mind,
the occasion of a first ascent of the snow slopes of a famous peak,
when weather and evening company had alike contributed to oppress
the wayward spirits of a peasant guide. Every form of inducement,
‘exploration,’ ‘a nearer view for the next day,’ had had to be employed
in turn in order to coax a gloomy morning progress up the glacier,
over the bergschrund and up the initial ridges. And then suddenly, and
fully a third of the way up the ascent, a Napoleonic attitude with
outstretched arm appeared in silhouette against the snow wall above
us. We heard a cheerful shout, “Who follows me to-day will reach the
summit!” And we knew that all need for nursing on our part had ended
for the day.
Remember that however well things are going, unforeseen circumstances
may always upset humour, and that you must be always looking out for
its effects. You have to bring your party up, for each round with the
unforeseen, at the top of its climbing form. A guide in the lead must
be relieved of all anxiety about the performance of the rest of the
party; his judgment of the succeeding problems must be kept clear of
bias from extraneous considerations. He must feel that the whole party
is in tune behind him, and is confident in him, or he will not be free
to put out his best powers.
Mood or circumstance may, however, on occasion prove too much for
your management, and then you need not hesitate to take over the lead
yourself for a while. It is well for this, and for many other reasons,
to have accustomed your guides to the idea of your leading. When this
extreme course is taken, it should be done quietly and, if possible,
under pretext of trying some alternative line of your own. So soon as
the guide’s humour readjusts itself, as it will all the quicker for
watching your mistakes, the lead can be as quietly surrendered again.
I remember a new ascent we made upon a formidable rock peak. Our
excellent guides, overawed by the terrific threat of the sections far
above us, tried prematurely to prove the whole climb impossible, by
taking a fancy line early in the day which obviously led to a hopeless
impasse. As it is the huntsman’s privilege and duty, when scent is
overrun, to make the cast and lift the pack on to the right line again,
we exercised it from the tail-end of the rope. Our ultimate success
helped us to a mutual forgetfulness of the incident.
[Sidenote: The Terms of the Association.]
If you are climbing alone with a guide, of course either goes first
as may be convenient at the moment. This should be taken for granted.
Whether the your party contains guides or not, you should always insist
on taking your share of leading and encourage other amateurs to take
theirs. It is good for your climbing to do so, it is far the best
fun, and it promotes a proper footing with the guides. A guide has no
prescriptive right to the pleasantest place. Only where the climbing is
difficult, or danger is involved, the best man must lead; and this may
mean more usually the guide. It is a mistake for an amateur, however
brilliant, to let himself appear to be competing with a guide on his
own ground. The guide will always be politely admiring of brilliance,
but he is really only concerned to know that an amateur climbs safely,
and equally safely all the day. The common good is better served by
your appearing to take his superiority in the technical field for
granted, and confining your attention to deserving the command you
intend to exercise in the field of general responsibility. It is a
sign that you are beginning to take your proper position, in your own
sphere, when your guides cease to assure you that you are climbing,
like a ‘chamois’ or a ‘devil.’ But a young mountaineer is apt to feel
injured that guides take so much longer in learning to pay him the
first _real_ compliment, the admission by their acts and not their
speech that he has learned to go ‘safely.’ I remember in early days
bitterly resenting being coddled on a short rope down an ice slope by
two guides with whom I had just been sharing a sensational day, during
at least four hours of which, if I had slipped, no effort of theirs
could have saved the party. A guide, until he is trained by a good
manager, never unlearns the most deep-rooted tradition of his caste.
For him all amateurs alike remain _the_ amateur, that is, a thing to
be watched over, so long as the mountain remains a mountain, that is,
a thing up which the guide leads. For years after he has forgotten
to bother about his amateur on difficult places, where he has other
things to think about, a return to familiar ground will recall to him
the familiar tradition, and he will begin again to coddle his employer
exasperatingly. And for seasons after he has unlearned this habit,
a guide will continue to prefer the ‘backing up,’ in a bad place, of
a second-rate professional to that of the best amateurs in the Alps.
Perhaps this is natural; the two natives can calculate on each other’s
actions and reactions more closely their co-operation must always be
more instinctive and consequently more reassuring to one another.
An amateur must be content first to study the trade-winds of
mountaineering, and then gradually try his wings on the more
complicated cross-currents of its direction. Once he is qualified for
his duties as manager, his old guides by habit, and any new guides
by instinct or discovery, will soon concede him his full authority.
With this as his fulcrum he will find it, in due time, easy to secure
that both he and other amateurs of his party shall be left free to do
their own share of the climbing on their own climbing merits, and only
receive assistance (or what is intended for it) when they ask for it.
When these terms are established it is happier for the party, and far
happier as a permanent teaching for the guides. I was puzzled once
to read in a hut book a notice that for the third year in succession
the same gentleman had been forced to turn back by ‘wind’ at the same
point of an easy ascent, although the book showed that on the same day
other climbs on the mountain had gone well. Then we remarked that he
had employed the same two guides on each occasion. They were earning
their money, apparently, without undue exertion or interference in a
permanent engagement. Possibly they may even have discovered that there
is a humorous value in repetition! A few years later I heard of them
as men of ‘unmanageable stiff-neckedness,’ and out of employment. But
climbers will know of countless instances; and we must all have seen
the village street tragedies of once famous guides drifting downward
to chance engagements, trading on their names, irascible with their
few patrons, still efficient, but spoiled, arrogant and accomplishing
nothing.
[Sidenote: The Rare Crisis.]
No matter how well the guide’s temperament is analysed and his moods
managed, every guide’s nervous system has a snapping point, when
self-control may be momentarily lost. As I have said when speaking of
amateurs, to some it comes sooner, to others later; but to the best
guides, as to men of little or less education, it will come sooner
than to the best amateurs. The crisis is a disagreeable one, and very
rare. A thunderstorm, with its dangers that cannot be met by any
skill, may produce it; a sudden fall of rocks or ice where they had
no right to fall; or the shock of a realization of imminent peril.
It will be always the unexpected. The amateur is then happy who has
never weakened his influence by making mistakes outside his province
or by exhibitions of his own temper or lack of self-control. If he has
never given himself away under pressure of shock or disappointment or
fatigue, then the greater the crisis the more effective will be his
personal intervention. A few sharp words, startling but not angry,
will prove with all good guides sufficient restorative. I have had
occasion even to pay off an hysterical shouting guide on a mountain
side before his frenzy,--the result of an uncontrolled temper and
sudden panic,--yielding then to the fear of a solitary descent, died
down sufficiently to make it safe to take him on the rope again. He
was a bad guide, and dismissed on that account. But for the case of a
good guide who has been tried too highly, the momentary correction will
suffice, and the incident should not afterwards be recalled. I know of
no other occasion which should justifiably tempt us into sharp speech
or the exhibition of direct authority during an actual climb. The
secret of maintaining control is never to appear to claim it.
[Sidenote: The Reward.]
In effect, an amateur is free now to take or not to take guides in
accordance with circumstances and not with tradition. If he engages
them, except as a beginner, it must be on the terms of mountaineer
with mountaineer and not tourist with professional. He should get to
know them as human beings, make friends of them if he keeps them, and
treat them with the same tact as his other friends. In addition he
has to give them the increased study and supervision which primitive
temperaments, unknown antecedents, probable prejudices and possible
personal value to his party deserve. His reward will be to find
that his guided party remains free from many of the anxieties and
disappointments with which other guided and guideless parties have
to put up. He will find that the modern guide, if he has little of
the demigod of last-century tradition, has the potentialities of any
wholesome, hill-bred human being. He will also, if he has deserved
it, discover that the better a man, guide or amateur, becomes as a
mountaineer, the closer he grows as a companion; until a point is
reached, in the fellowship of great ascents, when the distinction
altogether disappears.
CHAPTER IV
ROCK CLIMBING
Rocks are the framework of mountains. Rock climbing is a joyous
method of getting up attractive mountains by attractive ways. But it
is possible to be a rock climber without becoming a mountaineer. It
is possible to earn a reputation by leading climbs upon some special
type of rock without becoming even a good rock climber. The good rock
climber is the man who moves equably, speedily and safely up or down
sound and unsound rock, of every description and of any degree of
difficulty that is within his physical powers.
A man who knows rocks and their structure and can climb them with
understanding is potentially a good mountaineer. He has opportunities
now of perfecting his craft which did not exist for his predecessors.
Each succeeding climbing generation can enter without effort or loss of
time upon an inheritance of skill and knowledge that its predecessors
won with tentative effort and slow discovery. During the last
twenty-five years the standard of difficulty that can be accomplished
with ease and safety by a rock climber of ability has gone up some
25 per cent. To this rapid advance the literature published on the
subject has contributed. The majority of climbs have now been charted
and described; their difficulties can be allowed for. The mystery and
uncertainty of new discovery affecting the mind, and the novelty of new
adjustments imposed upon the body are alike eliminated as complications
from the fair field of achievement. The climber goes out to meet
purely objective difficulties, with his mind informed and expectant
and his body trained and anticipating. The novice, or the expert in a
district new to him, guided by his reading, can economize his nerve and
muscle for the more difficult passages, and, finding them the easier
for this restraint, can pass on to always more exacting attempts with
pleasurable assurance.
The presence in the hills of an increasing number of men who climb
well and confidently has had even more effect than the publication of
books and periodicals. Directed by advice, and by what is still more
effective, by imitation, the beginner is no longer in danger of getting
into habits of false positions and of false judgment, whether of the
angles or of the character of rock holds. He grows up in an atmosphere
where these matters are common knowledge, and he learns almost
unconsciously.
[Sidenote: The Theory of the Development.]
Rock climbing in our modern sense is a young craft. The early
mountaineers were drawn to the hills primarily by the attraction of
exploration. Their principal interest was to find the best route to
the summits. The snow slopes, to which the peasants and hunters who
led the early ascents had been for generations accustomed, presented
the natural means. Where snow failed and angles grew steeper they took
to the ice walls and ice couloirs, since to their developing snow
technique ice presented a more familiar alternative than rock. Steep,
bare rocks were incidentally negotiated, but not from choice. The
steeper, snowless rock peaks which offered no royal snow routes were
thus naturally left to the last, and when the succeeding generation
wished to find new outlet for the satisfaction of its own desire for
discovery, it had to invent a new rock technique to solve the new
problems.
The history has been the same in every form of sport or of adventure
which has had the movements of the body and their perfecting in
skill as basis. The passion for the sport that the many may possess
engenders in the few who are better physically or nervously gifted a
desire to heighten and prolong the sensation and to exercise their
improving skill upon always more difficult variations. To the love of
wandering in the mountains, shared by all mountaineers, is added the
enduring pleasure to any healthy man of finding occasion for a higher
self-realization, a more vital physical consciousness.
The evolution has been continuous; the generations, of course,
overlap, and the different phases of mountain enthusiasm can still
find their several satisfaction. For the explorer there are still the
untrodden ranges. For those with means and time sufficient to indulge
their love of climbing among the great Alps, the old snow ways of the
mountains still remain sufficient in number and in sensation. But for
the ever-increasing number of men whom circumstances limited to the
lesser hills of our own islands or to the lower alpine ranges, the
grass and snow ways began to prove too unexciting as their novelty
became exhausted, and the rock peaks and the sheer rock faces of the
Lake Fells, Skye or the Dolomites offered a new temptation. Rock
surface, unlike snow, proved to be almost infinite in its variety
and inexhaustible in its offer of novel routes. Consequently the
development of difficult rock climbing in snowless regions like our
own proceeded at a pace somewhat out of proportion to the leisurely
progress of the art among the British frequenters of the greater
Alps. Even among the guides it was only the few, fired by emulation
or educated by their employers, who maintained a rate of improvement
at all commensurate with that which was taking place in the average
standard of amateur home rock climbing; I am speaking here purely
of _difficulty_ and primarily of ascents. In the art of continuous
climbing, and of climbing down, the comparison, as will appear later,
was not equally to the home climber’s advantage.
The principal agent in the change has been the study of the
possibilities of balance in motion, and the training successively of
the foot, the hand and the eye to secure a complete rhythmic movement
of the body while climbing. The primitive belief, if we may make a
deduction from the practice and recitals of early mountaineers, was
that the body could not be balanced with safety unless the width of the
foot had firm standing. Snow was found to satisfy this condition once
the study of snow craft had taught guides and amateurs how to fashion
a level tread, no matter what the angle of the snow slope. When the
period of the great ice climbs followed, in the historical order of
exploration, it became merely a question of discovering how to fashion
a corresponding security of step in ice. When the new impulse developed
for the undertaking of routes upon the rock peaks, a similar breadth
and comfort of tread were at first looked for. Consequently the rock
ascents of former days were limited in number and character by this
condition. Of the hands little account was taken. A walking balance
was the only rhythm recognized. We might almost call this the ‘walking
epoch.’ But the new generation, inheriting an always improving mountain
craft, with a new goal in view, could not long remain at this point.
The problem of finding sound routes up the rock angles of unexplored
peaks and faces had to be faced.
The great gullies or rifts in the rock walls offered the first natural
lines of temptation. The shelter of their enclosing walls promised a
comfortable reassurance to nerve, and even more to the eye, as yet
unaccustomed, as I have shown elsewhere, to the direct view into
empty space, above, below and on either side, without its customary
rest-point for the assurance of balance. So began what may be called
the ‘gully epoch,’ a cul-de-sac which for a decade shut in, with a
few exceptions, all the efforts of our rock climbers. Since the level
tread could rarely be obtained in these gullies, body, shoulders
and arms were all brought into the service, in order that the feet
might still be able to jam against the requisite breadth of foothold,
even though in such places tilted at an angle. At angles where these
sloping footholds failed, the stemming of the shoulders and knees
between the vertical rock walls on either side was discovered to be
a means of bridging gaps on the climb that would before have passed
for insurmountable. The substitute of this rough friction and purely
muscular effort for the walking balance of the exploring age exercised
for a time a restricting influence, although the freer use it made
of the body in general prepared the way for a better tradition.
Climbers got up steeper cliffs by their new methods at the sacrifice
of their education as mountaineers. By specializing on a convenient
accident of mountain architecture, one which cramped their outlook
and left them little opportunity for achieving rhythm or perfecting
balance, they even unlearned something of the general mountaineering
knowledge which had been acquired by the wider, milder practice of
their predecessors. It was this departure, with its somewhat clamorous
record, that introduced the period of widest separation between the
old school of classical alpine mountaineers and the commencing school
of island rock climbers, and which brought upon the latter the blast
of, not unmerited, ‘grease-polarized’ criticism, that still whispers
spasmodically and archaically. It deepened the rift that during this
epoch the greater number of first ascents of the cliffs in England and
Wales were made by means of those enticing gullies. For the classical
mountaineers, trained in the Alps, when they took an occasional holiday
in the Lakes or Skye, looked chiefly for the class of climbing which
most closely recalled the varied types of ridges to whose structure
they had been accustomed in Switzerland. Their successors, the Fell
climbers, lacking their alpine training, yielded to the temptation
of unexplored gullies, and for years enclosed our home climbing in
these uncomfortable channels. Wales, with less potent climbers,
followed the example. But Wales, with fewer gullies wherein to win
fame, would appear to have been the quarter where the first bid was
made for freedom. Almost simultaneously a similar change of view was
taking place among the rock peaks of the Eastern Alps. Gullies are the
natural lines for the descent of stones, water and snow rather than
for the ascent of human beings. Of their nature ‘faults’ in the sound
structure of the cliffs, intrusions of softer rock whose weakness water
has discovered, their surviving walls present an undue proportion of
unsound rock. These objections, combined with the gradual exhaustion
of their temptation as new ascents, eventually forced our climbers to
escape from their sunless recesses and to adjust their methods to less
restricting requirements.
The first impulse came from a few individuals whose exceptional
physical advantages led to their discovery that they could trust to
their fingers as securely as to the full tread of their feet or the jam
of their bodies. The discovery enabled them to attempt places where
there were no containing walls to be relied upon as support for the
body if the feet failed--problems such as wide-angled corners and even
what would now be called slab climbs. Finger and hand holds in their
turn became everything; footwork was neglected. To some exponents the
feet were useful only as auxiliaries, scraped downward indiscriminately
upon the rocks to give some extra propulsion. It was the epoch of
‘grip’-climbing. Its merit, apart from fine individual achievements,
was that, in its turn, it set the succeeding generation free to trust
itself more confidently on to the open ribs and exposed rock faces.
Bare slabs which had hardly been looked at were then found to be
covered with firm holds, upon which the toe or the side of the boot
could stand as firmly and advance far more rapidly; while hands and
eyes were free to assist them to an extent unknown before. The balance
of the body in continuous motion above the feet was, as it were,
rediscovered, and an upright position became again possible. The hands
returned to their proper function of aids to the balance, and the feet,
climbing in natural positions, became again of principal importance.
With the discovery that the underlying principle of all climbing
movement is rhythm,--a rhythm of the whole body and not only of the
legs, as in walking,--and that the basis of such rhythm is balance, and
not grip or stride or struggle, rock craft moved into its proper place
in the forefront of mountaineering qualifications.
Such in rough outline is the history of the last eighty years of
climbing technique. We must allow for much overlapping of the epochs in
so short a period, and for many notable individual exceptions; but in
the main this summary represents where we were and where we are, and
what happened on the way.
In classifying the stages of our climbing progress into epochs or
compartments, I am doing no injustice to the achievements of the past.
A chronicler must always face the dilemma whether to say that the great
man by his example produces the general change of practice in the next
generation, or whether to class him as the conspicuous anticipatory
ripple of a general current of coming change. Very young climbers
may be often only human in their criticisms of their contemporaries
and in their faint patronage of the collective past; for no really
enthusiastic mountain-lover ever in his heart believes that anyone
else has ever owned the hills and discovered climbing quite in the
sense that he has. But every climber who is on the way to becoming a
permanent mountaineer is a keen student of mountain history, and the
services rendered to the world’s mountaineering by the conservation of
a body of central alpine tradition are never likely to be underrated.
A good house rises higher than its foundations, but it rests upon
them. The men who first ventured on the discouraging angles of buttress
and gully and cleared the grass and earth from small holds performed
greater feats technical and moral than the most outside variations
which may remain to be done on the same rocks by their present-day
successors. They had everything against them, even the atmosphere of
their generation. They not only led the way to the steep rocks; they
started the assault upon degrees and varieties of difficulty that
forced upon their successors the cultivation of the superior technique
which they now enjoy. The mountaineering world has a tenacious memory;
we cherish the names and exploits of the heroic age; the feet of our
gods were solidly shod, and we will admit no clay to be visible about
them but that which was honourably collected in their stout tramping.
[Sidenote: Balance Climbing.]
The change in style from epoch to epoch was a considerable one, and it
has not been brought to perfection in several climbing generations.
To acquire a balance rhythm in motion the whole body has to learn a
habit of continuous simultaneous adjustments. Both feet and hands must
develop a very fine sensitiveness of touch, so as to inform us not only
of the exact amount of security each is contributing at the moment, but
also--a different matter--of the value of their leverage for initiating
a fresh movement upwards. According to these messages the balance is
continuously adjusted, so as to relieve or compensate any extremity
that may require it. The feet need only a sufficiency of hold to carry
the weight of the body at whatever angle it is being held in balance by
the hands. The hands need only that amount of hold which will enable
them to keep the body balanced while the weight is being thrust upward
by the feet. The feet learn to move inevitably on to holds no longer
seen, but previously selected by the eye. Simultaneously, the eyes are
already occupied in choosing the next holds for hand and feet, guided
in their choice not only by the compensating quality of the hold which
the balance at the instant may demand for one or other of the four
extremities, but also by the direction in which the next movement can
most securely be made. A system of continuous compensations, partly
drawn from the rhythmic balance of the moving body, partly from a
corrective choice of succeeding holds, means a great saving of effort
for the feet and hands.
The walking rhythm, of the first period, called for large, flat holds,
and therefore for long strides between them. Between each hold the
centre of gravity was thus forced out insecurely. The hands, when used,
had the extra labour of dragging the weight inward against the outward
thrust of the legs. The effort and the insecurity set a low limit to
the angle of rock which could be conveniently ascended. The grip habit,
of the middle period, demanded for its assurance sharp-edged cling
holds, such as would enable the whole lifting movement to be executed
by the hands alone. The body in suspension was thus wrenched inwards
continuously, and sight and balance were interrupted. Rhythm on either
method became impossible. On the other hand, a foot climber who climbs
by balance or compensation appears to creep easily and continuously up
the most severe slabs on an even line. His moving foot rarely lifts
above the knee of his stationary leg, for he has his balance first
to consider, and as he only needs small footholds at any angle to
sustain it, he can find them at shorter intervals in greater abundance.
His hands feel the almost imperceptible rugosities of surface with
sensitive fingers, that press as often as they cling. His body moves
upward, swinging out or in on a curve of balance with astonishing
freedom, as the messages from hand, eye and feet are collated and
complied with.
A man in sound condition, with his nerves and muscles trained, can
acquire this mastery of balance in motion far more easily than would
appear when it is thus set out. His body, at rest, instinctively
assumes the right balance for a given position. He has only to train
his eye to select holds ahead which will allow of a sequence of
harmonic positions; to train his instinct to imagine beforehand what
these positions will be; and to train his body to move from each one
of these positions to the next, in balance and with an ordered and
unbroken rhythm.
In this ladder of modern technique the first rungs of easier progress
have been the relief to the hands and feet. A further step has been
the relief to the knee, and incidentally to the clothes that cover
it. It is now rare to see a good climber return even from a week of
conflict with that most destructive of all rock, the Chamonix granite,
in the tatters of tradition. In Wales, succeeding Mrs. Owens need no
longer “mend them with stuff of various colours”: the dark returns for
decency’s sake to Zermatt or Wasdale are adventures of the past. Even
the style of clothes has something altered with the style of climbing.
Practised climbers wear in all lighter materials, chosen for wind and
water purposes more than for an armadillo-like power of resisting
friction. The change in the knee is most significant. The armour
plating of thicknesses has tended to disappear. The knee is usually
innocent of patches and often left, in Tyrolese fashion, uncovered. The
change is due to our change in style. While the foot still demanded
broad holds, necessarily found at longer intervals, for its balance,
the knee was constantly in requisition for an intermediate push up.
While grip climbing obtained, the knee was more useful than the foot
to jam with or to scrape downward against the rocks. It was also
recommended for use in mountaineering manuals as a relief to those long
strides and arm-pulls! Now the foot works for both. The knee is kept in
reserve for cracks and rococo mantelpieces, in interrupted climbing, or
for a friction hold on spaces of smooth slab to raise the body the few
inches necessary to reach new handhold. Since the knee is useless even
on such occasions unless it adheres firmly, the breeches should not get
dragged or torn. In continuous climbing it only serves us for light
balancing touches, when the hands are needed elsewhere.
Yet another step has been the setting free of the eyes to perform
their proper functions of balancing and of selecting. This release has
been the main factor in confirming the rapid improvement in modern
technique. During the walking era, and still more during the gully and
grip eras, the climber had generally to take what his hands, unaided
by his eyes, found for him. A climber by balance or compensation keeps
his head well away from the rock, at the maximum distance permitted by
the necessity of keeping his body in balance above his moving feet.
His eye is almost uninterruptedly free to trace out his general line
above, to choose immediate holds and to exercise, even as he moves,
a comfortable and leisurely discretion. He can see what he is doing
all the time. To take one instance. On very steep rock that which has
passed below the level of the knee is often already out of sight. A
man who climbs convulsively, with his nose against the rock, has often
missed the sight of some minute ledge to right or left of his line
which alone offers a foothold from which his hands can reach above the
next bare slab. Even if he afterwards finds it by the grope of his
foot, it is too late for his eyes to estimate its security or shape.
Similarly, he is unable to keep continuous watch ahead, and may often
lose sight of a line of holds already marked from below; or he may
overlook altogether some other easier line of holds which could have
been reached by a timely divergence to right or left. Thus his chances
of accomplishing a difficult climb are incalculably diminished.
And yet another step has been the economy in nervous and physical
output. Rock climbs can now be repeated by the average modern climber
with only about half the effort they cost their first conquerors, who
did them by force of heart and muscle. They can keep, consequently,
more strength in reserve. The interrupted continuity of our earlier
struggle step and grip hold involved a disturbance of the balance and
a break in the continuity of mental concentration. The recovery from
every such movement put an extra strain upon both muscle and nerve. In
the re-start after each ‘jam’ position, with its absolute arrest of
rhythm of all kinds, the disturbance was even greater. Severe climbing
of the modern standard demands controlled, continuous movements, so
that the body’s adjustments may continue automatically, and that there
may be no interruption in the co-operation of nerve and eye and brain.
The beginner must expect to find that balance climbing does not come to
him as a first instinct. Swinging from the hands to every hold which
may be visible, and struggling and jamming with the rest of the body
anyhow, so as to secure safety and impetus, are the primitive movements
proper to self-preservation and common to all muscular animals like men
and monkeys. Much muscular instinct has to be unlearned to overcome
this instinct, which is the reason that athletes who have accustomed
themselves to reliance upon particular groups of muscles are generally
bad climbers. But there is no more cramping fault than to yield to the
muscular temptation, and to cling or jam when it is not absolutely
essential to safety.
The rule holds good for easy or hard rock, sound or unsound. The sense
of balance in motion has to be acquired, or, at the beginning of each
climbing holiday, recovered. The lines of communication between toe and
finger and eye, with the brain as clearing-station, have to be opened
up or reopened. The ability to compensate, by the balance of the body,
between hand and foot hold, and to relate the process to the task of
selecting holds in anticipation with the eyes, has to be acquired or
regained. Movement has to become rhythmic, and not convulsive.
The sense of comfort or ease in performing individual movements is the
test of the degree of balance and rhythm acquired. The consciousness
of comfort in continuous climbing movement is the assurance of a
developed style. Easy rock ridges, of sufficient length, provide the
best commencing practice. On them alone can practice rapid enough or
continuous enough be obtained to convert what in the commencement
must be separate efforts, each executed by a conscious effort of the
will, into unconscious rhythmic movement as the habit of the body. The
adjustment of the poise of the body and the judgment of the adjustment
next required must become instinctive, otherwise an unexpected attitude
forced upon us by the exigencies of the holds may upset the sense of
comfort; and with the comfort goes the style; and with the style goes
the security. The feeling of confidence is our test.
[Sidenote: The Individual Standard.]
If, and this happens to the most expert when out of training, a feeling
of discomfort or mistrust intrudes, even for a flash, we are climbing
beyond our standard. There is no error more fatal than the assumption
that because we have once done a particular climb or perfected our
skill to a particular rhythm, we can always and at once climb up to
that standard again or recover our normal rhythm.
It must be repeated that the standard of difficult rock climbing has
now been forced up to a point that practically represents the limit
of human possibility. If we may assume that there is a minimum of
handhold or foothold to which fingers or toes however powerful or
prehensile can cling, and that there is a maximum angle above which
human strength cannot force its way up rocks by friction alone, that
minimum and maximum have now been attained. Men of abnormal physique,
confidence and endurance have of recent years perfected their
individual rhythm of skill to the point of being able to ascend without
discomfort or violent effort rock climbs that present the maximum angle
with the minimum of holds. Beyond that point lies, not danger, which
for ordinary climbers begins some degrees earlier, but impossibility.
It is folly for beginners or for ordinary climbers, as it would be
folly for these men themselves when they were out of practice, to
attempt such climbs out of mere courage or conscious fitness, or
because they have heard that they are frequently done. What one man has
done in climbing every man cannot do. In many cases the final conquest
of these particular climbs has been due to some accident of abnormal
reach or other development such as no skill could acquire, superimposed
upon a perfection of normal style. If the climbs seem to be repeated
frequently, it is because, though the parties may be numerous and
various, the leaders of those parties remain few and the same--men
drawn from the small group of the super-climbers.
Again, ability to climb rocks of the modern exacting standard is even
as much a matter of mental fitness as of bodily fitness, of continuity
in nervous control as of physique. An instant’s failure of will or
confidence, an instant’s interruption in the nerve communications,
due to fatigue or over-tension, will disturb the delicate adjustments
of balance as fatally as a broken leg. Several of the most serious
accidents of recent years have been undoubtedly due to momentary
suspensions of consciousness, breaks in the nerve communications,
produced by over-exertion of the nerves as much as of the muscles.
Before nerve and sinew are alike fit and in training they can establish
no rhythmic co-operation with one another or with the brain. And in
this condition they are all alike liable to error in estimating the
amount of effort or of compensation they can justly expect from each
other.
The pleasant custom of association among climbers has its drawbacks
in this respect. Climbers are gregarious, if exclusive. They tend to
form eclectic associations in certain centres at certain times. They
re-form into different parties under the same leaders. Consequently
a number of men may begin and climb for years without arriving at an
idea of what they are individually worth, or of what would be their
normal standard if left to themselves. They may do a number of the
severest ascents and discuss them with an equal confidence, and yet
remain ignorant of what progress they have made in their own standard
of performance or in nerve control. A climbing party pools its ability
and its confidence. The longer and closer its association, the less are
its individuals conscious of how much they contribute and how much they
draw from the collective power. A weak climber may climb on some such
rope with satisfaction to himself and no obvious personal inferiority,
while he is drawing all the time on the common stock contributed by his
more capable associates. A leader similarly, well backed up by a good
party, may get into the way of deceiving himself badly as to the extent
to which his secure performance really derives from them. Instances are
not wanting of the trap this may become. A weak or moderate climber
thinks he can lead a moderate party up a climb which he may have done
comfortably several times with his usual strong party of friends.
Alone, he gets into serious difficulties. A good leader, over-confident
from the habit of always feeling a sound party behind him, may attempt
a difficult or familiar climb with too large a proportion of novices on
his rope. The amount of ability pooled by the party behind him will no
longer provide a margin of safety against accidents. The slip of one
will involve others, and his individual contribution of skill cannot be
sufficient to check the disaster.
No man is fit to lead on easy rocks until he knows exactly his own
unaided _normal_ standard. No man is fit to lead on difficult rocks
until he can gauge not only his normal standard, but also, accurately,
his _standard of the day_. The second is as important as the first, but
it is almost universally disregarded in practice.
To lead rock climbs of the modern high standard of difficulty demands
a high degree of initiative, imagination and nervous force, added to
a suitable physique. First-rate leaders are, therefore, in a large
majority men of highly strung nervous temperament; they are ‘built
on wires.’ To have become great leaders they must have learned to
dominate their wires completely. For such men, unusually aware of their
normal standard, it is all the more difficult to consider or allow for
accidental fluctuations in their physical or nervous condition of the
day. But a particular climb may find even them either out of condition
or suffering from an off-day. The off-day feeling, arising from
countless causes, is one from which all mountaineers suffer; the more
frequently, the more nervous their temperament, and therefore the more
frequently in the case of this type of leader. If they disregard its
presence or attempt to overtighten their wires to resist it, they run
serious risks. The good climber must find compensation in the knowledge
that the more he perfects his technique and rhythm of comfort, the less
variation will he find in his normal standard; and the better he knows
his normal standard, the less difficulty will he find in determining
the fluctuations in his standard of the day.
The climber then must, from the first, learn to estimate his own
performance irrespective of the contribution made to it by the rest of
his party.
[Sidenote: Solitary Climbing.]
To secure this self-knowledge he need not climb alone. Solitary
climbing has its own delights: of independence of movement and of
remoteness from the whims of others; of a more intimate appreciation
of beauties of sight and sound and incident, and of a sense of almost
personal identification with the forces of nature, in their visible
activity of movement and growth as in their passive compliance of line,
colour and form with laws of slower change. The mystical moments in
mountaineering, which are the source of its fascination for men of
intellect and imagination, are found more easily in solitude. But these
moments are to be experienced almost equally in solitary rambling or
walking, and although their intensity is increased by the rhythm of
climbing, the rhythm of mind and nerve and muscle working at the same
high tension to the same deep tune, yet this superlative indulgence
is only excusable for the supremely expert. To climb alone a man must
know his own measure; he must be confident that he can allow for his
standard of the day; he must restrict his ambition to climbing of a
class well below the utmost he could manage with a good rope behind
him; he must allow something more for the nervous effect of solitude;
and he must remember that all rock climbing is subject to a large
number of pure accidents,--a strained sinew, a falling stone, or a
breaking hold,--whose effects can be corrected or at least minimized
by a united party, but any one of which may prove fatal to a solitary
climber. If he is confident that he can make all these allowances, he
may go alone on rock if he so desires. The question of what further
limits he ought to observe out of regard for the apprehensions of
others, his own circumstances or his relatively greater value in some
other sphere, is a matter for private or domestic decision, and is not
for the consideration of mountaineering opinion.
As concrete instances of the degree of difference that should be made,
I take a few examples from rock climbs familiar to British climbers.
A man who could lead the Grépon or the Dru (so far as their rocks
are concerned) would be justified on his skill, if he kept all the
conditions, in attempting all but the most severe Lake or Welsh climbs
single-handed. A man whose limit in leading a rope was the rocks of
the Géant or the Moine, or who found the Réquin fatiguing, could only
safely undertake alone easy rock climbs, the orthodox ridges in Skye,
the moderate Napes ridges, the buttresses of Tryfan and so on. Any
man who found comfort in the presence of the rope, even behind him,
on such ridges and buttresses as these last, should never attempt,
when he is alone, more than the scrambling incidental to mountain
walking. Finished experts must discover their own personal code of
differentiation. They have only to keep in mind the distinction between
difficulty and danger, as climbers know it, and to remember that to the
solitary climber _every_ difficulty may be dangerous in result. I say
nothing here about solitary climbing on snow or ice.
Beginners do not come under any of the categories which permit of
solitary effort.
[Sidenote: Initial Practice.]
The introduction to climbing customarily inflicted upon novices is
practice upon single rocks, low cliffs, quarries and erratic boulders,
with or without the aid of a rope held from above. This ‘bouldering,’
or problem climbing, may serve to discover a talent or encourage
an inclination, but it is of little use as commencing practice. The
scrambles are short. They give no opportunity for a groundwork in
rhythm or for balance in motion. If they are easy, they are done at
once on the head or the heels, and no one the better. If they are more
difficult, muscle can either manage them,--a bad error to commence
with,--or, if muscle fails, the ground close below or the rope close
above deprives failure and success alike of any training for the nerve
or moral for the memory. Their real value is only for the expert,
who has learned to treat every rock with the same respect, be it of
five feet or of five hundred feet. They make fine riders upon special
propositions, of toe or finger joint, once we have mastered the general
principles; but beginners get more benefit from easy, continuous
exercises on the simple rules--and ridges.
This practice is best begun as a member of a roped party of about equal
capacity, and under the direction of a leader who will only allow the
rope to be used as a protection, and not as a method of traction. The
climber is then to a large extent insured against the consequences of
his early blunders, which will give him some necessary confidence; he
will get some profit from watching other methods, and he can devote
himself to working out his own style. Imitation, conscious or not, will
give him right position, and the collective movement will infect him
with the beginnings of rhythm.
[Sidenote: The Use of the Foot.]
[Sidenote: Hard Soles.]
In balance climbing, footwork must be placed first. For footwork on
rock the right footgear with the right sole is all-important. If
we wear a nailed boot, it should be as light as is consistent with
strength and the weight of the climber--that is, of the lightest alpine
pattern.[10] Large men often like the heavy iron-clad boot for the
impetus it gives to a longer swing on levels or downhill. But this is
no recommendation in ascending rocks, where the weight of the boot
alone, since it has to be lifted and swung an indefinite number of
thousand times a day, is a wasteful drain upon the leg muscles. At the
same time the boot must be strong enough to protect the foot against
bruise or jar on all kinds of rugged surface, and the soles thick
enough to be firm, otherwise in climbing with the toe or the side of
the boot there is unfair strain upon the finer fabric of the foot.
The welt, for rock work more especially, should not project, as this
increases the strain upon foot and leg in toe and side-foot climbing. A
heavy welted boot or one with stiff leather uppers crushes the foot and
interferes with its delicate sense of touch.
The method of nailing the boots is important.[11] Rock climbers pursue
different fancies of their own: some prefer a double line of small
nails close to the edge, for a better stance on small ledges; some
dislike the edge or wing nails, and prefer a single row of small sharp
heads; and so on; but the chief thing for rock is to make sure that
the edge-nails, whatever they be, are set well apart, so as to give a
rough catching edge between each nail against a pull either way. On the
toe this separation is not so imperative, and they can be set closer
together for mutual protection and for a division of the strain, which,
in their case, will chiefly be on the back of the nail and not on its
sides. To edge the boot with overlapping nails, which may become a
smooth bar, is ineffective, and even more likely to produce a slip on
rock than if the sole were left altogether unprotected. One good rough
nail rightly driven in and rightly placed is quite enough to ensure a
perfectly safe stance under a well-balanced body; and on much modern
slab climbing one nail-hold is all that is sought or obtained. The
neater the action the fewer the nails needed.
[Sidenote: Soft Soles.]
For a number of rock surfaces a soft sole serves better than a nailed
boot. It permits of a sharper flex of the ankle, and restores to the
foot much of the sensitive and prehensile quality of the hand. Its more
flexible surface will cling to or over excrescences and flat planes
upon which a boot could find little or no support. It enables the foot
to be thrust toe-forward into narrower horizontal cracks or pockets,
and toe-downward, for leverage, behind flakes split vertically. It is
more secure upon steep, smooth slabs, in back-and-toe chimney climbing
and upon delicate traverses. Its lightness and close fit give greater
elasticity to the movements of the leg and greater exactitude to the
placing of the foot. On the other hand, it has not the grip in the
smooth angle of a vertical crack or corner that a hard sole has; in
side-foot or toe climbing on narrow ledges of sheer rock it strains the
foot unduly; it is treacherous on greasy or glazed rock, and absolutely
useless on snow, ice, sharp rubble or in greater mountaineering. From
my own experience I should say that there are few steep places that the
_ordinary_ rock climber meets where a nailed boot cannot be used as
securely as a soft sole, but that there are many where the soft sole
is more comfortable and reassuring. We have, of recent years, imitated
Dolomite climbers more generally in their use upon abrupt crags, and
when we have finally got over our prejudice against carrying extra
footgear with us and bothering to put it on, there will be as wide a
popularity for the soft sole, discreetly used, upon rock as the claw
has at last begun to enjoy upon ice.
According to the texture and condition of the rock, soft soles of raw
hide, thin leather, woollen cloth, canvas, flat or ribbed rubber, rope,
and even the soles of bare feet of a naturally leathery quality, are
all and each declared to be the best possible wear. It is impossible
to assign them geographically and geologically in detail, and I doubt
if anyone will carry with him all the types on the chance of using one
quite correctly. The average rock climber, even though he knows the
truth that on some rock boots with hard nails, and on others boots with
soft nails, give the better grip, shows himself still discouragingly
reluctant to carry even these two pairs with him in our own islands. I
myself preferred a light rubber sole on dry difficult rock, and a rope
or cloth sole on wet rough rock (not greasy), whenever the difficulty
made it distinctly safer than a nailed boot. Rubber is less durable
than rope, but it remains more evenly prehensile. The rope sole,
recently used with great effect even in the greater Alps, gets hard
and, still worse, hardens in patches that give a fickle tread.
For prolonged wear a soft-soled canvas boot is more comfortable than
the traditional shoe.
Many rock climbers wear very thick stockings or several pairs of
socks.[12] Their protection to the foot is greater than that of weighty
or rigid boot leather, and, according as feet and boots vary in size
from day to day, they allow of a corresponding addition or subtraction.
But for pure rock work their thickness should never be allowed to
interfere with the sense of touch in the toes. Any constriction round
the ankle, by the boot, or round the knee, by the breeches, is for the
same reason to be avoided. To check the circulation or to cramp a sinew
or muscle is to interrupt the telegraphic messages upon which balance
and safety depend.
[Sidenote: Foothold.]
The feet in all climbing should be placed lightly, and the swing of
the leg kept under control. To aim the foot, as many do, from the
thigh and knee, bang it in, and then leave it to settle itself on the
hold, is to jar the foot and fatigue the leg. The movement should be
precisely directed from start to finish, and no sinew slackened until
the other foot has taken charge. In continuous climbing the position
of the foot on the new foothold should be chosen with a view to its
supporting the balance during the next movement up or down, and the
foot must be placed exactly as the eye designed. If not, the balance
will not rise true on the lift, and there will be a flurried hand cling
and a clumsy foot shuffle until the right foot position is found. Small
inexactitudes mean clumsiness and waste of power.
Good skating calls for the same precise adjustment of the feet in
anticipation of the next movement of the body. But the closest parallel
is to be found in good dancing. The motion of foot and leg in both
dancing and continuous climbing is free yet under control, rhythmical
and balanced to the appearance of ease, but precise; ready for the
new position required for fresh movement, and yet keeping the body
in balance during the momentary transference of weight. In both, the
actual contact of the feet with the surface is always light. In either,
a heavy or loose tread not only breaks the rhythm, so that the balance
has to be recovered by an effort, but it destroys the sensitiveness of
touch, and delays for a perceptible moment the beginning of the next
movement. Dancing is, in fact, an excellent preparation for climbing.
Good climbers are, or can be, nearly always good dancers. The account
often given in joke of a fine climber that he ‘literally danced down
the rocks’ is a truthful picture. A good dancer has to adjust the
continuous motion of his feet and body over an even surface to the
swift and varied rhythm of music. A good climber has only to keep true
to his own rhythm; but he has the more difficult task of adjusting
his continuous movement to the varied angles, checks and impulses of
uneven rock holds. The more difficult the rock, the slower must be his
rhythm; but slow or fast, each motion must remain equally exact and
finished. The more precise he renders each movement, the safer will be
his progress and the more polished will appear to be his style. All
false positions, sudden convulsions or recoveries that will break the
continuity of movement, have therefore to be avoided. In ascending upon
a vertical line it is, for instance, obviously better to take footholds
slightly to the right and left with either foot rather than immediately
below the body. The knee thus turned sideways can be flexed without
thrusting out the centre of gravity and interrupting the continuity.
Again, as between two footholds that may offer, the one large and
reassuring in promise but inconveniently placed, the other less
comforting but at a happier interval, the latter is to be selected. The
first would be sound, but would need two interrupted movements and a
readjustment between them; the second will fit in with our continuous
movement and be secure enough to reach and to leave again. Rock holds
are not required for a permanent residence. The foot, the toe and the
side nail are not looking for snug berths with a pension, but only
for such security of tenure as will permit them to promote the career
easily from one balanced movement to the next.
[Sidenote: Anticipation.]
Upon very steep rock, holds rarely occur in the convenient, ladder-like
sequence that allows of a continuous lifting of the body in the same
position and line. Each succeeding set of hand and foot holds may here
require a new attitude for purposes of balance. For this interrupted
type of climbing, however, it is just as important to remember that it
is too late to begin to twist the body into the new position required
by the new holds when already those holds have been reached. A climber
who makes this mistake gets no help even from his slower rhythm, and
looks to be spasmodic and insecure. All the more here a good climber
should look beforehand what his new attitude will have to be on the
new holds, and, like a skater, he should move his body into the new
position while he is in the act of passing from the one set of holds to
the other. In the case of an awkward step it is even admissible for him
to go up and down to it, tentatively, before committing himself to it,
in order to make certain that he will arrive upon the hold in the right
position. He has then no need to readjust his feet or hands when the
movement is complete and the next begins.
This fine point in style is invaluable to master; anticipation saves
energy and assures safety on long or difficult rock climbs. The sinuous
progress of the expert on an ‘interrupted’ passage is effortless as
compared with the jerks and quick contortions of a less finished
climber on the same place; and on long, easier climbs, where all are
moving together, he is always the sooner ready to meet at any second
the failure in his own case of a single hold, or to give the immediate
check to the rope which shall correct a slip behind him. Even if he is
in mid-movement when the call comes, in an instant of time his feet and
hands can lock his balance into the new position already half attained,
or they will bring him back with nicety to his last firm holds.
[Sidenote: The Ankle.]
In the mastery of balance climbing the ankle plays a very important
part. So that the body may progress smoothly when the feet are
clinging only to small or very inclined holds, the ankle must be
strong enough and supple enough to support the weight at rest or in
motion, no matter at what angle it may be bent, forward or backward
or sideways. The extent to which the ankle can be flexed varies with
the individual. Extreme in babyhood, the flexibility can be preserved
by early and suitable exercise. Once it is lost, and the foot ‘set,’
it is very difficult to recover or increase it in later life. Those
whose ankles will only flex city-wise may only envy the ease with which
mountaineering peasants walk straight up steep inclines, getting their
heels down each step, or coastal fisher-folk hurry safely on flat soles
along slippery sea slabs at impossible angles. If your ankle won’t bend
so far, it won’t. But what can be and has to be acquired is suppleness
and strength in the ankle, whatever its flex, so that it will hold
as securely when bent to the full as when straight, and will relate
through its changing but steely arch the balance movement of the body
above to the unshifting cling of the foot below. Like skating, ski-ing
or crabbing on claws, walking securely with a flexed ankle has to be
learnt by practice; and the first essential is confidence. Balance
boldly on slabs. If you lean inwards, or seek support with the hand,
you will never improve your ankle work. Such practice on ice with claws
and practice on slabs with shoes or nails are mutually helpful. It
is excellent exercise for the ankle and foot to practise doing ridge
or slab climbs of progressive steepness without using the hands at
all. The flex of the ankle, the bow of the leg and balancing power of
the trunk muscles working together, can learn to do a great deal for
which we are ordinarily too ready to use the hands. By educating ankle
and foot to work alone we keep the hands in reserve for increasingly
difficult passages. Often the ‘prop’ of a bent ankle above a side-foot
hold gives us the second point of contact with the rock which is all
that our balance requires. I have known of climbers whose standard
improved markedly owing to a hand injury or arm wound. Compelled to
develop their ankle and foot work, by the time the arm recovered they
had learned a better ‘balanced’ style, and the fresh help of the hand
came in as so much more gain in power. Careful hill walking or rock
climbing in a light shoe is better training for the ankle and balance
than walking in a heavy boot. The heavy boot restricts the flex and
weakens the ankle by always supporting it. On all but rock surface it
compels the surface to its service. On rock its rigidity and good side
nails generally save us the trouble of flexing the ankle at all. In a
light shoe the foot and ankle have to adjust themselves to the surface,
and bend and adhere at any angle the hillside or the sloping rock may
dictate. The ankle gets strengthened and suppled. Be it noted that the
going must be ‘careful’; an unprotected ankle until it gets trained is
easily turned or wrenched.
[Sidenote: The Knee.]
As I have said, the knee is not now so often used in good balanced
climbing. Nine times out of ten when we use a kneehold it is from
pure laziness, and eight times out of ten we immediately repent it,
because it is quite three times as difficult and six times as painful
to start again off a kneehold as off a foothold. Of course on stiff
‘mantelpiece’ work or in cracks we may have to use it, together with
all other convenient projections of our frame. And, on occasion, in
continuous climbing, if the hands are occupied with the management of
the rope, and the foothold is too high to reach with sound balance, the
knee can be used on a suitable hold as a quick half-way thrust between
distant footholds. This avoids breaking our rhythm by an overlong reach
up with the foot, or interrupting the party by dropping the rope in
order to take hold with the hands.
Some men, and nearly all women, when they use the knee incline it
inward across the front of the body, so as to place it on a hold with
its point or outside surface in the direct line of ascent. This leads
to a very constricted attitude. The lower foot cannot be brought up
below in support to any hold on the direct line, and, after the lift,
a pull on the rope or a violent effort will be necessary to recover
the balance or get started off the knee again. The knee should be
inclined outward away from the body, and should use a hold with its
inside surface, to the right or left of the direct line of ascent. The
spring off knee and shin from such a hold lifts the weight lightly in
the direct line, with the body continuously close to the rock, and the
lower foot can be brought up easily to a supporting hold in the direct
line below the body, so as to relieve the knee. (Try the positions on
the edge of a table or on a step-ladder, and the difference becomes
clear.)
On very smooth slabs, when foothold fails, the knees and shins can
be used to relieve by their friction a pull-up on the hands. If we
are wearing shoes this is a rare case, as a soft sole can cling
anywhere (and more safely) that a knee can. Such a friction-cling need
necessarily be only for a short distance,--about the stretch of a man’s
reach,--since the boot, as soon as it has reached it, will be able to
use anything that has before been sufficient for the fingers to hold
on by. There is only the one exception--the problem of a vertical or
sharply inclined slab, offering us only a smooth narrow crack or a
smooth sloping outside edge. The crack or edge may be good enough for
the fingers, but too smooth or steep for a sideways boot toehold. In
this case the whole outside surface of thigh, knee and leg come into
play to give friction-holds on the slab, while the hands are shifted
upwards in the crack or up along the edge. (The positions can be tried
on a heavy door or gate, set on one corner and inclined steeply in the
angle of a wall. For the one case the door must be sun-cracked!)
[Sidenote: The Hand.]
The hands and arms have to learn less than the legs. They are less
important for anything but purely gymnastic climbing; they have
more inherited instinct for their work; they are under the constant
direction of the eye, and therefore do not need the same training in
automatic movements to carry out anticipatory judgments.
The hands are always auxiliary to the feet and to the adjustment of the
body. Their power only misleads into a bad style if they are used to
the neglect of other parts of the machine. In continuous climbing they
complement the lifting movement and assist the balance. Their service
is for impulse, adhesion, occasionally for traction, but never, if
avoidable, for suspension at rest. Footwork, not handwork, is the basis
of balance climbing.
[Sidenote: Cling Holds.]
In steep climbing, where they come more into play, instinct directs
them how to cling. But in taking finger-holds, especially for pulls,
it must be remembered the hand is as fine a piece of machinery as
the foot, and less protected. It can be easily cut or bruised, or
the tips rendered callous so that they lose their sense of touch. A
well-used hand after a few days on rough rock gets if anything more
sensitive; the fingers become ‘violin tipped’ with a certain prickle
of sensitiveness. A hold should be grasped like a nettle, firmly and
almost finickingly, so that the skin does not shift afterwards or drag.
It is always a bad sign if the climber finds cuts on the insides of his
hands. They have no business there. The sharpest of holds, if rightly
gripped, can be used for the lift of the weight without puncturing
the skin. Abrasions on back or side of the hand, or on the inside of
the wrist and forearm, are another matter. They almost inevitably
follow upon the action of arm-levering and on the taking of press and
push holds (afterwards described). Incidentally, also, frequent knee
and shin scrapes and bruises are the signals of clumsy footwork and
scrambling methods.
As a complement to the ordinary cling holds, when the fingers cling
over an edge or knob and hold the weight in suspense, balance climbing
based upon footwork enables us to make use of a whole group of
invaluable ‘under’-holds. In these the hand, gripping palm upwards
under a down-turned edge or point, is getting security and propulsion
by pulling the body inwards against the upward thrust of the balance
from the feet. The value of these holds depends upon our practice in
balance climbing, which enables us to ‘compensate’ as between our hand
and foot hold and to maintain a careful counterpoise of the hand-pull
against the foot-thrust. We can use them with effect anywhere between
the level of our eyes and our waist, according to our strength, and our
ability to use them adds immensely to our ease in climbing vertical or
overhanging rock. A cling ‘over’-hold on such rock pulls us inward, and
adds blindness and body friction to the other forces working against
us. A cling ‘under’-hold keeps body and eyes free at the length of our
arms, bent or straight according to our convenience. Granite is rich in
such fashion of hold, and on rough, catchy aiguille climbs many of us
would use them by preference before the more obvious over-holds.
Cognate with the under-holds are ‘side’-holds, where the edge or point
of rock projects and is grasped sideways. The principle of their use
is the same as for the under-hold, except that the hand is turned
sideways. Their commonest occasion is in the ascent of cracks, when
the outward side-pull of the hand against the inside edge of the crack
is set against the upward thrust from our foothold or knee-jam in the
crack below, and our balance technique is occupied in compensating
between them.
In cases both hands may be pulling against opposite sides of such a
crack, and the compensation will then have to be made between the two
arm-pulls instead of between the single arm-pull and the foot-thrust.
To make any upward progress on such holds without any help from
foothold or body friction calls for immense arm and finger power; but
in connection with a foot-thrust or knee-jam the opposing side-pulls
are often of use. A square-cut or rounded edge, without any projection,
is sufficient to give good side-holding.
[Sidenote: Push and Press Holds.]
Instinct will tell us how to hang on to over-holds and pull up at the
length of the arms. Practice in balance and footwork will teach us how
to avail ourselves of the varieties of the more accommodating under
and side cling holds. But the balance climber has to learn, for the
yet greater convenience of his eye, the ease of his balance and the
economy of his arm-power, to take his handholds as low as possible,
and in co-operation with, not in opposition to, his foot-thrusts. He
soon discovers that ‘push’ and ‘press’ holds are more powerful and
accommodate themselves better to continuous upward progress in balance
than any form of cling holds. I use ‘push’ of a direct upward thrust
of the arm from a horizontal or inclined ledge or hold, and ‘press’ of
a lateral or diagonal thrust against a vertical or inclined side-wall.
(The first can be tried on any secure mantelpiece; the second, not so
well, in any narrow passage.) The arm, for push holds, is used after
the fashion of a leg; the hands are pushed, palm downward, on ledges
at a height that will allow of the weight, with often the impulse of
a spring or foot-thrust, being lifted on the straightening arms. The
arms for this movement possess much of the strength and the ease in
balancing usually attributed only to the legs. To lift the weight on
a direct push is easier for many than to raise it by a long-arm pull.
On push holds the weight of the body keeps the hands firmly in place;
and a hold by thrusting friction, even if it be only on a rounded or
sloping ledge, calls for less effort than to keep the same weight in
suspension from the crook of a muscular finger round an ideal hold at
the stretch of the arm. The strongest position for push holds is that
with the fingers turned inward, the palms downwards, in front of the
body, at a level anywhere between the waist and neck, according to the
individual power of spring from the feet. But push holds outside the
body are also useful; the fingers are then turned outwards, palms down.
Either of these positions secures the help of the twisting arms as
levers for retaining the balance during the upward movement.
Upon slabs or on rounded holds at awkward angles a very useful hand
device is the combination of the push and cling holds. The wrist or
forearm rests along or over some protuberance so as to secure a
downward push hold, while the fingers are turned to cling across some
edge of this hold and keep the arm from slipping off it. The arm would
slip off the push hold but for the anchor of the fingers; the fingers
would slip out of their awkward cling hold but for the friction anchor
of the arm. Thus by a delicate compensation between the forearm pushing
and the fingers clinging we obtain one sound combination hold out of
two separately insecure holds. Ledges are more frequently rounded or
inclined against us than square and convenient. The reinforcement of an
arm push hold by a finger cling, or the giving of a right direction to
a finger cling by the friction anchor of wrist or forearm, is therefore
of constant service and deserving of all practice.
In press holds the flat of the hands is thrust sideways against a
smooth surface of vertical or steep rock, which may be the retaining
wall of a chimney, or a projecting leaf or corner. It is a help if
the outer edge of the hand can rest against any seemingly valueless
excrescence. With the hand so held the elbow has only to be lifted,
and the arm becomes a lever, thrusting the balance inward, secured by,
and itself securing, the friction of the hand. Two hands so pressed
against any sloping surfaces can lift the whole weight. Pressed against
vertical surfaces--the inside walls of cracks, for instance, too narrow
to admit the body--they are sufficient to retain the balance, while
the feet find any slight hold, or even only friction holds, to supply
propulsion. How good the foothold must be to complement such handholds
is a matter of practice in compensations.
Push and press holds with the hands, combined with the twist and
leverage of the arms, in combinations innumerable, are the refinements
of exceptionally difficult climbing. Their merit is the saving of
muscular effort and the substitution for it of the mechanism of
balance. Their use has inevitably grown out of the new fashion of
footwork developed in balance climbing, grounded on the recognition
that the more extended the body and the wider apart feet and hands are
fixed, the less is the power and the greater is the effort of single
movement, and therefore the greater the interruption to continuous
rhythm. To keep the balance steady, the eyesight free and the rhythm
constant, footholds and handholds must be taken at convenient
distances well within the compass of the reach.
[Sidenote: In Cracks.]
In difficult crack climbing the extent to which pressure, the jamming
of a leg, the touch of a calf or knee, or the twisting of a hand or
forearm can be used to ease the muscular strain must be learned by
practice. A fist or finger may be hooked in a smooth rift, or a foot
slanted into a crack, with only friction attachment, and a slight twist
to arm or leg converts either into a secure lever for lifting the
weight. The clenching of the fist or the tightening of the muscles of a
jammed forearm, or even the inflation of the chest, may at need serve
the same purpose. The inexpert eye might see little difference between
such movements and those of gripping or clinging. As a matter of fact,
the difference is maintained even here. Where a grip climber aims at
rest-points of pendent security, and struggles between them by muscular
pulls, the balance climber is primarily concerned to keep freedom and
continuity of movement. He is using the balance of the body, if only
for fractions of a second, to relieve the direct weight on his arms
or the indirect strain on his legs. His arms and legs are levers in
converting proportionately slight muscular efforts into big continuous
movements, making friction and the mere weight of the balancing body
do a large share of the work. Consequently, to the expert eye, his
body is seen to ascend on a line slightly farther out from the rock
than the grip climber in the same place, and in a different sequence
of attitudes. He will be avoiding at all costs the grip climber’s
temptation to be too secure, to fix himself in attitudes or on holds
from which he will have to emerge by direct muscular pulls. In corners
or chimneys he will use a set of slighter and less attractive holds,
if they exist, farther out, so as to keep his body free from friction
against the rock. If such a set of holds is lacking altogether, he will
be employing press holds with the hands, lever holds with arm or leg,
twisted pressure-thrusts from his foot and ankle against one wall to
his knee against the other--any device that will relieve him of direct
pulls and will leave his body free to help him at any second with some
balance adjustment. For, once the body is really jammed up against the
rock or in a crack, arms and legs are usually working only against
one another or against the friction of shoulders or thighs, and the
mechanism can merely struggle and exhaust itself.
[Sidenote: On Slabs.]
Similarly upon slabs he will be selecting holds, not according to their
size and obviousness, but according as they are arranged well within
his comfortable span. He avoids at all costs getting ‘spread-eagled.’
The surest safeguard against getting stuck is to select the holds
beforehand, and then be certain that your feet and hands use them as
you designed. Let nothing tempt you to alter your plan once you are
moving. This is the hardest lesson to learn. If you have any eye at
all, your alteration will never be for the better. Whenever, as must
occur in awkward places, your sight of the holds is interrupted,
keep your head and stick coolly to your recollection. Many climbers
get slightly flurried once they are ‘blind.’ They forget their plan,
even the existence perhaps of the one hold that made the passage seem
possible in anticipation. They revert to struggling and arm-clinging.
Their agitation often takes the form of a combative recklessness. They
feel they will fight it out with the holds they have got rather than
descend and recover the safer line they planned. This liability to
flurry may take years to master. Most of us have suffered from it; and
notably in those attractive holes under chockstones or overhangs--holes
so irresistibly tempting to thrust one’s head and shoulders into, but
from which, blinded and out of balance, it is extremely trying to
emerge. Notably, again, on those steep problem-slabs, where a single
tempting hold has spread-eagled us helplessly and left us wondering how
long the single nail will support us.
The only protection is foresight, a steady adherence to plan, and the
resolution always to climb as far out as possible from the rock.
If the hands are allowed to pull the nose into the rock we are easily
pounded. The protection is footwork and the flexible ankle. It is the
business of the ankle to bend and stay bent at whatever angle may
keep our body in safe balance and away from the rock, and to transmit
our weight to the foot at just the right angle to hold it firm on its
sloping stance. The farther out from the rock we can keep the weight,
the steeper the apparent angle of foothold which it is safe to use.
On steep slabs a very flexible ankle will often let the foot rest
flat, getting an overlapping or friction hold on several rugosities
of surface with its whole sole where a less practised ankle or a
stiff-sided boot must trust to the less secure catch of a side-nail on
one such roughness. Quiet movement is essential; to leave a slight hold
hurriedly is as dangerous as to arrive on it clumsily. If you have to
use a knee or hip or forearm as a friction hold, set it as gently and
relieve it as lightly as if it were a single finger.
[Sidenote: Chimney Climbing.]
Chimney climbing is another occasion for too alluring rest positions
and for tempting but over-close contacts. By a ‘chimney’ we usually
mean a rift that will admit the body, as contrasted with a ‘crack’
which will not. The method of ascending between the vertical or steeply
sloping walls of chimneys, wherein holds for ordinary foot and hand
work are lacking, is usually called ‘back and knee’; more correctly
it should be named ‘back and foot,’ as the knee need rarely be used.
The position is with the back against one wall and the feet against
the other, the legs bent or straight according to the width, and the
thrust of the spine and shoulders providing the security. Here again
the proper object is continuous movement, and such attitudes as may
assist towards it. The temptation for the safety climber is to sit
across the chimney, with the legs straight and almost at right angles
to the body. The body is then wedged; it sinks slightly inside the
clothes, which are fast to the rock by friction, and, while it is quite
secure, presents also the utmost resistance to any upward impulse. The
right position for the feet against the opposite wall is slightly below
the body, as low as will allow of an easy upward impulse being given
to the body without risk of the feet slipping. The hands and arms are
stretched downward, past the body, with the arms bent and the palms
flat against the rock behind. For movement upward, one foot is brought
across from the opposite wall and thrust with the flat sole against
the rock close under the body. The friction of the foot then allows
the bent knee to be partially straightened, and the body raised. While
it rises, and the shoulders thus come clear of the rock, the thrust of
the arms and hands backward against the rock takes the place of the
jam with the shoulders, and so keeps the foot against the opposite
wall in its place. So soon as the lift is completed and the back is at
rest against the rock again, the under foot that has been used is shot
across to a higher position against the opposite wall, the hands move
up, and the other leg comes across, to act as spring in its turn. The
body is thus really ascending, poised, between the shifting pressures
of the arms and feet, and is only taking instants of rest against the
rock to allow them to take new positions. It is entirely wrong, but
very usual, to walk up the opposite wall with the feet, and wriggle the
shoulders up the near rock in accord. This is wasteful of clothes and
of energy, and not so secure in its actual movement. For, on the right
method, if the foot against the opposite wall shows an inclination to
slip as the shoulders rise, the arms can thrust away from their wall
and so apply extra pressure to keep the foot in place, even while they
are still pushing the body upward; whereas, on the wrong method, the
back has no such elastic margin; it cannot push across and downwards
while it is itself moving up. In all such feats the more freedom that
can be kept for movement, even at the cost of adopting more exposed
positions and of bridging ourselves across intimidatingly wider angles,
the greater in reality is the safety.
In narrow chimneys, too smooth for foot or hand hold and too narrow
to allow of secure bridging with the back against the one wall, it is
possible to move up with the feet pressed flat against the two walls,
one on each side: one with the toe pointing up in front of us, the
other with the toe down below us; the body is kept upright in the
middle on the spring of the bent knees and supported by the pressure
of the hands, placed like the feet one against each wall. In this
fashion we can ‘rock’ up satisfactorily. But the method is only safe to
practise with soft soles, and it is of course very strenuous.
Wherever possible we prefer to keep outside a chimney, or corner,
altogether, and use our feet up the edges of its retaining walls. If
we are forced inside, we adopt any sets of holds for our feet up the
opposing walls, however wide a split they mean for the legs and however
fearsome the depth may look between our feet, before we resort to the
cramping, waterworn recess and the slower method of ‘back and foot.’
Balance climbers return, as it were, to the gully epoch only under
protest and where footholds fail.
[Sidenote: Rib Riding.]
In clambering up sharp noses, flakes or ribs, where bodily contact with
the rock is enforced, the same principle of keeping far out and aiming
at continuous movement again holds good. To sit close astride, and claw
up the rock by means of the thighs, elbows and hands, is customary,
and seemingly safe; but the really safer method, because it admits of
uninterrupted progress, is to keep the body away, and to grip with the
sole and flexed ankle, or with the knees and sides of the feet, on
either side of the rib, or to lock one leg diagonally across the edge
so that the foot and knee press against its opposing facets. Meanwhile
the hands, holding opposite ways, grip across the edge above. In such
a position the body can sink at any instant, for rest, into contact
with the rock, and can rise again from the feet, knees or shin without
effort. It is useful to remember that when the friction of loosely
clothed parts of the body is solely relied upon for hold (as when we
are clinging close with thighs and body to a rib), the body always
sinks slightly inside the clothes, and has so much the more difficulty
in restarting a fresh movement.
[Sidenote: Wet Rock.]
It must be added that when rocks are wet, friction cannot be relied
upon, and at the same time the security of foot and hand hold is
greatly diminished. Wet rocks may mean slimy rocks, and always mean
cold rocks. Cold soon chills the muscles, lessens the sense of touch,
and notably impairs both the confidence and the power to climb. On a
wet day it is well to carry some spare dry gloves. If, then, we have to
make some particularly awkward balance or lift, and the fingers are wet
and cold, a fresh glove will give us a few holds of better friction,
until it, too, gets wet. In the Alps wet rocks mean glazed rocks, and
we avoid them. In our own hills we accept wet rocks as part of the day,
but we treat them with an extra degree of respect. Men in soft soles,
on dry, hot rock in sunshine, can climb with complete and hilarious
security places that rain and wind make it foolish to attempt. For
most men the standard of possibility varies as much as 40 per cent.
This is never sufficiently allowed for in youth. Fired by emulation,
young climbers arrive in rain where their rivals have passed on sun-dry
holds. “A rock is a rock; and, by George, it must go!” is their motto;
and if their fortune is better than their knowledge, they accomplish a
climb which substitutes a danger happily escaped for every difficulty
reasonably mastered by their predecessors.
On the other hand, to accustom ourselves to find our rock climbs,
and to climb their wet rocks under all conditions of weather, is
necessary training. Provided we allow for the difference in permissible
attempt, we risk little, in our small-scale home climbing, by
persisting against moderately uncomfortable circumstances. We are
the better able to endure them when they surprise us on more serious
alpine expeditions. A little adverse circumstance restores much of
their original difficulty and adventure to many fine mountaineering
climbs too apt to be neglected by modern specialists because of
their straightforwardness under sunny conditions. A man who can work
cheerfully up an old-fashioned British rock climb against rain and wet
holds is a sounder climber than the expert who will only do the supreme
‘inventions,’ and those only in fair weather for fear of spoiling his
record. In this country the finest rock climbs, both scenically and as
mountaineering training, are not the most difficult; rather than that
they should be neglected, we should seek them and climb them on the wet
days.
[Sidenote: Glazed Rock.]
Glazed rock is its own prophet and policeman. In the summer Alps
we need only expect to find it after a snowfall, or where snow
commanding rock may have been melted, run down and refrozen. It makes
an unexpected and more dangerous appearance when a sudden fall of
temperature freezes the mist, fine rain or thawing snow after its fall
or as it falls on to the rocks, while we may be actually on them. I
know of no more treacherous move in the mountain game or one which
calls for more cautious, laborious and ingenious countermoving.
In Britain, as I have said elsewhere, we have to beware of it almost
as much, in the winter and early spring months. It may follow a silver
thaw, a cold fog or a mist on a change of wind. By starting our
climbing early upon hoar-frosted rocks or fresh snow we may create our
own glaze by hand and foot pressure. On really bad film-glaze nothing
is sure for hand or foot hold; but a glove or soft sole (not rubber)
has a better chance of ‘freezing on’ than a boot or cold finger. A
thick sock, pulled over the boot, will help, or we _may_ take off our
boots and climb in the safer stockings.
On steep glazing rock, and upon wet rock if its surface grows greasy
with the moisture, continuous climbing becomes immediately interrupted
climbing. We have to consider the chances of a hold failing or
breaking or of a man slipping as increased some tenfold. We must take
precautions as for unsound rock and protect ourselves with anchors,
belays and the like. However easy the rock may normally be, glaze or
grease introduces a new element of ‘danger,’ and the transparent threat
forces us, if we are wise, to treat any moderate climb with the respect
due to serious difficulty.
[Sidenote: Summary.]
I have only selected for description a few conspicuous features of
ordinary rock surface, which might illustrate the underlying principles
of a good rock climbing style. Their detail is negligible except as
illustration. Climbing situations are infinitely various, and men
vary as whimsically in their personal adjustments. Long before he has
reached the point of leading difficult passages, the climber will have
got his own obstinate idea of how to apply the principles in detail to
particular rock features.
For the benefit of the less instructed I would only repeat that rock
climbing is best learned upon long and varied passages, away from the
staccato allurements of boulders, trick climbs and belays. Style is
the mastery of rhythmic movement, movement continuously secure and
continuously effortless over every modulation of hold during a long
day. When a climber can traverse a long ridge of average difficulties
safely and quickly, stepping the edge by balance or dropping on either
side as he goes and using balance holds with either hand, without check
to his party, he is already a safe climber and on the way to be a sound
mountaineer. If he proceeds to follow the craft into some of its more
ingenious departures, it will only mean a more elaborate application of
the same principles that he has already learned to practise: to trust
to his feet; to make use of his ankles; to tread lightly and precisely;
to keep the hands low; to choose holds in advance and stick to them;
to move well out from the rock; to rely on balance rather than muscle;
to make continuous, supple and eventually graceful movement his ideal;
not to rest satisfied until he has acquired rhythm; and lastly, never
to get flurried.
UNSOUND ROCK
While a climber is still only concerned with perfecting his own
adjustments in relation to rock requirements, he will be unconsciously
collecting a great deal of practical information about different
types of rock. If he is of a curious habit, he will be led on to some
superficial study of petrology or geology. But even if he have no
memory for names or imaginative grasp of æons, he cannot help gradually
amassing a quantity of empirical knowledge as to what kinds of holds
to expect if a rock looks so and so in outline, whether to reckon
upon finding chimneys or traverses or flakes if its main lines of
cleavage or fracture are such and such, and what to allow for in detail
according to his distant observation of the general structure and
weathering. The discovery of the name of a prevalent rock will tell him
what kind of climbing to prepare himself for in a particular district,
or the sight of it when he gets there will guide him in the selection
and management of his climbs. He may never have been able to master the
difference between Tertiary and Secondary, any more than remember the
order of the Popes of Rome, and yet have qualified himself insensibly
for that most fascinating form of speculative discussion, the designing
of new routes in known or unknown districts. On a lower but still more
useful plane he will have learned to judge from its general appearance
whether rock is sound or unsound, and from its closer aspect where to
expect unsound intrusions upon good rock.
The increased information now available about our hills enables us to
avoid rock faces of uncomfortable notoriety and to attack eccentric
types with precaution. A large number of climbs, even whole mountain
walls, that used to be popular on account of the attraction of their
weathered angles, are now left for the same reason almost unvisited.
But unsound rock cannot always be eluded, and a climber has to be ready
to deal with short bands or intrusions of inferior rock on any climb
which he does not personally know, and on many to which he returns for
love of their sounder sections. Fortunately, according to the nature
of rock, these intrusions are rarer and shorter on steeper rock, and
any more considerable section will provide its own alleviation in
a relenting angle, where the softer surface has disintegrated more
rapidly than its firmer surroundings. This may, of course, mean an
overhang, to the climber’s disadvantage. If not, it will at least
offer him an easier angle for advance over its unattractive trespass.
On unsound rock every merit that characterizes finished climbing by
balance, or compensation, is emphasized. A novice should never be
allowed to lead. A grip climber is a danger on the rope and a suicidal
choice as leader.
[Sidenote: Semi-detached.]
On bad rock every hold is an object of suspicion, since almost all
the holds will be liable to fail under one or another direction of
pull. The obviously bad hold, the hold that comes away at the first
touch, anyone will reject. But our object on unsound rock is to get
over it; and for that purpose to use its holds for what they are worth
rather than to start casting them down in an attitude of righteous
indignation--and insecurity. With a caressing hand the good climber
discovers what pull the hold is likely to be good for, and his judgment
telling him the direction and amount of pull that his next movement
will demand from it, he will avoid loosening it beforehand by any
test not necessary for this movement. The grip climber, therefore,
who puts half a dozen directions of strain upon each handhold in any
one lifting movement, will make no progress at all on unsound holds.
If he does not test them beforehand, in the end he will fall. If he
tests them properly in all the directions that his lift will demand,
he will remove most of the holds before he can use them. The balance
climber, who has practised putting only that direction of strain upon
a hold which his own next movement and the hold’s security agree upon,
is in less of a quandary. For, except in the case of fragments which
are already detached, and clearly ready to fall, nearly every surface
accident which is still in attachment to the main rock will stand
light additional strain in at least one direction. This, of course,
varies according to the stratification of the rock and its fractures.
As an instance, on a steep face the ordinary lines of fracture may
be vertical and horizontal to the discoverable inclination of the
strata. If the ‘hold’ is already detached from the rock on both these
lines, and only resting on a support, it is useless. If, however, the
excrescence is fractured at its base, horizontally, but attached to
the rock behind, vertically, it will be good for a straight outward
pull. It can also be tested, but it cannot otherwise be trusted, for
a downward or diagonal pull. If it is detached from the rock behind,
vertically, but still part of the rock below it, horizontally, it is
sound for a direct downward pull, but not for any outward or cross
strain. If the strata strike diagonally, and the cleavages correspond,
_mutatis mutandis_, the same rules apply for the different directions
of pull, permissible or not, upon their holds.
A climber has not only to make sure what direction of strain he may
safely put upon a hold, but to keep this direction of pull or thrust
constant all through his upward or downward movement, irrespective of
the changing position of his body in relation to the hold.
The vital importance of climbing by compensating balances becomes then
apparent. A climber who has trained his mechanism to the habit of
translating the support of any hold that any one of his extremities
engages, by means of the balance of his body, into movement in any
direction he requires, has little difficulty in keeping the strain he
puts upon a single hand or foot hold constant in direction. He can
do so even while he is using its support to lift his weight through
a succession of angles past and over the hold. It is, in fact, the
process that he has had to learn for his ordinary ‘sound’ climbing,
if he has become a balance climber of precision or pace. A clumsy
climber, or one who depends on grip normally, is helpless when faced
with handholds of this ‘one-direction’ kind. He may discover by test
how he ought to use them, but the moment the lifting or lowering
movement begins the habit of his mechanism will reassert itself, and he
will change the direction of his pull as his body nears or passes the
hold. Even if he maintains the direction by an effort of will at the
moment, his body will not have been trained to carry out the mechanical
conversions with sufficient power to overcome the pure difficulty of
many a passage, altogether apart from its insecurity. He will be forced
to fall back upon muscle or grip to finish his movement, and the hold
may break.
A grip climber who normally neglects footwork is in even worse case
on unsound rock, when he has to use, or test, such ‘one-direction’
holds with his feet. On unsound rock good footwork is, if anything,
more important than good handwork. Only exactly the same strain may
be applied by the less sensitive feet, when they take the place of
the hands on the hold. Since the downward thrust of a foot can only
be slightly modified in direction, this limitation must be remembered
in selecting and testing a hold by the hand. Otherwise it may not be
sound for the later and different requirements of the foot. Foothold
is always the danger-point on unsound rock; and this constitutes the
peculiar demerit of such rock for ‘climbing down,’ when the foot alone
must test and lead. A climber, especially when he is descending, must
never trust to his feet alone, but protect them by at least one tested
handhold. A good rule to remember in all very exacting climbing is that
never less than three extremities should have hold. On unsound rock the
better rule is, never less than four. The dangerous moment comes when
one hand or foot is in process of testing or shifting to a new hold.
The movement must be made without jerk; the weight must be distributed
between the other points according to their merit; and the direction of
the pull, as tested and found secure on each hold, must be remembered.
Hence our motion over unsound holds may be properly described as
creeping. Every attachment must be light but tenacious, and one
tentacle is only released when the others are secure. On insecure rock
we are no longer concerned to keep the body as far out as possible.
Our object is secure, not free, movement. Consequently, we move with
the body as close in to the rock as is consistent with sight and its
freedom from catching. If, then, one hold does break, there is less
outward pull upon the others, and the body can sink instantaneously
against the rock and help to sustain us by its friction.
[Sidenote: Detached.]
Small, loose fragments should be thrown well out from the cliff, or
tucked away discreetly on ledges that need not be used. Large, loose
fragments are best left _in situ_, and the word passed down the line
of their presence, until the last man, if he likes, may remove them.
Often a block or large stone, which is detached from the parent rock
both behind and through its base, may yet afford very sound foothold
for a good foot climber, supposing it is seen to be resting on a
level and sufficient ledge. The same may be the case with pinnacles
or splinters, partially fractured or jammed in cracks. Tested and
tactfully used, they are often stable for a steady thrust or pull in
one direction at least; but much depends upon the nature of their
bedding.
Rock on walls and ridges facing south, in the Alps or at home, must
be suspected of detached leanings, until its family connections are
demonstrated by investigation. Holds which have been covered by
verdure or subjected to the action of moisture in any form have to be
judiciously proved. Rocks projecting from ice or snow--those pleasant
oases towards which we steer with such relief to ease our step-cutting
or snow-wading--must always be approached as unsound rock. If, on
occasion, they prove our suspicions wrong, they have only proved
themselves an exception to a melancholy rule.
Except on frequented routes, it is never safe to assume the security
of big detached blocks, poised on ridges or choked in gullies, unless
their fashion of support is absolutely demonstrable. They should be
left to the last man to test. From all accounts rash leaders who
neglected this precaution have escaped more often and more miraculously
than their intelligence, at least, deserved. A leader, if he has any
doubt, should avoid touching such blocks altogether. If, for all his
caution, a block gives unaccountably, he must hang on to it for all he
knows, until the men below have got what shelter they can. Nor must he
forget the rope. If the block catches the rope in falling, the danger
is as great as if it strikes one of the party.
Apart from these and other permanent idiosyncrasies, most normally
sound rock surface will be found to have its times and places of
weathering or weakness. We have to learn to recognize the symptoms,
forgetting our prejudices in favour of old and trusted rock types, and
treat their intrusion with all the delicacy and consideration of tread
and touch which we owe to the small infirmities of tried friends.
In so far as they are, or were, rock, moraine and scree may be called
unsound.
[Sidenote: Moraine and Scree.]
The occasional stone on a steep glacier is a find for a foothold;
but the stones that coat the ice-core of moraine slopes are merely
treacherous. If we have to traverse a few steps on such a slope, it is
best to knock the stone out and tread in its ice-socket.
The summit edges of moraines often offer passable going, especially
if previous parties have knocked off the final blocks. Their side
walls, whether of stone or of stone and mud conglomerate, are the least
scalable and most exasperating inclines in the mountain world. They are
often even too hard to make steps in, and it is fatal to attempt short
cuts upon them.
In traversing along scree slopes, if the scree is small, the one thing
to remember is to ‘accept the slip’; to place the foot lightly and
let it slip till it stops; not to make convulsive efforts to recover
it, or to keep the foot up to the same line of traverse. If the foot
slips too far on steep scree, lean inward on the axe or stick, which
is held point inward across the body. To ‘rush’ scree on anything but
the downgrade is merely to waste energy and time. In ascending or
traversing take short steps; tread always for a particular stone, and
do not brown the mass of stones vaguely with a loose foot.
In travelling up or along big scree or moraine, balance and a sustained
rhythm are the thing to aim at. On flat-stone moraine, step for the
middle of the stone; on round or cornered stones, ‘dance’ from one
upper edge to the next. Rather than break the rhythm, if no good hold,
or possibly only an insecure-looking block, presents itself for the
next foot, slacken the knee and put no weight on the leg while you are
using the loose block; skimmer over it with the dropped leg of a horse
at a big bank, and trust to the next step to bring you up again. If you
balance lightly and move fast, a moving foothold is all but as good as
a fixed one.
On moraine the axe is always our third leg of balance. On long
moraines, or in traversing up or across scree slopes, it saves labour
in the task of choosing stones to follow close behind another man, and
let the swing of his feet draw yours mechanically on to the footholds
he has used.
To descend light scree is one of the chief rewards of a long climbing
day: to descend big scree one of its worst penances. The method falls
more properly under the section devoted to Glissading.
UNUSUAL ROCK
Unsound rock is counterchecked by an intensification of sound method.
To unusual rock we retort by an extension of our usual method. It would
exaggerate its importance to discuss its varieties in greater detail
than has seemed sufficient in the case of normal rock. A few instances
will serve to show that our principles remain, for all rock, unaltered.
Slate has an insidious surface. The exposed edges, or spillikins, of
strata may always break under a pull, unless they have allowed us to
grasp a sufficiency of thickness. But slate has a worse trick. In
chimney climbing, if we are using the usually safe and gentle hold of
a thrust with the flat foot, or a press or push hold with the hand,
against even a wide, smooth surface, the upper skin may crack locally
at an uncertain distance from the point of pressure and allow foot or
hand to shoot into space; and this always, unless the thrust is applied
exactly at right angles to the lie of the strata. Our only safeguard is
to extend to push and press holds on slate our practice with pull holds
in general, and keep the direction of the pressure constant through all
our lifting movement.
Quartz ledges and bands, which are the grateful solutions of many of
our cliff problems, are treacherous. Quartz brittles off, in crystals
or in masses, in unexpected directions. We cannot test it adequately
until our full weight comes upon it; when it may be too late. And so
we never step on to projecting quartz, or scale the vertical face of a
seam, unless we have hand or foot hold upon good rock above or below
it. Happily, quartz seams are usually narrow. We prefer soft-soled
shoes, which will distribute the pressure over the uneven facets.
Boot-nails snap the projecting crystals or slide on the flat facets,
especially after rain. The fingers similarly must take general holds,
and not trust to salient prisms. The direction of the growth of the
crystals can guide us in applying our pressures. A seam lying back at
a steep angle sometimes leaves good rock holds along its edges, where
quartz and rock have weathered at an unequal rate. A seam at a gentle
angle as often provides a delightful traverse of escape.
Soft sandstone, which in quarries and elsewhere is frequently used
as a practice ground, has its own fashion of soft crumbling and its
own body of hardened adherents. Its outlines are recognizable, and
in mountain masses we avoid it altogether. But those who attempt it
locally must remember that it is peculiarly deceptive for footwork. Its
ledges dissolve under a stiff boot. Sand shoes, or still better, boots,
are the only wear. Beginners should look for lines of ascent where
the subjacent heaps are still uncarted and propitious in the event of
failure. Old sandstone, when it emerges, is firmer for the feet but
offers little handhold, and makes very fatiguing climbing.
Chalk, and the methods of dealing with it, form a study by themselves.
Chalk climbing provides the missing link between rock and ice
technique. Those who frequent its cliffs use big claws and ice
methods, and pronounce it to be an unrivalled training for ice work.
Its occasional hard surface and its abundant projecting flints, whose
security is in inverse ratio to their graspability, have to be treated
with the measures of precaution proper to unsound rock.
Marble builds peaks of imposing outline, but its edges are not
constructed with an eye to good foot climbing. Its surfaces, where
exposed, slope against us; its slipperiness dictates the use of soft
soles; while the rubble with which it is cumbered makes soft soles
comfortless. It has appeared to me more often dangerous than difficult.
Old lava is as tiresome as quartz, and less often available as a last
resource. Desperately hard for the feet, it yet snaps out in diamond
cubes and litters with wrenching rubble its already jarring surface. I
know of no sound climbs upon it.
Gritstone has its own devotees and a growing literature. Its climbs and
their mosaic perils have all the charm of a well-executed miniature.
Limestone, as the layman uses the term, is deceitful, and offers
ridiculously little good climbing in proportion to the amount of it
that protrudes plausibly from the surface of Europe. One of the closest
escapes I have experienced was from a spontaneous fall of limestone
rock on a venerable and bland-looking western cliff. In the form of
‘dolomite’ it offers very agreeable sharp-edged dwarf-climbs even
in our islands, and it is to be regretted we have so little of good
stature.
[Sidenote: In Quarries.]
Scrambling in home quarries, on chalk, gravel, blue-stone,--all kinds
of rock,--is excellent practice. The surfaces are, however, raw and
untempered by time, and the crude fractures and ledges by which we
climb are made by man and survive by no natural law of the fittest.
No experience of rock structure can therefore suffice to allow of
calculation upon their security. Each hold must be separately tested
before use. The risk is generally out of all proportion to the height.
A rope from above should be used on any passage of doubt.
[Sidenote: Along Sea Cliffs.]
Sea cliffs have many votaries. It is perhaps ungrateful to class them
as unusual rock, but their unfamiliar conditions, their wave-polished
and often undercut bases, their summits artificially sculptured and
constantly strained and fractured afresh by the fall of the cliff
below, exclude them from a normal category. Their charm lies in their
variety of rock, revealed in forms pensive, brooding, surprised,
jovial or defiant, upon headland, island and stack. There are few more
exhilarating scrambles than the granite outcrops of Cornwall, set
in green seas, surf-spray and sunlight. The upper end of the coast
of Sutherlandshire alone provides eight or nine different varieties
of rock, and therefore of ascents. The whole island of Sark can be
circumambulated at about the mid-height of its cliffs.
Traverses are the peculiar property of sea cliffs, which are often
awkward or impossible of approach from their base for more direct
ascent. Whole days, in fact if it were desirable a whole holiday
lifetime of delightfully varied traversing at different levels may
be had along the cliffs, high or low, of the west coasts of Scotland
and of its islands, of Ireland, of England, and of parts of Wales.
The north coast of Ireland has attractive sections alternating in
this instance with pinnacles and scarps of decadent blends. Usually
the return from such traverses can be made in the evening up a gully,
by which we resume, if we wish, on the morrow. As a last resource in
difficulties there is always the sea for a header of escape.
Rubber soles are the best wear; or, for some varieties, raw soft hide
with the hair on, as worn in the west of Ireland; but rubber is, of
course, treacherous on wet or weedy tidal rocks. This fact should be
remembered in our stimulating races with the waves for the foot of a
promising crack.
During the novitiate even hardy heads must beware of the intimidating,
often vertiginous, effect produced by the constant movement of water
below the feet. Both the sound and the motion are found to react almost
unconsciously upon toughened climbing nerves.
The cliffs of the east coast of England consist too often of subsiding
clay and water, or of a hard pebbly conglomerate; but they provide at
least unusual climbing.
A good earth glissade can occasionally be found down their rifts;
and every section affords opportunity for a cautious scramble or an
ingenious trick route. On the harder earth and pebble mixtures there
is sometimes occasion for step-cutting practice. The cliff edges
frequently overhang, and present all the dangers of unseen cornices if
approached from above, and more than their difficulties if reached from
below.
Boots are best on these east cliffs. Vertigo is unknown, since the
waves are all too rarely in close proximity to the cliffs!
Ireland, on the east, is more fortunate; it possesses some fine firm
stacks and cliffs. Parts also of the east cliffs of Scotland are
excellent.
[Sidenote: On Freaks.]
Some regions are rich in incidental pillars, pinnacles, stacks,
needles, pins, fingers, boulders, erratics (‘off-comduns’),
Wellington’s Noses, Grey Ladies, Devil’s domestic utensils, or their
fantastic like. It is difficult to connect the records of their
(periodic) first conquests with any general principles except those
forming the groundwork of a local literary reputation. A long rope over
the summit would seem to be the preliminary to many such a climb, and
statuesque photography its culmination. But between these extremes a
peripatetic climber can find many joyous and gentle passages, where he
may even remain anonymous if he goes armed only with such sound method
as the type of rock suggests, and shod with soft soles. One experienced
companion would be found of more service than many onlookers; and a
tradition of classical mountaineering demands that the rope between two
men should not pass over the summit before either has started. To save
time, once, when we were crossing a series of smooth needles two of us
agreed to climb continuously, in the hope that if the man descending
on the far side of one needle slipped (as was the more probable) the
man on its near side would be assisted to the summit more quickly by
the rope; and so no impulse would be wasted. Unhappily, it was the rear
man, ascending, who slipped, and at a moment when, owing to the length
of the rope, the front man was already himself ascending the next
needle. Neither, at all events, was left long in suspense.
Bouldering is the pleasantest of off-day distractions; but too many
men allow themselves to spend the time on the merely difficult. Its
use should be for safe exercises on rules of style. When you can climb
an easy block without your hands, or balance up a wall with such light
finger-hold that a friend can pass his hand under yours, or have
discovered how to solve a shelf climb by a push hold and a twisting
arm-lever, you have made a fair test that will be of future use. To
wrestle up pure difficulty, such as you would not attempt in exposed
higher climbing, by dint of muscle and strenuosity, proves nothing and
does no good; it only reduces the restful value of the off-day. Our
object on such unusual rock should be to extract from it the soundest
practice for our usual method.
CLIMBING DOWN
It is more difficult to climb down than to climb up. So long as the
majority of rock climbers continued to grip and struggle, they could
find no pleasure in descending. The characters of our hills abetted the
neglect. The labour of the day went in finding the steep climb and then
forcing a way up it; there remained for the evening too great a choice
of easy slopes to run down. Even in the Alps the habit followed the
early rock climber; he was too ready to choose a peak “which would give
plenty of sport on the ascent, and an easy snow-route down.” During our
gully and grip epochs, when this self-imposed limitation was almost
universal, rock climbing reached its furthest point of divergence from
real mountaineering. The development of balance climbing perforce
broke down the tradition. Climbing down had to be learned when really
big mountaineering was attempted. Where mountains have no easy ways
down, it is as important to be able to descend as to ascend. On new or
difficult climbs the method and time-calculation for a return in case
of failure call for more forethought than the ascent itself.
But beyond this, climbing down was discovered to have its own pleasure
as motion. A good climber in training, and descending upon rock that
gives continuous hold, enjoys a sense of swift restrained rhythm, and a
rushing thrill through his own extremities, that has something of the
pleasure of flying and a pleasure from quick light contacts that even
flying does not possess. His hands and feet appear to adhere almost
accidentally underneath him, like the spokes of a revolving rimless
wheel. They move across a sound hold with his change of balance rather
than check him at each contact. His eye has selected a whole succession
of small holds ahead, or rather afoot. He balances down them as a
complementary sequence. He does not ask of every hold that it should
become the basis for a fresh beginning. ‘Touch and pass’ as contrasted
with ‘grip and hang’ perhaps sums up the method.
Of course each hold must in itself be adequate to check and direct the
passage of the body, otherwise momentum is acquired, and the method
might be defined with justice as only a fine fashion of falling. The
check is distributed over a series of holds, each of which serves only
to retard the downward movement just sufficiently to direct it, with
no acquired impetus, on to the next hold. The holds on such a passage
complement one another. Each is used transiently but safely, because
the action of the next is anticipated. The definite arrest-points of
course occur, but they are selected by the eye at longer convenient
intervals.
To read rock holds and their balance values ahead in this fashion
requires a more practised eye and judgment than were needed merely
to decide on the reliability of the next grip hold. It was this art
of the longer glance, the practice of descending as a regulated
movement rather than as a succession of stances and rests, which rock
climbers neglected, and still too largely neglect. The shortness of
our island climbs, as our young climbers increased in numbers and in
ambition, drove them to the discovery of a rapid progression of more
and more difficult variations. These climbs could not be ascended
‘continuously.’ The art of continuous up-climbing was almost forgotten,
and with it disappeared any idea that continuous down-climbing need
even be practised. The strenuous up-climb exhausted our interest
in a particular series of problems; the prospect of a similarly
‘interrupted’ descent of the same places seemed rather boring; in fact,
we preferred to run down an easy way, and begin upon a new ascent of
new problems. Climbing down joined climbing continuously, up or down,
in a limbo, from which it had to be desperately rescued when we went to
the Alps or to regions of longer climbs.
Some years ago, on perceiving that the neglect was spoiling the style
and achievement of climber after climber of the British school who came
out to the Alps, I ventured to publish something of a protest. Happily
this made a few important converts. And now it would appear that the
evil spell is broken. No good cragsman would nowadays seem to be happy
until he has done his fine rock climb both ways; a few are beginning
to specialize upon descents. The admirable practice of traversing or
‘girdling’ great cliffs, which involves the ascent and descent of the
steepest sections of many difficult climbs, has finally placed climbing
up and climbing down on a footing of mountaineering equality. It may be
said that this result was inevitable once balance climbing had come to
its own. Once the eye and the body were set free from their confining
and convulsive habit, it could not be long before hands and feet opened
up the new ways of pleasure in moving downwards and sideways as readily
as upward.
We have made a great step in advance: we practise climbing down as an
art in Britain, but we have still a long way to go in developing our
practice of ‘continuous’ climbing, down even more than up. I have seen
the start of many of our finest island rock climbers in the Alps, men
whose feats on difficult rock still stand unsurpassed, and I have never
seen one who, when he came out, was even the equal of a good average
guide in continuous going on moderate or steep rock, especially in
descending. These men quickly recognized their defect when they saw the
styles contrasted, and set themselves to correct it. But others, who
have gone guideless and never enjoyed the opportunity of comparison,
have continued even in the Alps their interrupted method and,
consequently, have achieved a degree of performance in no way equal to
their real standard of climbing ability. A very illuminating instance
was that of one of the greatest of our rock pioneers, whose style was
as finished and deliberate as his enterprise was remarkable. After many
years of climbing in our islands, with an unrivalled record, and of
climbing guideless in the Alps, with practically nothing to show for
it, he spent one season, later in life, with a fast first-class guide.
As a result he, admittedly, changed his whole habit, and subsequently
climbed with an accomplished continuity that without diminishing his
security multiplied his amount of performance three and four fold.
Climbing down requires more practice than climbing up, because the
mechanism of the body is contrived more conveniently for upward
movement, and because we have eyes in our head and not in our toes or
heels. The eye has to learn to select its holds from awkward angles.
The hands and feet have to learn accurately to follow the eye’s choice,
in movements mechanically more difficult to execute. Consequently
in descending the inclination to grip and hang becomes even stronger
than in ascending, and until the right attitudes become instinctive it
requires some resolution to force the body steadily outward until it is
in balance over its footholds and is not depending from the hands.
Once the natural impediments are mastered the gain to pace and to
security which we obtain from our balance and foot method soon makes
even the memory of our desire to cling strange. The muscular strain
is less. We are free to use the friction of the body, in any part, to
regulate the pace or suggest direction. The body descends naturally on
to firm positions on the feet, and stands ready without readjustment of
balance or holds to give any assistance required to the man below on
the rope.
It is on continuous descending, and on the management of the rope this
involves, that the improvement in our method has had most effect.
The principle of descent in balance is to keep face outwards or face
sideways as long as possible. In such positions our eye commands both
the whole rope and the rock almost continuously, and we can decide at
any instant whether we should proceed, or pause, or tauten the rope on
the man below.
It is almost startling to see a first-class mountaineer come down steep
rock, as last man, in a series of well-timed rushes, while he still
protects the continuous descent of his less expert front-men. He never
allows the rope to slacken. He keeps the safety check while the man in
front is moving; but in any intervals his lightning rushes make up the
necessary ground.
In descending, a slight tension of the rope is sufficient to check a
weak climber, whereas in going up he would have required a hard pull;
and a light guide or a quick amateur, judging his moments well, can
‘anchor’ and secure the safe descent of a whole rope of heavy-weights
below him, and yet never check their progress while he interpolates his
own flights of descent.
[Sidenote: Positions.]
In descending, so long as is conveniently possible, and practice alone
discovers how much longer the position is tenable than appears to us at
first, the face should be kept turned outward.
So soon as the outward position becomes insecure, that is, when
nothing but holds for the heels present themselves and the balance is
felt to be thrust out by the steepness of the rock beyond the feet,
thus throwing a clinging strain upon the hands, the body should be
turned sideways to the rock.
Only as a last extremity, on perpendicular or overhanging rock where
the eye is no longer of use to find footholds, should the face be
turned in to the rock, in the position most natural for ascending.
[Sidenote: Facing Outward.]
In the face-outward position the action of the feet remains still that
of the balance step. For easy movement footholds should be selected,
if the choice offers, outside, to right and left of the vertical
descending line, rather than directly below the body. The legs are
used as tense springs to break the jar. In fact, the motion is that of
‘dancing down.’ The heels are little used; the toes and sides of the
feet take the holds, much as in ascending. The hands have to find their
hang holds or pressure holds at the level of the thighs or knees. For
the hang holds the knuckles are turned backwards, on either side of
the body, and the fingers grip the rock much as in ascending. For the
pressure holds the heels of the hands are pressed downward on to the
ledges, close to the sides, and rest in the position of a reversed push
hold. It should be remembered that this last fashion of hold, always
the most tempting in starting a descending movement, becomes useless
and even dangerous because of the outward thrust of the arm, so soon
as the waist has sunk below the level of the hands. For this reason,
before lowering down on this hold we must make sure that the reach for
the leg to the next foothold will be short.
In the face-outward position the hands can be relieved of much of their
effort in holding by the backward or sideways pressures of the calf, of
the back of the thigh, or even of the elbow or shoulder, against the
rock. A twist of the firm knee in a convenient angle of the rock, or a
sidelong ‘steady’ with the heel of the firm foot against the back or
side of its rock hold, gives us often balance enough to allow the other
foot to descend without using the hands at all. This is what is really
happening in the ‘rushing’ movements alluded to above. The expert is
using any and every part of him, from ankle to elbow or shoulder, for
friction and balance touches while his feet descend; and consequently
he has both hands free to tighten or pull in the rope as he goes, even
in mid step. The eyes, since they can see uninterruptedly, guide the
feet accurately. Elbows, legs, thighs, etc., by judicious touches help
out the balance and relieve the hands to a large extent for other work.
[Sidenote: Facing Sideways.]
The sideways position, which is admirably adapted for balanced
climbing, is still all too seldom practised. Climbers instinctively
turn face inward the instant the holds get small or the rocks steep.
But to turn sideways is safer, because the eye can see both holds
and rope, and the body is in a good position to adjust itself for
anchoring; it is better suited to the normal lie of holds, because
holds rarely occur in vertical sequence on rock, and a diagonal descent
is often possible where direct descent is interrupted; and it is more
in balance. For in the sideways position the single hand employed
takes the natural hold, such as it is accustomed to use in ascending:
either a cling hold, or even more often a lower push hold reinforced
by an inward curving of the arm towards the rock as a lever. The outer
hand is left free to manage the rope or to use the axe. The feet fall
naturally into position on the ledges, with the side of the foot, and
not merely the toe, on the hold. The flex of the knee and thigh works
parallel to the face of the rock; and neither the bending of the knee,
as happens while descending face inward, nor the curve of the flank,
as in descending face outward, can get in the way of an easy lowering
of the body above the firm foot. The climber also, as he leans out to
the full length of one arm, is far more free to prospect his descent
in advance. Lastly, while actually more comfortably balanced, a man
so descending is in a better discretionary position to adopt any
alternative attitude, face inward or outward, by a half turn on the
foot, according as his larger range of vision advises.
In traversing the big ridges or crossing the great rock faces of the
Alps a large proportion of the climbing must be done in this sideways
attitude. Economy of effort, ease of balance, and the carriage of rope
and axe in a free hand demand it. The technique is one that it is
essential to master, and once acquired it will be found to become the
normal position for pace and comfort in descending.
[Sidenote: Facing Inward.]
It is the exception when the conditions make it imperative to turn the
body face inward. The occasions are the descent of vertical or rounded
convex surfaces, of overhanging ‘cave pitches’ and the like, where the
holds do not permit of an upright or balanced position, and where the
legs have to be swung in underneath and out of sight in order to find
the next holds for the feet.
Here, if it is more than the question of a step or so, there can be
no question of the whole party moving together. The rope is therefore
dropped from the hand, since both hands will be needed to lower the
whole weight during the movement. As soon as the feet can find hold,
the balance should be readjusted upon them, and the eyes set free to
look round again and prospect. Even though it may appear to be more
comfortable and safe to continue in a jammed or face inward position
after it ceases to be absolutely indispensable, the inclination should
be resisted. The longer the duration of the face inward descent, the
longer must continue the interruption to the advance of the whole rope.
It is one of the principal objections to this position, which is
individually safe enough, that it necessitates an interruption and
break of rhythm for the party. Climbers, from an instinct of safety,
turn into it too frequently, and continue it too long, in places where
a sideways descent if the problem be a slab, or a face outward straddle
if it be a steep chimney, would be the correcter and quicker method.
It is not only retarding in its effect on the rope, it is always slow
in actual performance. Men move into it ponderously and reluctantly
if they have been face outwards before. They continue in it slowly,
because they cannot see and are using clinging methods; and a natural
reluctance to take the slight risk of turning round again before they
have reached a large ‘turning’ stance makes them keep the position
usually longer than the difficulties demand. Meanwhile the whole party
waits.
If a man is a practised sideways climber he can turn into this face
inward attitude when necessary, and out again the moment he finds
balance foothold, with a minimum of check to the rope. From a sideways
position he has only got to bring round his other hand, and he is ready
to climb face inward for as long as he has estimated will be needed.
[Sidenote: Down Chimneys or Cracks.]
In jamming down chimneys or cracks the face outward or sideways
positions are always to be preferred. The eye, free to select, can
generally find footholds close or far out on the side-walls, which
would be invisible to the face inward position. If these holds fail,
the jam with outstretched arms, or knee or thigh or shoulder against
the containing walls, is still always safer for a man in the outward
and sideways attitudes, unless he be on an absolute overhang. At the
same time, since his hands are free in descending sideways or outwards,
he can still manage the rope even in his moments of descent, and so
save any check to the progress of the party. Whereas in the face inward
position the hands are useless except for holds. I have seen a guide
serpentining down a crack of this sort, face outward, by the pressure
of his shoulders and thighs against the walls alone. The fact that he
was free to watch the party even while he moved down enabled him to
anticipate the slip of a climber below; and he took the whole pull
upon one quick outward pressure of his knees and arms against the side
walls. An average climber, with the slightest of holds for his feet, in
this attitude can hold practically any usual weight. It is a question
of balance and judgment.
[Sidenote: The Rope in Continuous Descent.]
To secure the safety of the party on the descent a right position
will do much. A man who climbs face outward or face sideways is ready
mechanically to take a very considerable and sudden strain. But a right
use of the rope over the accidents of the rock will enable him to do
still more. On steep or unsound rock we are always on guard against the
unexpected slip or the breaking hold. Therefore, while on the rope,
we note at every step how we are placed to take a jerk. If we are all
moving together down steep rock we note, as we pass, every corner or
point round which we could with a single motion of the hand throw the
rope as an ‘anchor’ in case a man below us slipped. If we are all
moving quickly, and therefore presumably a safe party, we need not
do more than note them. But if the party is weak, or we are moving
interruptedly, then, no matter how easy our own sector, we should not
only note but use points suitable for the anchor.
It must be remembered that such anchoring on a descent is designed to
assure the balance of the stationary man, in case of a sudden jerk;
and only indirectly to support the man descending below. The actual
pull of a slip, if it comes, should be taken up on the arm, but never
directly on the rock anchorage. It is useful for every one to practise
this cursive anchoring on any descent which is too steep to allow of
the party moving really rapidly together. There will be time then to
swing the rope over and off the points as we pass them, without check.
Once the trick is acquired, the eye will go on instinctively always
selecting the anchors, but the actual movements we can discontinue.
Habit will at once make the movements actual again wherever
expedient,--on all descents of medium difficulty, or on easy descents
where a slip might have dangerous consequences, such as the edge of a
lofty ridge, or an easy gallery above a sheer wall.
[Sidenote: The Doubled Rope.]
It is a sound general rule that a climber has never been justified
in going on up where he finds that he cannot get down without fixing
a rope. Now that good cragsmen consider nothing mastered unless it
has been climbed both ways, the occasions for the fixed rope are or
should be rare. But there are exceptions, and in such cases we use the
‘doubled rope.’
The first would be the case of a party descending by a line which they
have not previously ascended, or which has never been ascended or
descended at all--a not infrequent experience in making new traverses
of peaks. In this case a doubled rope may be the only method of
descending a holdless passage. But when he employs it in such places
a climber is again taking a serious responsibility, supposing that
he judges it to be a place which he could not reascend. He must be
certain from observation that the rest of the descent will go below,
or he will be cutting off his retreat unjustifiably. If he cannot make
sufficiently certain, the doubled rope should be left behind so that
the reascent may be possible if a return becomes necessary.
The second exception is the change that is often produced by a change
of weather. A fall of snow, or an ice-glazing on the rocks, may make a
descent both difficult and dangerous where the ascent on dry rocks was
sound. In this case constant use of the doubled rope may be the only
chance of ensuring a safe descent. Such changes are not infrequent in
the British Isles as well as in the Alps, and they are the most trying
occasions in a mountaineer’s experience. A picnic ascent of an easy
buttress may be, and has been in Wales, turned by a light shower of
rain, freezing immediately into a coat of verglas on the rocks, into a
dangerous duel of descent against darkness and difficulty; and a joyous
frolic up the walls of an aiguille above the Mer de Glace, owing to a
hailstorm that coated the rocks with freezing particles, has become a
prolonged wrestle with fate, demanding painful hours where the ascent
took minutes, and necessitating the descent of almost every foot of
the thousand-metre wall by each man in turn on the ‘long rope’ or the
‘doubled rope.’
The third exception is when it is necessary for the last man to save
time in a race with darkness. Then, after letting the rest down, he
follows on the ‘double’ as fast as he can.
And the last is the rare case when it is expressly intended to force
the descent of a passage which has defeated all attempts to ascend. In
such case we use all the help that we need for safety.
The double rope can be used in these cases of difficulty or haste to
assist the descent of every member of a party. Usually it is only to
protect the last man.
The method of using the ‘double’ is to lay the rope round any point
or knob which prevents it slipping off under an outward and downward
strain, and from which it can be conveniently released by pull or flick
from below. If such a generally comfortable point is not discoverable,
a length of the rope should be cut off and knotted into a secure sling,
which is wound in a triple coil round any excrescence good enough to
hold it permanently secure. The triple coil cannot break under the
friction, and allows the rope to play through more easily. The rope to
be used is then passed through the sling.
Some climbers carry ready-made slings; others favour iron rings, which
they slip on to the slings, and then pass the rope through the ring.
The rope runs more easily, but I have never liked the practice. A ring
can never be carried of sufficient size to use on more than a single
thickness of rope, to say nothing of a safe triple sling. And not only
is the single sling more likely to snap under the rub of the hard ring
as we descend than under the more springy pull of another rope passed
through it, but if left it is more likely to be a danger to the next
party descending. Guides are always ready to use a finished-looking
piece of mechanism, like a ring on a loop, without testing it fully,
where they would be suspicious of a mere weathered sling of rope. The
metal reassures just where it should warn them; for the ring, where it
touches, will have rusted into and eaten the rope strands. The same
point comes up under the heading of Pegs and Aids.
It must always be remembered that the use of the sling or ring involves
unroping, which the ‘double’ on a good belay does not; and in so far it
uses more time.
For short descents the last man can use the slack of the rope between
himself and the next man as a double, provided he sees that, when
doubled, it will allow him to descend as far as his next stance, and
there leave him slack enough to flick it off the belay.
He should always use the double as a fixed rope, that is, it should
never be paid out to him round the belay, as he descends, by the man
below; nor should he ever attempt to pay it out to himself as he
descends on the double. Either attempt will certainly fray the rope
round the belay, possibly jam it, and probably jerk it off the belay.
For any considerable height it is better to use a spare doubled rope.
In this case the last man can at once see if the two ends of the double
reach to the next stance below. If no spare rope is available, the next
man below may have to unrope, in order to leave the last man enough to
double and descend upon.
If the descent is of exceptional difficulty, e.g. an overhang, a spare
rope should always be used. The second, or climbing, rope round the
last man’s waist is then held by the man below, as a protection in case
the effort of clinging to the double exhausts the last man’s hands; or,
still better, it also can be laid over the belay and paid out to him,
lightly, as he descends. As it will then be sliding upon the fixed
rope, and there will be no strain upon it, it will be the less likely
to jam on the belay, fray or jump off.
To descend on the double the last man grasps both ropes in his hands
immediately below the belay, drawing them taut before he starts to
see that the belay is rightly arranged for the strain. He descends,
using what footholds he can on the rock, or, failing them, by frankly
swarming down. If he is unroped from his party, and using the only
rope as a double, a protection in case of a slip is to tie both ends
of the doubled rope to his own waist before descending. The arms in
such descending should be kept bent. The most trying point is just
before he reaches the stance, where the double ropes are resting on the
ledge and are no longer kept taut by their own weight in suspension.
If the climber is using one of the leg brakes below described, its
tension will still keep the ropes taut for his hands. If not, and he is
descending by hands alone, finding what foothold he can upon the rocks,
he should get the man below to pull on the ends of the two ropes and
keep them taut till he is down. If he is descending first of the party,
and therefore there is no one below, a convenient device to the same
end is to sling his sack down on the end of the ropes and leave it just
suspended.
[Sidenote: Brakes].
Gloves protect the hands; but long descents are often too great a
strain for amateur fingers, and the chance of their slipping or
cramping cannot be risked. In this case one of the following leg brakes
should be used. Experienced climbers always use them where footholds
fail, for however short a distance.
_The Foot Brake._--This is the commonest device in gymnasium
rope-climbing. The body is turned sideways to the rock, the double
rope inside it. The twin ropes are caught up under the sole of the
inside boot and out over the instep of the outside boot. The boot edges
are clenched upon the ropes between them, and the amount of friction
over the boots resulting allows the weight, with small effort of boot
clenching, to slip in easy control down the ropes. The body is kept
upright by the hands grasping the rope above.
_The Thigh Brake._--This is the most frequently used in the Alps, as
rock descents are seldom entirely vertical or overhanging, and a sudden
extrusion of rock under the feet when using the foot brake upsets the
balance; whereas with the thigh brake the body can lie sideways against
a projecting or convex curve of rock, and slide down the boss, swinging
to the perpendicular again where it ends, without effort at balancing.
The right method is to turn sideways to the rock, slightly raise the
_outside_ thigh, pass the double rope under it high up between the
legs, and grip the farther lengths of rope so passed with the outside
hand, palm upwards. The inside hand grasps the tightened ropes above,
with bent arm, at about the level of the head. The outside hand, by
lowering or lifting the slack lengths below or above the level of the
raised thigh, diminishes or increases the friction of the rope round
the thigh, and so controls the pace. If a complete rest is needed, the
outside hand merely brings up its double rope to join that held by the
inside hand, and a very light clasp of the two hands together on the
four ropes so united, aided by the almost total arrest of the rope
passing under the thigh, easily stops the descent. It is a mistake, but
a frequent one, to start the rope round the _inside_ thigh. Round the
outside thigh is safer and more comfortable; and it leaves the inside
leg free to use any foothold that turns up.
The same fashion of brake can be used under the foot instead of under
the outside raised thigh. But this necessitates holding the leg very
rigid, and makes it more difficult to balance. Nor does the rope run as
smoothly under the boot as under the thigh.
_The Body Brake._--This brake, which has several variants, need
practically never be used. The amount of friction introduced demands
of a climber almost more effort to push his way down the rope in
constricting jerks than he would use in swarming down it without a
brake at all. The simplest form is to pass the double rope under both
thighs slightly bent, back, across and in front of the body, and out,
round and behind the shoulders, to the control of the outside hand.
_The Chair._--As I am dealing with these devices, a note upon this
may not be out of place. Except for an injured man it can rarely be
required in descending; although I have, on occasion, employed it for a
beginner who could not be trusted to manage any form of brake that left
anything to his discretion. But it may be found of use in excessively
difficult passages of ascent, where the leader has only got through
with great difficulty and where the possibility of a less brilliant
member of his following having to be hauled up clear on the rope and
remain suspended for a perceptible time makes it necessary to find
some sort of attachment that will not suffocate him. Men vary in their
resistance, but no man can hang clear, on a rope tied round his chest,
for more than two minutes without partial suffocation and considerable
pain. In ascending, both hands are needed for climbing, and no form of
the usual descending brake is therefore suitable. The chair is formed
by making two easy loops for the thighs opposite one another on the
rope, secured by a sound central knot (triple bowline). Through these
loops the climber passes his legs, as through breeches. If he then
straightens his thighs, he can sit in easy balance in the loops; but
as security against falling out backwards he should knot a scarf or
cord round his body and make it fast to the main rope in front of him.
In this chair he is perfectly free to climb and use his hands and feet
so long as they help him; and when he slips off, he swings comfortably
clear in his loops. He has only to remember to keep his body and thighs
straight, so as not to sag backwards and downwards out of the slings.
The men above do the rest. The chair is much used by bird’s-nesting
cliff climbers, who desire to keep their hands free, and who may have
to remain suspended for long periods.
[Sidenote: Springing the Rope.]
After the last man is down on the double rope comes the crucial moment,
when the rope has to be run or ‘sprung’ off the belay from below.
Nothing is more irritating, or of more frequent occurrence, than to
find that the double rope, after running a certain distance round the
belay, has stuck, and that a laborious and often hazardous reascent,
trusting to its partial attachment, is necessary in order to release
it. If the belay has been well chosen, or the sling well fixed, it
ought to run without difficulty. To pull it off without hitch it is
essential first to see that there is no knot in it, especially at the
running end, where the fatal knot beloved of guides and many amateurs,
for purposes of their waist-noose, generally lurks as a permanent
threat.
The rope should be pulled round the belay slowly but continuously at
first; any re-start implies a dangerous jerk that may entangle the
loose end as it jumps about. The last ten feet are the danger, for the
short, swinging loose end may at any second jam or catch round the taut
rope in its dance. To break any slight friction or hitch, and give the
end of the rope a springing release from its belay, these last few feet
should be rushed with a sharp continuous pull by two or more of the
party, who must then look out for their heads!
If there is not sufficient rope to allow of its being used as a double
rope down the whole descent required to the next stance, it is possible
to attach a ring to one end, and, putting the end with the ring round
the belay, to pass the hanging rope through the ring, making a sort of
running noose. The rope is then used as a single, not a double, fixed
rope for descent. To loosen it afterwards, it is necessary at the start
to tie an equal length of light cord to the ring. This is pulled from
below, dragging the ring downwards and the rope after it round the
belay. I have never liked the method, and never seen it work properly.
It incurs all the disadvantages of the rope jamming, and of the single
sling breaking, and gives only a single thickness of slight alpine rope
to climb down. It is very rare that a climber cannot reach some sort
of a stance by using all the rope he has, as a double, even if he has
no spare rope. If he has, for security, to let the rest of the party
down farther to some larger platform on the whole rope used as a ‘long
rope,’ as last man he can usually find some half-way stance sufficient
to let him pull the ‘double’ down after him. He can then refix it, or,
failing a belay, descend the rest of the passage without the double,
first roping on again to the men below, and directed and helped by
their advice as to his holds.
[Sidenote: The Long Rope.]
It infrequently happens on big descents that weather conditions, giant
slabs or deciduous holds make it necessary for a party while descending
to move down greater distances, in order to find safe stances, than
their allowances of rope will permit. Sometimes each member of the
party will have to be lowered a hundred feet or more, not once, but
several times in succession. This does not necessarily imply that no
holds are to be found over all this distance, or that the individuals
are not able to climb much of it unaided. But once unroping has become
necessary, and the time it takes is lost in any case, it is quicker and
safer to let each man down the full length of the whole rope at once,
so as to reach some really secure stance where he can stay unroped in
safety while the next descends. The whole object, then, should be to
save as much time as possible. The best way is for two men to remain
in charge of the rope above, one directing and lowering, the other
anchoring and paying out. Neither of them need necessarily be attached
to the rope, provided it is well secured. The moment the man below
reaches safety he should untie, without losing a second. Meanwhile, the
next man to come can already have tied on to the other loose end above,
and be beginning his descent. While one man above holds him the other
pulls up the loosened rope from the man who has finished descending.
If the rope is long enough, and the men prompt and not ‘loose stone
kickers,’ two men, at sufficient intervals, can be descending at the
one time, on either end of the rope; while the two ropes are managed,
one for each of them, by the lowerer and by the anchor man above.
(In descending easy rocks with two beginners or weak climbers, a
variant on the same method serves excellently to save time. The expert
ties himself on to the rope between them, and lets them both descend,
at intervals, ahead of him. He holds both their ropes meanwhile, and he
follows himself when they reach security. The same economical method
can be used in ascending easy rocks with a like party.)
The last man, when the party has used the ‘long rope’ and the rocks
baffle even _his_ skill in employing short, crafty ‘doubles,’ does
best, if he has a good second, to keep him close to him when their turn
comes to descend. He lets the second down to the nearest place he can
stand at all, and uses a double or a shuffle down to him, helped by
his directions or arms. Two good men thus weaving spells together, and
keeping the cauldron bubbling, can shepherd one another down passages
of toil and trouble where a last man would require constant ‘doubles’
to help him, but would conjure them in vain alone; and where the rest
may have had to submit to the full witch-dance of a descent upon the
long rope.
PEGS AND AIDS
Artificial aids have never been popular with us. If a climber does not
feel safe in descending, he ought to practise on rock which he can
climb, not spoil rock which he cannot with blacksmith’s leavings. If a
security greater than rock can afford him remains his object, it would
be more consistent to fix up a ladder or windlass at once. I am told
that a delightful contrivance--a pulley or block--has been advertised,
which enables the climber to haul himself up or down without effort. As
to how we may fix the pulley to draw ourselves up, or unfasten it after
we have descended, we have clearly only to adopt the method followed by
Baron Munchausen when he descended from the moon on a short rope--and
the thing is done!
For those who cannot climb down in Britain there is always an easy way
round. The only two pegs I can recall having seen in our hills were
left by two foreigners, and were not needed.
In big mountaineering there may be more excuse. A descent may have
really become more difficult, even unsafe, owing to the coming on of
darkness or the glazing of rocks.
In such case, pegs to hammer in and anchor to are a remedy for
our failures, our failure to carry on, to adjust the climb to the
day-length, or to watch the weather. Their use then is corrective, not
auxiliary. My party has taken pegs three times in all, as a precaution,
and used one once (on a new descent where the precise ‘impossible’
passage had been previously located). Pegs taken for this purpose
should be short and sharp, and sheathed for carriage in pocket or sack.
They should be made with a ring or eye to pass the rope through. They
are smitten in and out as convenience and the rock dictate.
Pegs should never be left as memorials. Prongs and rings poked
permanently into popular routes are more harmful than helpful. The
mountaineer will not need them, and they may mislead him, as they
usually follow the best lowering rather than the best climbing
line. Where fixed irons are placed with fixed ropes attached, as on
the Matterhorn or the Dent du Géant, they spoil the climber and the
climbing alike. They attract feckless folks on to the peaks, and
torment them with the rock-barrages of pantechnicon parties or the
stonier sharp-shooting of daft solitary scramblers.
On the rock peaks of the Eastern Alps, however, the peculiar character
of the climbing has created a different tradition. Already a large
literature has grown up on the subject of mechanical contrivances for
descents. Pitons and ring-pegs and slings are taken and used to an
extent that almost relieves a climber of the need of considering his
descent at all. A practice which is sanctioned by many fine cragsmen
who have developed their methods to suit their own type of rock, and
not ours, must be respected in its own territory. But just as among our
own countrymen the over-use of the rope and of belays has contributed
towards a diminution in individual responsibility and to an increase
in ill-chosen associations, so also the opinion suggests itself that
the over-use of pegs and other contrivances by our colleagues abroad
has led to a recklessness in leading and a disregard of what we mean
by collective safety and power, which have proved even more fatal in
result than our own error. Recently among the best continental experts
there have been indications of a change of doctrine. They are finding,
as we did, that the neglect of the art of _climbing_ down is a definite
bar to achieving success in greater mountaineering.
There would be no purpose in discussing the technicalities of a
practice so little likely to be popular with us.
In ascending, a peg is no protection to a leader, although its
insertion may tempt him perilously to go beyond what he should. His
second man, 50 to 60 feet below him, can give him as much ‘safety’ with
the rope as a rigid peg 10 to 20 feet down. If he has room to drive in
a number of shorter-distance pegs, there should certainly be room for
him to have up his second man. If he has got to run out more than the
50 to 60 feet before he can get a stance, it is useless to waste time
driving in a peg; no rope light enough to run out in this way could be
trusted to stand the jerk of a fall of any height upon a rigid bar or
ring.
On long horizontal or diagonal traverses on very steep rock, pegs may
have a purpose, as a moral support to the leader; although, if he is
free to hammer in pegs and loop ropes, it would probably be better for
him to get on with his leading and get it over. On such a traverse also
a peg may serve to carry the rope, and relieve the waist of some of the
drag from the lengthening run-out.
A peg is really only ‘sound,’ in our sense, for ascending or
traversing, if the rope over it is being ‘played’ by a human being.
Then it may become an extra anchor or belay where natural belays may
be lacking; it can secure a second man while he is looking after the
leader’s rope, and enable him to protect the party below against the
consequences of the fall of the leader above. The occasions are so
rare when a little ingenuity cannot find or contrive a better stance
and anchor out of the natural features than out of a driven peg, that
pegs are seldom worth taking on this chance, except for some known
difficulty.
Any man who feels when he looks at a passage that he wants more
protection behind him than the character of the rock allows his second
man to give him, should not attempt the passage at all. If he decides
to take the risk, he should do so only on his own account, and unrope
from his party. He can send the rope down afterwards, or, in the case
of a traverse, leave them one loose end to hold. As a protection to the
party it is even better to unrope than to drive in pegs to carry the
lengthening rope; and as a protection to more than the _morale_ of the
leader the peg is futile on such passages.
The times when it is justifiable to use pegs on a descent are the
same as I have already mentioned in dealing with rope doubles: the
intentional descent of that which has not or cannot be ascended, the
retreats in worse conditions, or over glazed rock, and the races
against time. The first is a praiseworthy exercise in gymnastics, for
which rings, bars and poles may be taken and used according to taste;
the last two allow of pegs or any other precautionary means we may
have with us being used that may prevent defeat or miscalculation from
becoming disaster.
I can imagine no other cases where a climber should not feel that he
is confessing to incapacity or some misjudgment if he has to fall
back upon pegs and aids to help him to come down what he, or some
other man, has ascended. After one such experience, any conscientious
climber would now set himself to practise climbing down, until he had
remedied a very serious defect in his qualification to rank as a good
mountaineer.
So long as a man depends upon his own hands and feet and his knowledge
of the rock, he remains master of the situation. He has four chances
always in his favour. Whereas, if he is swinging loose from an inserted
artificial peg, he has only one chance; and that one neither so much
under his physical control as his own fingers and toes, nor even as
calculable in its efficiency as a natural rock-borne belay.
THE AXE ON ROCKS
[Sidenote: Its Carriage.]
The axe is only less useful on rocks than on ice and snow. It is at
once a long third leg and a third claw hand of honourable service. Its
correct carriage in walking is important, and must become instinctive.
Guides carry it, and it is the best position, over the hollow of the
elbow, like a gun, with the head under the shoulder, and so turned that
the curve of the pick adheres upward along the shoulder-blade and only
the balanced weight of the shaft rests across the forearm. The only
absolute rule is that, whether carried in hand or over or under the
shoulder, the axe should always be held with the spike end of the shaft
pointing forward. Nothing betrays the beginner or the badly instructed
climber so fatally as an axe swung with the head to the front and the
spike out behind. Habit should be trained so as to avoid this false
position as instinctively as that of carrying a gun with the muzzle
pointing directly to the rear.
Much walking, and all climbing, in the Alps is done in single file.
Even the chance that one of the file may in carelessness swing
up his axe into the wrong position, on path or easy ridge, is a
perpetual threat to the eyes and teeth of anyone following him, and
its possibility, in the person of one ill-trained companion, is an
irritation for the whole party to contemplate. It is one of the
slight jeopardies to harmony which a leader is justified in directly
correcting.
It is best for actual climbing on easy rocks to carry the axe on a
wide, soft sling on the wrist. If then both hands are needed for holds,
it can be safely dropped for the moment on to the sling, and jerked
back again, cup-and-ball fashion, into the hand, without interruption
or the waste of even an arm movement.
If a steeper, and short, passage occurs where the arm must be entirely
free, and the axe on the wrist-sling would hamper movement, the sling
can be thrust right up on to the shoulder. The axe then hangs behind
the body and well out of the way of both arm and leg motions.
On rocks, whenever and wherever practicable, the axe should be carried
in the hand. The machinations of an axe under control can be allowed
for; but an axe swinging free from wrist, shoulder or back is a devil
of stumbling and catching unchained. For this reason, the device,
employed by most guides on long difficult passages or chimneys where
the hands and shoulders must be kept free, of wearing a string loop
attached to sack or rope, through which they pass the axe, is not
sound. The axe is out of sight, loose and out of control. It is better
to shove it through the loop of rope round the waist, where it is
kept fairly rigid and its position can be allowed for. With a single
movement it can be pulled to either side or behind, as convenience
dictates.
It is useful to practise carrying the axe on British rock climbs,
in order to acquire the instinct of its proper carriage for later
indispensable service in the Alps. The alpine climber is never without
his axe; and when he looks ahead at a rock section to select his holds,
he subconsciously decides at the same time how he must carry his axe;
in the left or the right hand, according as to which will be the outer
or free hand; on the wrist, if it be only for a step or two; slung on
his shoulder, for a longer passage; or thrust through his waist-rope on
the left, right or behind, for a chimney or severe struggle.
If the rock problem is of great severity or length, it saves time
in the end to tie all the axes on to a rope, and to send them up
separately. So sent, they should be tied with a clove-hitch, not at the
end of the rope, but so as to leave sufficient rope hanging below to
guide them and prevent their catching. This also applies to sending up
the sacks.
An axe of some ingenuity has lately been designed for use by a leader
on difficult rock. This will take in half. On severe passages both
halves can be packed into the sack for the time, or if the crack
contains ice in places where there is no room to manipulate a long axe,
the head half can be retained in the hand or in the waist-noose, and be
conveniently used to make nicks in the ice or to serve as a claw-hand
in minute cracks. It has stood some severe testing, but time has still
to show if the convenience of the shortening is secured at too great
a sacrifice of strength in the shaft to make the axe sound for long or
heavy step-cutting.
The short axes popular with those modern climbers who rely exclusively
upon their ice-claws, have a habit in rock climbing of working out of
the waist-noose or sling and disappearing down the cliff at crucial
moments. They are also of no use as the invaluable third leg on easy
rock or in descending.
When halts are made it is important to see that the axes are put in
safety, where they cannot be dislodged by forgetful movements. A
climber without his axe is like a lion-hunter without his rifle--and no
tree to climb.
[Sidenote: As an Extra Hand.]
In ascending rocks the axe comes into use as a long claw-hand, where
snow, ice, grass or heather covers the ledges and hides the holds. The
pick can then either be driven in as a handhold--in which case it is
important to remember that the axe must be held rigid in the position
in which it is first driven in, whatever the subsequent alterations in
the direction of the pull upon it--or it can be used to clear out the
obstruction.
On bare rock, if the pick is driven into a crack and the shaft set
firm against the rock below, the head can provide a useful handhold or
foothold; it can be further secured if it is held in this position by
a man below. As a pull handhold, with the pick hooked over an edge, in
ascending rocks, it should be used with caution. The direction of the
pull upon a handhold always tends to change, as the weight is raised
near or past it; and an axehold can rarely be found of a kind to resist
the outward or slanting strain as a climber raises himself. One or
two guides in the Alps have perfected a remarkable trick that may be
mentioned. When a vertical or sloping crack in a slab gets too small
even to admit a finger, and all other holds are lacking, they force the
point of the pick into the crack above their heads, and give a slight
outward and upward twist to the shaft with the wrist, so that the point
of the pick and its square edges are jammed slantwise and upwards in
the crack. Holding the shaft rigid in this position, they then raise
their weight by sheer strength inside the bent arm which holds the
shaft, at the same time using whatever friction-holds they can find
for their feet to help them. A second’s catlike clinging of the feet
and of their free hand to the rock gives them just time to thrust the
pick farther up the crack and twist it firmly in again. The feat is one
that demands exceptional strength and skill, and it is only employed in
circumstances from which the best amateur would retire without choice.
But it is worth practising, if only to be held in reserve as a relief
or extra security, when, on rocks less naturally desperate, a crack or
a slab proves unexpectedly iced or nasty.
I have occasionally seen an axe-head made use of in the fashion of
a ‘peg.’ Where a belay point was lacking, a climber has jammed his
axe-pick in a crack, and anchored or belayed the rope over it. I never
came upon such a contrivance without a distinct feeling of relief that,
in once again avoiding ‘coming upon the rope,’ I had once again shirked
being the first to make trial of the doubtful efficacy of this sort of
belay.
In well-chosen spots, the familiar ledges or terraces where slopes of
deep heather or grass cover the rock and leave no sure stance, the
axe can also be used for belaying. The spike should then be driven in
deeply, the shaft sloping away from the pull, and the rope be passed
low down round its base, getting some extra friction upon the grass
or heather immediately round the shaft. But these belays should be
employed with discretion.
[Sidenote: As a Manx Leg.]
In traversing the crests of long ridges, with their constant rise
and fall, and in descending easy or moderate rocks, the axe, well
handled, is an invaluable telescopic third leg. The spike of the shaft
reached forward or downward to some cranny or lower step beyond the
reach of the foot, preserves the balance in free walking or during
a long downward step. Its practised use enables the body to balance
continuously and rhythmically in a walking upright attitude over broken
crests or down angles and high steps of rock that would otherwise
demand a constant effort of balance and much help from handholds.
Even in the hands of a beginner it prevents him from crawling where
he should be learning to walk in the rhythm of balance. In so far as
it makes for upright movement it is the first instructor in balance
climbing on easy ridges and descents.
In descending sideways to the rock, the axe-head, short held on the
ledges, can give relief to the continued drag on the hands. Or again,
if either hand is occupied with the rope, the spike of the axe thrust
down to a lower edge with the free hand gives balance for the next
awkward descending step, and avoids the check to the rope that the
search for handhold, and the turn of the body to use it, would produce.
In traversing or descending easy faces or ridges, the axe, held
straight across the body with the spike towards the rock, can give just
those touches which the balance in easy movement from time to time
demands, especially when there is loose rubble on the passing footholds
or their angle slopes inconveniently.
In dancing down or across loose scree or moraine, that last test of
rhythmical leg movement, which becomes a step-dance of delight or a
slow, unhappy crawl according as it is rightly or wrongly performed,
the axe held in the same position makes at any moment, with a passing
touch, a third leg for balance. But it is wrong and retarding to make a
perpetual tripod with it, and to lose the rhythm of balanced movement
by continually leaning upon it.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] See on Boots, “Equipment,” p. 80.
[11] See on Nailing, “Equipment,” p. 82.
[12] See “Equipment,” p. 83.
CHAPTER V
CLIMBING IN COMBINATION
In no craft or sport is combination so vital as in climbing. The
brilliant individual run or single score is impossible. The members of
a party are combined for life or death. Their achievement is that of
their united efficiency. Their progress depends upon their success in
realizing complete harmony of thought and movement. The rope is their
nervous link. There are few things more pleasing to watch than the
co-operation of a good rope on a stiff rock climb. To the untutored
eye the party may all appear to be doing different things--some
pausing, some turning, some climbing. Only the expert may discover the
continuity of motion passing from one end to the other of the rope
through the separate actions of each climber. Like the progress of
a snake, seen in a slow cinema film, the sinuous connection is only
apparent to the eye that can read in each apparently stationary phase
its relation to the phase which precedes and follows it.
[Sidenote: Collective Rhythm.]
To climb as an individual, each man has to learn how he can most safely
and economically manage his muscles, his will and his nerves, and how
to accommodate his personal rhythm to the accidents of rock structure.
To climb in a party, he has to adjust this to the collective rhythm of
whatever men he climbs with. He has not only to get up rocks, he has
to do so as part of a machine. If all the party is moving together, he
has to watch the hands and feet of the man in front, so as to lose no
time in renewed searching for his own holds; to see that the rope in
front does not catch or lie about, but take it up in loose, neat coils
in his hand, and let it out again as required; to keep his distances,
so as not to hurry or jerk the men in front or behind him; to carry
his axe and generally a loose coil of rope; and at the same time to
climb securely himself, with a view to having to meet at any moment an
unexpected slip by some one else. If the party is moving singly, he has
to see exactly where the man in front goes; to watch his position on
the next stance above, so as to adopt at once the right attitude for
belaying or holding the man below when he himself reaches the stance
in his turn, and to pull in the rope of the man behind as he comes up,
while seeing that the rope of the man in front runs out without hitch.
Climbing on the rope falls naturally into two divisions of technique,
alternating in their employment according to the difficulty of the rock
traversed and the ability of the party: that of all moving together,
or ‘continuous climbing,’ on easy and moderately difficult rock; and
that of moving singly, ‘interrupted’ or ‘one at a time,’ on difficult
rock; in the latter case the man above will always be stationary and
‘anchoring’ the rope for the succeeding climber. This distinction is
made throughout in discussing the different uses of the rope.
The mastery of continuous movement on the rope is the more important;
it is the finer art, and the better foundation for big mountaineering.
But it has become too much the fashion with our climbers to ignore its
importance, and to treat, and therefore to train their following to
treat, each section of rock as an individual ‘problem.’
The necessity of learning how to move singly is forced upon us in any
case by the sectional character of most of our difficult British rock
climbs, which are apt to divide themselves into separate ‘pitches.’
Unfortunately, the effect has gone deeper. Not only do we practise
moving singly almost to the exclusion of collective continuous
climbing, but we allow the interrupted method to destroy the rhythm and
pace that properly form part of good ‘one-at-a-time’ climbing. Such
sectional climbing establishes a habit which is bad for the individual
style and disastrous in big mountaineering.
A mountaineer on a rope has to learn to feel that he is charged with a
portion of a united personality represented by the rope. In proportion
as he himself is secure or not, at any moment when others are less
well placed, he carries a greater or lesser share of this collective
responsibility. If all are moving together, his own movements are of
importance to the party in so far as they coincide with the collective
rhythm and contribute to the pool of safety against accidents. If the
party is moving singly, at the moments when he himself is actually
climbing he is free to look after himself alone, but the instant he has
ceased to move he has a double measure of security to assure for those
starting to move above or below him. This is his contribution to the
combined safety of the party. His contribution to the collective pace
is that he should climb as quickly as is consistent with safe progress
and not as slowly as his own comfort might desire.
Slack habits on short English climbs prevent a party ever finding its
rhythm, or even discovering its value as a combination. A good party
acquires a fine collective momentum from the impulse transmitted by the
sharp ending of one climber’s effort to the immediate start of the next
man. There is as attainable a rhythm in ‘interrupted’ climbing as in
continuous climbing. When a party can move singly or together, slow or
fast, and yet retain its collective rhythm, it will have bridged the
gap between the severe problem-climb that may have seemed to it the
limit of individual performance, and the great alpine expedition which
may pile fifty such problems into a day without coming to the end of
the greater collective power of a roped party.
[Sidenote: Imitation.]
A climber’s first task on a rope is to learn to watch the man in front.
This must become a second nature. It should be sufficient that one man
has found the right holds; it is a waste of time and a bad break of
rhythm if all, or even one other man following, finds it necessary to
look for them again. On continuous climbing, pace cannot be achieved
without this subconscious imitation. On difficult ‘one-at-a-time’
climbing, to fail to start or to follow with the correct hand or foot
often means failure to follow at all where another has easily led.
There is nothing lowering in imitation. Big climbing is not competitive
puzzle-work. The man behind is in any case handicapped by the rope,
and by his extra share of responsibility in guarding his leader. He
owes it to the party not to waste time in working out the leader’s job
for himself over again. This habit of observation may become quite
unconscious. As a personal instance, I once traversed the Matterhorn
with a well-known guide as companion. In descending, I was occupied
subconsciously in choosing holds and consciously in examining a
prospected route on the distant Dent d’Hérens. We were unroped, and the
guide was some distance in front. I have no recollection of noticing
him. After a time I found myself constantly adjusting my line so as to
take holds always with the same hand. I remarked the fact gradually,
because I became conscious that it was not always the obvious or most
convenient adjustment. In an instant the explanation flashed across me.
The guide climbed admirably, but an accident some years before had left
him only one hand to climb with. Unconsciously, or as a third mental
operation, I had been noting his adjustments and imitating them without
being even aware that I saw him.
A criticism very frequently made, especially of a man untrained in
combined climbing, is: “You can’t depend on him; he takes different
holds:--I never feel sure with him on the rope behind.” If the man
moving in front knows what holds the next man is using he knows where
he will be encountering a difficulty or a loose hold, and he is already
half prepared in case of his help being needed. If, on the other
hand, he knows only that a new set are being discovered, he has to be
constantly turning round and waiting, and uncertainty is added to his
necessary watchfulness. The criticism applies, primarily, to climbing
on rock of a certain difficulty, where there will be only one ‘best’
line of holds to use. On easy rock greater liberty is permissible. At
the same time a distinction must be drawn between the duty of noting
the holds, and their fashion of use by the man in front, and the
duty of using them in precisely similar fashion. On very difficult
rock passages a man of different physique may, from lack of reach or
a divergence in proportions, find it necessary to employ different
adjustments. None the less will he profit by having noted the holds his
front man used, and, in most cases, by imitating his actual fashion of
using them. On such passages of course the party will be moving singly.
The front man will therefore in any case be on his guard, and no extra
risk or loss of time is involved in the enforced departure from his
method.
If the party is moving one at a time, it is easier to notice the exact
holds taken by one’s predecessor, but it is also easier in this case to
forget them again in the excitement of watching his further progress.
Therefore, in moving singly, the effort of noticing has to be more
directly conscious.
If we are moving together, conscious observation is assisted, and in
part supplied, by the continuous action of the body, as it adjusts its
poise of its own accord not to one hold, but to a sequence of holds.
If a man is swinging along to the same rhythm as his leader, his body
automatically makes use of the same holds as the leader has found to
suit his balancing progress.
But if we are moving one at a time, each man has to watch the holds. We
have to notice not only what holds the leader tried and rejected,--as
these will be the obviously convenient holds whose temptation must be
resisted if his example is to be of service,--but what were the actual
holds and movements by which he finally conquered. For the sake of
those following it is important to imitate these as closely as we can.
It is astonishing how many good climbers fail to notice even, say, such
an important point as the fact that the leader turned round so as to
face the opposite wall of a crack at a particular point; and how many
more can give no account of what holds they themselves used, even the
moment afterwards. It is a sign of a poor mountaineer if he has to call
out to his front man for guidance: “Did you go to the right here?”
or “What do I do now?” It is generally impossible to direct him from
above, however well the leader may remember the holds, especially if he
is standing back, as he should be, in order to hold the rope. All the
necessary guidance should have been noted during the front man’s ascent.
[Sidenote: The Rope while Moving Together.]
Apart from acquiring this faculty of imitation, the climber has to
learn how to manage the rope. It might be maintained that, on places
where all the party are able to move together, the rope is not needed.
But in big mountaineering the easy and the hard passages alternate
so frequently that the constant taking off and on, the coiling and
uncoiling of the rope, would involve great loss of time. There is also,
even on easy rock, always the possibility of a slip or of a breaking
hold to be considered, even with a first-rate party. Often there may
be danger when there is little or no difficulty. And since good men can
hold almost anywhere, even while moving, if one of them does slip, the
rope protects him against any worse consequences.
[Sidenote: The Rope to the Man in Front.]
In continuous climbing, with a good party, each man, unless he be the
leader, is primarily concerned with the section of rope in front of
him. It is best to keep this always a little slack, and to gather up
one coil or two coils in the outside hand. These loops can either be
retained while the hand is used for holding on, or they can be dropped
for the second if the full grip of both hands is needed. But your
first concern is not to jerk the man in front; it is only of minor
importance to get up comfortably yourself. For the jerk on your friend
will be unexpected, and therefore disturbing, if not upsetting; whereas
inconvenient holds for yourself, or the extra effort required to keep
the rope clear, you can foresee, and therefore discount. To break your
own rhythm under these circumstances, in order to avoid breaking that
of the man in front, does less injury to the collective movement. It
is often better, for the same end, to take an awkward touch-hold, with
elbow or knee, rather than to lose time in dropping the coils so as to
free your hand. If the coils have to be dropped, the time can yet be
saved and the rhythm remain unbroken, if you quicken up for a step or
two and close in on the man in front. The loose coil in the hand of the
man behind you will leave you this margin. When you drop your coil, see
that it falls into a position in which it will not be likely to hitch
and from which it can be caught up again at once.
The arm, with the hand, has above all things to learn the mechanical
swing which frees, frees, frees the rope in front of you, before,
after, and even during each step, at whatever inconvenience to
yourself. It is something of the motion of cracking a whip slowly,
upwards or sideways according to the lie of the rock. The art of the
swing, from all positions, can only come with practice.
Fortunately for us, the business of watching the rope combines
conveniently with that of watching the movements and holds of the man
ahead, and does not withdraw our eye from its first duty. Meanwhile,
for our own holds we must trust to the hastiest of passing glances, and
depend for the rest on our imitation of our front man. To this extent
combined climbing makes a further demand upon the ability to take holds
previously marked, unaided at the moment by sight; an art which the
feet and hands have had to learn in acquiring balance method.
[Sidenote: The Rope from the Man Behind.]
With the man behind, in continuous climbing, we are less concerned.
If he is of equal strength, he can be left to himself. Yet we have to
remember where the checks of difficulty or bad holds occurred that
broke our own rhythm, and we must allow for them in turn by slackening
our pace slightly when instinct tells us that the man following is
approaching these check-points. If a party is moving well in tune,
we shall know without looking round when the next man will probably
be checking or when he will be forced to drop his coils of rope for
better hold. We shall therefore be prepared for a check, or even a jerk
to our rope should a blunder occur. If the man behind is distinctly
less expert, some allowance in pace and attention has to be made at
such times; and it is as well, without necessarily stopping or turning
round, to feel backwards with one hand, and discover if the rope is
advancing freely. The hand can even take up a coil or so of the rope
behind, and hold it together with the coils it holds of the rope
in front. We then have some margin of rope to let go in case it is
checked from behind on such expected places. A weaker man behind may be
expected to check where his predecessor passed without pause; and to
take up a loop or so of his rope, bringing it taut in the act, keeps us
in touch with his movements, and ready to help him if needed, without
forcing us to take our eyes off our leader or our attention off our own
progress. If the man behind is a novice, it is best always to adopt
this plan, and leave him free to use his hands, while we ourselves hold
the loose coils which normally would be his care. This throws a double
task on the middle man, who thus has two ropes to manage; but a good
centre will be able to keep all his eyes for his leader and yet discern
all he needs to know about the progress of his rear man from the feel
of the rope.
[Sidenote: The Rope while Moving Singly.]
In steep climbing, where the party moves one at a time, the rope is
used for direct protection and not merely as a precautionary link.
The rope is for safety; it is not for assistance. Above all, there
is no magic in its use. It does not or cannot level up the powers of
an unequal party to the standard of its best members. In so far as
members of a rope find it necessary to have recourse to it as direct
aid, they are drawing upon the reserve of strength and security which
the party pools, and thus diminishing the margin which is required
for their feats in the lead by the more expert members. They are
depriving the party of its rhythm, and the leader of the sense of a
safe collective capacity behind him, which is the impetus that makes
for his success. This warning is not unneeded at the present time. It
has become the custom for a group of first-class leaders to conduct
various assortments of less capable climbers up the most difficult
climbs in our islands. For them it is only a friendly effort. The
climbs are short; the reserve of a good leader is sufficient for such
‘one-man’ climbs, which are climbed ‘one at a time.’ But the harm for
the individuals who follow may be great. They are depriving themselves
of any chance to develop their own balance and confidence. They are
confusing their judgment as to their own unaided capacity, and are
spoiling their taste by sensations they cannot digest. They may be
getting into careless habits of trusting to the rope as an auxiliary
engine whenever their wind or power fails. When these methods and
ill-assorted companionships are transferred to the Alps, the results
are lamentable. With difficulties magnified a hundredfold in length,
upon climbs which can only be expected to yield in a whole day to
the attack of combined efficiency, and with far longer hours of easy
climbing to face, of a kind to demand the utmost individual precision
for its timely passage, such methods make impossible demands upon
the margin of power and security that the ablest of leaders has over
for the common ‘pool’ of his party. There follow late returns, and
exhaustion, and ill-temper, and nights out, if no worse. In this
respect British climbing may be the very reverse of a preparation for
the Alps. The rope can be abused until it becomes a danger.
There is no harm in taking an occasional pull from the man above; some
rock passages are more difficult for certain types of figure, others
for others. The hour and the weather may on occasion make it better not
to waste the time of the party. But any man who has habitually to give
‘trunk calls’ is climbing with a leader and on a class of climb beyond
his capacity. He is delaying the party and injuring his own climbing
permanently. If it is only practice he lacks, he should insist upon
better opportunity for real practice and a slower pace. If this does
not relieve him from the necessity of ‘rope-riding,’ he will do himself
more good by working for a period on easier rock with a humbler rope.
If, on the other hand, he finds that as his technique improves he can
manage unaided all that his leader sets him, he should insist on being
given his share of leading.
[Sidenote: Following and Leading.]
This will be the more necessary if he begins to find himself in doubt
whether he could lead places over which he knows he can follow capably.
He has clearly then been neglecting a most important side of his
climbing education, his self-knowledge and confidence. It is a fact
that any moderate climber who has not sacrificed his own sound training
and the education of his nerve to the exactions of too rapid a party,
climbs twenty per cent better, when he is leading, than he ever does
when he is following. There have been plenty of cases of men who for
years remained average climbers behind some dominating leader, and who,
when placed by some chance reluctantly in the lead, suddenly developed
powers beyond all expectation, and retained them. They had merely
to add self-knowledge and confidence to their technically thorough
training.
Conversely, it is a fact that a man who has been accustomed only to
lead climbs some twenty per cent worse when he has on occasion to
follow. The habit of imitation, the instinct for rope management,
and the necessity of taking and not setting the rhythm are all novel
to him. To this defect in education is in part due the disappointing
performances of some excellent rock climbers when they first
mountaineer in the Alps. Men always accustomed to lead at home never
climb at their best behind a guide. And men who have always followed
have never acquired confidence or self-dependence sufficient to meet
new circumstances happily. For these reasons every habitual leader
should accustom himself to follow at home; he will be far more
efficient when he starts to learn his business behind professionals
in the Alps, or when, with a guideless party, he has to alter the
order, and follow himself, as is sometimes necessary for greater
safety. Again, every one upon whom circumstances force the position of
generally following, either on British rocks or in the Alps, should
insist upon his share of leading where he feels that it is within his
physical powers.
[Sidenote: Stances.]
The extent to which the rope is now used as a general assistance or
as a decoration on easy passages is apt to contribute to a neglect of
the study of positions proper to its secure use in places where its
protection is really needed. It is as vital for a leader to know what
character of stance he requires in order to bring up his following
safely, as to get up a passage himself. Many old climbers are frankly
inept in their choice of stance and of attitude upon it. It would seem
simple enough for a man to think out from what direction a pull will
come upon him, and how he can best place his body to meet it. But many
minds can never get beyond the sense of a comfortable attitude of
body at the moment, and quail before the further step of considering
how that attitude is suited to a pull from a particular direction.
It brings a shudder to remember occasions when we have arrived at a
platform after a severe struggle and found our anchor man carefully
jammed in a position that could not have resisted the faintest pull
from the only important direction! And behind the possible doubt in
many a man’s mind, so placed, seems always to be the dangerous feeling:
“Anyhow, it’s only for a moment, and old So-and-so won’t slip.” Perhaps
So-and-so half-way up calls out, “Can you give me a little pull?”
For So-and-so has been climbing probably with something of the same
sort of feeling: “I’ll have a shot; and anyhow, there’s always old
Such-and-such up there with the rope!” At the call comes further doubt
above, and even that ominous “Wait a second!” while the upper man
hastily tries to alter his position. This is as common an event as it
is unpardonable.
The ‘Wait a second’ man may be a perilous goose; but even he is
not so bad as the ‘All right! come along!’ man in like situation. A
leader--and I am not writing without knowing of instances--who under
any circumstances of excitement or difficulty says he is all right to
hold when he knows or even suspects that he is not, and who allows his
next man to enter on a doubtful passage on this false understanding,
is guilty of constructive manslaughter, only partially redeemed by the
possibility that it may be also constructive suicide.
A climber has to think out exactly how the pull on the rope will come,
and what hold he has about him to help him to meet it. Our object is
to stay in balance on the feet as long as possible, so as to be able
to pivot on our legs and meet the strains, if and as they come. To sit
down is an all too vulgar error. On steep sloping ledges where we stay
the heels against rock or herbage, or astride of a ridge, or jammed
in a crack or chimney, we may have to sit down; but our position is
weak. We are out of balance and out of the true line of the rope, which
almost of necessity will be fraying over some edge, interrupting our
information as to how the invisible man below us is getting on, and not
improbably loosening stones on to him.
Whenever the stance permits we stand in free balance on the feet, with
our outside or firm leg in line with the pull of the moving rope. The
body inclines inward, ready to take the pull, if it comes, down the
thrust of our rigid leg. If the ledge is narrow, we rest against the
rock with shoulder or our inside knee, but still keep a free poise of
the body to meet any slight alterations in the direction of strain. If
the ledge is too narrow to allow us to lean back and so take the strain
down through our leg to the rock, or if the stance does not even allow
of balancing without handholds, then we must look out for a belay or
anchor, any knob or split corner of rock, round which to pass the rope
as extra security.
[Sidenote: With Belays.]
We make the distinction between an ‘anchor,’ the loop of inactive rope
with which a stationary climber secures himself to a rock point, in
order to protect himself and the rest of the party while somebody else
is climbing, and a ‘belay,’ which is the rock-and-rope attachment by
which the active rope of a moving man is protected while it is running
out or being pulled in.
We distinguish again between a ‘direct belay,’ where the rope in action
connects directly on to or round rock, and an ‘indirect belay,’ where
some form of human spring is interposed between the active rope and the
solid rock.
The _anchor_ should not be made with a section of the rope momentarily
in action. The man on the stance takes a loop of the inactive rope
between himself and the next stationary climber and puts it over a
point. He can either hold it there looped, or secure it by putting on a
second coil, which will confirm it by friction. An anchor is not much
good unless it is quite close to or vertically above us. The farther
off it is, the more open it becomes to all our objections to a direct
belay. Its object is to assure the balance of a stationary climber
while he is managing the rope of a moving climber, and safeguard the
rest of the party in case of the fall of both. The same point of rock
may have to serve for both anchor and belay, but their affixing should
be quite independent. If a leader, wearing necessarily only the one
rope, the active rope to his second man, wishes to secure an anchor, he
must divide his anchor loop from that portion of his active rope which
he is using to belay his second man by very secure friction coils round
the rock. If there is no place for both anchor and belay, the anchor
must be sacrificed, and the belay then made as indirect as ingenuity
can devise.
The _direct belay_ is unsound to protect a _leader_. If the rope is
playing round rock, it may at any second jerk him, a fatal fault. If
he falls with a long rope out, the rope will, or ought to, break, when
the jerk comes directly upon a solid point, and very often a point
with sharp edges. If he falls on a short rope, similarly attached
directly to rock, the chance of its snapping is only slightly less.
For a long rope may take up much jerk in its elastic spring, but a
short rope cannot. This should be more widely known. Many leaders think
they will be safe in trying a risky passage if they can find a direct
belaying-point which only leaves a short run-out. They either use it
like a ‘peg,’ passing the rope behind it and taking out enough slack
to let them do the passage, or they bring up their second men on to
bad stances to hold the rope over it. Neither course lessens the risks
of the direct belay. Some preventable accidents have been due to this
dangerous misconception.
An exception would appear to be the case of the leader ‘threading the
rope,’ behind a jammed stone, in order to protect himself in attempting
a bad bit from a stance not good enough for him to bring his second up
to. This ‘threading’ is only sound if, firstly, the run-out above it is
only to be for a few feet; and, secondly, if the rope will _run_ freely
behind the stone so that the second man below can play it and turn it
into an _indirect_ belay, to some extent, in case of a slip. Otherwise
threading is really only a brittle reed of moral reassurance for a
leader who is uncertain about his standard of the day.
As a protection to a man _following_ us up rock the direct belay is
almost equally unsound. To drag the moving rope round rock frays
it, and runs the risk of there being a hitch or some slack rope to
complicate matters if he slips or needs a pull. Few knobs can be
trusted to retain a travelling rope unless the hands keep it in
position. A rope dragged round a point, also, rolls against the lay
of the strands, and may roll up and off a rounded knob unexpectedly.
Again, a rope may play easily round a splinter while it is loose, but
when a strain comes upon it it will jam in the crack behind, and the
sudden stopping of the ‘give’ in the rope pinches and may snap it. In
one-at-a-time climbing it should rarely be necessary to take a direct
belay to protect a man following. It is our business not to use a
stance unless we can render its belay in some way indirect. Only in
continuous climbing do we content ourselves sometimes with cursory
direct belays, generally in descending. Then they are simply a passing
precaution, not a definite protection; and they are sound because the
easy character of the climbing will permit us, at need, instantly
to convert them into indirect belays or anchors. Otherwise direct
belays are more often used in laziness or ignorance than from any dire
climbing necessity.
For the _indirect belay_ we loop the active rope of the man climbing
round a convenient point, and then make it our business to interpose
our hands, arms, legs, shoulders, or any part of us which may prevent a
jerk of his rope from coming uninterruptedly on to the solid rock. If
we have fair room to balance, we play the rope entirely free with our
arms and the spring of our body, using only an anchor to the rock if
we need it. If we have not room, and especially if we are protecting a
leader, whose fall would jerk us off most positions of free balance, we
put the rope over the point and play it round with both hands, ready to
grip and spring it upon our arms if a jerk comes. Or we pass the active
rope round our forearm or over the thigh or across the shoulder, on its
way to the belay-point.
It often happens that the rope does not play easily round the belay
as we pass it from one hand to the other. We may have to free it and
run a coil through quickly, or alter its lie round the belay. These
shifts should never be made except when the man protected by the rope
is momentarily at rest. Similarly we may have to take it off the belay
for a second, to let it run out quickly enough for a rapid leader, who
above all things must not be jerked. For these adjustments it is better
to keep always a small margin of slack in the rope, which we continue
to take up in the hands as they play the rope round the belay, until
a suitable moment comes for making the readjustment we intend. This
margin also leaves us a loose curl through which to twist wrist or arm,
as an extra spring, in case of a fall on the rope.
As an extra precaution we may insert glove or cap or even earth between
the rope and the knob, if we think it may reduce the friction or ease
the passage.
We may not always be satisfied that we have rendered our belay
classically indirect, but we can always prevent its being crudely
direct. Our eye must learn to take instinctive offence at the sight of
any active rope running direct from a moving man to a rigid rock.
[Sidenote: Without Belays.]
Belays and handholds are almost synonymous, for there is very little
handhold which ingenuity cannot convert into some form of extra
security for the rope. Where handholds fail us, belays fail us, and
we have to fall back for our securing of the rope upon balance and
the mechanics of our bodies. The nature of the stance suggests the
position. The strongest holding attitude is that of the body turned
somewhat sideways to the direction of the expected pull, and inclined
slightly inwards over the inner bent leg; thus the strain is taken down
the outer rigid leg to the rock. This leg is planted firmly on the
foot, and sloped in the same line as the rope from the man ascending
below us, or, alternatively, in the line which the rope from the man
above us may be expected to take, supposing he were to fall. The
sideways turn enables us to make a spring of the body; which we bend
or straighten over the bent inner leg and behind our rigid leg, as we
pull in or check the rope, without risk of being pulled off our stance.
Whereas, if we face squarely outward, we cannot get _behind_ both our
legs, to pull, without sitting down; and any forward bend of the body,
to meet a pull, risks the balance and the foothold.
We use any roughness of the surface as extra purchase for the outer,
firm foot. Two such small holds, if only for the side-nails of the
boots, give sufficient purchase, under a body in balance, to lift the
whole weight of a heavy companion, or, less certainly, to check a
considerable weight falling from above.
Sometimes it is best to bend the inner leg until the knee rests against
the wall behind. If the rock above us projects, or is so steep that we
cannot lean in behind our firm leg, the stance is not sound without
some belay. But it is at times possible, if the stance is broad and the
slope of the projection above allows it, to kneel on the inside knee,
and belay the rope over the outside knee with both hands. A man with
powerful legs can make this a secure spring for the rope. The centre
of gravity is so low in this position that a heavy jerk from below can
safely be taken. But it is useless, of course, without other hold, as a
belay against a fall from above.
No stance is sound without a belay or anchor where we feel we need
handhold for our balance, or where we feel we shall need it to resist
the pull of a rope, from below or above as the case may be. No man,
dependent upon handhold himself, is safe enough to secure the rope for
another climber. He must either be able to convert his handhold into an
anchor for himself or into some form of indirect belay for the climber,
or else he must seek another stance.
The more we learn of the mechanics of climbing, the more we incline to
use only _free stances_ if we wish to assist or protect a man _below_;
and free stances reinforced by _anchors_ on the inactive rope to
protect a leader _above_; and the less and less we get to like even
indirect belays, for either, on the active rope. For a man below, it
is of more assistance that we should be able to give him the immediate
pull or steady with his active rope which a free stance or body belay
allows us to do, and which will prevent him slipping at all, than that,
when for lack of this instantaneous touch he has slipped, his active
rope should be rock-belayed, and should be thus more stonily certain of
stopping him in his further fall. For a leader above us, it is of more
service that we should associate ourselves with his action, keep a free
stance or a body or arm belay on his active rope, and, if he falls, be
free to interpose all our human mechanism to ease the jar, than that
we should seek to diminish our responsibility and risk, and increase
his danger, by entrusting his active rope to the perilous rigidity of
a rock belay. We must, indeed, always take an anchor for a leader on
the inactive rope, if we can; because this strengthens our position in
functioning as his human spring, and protects the rest of the party in
case of our failure to save him by our interposition. And we should
take it for a man below, on severe rock, whenever our free stance is
not secure enough to safeguard ourselves and, consequently, those above
us.
But the very human inclination which assails our novitiate upon all
rock that tries our strength or imposes upon our nerves, to shove off
our responsibility on to any rock point that presents itself, and to
jam the active rope round it, regardless as to whether our position
will allow us to interpose any effective human spring upon it in case
of a slip, below or above us, must be sternly resisted and unlearned.
Unless we can be certain that we can keep the belay an indirect one
_when the pull comes upon the rope_, and not only while we are daintily
handling its slack, we must not take the belay. If we cannot substitute
for it a free stance or an anchor on the inactive rope, we must reject
such a stance altogether, and move to another.
In my experience, the better the mountaineer, the more boldly he throws
in his lot with the action and security of the man at the moment
climbing above or below him; that is, the more he associates his human
mechanism, either as impulse or as check, directly with the active
rope; and uses the rock, for anchor or indirect belay, as a protection
behind him for the inactive rope and the rest of the party. Between
good climbers the rope serves as a telegraph wire. So long as it runs
free we can receive our call for help or reassurance and return our
instantaneous touch or impulse down it with a response that is almost
anticipation. Any rock interposition interrupts the one and delays the
other. The rescue of rock should be held in ready reserve to reinforce
us with an anchor or with an indirect belay, after our human spring has
performed its function and has at least absorbed most of the stock.
[Sidenote: Holding the Rope.]
Climbing rope is as a rule too thin to be conveniently held or pulled
with a heavy weight at the end, except by men of abnormal grip or
specially developed hands. Many men, therefore, when taking position
for holding on a stance, anchored or not, give the rope one or two
half-twists round the forearm. This is convenient, but not without risk.
The most comfortable position, on a free or anchored stance, is to pass
the rope round the body just above the hips, gripping it on either
side in front with the two hands, and passing it along from one to the
other hand as required. The best hand-grip is to turn the palms of the
hands upward, and to lay the rope between the first fingers and thumbs
of each hand. If the outside arm is then turned slightly outward, palm
up, and the body, as it stands sideways to the pull of the rope, is
inclined inwards, thrusting against the outer firm foot, the body, the
outer firm leg and the outer arm will all be approximately in line with
the direction of the pull. The utmost use is thus being made of the
spring-pulley of arm and body, with no energy wasted round corners.
The inside hand pulls in or lets out the rope round the body. The
spring, up or down, of the body from the waist is ready at any moment
to help in absorbing the jerk of a pull from above, or in giving the
steady ‘little pull’ that prevents the jerk coming at all from the
approaching man below. The rope passing round the body and the forearm
gives a surprising amount of resistance in friction; more so, owing
to the elastic surface it embraces, than is given by a rigid belay.
With its aid, if the feet are firm and the balance good, we can take a
man’s weight on one arm alone, and leave the other hand free to hold
the loop-anchor, or pass the loose coils round the belay or round our
body as they come in. Naturally we can resist a far greater strain
on the rope round our hips, and immediately above and behind our firm
leg, than our balance could support if the pull came higher, upon our
arms and shoulders. It is sounder for this reason, when we use the body
belay, always to pass the rope round both hips and out under the arm,
and not bring it out, as is usually done, over our inside shoulder. The
pull is sometimes, but not often, vertical enough to make this last
a sound position. The same rule applies even more strongly if we are
forced to stand facing outward.
Sometimes, when there is no room to balance for the body belay, and
we find no rock belay or anchor low enough to allow of our using our
arms as effective springs on the rope, we have to be content with high
handholds or an anchor-point well above us. In such a case we can often
interpose our shoulder as a spring. While we hold the anchor on the
point above us with the one hand, with the other we pull a foot or so
of the active rope down across our inner shoulder and upstretched arm,
springing the rope, as it were, across the bow of arm and shoulder. We
thus convert the high anchor into an indirect belay.
A very common position upon steep rock, where our stance is too narrow
to allow of turning sideways or of belaying the rope round the body
balanced above the firm outer leg, is to turn face inward, and pass the
rope round some belay-point from one hand to the other. The only way to
make this sound, that is, to prevent the rope in case of a slip coming
upon the rock as upon a direct belay--since the grip of one hand on the
active rope must be insufficient to act as an effective spring,--is to
give the rope one twist round the forearm of the hand behind the belay.
With the rope half twisted round the free hand, which is drawing the
rope out in front of the belay, we can apply, as between the tug of the
arm behind and the ‘give’ of the hand in front, an efficient spring.
With such a hold we must wait for the pauses of the man climbing to
pull in the rope round our belay. To pull it in while he is actually
climbing deprives us of any chance of applying the hand-spring in time.
I have noticed, in confirmation of what I have said before, that the
more freely balanced and adroit a climber becomes, the less often he
appears to find it necessary to use this sort of quasi-sound stance.
On the same ledge where the average man would turn face inward for his
rock belay, the expert will find some good leg-thrust for a sideways
body belay, and will use the rock point for an anchor-loop to protect a
man above, or often only as an extra balance hold for his inside hand
if he has to resist a pull from a man below.
[Sidenote: The Order on the Rope.]
To get the order on the rope right is as important a duty as to get
men in their right places on the battlefield or the polo-ground. Every
man should take his share of leading on suitable rock if he is ever to
improve or discover himself; but on difficult or unsound rock, or on
new climbs, the best climber should always lead and come down last.
Tossing for the lead is folly. On easier rock, if the order is not
dictated by capacity or by fair alternations, climbing is too gracious
a sport for its precedence to be settled by chuck-penny rather than
by courtesy. The accepted manager, in cases of doubt, must decide. A
mountaineer who either from amiability or from incapacity to gauge
a climb and his friend’s power allows a less expert climber to lead
or descend last on a climb which he knows or suspects would test his
own strength, is gravely at fault. Some men, however, seem incapable
of remembering how much effort a climb cost them. They have done an
exposed climb themselves. With the pride that apes humility they let
some enthusiast, their inferior, have his way and lead it the next
time, confident in their own skill, or the fallacious doctrine of the
belay, to find a remedy in the last resort. But difficult climbs are
full of passages where the second man cannot really protect his leader
or last man. The leader falls, and the rope, if it does not break,
only serves to support an injured or nervously shaken man. Whether the
results are serious or slight, the error is equally great, and the
expert of the party is to blame.
[Sidenote: The Order on Direct Ascents and Descents.]
In parties of equal merit, of any number, the order is unimportant,
except that, as stated, on difficult passages, up or down, the most
experienced leads up and comes down last.
In efficient parties of four, or of any even number, on easy and
moderate rock, it is best to rope in parties of two, ascending or
descending.
In parties of three of unequal merit, the weakest man goes up last and
comes down first,--with two exceptions of which I speak later under the
Order with Beginners.
In parties of four of unequal merit, on easy and moderate ascents,
where the leader is good enough to require no special protection, we
may distribute the skill, and put a weak man behind the leader, the
second best man third, and the weakest man at the end. The leader and
the second string can then each look after one tiro. This is especially
advisable on ascents or descents where the rocks allow of all moving
together. The accidental slip of each weaker brother can be quickly
corrected if he climbs below a good man; whereas, if the two weak men
are put at the tail, the slip becomes cumulatively perilous to the
party.
On really easy ascents and descents with a party of this size and
character, the alternative is admissible of breaking into parties of
two, each of the two more expert taking one of the weaker men on his
rope.
On ascents of a medium class, where movement may, however, have
incidentally to be one at a time, the order of the tail in a party of
this constitution is less important. On harder sections the watchful
eye of a stationary man above will always be on the motions of each
climber in turn, and a slip can be checked at once. But if the novices
have not even mastered the art of holding from a stance, two ought not
to be placed next to one another, even for this moving one at a time.
But strong men, even as novices, will always be able to learn the art
of stance-taking before that of continuous moving.
On really difficult rock, or on new ascents or descents, the leader
must always be backed up and secured by the next best climber of the
party. On such climbs as many as two weaker men should never be taken
in a party of four. Behind two good men one novice may justifiably be
trailed at the end of the rope.
Parties of five or more, which are cumbrous for stiff climbs, can take
novices, in the proportion of two to five or three to six, if they feel
so disposed.
On climbs where long traverses are anticipated, either along ridges of
moderate difficulty or diagonally up or down faces, the best man still
goes up first and comes down last.
[Sidenote: The Order For Traversing on Faces and Ridges.]
In a party of fairly equal strength, the second best should still come
next to the leader, if it is anticipated that the major part of the
climb will be upward or downward and not on horizontal traverses. On
difficult diagonal traverses, upward or downward, it is still of first
importance that the leader or last man should be well secured.
With the same party on horizontal traverses the same order should be
followed.
But if one member of a party of three is distinctly weaker, and the
amount of horizontal traversing expected along a ridge or across a
face is considerable,--enough to involve a greater risk to the party
in leaving the inexpert man unprotected than in lessening the support
for the leader or last man,--the weaker man should be placed in the
middle of a rope of three. The second best man then traverses, in
ascending, last, and in descending, first. The weaker man is thus
protected at either end of his traverses and cannot slip far. Such an
irregular order, however, must depend upon the relative inferiority of
the weaker member, and on the amount of horizontal traversing expected.
Its withdrawal of support from the leader, in the case of a rope of
three, must be recognized as putting a lower limit upon the standard
of difficulty which he, thus less secured, may warrantably attempt in
ascending or descending. To put the weaker man in the middle deprives
both the first and last man of the confidence of each other’s sounder
protection. It destroys the collective efficiency, and leaves a party
of individuals, not a combination. Nevertheless, it is an order too
frequently adopted by climbers irrespective of the class of difficulty
expected, and even upon direct ascents and descents. It should only be
considered justifiable as a means of getting an inexperienced man over
particular horizontal passages; and on difficult climbs, if they are
undertaken with such a novice, the order should be changed back again,
even at the risk of loss of time, so soon as the horizontal passages
cease, or there is expectation of only a small proportion of them to
come.
In a more equal party of three, however, where two are experts and the
third not a novice at climbing but only less expert in alpine route
finding, whose presence in the middle does not, therefore, weaken
the rope materially, it is advisable for the second best of the
experts to go in the lead in descending, or in traversing along and
down big ridges of no special difficulty. He is better able to find
the best line, and thus leaves the weakest of the three with no other
responsibility than to attend to his own going. This is a usual order
for a guided party in the Alps on long ridge work: the guide at the
tail, and the best amateur, or the porter as the case may be, in the
lead. The order again depends upon the comparative ease of the rock
work for the man descending last.
In a party of four, similarly, if there are two weaker members,
these two may well be put in the centre for any period of difficult
horizontal traversing. The object is to avoid either weak climber
having to make a traverse of this sort at the end of the rope and so
only half protected. In this order a party of four may move only one at
a time, and the best and second best men must act as fixed anchors at
either end of the rope while the weaker men are successively moving.
On any such traverse, wherever the leader feels that all can move
together, which will not be possible unless the rock is easy enough to
allow of the weakest man traversing the passage unaided, the second
best man should again separate the two less expert, and so prevent
their association of inexperience and its cumulative effect in case of
a chance slip. On such a passage the leader or last man will not, by
the nature of the case, require the support of a good second, and he
will be able to spare full attention to the single novice placed behind
him or, in descending, in front of him, upon the rope.
The same order may, on occasion, be adopted with similar party of four
on the long easy traverse or descent of big alpine ridges, when two
weaker climbers are efficient but not expert at route finding. It is
often adopted with guided parties: the guide at the tail, the porter or
the best of the amateurs in the lead, to choose the line, and the other
two free to look after themselves and one another.
In a rope of four, for exacting horizontal traverses or for diagonal
lines up or down ridges or across faces of any difficulty, when three
men of the four are of almost equal merit and the fourth alone is
inferior, one of the three better men goes last, with the other two
in the lead, in ascending, and one of the three goes first, with the
other two at the tail, in descending.
Where there is only one expert on the rope and two or three less secure
climbers behind him, diagonal or horizontal traverses of any difficulty
may never be attempted, unless the leader is prepared himself to hold
the rope and belay the advance of each of the others separately, and
in his turn, across every doubtful passage. No climber, however good,
can count on checking in time the fall of two others; and if one novice
slips on a rope so constituted, and the jerk comes first on another
inexperienced climber, it is too late to hope to be able to stop the
catastrophe. The neglect of this rule, one which it is difficult for a
man in the pride of strength and skill to observe, has been the cause
of some of the most melancholy of accidents.
There is one variation in the order, only coming into question in big
alpine mountaineering, that must be mentioned separately. Occasionally
on the traverse of long level or gradually inclined alpine ridges, up
or down, where the technical difficulty of progress is not excessive,
but where, owing to serrated ridges, cornices, snow-covered towers,
etc., the risk of accident is greater than the difficulty, and the safe
and swift management of the rope is both intricate and important, it is
wiser for the most experienced climber of a party of three efficient
amateurs to go in the middle, and not in the lead. He can then manage
both ropes, and leave his less expert friends free to attend only to
their own holds and progress, while he has them both, as it were,
under his hand. As some compensation for the extra hindrance which the
management of the two ropes will put in the way of his own climbing,
he has the protection of the double support himself from either end.
This order will be found of service in saving time and in preventing
risk where, as often in amateur parties happens, the rope contains
one or more brilliant climbers, good enough to lead and to follow,
but still inexpert in the advanced technique of the rope. Variegated
alpine ridges of this broken, crested type are the final test of rope
management, and progress is often quicker and safer, for a party so
constituted, with the expert leader acting as pivot and anchor in the
centre.
This sort of combination, one or two more experienced mountaineers
with one or two fine but still inexperienced climbers, is frequently
the party preferred by guideless British climbers in the Alps; and
it is therefore worth while adding here that the same order may be
soundly adopted, with such a party, not only on traverses of ridges,
but on big alpine ascents of length and severity. It is especially
important in such combinations for the accepted leader, like a good
stroke, to keep something in reserve. Assuming he knows his men to
be good cragsmen, he may consider himself free to put one of them in
the lead in ascending rocks, for part of the day at least, himself
retaining the discretionary power which is as well exercised from the
position of second man, and keeping his actual strength in reserve for
real emergencies or for situations calling for expert mountaineering
rather than for rock climbing technique. If his object is to train his
men, he is even better able to do so from this position. This forms no
exception to the rule that the best man should go first and last on new
ascents and descents, and on all climbs where the difficulty requires
an expert mountaineer, in the lead in ascending or at the tail in
descending.
[Sidenote: The Order of Merit.]
To be able to go first and get up difficult places, although a fine
quality and necessary where only rock climbing is in question, loses
its unique importance when large mountaineering expeditions in the
greater Alps come into consideration. It is the combined efficiency of
the party in this case that chiefly counts. Qualities of management,
ability to contribute the most to the combinations of the party, to
its reserve of power, confidence and cheerfulness, and so to increase
its continuous effectiveness, are the marks of the ‘leader’ in great
mountaineering. The better mountaineer may not be the better able to go
first up passages of excessive difficulty, and may, on occasions such
as I have mentioned, even operate more potently from the centre of the
rope.
There have been cases of mountaineers who have seldom if ever led a big
climb, but to whose management, reserve power and cool judgment the
successes of their party, under whatever first man of the moment, have
been really due. One must not only see a rope in action, one must climb
with it, if one wishes to discover the actual ‘leading’ mountaineer of
the party, who is contributing most in a long day to the collective
efficiency and safety.
For the same reason we are not in a position to assign individual
credit for the great mountaineering feats of the past, or to say of
a mountaineer, “He always had first-class guides; he never led; they
did his mountaineering for him;” or of an amateur, “He always led his
friends: his was the credit!” It may safely be accepted that on great
alpine climbs, if the party has succeeded, the success has not merely
been due to the guide or first man. On such climbs there are whole
hours of the day during which the slip or shortcoming of any single
climber may be fatal, and where the fact that even one man draws his
unfair share from the pool of efficiency can prevent any chance of
success. To the whole party belongs the credit for a great climb. Its
members alone can venture to say whose was the moving spirit, or what
was the order of merit.
[Sidenote: The Order with Beginners.]
Beginners may be either real novices, or only beginners in alpine
work, route finding and so on. A complete beginner is more bothered
by the management of the rope than anything else; therefore it is
better for our progress to let him come up last and go down first.
The exception is when we are descending by a route which is not easy
to find or retrace. We may then put the beginner one from the end, in
a party of four, with a route finder ahead and two sound men behind
him. In a party of three we may put him in the centre; but not when
the climbing is too stiff to justify our leaving to the last man all
the tasks, of coming down last, looking after the beginner, and seeing
that the beginner looks after the rope of the route finder. With such
a party, on such a descent, I have often preferred to put the best
mountaineer in the centre, behind the beginner, to coach him as to the
route and look after him, while the other expert descended on a short
rope behind, and looked after himself. Often he is more comfortable
if he unropes altogether. The justifiability of this inversion of
the order must depend upon a judgment at the time as to the relative
importance of protecting the last man or of finding the right route at
the right pace. If the rocks are really difficult, the beginner should
go first, and the expert behind must coach as to the route. Such an
occasion seems to me the only one that really offers a good case for
the continental practice of putting red paper under stones at suitable
points, to guide the descent. As a rule, a man ought to be able to
find the way down where he has gone up. It is an important part of a
beginner’s training to learn the habit of turning and noting the look
of passages from the reverse direction while he ascends. In all cases
of a descent where no previous ascent has been made, the permissibility
of any alteration in the usual order must depend upon our estimate of
the difficulty for the last man. If the rocks are severe, the ordinary
order must be preserved.
A beginner is always greatly hampered by the rope on both sides of him;
and if we are making a big expedition where progress and good temper
are of more importance than a lesson in ‘middleman’ work, it is better,
when consistent with safe mountaineering, to arrange that he is either
on a rope of two, or at the free end of a rope. Again, be it in a large
or a small party, it is always well to put him, or her, definitely in
charge of some one, if not of the leader; who will precede him going
up and follow him down, whatever the other order on the rope may be;
acting as coach and general buffer.
For the same purpose, in a rope of three on easy ascents, while one of
the two good climbers leads, the other is often better placed climbing
immediately behind the beginner, shepherding his or her feet, giving
shoulders, steadies, etc.
In a rope of four, similarly, on easy or moderate ascents, we put one
of the three better climbers behind the beginner. The man looks after
his own rope, and is of more use in coaching, helping and succouring
the beginner than he would be as an extra reinforcement above. This is
the soundest method with women novices or children. It is not suitable
on really difficult rock; but then neither are women novices or
children.
A single expert taking two such beginners up a very easy climb, more
especially if they are girls or boys, whose stances and holding-power
for each other cannot be depended upon, often does best to put himself
in the middle of a long rope. He ascends first and descends last, as
usual; but by this arrangement he can himself bring up or lower the
two beginners separately to or from each stance, with less confusion
of ropes. On very easy ridges, with a light following, if he ties
himself between them so as to leave the ropes of different lengths, he
can often save time by bringing up both beginners simultaneously, one
starting after and climbing below the other.
An expert climbing with two such novices should always himself, before
attempting any passage not absolutely easy, see that the rope or ropes
to himself are anchored at the end close to his following, leaving free
for himself the full run-out of rope he will require. He should never
risk their security in case of his slip, or his own security while
climbing, by allowing the rope to be paid out as he goes by anyone
ignorant of its management or too weak to check his fall.
On British climbs, such as may be, in their general difficulty,
permissible to attempt with beginners, there are sometimes passages,
say of slabs, which a novice weak in the arms finds he or she simply
cannot manage without being hoisted on the rope. No expert will make
one of a party of two with a beginner on any climb where he expects
such a passage, unless he is very sure of a good stance above it, from
which to haul, and of his own strength in relation to the weight of the
novice.
In a party of three when such hauling has to be done, it saves the
strain on the rope, on the second man’s arms and on the novice’s
nerves, for the leader to wait with his second man on the stance above
each particular pitch until the novice has been hauled up. He can also
send down a second rope, and so divide the effort. If necessary, he
unties from his end of the rope, in order to have a second rope to send
down. If this is done quickly and efficiently, less time is lost than
if the second man has to do all the pulling alone and on his single
rope.
In such cases we must see that the haulee uses his feet to scrape with
at least, and thrusts out from the rock with his hands. If he clings
with hands and body to the rock, the effort, for all parties, is
doubled by the friction.
Frequently on such places it is only the matter of one arm-pull or so
at the start of a pitch that proves insuperable, especially for women.
If there is no third climber to propel the novice, it is then better
for the second man to wait on the stance below the pitch, to pass up
the rope to the leader above, and himself to give a knee and shoulder
as footholds up the difficult section. The actual haul will thus be
shorter; or its necessity may be avoided altogether.
On exposed cliffs it is a mistake to leave the novice alone at the
end of a long rope if there are difficult problems to tackle, and
especially if these include any traverses. It is trying for the nerves
and not good for the style. If the party is not large enough to have
one climber always in attendance on the novice, the middle man should
give him or her his company as often as his first duty to the leader
will allow.
If, upon easy rock, a novice is taking his lesson in leading, the best
climber should follow him on as short a rope as the rocks will allow.
But he must avoid bustling or flurrying him, and observe all the rules
of etiquette due to a leader.
Any request from a beginner for a ‘little pull,’ or for putting on the
rope, must be always and at once complied with. Delay or reasoning may
be dangerous, and will in any case shake confidence. The rope is for
protection, nervous as much as physical.
[Sidenote: The Order of Moving.]
In ascending easy rock or in traversing easy ridges, all can be moving
together, if the strength of the party allows it.
On difficult ascents or ridges, in a party of three or less, each moves
singly. In a party of four, once the leader is up, number three may
bring up number four while the leader is bringing up number two.
On steep ascents of moderate difficulty, in a party of three, if the
second man is really sound and the stances allow of his managing two
ropes, one running out and one running in, he may bring up the third
man while the leader is still climbing. But the leader must be aware
that he is doing so. In a party of four, on such ascents, the second
and fourth man can always be climbing simultaneously. This double
movement saves much time on long climbs.
On descents the same rules hold, in the reverse order.
For a strong party a possible variant may be mentioned. If the last man
is sound, and feels himself secure, he can let numbers two and three
descend to the full length of their ropes, both climbing at the same
time. Number two starts as soon as number three has run out his rope,
and so he enables number three to descend another length without pause.
The last man then descends to number two, moving alone. On his arrival
the other two start simultaneously again. If number three, however, is
not dependable enough to move entirely without protection from number
two, it is sounder for number two to remain at anchor while number
three descends; but the last man meanwhile descends to number two. In
this case the last man and number three climb simultaneously, while
number two remains at anchor between them, and descends alone.
On either system a third of the time is saved. But all such
accelerations must depend upon the relative difficulty of the several
sections which each in turn is descending. If the lowest man wishes to
be secured over a section, he must say so; and then number two must not
descend simultaneously with him. If number two has found the passage of
some section hard, he will need to give his full attention to the last
man while he is descending it; and he must not then allow the lowest
man to be descending at the same time as the last man.
[Sidenote: The Duty of the First Man.]
The leader on the rope _may_ be the manager of the party; but he should
be, on any climb of difficulty, the best climber. His business is to
get up rocks capably, and to get his party up. He is responsible for
getting them out of their difficulties, and also for not taking them
into them. He must know what the men behind him can do, as much as
what he himself can do, on any given day. He sets the pace, selects
the stances and directs the movements throughout the climb. He must
be able to concentrate absolutely upon his task. He must be competent
to distinguish between difficulty and danger, and to observe the
differences between our two sorts of danger--between the objective
perils of falling stones, storm, etc., and the subjective dangers
which form a nimbus of potential risk surrounding every point of
difficulty, contracting or enlarging according to the capacity of each
climber dealing with the difficult point. To excel, he must be certain
of knowing his normal standard and his standard of the day; be steel
against spasms of mistrust, that consume strength even more than
nerve; be resolute in advance, as resolute timely to retreat.
Most leaders have their personal tricks when ‘all out.’ Some are
Olympian and impassive; some talk to themselves; some like to lull a
hostile pitch into security by loudly protesting its hopelessness,
with half a hope of catching it unawares; some like to hum or whistle;
others have a tune or phrase running in their heads--most of us know
the comfort of working our muscles to the accompaniment of some rhythm,
audible or imaginary. Consciously or not, every leader draws upon the
pooled confidence of the men behind him. In return he owes it to them
to cherish the confidence so far as he can. He should avoid sharing his
doubts over some difficult place with his friends unnecessarily. They
cannot help him, and he will only undermine their confidence. He should
never make demonstrations which may alarm those of the party who cannot
see their true origin, or be of any use if they could. If he has a
well-tried second, who knows too much about him to mind, he may let off
steam to him. A little mystery and silence are rather a good fault in
a first man; men do not want to be over-enlightened before their turn
comes. But with a silent leader we are dependent upon a good second man
to keep the party informed as to what is really happening. It is very
depressing to be kept shivering on holds, and not even know whether the
pitch is ‘going,’ or is even going to ‘go.’
A leader’s solitary battle with natural forces is so personal and
isolated that it is harder for him to remember always what a heavy
responsibility he carries for the whole party. No man but the leader
ever knows what were the risks he ran or how near his shaves may have
been. He is induced to forget them by the relieved admiration of
those who have followed him on the rope, only too delighted to get
up. Very few will be ill-mannered enough afterwards to recall their
real feelings as they watched him take a rash chance, or tell him they
thought him a silly ass. The leader has greater privileges, greater
freedom and greater responsibilities than any other man of a party. To
deserve them, he must never cease to study for others, never fear to
decide for himself. In the words of a very great mountaineer, it is
“that detachment of mind, commonly called courage, which, combined
with high powers, alone makes the great leader.”
[Sidenote: The Duty of the Second Man.]
The qualities required for a good second man are all but as important
to a rope as those of the leader, and are more rarely found in their
perfection. A few ‘born’ leaders, who have learned their business by
long experience, are independent of actual help and advice; but all
leaders are, consciously or not, much influenced in their standard of
the day, by the feeling of the spirit or the experience that is backing
them immediately behind. A first man capable of rock work of the high
modern standard must possess a ‘temperament.’ He is often a man of
moods. The limit of physical possibility is so constantly approached
on rock, that only men capable of high nervous concentration, able
to call out their full strength and borrow again from their vitality
and will, can keep their standard of performance securely up to the
level demanded. In such performance the faintest doubt in the leader’s
mind of the confidence or capacity of the man behind, the merest
suspicion that his second man is not absolutely sure of his own stance
or confident in his, the first man’s, leading, may lower a sensitive
leader’s ability twenty or thirty per cent. The leader’s mind is
distracted; his concentration on the single effort is dissipated.
Even good, sound climbers, who take the important second place on the
rope without knowing its duties, may retreat day after day to the inn
speculating with their friends why their leader has so suddenly ‘gone
off’: quite unconscious that they themselves are alone responsible. The
leader himself may be, crossly, unaware of the reason. Not infrequently
in such cases, in a vexed reaction from constant turnings back, he
loses his better judgment and forces himself to attempt something
reckless the next time he goes out. This will do him no good; nor
will anything, until he changes his party or finds reason for better
confidence in his second man.
[Sidenote: Backing up, metaphysically.]
A great university stroke used to say that, give him a good ‘seven,’
and he didn’t care how the rest of the boat was manned. Almost to the
same extent, a good second makes a rope. He should be strong, able to
give a shoulder, arm or hand, and to carry his leader’s sack as well
as his own. He must be a fine enough climber to be able to follow up
a step or two in the most awkward places, and thence to spare a hand
to rest the leader’s strength or give him a fresh start. He must be
equable in temper, optimistic, and, whatever his private thoughts,
never less than cheerful. Above all, he must have the knack of
transmitting his own feeling of confidence, so that the leader may feel
a comfortable current of reassurance coming from his second’s secure
stance to his own precarious advance. If his leader is of the highly
strung, nervous class from which many great leaders are drawn, he must
learn to gauge him exactly, know what form he is in, and decide whether
he is up to doing the particular problem, so far as his climbing powers
are concerned. If he decides he can, he must lay himself out to give
just the quiet encouragement that will put his leader in the right
state of mind to use his powers at their best. As to how he effects
this, much must depend on the personality of the leader. Many a leader
objects to being talked to. Conversation is generally waste of climbing
time. He may take council how to do a place beforehand, but once he
has started it will only disturb or distract him to hear advice or be
asked anxious questions. None the less he is often quickly aware of the
‘atmosphere’ behind him; and he becomes conscious, without words, if
his second’s attention wanders or if his confidence is wavering.
For this reason it is bad form, as well as a sign of inattentive
mountaineering, for men to chatter to one another while the leader is
doing something that requires all his skill. Much of his individual
power is drawn from their sympathy, that should be then centred upon
him alone. And this applies not only to the climbing of the leader. It
is quite as bad form for him, when he is safely up, to exchange airy
jokes across the head of another climber in the throes of a passage.
A word or movement heard, or still worse, half heard, takes off the
climber’s attention and dissipates the concentration necessary for a
delicate balance or a supreme hoist.
Some leaders like asking questions about their difficulties, to which
they expect answers, without any intention of attending to them. Others
let off steam by declaring that it ‘won’t go,’ or they’re ‘coming
down.’ Protest or argument will irritate them; what they are really
asking for, unconsciously, is the confidence note in the voice behind
them, the sense of a human sympathy that realizes their difficulty but
yet feels them equal to it. It helps them greatly to be assured, by
the tone more than by the words, of another expert’s complete belief
in their ability to proceed. The second man gives his leader not only
the support of his own faith: he is the funnel to the leader of the
united spirit, the mutual support, which are pooled by the party, and
upon which each draws again for his individual efforts. In his more
dangerous and isolated work the leader, who needs it most, is most
separated from its atmosphere, and it is the second man’s duty to keep
him in touch with it, to control, as it were, the signals and air-pipes
that keep the diver in touch with humanity and reassure him in his work.
At the same time, the second man should relieve the leader in difficult
climbing, as far as possible, of all unnecessary physical labour: for
instance, avoid asking help for himself with the rope; relieve him of
pulling up the rest of the party; carry the sacks; and so on. He must
be able, at times, to manage the leader’s rope and that of the man
behind himself simultaneously. He has at such times to control the
movement of the party, and determine when it is proper for the next
man to start. He must decide where it is safe to let his leader run
out his rope, with no more attention than will suffice to prevent it
catching, and where, on the other hand, his rope will require every
attention. His rope, belay and stance technique must be as practised as
his judgment. If he decides that the passage is beyond the leader on
his standard of the day, he should take the responsibility of saying
so definitely, and share the vexatious responsibility of turning back.
If a leader has been ‘all out’ on a pitch and yet failed, his judgment
will be for the moment disturbed, and his decision as to whether he
will try again or turn may not be a considered one. But if he has
learned to trust his second, he will take his opinion in preference
to his own, even though he might be himself considered normally the
manager of the party. If it be to go forward, in spite of preceding
failure, then he will renew his attempt with redoubled confidence; if
it be to turn back, he will have the consolation of feeling that his
second man was in the best position to watch the original effort, and
was therefore better able to judge if a new attempt could succeed
under any circumstances.
The second man has thus a most responsible position. While the leader
is converting himself into a motor engine to get the party up the
climb, the second man, even if he be not accepted as such already,
becomes the temporary manager or mind of the party, conscious of it
in all its mechanism, and not only of its dynamic leader. In severe
rock climbing so much of the leader’s energy and time is spent on the
physical struggle and in isolated situations, that the position of
second may become for hours together the really vital one on the rope.
His selection and education should be the first consideration for a
party of ambition or merit.
[Sidenote: Backing up, physically.]
In discussing the order on the rope, we said that on all exacting rock
the second man without exception backs up his leader, behind him going
up, in front of him going down. On easier passages he may either lead
the rope on a descent, or come between two weaker climbers on an ascent
or descent.
The duties involved in backing up depend upon the situation. If the
passage of descent to be made is long and holdless, and the leader,
after letting the rest down, is unable to make use of the double rope,
his second should remain as close as possible to him. A good second,
from very sketchy stances, can often give just that touch of help
or direction which makes the last man’s descent less solitary and
precarious, and is of more use to him than much anchoring of his rope
upon remote platforms below.
In ascending, again, by putting a hand or an axe under a leader’s heel
when his toe is not over-secure, a second can often give his leader
a security greater than his own may be at the moment. In fact, the
duty of the second man, if he judges the place will go at all, is to
sacrifice his own comfort and do anything that is not a definite risk
to help the leader to get up more safely. A touch to his balance or
foothold, judicious and opportune, is worth more as a protection than
nine coils round a billiard-table boulder would be to him after he has
slipped.
But backing up is subject to certain restrictions; a second must
remember that he cannot do two things at once. If he helps with hand
or shoulder or head,--that is, in climbing parlance, if he selects to
identify himself with the active rope,--he has generally to sacrifice
much of his value as buffer or anchor-man between the leader and the
party. To be justified in so prejudicing his security as an anchor, he
must feel wholeheartedly certain that his leader will not fail. It is
often difficult to find a position of compromise, such as will allow
him really to help the leader and also to retain his protective anchor
for the party. He must be guided primarily by what he judges to be
best for the collective safety, and only secondly by what contributes
most to their success in getting up the climb. If he decides that no
backing up on his part can make certain the leader’s ascent, whilst it
sacrifices, in the attempt, his anchor in case of his fall, he must
stay by his secure anchorage, and to such extent diminish the leader’s
chance of success. But if he sees that his backing up can just make
the difference to the leader’s safe and certain ascent, he is free to
combine the claims of safety for the party and success for the leader,
and move decisively and promptly to the leader’s support.
For a second man compromise, in such a choice, is always ineffective
and sometimes dangerous. As one small instance: partly with the idea
of doing both things, and partly from nervousness, many inexperienced
seconds cling as close to the rock as they can when they are giving
the leader a ‘shoulder,’ so as to remain more secure themselves. This
is wrong. The nearer his human support stays to the rock, the more
difficult is it for the leader to keep his balance as he stands upon
him. If his second man then rises, as is often required of him, so
as to give his leader an extra lift, as he stands on his shoulder or
his hand or his head, his nearness to the rock thrusts the leader’s
feet inward and his balance outward. The second man, when he gives a
‘shoulder,’ should aim at giving a really secure step on knee or hip
or shoulder or head (for a good second can make his body a regular
staircase, and painlessly, if he makes the right adjustments) as far
away from the rock as he can securely thrust himself, even to full
arm’s length. He is then in a position of some use; and should the
leader’s re-descent be necessary, he can sometimes let him pass down
inside, between himself and the rock. A good hold can be given, on a
firm stance, by making a stirrup of the locked hands for the leader’s
foot, and then straightening the back with a lift.
The tightened muscles of the thigh, well above the knee, give a
painless foothold. The strong muscles at the junction of the neck, back
and shoulder of a stooping man, but not on the point or in the curve of
the shoulder, are good for a foothold. The hip-bone, provided that the
leg using it is pressed close against the ribs over the hip, makes a
useful foothold for a man descending from the shoulders.
In making use of these anatomical holds, the climber must remember
never to shuffle or screw his boot once it is placed; otherwise the
human frame is good for far more use than its owner will usually
tolerate. I have had a guide of some weight, but of delicately managed
feet, walking from my shoulder to my head and back again for twenty
minutes, while he was trying to noose the lower pinnacle on the
Charmoz, without feeling any great discomfort.
The second man should never give a leader so climbing any push or lift
that will come to him unexpectedly. It is not uncommon to see a second
man grasp a leader’s foot, as soon as it moves off his shoulder, and
shove it indiscriminately upward, regardless of the leader’s balance
or the holds he may be designing to use. The human ladder is only of
use in so far as the leader can calculate exactly upon its location
and function; it must remain for him as passive as any part of the
rock he is engaged with. He steps from the thigh, puts his knee on one
shoulder, and brings his other foot up on to the other shoulder; or
he clings up his second’s back, if the second is standing upright, by
knee pressure against his sides. Once he is up, he must know exactly
where he will be able to put knee or foot in returning. If he has to
descend from the rock on to his second again, he need barely use his
boot at all. The instant his toe has discovered the position of the
shoulder below, he can slide his leg down the back and let himself slip
down, and the friction of the two surfaces of clothes will regulate his
descent until his hands have reached the supporting shoulders. He must
cling as close as possible to his second’s body and bend inwards, so as
to relieve the outward strain upon his second’s balance, and he must
never let his descending weight pull upon him askew.
The instant his leader is up and at rest, by the help of his impulses,
moral and physical, the second man should prepare to follow, and as
he approaches the leader’s stance he should notice exactly how he has
placed himself, so that when the leader moves out he can put himself
in the same position for holding. There should be no need for him to
have to ‘get comfortable.’ If the third man is required to come up
before the leader starts again, the second man should at once call,
“Come!” and not wait to be asked, “Are you all right?” These seconds
are, cumulatively, most valuable. In a good party the third man will be
ready to start the instant he gathers that the man above has taken his
stance.
[Sidenote: The Duty of the Third Man.]
In big alpine climbing, or on long mountaineering expeditions in
general, yet another group of duties comes into prominence which
cannot well be discharged by the leader and second man, who will have
sufficient to do in looking after their respective functions. These
create the position, for such climbing, of what may best be termed a
‘third man,’ though the party may consist of four or more, and the
duties may be subdivided. If the second man’s duties may be called
‘backing up,’ the third man’s are those of ‘following up.’ He must
be strong and able to carry, so that the spare rope and sacks of the
leaders in really serious situations can all be discharged on to his
shoulders without hesitation. He must be expert enough to manage a
belay for both his leaders, if the situation demands the second man
backing up the leader on an exposed passage, and be able to give them
at least the moral support of his sound anchoring of the rope. He
must have no false pride, and be prepared to get up himself as best
and quickest he can, using the rope to save time. He must be always
patient, ready to stand and shiver in his steps without complaint while
the difficulties are solved. He must take the inevitable loosened
stones, flying ice-chips and cleared-off snow incidental to his lower
position with a hardened heart and, if possible, on a hard head, with
no more than reasonable protest, and be able to see the humour of snow
melting down his neck with the cheerfulness that it will afterwards he
found to have caused to his friends. He must be prepared to go last,
behind any weaker member, if there be four or more men in the party,
and to look after him, following him up closely wherever he is able,
without expecting help himself or much attention to his own rope. He
must be good-tempered, ready to set the example of accepting decisions
to turn back without discussion and even without knowing their reasons,
and prepared in crises to remain quietly reassuring without bothering
his occupied friends with questions. His use is, directly, as a support
of strength and cheeriness to the leader and the second man if the
serious nature of the climbing demands their combined preoccupation,
and, indirectly, as an example of genial co-operation and ‘following
up’ to other members of the party.
In a sense every member of the party should be a ‘third man’; but in
big undertakings it is of undoubted help to the leader and second to
have one man upon whom they can specially rely to look after the humour
of the rest in the trying times of waiting while they themselves are
working out the difficulties; to relieve them of the minor tasks of
carrying and directing; and to come up without pride or protest in
inconvenient ways, to inconvenient places, at convenient times.
[Sidenote: More about the Rope during Climbing.]
During all the intricate manœuvres incidental to combined climbing, the
watch on the rope may never be relaxed, and a few further hints as to
its management may be useful to leaders and followers alike.
With a rope, as with a horse, anticipation is the secret. Once it
catches, or kinks, or entangles, the result is nightmare. Of its
control, when men are moving together, I have already spoken: the
perpetual glance, and flick, and swing, to keep it free, that must
become subconscious.
In climbing singly on steep ascents, the rope, as it is drawn out by
the man climbing above, must be watched as well as held, and warning
must be given to him that it is running out at least four feet before
it is taut. This is a primary rule. To jerk the man climbing, by a
hitch, or to let the rope closure his advance without sufficient
warning, is an unpardonable fault.
As we draw in the rope of a man ascending or descending to our stance,
it should be gathered in neat coils, near the belay if one is used.
Above all, it should be laid well out of the way--at the back or side
of the stance. In pulling in the rope we must always consider exactly
where the next man will come up and how he will stand; and lay his
coil, as it runs in, as well as the coil of the man ahead, which is
running out, where there is no chance that the rear man will be forced
to ‘cross’ either rope. If our hands are occupied with holding or with
the belay, so that we have no time to coil it down, the slack of the
rope should be flung evenly over the arm, or somewhere out of the way,
as it runs in. The moment the next man is up it should be passed to him
in its chance coils; or else, if it has coiled down neatly, it may be
left lying where it is.
If a belay has been used, the end of the rope running in should be
taken off the belay as the next man reaches the stance, while the end
of the rope nearest our own waist is put over it, lying always in
the direction in which it will afterwards have to be paid out. These
operations have to become practically mechanical. The instant the next
man takes our place on the stance and imitates our last position, the
rope, rightly laid, should be ready to his hand.
On severe climbs there is often not room for two men at the same time
on the same stance or platform. To avoid any awkward juggling on the
ledge, it is best for us, if we are holding, to move a step or two from
the belay, so soon as we see the next man has got a good handhold near
the stance that will bring him securely and immediately to the belay.
In this case it is essential for us to leave the ropes lying exactly
right, so that the next man may take position to protect himself, and
us, with the shortest possible interruption to the safe continuous
anchor of the rope.
The man who is actually climbing is the man first to be considered. To
clear the way for him we must be prepared momentarily to sacrifice our
own comfort or solidity. This may seem a commonplace, but it requires
quite an effort of will. I have remarked even among good cragsmen that
seven times out of ten they wait too long on the stance, until the next
man is on the top of them, and ropes and legs are all in a muddle. But
when, with the object of leaving the next man room, we move out of his
way off a stance, we must take note exactly of what is going to be our
own line of advance when he is secure and we start the next section;
and we must avoid moving into any position which will mean repassing
and unsettling him, or even, as one sometimes sees done, climbing over
him. Apart from the risk to his and our own balance, we shall almost
inevitably entangle the rope by a switchback of this sort.
In pulling in the rope of an ascending man, we should be mindful to
keep it just taut, but never tightened or tugged, unless he calls
for it. It requires some education of touch to distinguish between
the three. Guides are wretched judges in this respect. “Don’t pull!”
“Nicht ziehen!” “Ne tirez pas!” is the groan of protest that eddies
all the week round alpine centres. But the guide remains convinced
he merely had the rope ‘taut.’ All leaders who have never or seldom
practised going behind on the rope are apt to make the same mistake.
The complaint is constant. The difference between ‘taut,’ ‘tightened’
and ‘tugged’ is best learnt from below.
On the other hand, many climbers who have never led are equally
unconscious of the difference, and of how much they owe on occasion
to a discreetly handled rope. “You didn’t pull me there!” or, “I
did _that_ without the rope, anyway!” are the common forms. Only a
climber experienced in balance can honestly distinguish between the
constricting tug that takes his whole weight, the taut rope that is
only precautionary, and the delicate tightening that just serves to
keep his body in balance and so allows freedom to hand and foot to find
easy holds. The first is called “using the rope,” the second “without
using the rope,” and the last guileless but material aid to adjustment
is often euphemistically entitled “the moral support” of the rope.
I must repeat that, however easy the place or good the climbers, a
man who calls for the rope, or a pull from the rope, should always be
helped at once. Inexperienced climbers are incurably prone to argue
that the rope is not really needed. Some accidents have been caused
in this way. The rope should be put on before rather than when it is
really wanted.
The rope of a man descending to our stance, especially of a man
descending last, demands no discernment between subtler strains; but
it requires even more adroit handling. It must never be jerked or
tightened, which may pull him off his balance holds. If it appears
to be catching on intervening points, it must be loosened with the
lightest of flicks: a strong flick will run up the rope and jerk him
like the crack of a heavy whip. It must never be left loose to drag or
catch close to his feet, where it will get in the way of his foothold
or get round his feet or legs. If he has a long rope out, the weight
alone of the rope, if we hold it anything like taut from below, will
drag on him. It is best in such case to keep it sliding gently down the
rock towards us. As the climber moves down, a very slight motion of our
hand will just free it, without taking its weight off the rock.
Our eye should never for an instant leave a man so descending to,
or ascending from, our stance, so that if he finds it necessary to
reascend or redescend a few inches in order to better his holds or
position for the next movement, we may at once be ready to relax or
take in the extra coil he requires or releases. If he is out of our
sight while descending towards us, we watch the rope, which tells us
as much as the sight of the man. If he is out of sight while ascending
above us, our feel of the rope as it tautens or slackens will tell us
almost as much as sight or speech. But a man ascending or descending
out of sight below us will have to tell us what he wants, if it is
anything more than the usual steady playing, out or in, of the taut
rope.
If, as often happens in the case of a man who is just climbing up off
our stance, the rope, owing to his having tied his waist-knot in front,
or crossed the rope, makes a spiral round his leg, he should be warned
at once, and we must hold the rope ready to swing it from under his
foot as he raises it for the purpose. This sometimes also happens if a
man is descending quickly on to our stance. In neither case must the
rope be jerked or swung, to release it, without his knowledge or the
signal of his lifted foot. Similarly, if a man is starting to descend
from our stance, and has his rope knotted in front, as he turns face
inward the rope makes a spiral round his neck or arm. A warning, and a
light sway of the rope may prevent him from anticipating fate.
In climbing with beginners it is always worth while seeing, before
they leave our stance, that the knot of their waist-loop is secure,
and pulled round well to the side, under the arm. For ascending, the
rope should run up straight from the knot, in front of the shoulder;
for descending, in front of or behind the shoulder, as balance and the
angle of the rock suggest.
A very risky practice, common with beginners, is that of using the
active rope as a handhold in difficulties, to pull themselves up by.
Unless they can reach a balanced position in one pull, they are forced
then to keep hold of the rope for their balance, and to take yet a
second and higher hold upon it for their next movement. They are thus
accumulating a quantity of slack between their point of dependence
from the rope and its noose on their waist. And a slack rope is full
of dangers. If their grip fails, they fall all the length of the
slack, and the rope may break. If it does not, the man above will be
subjected to a most unfair jerk, of whose possibility he may be all the
time unconscious. In any case, the climber is depriving himself of the
steady help and protection of a rope, pulled in taut from above, on
just the passages where he has found himself least capable to cope with
the difficulties unaided. No climber should use the rope as handhold
without full warning to the man above, and without making certain that
he can in a single pull reach a balanced stance, where the rope can be
again drawn taut upon him.
[Sidenote: With Stones.]
To avoid sending down stones with the rope is a sure test of expert
climbing. A climber’s responsibility in this respect extends the whole
length of the rope between him and the companion whose progress he
is superintending. In the case of a man above us, we have a personal
interest in seeing that his rope does not drag over loose pebbles
or catch on disintegrating points. In that of the man below us, our
personal interest may be less, but it will be no less appreciated. It
must be remembered that the rope as it comes in taut will touch and
dislodge much that seemed out of its range when we selected its line
of pull-in. An inspection should be made to discover if there are any
pebbles lurking just over or on the edges over which it will pass.
These last are a special danger in couloirs or British gullies, which
consist largely of steep pitches surmounted by accumulations of loose
scree. It is often safer and more tempting to move up to the top of
these scree spits and not to anchor on the immediate lip of the pitch.
Great care has then to be taken to remove all loose stones from the
line of the rope; for the rope when taut will drag over the edge of
the pitch, and even apparently firmly embedded stones may work loose
under its friction when it is too late to move them into safety.
If a rope length has been allowed to sag against the rock, it must not
be pulled in or jerked free hurriedly, unless we can see that there
is nothing it might loosen. Over surface visibly friable or pasturing
stray stones the rope must be kept from touching at all--a delicate
task in continuous going.
When men are all moving together, and our hand, while seeking for its
holds, is also charged with loose coils and the task of freeing the
rope, it is often difficult to combine an attention to all the loose
stones that may be caught by the swinging coils with a simultaneous
precaution against possible loose stones under our feet or hands. Of
course we give warning if one gets loose in spite of our care. But I
must add that it is considered no valid excuse among mountaineers to
plead that a stone was dislodged by the rope.
[Sidenote: During Halts.]
The rope, during halts or interruptions, should never be left lying
about in a tangle. It may catch over points from which it will be
difficult to release it. I remember an occasion on an Aiguille when
it took a quarter of an hour to extract some loose lengths, which had
jammed in a deep cleft of the slab on which we were standing.
Halts for lunch are full of dangers. Men begin to cross and recross
each other’s ropes, for matches or for conversation, and at the end
of the halt a maze presents itself which can only be solved by long,
impassioned moments of general untying and reroping. It is better for
the two end men to unrope for the halt, and leave their coils ready for
easy resumption.
Two middle men can only get their rope twisted, not crossed. When a
middle man finds, as often happens, that the ropes going backward and
forward from his waist-knot have got twisted round one another and make
a bunch at his waist, he has only got to lift the upper of the two
ropes over his head and pass it under his feet the requisite number of
times, to clear it. Once, after an eighteen hour traverse of the Dent
Blanche by the Viereselgrat, we took a midnight halt on the glacier,
and on re-starting found the rope inextricably interwoven between the
five of us. The guides were tired, too tired to unrope, or to move
eurhythmically; and the next ten minutes of frenzied gyrations, with
the lanterns whirligigging round one another in the darkness among the
crevasses, will remain a picture as precious as its moral.
[Sidenote: Coiling.]
At the end of a climb the rope should be carefully coiled up, so that
the loops will run out without entanglement. To coil with the lay of
the strands avoids kinks. We never know when next the rope may be
needed in a hurry; and the unknotting evolutions, the passing of the
long ends, etc., are more irritating before a late start than a late
return.
During coiling, the loops should be caught up in the hand, with the
lay, and laid against one another, but not allowed to cross. For most
men, especially if they prefer to carry the rope round their chest, the
most convenient length of coil is that made round the sole of the boot
and the knee. Some prefer coiling round the hand and the elbow.
A convenient trick for finishing off such coils is to bind the loose
end once or twice round the whole mass of coils near one end, and
then thread it through the smaller of the loops into which the whole
coil is thus divided. The loose end, so threaded, makes a comfortable
shoulder-strap, by which the whole coil can be suspended over the back.
This method of fixing the end is less trouble to undo than the more
usual method--to twine both loose ends of the rope through and round
and round the finished coil in opposite directions, and knot them where
they meet. This forms a single firm hoop to hang over one shoulder.
For this single hoop, however, a still better way to finish is to make
a half-hitch on the coil with one loose end, and then wind this one end
in a spiral round the coil in the same direction as that of the spiral
of the rope-strands. While winding this loose end, twist its strands
tight with the fingers. Their inclination to untwist will keep the
spirals clinging close round the coil.
Yet another convenient and quick method of coiling the rope, suitable
for short intervals of disuse, is that of linking it in ‘chain knots’:
short loops are successively pulled through one another in a continuous
linking chain, and this is then swung over the shoulder. The rope
should only be left in chain-knots for short periods.
The rope can be carried either as a hoop round the shoulders, or, more
conveniently, hung over the shoulder-straps, as a cushion between the
rucksack and the back. If it is wet or heavy, it is best to put it in
an empty sack, or to fix it, by means of string or its loose ends,
upright between the shoulders, like a rucksack.
If the rope is new, and has got wet, it is well to uncoil it in the
evening and suspend it, neither strained nor taut, round the banisters
or looped along a wall. It is wrong to strain a wet rope, as many
climbers do. It stretches the twist and weakens the resilience which is
its strength.
If a rope has kinked during a climb, or from being left wet in coil,
in order to clear the kinks it is not necessary to untwist them with
the hand. The rope need be only grasped some distance from its end with
one hand and swung round circularly in the direction opposed to the
twist of the kinks. They work themselves free, and the hand can then be
shifted farther up the rope, and repeat the swing for another section.
The rope should never be dried in the sun or near a fire.
The rope should be examined after every ascent, and at intervals
during the day, for bruises or frayed strands. A single frayed strand
justifies the cutting or rejecting of the rope. An old rope should
never be used. Guides are careless in this respect.
[Sidenote: Suitable Lengths.]
Some parties prefer to have their rope in lengths of 45 to 55 feet.
Each climber is roped separately, and the middle men thus wear two
waist-nooses. This method allows of rapid changes of order, of easy
separation into parties of two, and so on. For most rock climbing a
length of 60 feet is all that is required for the leader. A rope of 100
to 120 feet is sufficient for three. For parties of four, one length
of 60 feet for the leader, and one of 90 to 100 feet for the rest, are
generally found correct. For parties of two, the length depends on
the character of the climb in prospect. But the leader requires more
initial allowance for absolute security, since it is awkward, with only
two men, for one to unrope in critical positions and give his leader
more as he requires it. In larger parties this is less risky.
A run-out of 50 to 60 feet is usually accepted as the maximum which a
leader should allow himself, and most sound climbs on rock offer good
stances within or at this distance. A few exceptional climbs need 80
or 100 feet; but their supposed number is constantly being reduced, as
later parties at their greater leisure discover adequate anchorages at
shorter intervals. At distances of 100 feet, or even less, the rope
ceases to be even a moral reassurance to the leader, and its drag alone
diminishes his security. If he has a following on such climbs who
cannot get up without the help of the rope, to carry it coiled, and let
it down when he reaches his remote platform, may be the safer course.
[Sidenote: Funicula.]
Our first lesson is to learn how to knot the waist-loop quickly, and
how to untie ourselves. Our second, to unravel expeditiously the
entanglements that invade the rope during the extra manœuvring which
the presence of inexperienced climbers entails. The best end-man
knot can be made with a single continuous movement of the hand. The
methods of roping and knotting are dealt with elsewhere; but we must
remember to re-examine waist-knots frequently, for ourselves and the
inexperienced. The noose sometimes slips down or becomes dangerously
loose amid the confused disarrangement of garments which stiff rocks
excite. Cases have occurred where men, slipping on rock or into a
crevasse, have all but fallen out of their careless waist-nooses, and
have remained suspended by one armpit. Theoretically we always rope
round the chest; but round a large chest or tapering ribs the rope will
not stay up, unless it is too tight to be comfortable. Consequently
many men, and all women, prefer to rope round the waist. Anyone who,
like myself, prefers to keep the rope up round the chest, will find a
convenient device is to pass the end of the rope, after tying the knot,
over one shoulder, and knot it lightly on to the noose again behind.
This prevents the weight of the rope, especially in the case of a
leader, from pulling down the noose round the false chest.
If a climber has to make a jump while on the rope, he must give notice
first, and be sure that he has enough slack rope not to jerk his
friends or spoil his own jump. Beginners and boys are apt to jump in
unexpected places, and to forget that they have the rope on.
On boulders and such-like problems, wherever height and difficulty
make the protection of a rope from above advisable, the climber should
be roped on properly. To dangle a loose cord past him, as is so often
done, is worse than useless. It tempts him to risky assays; and then,
if he slips, it is utterly impossible for him to save himself by
snatching at the rope.
An unroped man who calls for the rope is generally unable to free
more than one hand to tie himself on. Therefore the loop, already
tied, should be sent down to him, which he can work under his armpits
_seriatim_. Failing a loop, he should twist the rope round his forearm;
but never trust to the grip of the hand alone. If he is within reach,
it is often easier to give him a hand than the rope. A hand-clasp is
not strong enough for a sheer lift. Each man should grasp the other’s
wrist; or they should crook and interlock their fingers. This last is a
very powerful hold.
Every climber should know how to make the simple hitches for sending up
sacks or axes on the rope. An undue proportion of the wasted moments of
my own life have been spent in unravelling the labyrinthine ‘granny’
knots with which well-meaning friends have plotted to protect the
ascents of their sacks.
The ‘stirrup’ and other marabout rope-tricks may be studied in rescue
handbooks. The rope, as a support, precautionary, corrective or moral,
cannot be too minutely studied; but as a means of evasive traction, or
detached ætherial flight, it need not occupy the mundane climber.
CHAPTER VI
CORRECTIVE METHOD
Mountain craft has for its object to get us up and down mountains
without mistakes. All our training aims at reducing continually the
limits within which our mistakes might occur. But human beings are
fallible, and mountains are perverse. Mistakes will still be made; and
it is our business to learn how to remedy them, as well as how to avoid
them. Our corrective technique must seek to prevent mistakes developing
into disasters; and, a further step, guide us to a right conduct when
the disaster can no longer be prevented.
Climbing accidents have a theatrical appeal, because of their dramatic
circumstance, and the world at large has an exaggerated notion of their
frequency. Compared with other active sports, in which the element of
danger is tacitly accepted as part of the fascination, climbing has a
singularly clear record. Aviation, hunting, sailing, football--their
toll of fatal accidents is accepted almost without comment. Only
in mountaineering does the sudden and spectacular suggestion of
annihilation make the isolated accident flare like innumerable stars in
the imaginative public eye. And yet of British mountaineers not one per
cent are killed climbing.
HUMAN FALLIBILITY
Although fatal accidents are extremely rare, falls, slips and missteps
are common,--as common, and as a rule no more harmful than falls out
hunting or skating. There are falls from over-confidence, falls from
inexperience, and falls from pure accident in all active sports. It
lies with the experience and skill of the party to prevent such a
climbing fall being anything more than an interruption. It were better
avoided altogether: but climbers are not all perfect at their start,
and mountains may be perverse; and it is only sensible to recognize
that mistakes must occur in spite of all precaution, and to study how
to deal with their effects.
A safe mountaineer climbs without stumble, but he is also always alert
to check some one else’s incipient slip. The management of the rope
has prevention of accident as its first object. But correction of the
consequences is its second.
[Sidenote: Giving Warning.]
When men are moving singly, up or down steep rock, a fall that can
injure should be impossible for anyone but the leader or last man.
If the ordinary precautions are observed, a slip of a few inches is
the most that can result. But although we may count upon each other’s
alertness, we must give the rope, and ourselves, every chance. If
we feel a hold giving or muscles failing, we must give warning at
once, and then hang on for just the extra second--nearly always
possible--which will allow our friend above to brace every muscle to
meet the direct pull, or to intrude his utmost ‘spring’ between the
rope and the belay. There exists a superstition that to fall silently
is to fall courageously. The man above is sure to hold--“that’s his
business”; whereas our own concern, in such extremity, lies only with
our own dignity. But even in falling we remain a member of the party,
and we have no right to indulge a personal gratification. And so a
quick ‘Look out!’ and the fraction of a second’s hang-on, which are
enough to secure the concentration not only of the anchor-man but of
all the rope, must be counted as our bounden duty.
The same obligation holds good in the case of a party all moving
together along a ridge, or up or down an easy climb. If one man feels
his foothold or his balance going, he has always the instant’s time to
shout a warning before his weight can come on the rope. The man behind,
if there is one, will have had his eyes on him and will be ready; it is
the man in front, with his back turned, whom he has to consider. This
front man will, if he is climbing soundly, have been all along taking
holds with his margin of resistance in mind. He will also have been
noting, if not using in rapid passage, all the points for a possible
anchor of the rope. The instant’s warning will enable him to brace as
he stands, without looking round, or to fling the rope round a point
to support himself before the jerk comes. In such climbing the rope is
never quite taut between climbers, and there will be the run-out of the
length of rope slackened by the man falling to add to the interval of
time which his shout should have given for preparation.
The last man on the rope, when all are moving together in ascent or
descent, has a special obligation to give this timely warning, since no
one has him in view. The instant he hears the warning or the scrape on
the rock, every man braces his muscles, and, if possible, anchors his
rope. A practised ear distinguishes at once between the ordinary clean
scrape of a climbing boot and the scuffled scrape of a slip, or the
snap of a breaking handhold. On a thoroughly united rope it sometimes
seems as if a premonition of the imminent slip must have reached a
good climber in front, even before the sound, some consciousness of an
interruption in the current of sympathetic action, so sure has been
the anticipation and swift the check. But a man who has himself passed
a passage has already a half-realized idea of the sort of trap it may
present, even if he himself evades it, and his quickened senses are the
sooner prepared for the nerve-thrill that precedes the actual warning
by as much as thought can out-distance sound.
[Sidenote: Easing the Check.]
If a climber has had no warning, or for other reasons cannot at once
brace into a secure position, he should let the rope slip through his
hand until he has had time to adjust his balance. This is one of the
occasions when gloves are a help. The first touch will tell him if
he can hold fast at once or must let the rope slip for the moment.
Very few falls on places where a party is able to move together are
absolutely clear, or come with the full jerk of the whole weight at the
start. This is especially the case on snow, where friction also checks
the pace. I have had on several occasions the man above or below me in
a steep snow or ice couloir fall out of a breaking step while we were
all descending together. On an occasion when the man below me slipped,
my first effort to check the rope told me that I was not firm enough.
A second or two were needed to allow myself and the man roped to me
above to get ‘planted.’ I partially checked the rope three times, and
had to let it go again at cost of hand and glove, before I felt the
rope from the man above tighten on my waist, and so knew that we were
ready to take the full jerk together, from our combined stances. The
intermediate checks had broken the impetus sufficiently to make the
final arrest easy. On another occasion in a steep couloir, when I was
descending first, the man above me slipped, and the last man on the
rope, then in mid-stride, was unable alone to check the slide at once.
He therefore let the rope rush through his hand until the sliding man
had spun down past me. Then, of course, my rope to him also came into
action, and, dividing the shock between us, we easily stopped the fall.
On rock, as a rule, such gradual checks are impossible. Fortunately
upon rock, in proportion as the need for an immediate check is the
more imperative, firm stances, with sound rock hand and foot holds and
complementary anchors round rock points, are more present and instantly
serviceable.
[Sidenote: Checking on Traverses.]
The middle men on traverses are adequately protected, and need only be
checked in the usual manner. But if a leader or last man falls, before
or behind us, on a long traverse, it is not sufficient merely to hold
firmly or to hold the belay. If we remain stoutly inactive, he will
have enough rope out to fall far enough for injury before the rope can
tighten, and far enough to risk a snap in the rope when the full jerk
comes. The rope must be snatched in as he falls, round the belay or
loose in the hands. If the fall is from our own level, or from only
diagonally above us, we can tighten the rope at once, and this serves
to give a sideways tug to the man falling, which lessens the force of
the final jerk as he swings in below us. During a fall of fifty feet
from a traverse on our level, there may be time to race in a fifth of
the length before the jerk comes. On such traverses, except in a party
of two, there will be usually some one else on our own level, or near
it, who will share the shock with us by tightening his rope on our
waist. If the third man is near enough to help in actually holding the
loose rope, or in belaying it as it comes in, so much the better. We
are the freer ourselves to rush in as much of the flying slack as time
allows us. If he is not near enough to help, we must be prepared, as we
cannot pull in and secure the rope at the same time, to let the rope
tear out again when the jerk comes, tightening and relaxing it through
our hands until we are certain that our balance has survived the shock.
The action of the party of two in like circumstance is considered later.
After the ‘fall’ of a man from above or on our level, or after the few
inches of downward movement, more properly termed a ‘decline,’ which
are all that a well-managed rope will permit to a man below us, it is
better to lower the man down to a good stance, rather than yield to a
universal inclination and attempt to haul him up over the ground he has
lost before he has recovered wind and nerve. It means less effort for
both.
[Sidenote: The Case of the End Men.]
A leader, or a last man down, does not fall. It is the first condition
of his hegemony that he must not. His fall from any height must
mean injury to himself, and may involve the whole party. In insular
climbing, where distances to hotels and rescue are small and easy
descents usually available, a man may, if he desires it, and his
second man allows it, take the chance of falling and hurting himself,
provided that his party is safely anchored. His injury then only
involves certain hours of delay and dangerous exposure for himself,
and such anxiety and fatigue to his friends as they may suffer in
finding help and in rescuing him. But in the Alps, to fall as a leader
is to fail lamentably and egregiously as a mountaineer. To fall, get
injured and survive in the Alps is more actually dangerous to the rest
of the party than to get killed. Its members must separate. One at
least must risk exposure and other objective dangers and stay with the
injured man. One, or two, if happily there are four in the party, must
face the peril of descent alone, probably late in the day, certainly
shaken by the accident, to seek help. The risks and difficulties of
mountaineering are increased tenfold for a lonely man, or for a party
returning thus shorthanded and unbalanced. More than once the partial
incapacitation of one climber has resulted in the death of one of the
friends who went to get help for him.
In big mountains we may not take chances, not even the youngest of
us. Rock climbers who have learned how to take their risks only for
themselves on our own hills, with open eyes and in no rash spirit, and
think to take them also only for themselves when they go to the Alps,
are all too commonly blind to their very different conditions and the
far graver collective effects of an individual blunder. An injured man
in the Alps means a crippled party. Those uninjured are handicapped in
time, combination and nerve to meet the consequent race with darkness
or the chances of night, and frost, and crevasse, and avalanche; but
they are forced to take these risks in double measure, at double pace,
and with reduced strength, disregarding most of the usual precautions
on their own account, if they are to give their injured companion a
chance of timely rescue.
[Sidenote: The Measure of Courage.]
A leader or a last man in the Alps absolutely must not fall. We may
accept the fact that daring leaders will take risks, and that accidents
can happen, provided every leader is aware of the distinction between
the risks which no man may allow himself to take for his party even
with their consent, and the risks which he may take for himself alone,
but which his friends will be ill-advised if they allow him to incur.
We cannot but be grateful for the spirit, though it is but human to
criticize the action, of men who find joy in a contest with forces
greater than themselves. Too often the profitable by-products of
successful courage are alone admitted as justifications for the spirit
in which adventure is undertaken. Deaths above the clouds or under
the water are taken as heroic incidents, excusable in the interests
of human progress. Deaths upon rock or under snow, inspired by the
like and often by an even more disinterested spirit of adventure, are
condemned as folly. Mountaineering must be judged by a spiritual, not
a utilitarian, standard. Courage, moral and physical, that has its
source in vigorous vitality and its goal in the extension of human
freedom, finds on the hills its hardiest school. It is a very wholesome
emulation that leads men, as their skill and power increase, to measure
them against ever-increasing natural difficulties. Our competition
with the mountains injures no other human competitor by our success.
Our conquest of them ends only in the conquest of ourselves. During
these last years by none has the sacrifice been made more willingly
than by our younger climbers. Their courage was that of the races from
which they sprang: to mountaineering they owed its discovery and its
training. We may not reproach it to the hills if the self-reliance
they teach leads, here or there, some high heart into danger, before
their harder lesson, of experience, has been learned.
And having said this, I must repeat that a leader in the Alps or big
ranges, before he takes a chance, must make certain that the risk will
be confined to himself, supposing such certainty can ever be attained.
When he has made as certain of this as he can--he must not fall!
[Sidenote: The Second Man’s Action.]
But still, miscalculation is possible and accidents may occur. A hold
may have broken, and an end man, leading or last, has fallen. In the
case of a fall, the second man’s duty is to the party, and only in so
far as the greater includes the less, to the leader. The leader has
endangered the safety of the whole rope, which lay in his hands, by
risking a fall; the duty devolves upon the second man to counteract the
further consequences and to take up the leader’s duty to the collective
security of the rope. No leader who deserves the position will have
fallen on any but difficult rock, where the party are moving singly and
where they are properly secured. His second man will therefore have him
either well belayed, or be in a position calculated to meet the chance
of his fall. On steep upward or downward climbing he will rarely be
able to pull in much of the rope as it rushes past. If he is alone on
the stance, he cannot take the chance, as a man often can on a traverse
where he is well backed up, of doing anything that will risk the final
jerk catching him unprepared. If he, too, falls, it is seldom that
others of the party can arrest the twofold fall. His corrective action
is practically confined to doing all he can to spring the rope, with
arm, hand or body, so as to lessen the chance of its snapping.
It is one of the more serious attractions of climbing two alone, that
the two men can divide all responsibility equally, and take their
chances happily together, without one of them ever being placed in the
painful position of choosing between two duties. In a party of two the
second’s duty is only to his leader. He shares in the decision to try
or not to try. If the attempt fails, and the leader falls, he holds him
or he falls with him. He can give himself wholeheartedly to his first
natural impulse, which is to associate himself entirely with the man
in danger. If it is the best chance for both, he will hold the belay,
and let the rope take its chance. But he is free to take a greater risk
for himself by attempting to rush in the rope or by hazarding more of
his direct intervention between the leader and the belay, if he thinks
that by so doing he can lessen the even greater danger to his leader
of the rope breaking. The decision, like all a second man’s decisions
about his duties, is difficult, and must be made like lightning; but in
a party of two it is at least not complicated by any hurried alteration
in the order of his duties, such as follows upon the fall of a leader
in a larger party. His first duty, in that case, is to the rest of the
party; the duty to the leader descending, with him, into second place.
[Sidenote: After a Fall.]
If a leader has once fallen, even if he is not physically injured,
he must be treated, for the time at least, as no longer in control.
The second, in consultation with the rest of the party, must decide
whether advance is still possible. No man’s judgment, nerve or temper
can be entirely unaffected by a fall, and even if the nerves appear
unshaken at the moment, a reaction follows later. Our object must be
to postpone this inevitable nervous reaction, both for the man and for
the party. If the leader is uninjured, action is the best restorative;
and I believe the wiser course often is to encourage him to resume the
lead, and so force himself to concentrate all his faculties upon his
immediate task, and on that alone. It requires some confidence to do
this; but if we know our leader, and have been justified in allowing
him to try the passage at all, it is best for him and best for us to
let him feel that our confidence is not diminished, and that he has
still a first duty, to bring his party through the difficulty. The
reaction will thus be postponed, at least as long as the necessity for
serious action continues, and may be put off altogether.
If the leader is really nervously shaken, he will know it at once
himself. He must then be rested, and the second takes over the lead.
But the preservation of the _morale_ and good spirits of the party,
including the leader, must be the first consideration. There should be
no hint of criticism, even of words or tone, in any rearrangement which
is decided upon. The affair should be treated at the time lightly, as
an incident. If the leader has blundered through inexperience or a
real defect of judgment, or if the second has grounds to think that
he is off his day or has been taking unjustifiable risks without
consultation, reasons which would make it unwise to trust him for the
rest of a severe climb, it should be quietly assumed that he does not
wish to continue leading. Any moralizing or implied reproof will only
hinder the recovery of equanimity in the case of an old hand; and in
the case of a less experienced man, or of one leading on his trial,
criticism is better left for some more leisurely occasion.
One coincident effect even of a slight accident may perhaps be
mentioned. A number of strong men, climbers among them, turn faint at
the sight of blood, especially, seemingly, in times of nervous strain.
They are often unaware of the tendency until the occasion arises. Even
if they foresee, they cannot overcome the attack; but they can give
warning. It has twice happened to me to see mountaineers of physique
and nerve faint in their steps, once on ice, once on snow, when a guide
had cut his hand in front. On the one occasion we had two minutes’
warning, on the other none.
[Sidenote: Accidents.]
If a climber is injured by his fall, more severely than will allow of
his climbing unaided, surgical ministrations are the first necessity;
with these I am not dealing here.
The subsequent action must depend on the place and people. If it is
possible for the party to convey him at least as far as some sheltered
place where help can easily reach him, this should be done at any risk.
The chief danger is collapse following on the shock, and his period of
cold and exposure must be shortened even at the hazard of increasing
the local injuries by moving him.
On rock, if the party consists of four men, and one is strong, the
injured man should be slung on to his back by slings fixed round his
shoulders and thighs, and the rest of the party must assist the loaded
man with rope and hand. On easy rock men can act as the bearer’s
crutches, to take part of the weight. On steep rock where carrying is
practically impossible, especially if there are only two or three to
bring him down, he can be lowered over difficult places, suspended
in the triple-bowline chair or tied firmly and rigidly to the rope,
according as the injuries permit. If possible, two men should lower,
using ropes from different angles above, and one should guide from
below. If he is unconscious, his head should be supported by an extra
sling to the rope, with a coat as a cushion round which the extra sling
is passed. A broken leg should be bound with putties between ice-axes,
or to one ice-axe and then to the other leg. A broken arm should be
strapped with a puttie across the body.
On steep snow or ice, where carrying is impracticable, it is best for
one man to convert himself into a sledge, to lie on the snow, take the
injured man in his arms, and let himself be lowered on the rope, in
steady stages, down the slope.
As soon as the lower slopes are reached, one man should go off for
assistance (two, if possible, when glaciers are in question); and
meanwhile a stretcher can be made of cross-linked rope, or of boughs
or axes combined with rope. It is well to remember that carrying a
stretcher over rough ground is exhausting work, and not to spare men
in the rescue party. With a heavy man rapid shifts are necessary, and
twelve men have been found barely sufficient to bring down a heavy man
with a broken leg, in the dark, over some hours of broken ground. If
the ground is too steep for a stretcher, and too broken for lowering on
a slide, it is best to use a blanket or a web of rope; upon this the
man can be lowered sideways, stage by stage, the men on the under side
holding up their edge so as to keep the lie level. If the ground allows
of the stretcher being carried freely, but is still inclined, one or,
better, two men should act as a brake behind, pulling back on a rope
attached to the stretcher. During the descent, one man familiar with
the ground should be sent ahead to select the easiest line. A carriage
or car should be brought to the nearest point of the road or track. The
surgeon should have been already sent for by any available car or horse.
If it is impracticable to get the man down until the rescue party
arrives, by reason of the difficulty of the climbing or the weakness
of the party, one man at least must stay with him, and the other, or
more happily two others, must make all speed consistent with caution
to get assistance. An injured man must never be left alone. If the
descent is severe, the two most capable should descend; and they must
remember that even more depends upon their getting down safely than
upon their getting down quickly, and resist the insidious recklessness
and ‘it-can’t-be-worse’ spirit that affect the nerves of all men at
such times.
A code of signals, of shouts and lights, should be arranged, if not
already known. This is most important, and often forgotten. It is
wonderfully cheering to hear the human voice. Nothing serves better to
sustain the spirits and keep off dangerous lethargy or collapse than
the shouts which let the waiting men know that their friends are safely
down, and help assured, or which hearten them on the return long before
the rescue party can reach them.
With the same object, if the rescue party cannot start at once, lights
should be flashed at night from some point in the valley visible to the
waiting men. A single match is visible for miles.
The simplest code of call for help is six shouts or flashes in the
minute, followed by an interval of a minute’s silence. The reply,
signifying the call is heard and understood, is three shouts or flashes
in the minute, with a minute’s pause. But men do well to arrange, and
write down, a fuller code of communication before they divide on such
occasions.
Rescue parties, of guides or local people, are often slow in getting
under way. If they find they cannot get a sufficiently strong party
together at once, the friends or, if possible, some good substitutes,
should form an express advance party, taking the few first necessaries
and making the best pace they can. Of even more effect than their
physical restoratives will be the moral reassurance they bring that
the real rescue party is under way. Waiting and uncertainty materially
lower the nervous resistance to injury or exposure. The men most
concerned should not leave the dispatch and direction of the main
rescue party to the professionals or the local people alone, who will
always claim it as their business and, more from ignorance than lack
of sympathy, often treat it as a function to be lingered over and
discussed in all its details. Not infrequently in the Alps the first
men to volunteer will be the idle and unemployed, and therefore the
least competent. The officious local man, who may be only concerned to
see his name in print and get credit and shillings, is particularly to
be guarded against. Unless some first-rate men can be at once secured,
or another amateur be found to take charge, one of the original party
must stay behind to take command himself, and send his friend, with the
best auxiliaries available, to conduct the first party of reassurance.
It seems advisable to mention these details, as the natural inclination
of men who have been shaken by an accident and by anxiety is to
yield to well-meant pressure and leave the ‘speeding up’ of the
often dilatory rescue column to the local hotel-keeper or the first
discoverable guide; only concerned themselves, if they are fit, to
hasten back with reassurance to their waiting friends. But, of the two,
the first is the more urgent duty.
In the event of death and not injury swift action is of less
importance. The mountaineer’s difficult task is then to get the rest
of his crippled party down safely. Peasants of all lands, accustomed
to the accidents of life and death, are insensitive to anything but
their familiar realism. Their help may be counted upon, but they cannot
be expected to show a very understanding sympathy. No later operation
should therefore be left to their charge without the supervision of one
of the party, or of a friend. The Press may be expected to become for
the time an extra burden; its curiosity is better eluded by carefully
worded anticipation than left to its own sensational inventiveness.
Violent death is savage in its reactions; and manners and taste, which
survive only as a thin glaze upon our semi-civilized communities,
evaporate at its first rumour.
Although I have thought it right not to exclude entirely some
suggestion as to dealing with cases of serious or fatal accident,
forty-eight out of fifty mountaineers may, and do, finish their career
without ever being actively concerned in one.
MOUNTAIN PERVERSITY
Besides the accidents which are produced by the classes of things
which at times go away from us, such as holds, balance, or our common
sense, there are other less evitable mishaps produced by the classes
of things which at times come at us--stone falls, snow slides, or
storms. Mountaineers are too sophisticated any longer to accept a naive
statement, that our mishap has been due to one of these causes, as a
complete exoneration.
[Sidenote: Falling Stones.]
Stones, indeed, form the most convincing excuse. Good mountaineers may
use all their discretion to avoid lines where stones fall, but the
casual stone, or the stone loosened by human agency, may yet overtake
them.
A man hit by a stone falling from a height, even if he laughs it off,
has nearly always received a greater shock than he realizes. His nerves
will be vibrating for a time like strings, and we must be on the look
out, especially if we are in exposed places, until we are certain that
he is normal again. I have known a man grow faint ten minutes after a
stone had struck him and left no apparent mark; and I have seen a guide
slip half dazed from his steps a full minute after he had been hit by a
spinning stone not the size of a button, which did not even cut through
his hat.
But even the peril of irresponsible stone falls can be caged within
narrower limits as our experience and our foresight increase. It is
itself a small department of our science of reconnoitring to learn how
to calculate their probability and recognize their signs. Couloirs and
gullies are obvious funnels upon which wandering stones concentrate. In
a snow or ice-backed couloir we must study the difference between the
ominous furrows made by stones or those made by water. In a rock gully
we have to look out not only for stones that may use it as a channel,
but for all that its weathering walls may contribute on their own
account, or that the changes of temperature, or even the disturbance
of our own passage, may dislodge from the balanced accumulations. The
surest signs are the absence or presence of stones on the glacier below
a couloir, or the grey scars or bruises made by the cannonading stones
on the rocks themselves. But these may only indicate stone fall at
certain hours of the day. Big grooves in steep precipices and hollows
between ribs, where stones may congregate, or featureless flat faces,
where they may wander unconfined at their own wild will, are alike
suspicious, and the bases of their cliffs must be inspected. Rock
faces, corrugated with very shallow ribs and hollows, are particularly
dangerous, as falling stones may ricochet unaccountably across the
ribs,--stones harder to foresee and to dodge than direct falls. The
edges of glaciers commanded by steep precipices are certain to be
stone-shelled. Precipices commanded by glaciers--that is, by the small
glaciers hanging high up on great peaks, which are often difficult to
locate from below--have also their fixed hours; as soon as the ice
feels the sun it begins to discharge its surface stones, and continues
until the evening.
But without our own examination we need not condemn any face on general
grounds or from hearsay. A number of fine mountain walls in the Alps
have been unjustly condemned in their entirety for merely local
weaknesses. Others offer salient ribs or lines sheltered by accidents
of structure through the heart of suspected zones. Only inspection can
say. We may presume steep faces to be more safe than those of easier
inclination, because the rock should be sounder, and because chance
stones ought to fall outside us if they do fall.
If we have been unfortunate in our reconnoitring, or if we have
deliberately tempted fortune too far upon a suspected route, we may
on occasion have to put our pride and our progress in our pocket and
be content to sit out under a grateful rock screen until evening or
shadow has chilled the vehemence of the stone barrage. It is better to
risk a night out than persist in tackling a bad line at a bad time.
An overhanging rock is a sure refuge. But we are also advised, if
ever we see that sunlight is increasing the hostile fire upon some
passage that we have to negotiate, to wait until a cloud has frozen up
the ammunition sources. As I have never yet lighted upon a stagnant
party while they were spending some portion of a climbing day in a
pensive examination of the sky for this purpose, I must conclude
either that clouds are as perverse as stone falls in the ill-timing of
their arrival, or that men are as perverse as both in their pigheaded
prosecution of a fair-weather programme.
Besides their customary routes, which we avoid by experience or as the
result of examination, there are occasions both of place and time when
stones fall unaccountably. Stones of large mass will fall at night;
the melted snow freezes into the cracks, levers the stones from their
attachment, and their weight does the rest. Stones, of smaller size but
in larger profusion, will fall in the morning, as the sun again melts
the ice in the cracks, which has already detached these lighter stones
but kept them for the night frozen in position. During these morning
hours, therefore, stones must be looked for on rock faces where they
need not be expected during the rest of the day.
During all the hours of hot sunlight, slopes of mixed rock and snow,
even of easy angle and harmless aspect, may become operative. Rock
extruding from ice is generally more disintegrated, and much of its
freshly exposed surface, temporarily cemented by frost, is liable
to discharge in sunshine. Any slope of ascent which drains a wide
stone-shed of such mixed character must be approached with caution.
Again in hot seasons, after snowless winters, whole regions of
rock, gradually disintegrated under their normal covering of ice or
snow, become exposed; and in such seasons stones must be looked for
on the most respectable peaks. Impeccable cliffs, of traditional
mountaineering approach, will be cinctured at their base, and not only
there, by bands of discharging rock, remote from and disregarding the
time-honoured waste-shoots.
Bad weather, rain, and especially wind, will start volleys in
unaccountable places at the most inconvenient times. After storm
or heavy rain, even secure lower paths may be raked by a dropping
fusillade. But such passing exuberances have also their comfortable
aspect. The bruises that surprise us by their appearance on sheer hard
crag, where no stone had any business to fall, or the intimidating
fragments on the glacier below our firm and promising rib, may be
merely such a single past morning’s effervescence or the excesses of a
solitary thunderstorm.
Other surprise stones may be due to the passing of goats or chamois
above--a rare case in the Western Alps--or more frequently to the
presence of other parties. These are a very definite and constant
danger, especially on loose faces like the Matterhorn ascent from
Zermatt, where half a century of clumsy climbing seems only to have
augmented the supply of mountain ammunition available for daily use.
It can only be avoided by keeping off these routes, or by making sure
of starting first. If we succeed in so doing, we must remember our
mountain manners. On any route where stones are likely to fall, no
party, however expert, has the right to increase the risk for others
below by racing ahead. Unless our line takes us well out of range, we
must wait, in ascending or descending, before crossing any passages
where there is a prospect of our dislodging loose stones, until the
party below is temporarily sheltered or near enough to suffer small
damage from the event. We may expect the same consideration from our
forerunners, or make ourselves clamorously audible until we secure it.
Stones loosened by the party upon itself, by rough grip climbing, by
sitting while descending, by a rope carelessly managed, and so on, are
matters for the correction of climbing technique, and cannot be rated,
either mentally or vocally and emphatically, as risks from external
causes.
But there is still always the familiar terror of the single stealthy
stone, that shoots out for a solitary venture on the blandest of mixed
rock and ice climbs, sliding soundlessly or skipping venomously on a
sharp edge. It can only be countered by the warning of an alert leader
and by prompt dodging.
The throwing of stones from the tops of peaks or cliffs is happily
confined, apart from a few classical recorded cases, to tourists in
our own islands. It is not done by mountaineers; and the method of
impressing its serious dangers upon the offenders may be left to the
emotional coefficient of the party imperilled to elaborate.
If, in spite of all precautions, a falling stone, or a fall of stones,
threatens us, our position at the moment decides our action. In the
case of a rock avalanche, whose minatory sound is unmistakable, we
shall hear it before we see it; there is nothing to be done but to
crouch and get what cover the rock will afford, especially for the
head, without trying to locate it. If it is a single stone, or a few
stones, sight and not sound will be giving us the warning (unless
the risk is already past), and it is best to wait, with back or side
turned towards the stone, and watch over our shoulder. A stone falls
surprisingly slowly to the eye; its course can be followed, and dodged
most effectively at the last second, if it is not in any case aimed
to miss us. In dodging or taking cover from stones, the rope must not
be forgotten. It is little less serious for the rope to be caught
by a large stone falling than for one of the party. To run is often
more dangerous, for other reasons, than to stand still. Most guides
are terrified of falling stones. They are the one risk external and
unaccountable which they cannot train themselves to meet, because no
skill can foresee them. Some part of their allied dread of bad weather
is due to the increased risk of stones it brings: “A terrible sound
of stones cast down, or a running that could not be seen of skipping
beasts, ... or a rebounding echo from the hollow mountains, these
things made them swoon with fear.” The majority of guides will shout
and start skipping indiscriminately in panic. Men who do this must be
brought sharply to their senses. An effective, if possibly fallacious,
argument is to point out that a stone by falling on a particular line
has enormously reduced the chance that another will fall on the same
line again.
This argument does not apply to the case of stones which converge from
wider areas above, to fall through a particular gully or couloir. A
mountaineer, if he finds himself in such a conduit, had certainly
better get out of it as quickly as may be safely possible.
If it is absolutely necessary to cross a couloir where falling stones
may be expected, or heard, it is best for the party to cross singly,
unroped. But if crossing unroped involves a more immediate risk than
the chance of a stone striking, not more than two men should remain
on the same rope together. One man should cross the couloir alone,
with plenty of rope loose for a spring forward or backward to safety,
while the other anchors under shelter. If there are three men on the
rope, the two end men should cross first, each with plenty of rope;
the middle man follows last, with the same allowance. This reduces
the danger for the middle man. To be caught by stones in a couloir on
the middle of a rope held at both ends is to be trapped. There is no
time for the man at either end to release his rope, or, even were that
possible, to discover towards which side the middle man intends to
escape.
On the whole, considering the amount of stones that fall in the Alps,
especially on frequented peaks, the amount of stones that are dislodged
by inexperienced climbers on one another on our own cliffs, and the
amount of recent stones that litter all mountain bases, and that must
have fallen some time, it is astonishing how few and how slight have
been the injuries they have caused.
[Sidenote: Snow Slides.]
Snow slides or avalanches are restricted in summer to more definite
danger-zones than are the errant stones. But when they come they are
less evitable and more overwhelming in action. Snow falls not only
according to the accident of its position, which is ascertainable, but
also according to the chance of its condition; and this is susceptible
to influences more numerous and more volatile than the comparatively
better delimited and more violent forces that produce the loosening and
fall of stones.
Again, if we are forced to cross danger-areas of stones or snow, we
have the better chance in the case of stones. Each falling stone only
occupies in its fall a fraction of the area of danger, and may be
eluded; but every inch of snow in an area of avalanche risk is alike
pregnant with danger. It is no longer a question of artful dodging
individually, but of an escape in time by the whole party, possibly
over a considerable extent of slope, all of it equally treacherous.
But snow makes these concessions to the skilful leader: its presence
can be located; its condition can be tested in advance. Experienced
reconnoitring beforehand may advise us to avoid a snow passage
altogether: precaution on the spot, a thorough testing of its holding
quality, gives us a second chance of eluding an unpleasing surprise.
But these safeguards are precautionary rather than corrective, and
belong properly to the province of prevention, that is of snow craft.
Correction becomes needful when we have been deceived in our craft,
and find ourselves by error, or perhaps by chance, on a risky snow
passage. The snow threatens to slide or to avalanche, because it is
either powdery and superficially slithery, or water-logged, or crusted
and detached below, or bedded deceitfully upon ice. Now, to continue
to trough horizontally across suspicious snow is equivalent to sawing
through a high branch, on which you are seated, between yourself and
the trunk. We must turn vertically up, or down, or follow as steep a
diagonal as we may. We make steps as far as possible apart, and we
tread exactly and lightly in each other’s. If there is firmer snow
below, we drive the axe to the head at each step, and loop the rope. In
extreme cases we may turn face inward, as the toe is less disturbing
than the heel or side-boot. Or we may have to clear away the snow and
make steps in the ice below. All as our craft dictates. On positively
dangerous snow there is much to be said for unroping, should we have to
continue long in equal insecurity. The rope can be little protection;
concerted action once a slide starts is impossible, and if the slide
embraces the footing of all the party, the individual chances of
survival are greater without it. But while admitting that there is a
case for unroping, I have never known a party do it.
If, in spite of all our discretion, the snow slide or avalanche starts,
any further chance of corrective action passes out of our hands with
the loss of our footing. A good deal has been written about what we
ought to do in an avalanche: cut the rope, adopt a swimming attitude,
roll sideways and so on. To anyone who has ever bathed in broken surf,
or felt the weight of even a thin film of snow sliding about his ankles
or on to his shoulders, all such nostrums will seem about as practical
as that delightful recommendation that we should all wear a red
appendage of trailing string, as a signal to those who search for us
in an avalanche. The vision of a line of sturdy mountaineers tripping
intricately across a snowfield like embarrassed macaws in pursuit
of each other’s scarlet tails may give us some pleasurable moments.
Possibly coloured air-balloons, to keep the string-tails floating
archly above our heads, might add to their picturesque efficacy.
A man in an avalanche can only act by instinct; and he will
instinctively struggle. If he keeps, or ends, upon the surface, it
will be due to the shallowness of the slide or the depth of his
good fortune. It is well to remember that a man, by an accident of
compression, may live for some time although overwhelmed and out of
sight under the snow; the survivors therefore must take the risk of
further snow falling and attempt the rescue work at once. The chances
of survival will always be greater in a slide of powdery snow than in
one of wet snow.
[Sidenote: Ice Fragments.]
Ice falls in fashions more fathomable than snow, over more limited
areas and by more discoverable rules. We may find ourselves forced to
pass below _séracs_ on glaciers. A _sérac_ may fall; but _séracs_ are
very obvious as well as beautiful, and the really capable eye is at
fault if it cannot foretell when one is likely to fall, within an hour
or two, and hurry out of its track. Even if it is too far above us for
inspection, there is plenty to guide us in the condition of the ice
near us and in the feel of the atmosphere. _Séracs_ are usually safer
than they look; and it is wiser, if we find ourselves unwittingly under
fire, to glide out of it quietly and competently than to rush into the
real frying-pan of a panicky flight. If there is opportunity, we get
rid of the rope; a man on claws, without the rope, has a much better
chance of dodging the _sérac_ that topples. Heavy step-cutting just
below a poised column had better be avoided; but I am half sorry to
record that the hallowed myth that it is dangerous to talk or breathe
loudly on such passages is not borne out by latter-day _séracs_. I
have shouted very loudly and clearly into the ear of a number of very
promising ones--of course from safe positions on their shoulders, and
not, like Lauener, from their ‘dangerous’ heads--without eliciting even
a nod of response.
Only one other case suggests itself where falling ice might be classed
as an external or objective risk; and that more because the extent of
its danger-zone is undiscoverable than because its position, or the
probability of its fall, is concealed from ordinary foresight. In a
snowy season, with alternates of melting sun and freezing wind, the day
comes when the rocks of a peak or ridge are armoured with ice plates
or ice spears. If we traverse unsuspectingly below such walls, an
hour’s sunlight may expose us, in the middle of our enjoyment of our
postponed fine day, to a raking and dangerous fire. The missiles may
come shooting over the edge of any innocent, black jut or buttress far
above us. The only course is to watch, and dodge, and make carefully
for open country. That what has fallen once cannot fall again in the
same place is even more true of these ice plates than of stones. For
our mischance, also, we may have to blame ourselves as much as the
mountain. Rocks in such a state generally betray some gleam of their
ice armour to a heedful examination, and as the chance of such a
condition occurring should have been suggested to us by the kind of
weather that produced it, we ought to have been able approximately to
locate the peril beforehand, and avoid its zone.
[Sidenote: Evil Weather.]
Thunderstorms or blizzards may produce direct catastrophe. Of a
blizzard we should have had premonitory signs; and if we are caught in
it, we must just fight through it, and we may not afterwards justly
blame the mountains. It is a foolish pride which thinks to show
hardihood by persisting wilfully, among big mountains, against the
threat or oncoming of evil weather.
But thunderstorms may take us unawares; and then our only refuge is
retreat. Their chief menace lies along the edges of ridges and on
outstanding points. If a storm threatens, we must get off the ridges
and away from pinnacles as quickly as possible, even if it may mean
cutting down an ice slope. Sometimes our first warning may be an
electric shock, coming out of a dark and windless silence or through a
warm oppression of slow-falling and separate snow-flakes, and thrilling
us helplessly from heel to hair. If there is no other sign, and in the
heart of the worst storms there is no flash and no thunder, the singing
of our axes and the hissing crackle of the discharge from every point
of the ridge will give warning that it is well to go elsewhere. We are
generally advised to get rid of our axes. If we are on a big peak, this
will mean our seeking scanty shelter not very far below the ridge where
the storm caught us. Personally, I prefer to keep my axe, and use it to
climb well down one of the flanking walls. While we remain on the ridge
or near it, all points, including ourselves, are potential conductors,
and it is awkward to get far down without an axe. We once came on a
whole grove of axes abandoned on a summit. When we saw, later, the
angle and the condition of the snow slopes that this party had been
driven to descend without their axes, to escape from the storm, we
realized what frightening things men can do if they are only frightened
enough.
Thunderstorms apart, the perils of bad weather are indirect, and give
us time to use precautionary rather than corrective skill. A very
strong wind may of course blow us right out of our steps. I have only
seen this actually happen once, to a light-limbed mountaineer, who
pitched very neatly on the ice steps ten feet lower down. Ordinarily
we cling on as we can, and evade the direct blast by moving on to the
other side of a ridge. Wind will also pelt us with stones and icicles
in unexpected places, or lacerate our faces with snow particles. But
its principal effect is usually upon men’s nerves, who get ‘rattled’
and lose their collective rhythm. Continuous loud noise always
interrupts communications, and breeds flurry or confusion. It is worth
while taking shelter behind rocks, if only for a minute or two at
intervals, to steady the nerves again.
Mist and fog can only harm us if our craft fails. We meet them by
compass and the sense of direction. Wind can make a gracious exception
to its usual offensiveness, and help us in mist. If we have noted its
direction, and have observed that it is a constant and not a gusty or
spinning wind, we can keep a straight course by keeping it always on
the same cheek. Again, when he is approaching the crest of a ridge or
a pass, what mountaineer has not had cause, in mist, or even in sun,
to welcome the little rushes or breaths of wind that tell him the edge
is near and assure him of his direction? After a weary plough up foggy
snow terraces or a harsh struggle on mist-wet rocks, these soughs seem
like the mountain, too, sighing with our relief, or like the end of our
travail surprising our mournful faces with a kindly but derisive ‘pooh!’
Earthquakes are natural perversities outside the sphere of ordinary
mountaineering prevision. Among mountains their danger is indirect
or subsequent. They injure a number of good rock routes, and after
a series of shocks we may expect some grievous deterioration in the
condition of rock pinnacles and faces. Large masses will have been
precariously loosened, and our ledges will be littered with poised
blocks and cranky rubble. The peaks affected may require markedly
cautious climbing for some seasons, until time and weather shall have
tidied down the surfaces again. Some years ago certain of the Chamonix
Aiguilles had to be left unvisited for a time on this account. As to
how we should meet the uproar of the eruptive moments, it is difficult
to suggest an approved method. A mountaineer of reputation relates
how an earthquake caught him on the precipitous north face of the Dent
du Géant; and how that proud pinnacle rocked so portentously that his
feet were flung free, and he only saved himself by swinging perilously,
like a pendulum, from his handholds. It is reassuring to feel that
such exceptional circumstance does generally select the exceptional
man, and that it invariably finds him inspired to deal with its crises
imaginatively. For upon such natural inspiration it would be difficult
to improve by devising any more formal code.
CHAPTER VII
ICE AND SNOW CRAFT
[Sidenote: The Age for Glaciers.]
Rock is the framework of mountains, and for those who discover their
enthusiasm or train their activity among our western hills, rock craft
must always remain the basis of mountaineering. Many of us would not
be dissatisfied if the chances of time and leisure offered us no wider
field. For our performance, there is more than a lifetime could hope
even to examine between the precipices of our mounting uplands and
the descending cliffs of our long sea coasts; and for our æsthetic
pleasure, nature, through the medium of a soft and variable atmosphere,
shrouds the settled lines of our hills with a delicacy of interrupted
and changing colour, and a grave reticence of shadow, sun-break and
mist, that leave nothing incomplete for the fulfilment of that sense of
power and wonder whose realization gives something of the quality of
religion to our feeling for great mountains. These ancient hills are at
peace with their neighbours the fields, and rest tranquilly among them;
content to contribute with their waters and pasture to the fertility,
and with their mists and rocks and seclusion to the holiday pleasure of
the land which in youth they were wont to cumber with the fragments of
each fiery insurgence, or bury under the white burden of their glacial
defeats.
In other lands, to modify the harshness and to order the exuberance of
younger ranges, whose ambition would yet challenge the stars, nature
has still to avail itself of the sterner and more primitive discipline
of ice and perpetual snow. With this veil, constant but always
renewing, it subdues the barrenness and the aggressive angularity
proper to their period of immaturity and change, and preserves for
them the aloofness that is at once the protection and the charm of
free-growing childhood. It is a mistake to think of the Alps or the
Himalaya as venerable because their heads are white: theirs are all the
irrepressible impulse, the uneven humour, the unconscious cruelty and
the overflowing vitality of froward but jolly children.
A mountaineer may be satisfied to nurse his athletic infancy upon home
rocks, and he may be happy to pass the later years of his experience
among the more elusive impressions and more subtle romance of our old
and quiet hills. But in the storm years of his strength he should test
his powers, learn his craft and earn his triumphs in conflict with the
abrupt youth and warlike habit of great glacial ranges.
Snow and ice are permanent upon the high hills, and consequently ice
and snow craft are essential departments of greater mountaineering.
To treat them as decorative adjuncts, cultivated by a certain set of
rather old-fashioned folk, or to say, as I have heard more than one
promising climber say in effect, “Rock is good enough for me: snow and
ice only mess it up; _I_ shan’t bother with that sort of Alp!” and then
rush off to the Dolomites as a relief from the Fells, is equivalent to
refusing to exchange the foil play of practice for the rapier play of
real contest with the best champions of the mountain realm: it means
the repudiation of the better half of mountain knowledge, and the
renunciation of almost all its rewards.
The higher craft of mountaineering begins above the line of perpetual
snow. A rock climber who leaves his rocks at that level can never
discover even all that rocks may offer of difficulty and variety.
The refinements of climbing develop out of the modifications that
rock and ice and snow produce in one another. It is among the elastic
extensions, the frequent exceptions, which their combination imposes
upon our grammar rules for rock or snow, that the mountaineer is
evolved out of the climber.
[Illustration: ROCK AND ICE [SYDNEY SPENCER]
Our strong years are the years in which to learn the complete craft
of greater mountaineering. And it is also in these years, while the
senses are keen and the imagination undimmed, that the entries and
illustrations most worthy of assembling in our book of memory can be
collected from among the daring sights and hazardous incidents of
high mountaineering as from no other region of adventure. Never
to have broken too soon with sleep, and issued up on to the grey
coldness of night-frozen glaciers; never to have felt rather than seen
the loneliness of frosted grey peaks, oppressed with a sanctity of
reluctant seclusion; never to have endured the enchantment of solitary
space, an intimate but hostile fascination that is found elsewhere
only in the desert and among arctic silences; never to have almost
heard the strange expectancy that fills great snow fields before dawn
with questions never uttered and never answered, and whose insistence
is only veiled under a livelier and more visible remoteness at the
inquisitive approach of light; never to have watched the night widen
and the edges of the world draw closer round, as the peaks begin to
darken and the glaciers to pale, and the vague shadows of mystery and
of elusive presence shrink and harden into form and line and colour
with the nearing of sunrise; and, at the moment when the first rose
ray quickens the first high summit and day pours in about us, never to
have known the lassitude of odd illusion vanish and the summons to good
sunlit action thrill every fibre, from toe to finger-tip, with a rush
of human mastery in each stout blow of the axe and each fresh shock
of the driving heel;--never to have known something of only this one
hour of an alpine morning would have been to have missed the most vivid
moments of living, and to have deprived our working and our evening
hours of their most faithful comrade memories.
ICE CRAFT
For snow and ice as for rock we study primarily balance,--balance in
motion, and above joints flexed as well as straight. The elementary
movements and practice are identical. Rock is the substructure of
mountains, and ice and snow are its accretions. Similarly, rock
climbing is the groundwork of mountaineering technique; and for ice and
snow we employ the same principles, availing ourselves of the mechanism
of axe and claw and ski so as to render them equally applicable to new
conditions of surface and texture.
For balance climbing, footwork is all-essential. On rock, only where
angle or unsound texture makes footwork alone insufficient, do we help
out with the hands. On ice or snow, only where angle or a texture too
soft or too hard denies our feet their assurance, do we supplement
them with ice-axe and ice-claw, or to a certain extent with ski. While
a man remains a grip climber, he will never make an iceman; and he
had better go back and learn first how to climb in balance on rocks,
rather than set himself the twofold task of learning balance and axe or
claw technique simultaneously and painfully on ice. Most of the early
mountaineers learned what footwork they knew upon ice first, and it
was therefore very natural that they should in their mountaineering
precepts give the larger share of space and attention to elementary
movements and exercises in stepping on ice and snow. These movements
are now learned more easily and perfectly on rock, sound and unsound,
and transferred, when we go to the Alps, to snow and ice, following a
more logical and certainly more safe order of study. In recent years I
have taken some of the very best of the new generation of ‘continuous’
rock climbers for their first climbs in the Alps, and have found
that their balanced footwork took only a few hours to adapt itself
to snow or ice surfaces, skipping all the elementary stages hallowed
by tradition. Consequently they could start upon the more recondite
branches of ice and snow craft with a rapid assurance that left the
guides frankly interested.
Largely because it was the only type of mountaineering that they really
studied as a craft, and consequently could fully enjoy when they
mastered it, ice and snow craft came to be considered by many of our
predecessors as the only true mountaineering, to the supersession of
all other branches.
After the possibilities of rock surface began to be appreciated, and
while rock climbing was working through its successive and isolated
stages, the swing of the pendulum went all too far the other way. Ice
and snow came to be regarded by all except the old alpine school as
intrusions upon ascents, to be got over as best one could. Their study
was proportionately neglected by guides and amateurs alike, who chose
the ribs and rock faces for their routes, and were apt to be bothered
if they had to come off them. The lack of any advanced technique became
painfully apparent when mountaineering ambition progressed to the point
of attempting great new alpine ridges and faces, where a knowledge of
ice and snow craft is indispensable. Many a failure and even accident
revealed what a large lacuna our rock climbers had been nourishing in
their alpine understandings.
During the development of balance climbing, whose basis is footwork
upon any angle and any kind of surface, the scale has been steadily
readjusting itself. Simultaneously with, or possibly as a result of,
the unification of our several climbing methods upon rock, ice and
snow into a single technique of balance, has come the new interest in
foot-attachments, the popularizing of the use of ice-claws and of ski.
While balance in climbing movement was still only rudimentary, it was
more comfortable to climb on a material like snow or ice, where the
human could make holds and steps of the shape and at the angle that
best suited his standing or his ‘walking’ balance. He preferred this to
making a series of awkward bodily adjustments in order to fit himself
on to existing accidents in the surface of rock. But as climbers
learned to master balance during any movement and in every attitude,
and to depend less and less upon the hand, they became naturally alive
to the advantage of adopting footgear which secured safer and more
continuous progress by adapting the feet to the surface, and saved
them the time and rhythm lost in stopping to alter the surface to suit
their feet. Hence the increase in our use of soft soles and scientific
nailing, on rock, and the perfecting of ice-claws, which allow our feet
to walk on ice at whatever angle we find it, and of ski, which make a
royal progress of the most voracious snow.
A man who is a good continuous balance climber should be able, as I
have said, to transfer his footwork easily and quickly to snow and ice,
and to move safely upon moderate mountains, satisfactorily managing the
rope and cutting the occasional steps that such ascents demand. Here
many climbers stop learning, even among those who write books; and just
about here the real delights of icemanship and snow craft begin faintly
to suggest themselves. From this point on our rock technique cannot
help us, and may, if persisted in, merely embarrass and delay us. Ice
and snow, conjoined or apart, with all their significations of colour,
texture and angle, and in their local or ephemeral counter-changes,
form a study by themselves. As it is certain that we cannot do much
route inventing or advanced climbing upon rock without knowing
something of the different sorts of rock and their meanings, so is it
far more certain that in really big mountaineering no one will get far
or go secure whose knowledge of ice and snow is limited to the mere
physical ability to climb upon them.
It is impossible to do more than suggest a few lines which training
might follow, in order to attain to a point of experience where the
specialized study can be begun.
[Sidenote: The Nature of Ice.]
To start with, it is as well to know something, sufficient for the
working purposes of practical summer mountaineering, as to the
different sorts of ice which we meet with in the mountains. There are
three principal varieties:
Firstly, ‘_grainy ice_,’ or ‘_blue ice_’ as it is usually called from
its colour. This is formed chiefly from snow, by regelation. Nearly all
glacier ice is of this character; whence we also know it as ‘_glacier
ice_.’ It is glacier ice with which we have by far the most to do in
the Alps, and its successive stages have to become familiar to us as
names, and recognizable from their appearance, if we ever wish to
lead a party. In the first stage pressure makes the fallen grains of
snow cohere, and an opaque white mass is thus formed, a fine-grained
solid, containing a lot of imprisoned air. This stage is usually but
incorrectly named ‘_frozen snow_.’ Under the further action of pressure
these grains coalesce, by regelation, and larger grains are formed;
part of the entangled air escapes, the solid becomes coarse-grained
and less opaque and assumes a bluish tinge. This is called _névé_
(or _firn_). Under the continuation of the process ultimately all
the imprisoned air escapes, the solid becomes transparent and very
coarse-grained, and its larger masses have a distinctive, blue colour.
This is called ‘_ice_.’ As the process is a continuous one, it is
impossible to draw a hard-and-fast line between the different stages,
or always to be sure of saying with certainty that our feet are on the
one or the other.
Secondly, there is ‘_black ice_’; ice more or less continuous and
generally in layers, formed by the freezing of water. This is
comparatively rarely encountered in the Alps, or in mountains, but more
often in winter than in summer. Where it intrudes, it is very exacting,
as it calls for a different type of claw technique and a different sort
of blow with the axe.
Thirdly, there is an intermediate, and intermediately attractive and
frequent, class of ice, produced by the infiltration of water with
snow, and by their subsequent freezing. This is called ‘_snow ice_.’
In route designing and in climbing we have to be able to recognize
these types and stages. Each has its own right method of treatment. But
grainy or glacier ice is the characteristic alpine ice, and most of the
suggestions made as to ice technique apply to ice of this description,
where it is not otherwise expressly stated.
A large, dry glacier introduces us to almost every normal type of ice,
from hard blue to _firn_, and is the best practice ground for finding
our ice feet and transferring our rock balance to ice angles. A week’s
good practice devoted exclusively to ice craft on a glacier, under a
good mentor, will set our feet on the way of better icemanship than if
we trust for our training to the hours of sporadic ice work, generally
of some difficulty, which we may meet year after year, and muddle
through, on our big climbs. Few men are systematic enough to devote all
their first alpine enthusiasm to a restricted training of this kind;
but any man who hopes at some date to become a mountaineer should
begin early to give his ice some intensive study. Even a mountaineer
of experience has to allow for personal variations when he returns
each season. However well attuned he may keep his sense of touch on
rock by practice in Britain, he takes some days to recover the feel of
his feet on ice, and his ice nerve; very much as a skater or a skier
has to do each winter. Some of us make a habit, in theory at least, of
giving the first day of a tour to work of all sorts on a dry glacier;
the second day to some short climb, combining both rock and snow work;
the third, probably an off-day, to going up to a hut, and the fourth
to a big climb, which must embrace as much varied ice as possible. But
this is for resumptive practice in technique. It is not sufficient for
a commencing season, or for a grounding in common ice law.
[Sidenote: Ice-Claws.]
Any man who wishes to make big ascents is well advised if he begins
early to learn how to use ice-claws (or crampons). It is not that
we cannot climb without them, even as we could without nails in our
boots, but that we can learn to climb more securely, and go faster and
farther, with them.
Claws have been used by individuals for something like a century, but
the conservatism of mountaineers long refused to recognize them as
more than an individual eccentricity. It found itself able to draw a
nice distinction between the ‘sporting’ character of the assistance
given by a number of long spikes separately and laboriously screwed and
unscrewed on the boot, and that of a similar number of spikes affixed
by a single simple mechanism. It was not until the guides finally
capitulated that the practice could grow at all general or that its
extra security could become recognized as workmanlike. Claws were
formerly assumed to be useless unless worn by every member of a party;
an assumption that prevented their use by many amateurs who failed to
carry their guides’ conviction with them. As a fact, even one expert
furnished with claws can do much to assist the security and lighten the
labour for his clawless party on difficult ice, by preceding them and
helping or protecting them with the rope. Let no amateur, therefore,
ever be discouraged from taking his own where he expects ice work.
He will always be the happier himself, and may on occasions be able
to point a prolonged moral to his party. Up to the present they have
still been looked upon as an experiment, and men have been apt to get
discouraged if they have taken them out once or twice and had no need
for them. Sometimes they have then dropped carrying them; found that
they could ‘get on all right without them’--as who cannot?--and so
begun to exaggerate the labour of their portage and minimize their use.
The habit has to be formed. It can become as natural to take them on a
big ascent as to carry the axe, spare rope and shoes upon a rock climb.
I must premise, that claws postulate precise footwork. A slovenly habit
they cannot correct, and may only confirm.
If we use claws neatly, we need no longer cut steps upon all the easier
angles of ice or hard snow. We can walk straight ahead, up, down or
along, without check for step-cutting or loss of rhythm. We can take
foothold just as is most convenient for our balance as we move. Thus a
good balance climber from the first moment gets all the advantage of
the footwork he has learned upon rock: the labour of ‘finding his feet’
upon ice is reduced to a minimum. Again, claws increase our security,
if we step accurately, when we are moving upon angles where, for
reasons of steepness or other difficulty, steps may still have to be
cut. In using slippery steps they permit of a confidence of movement,
firm and continuous, similar to that which previous experience will
have taught us contributed most to our security upon rock. In so far
claws, even while we are learning, make for safer progress.
Their fashion has been fully dealt with, under Equipment. As to the
character of claw which may be of greatest service, there exist
divergent schools of thought; and each finds justification for its
belief in the greater usefulness of its particular claw for some
particular type of ice work.
In general, heavy claws are better for a heavy man, light for a
light. Ten-point claws are better than eight for a large foot, and
six-point claws are hardly worth their weight in carrying. A heavy
claw, with long, sharp points, which suffer in contact with rock, is
worth its extra weight if some big ice expedition is in prospect. At
the same time, a good climber can, if he is prepared for the extra
labour and for the more careful technique which their use requires,
accomplish with safety all the ice work to be found on normal climbs
with a lighter claw of slightly shorter points. This lighter, rougher
type will be more useful to him for mixed ice and rock climbing, as
he will be able to sacrifice its shorter and inevitably more blunted
points with less regret, while he can retain the claw over every kind
of surface. The necessity of constantly putting off and on the long,
sharp claws on mixed climbing, to avoid turning their points, has the
drawback of losing time, and, still more important, of changing the
action of the leg and the feel of the feet. Consequently the rhythm
of foot and leg has to adjust itself, after each change, to the new
character of surface and movement. Whereas the claw which can be worn
all day if the conditions demand it, regardless of rock or blunting
surface, and which can be thrown away or resharpened when it has
suffered sufficiently, while it may call for more skill and effort
for its secure use on long, steep passages of hard ice, possesses the
compensating advantage of keeping the action constant, without change
to the feel of the feet, to the rhythm, or to the greater or lesser
security of the tread.
On the other hand, the finer, heavier claw, by which I mean the claw
of the Eckenstein pattern, has the merit of being the only claw at
the present time in which both the metal is rightly wrought and the
points are shaped and placed under the foot with any scientific regard
for their use. It is also the only type which it is safe to wear on
hard ‘black ice’; which, even if rarely, is occasionally found on big
summits in the Alps or on sunless northern faces.
Of course the claw must be made exactly to fit the boot on which it is
used, and it must fasten and take off easily and securely.
The theory of the use of the claw, with all the various positions of
the feet required, can only be dealt with in a monograph to itself, and
this has been already more than adequately done.[13] It is sufficient
for the commencing mountaineer to know that he has to learn how to
use claws, and that he cannot do so effectively without preliminary
practice. This practice should be on a glacier, and under direction;
no man really discovers what the claw will enable him to do until he
has seen what confidence and skill can accomplish in the conquest of
angle and of natural nerve revulsions. The movements are not entirely
natural or self-suggesting, more especially those of descending or of
traversing on very steep slopes. The masters of the art can walk, and
sustain weights, sideways or straight upon their feet, up to angles of
70 degrees or more. An ordinary climber can learn to move with comfort
on angles, of good surface, between 55 and 60 degrees.
When we are on claws, the snow-shuffle and the normal forward swing
of the walking foot, heel and toe, have to be forgotten. The foot is
lifted rather higher, and is planted cleanly on the ice, without the
usual forward scrape. The high, clear lift of the foot must become
mechanical, otherwise the points will catch on boot or puttie, and a
nasty trip or fall may result. The downward pressure or thrust of the
foot varies in force according to the angle and the hardness of the
surface. To prevent the points working loose in the holes they make,
the foot has to be placed at once in the position and at the angle in
which it will have to sustain the weight of the body passing across
it. A balance climber who has mastered the tense, dancing action of
the foot as it is set upon a rock hold will have to learn little new,
except the habit of the higher lift and the more vertical plant.
In ascending, our object is to keep the feet pointing forward and
straight as long as the angle will allow us to; only turning the
toes outward when we can no longer get the heels down. On most ice
it is sufficient if we get hold with two points of the claw alone;
and on a fair surface we can walk straight-foot up very steep angles,
trusting only to the two points on the toe. Up softer steep surfaces,
or literally precipitous angles, we adopt a crab or sideways walk. We
descend steep angles with the knees bent and the toes forced down.
The ankles have to, and soon do, acquire an increased suppleness and
strength, in claw practice.
Perhaps the most difficult task for the beginner is to learn the art
of walking and balancing upon flexed ankles, while traversing across
steep faces. To strike all the points in neatly and strongly sideways,
and with a flexed ankle, so that the flat of the sole may meet the
surface cleanly and without a scrape, takes some practice; but slab
climbers, who have suppled their ankles by foot-clinging upon steep
rock angles, will find themselves a day or two’s frog-marching to the
good on ice.
Practice alone will bring us confidence in the new adjustments, or
allow us to feel as securely in balance above a foot inclined at a
high angle, over a bent ankle or a curved leg, as upon a right-angled
hold of rock or ice. Once confidence has come, the sense of security
in the attachment of the claw to the ice enables a freedom of movement
astonishing at first to anyone accustomed only to the feel of the
ordinary boot-nails on ice steps.
This additional and confident security, which the claw gives to our
foothold, almost eliminates the chances of what are wrongly termed
‘accidents’ on ice; the breaking foothold, the faultily placed foot,
or the slide of the sole on a bad surface as the transference of the
weight produces a change in the direction of the leg-thrust. We can
balance, therefore, on steep angles far more boldly, and keep our hands
free for better purpose. A strong party on claws, in a couloir of
uniform surface or on a sound ridge of mixed ice and rock climbing, is
often free to do without the rope at all, if it so pleases. The rope
is to guard against the results of ‘accidents’ to individual members;
and competent icemen, if they are released from the distraction of the
rope, and able to concentrate on their own good progress and safety,
have all the less temptation to commit ‘accidents.’
Once we have mastered the movements and become confident, we begin
to distinguish between varieties of ice, and to vary our claw craft
accordingly. For instance, in alpine ‘grainy’ ice there are three
ordinary varieties: hard, soft and rotten. ‘Rotten’ ice does not lie
in the Alps to more than the depth of an inch or two, though it is
found of a greater thickness in other continents; when we find it in
the Alps, we clear it away with the axe, to leave a firm tread for
the claw on the good ice below. Hard and soft grainy ice have their
several adjustments, whose differences have to be learned by practice.
Hard ice will usually be found lying at high angles, so steep that we
shall sometimes be unable to get more than the hold of a single claw
point. Experience alone can make us feel as safe upon the one talon as
we have learned to feel upon a single boot-nail on sound rock. For work
of this advanced character, for which the heavy, long-pronged claw is
better suited, the best practice can be found upon the big fall-ice
of dry glaciers. We soon discover, in such practice, that balance is
easier when we are confident to move fast, a resuscitated platitude;
and that, while moving, we are satisfied with a single point where the
whole ten would not have seemed superfluous, had we halted to admire
the panorama. But holds, on ice as on rock, are not intended to be held
in perpetuity.
The claw is not only useful upon steep ice: on hard repellent snow it
spares us the penance of stamping or scraping steps. It is equally
reassuring to foothold and nerve on ice-lacquered rocks, or on broken
rock surfaces coated with wind-snow or glaze. In a bad season--that
is, a season during which snow has been frequently falling, and the
rocks are surpliced in various blends and qualities of snow, frozen and
refrozen--the claws are often retained for the whole day, and become
as natural to the feel of the feet as the more usual boot-nail. It
is sometimes even difficult to remember if they are on or off, until
they are removed, when the feet become as helpless as they do when
skates are first detached. In a snowstorm, for a descent, they should
always be put on; and even in clear weather and on good footing it
is an immense reassurance to the leader of a tired party ascending
or descending a couloir or slope of suspicious or ‘mixed’ surface,
if he can count upon the extra security that claws will give to the
deteriorating footwork of his party.
Again, on those early, fasting, glacier crawls by lamplight, with which
most of us are familiar, when we are expected to balance, with cold
joints and often without the protection of the rope, along crevasses
and walls which may be easy enough by daylight but seem pulsing with
danger and dread in the darkness, claws come as a great safeguard;
their tactile value is a reassurance to eyes and to feet still leaden
with insufficient sleep and superabundant cold.
The evening descent of a glacier, dry or partly snow-covered, with its
crevasse jumping, wearisome for tired legs, and its balance traversing
on ice too slippery for jaded feet or day-polished boot-nails, becomes
again a delight if it can be taken directly and at a rush, with the new
surety of foothold and the change of muscle movement that follow the
putting on of our claws. Straight and time-saving lines through glacier
falls can then be ventured, even with men dragging heavy sacks or heavy
legs, if they have once the new feel of dancing security under their
feet.
It is worth while putting claws on even for the short but offensive
descent of the snout of a glacier. They crackle crisply down its
pebble-pimpled wrinkles and make light gliding of its glassy
declivities.
A belated party returning crossly at night down the breakers of a
big glacier whose surface has thawed only to be refrozen later to a
polished, leg-racking ice-slide, will save temper and re-roping and
time if the men stop to put on their claws. Two midnight descents of
the Mer de Glace in this condition, without claws, are among the most
penetrating and undignified of my remembrances.
On the steep sides of moraines, or on new snow lying on grass, claws,
if they happen to have been brought, save much back-sliding. On
slippery rock surfaces, such as snow-slimed slate and the like, I have
found light claws of constant use.
Finally, we need not take off our claws, if they are light ones, for
every rock section of a climb where rock and ice are alternating. On
much easy soft rock they are of assistance; and even in steep climbing,
if once the novelty of the feel is mastered and the foot has got
accustomed to the precautionary tread that protects the points, claws
have often a positive value greater than the mere effort we save by not
removing them.
To learn how to use claws, however, does not relieve us of the
necessity of learning how to make and to walk in ice steps. Nor
(although this is a matter of more personal opinion) do claws in my
view justify climbers on big expeditions in substituting the small
ice-axe recommended by some of the great authorities upon claws, and
only intended for making an occasional step or for holding on, for a
good step-cutting axe, which has also the potentiality of the third leg
on general climbing.
In practice on dry glaciers it is both profitable and amusing to
experiment in manœuvring on exceptional angles, or in walking up
between the vertical walls of crevasses. Such practice is good for
confidence and for training, and it is even of use to discover how
comparatively easy claws make it to get out of crevasses, or similar
impasses, without relying on the rescue of the rope alone. A climber
on claws, for this reason, can take a measure of liberty in solitary
climbing that would be folly for a man without them to allow himself.
No doubt, if amateurs were able to keep constantly in practice, and
had not each season to stop climbing when they have barely reached
their best, they would learn to move with equal freedom on angles
of this character at great heights. But as a matter of experience
no holiday mountaineer can entirely acquire the same feeling of
confidence and security if his ice slopes are subtended by dangerous
mountain walls or are situated on exposed tracts. Fatigue, diverse
air-pressures and, above all, the psychological effect of height
contribute to handicap him in venturing on claws risks which he would
laugh at on a twenty-foot wall on a glacier. Consequently we find that
most mountaineers on very steep, hard ice at great heights prefer to
cut steps to aid their claws. In mountaineering on a big scale we
usually begin to feel this need when the angle of the ice approaches
anywhere near to our limit of average performance upon claws in
glacier practice. It is more our sensation than the angle of the ice
slope which forces step-cutting upon us. And there is yet another
common occasion for steps. On ice which is covered with snow, where
without claws we should clear away the snow and make a step in the
ice, it is of course similarly open to us to clear it away and step
simply with the claw on the exposed ice. But, as a matter of fact, it
is generally the practice in such case to make a nick for the claw.
Unless the nick is made, the mass of snow round the clearing prevents
the foot from being placed conveniently and from providing a sense of
security commensurate with the sensational situation. Thus to secure a
good reassuring claw hold we should have to clear away an additional
quantity of snow, and we may just as well make a nick-step at once. A
step in ice when claws are worn need only be a nick for a proportion of
the prongs. It takes less labour and art to fashion than a step for a
boot.
Again, ice at great heights is occasionally covered with a rotting
coating, or crust, through which the prongs cannot reach to the good
surface below. Here clearing the rotten ice will in any case be
necessary, and, for the reason given above, it is more comfortable and
as quick to cut through it and make a step at once.
Where, also, ice is really hard ‘black ice,’ it has an iron quality of
surface, through which the prongs have to be driven with real force;
and they make clean, hard holes from which we have the feeling they
might slip out, as if from smooth metal sockets. Without steps, at
steep angles, balance on such ice is a very delicate matter, as this is
a branch of claw technique in which the Alps give us little practice.
The nerve of most men will call for auxiliary steps. But whether steps
are made or not, on such ice the rope must always be retained.
For the average man, therefore, it is still needful to know how to
fashion and how to walk in ice steps; both for use on the brief
intervals of ice and snow on climbs where the amount of difficult rock
and the small proportion of ice in prospect have suggested leaving the
claws behind, and for occasions, of which some have been mentioned,
that arise out of exceptional mountain or personal conditions.
[Sidenote: Cutting Steps.]
We have then to learn how to cut and use steps on ice, at high angles,
in awkward places, or when complicated by certain conditions. Claws
cover the rest of the ice field.
A man who sets himself to learn how to cut steps well must begin by
practising on ice. Theory can only help him to avoid certain false
positions. A word from a mentor on the spot will save aching shoulders
and blistered hands, and be of far more use than many books. Book-lore
has rather hindered than helped us by some of the theory it has set
down.
It is natural that amateurs who had the example of golfing and
other ‘arm-movement’ sports on free angles before them should have
been attracted by the idea of a step-cutting ‘swing.’ This has been
therefore recommended as a saving of strength and an ideal in style.
Possibly many climbers besides myself have formalized their style and
retarded their acquisition of ease and security by practising the
acrobatic feats of balance which an attempt to swing from the hips
in step cutting necessitates. On ice slopes of an easy angle, where
we need no longer cut steps at all if we use claws, the swing may be
graceful. But on steep ice the swing from the hips is irreconcilable
with a secure balance. The most we can attain to is an interrupted
swing or ‘follow-through’ with the shoulders alone, to ease our pure
armwork. It is not unlikely that the appearance of body movement which
this shoulder swing gives to the whole coat of a master iceman, as
seen from behind, misled early students of the art, who were following
in ice steps, into the belief that they were watching their ideal
swing from the hips. But such a swing on steep ice is impossible. The
step-cutter is balancing in many cases on one foot, supposing him to be
cutting steps at wide ‘mountaineering’ intervals, or on the downgrade;
at best he is on two feet set in the same straight line. He cannot,
therefore, risk any swinging movement which would disturb his balance
above his single base line or point. Let anyone try the hip swing
standing thus on a single foot, or on feet alined at a wide interval on
the ground, even without the complication of the narrow ice step or the
obstruction of the side wall. He will begin to doubt the advisability
of our classic swing. Nor may a step-cutter let his swing travel
inward with the axe on to the slope; because it is the essence of good
step-cutting that the axe shall stop with a jerk, releasing itself from
the ‘stick’ of the point in the ice while it jars loose the section of
ice that it has split. The hip swing, therefore, if we attempt it, must
be checked at both its ends; and very little space remains between the
two checks to get the swing going. The steeper the ice the shorter the
axe-strokes, and the less and less the opportunity of introducing the
swing. As a further difficulty, no one but a craftsman trained in the
workshops could swing the whole body so exactly as to strike with his
point within a fraction of an inch of the spot required. In chopping
wood, which is done with the feet spread, an amateur can achieve this;
but if he is balancing on feet alined, it is beyond the skill of most
experts to swing from the hips, strike absolutely true, and at the same
time remain in secure balance.
Even the shorter shoulder swing, which we use on slopes of easier
angle, where we can get some support for our balance, when standing
on the outside foot, by pressing the inside foot or the inside knee
against the ice wall, becomes impracticable when we are standing, as we
must be for half our cutting time, on the inside foot, with the outside
foot in a line behind us or swinging free to our poise. On steeper
slopes, where we have no margin of balance for any outward swing and
no room to get a support for the inside foot against the ice, the
shoulder swing becomes impracticable even when we are cutting off the
outside foot. On such slopes we are only free to use the short play of
the arms, and cutting becomes simply accurate ‘chopping.’ Not only on
these steep angles of ice, but on all awkward passages where we are not
placed comfortably for free cutting, but where we have to aim our steps
at cramped angles with bent arms or with one hand alone, our cutting
can be no more than chopping from the elbow, or sometimes only from the
wrist. Since, for men who wear claws, these are the only passages on
which much step cutting should be really needed, the body and shoulder
swings may be safely dropped out of the category of desirable ideals.
The characteristics of a good cutter are accuracy of aim in making
the stroke, with the right inclination of the pick and the right jerk
of the point; good balance upon both feet or on one foot; and an easy
but restrained arm movement, so that he can continue the strokes
with smooth precision for an indefinite time. A man who has acquired
these will naturally use any easing of the slope in his favour, or
any facilities it may offer him for better foot balance, to lighten
his armwork by means of a follow-through with his shoulder. But if a
mountaineer begins to learn with the idea that he has to ‘swing’ in
order to cut well, he will expend most of his energy upon easy angles
where claws make it unnecessary to cut steps at all, or in recovering
his balance and making very bad steps upon steeper slopes--for the
short spells that his strength and nerves will stand.
A good step-cutter need not ‘swing,’ but he also may not ‘press.’ It is
mechanically obvious that if a man is not swinging, but has his stroke
under muscular control throughout its duration, he will gain nothing,
and merely fight against himself, if he tries to force the stroke or
‘press’ before he arrests his point with the final jerk. Once the
stroke is started, a good cutter lets the axe fall of its own weight;
that is, he follows the stroke through with only just the amount of
control needed to direct the point until its contact with the ice.
Each man must discover his own fashion of sketching out a step. The
sequence and arrangement of his strokes will vary with the quality of
the ice and with his position for cutting.
Every step should slope slightly inward. The angle of the tread is of
more importance than the size of the step. On steep ice the inside or
back wall just above the step should be cleared away, to allow the shin
room and to let the leg stand upright above the foot.
The outside edge of the step should never be cleared entirely or
flattened. The ice dust or fragments, if not too large, should be left
there, to pack under the foot and give it a further prop inwards. A
good step looks like a rough notch before it has been used; but after
the first foot has passed over, it should have taken the shape and size
of the sole, and look like its mould.
Large steps or ‘buckets,’ such as the guides provide as the beginner’s
joy, are useless to men who wear claws, and more dangerous than small
steps for those who do not. A large step has a large uneven, or a large
smooth floor, upon which the sole is apt to slip about as the weight is
transferred. Its suggestion of moral reassurance is a poor compensation
for a spoiled balance.
A step should be small, just fitting the foot and gripping the side of
the boot; the back wall should just prop the ankle for better balance.
It should be comfortable to leave as well as comfortable to step on
to. An experienced step-cutter will always prefer to make small steps,
not because of the saving of time, but because, on all but exceptional
passages, the small, close step gives him a better basis of balance for
his next reach-out and cut. Large buckets only become necessary when
the angle of the ice wall is so steep that there is no room for the
shin and knee to stand upright above the foot. A big slice has then to
be cleared away above the step, and this generally involves enlarging
the size of the floor of the step, especially if the cutter is not
expert.
A man has to learn to cut off either shoulder. He must also be able to
cut steps with either hand alone, in order to have his other hand free
to take handholds on the exceptionally difficult passages or traverses
where these are found necessary. To aim a step with one hand needs
practice. To keep a firm grip on the axe shaft, more especially as this
gets iced, makes it important to secure a shaft that is well balanced
and easily grasped. It may well have some protuberance or collar which
prevents the hand slipping. For the same reason the sling is a sound
precaution.[14]
To cut handholds in ice calls for a very fine touch. The best that can
be usually formed is no more than a steadying nick, over the edge of
which the glove can be hooked. The hand shapes the edge of the nick
to the curve of the fingers by pressure, and in the process the glove
freezes slightly to the ice. The hand can rarely give more than a
balance hold on ice. Security and anchorage must be given by the feet.
Similarly, the hand or rather axe hold that we make by driving in
the pick above us, in order to help us over a bad step, is usually
inadequate. The pull that comes on the shaft with our weight must
always be from a direction different to that in which we drove in the
point, and the strain will either loosen the point or lever out the
section of ice which the blow has in part detached. To drive in the
pick straight and not on a swinging arc, so that it may remain firm
at an angle to take the pull of our weight in transference, requires
a kind of arm stroke very difficult to make with sufficient force in
hard, steep ice.
For men without claws the scrambling method, which some leaders risk to
save labour in cutting, of alternating one good ice step with a scratch
for the other foot, covered by an axe hold, can only be excused by rare
circumstance. It is far better to take the little extra time required
for making sound steps under both feet. Men on claws, however, are
better able to use handholds and pick holds in ice. Their feet are firm
so long as the angle and their nerve allow them to stand upright in
balance. All they require is a balance hold, to cover them in starting
the next movement; for so much assistance a hand nick or a driven pick
can well be trusted.
The step for the foot which is passing inside and next to the ice slope
can, to save time, be made smaller than that for the outside foot. For
a good party, without claws, the step for the inside foot need only be
a nick for the side of the boot, provided always that it is inclined at
the right angle. To use such steps it is obviously important that the
whole party should follow with the same foot. For men with claws there
is no need to make this differentiation. Wherever steps are needed for
claws, they may all be made of the same small size--just a sufficient
nick to take the side points of either claw.
In cutting on a diagonal uphill, for men without claws, it is better
to make the interval between the steps shorter when the rising step is
to be made from the inside foot on to the outside foot. In rising from
the outside foot on to the inside foot a longer stride can be made in
balance, and the interval between steps can be made longer.
In cutting diagonally on the downgrade, the contrary is the case. In
dropping from the inside foot on to the outside foot a longer stretch
can comfortably be made than from the outside foot on to the inside
foot.
In cutting horizontally, a longer stretch can be made from the outside
foot on to a step for the inside foot, than vice versa. Trifling
distinctions; but a good cutter who remembers them will save the inches
on his alternate steps; and many inches saved on long ice slopes mean a
number of steps spared and minutes, even hours, economized.
For men without claws, or not very expert, it is better to make steps
too near together than too far apart. Safe progress is the best
progress. This applies especially to cutting downhill. Until a climber
is thoroughly practised in lowering his weight on the bending of a
single knee, he will always find one instant of delicate balance in a
descending stride; and the longer the interval between steps, the more
difficult the balance, until the point comes at which he is reduced to
axe scraping, or shuffling himself down the ice leaning against his
hand. When he finds either help necessary, the step cutter should be
given warning at once that the intervals are too long.
Cutting on the downgrade is usually found more difficult than cutting
uphill. At the same time, the securing of the right fashion and
inclination of the step is even more important on the downgrade than
on the up, since the balance in taking a down-step is more difficult,
not only for the cutter but for his following. The steeper the angle
at which steps have to be made downhill, the more awkward becomes the
balance; until, in descending at a very steep angle, the cutting has
practically to be done with one hand. For this reason, on very steep
slopes it is better to cut short descending zigzags of an easier angle,
even in narrow couloirs where economy of time and labour would point to
a vertical ladder.
Where there is no room for a descending or an ascending zigzag, it
is better not to attempt to make steps for the side-length of the
foot, but to descend or ascend face inward, cutting with one hand a
perpendicular ladder of ‘pigeon-holes,’ or steps shaped like small
church apses, to be used both by the boot-toes and the hands. For men
on claws a vertical ladder of nicks, for the fingers and the two front
points of the claw, is all that is needed.
In cutting zigzags for men without claws, besides making allowance
for the different size and length of step and interval needed for the
inside and outside feet, the turning-step at the corner has to be made
of different size and shape. It should always be larger in size and
semicircular at the back, so that the climber can pivot round in it on
his toe, without hitch, until he faces the other way. It is well to
provide a good hand-nick or an obvious hold for the pick, conveniently
placed above the turning-step.
Steps upon hard, overhanging ice, or upon ice near the perpendicular,
are practically impossible to make or use with any real security.
The chief difficulty is to make any sound hold for the hands, such
as may keep the body in balance above the feet. It is also generally
impracticable upon perpendicular or overhanging ice to cut away
sufficient ice in the slope at the back of the step to allow the leg
to stand erect above the foot, especially if the tread is slanted
downward and inward at a safe inclination. When _tours de force_ of
this character are performed, it is usually upon ice which has frozen
in ‘waterfall’ fashion, coat over coat, so that it becomes possible to
cut through one coat and get a downward handhold between the strata of
ice. Such holds, of course, cannot be reckoned upon as dependable for
more than a balance lift with the hand. Claws will help us for such
nice feats; but they are best only attempted on practice glaciers, or
where the rest of the party is soundly anchored.
On high exposed ridges we have often to deal, in traversing across the
faces of towers, with a mixed coating of snow and ice, in reality a
snow cake in process of transformation into ice by infiltration. The
snow has to be cleared away, and enough ice hacked from the rock to
leave us on the lower sill of the gap, so formed, a sufficiently firm
and broad ice edge for a step. This is fine engraving for a leader:
if he cuts too roughly, the whole plate may flake off and leave him
smooth, vertical rock to traverse; and if he stops too soon, the flake
below may similarly peel away when his weight comes on the step formed
by its upper edge.
On glacier ice, any rib, crack or flaw in the ice will naturally
suggest itself as the groundwork of, if not the substitute for, an ice
step. A stone on the ice, or the pocket which it leaves when cleared
away, makes generally an adequate toehold,--certainly a hold for the
point of a claw.
In cutting across ice flakes, or along narrow bridges through _séracs_,
if the bridge is solid enough it is best to make side-foot nicks along
one side of the crest. If it is not solid enough and the steps have to
be made along the actual edge of crest, it is well to remember that the
fit, and especially the exact length of the step, are very important.
The boot sole slips about on the top of a flat ice surface, and a step
on a narrow crest which is made too short or too long for the boot
renders the balance precarious. If claws are worn, the steps will be
unnecessary, and the party will use the side or truncated crest of the
bridge according to its solidarity and their own convenience.
On glaciers, the flaking ice that we meet with on the faces of big
_séracs_ demands great nicety of touch. The steps are difficult to
make, as it is difficult to check the fracture at the right point. They
are difficult to use, because our weight may continue the work, and the
whole flake surface below our feet may come away. Claws are of real
service, as they grip without starting a line of downward fracture. If
we are without them, a deep pick hold must be secured, driven through
into a deeper stratum of ice, to protect the precarious foothold on the
flake surface or edge. Large flakes that boom or sound hollow to the
axe are best left alone.
On ‘crusted’ snow, snow that has melted and refrozen to an icy
surface, which is often too hard to permit of footholds being kicked,
steps are best made by a dragging stroke with one corner of the
adze-blade along the face of the snow. Any attempt to swing or to cut
with the pick will result in the point sticking at every stroke, and
thus in very slow progress. On very hard, sticky surfaces, where the
pick sticks monotonously and does not split the snow-ice, and where
the drag stroke of the adze-blade will not penetrate, the corner
of the adze should be struck lightly in, and the axe shaft levered
sharply in the direction away from the step-maker. This will burst
out a small cube of ice behind the blade. Two such blows and jerks
are generally enough to clear a sufficiently long step for a boot. On
softer, sticky surfaces a single well-aimed jerking blow of this sort,
made by a single motion of the one hand, followed by a sharp, driving
kick with the boot, usually forms steps rapidly enough to allow of
the maintenance of a slow walking rhythm. Of course, to a party on
claws, such surfaces, which cannot lie at very steep angles, present a
pleasant ballroom or billiard-table vista of indulgent promenade.
[Sidenote: Using Steps.]
We learn to use steps before we are, usually, allowed to make them. But
we cannot use them until they are made. Hence the order I have followed
here.
To use steps rightly calls primarily for good balance. A man must learn
to walk in steps upright, merely resting his hand or axe point against
the ice as he moves up or down from one step to the other. If he leans
inward, or hangs on to axe or handhold, he becomes a danger to his
party. The steps are not cut for the angle which his foot then makes
with the ice; he may easily slip, and the faintest jerk of the rope
will snatch his foot from the step. A man upright and balanced on his
foothold at the right angle can take a considerable weight or jerk if
he has but a second’s warning. A man on claws has double this power.
In using a step a climber has not only a duty to his own balance
movement, but to every following member of the party. He must use it
exactly as it is made, and leave it as he found it. The foot must
arrive neatly and leave cleanly. A fractional mistread leaves for
the next man an uncertain or blurred step, if it does not ruin its
security. There may be no overtreading, and no twisting or turning of
the foot on any step, except on the turning-steps which are designed
for that purpose.
At the turning-step of a zigzag the climber twists round face inward
on his toes. If the step is only cut for one foot, he must only use it
with the one foot, pointing it in the direction in which the imprint
indicates that the leader used it. Otherwise he will spoil the step and
get the sequence of his feet wrong.
On steep ice our main difficulty is to pass the inside foot from
behind to in front, between our outside foot on its step and the ice
wall. Beginners and bad icemen are inclined to avoid this difficulty
by shuffling from step to step with the outside foot always leading,
protecting each change of foot with an axe hold. This is dangerous
and ruinous to the steps. On the very rare passages where it may be
found necessary,--for instance, on the few feet of traverse across
the face of an ice-glazed rock wall, or across a vertical ice bulge
in a couloir, where passing the foot is impossible,--the leader will
have cut a continuous ledge, on which he intends the feet to be thus
shuffled and without risk. Otherwise the inside foot must always be
passed in front, whatever the difficulty; and the better a man balances
and the less he leans inward and clings to the slope, the easier
becomes the passing of the foot. Where the wall is so steep that to
pass the leg and hip-bone means really a movement out of balance, the
leader may be trusted to have made some handhold above, if only for his
own protection.
On steep ice, men on claws have to be very careful in passing the
inside foot, so as not to catch the prongs in the puttie or fastenings
of the firm foot. On the other hand a man on claws, secured to the ice
by his prongs and not merely by the friction of his sole, can flex his
firm ankle far more freely outward and allow his inside foot room to
pass.
In descending a very steep ice staircase, it is important not only
to follow with the proper feet but to notice how the leader used the
steps. Steps on a descending ladder are not infrequently cut with
the intention that the inside foot should be dropped _behind_ the
outside foot as we stand sideways on a slope, and not passed in front
of the standing outside foot and then dropped, as in the more usual
movement for easier angles of descent. Step cutters should remember
the device. It is not only easier, on occasion, to cut a step in this
fashion vertically below and not on a descending diagonal, but it is
mechanically an easier movement of descent, on a steep wall, to lower
the inside foot thus behind the standing foot than to pass it in front.
On a diagonal descent, if the shorter legs of a following man find the
steps are made too far apart for his descending balance, and he has no
time to make fresh ones, he will sometimes find it safer to turn right
round and descend the steps backwards, turning his other cheek to the
wall. His outstretched toe can reach farther in this attitude. It is
not sound for more than a few steps, and not dignified; but dignity
must be sacrificed to security if the steps are already made and it is
too late to protest, and it is better to arrive cleanly with the toe
on a step, even the wrong way round, than to scrabble down insecurely,
leaning against the ice with thigh or hand.
It is often asserted to be the business of the second man to ‘finish
off’ the leader’s steps and enlarge them. This has grown out of the
mistaken belief that large steps are safer than small, well-shaped
ones. The bettering may, on occasion, be done by deliberate arrangement
between two men. A return by the same route may be intended, when the
larger steps will endure better through the heat of the day. Or if
there are weaker icemen in the party it may save time to divide the
labour of making the specially good and numerous steps they need.
Otherwise the alteration is quite unjustifiable and improper. The best
cutter presumably is leading, and he will have made the step of the
right shape to start with. If it has been good enough for him to stand
upon and cut ahead from, up or down, it is good enough for the party
to follow upon. A second working-over of the step risks spoiling it. A
patched step is never as good as a clean step, cut just to the right
point and left raw for the kick of the foot to finish and to mould. If
he does not spoil it, a second man by re-cutting postpones his real
business, which is to emphasize the mould of the step still further
by the right planting of his foot. If he has time to spare from his
functions of anchoring the leader or the men behind, he can employ
his hands better elsewhere. He may make additional handholds for
balance on bad passages, or, by arrangement with the leader, introduce
intervening steps, to save the leader time and to favour a weaker
following. If he introduces steps, he must be careful not to upset
the sequence of feet for which the leader is cutting the main line of
steps. He may, also by arrangement, devote himself to breaking up and
dispersing any large fragments of ice left about the steps, though not,
of course, to clearing out the small stuff which is expressly left to
take the imprint of the foot. He thus incidentally relieves his party’s
bottled-up emotions by offering a fair target for the abuse from below
which follows such clearing up, but from which the leading step-cutter
must always be exempt. It is a graceful concession on a leading
step-cutter’s part if, when he is doing his own clearing as well as
cutting, he recollects that his following have heads as well as feet.
Men following on claws, in steps, nicks, or only claw-tracks, are freer
to vary their sequence of feet or their fashion of using steps; the
good hold of the prongs is more than a substitute for the nice fit of
the correct foot to the mould of a step. But both for retention of
rhythm and for security it is better as a rule to follow the leader’s
tracks and save the time which must be spent in selecting new treads.
This applies more especially to exposed hard ice where the rope is
retained. Men moving without the rope may prefer to digress from the
actual treads and find unbroken holding surface for their own claws.
The leader’s general line should, however, be followed.
[Sidenote: The Rope on Ice.]
On ice, if the rope is retained, as it will be on exacting slopes by
all parties without claws and by many parties with claws, it is worn
in its normal fashion, with the waist-knot under the left shoulder and
on the side towards or away from the slope according to the direction
of the zigzag. One hand, generally the right, holds a short length of
slack, as a precaution against jerk and to leave a margin for a longer
or shorter stride in our own or our front man’s advance. The rope
should never be quite taut. If both hands are required for a moment, to
use the axe or to take a handhold, and the slack has for the time to
be dropped, we must regulate our distance carefully, step by step, from
the man in front, so that the rope to him continues to hang in an easy
curve, which will neither catch on the ice nor be jerked by an extra
length of stride on his part. We expect the same care from the man
behind us.
On hard grainy ice it is useless to attempt to belay the rope with the
axe, as is possible on snow where the rope can be looped round the
driven shaft. Corrective measures must be left to the firm balance on a
good step or on fast claws, and to the spring that the arm, holding the
slack, may be able to give to the rope before the jerk of a man sliding
comes upon our waist. If a man slips, our natural inclination to lean
inwards towards the slope and get some clamp with the axe or hand must
at all costs be unlearned and avoided. Once the body is no longer in
balance, nor weighing upon the steps, the feet are easily snatched from
their hold.
On soft grainy ice it is sometimes possible to make a belay by striking
in the pick at a sharp downward inclination above us, and looping the
rope round the pick and close to the ice. The shaft must then be held
rigid in its first position. Unless the footholds are exceptionally
bad, this anchor is not more secure than that given by good balance on
the feet alone. And men are very apt, when a friend slips, to throw
their own weight inward upon the shaft in a clutch of security, thus
pulling the shaft down and loosening the pick from the one angle at
which it could have been of any service as a belay.
On zigzags it is of no use trying to keep at even distances on the
rope, no matter how even the pace. The intervals must alter as the men
pass to and fro on the bends. The rope has to be taken in, as slack
in the hand, and again paid out, as we cross below or above our front
man on zigzags ascending or descending. The turning-step is usually
made face inward in ascending and face outward in descending, though
occasionally it is safer to make it face inward on a descent also. The
face-inward turn has two advantages: one, that we make the turn on the
toes and not on the heels; and two, that if we are using a pick hold
at the turn or balancing with our axe touching the ice, we have not to
make either the change of hand on the shaft of a fixed axe, or the
awkward swirl round of the whole axe outside us and back again on to
the ice, which a face-outward turn demands. During either turn the rope
should be held high, and clear of the feet.
Balance is always easier when moving in steps at a fair pace; and
steps of stationary comfort for turning or special anchoring, and
large enough for both feet, are only made at intervals, generally at
the end of the zag. Consequently it is not always best to follow step
for step with the step-cutter’s necessarily slower progress. If we do
so, we are constantly having to wait standing on one foot, or with
our legs straddled apart on two steps. It is better to pause in the
turning-steps and make up time on the series between them. For example,
the second man secures his leader from a turning-step, and can wait
until his rope is nearly out. He then follows more rapidly up or down
the staircase. He gathers up the rope as he goes if his leader is
still cutting, or, on worse passages, the leader takes it in as the
second ascends. His natural halts will be at the turning-step of a zag
or at his leader’s last anchor step. This method is of particular use
when, as often in a couloir, it is safer and more comfortable to make
our longer pauses under the rocks at the sides, and not all to move
harmonically in criss-cross up the centre. Men on claws may prefer
to be without the rope in such places; in this case they make their
advance when they please, and are free to halt on any more comfortable
nicks to allow for the leader’s slower advance.
For continuous following up steps, the rope and axe are usually held
together in the outside hand, the inside hand being left free to take
balance touches against the ice or to take in the slack. For slower
movement, advancing one at a time, the axe is used for the touches or
for resting against the ice during the pause on each step; this saves
the chill to the fingers. The axe is at these times held across the
body with both hands, the outer of the two hands also holding the slack
of the rope.
On very steep or otherwise dangerous ice we shall only be moving one at
a time. In this case the leader cuts a large anchor step to which he
brings up his second; and the halts will be made by the party only at
the recurring large steps. If the ice, and party, are sound enough for
continuous progress, we shall generally be pausing on steps made only
for the one foot: it is clearly of advantage, at such times, to have
the freedom which claws allow us--especially if we are unroped--to move
on until we have found a really comfortable nick to wait upon.
On traverses or zigzags, unless we can reach a very good turning or
anchor step from which to pull in the rope of the man following, we do
better to divide our stance between two steps. Our feet are then well
planted to resist a pull coming diagonally or from straight behind us.
On a traverse, if we are facing forward, standing either on one or two
steps, it is best not to turn and watch the man following, which will
prejudice our balance, but to trust to the feel of the rope to tell us
what is happening. The rope on ice with its smooth movement is even a
surer telegraph than on rock. Moreover, in the event of a slip behind
us, we have not only the sound of the slide as warning, but the time
taken by a slide down ice, perceptibly longer than by a fall over rock,
gives us extra seconds to brace at our strongest. We are more prepared
to do this if we keep our body and head turned in the same direction as
our feet, than if we first turn round and then have to recover the best
holding position.
[Sidenote: Glacier Work.]
On glaciers, besides the task of making and using steps, there is the
more serious mountaineering business of finding the best route, up or
down, or even any route at all. The climber may or may not have been
able to help himself by preliminary reconnoitring. If not, and he finds
himself upon an unknown glacier, he has one or two general principles
to keep in mind.
The shady side of the glacier--there is usually one more sheltered from
the sun--may offer the best chance of finding closed-up crevasses: or
of discovering bridges, connecting flakes, etc., such as may help him
through any system of open crevasses which extends right across the
glacier.
On a curving glacier, the concave side may present to the eye
the steeper and more threatening waves of surface ice, since the
retardation will be greater on this side. Actually, the ice on this
concave side, of slower movement, will be less intricate and the
crevasses more contracted. Often the steep crests of ice will be
merely surface survivals of crevasses, and their bases will be merged
continuously in one another, forming broad glacier dimples easy to
negotiate.
On the convex side, the ice crests of swifter movement may appear to
be more negotiable, but the crevasses will be open and deep; and on
this side there is always more possibility of finding a secondary
or tertiary system of edge-crevasses intruding upon the normal
side-system. These crevasses are produced by the friction of the
glacier against its containing walls, and, like other crevasses, by
the unevenness of the rock bed; but being on the convex curve and
unsubjected to compression they not only open but stay open. Most
edge-crevasses are usually much covered with moraine and stones, on
lower glacier, and by many treacherous forms of rotting snow on upper
glacier, and they are thoroughly unpleasant to work through. It is best
to avoid them by turning out towards the middle of the glacier, until
the side-rifts run out in harmless cracks.
On a glacier of approximately straight descent the ordinary systems
of crevasses are three in number: these various marginal crevasses,
transverse crevasses, and crevasses running lengthways down the fall.
The transverse crevasses are caused by the falls in the rock bed of the
descending glacier. They are best crossed on a direct line of ascent
or descent of the glacier. According as the glacier is humped in the
middle, or flat and even hollow, these crevasses will be found, in
the first case, less open nearer the sides of the glacier, and in the
second, less open towards the flat or concave centre.
The third system, of lengthways crevasses, is due to the opening out
of the containing walls of rock, or to long ‘hog-back’ elevations in
the rock bed below, which thrust up the centre of the glacier. This is
the more dangerous system to negotiate. Crevasses, especially those
whose edges are concealed, must be approached, for crossing, at right
angles to their run. A party ascending or descending the glacier
lengthways will have constantly to be swinging its whole length on
the rope, wheeling until at least two of the party at a time will be
approaching the crevasse at right angles to its line and their former
line of march. So long as the glacier is clear of snow, the crossings
can be thus safely, if tiresomely, managed; but when the crevasses are
snow-covered, or where we meet lengthways and transverse crevasses
interlinked, it calls for fine icemanship to prevent sometimes all the
party finding themselves moving along the same line as the crevasse
they intend to cross, or even over its snow-covered length.
Where a glacier, straight or crooked, has one of its sides unsupported
by a rock wall, and is therefore falling away at its own edge, or where
its marginal and transverse crevasses have joined hands, a disagreeable
system of curving crevasses must be expected. This is difficult to
prospect, and dangerous to unravel if it is under snow. To locate the
direction of a ‘scimitar’ crevasse at one point, and avoid it or cross
it correctly, does not protect us against its later loop of unexpected
trespass upon our route. The side of the falling away of a glacier
should as far as possible be avoided, in spite of the temptation of its
easier-looking surface ice.
On large glaciers, where two systems of big crevasses, each equal and
still active, have met, we find the worst problem of all: that is,
separate ‘cubes’ or islands of ice with crevasses on all their four
sides. It leads only to disappointment to attempt to get through a big
system of this character. Fortunately it is generally recognizable
from a distance by its upstanding squared summits. For a space, also,
round the junction of any two glaciers these turbulent effects of
cross-pressure must be expected, and the area entered with caution.
On high snow-covered glacier, the huge rotund depressions or mills
cannot be disregarded. But they can usually be skirted closely with
confidence. They are the result of strains that, fortunately, do not
create subsidiary or flanking clefts. They resemble mammoth ice sea
urchins, not glacial star-fish.
On glaciers of rapidly changing angle and surface, a disagreeable
phenomenon is the formation of an upper crust of ice, or frozen snow,
over lesser depressions of the mill type. The crust gets separated from
the fall of the surface below it, and while it continues to present a
harmless appearance to all but very close inspection, it may surprise
a whole party by letting them down simultaneously into a sufficiently
startling hollow. The situation is generally more sensational than
serious. Similarly, in winter, pools are formed in glacier hollows and
frozen over. Then they are covered with snow, and the water drains from
under the crust. Thus ice-traps are formed very difficult to detect by
the eye, but which sound hollow under the testing tap of the axe point.
On covered glacier the axe may never rest idle.
Glaciers in general, like rivers, alternate between distinct falls and
more level slopes of smooth shoot or broken rapid. The routes through
the smooth sections are easy to trace out from above, more difficult
from below. The falls are more difficult to unravel from above, on a
descent. In coming down large dry glaciers we can assume that a fall
rarely extends equally broken right across the glacier; and that there
will be a long bending eddy of smoother surface dallying close round
the edge of the more broken section, which may afford us a passage
through or round the rapids. On a small or steep glacier, where the
fall visibly occupies the whole breadth of the glacier, and there is
no eddy round it, it is useful first to discover if there may not be
a direct central line which appears to force through the fall a long
arrow-point of lazier, more level flow, such as we look for when we are
canoeing down rapids. Failing either of these, on a small steep glacier
the fall is often best skirted on the concave, or on the shadowed
side of the glacier. Only in rare years, of hot seasons following
mild winters, do alpine crevasses, or more often one great crevasse,
sometimes extend right across a narrow steep glacier, and offer no
through route, or bridge. As a last resort then it may be necessary to
take to the rocks at the side of the glacier and circumvent the fall.
To get off a glacier at the right point in the evening, and also to
lose no time and patience when we turn down on to the big glaciers in
the early morning, it is our business to have noted beforehand from
above the lie of the crevasses, and the points where it will be best to
start crossing their trend. Many glaciers tempt us with long sloping
lines of good going where their crevasses slant inward and upward from
the margin. If we follow these without pre-examination, we either
find our entry carried out and across to where the systems meet and
produce difficult ice, or our exit balked of a landing-place. A few
resolute traverses of the side crevasses, based upon observation, will
often take us on to the master-diagonal, that launches us clear of the
central fall or lands us on our chosen marge.
It will be seen that it is of value to train the eye to read a glacier
from above, and mark out the best route, before we descend upon it.
This inspection should be made not only of the glacier on to which
immediate descent is intended, but of all the glaciers commanded by the
ridges upon which we are climbing in a given season. The information
may be invaluable for a future day, and the practice will serve
conveniently to develop glacier prescience and glacier instinct. In
addition, we secure a general idea of the condition of the glaciers in
a particular season, or in a particular locality, which will assist by
analogy to the unravelling of other glaciers which we may have been
unable to prospect. A good iceman not only notes from afar, but retains
his recollection of the route he noted when he is actually on the
glacier and exposed to the constant temptation of following lines of
deceptive least resistance. A number of mountaineers learn to observe,
but few to remember; and fewer still will uphold memory against the
evidence of the moment.
Conversely, it is valuable practical training to note, when we are on
a glacier, the character of its rock walls, and the points at which
the ice could be reached on a descent of the last rocks from the
surrounding peaks. The rock wall just above a glacier is like a sea
cliff, smoothed below, and presents a perpetual problem, of ascent
or descent. Long returns may often be avoided by our recollection of
inspections of a particular wall, or by deductions from our memory of
the fashion of rock finishes found on the local glaciers.
Glaciers vary from year to year, and change slightly from week to week,
and even on familiar ground it is wise to keep ourselves up to date by
using all points of observation for the rediscovery of their annual or
local variations.
With a few general principles as guide, the instinct that comes with
experience as our aid, and backed by the usual allowance of climbers’
luck, there may be said to be scarcely a glacier, in the Alps at least,
which cannot be traversed by patience and skill in all but exceptional
seasons. An additional measure of precaution must of course be
conceded, if we are following a line after noon or after sunshine which
we could take on trust in the frozen hours before sunrise. And even
before sunrise, in negotiating steep glaciers, dry or snow-covered, a
very careful eye has to be kept upon the chance of ice avalanches or of
the fall of a _sérac_. For this risk is not confined to the afternoon
hours, when they are most likely to fall. A warm night, or frost, tepid
wind or rain, will put the last touch to the career of many vagabond
pinnacles depraved by the sun of previous days.
Where we can command the distant glacier above us, it is not difficult
to mark the dangerous pinnacles and _séracs_, and to calculate their
direction of fall should they choose for it our moment of passage.
Otherwise, if we are launched in the morning, without prospect, into
the blind intricacies of a big ice fall, the traces of previous falls
must be our signals. They will be either scars, from which we draw
conclusions according to their appearance of age or newness, or, more
frequently, the remains themselves of a past fall, shattered fragments
of ice. From the surface of the blocks we know whether the fall was
recent or not. If the surface is blue and new in the morning, it has
been a recent or night fall, and another may be expected; the same if
it has only the rime of frost upon it. If the surface has melted at all
and been refrozen since the fall, it is the fall of the day before or
of still older date, and it need not be especially regarded in making
an early morning traverse. The differences are notable, and a practised
eye, backed by knowledge of the weather immediately preceding, can say
within a day or a night when the fall took place, and whether it was
a day or a night fall, and judge accordingly, with some probability
of correctness, when a similar fall may be expected. Again, if there
are traces of several falls of different dates, the passage is exposed
to the raking of more than one periodic _sérac_ mass, and it must be
avoided. If it is but a single old fall, of a complete _sérac_, which
no expert will have difficulty in discovering, it cannot fall again and
may be disregarded.
After the sun has once risen, all commanding and large _séracs_,
even if there is no trace of previous falls, must become objects of
suspicion, if we have to pass below them. Their period of decline and
fall is proceeding, and its close cannot be calculated nearer than
within a few hours.
But a skilled party, with claws and experience, need not be afraid
of adventuring on to a crossing of the wettest, bluest, and
nastiest-looking _séracs_, provided that they can work out a route of
safe footing and that the threatened zones are visible, and therefore
avoidable. So long as snow does not conceal the cleavages or muffle the
frailties, the difficulties of ice, as such, are a delight to master.
With a good axe, good claws and a good friend, to set one’s feet on the
crisp spring of morning ice and feel battle joined with the white, blue
and silver giants of a glacier fall, I know no excitement so sanely
joyous; and no sound so thrilling as the clean hollow smack of the axe
and the bell-like rustle of the falling ice-chips returning from the
deep crevasse; and yet again, no exultation more healthy than to look
back through the glittering labyrinth of turquoise and grey precipice,
of sapphire chasm, fretted spire, and lucent arch, flake and buttress,
and see the little serpent of our blurred blue steps, edged with the
tiny winking prisms of sunlit ice-dust, soaring, dipping, circling,
hazarding on its absurd adventure: surely a connected thread of very
happy human purpose, asserting its gay consequence triumphantly through
the heart of the wildest and most beautiful of the conflicts between
nature’s silent armies.
[Sidenote: Snow-covered Glacier.]
Higher glaciers, and the higher reaches of glaciers covered with snow,
are the most complex of all mountain problems, and their unravelling
is the final test of mountaineering. They demand for their duality
of difficulty the mastery of snow and ice technique in combination;
and for their associated risk a fourfold measure of precautionary
skill; for on them we expect to encounter the ordinary risks of snow
superimposed upon the hidden, and therefore magnified, possibilities
of danger on ice. The great icemen, those who can disregard a late
descent after a long day, and by memory, or by the ice instinct which
is the emanation of recollected experience, are able to lead a tired
party unerringly through the fantastic, often invisible entanglements
of a snow-covered glacier system, intensified by sunshine, their own
faculties unimpaired by darkness, fatigue or danger, are masters of the
craft; and they are few enough for us to give them ungrudgingly the
title of genius.
The peculiar risks of snow glaciers force upon us a reconsideration of
the numbers proper for a party.
Solitary climbing is never justifiable on any type of expedition which
involves either snow or ice; in fact anywhere where the increase
in the so-called objective risk makes it impossible to observe the
super-precautionary conditions which must always limit a lonely
climber’s performance,--as elsewhere enumerated.[15] An expert on
claws may pass a day alone on a dry glacier, with the knowledge that
he is taking some definite risk. But anyone who ventures alone on
snow-covered glacier, whatever his skill, is giving to everybody,
except himself, a proof that he lacks the most important part of a
mountaineer’s mental equipment.
The question as it affects a single climber is simple. With the
consideration of the justifiability of a party of two venturing on
snow-covered glaciers, the complications begin. A party of two, I have
said elsewhere, if they are experts, is the ideal party for most rock
climbing. For most normal mountaineering which includes straightforward
ice work the addition of a third to a strong party adds little except
a moral security, and diminishes the complete harmony in rhythm and
pace. On clear ice slopes the additional protection is small. If, as
between two men, one has not been able to check the other’s fall, the
third man will very rarely be able to stop the slip of both the others.
On snow slopes, except to share the mechanical labour or in certain
exceptional cases, already mentioned, to participate in the corrective
anchoring, two good mountaineers should not need reinforcement. But on
snow-covered glacier, where hidden crevasses come into question, not
only are two insufficient but even three may find themselves hard put
to it if two of them have to pull out the third from a bad crevasse.
Some mountaineers have maintained, and in print, that it is never
necessary to fall into crevasses; that in every case a man with good
eyesight, knowledge of glacier signs and unfailing observation (all
of which the leader of a party of two must possess for _any_ type of
climbing) can always distinguish their unseen presence and locate their
line. This view is nearer the truth than the large number of climbers
who have never learned or never cared to use and train their senses
would be prepared to admit. In nine cases out of ten the crevasse is
really perceptible. But there is the tenth case, with which all men who
climb must on occasion have to deal, where there has been no visible
sign, and where the crevasse is discovered too late or is only escaped
by accident. And further, there is also the supernumerary case when the
crevasse _is_ visible, but when its crossing must yet be risked, as the
milder of several critical alternatives, and the consequences accepted.
As the matter must still be considered one for discussion, and it is of
real moment to clear the ground for a sounder tradition than at present
regulates our diverse doctrine and chameleon practice, I shall mention
a few instances of what I have called the tenth case.
In a recent alpine season a mild winter and a long hot summer produced
conditions of snow sub-surface entirely unfamiliar. Crevasses had
opened below long-established snow slopes of unimpeachable aspect.
Their coverings had become tenuous and fragile, but until mid-August
the upper surface of old snow presented no appearance of subsidence
or change. No eyesight could have prevented the falls that resulted.
Such a state of snow cannot be unique, or confined to the Alps; and,
in fact, the same phenomena, in a less subtle form, may entrap less
experienced mountaineers almost any season--guides as well as guideless
amateurs. Moreover, even where the crevasse shadow would normally be
visible, failing light may trick the best eye, a level sun may dazzle,
or low mist may wipe out all sign; and then our expert may go through
as easily as another. Few even of the most experienced guides but have
suffered the experience. Some have been through; others have had their
following drop through where they had passed unsuspecting; yet others
have only averted the break by good luck or corrective gymnastics.
Again, there is the case when the presence of the crevasse may be
visible or suspected, but where its breadth is undiscoverable.[16]
Or, again, where the bounds are discoverable, but where their
criss-crossing may elaborate new risks. Suppose us to be two grave men
making the descent of a hanging glacier. We find ourselves faced with
the alternatives of returning up the peak, of sitting out possibly in
deteriorating weather, or of taking the chance of unravelling one of
those glacier cross-systems of spouting volcanoes, where the ice is
heaped and beaten up into snow-covered vault and dome, and only the
tinkle below our feet warns us that we are walking over the brittle
cupola of some hidden St. Paul’s. One of us might be pardoned for
breaking through here: and how shall one other extricate him?
A more frequent, ‘supernumerary’ case is that of the bergschrund, with
its single bridge which we have to cross to get at our peak at all,
or to get home before night. In the morning it may have been secure;
on our return its security, or the reverse, has to be rediscovered
_ambulando_. The experience is common enough, and few parties of two
will be able to plead not guilty to having at some time taken the
flying chance.
In these and similar cases precautionary and corrective icemanship
can do much to reduce the risk for the party of two. But unless such
a party climbs so as never to cross snow-covered crevasses at all,
which is to postulate absurdity, some risk there must always be of
a break-through. And if that once occurs, for a party of two the
situation is ten times as serious as for any greater number. For if
the fact that a man may excusably fall through may be considered
established,--and I shall assume that it is, sufficiently at all
events for practical mountaineers,--it is only a question of further
fortune whether the crevasse is so shaped that one of the party of
only two can rescue himself or even be helped materially by the second
man. Several corrective devices have been suggested, such as wearing
two ropes, keeping a hand-loop ready near our hand on the rope,
etc.--devices which are now used in the confidence that they form a
genuine safeguard. The intention of the double rope is that if one man
falls through, the other will untie one rope from his waist, and fasten
it to his axe, which he will drive in securely as a belay. The man
below will then pull on this rope, and the man above on the rope still
attached to him; thus securing that the two men will each be pulling
separately to raise the one weight. The effectiveness of the double
rope so used, however, assumes that the crevasse is one with open walls
and clean firm edges, which will allow the second man first to anchor
the one rope round his axe, and then move up and stand close enough to
the edge to be able to pull in the second rope while his friend below
does acrobatics up the anchored rope. But these are not the crevasses
into which any observant leader of a party of two has any right to
fall. Good men, if they fall, are trapped by snow-covered crevasses
of indeterminate edges, or by the midway breaking of a visible but
treacherous bridge. In such crevasses the fallen man will be under
the projection of a lip of snow. He will be hanging free, probably
unable to do more than touch the walls with his axe. The man above will
have all he can do to hold on; he may not be able to find secure snow
within reach into which to drive his axe for the belay; and his hands
will rarely be sufficiently free to untie one waist rope, drive the
axe and fix the rope to it, so that he can move up and clear away the
overhang. The ropes will cut deeply into the snow lip with the weight;
and the friction hold of the snow in which the ropes are embedded will
militate against the effective pulling upon his rope by either man. If
the two ropes are, as usual, tied to the waist, the one will probably
have twisted round the other; both will be jammed in this position in
the snow cut, and neither man will be able to distinguish on which
rope he is supposed to pull. Even if they have been kept clear before,
the cutting through the snow will twist the ropes and jam them, so
that they cannot be used separately for pulling at all. The projecting
snow will interrupt communications and interfere with any simultaneous
action in pulling from above and below. Nor can the man below,
suspended in air, really do much to help. Tie a rope round your chest
and a bough; drop ten feet on it, and then try to pull yourself up it!
And a man in a crevasse is much worse situated for attempting juggling
feats. The constriction of the rope alone will soon make him helpless
and later unconscious. The shock, the imminent peril and the cold will
contribute to weaken him for the strenuous efforts required. Further,
if the rope is tied, as it usually is, under the arm, the knot will
work up under his shoulder and practically put one arm out of action.
All the strength of the arm will be required for merely forcing down
the knot and noose, so as to keep it under the arm-pit; the moment the
arms are lifted to attempt a pull, the knot will force itself up and
half-paralyse the one arm.
It has been suggested, as a partial solution, that the two men should
not rope at the ends of the rope, but keep some feet of loose end wound
round the body. Then if one falls in he can, with luck helping him,
release this slack and make a foot or thigh noose on which the body can
rest while suspended, thus relieving the constriction of the chest.
Anything that _may_ help is worth trying, and I should certainly advise
the method as giving a small extra chance in a bad situation. But this
only deals with one of many difficulties.
Experience has again and again shown me that the man below becomes
incapable of active co-operation, from cold and shock if not from
constriction, before the men above, however prompt and expert they
may be, can arrange and carry out any effective scheme of rescue. I
have known of difficult situations where even two men above proved
insufficient for the complex task of retaining firm fixed anchors,
clearing obstructions and pulling up. In any case no mechanical device
can be equivalent to the power of a third man, and two men can never be
as safe as three.
Once this is conceded, we may admit that a number of good mountaineers
will probably continue to hold the view that two is the best number for
many sorts of climbing; and that therefore parties of two, starting out
with the best intentions, will occasionally find themselves compelled
by the necessity of avoiding even greater risk to hazard the crossing
of snow-covered crevasses or bridges of dubious stability. They should
certainly then put on a doubled or a second rope. One of the two
rope-lengths when tied should be longer than the other. This runs risks
of twisting and is a nuisance, but in case of a fall it secures that
the ropes are at once distinguishable, and it should be prearranged
that the man who has fallen should always do his pulling upon this
looser rope. The second man should have the end of the looser rope
attached, not to his waist, but to his axe shaft. Whenever the leader
crosses an obvious bridge or pauses to probe, the second man should
plant the axe, with the loose rope attached, at once in the snow, and
hold the other, tighter rope in his two hands, ready for emergencies.
It is clear that on this method some practical use is made of the
protection of the second rope. If the leader goes through, the second
man avoids all the enormous difficulty of untying one of two taut
ropes, of fixing it to his axe, and then anchoring it, with the whole
weight of the man below dragging on him. The weight is on the one taut
rope round his waist; he has only to drive in the axe with its slack
rope already attached, and the fixed anchor is ready for the man below
to start pulling upon, while he himself at once has his hands free to
pull on the taut rope. Again, if the rear man falls in--which of course
he has even less excuse for doing--this method has the advantage of
keeping the second rope already loose and distinguishable in his hand,
to cling to or climb upon, and also of saving his axe for him. This
double advantage is some remedy for the fact that the leader, who in
this case will be the man left above, will have both ropes still fixed
to his waist, as on the old faulty system. I do not suggest that the
leader also should have the second rope attached to his axe. He must
have his axe quite free.
It might be well also to adopt the plan of the few feet of loose end
wound round the waist, to make a foot noose with, if the circumstances
and position allow.
When the double rope is worn, the rear man should always carry the
spare rope. If the double ropes are then, as is quite possible, twisted
and jammed in the snow groove, he has yet a third chance of making free
and quick connection with his leader; and unless, as I have said, both
men can begin instantly to use their full strength upon distinct ropes,
there is small chance that one man can get another out of an undercut
crevasse.
In place of tying the looser rope to their axe, some men prefer to
compromise, and make a fixed loop in the second rope near their waist,
through which, in case of the fall of a man in front, they can thrust
the axe into the snow, and so get a provisional anchor. This loop in
the rope close to the hand, to snatch at or thrust the axe through
in emergency, is also used by men in larger parties when linked by
the usual single rope. The method has many objections; and all the
material security it gives is quite as usefully and less objectionably
obtained from the coil or so of slack we are accustomed to grip in the
hand.
In the case of a larger party, if a leader or last man does fall in,
the first care should be to drive an axe, or axes, securely into the
snow, and loop the rope. One man must then approach the edge of the
crevasse and see the run of the rope, the nature of the pull, and the
clearance of overhanging snow, if any, which has to be made. If the
crevasse has the character of a bergschrund, with one lip higher than
the other, it is often easier to pull the man out from the opposite
side to that from which he has fallen. One, or, if the numbers allow,
two of the party must work round cautiously to the far side, taking
a spare rope to let down. A noose should be made at the end of the
rope before it is lowered. The stirrup for the foot can also well be
employed in such emergencies. In a party of three, on a suspicious
glacier, the spare rope should always be carried by the last man, and
not by the first man, as is usually done in guided parties.
With the two ropes pulling from different sides the extrication is
fairly easy. If the farther lip cannot be reached, or overhangs as much
as or more than the near lip, there is nothing for it but to cut back
the lip of snow overhang above the suspended man until the rope is
cleared. This runs some risk of injuring the man below with the falling
masses; but the chance must be taken on occasion. The longer a man
hangs, the more helpless he becomes. Promptitude is essential.
Keen sight is the first quality for a good leader on snow-covered ice;
to be able to remark not only every change of shade or colour or angle
on the surface immediately ahead, but also to be able to read the
surface well to right and left for its betrayal of crevasses that may
be continuing, better hidden, across his path. He must also know all
about glacier structure and the inclinations and aspect of surfaces
where hidden crevasses may be expected. Tinted glasses are, for many
men, an interruption to the reading of ice or snow, and often the
cause of bad leading. The man is fortunate who is able to do without
them when he is leading, or who finds enough protection in the clear
spectacles which best suit his sight. There is an exaggerated idea of
the chances of breaking ordinary clear spectacles which has little
foundation. They can be worn safely on almost all rock and ice; and
even on very severe rock, where they run some risk of smashing as the
head is raised past a ledge, they are as safe on the nose as in a
pocket. Except right up under the arm-pit, and not always there, there
is no contrivable pocket which can be sure of avoiding contact with
rock in some attitude of climbing.
After our eyes--and our experience--we have still another criterion,
that of the hand. The probing with the axe point at every step must
become perfectly automatic, and begin of itself to function as soon as
sight or instinct makes us suspicious about the glacier surface. We
must have the right sort of axe point, one without a large protuberant
collar to the spike, so that we can probe with nicety of touch; and we
must get to know exactly the feel of our axe and the meaning of the
different resistances which its point signals to our hand. For this
reason it is well always to use the same axe or kind of axe.
Where our eye or axe probe has given us reason to suspect a crevasse,
the next test is to flog the same spot lightly with the axe point.
In dealing with sun-soft surface this flick goes deeper, with less
exertion, and practice can make it a very accurate reporter upon the
consistency. This too is its merit in testing the thoroughfaresomeness
of visible bridges. Where also the snow cover is thin, the flogging
stroke tells us more quickly than the prod where sound footing ends and
the crevasse begins.
Snow testing, like walking with the axe, should be shared equally
between the two hands. It is not only exceedingly useful to be equally
dexterous and sensitive with either hand, but the practice keeps
the muscular development even and the general condition of the body
proportionately better.
When we are working through crevassed glacier the second man must
always watch the meaning of his leader’s movements, and halt and brace
at once if the leader checks. The others watch each the man in front
of him. It is essential to follow exactly in the steps on a glacier
of this sort, even though the windings of the leader’s tracks may
suggest many pleasant short-cuts to the tail of the rope. By watching
the men ahead we know when we must be ready to let out rope, so as to
enable the man in front of us, in his turn, to make a long step across
a dubitable crevasse or a short jump, and when we shall have to pause
and protect him with the rope, as his turn comes to start delicately
over a presumed bridge. To hold the rope taut is irritating, to jerk
it dangerous, and to leave it slack on the surface irritating and
dangerous; the correct touch comes with experience.
The leader will always be on the look out; but the men behind will
naturally be following with less close attention. Therefore if the
leader comes upon a small crevasse or other easy obstacle too slight
to cause him an obvious check, he should warn the man behind of its
presence, as he strides on, by beating the spot with his axe; and the
signal should be repeated by each man following.
Again if, when we are all moving together, we have checked in order to
make some awkward step or to test a bridge, we must remember that in
a few seconds the man behind us will be checking at the same place,
and we must slacken our pace at the right second to allow him time to
cross. It is common and aggravating error to hurry on again so as to
get into rhythm with the man in front, forgetting that the man behind
will have slowed up for our pause, and will be jerked or scuffled by
our omission to allow him the same margin.
The same rule applies if we are serpentining rapidly down a glacier,
swinging so as to cross longitudinal or diagonal crevasses at the right
angle. If we resume the normal pace the moment we have swung ‘into
the straight’ again ourselves, we leave no time for the man behind to
finish his parabola or cross his bridge. This is a roguery ingrained in
all but the best of guides.
Glacier craft, the ability to choose in anticipation the easiest line
down or up a volatile succession of semi-visible obstructions, and
to surpass them safely as they become concrete, can only become an
actual possession by long experience and unwearying observation. There
is a family likeness between whole groups of surface configurations
shaped by the same cause, which, however dissimilar their momentary
association, will recall to a recording eye some past occasion of
encounter, and will suggest to a cool head and skilful hands the
proven method of avoiding or defeating them in their new combination.
Glaciers form our avenues of tempting approach, and, as often, of
tedious return. During the hours when human vivacity is on the wane
the higher ice falls are opening always wider eyes of watchful
malice. Towards their confounding not only ice craft but all the
qualities which produce the _collective_ strength of a party, from
temper to the sense of direction, must contribute in concert. Among
glacier ambuscades a party that has not found unity will fall to
pieces. They are yet more demoralizing to one whose leadership is in
commission,--that grievous blunder of divided responsibility, which,
arising out of the sociable conjunction of two or more self-contained
parties for the purpose of a single climb, leads too often through
disjointed action to failure, and even, as our chronicles bear witness,
to disaster.
A really united rope, well led, which can work through disheartening
glacier falls long, and late, and _like_ them, has graduated in
mountaineering; and may be considered to hold the freedom of the great
peaks.
SNOW CRAFT
The technique of snow craft is identical in its principles with that of
ice craft. The upright balanced movement, the management of the rope,
turning, anchoring, etc., are the same, or only slightly modified.
Only points of detail, therefore, need be mentioned which are peculiar
to the different qualities of snow surface. In certain cases, such as
bridges and cornices, both snow and ice are in question, and the notes
are then supplementary to those made under general ice craft.
To make snow steps is a matter of muscle and rhythm; to use them, one
of balance and endurance; but to know how to avoid making them and
where not to make them is the science of snow craft. We may learn to
identify snow states by description: nothing but experiment can teach
us how to deal with them.
We may classify the states of snow under many heads; but we are only
practically concerned with three points: which of these states are
pleasant, which are unpleasant, and which are unsafe to walk upon.
Of most importance is it to be certain which states are likely to be
unsafe, and to be able to recognize their presence beforehand.
Under Reconnoitring some suggestions are made as to the signs by
which snow states may be interpreted from a distance, and some of the
certainly unsafe ones consequently avoided in anticipation.
As to whether the state on a particular day will be pleasant or
unpleasant, the weather of the day, the hour and the angle of the snow
can tell us much. The final test must always be by touch.
[Sidenote: Some Characteristics and Countermoves.]
Snow lying at above an angle of 20 degrees may slide whenever its
support is not equal to its mass. Its support comes either from behind,
the rock, ice or snow surface upon which it rests; or from its quality,
the cohesion of its particles; or from below, the angle and mass of the
subtending snow slope. In deciding about its safety we must take all
those three points under our inspection. Of its sub-surface we know
something if we can ascertain the lie of the rock strata or detect the
presence of ice. Of its quality and mass we judge by surface signs and
our recollection of the weather. Of its support from below we judge
by the angle at which it lies; not only by the angle of a specimen
section, but the angle of all sections of the slope below.[17]
Snow lying at easy angles, exposed to the directer rays of the sun,
will usually be soft; and while we may be able to mince over its
night crust before sunrise, we do well to avoid its possibilities of
purgatory on our return later in the day. Snow on south and south-east
faces for the same reason is the more to be respected, and its earlier
deterioration must be accepted without resentment.
If a strong wind has been blowing, the snow on the sheltered side of
a peak will be the softer and the more likely to avalanche. Snow on a
sheltered face becomes loosened in fibre by the balance between the
air-currents, whereas, on the windy side, it will get blown off or
blown superficially hard.
If there has been Föhn in the wind, the snow will be untrustworthy all
round. Föhn has the insidious quality of disintegrating snow through
all its depth; it may appear to have affected the surface relatively
little, but it will have reduced the under-snow to slush. This is the
most perilous of avalanche states.
Snow may be expected to slide, under the usual conditions, not only
after hot days or days of wind. Days of warm mist and diffused sunlight
may be even more deleterious.
Certain states of snow may start sliding irrespective of all changes of
temperature, at any time and on calm days, merely as the result of some
slight disturbance. First among these is ‘powdery’ snow. This may be
either fresh snow or old snow which has never been melted and refrozen.
Older snow in a powdery state we shall only expect in summer to find at
greater heights, where the daily sun has little power. Since we shall
recognize by sight that it is older snow, and since it has neither
blown off nor as yet fallen, we shall be reassured about its holding
quality, provided that we can also make certain that it is not lying
in great masses or at a minatory angle. Sometimes, although we may not
have seen it, we shall get evidence of its presence above us, in the
appearance on gusty days of cascades of thin powdery snow streaming
like dust down the lower ice or snow slopes. In the Alps these wind
cascades of old powdery snow are sensational to see or to feel pouring
round us on a steep wall, but they are too light to be harmful. The
difference in weight between a flying veil of dry snow and one of
wet snow must be felt on the shoulders or ankles to be appreciated.
Cascades, of a more threatening sound, betray to us the presence above
of old granular or crystal snow. The grains are easily set in motion;
but in the Alps snow of this sort rarely lies at a depth to be worth
regarding. Old powdery or granular snow, lying at a good angle and in
light mass, we shall expect to be laborious but not to avalanche:--at
least until we have put it to its last test of touch.
New snow, as a dry powder, if it lies in large masses, must be expected
to avalanche on all slopes of steeper angle. In lesser quantities, it
may be started by wind or by an incautious passage. On ice or rock it
is never stable, until it has been cleared away or melted and refrozen.
New snow, as a wet powder on rocks, is desperately chilly for the
hands, and has the disagreeable quality of transforming itself into
an ice glaze under the pressure of the boots or the glove. If we are
caught out by a fall of new wet snow on rock, ice-claws will protect
our foothold, but nothing will save the hands. I have known very few
men whose hands would stand more than a very short spell of clearing
out rock holds in wet snow. Gloves are soon saturated, and the ice
glaze forming under the hand still further reduces the effective
grip of the numbed fingers. It is this that makes climbing on rocks
impossible for days after a snowfall; while from snow or ice slopes,
where we are not so concerned with handhold, the same storm will
restrain us by its threat of avalanches.
After a storm of any length, two or three fine days are required in
summer for the rock to clear. The first day of sun should melt the
snow; the night following will refreeze it into a glaze: the second hot
day will melt the glaze; and, with luck, the third day may find the
rocks clear.
All wet snow, melting in heat or rain, in Föhn or after wind, is liable
to avalanche, according to the angle at which it lies and in proportion
to the amount of water which it contains. Only experience and touch
can tell whether snow is or is not overcharged for the angle at which
it is lying. It is astonishing what a quantity of water snow will hold
without moving; and again, what a trifle will set it falling or arrest
it. I have seen a whole quiet mountain face break into avalanches under
the extra snow weight discharged during a few minutes of after-squall;
and I have watched water-logged snow streaming like thin milk over
the slabs of a north precipice, stopping suddenly as heavy, cold grey
clouds crept over the rocks, only to begin again the instant the clouds
passed and the sun broke through.
Frothy snow, neither powdery nor wet, but of the texture of dry
sea-foam, is not so frequent in summer in the Alps as in some other
great ranges. But I have found it occasionally near big summits or high
up on northern snow faces. In spite of its intimidating quality, it is
safe at almost any angle if it lies on a good sub-surface. But it is
infinitely laborious. A step takes us up to our waist or shoulders.
Progress is only possible by flogging a furrow up it with forearms and
shins, which leaves a trail like an ecstatic sea-serpent. Some relief
can be got by slapping down the shaft of the axe flatwise above us and
crossways to the line, and pulling up on it as on a horizontal bar.
Before venturing upon snow of definitely unstable type, such as powdery
snow or wet snow, we must make certain of its mass, its angle and the
nature of the surface below it. We then adapt our methods accordingly.
For instance, if we find that wet or powdery snow is lying upon ice
at anything but a very low angle, we start by finding out if it is of
the same quality for all its depth. If it is, we must clear it away
at each pace and cut a step in the ice below. If the poor quality is
only superficial and improves below, or if we notice that where the
lowest skin of snow rests on the ice it adheres either in a film or
in measle-patches,--which signifies that the ice and the snow surfaces
are going through a gradual process of peaceful interpenetration,--we
can count on this lower snow surface for sure footing. We need not cut
steps, but only stamp through the snow to a safe depth for a sound step.
If we have any doubt as to the security of a slope, which we shall have
when the angle of the slope and quality of the snow are varying and
the resultant stability is indeterminable, we must ascend or descend
it vertically, if possible, or on very steep zigzags. We must take
care to cross incipient cleavages, or traces of horizontal strains on
the surface, at right angles, and never encourage them by letting the
weight of our party tramp parallel to their length.
A steep slope of doubtful quality, if it has to be traversed, should
be crossed as near its upper edge as possible, and this particularly
if the slope is subtended by a cliff or a snow slope of steeper
inclination.
On a slope actually showing traces of a recent slide, secondary falls
may be expected. A snow slope is not a _sérac_, and it is not so safe
to assume that all has fallen that can fall without close inspection.
If we cannot see the place of origin we can make a deduction, as in the
case of an ice fall, from the appearance of the nearer debris: as to
whether it was a recent fall, a night or day fall, a surface skim, a
local powder-rush or a sample of gravitating under-slush.
On the lee side of ridges which have been exposed to the wind, we must
expect to find snow accumulations of a poorer quality, and liable to
slide according to the angle at which they lie. This will be especially
the case if the ridges are subordinate ribs descending from a principal
ridge. On such ribs, if we find wind signs on the near side, we must
be careful of the snow on the far side of each rib, and in all the
adjoining protected hollows.
Good snow is either snow with a hard surface, or snow which, below the
surface, remains sticky and light. Except at great heights, we shall
only find snow hard before the sun has touched it. Before sunrise,
after wholesome cold nights, we count on finding all snow surface good
and every bridge holding. When we find soft surfaces in the early hours
after a warm night, it bodes us ill if we have to return the same
way later. On hard, steep snow, wherever our boots begin to scratt
fretfully for foothold, it is less fatiguing to put on claws, or to
make a notch with a single one-handed tug stroke of the adze-blade. On
very steep snow of medium hardness, when a handhold is needed, it is
better to use the blade of the axe than the pick.
The more level the snow the more directly will it have felt the sun;
the thinner will be its night crust and the softer its under layers.
Therefore we avoid, especially later in the day, launching out upon
the great snow plateaux and valleys of the higher regions of glaciers,
such as are labelled ‘_Firn_,’ ‘_Névé_,’ ‘_Ewige Schnee_’ on maps,
names of foreboding. If we have to take to them, we keep to the sides,
where the snow-levels begin to climb and the rays strike less directly.
If we have a choice, we select the side or line which is subject to
the shortest hours of full sunlight. Always, if they are there, we
use old foot tracks. The floor of an old step melts and refreezes
and, protected by its depth, remains firmer than its surroundings. On
popular peaks these tracks can become immense frozen ruts, very awkward
and ankle-racking to descend. It was reported one radiant year that
a tourist on the final slopes of the Jungfrau had fallen into one of
these ‘steps,’ and had been extricated with difficulty.
[Sidenote: Snow Travail.]
When we are really in for a steady plough through deep snow, the stride
should be kept short, the knee bent, the weight well forward, and the
body swaying from side to side--in fact we adopt the ‘tramp’s walk.’
To thrust with the straight knee is uselessly fatiguing. On soft snow
we are lost if we cannot achieve some sort of steady rhythm. The feet
should be planted _straight_, and not toes outward. The length of the
stride with either leg should be absolutely equal.
If the weights of the party are very uneven, the heavy man should
precede. It is less fatiguing for a heavy man to make his own steps,
where he allows beforehand for the ‘give’ of the snow, than to stride
out behind expecting a firm tread, only, in two out of three steps,
to find the floor give way under him. Irregular resistances are the
negation of rhythm.
Unless he has the shortest legs of his party, the step maker must
always shorten his normal stride on soft snow. The length of the first
man’s stride is increased as each man behind slightly deepens the
steps, until the last man may have to be making a grasshopper bound to
reach from tread to tread of what started as a normal pace.
On soft surfaces, especially where the resistance is irregular, it is
difficult to keep in balance, and the axe comes into use at every step.
I have usually found it better to reverse the axe. The head, like a
ski-stick, gives broader stay on level snow, and firmer touches against
inclined soft snow, than the point.
Crusted snow, where the surface has melted and refrozen, but too
lightly to carry our weight, is the worst snow of all. When it lies
at easy angles, it may be extraordinarily wearisome to cross. It just
bears our weight until the body is fairly over the foot, then it gives
and lets us through. At least the half of each lifting effort is thus
lost, and each fresh step has to be made from a yielding basis uphill
on to a hard one. Rhythm is impossible, and the prolonged aggravation
is demoralizing. For which reason I have found soft snow the one test
of sheer endurance in which good guides are inferior to good amateurs.
We meet it not infrequently in our own islands, and welcome it then as
good ‘alpine’ training.
For really bad crust there is no countermove, except strong thighs
and a high flat-foot step. On crust of a better character, especially
before sunrise, a shuffling step, which distributes the weight, often
saves the foot from going through, or lets it sink to a less depth.
On some crusted surfaces it is possible to slide cautiously along on
the shuffle-step, where lighter men, walking ‘heel and toe,’ are going
through at each stride. When the surface is too soft for even a shuffle
to save us, the tread should be made with the whole flat of the sole,
and not with the heel leading as is usual in road walking. Under the
flat foot, as under a snow-shoe, the snow packs more quickly. To pivot
upon the foot, before the weight comes upon it, widens the bearing
surface.
Soft snow cannot be taken at a rush. There is a peculiarly clinging
and binding quality in the snow of old avalanche debris. These are
just the places where most folk start seven-leagued leaping. If we
cannot restrain them, we make them take off the rope first. To be
tied to a hop-o’-my-thumb when our leg has just entered binding snow,
up to the thigh, at an acute angle to the pull is full of unpleasant
possibilities. The wise man will continue even here to move lightly,
and only as rapidly as balance and rhythm will allow.
On long monotonous snow wades, if we cannot get a good rhythm of legs
or body, it is sometimes of use to supply its place by an artificial
rhythm, counting the steps up to fifty and then pausing, or whistling,
or following a tune in our head--anything that may introduce a rhythm,
with rests, into the featureless vista of effort. The boredom that
may afflict a party on snow is peculiar to itself. The even glare
and the winding line of diminishing tracks hypnotize the eye and
mind, and produce a conviction of exhaustion which is often in great
part self-suggested. The wader feels that he absolutely cannot take
another step. If counting fails, and other wiles and conversational
red-herrings shrivel up in the silent white monotony, rest is the only
cure. Sleep follows easily in such states, and a few minutes’ slumber
often restores a man or a party surprisingly.
On long snow plods it is best to get rid of the rope whenever the
absence of crevasses will allow. It but doubles the uneasy travail. If
it has to be kept on, avoid spoken remonstrance when the man before or
behind jerks you; let the rope do the talking. If you are leading, keep
a small, loose coil in your hand, so that the man behind shall not drag
you in mid-step. If you are last, you can always exercise a salutary,
silent check. If you are in the middle, and you have, as is frequent
in tired parties, an energetic leader trying provokingly to press the
pace in front and the weakest member lagging slightly but protestingly
upon your rope behind, the best way to protect yourself, inoffensively,
is to take up both their ropes in your one hand, and so link their
opposing pulls directly on to one another. You can thus maintain
equilibrium with no further discomfort to yourself. When I was learning
the craft in early years between two guides, or a guide and amateur of
unequal endurance, I had many occasions for perfecting the device.
The use of ski upon snow is treated of separately. Whenever summer ski
have been made as available as ice-claws, there can be no doubt that
they will cancel out for us as much of the technical consideration
of these penitential snow fields as claws have simplified for us the
labour upon all the angles of ice.
[Sidenote: Snow Slopes.]
To make steps upon inclined snow is a matter of little difficulty.
The direction and weight of the kick are suggested by the angle and
texture of the surface. But to use them calls for more care than is
usually given to the matter. On soft slopes it is a nuisance if the
step stamper has a length of stride that makes each pace a slight
effort for us. It is better to remonstrate at once: to shorten the
pace by refashioning the step is to break rhythm for the whole line.
Of course on easy slopes, if we are out of the rope, we go as we
like, provided that we do not exhaust, by eccentric following, the
energy which we should be reserving for our turn in the lead. But as
the angle increases, or where the going gets more heavy, men of any
experience fall into single file; and then to make missteps, to tread
a step down at the heel, or to step outside the line, is to throw
the whole march of those behind us out of gear, and to waste our own
energy in repeating the leader’s work. It is impossible on snow not to
be conscious of the leg swing of the man ahead. If he walks with the
wrong foot for the trail, we are either drawn into his error, to our
own inconvenience, or we resist the attraction with a conscious and
tiresome effort. Our common rhythm goes. Worse than this, he spoils
the steps for us. Nothing is more muddling, in ascending or descending
snow slopes, than to find the steps broken or doubled. We bungle,
and get the wrong foot for the leader’s tracks; our body as a result
balances wrong for their angle of use. In coming down especially, a
bad second man, who lets himself lollop carelessly into tracks or
makes ‘tumble-steps’ on either side, confuses every one behind him as
well as himself. The whole party will be wasting temper and strength
in choosing between a maze of ‘joy’ tracks, or in remaking their own
in despair, where they should have been following mechanically on a
ready-made line.
In using steps on steep snow of uncertain stability, it is vital
to tread right to the fraction of an inch. A tired man who steps a
nail-breadth false on a descending ladder of this character will
certainly cause some step to give, and endanger the general safety by
a slide. He may explain that the step ‘broke away’; but the fault has
been his. It is the ideal of all good climbers, although very few men
can live up to it, to use steps as accurately and with as dancing and
precise a foot at the end of a long day as they did at the beginning.
If a snow step on a steep slope looks insecure, as it often may on wet
snow after several men have passed, it is best to tread slightly inside
it and scrape down a shaving of fresh snow to strengthen the floor
under the foot. But this intentional over-tread should never be made on
the outside of a step. If a step has broken away and a new step has to
be made, it should be trodden, similarly, inside the old one, over but
not exactly in line above the broken step.
Descending on snow of poor quality is oddly nervous work. The
descending action is awkward, as upon ice, and there is the added doubt
as to what will happen when we drop on to the foothold. Every one has
days when the muscles are stiff and when the descent of shaky steps
does not go in easy balance. At such times it is reasonable, and safer,
to make ‘arm-scoop’ holds to help the balance on the step-down. We
may do on snow what we may not do on ice--take the weight momentarily
off our foothold on to the arms; because on snow, if some one else
slips, we can at once drive another foothold with the heel and get
into balance for the jerk. In coming down steps in soft, steep snow
which have been worn away by previous members of the party, it is often
even advisable to make these arm-scoops in order to save the effort of
making new steps and to lessen the weight on the old ones.
On high, popular ridges in fine weather the lines of old steps with
their floors refrozen and their shape spoilt are often uncomfortable to
use on the descent. For the mountaineer the whole day should be equally
of pleasure. The more the difficulty of the climb is over, the more we
may consider our comfort, even to the point of demanding a new set of
steps.
On steep zigzags, if we are crossing and recrossing one another, we
remember to give the man below us ascending, or above us descending,
time to make his turning step at the corners. If we do not slacken, we
shall jerk him or force him to let out his hand coil just when he is
most occupied with the turn.
On big faces, of yielding snow, we find firmer stepping up the
wind-blown crests of the undulations, often only detectable by their
correspondence with the buttresses descending from the cliffs above.
Conversely, on faces of recalcitrant snow, we foot it more lightly up
the troughs between the waves.
[Sidenote: The Rope and Axe.]
Except on hard morning snow, or on snow where we can make absolutely
certain of what is happening underneath, it is a good principle to
retain the rope. Progress is quicker than on ice, but sight and
prescience can ensure us less completely against the accident and the
unseen. As a partial illustration of the distinctions to be observed,
a strong party might be justified in making their way unroped and on
claws up a formidable dry ice fall; but they would, if they knew their
business, then put on the rope to traverse the easy but snow-covered
angles of the _névé_ above, seemingly far safer than the _séracs_ they
have just passed singly and unroped.
“What is happening underneath” must be interpreted to mean not only
what may be lurking underneath the snow surface, in the way of ice or
crevasses, but what is happening below us on the mountain side. We keep
the rope on unless we are _certain_ that the breaking of a step or a
slip will lead to no worse results. If there is a long, steep wall of
ice or snow below, or the suggestion of crevasses or a bergschrund, or
a rock cliff, or even a section of the slope which we cannot see and
which may contain a cliff, we may take no chance, and the rope must be
retained.
On all smooth snow and ice slopes, unless we are moving short-roped
over safe and fairly even glacier, the rope-lengths between us should
be allowed to ‘travel’ lightly on the surface. This lightens the draw
of a heavy rope carried on the waist or hand, and avoids the strain
upon the balance. Too much travelling rope is a drag; too little
tightens on us like a brake. The hand must get to know by feel when
there is just enough down to let it travel lightly and freely. The
hand, too, as on rock, must learn the habit of freeing, freeing the
rope continually, so that it shall not catch. Over rough surface we
raise it clear; and over ‘suspected’ glacier we keep it all but taut,
taking up the slack in a hand coil.
We may never trust snow steps, unless in a very fine quality of snow,
to carry more than our own weight. In protecting others of the party,
therefore, we cannot, as upon ice, rely exclusively on balance and our
foothold to take the jerk upon our rope in case of a slip.
To anchor, on all steep and doubtful snow slopes where the angle or the
quality of the snow advises the retention of the rope, the axe must be
thrust into the snow beside and above us at every step. It is driven to
the head or to just beyond half its length according to the condition
of the surface. The rope is passed round the shaft and rests on the
snow, so that in case of a slip we get the friction of the snow into
which it cuts to help us. At a turning step on a zag the rope is put
round the shaft in the reverse direction. This driving of the axe and
the looping of the rope men should execute when the feet are at rest on
the holds, and not, as many do, while they are taking the step. It is
often very difficult for tired men to continue for hours the regular
thrust of the axe and the careful anchor of the rope at each pace. But
just on those angles and on those types of surface where the precaution
is most laborious is the protection most needed. Snow is not ice, and
in proportion as snow steps are easier to make they are easier to
break, and more in need of assistance from the hand.
On the sharp edges of big ridges the true footing is often along the
crest itself. If the crest is too frail for the feet, it can still
provide the best bedding for the driven axe or an armhold. If the snow
is really threatening, and it is unsafe to trust to steps along the
side or on the edge, it is occasionally preferable for two climbers to
make their own steps along opposite sides of the crest, with the rope
riding across the snow edge between them _à la mode Tartarin_.
If rocks or obstacles forbid us to use the rope in this literary
fashion, on such risky snow we shall, of course, only move one at a
time. To secure a safe anchor step while the other man shifts, I have
used the device of driving the axe almost up to the head, and then
standing on the snow crook immediately behind it.
To arrest another man’s slip on steep snow, the snow itself must be
used to minimize by friction the jerk of the rope on axe and arm.
Any bulge or corner of snow will serve, for the rope to play over
and, slowly, cleave through. I have seen a rope, held across a sharp
slanting edge, cut four feet into the snow under the weight of a
sliding man; the friction stopping him gently before the jerk came upon
the axe. If there is no corner to help, we must lean the whole weight
of our body upon the rope where it runs out to us round the belay on
our axe; so crushing the racing rope into the snow and reducing the
final tug upon the driven axe shaft.
[Sidenote: Bergschrund and Bridge.]
The crossing of the obvious bridges over the bergschrunds that subtend
snow slopes is an art by itself. Flat or snub bridges are less secure
than bridges that display a Roman archness of irregular snow on their
upper surface. If the bridge is steep enough to call for steps, the
steps of the leader should be followed absolutely, unless he has
previously cast doubts upon their validity by falling through them.
If the centre of the bridge, or the spring of the arch at its higher
end, appears too frail for steps, and the word be given to crawl, the
crawling should be done quite flat, and the body pulled along by the
axe. To fox-trot on hands and knees is little safer than to walk on the
feet.
If the bridge is only doubtful, we cat-step across it with the lightest
foot we can. We carry the axe at thigh level and at right angles to
the body, so that if a leg goes through, the axe comes down on the
snow like a rail under the arm, and has a good chance of catching on
firmer snow at either end. I once dropped ten feet into a crevasse,
and was stopped thus by the axe under my arm-pit hitching between the
narrowing walls. If we feel a foot going through, we must avoid above
all things our first impulse, to throw the weight convulsively on to
the other foot. The whole body should be allowed to fall forward flat.
A swimming movement with the arms then often extricates us without
further collapse. Of course on no bridge may more than one man cross at
a time; and for a doubtful bridge at least two men must be stationary
and anchoring the rope of any man crossing.
A steep bridge of unproven security is often best crossed, on a
descent, by a prone glissade. If the bridge has an obviously continuous
surface, we may prefer to fly it head forward and face down, because
clothes admit less snow in such fashion. But if the continuity is
doubtful--and the fact is often difficult to ascertain from above--it
is best to shoot the bridge lying on the back and feet foremost. The
hands and feet are held ready to shove off backward against the snow,
and we are ready to finish the crossing on a flying jump, should a
breach appear in the bridge as we approach it.
If there is no bridge, we sometimes have to jump considerable widths
and depths. It is better then to take off soon, and not to yield to the
temptation to creep just a little farther down the steep, crumbling
upper lip of the schrund. Too long a descent often ends in a slip as
the wall steepens, and it requires a nice judgment to continue the slip
discreetly, and shove off for the jump at just the right instant to
carry us across to the other lip. For a high jump into soft deep snow
it is permissible to throw the axe ahead; and it is essential to see
that there is enough rope out for the jump. Again, if a man has jumped
and is shooting on down the snow slope beyond the rift, it is kinder
not to be in a hurry to stop him categorically with the rope. On lower
snow slopes the angle is rarely too steep for a man to be able to stop
himself gradually and less painfully, helped by friction and the merest
suggestion of restraint. Jumps of more than twenty feet into soft snow
have been made; but they are not agreeable. If the snow on landing is
at all sticky, it binds at once round the legs, and threatens a break
or a severe strain as the weight of the body travels forward above them.
[Sidenote: Snow Cornices.]
The cunning of hidden cornices cannot be overrated. Its detection is
dealt with elsewhere.
Once we have located what we take to be their line of junction with the
parent snow crest, we must allow a further broad margin in selecting a
safe line for our steps. I have known a section of cornice thirty feet
deep break away along the line of our steps, when we thought we had
allowed a good ten-foot margin from its line of junction. The heavier
the cornice, the deeper the margin we must leave; not an easy rule to
keep, as the snow curve backing a big cornice will be all the more
gradual and solid-looking. Leaders are always apt to cut the margin
too fine, for the reason that the farther we move away down the back
of a cornice, the steeper becomes the slope, and the harder probably
will be the snow for step-making. At great heights the same cold winds
which blew the cornice may have blown the snow slope to crusted snow
or snow-ice; whereas, where the angle eases off right upon the crest
and the back curves over into the cornice, the direct exposure to the
sun will often produce a band of softer snow, easy to kick steps in.
When we are dealing with huge ridges and long distances, it is very
trying to have to continue to cut steps at a snail’s pace, on a steep
wall, when three feet above there is a line where we could walk. But
these are just the situations which differentiate between good and
bad mountaineers. Danger is a matter for our individual judgment, and
if a guide, however famous, makes steps at a level that seems to our
mountain sense to allow too narrow a margin, we need never have the
least hesitation in starting to make another line below. The implied
criticism is better than remonstrance.
Occasionally when the cornice is not too big and its back is
ice-crusted or exposed to a high wind, it is possible to work along
underneath it, below the crest of the wave. This must be done with
caution; the shock of step-making may easily loosen a section of the
overhang on to our heads.
Where a ridge is surmounted by a double cornice, that is, by two
cornices curving opposite ways, one on the top of the other, there
is simply no safe way of getting past them. Parties who persist in
traversing a great ridge when they find it in this condition must be
persuaded that their luck will take pity on their understanding.
In approaching the edge of any ridge, if it is not otherwise obvious
that no cornice exists, the leader must test for the cornice every few
inches with strong, deep thrusts of the axe shaft. The rest of the
party, protecting him with the rope, must remain well below on the
face until he has demonstrated that no cornice exists, or until he has
had time to locate its line and to return to a point well below the
junction. Such a crest should never be approached diagonally, lest two
men might find themselves on the cornice together, but always at right
angles. If an uncorniced ridge gives us reason to suspect, as we follow
along its crest, that a cornice is beginning, at least two of the party
should descend well down the face (if rock anchorage is not available),
and protect the leader while he investigates.
If we wish to cross a ridge or a pass and the far side is overhung by
a cornice, the leader must be strongly protected while he flogs away a
section of the cornice, back to the sound edge. A large slice in this
case should be cleared away, as adjacent parts of the cornice weakened
by the fracture may fall upon the party subsequently as they descend.
These crossings should never be made where the cornice is really heavy.
We shall never, of course, approach a crest up a wall crowned by a
large cornice; which is equivalent to climbing deliberately up under a
toppling _sérac_. A light cornice we may approach, but preferably at a
point where it has broken away. If no such gap exists, we may be forced
to cut our own skylight through it. This calls for great caution and
skill; a small fragment may easily sweep away any man below us on the
slope.
[Sidenote: Snow in Couloirs.]
In couloirs and chimneys snow can remain at a higher angle than on
open slopes, and presents therefore some exceptional features. Certain
of these are dealt with under other headings. Snow in a rock couloir,
late in the day, must always be tested before we descend on to it. This
can sometimes be done with less trouble by throwing heavy stones on to
the surface. The way the snow spurts or squelches or rives to receive
them tells much to the practised eye. If they start a surface avalanche
they may either betray ice below, or they may leave bare a tract of
hard under-snow down which we can kick good steps. The presence of ice
below snow is often evident at the edges where the snow-ice splays out
on to the containing walls. The testing process should be repeated at
intervals, as we descend, on doubtful snow. A long couloir, of pure
snow above, has frequently ice below snow in its lower sections.
In descending couloirs of uncertain snow, we naturally make use of the
rock walls, when possible, for belays or holds. There are often good
leg stances between the rock and the snow, where the snow veil has
shrunk away, with an ice-trimmed border.
If the snow is of good quality, we proceed as we like; but if it is
shallow, lying on ice, or of suspicious consistency, we ascend it in
as direct a line as possible, or in steep zags, with a disposition to
keep near the sides. On really threatening snow we ascend and descend
by means of the vertical ladder of apses or pigeon-holes, climbing face
inwards, and using both hands and feet. Our tread in this fashion is
more feline, and our weight better distributed.
If we desire to leave a snow couloir by the rocks on either hand, or
to use the rocks to help the ascent, it is sage first to try the side
which is exposed for the longest time to the sun: the snow adhering
to these rocks will be kindlier, and there will be less chance of
an ice glaze. We have, however, to remember that the sunny side is
usually that upon which falls of stones start earlier and occur more
frequently; and our decision must depend upon the evidences of their
spoor on the snow.
Outcrops of rock, in large snow couloirs, on ice or snow slopes, often
appear as welcome islands in a long labour of step-making. But outcrops
are apt to be more or less disintegrated, according to the character
of the rock. If they are not rotten, they are not unusually rubbed
bare and holdless by the passage of ice, stones and snow over them.
Such islands, on ice slopes, are nearly always encircled by harder ice
for a space round their lower walls, which increases our labour in
approaching or leaving them. On their upper side they sometimes support
a convenient spit of good snow. On the whole, they generally give more
trouble than they save.
A particular type of couloir which is found in the Alps is worth
mentioning, because of its false heart and honest, grubby face. These
are the easy couloirs that debouch on to the glaciers at the bases of
many sound granite peaks. They are plastered inside with loose rubble
and snow or gritty mud, and we assume sound granite at the back. With
dirt and care they seem fair enough to scramble down. But they are
often in a precarious state of deeper decay. The passage of the party
will start a gradual or rapid dissolution; and on occasion I have
seen the whole cuticle of couloirs of this type, grubble, snow and
large rocks, slough itself off on to the glacier a few minutes after
the descent of a party. They should always be tested before entry by
discharging large rocks down them, to prove their honesty or expose
their enamelled senility.
[Sidenote: Snow at Home.]
Among the Scottish mountains practice of a very useful character in
our snow craft can be had during the winter months. From November to
May snow will be found of different qualities: the best during March
and April. On northern and eastern faces we may get step-cutting on
hard crust and ripple crust, passable glissading, and happy experience
of small snow slides, large cornices and snow travail. On north
faces, exposed and crusted by the cold winds, snow will stay at an
exceedingly high angle, and as there is small risk of underlying ice,
we can adventure admirable practice in very steep snow work with
more excitement than peril. The snow couloirs at times introduce us
to bergschrunds, and, educatively, to reconnoitring exercises in
identifying the respective runnels of stone fall and water spurt.
On north faces in the Lakes and in North Wales normally the snow work
is confined to the first quarter of a cold season. Ice is rare, except
as glaze or as frozen water-fall or drip in wet gullies sheltered from
the sun. Step-making is commoner than step-cutting. Of snowy, icy and
glazed rocks we can get more than we may desire; but for snow technique
little but practice in travail, step-kicking, back-sliding, rope craft
and blizzard-facing,--all very pleasurable holiday experiences, for
which it is worth while taking down the ice-axe.
It is curious to note that ski-ing as a common device used once to be
practised by the boys and herds of the north, the primitive ski being
formed out of the hoops of barrels. The custom has now lapsed: the
effect of the enclosing of the hills by walls, or of the boys by Board
Schools. The reintroduction of some less elaborate ski might revive a
more romantic spirit.
[Sidenote: Confusing Weather.]
In fair weather route finding on snow has no difficulties comparable
with those of ice or snow glacier. The flaws are obvious, and there
are no hidden angles. The one complication is weather and atmospheric
condition. As a result of the somewhat featureless simplicity of snow
slight changes produce more serious confusions.
High wind is always an enemy,--not only on snow. A mountaineer is more
afraid of going out on windy days than on days of rain and snow fall.
On snow, wind finds a new weapon to hand in the snow particles, whose
blinding assault interferes with the discretion. The sight of the faint
blur of snow as it is blown up from the skyline of a high ridge will
always give us pause: no passage there will be possible while the halo
remains. Wind and snow combined may confuse the best of mountaineers,
and often the compass proves the one rescue from a complete reversal of
direction. However resolutely they march, few men can resist on a long
tramp the impulse of snow or wind on their faces to swing unconsciously
one way or the other for protection. A shift of wind in a mist may take
a party, steering by it on snow, through a complete circle. I have
known of men, attempting a descent on the sheltered side of a level but
interrupted ridge, who were led, by a spinning wind in mist, through
the ridge and back along its other side to their starting-point, and
all in twenty minutes.
But even when unsupported by wind or obscurity, a slight depression
or a light cloud may make way-finding difficult on even snow, where
there are no rock outlines to penetrate its guile. A diaphanous mist,
approaching in tint that of the snow surface, is sufficient to conceal
or completely alter distances and angles.
In cases where the mist exactly combines in tone with the snow, a
curious phenomenon makes itself uncomfortably evident. The leader on a
snowy crevassed glacier will suddenly, and apparently wilfully, begin
to fall into crevasses which are visible to those following behind
him on the rope. They will marvel at his stupidity, until they begin
to lead themselves, when they will reproduce it. The reason will have
been that whereas those behind have some dark object, man or rope,
upon which to focus their eyes, the eyes of the man in front, looking
only upon a uniform blank surface, go out of focus, and become unable
to distinguish between details of the same tone. Any detail darker by
contrast--a rock, or the length of the rope ahead, or even the sight
of a distant peak,--for such mists are often transparent--will yield
them a focal point again. If he has no such natural assistance, the
leader must keep looking methodically at his feet, and then forward.
This will discover to him the nearer crevasses. For a longer view he
may try the device of balling snow, till it crushes to a darker colour,
and throwing it ahead: he will then again be able to see more distant
details in their relation to the passage of the snowball.
In a mist or at night, on glaciers, or on snow slopes where there is
reason to suspect the neighbourhood of rocks, it is possible to keep
direction, and to discover towards which side of a slope or glacier our
march is tending, by shouting, and calculating our position by the time
it takes for the echo to return from the rock on either side. Across
smooth slopes a very small and remote obstruction will give echo to our
appeal.
On open snow slopes where there are no retaining walls, the best method
is to have the full length of the rope out, and put a man with the
compass at the rear end to correct the leader’s line. If a compass
is lacking--if it can ever be lacking in the mountains!--the man far
behind is still in the better position to judge, by the pointer of the
rope, whether the line is being maintained or is inclining either way.
If a return in mist over the same ground is expected, the tracks should
be made intentionally deep, in order to reinforce the line against
the sun’s action, which may be all the more rapid when the light is
diffused through such mist. The axe should be driven deeply into the
snow at short intervals, so as to leave marks which may last longer
than footprints; and this especially on hard snow.
On rocks or snow in mist, and even with less excuse on clear days, some
other-land climbers adopt the device of marking the line of return at
important points of divergence by squares of red paper fixed under
stones. In emergency these can be of service; but they are unsightly,
and their frequent use encourages climbers to pay insufficient
attention to a very important part of their work--which is to note
and record in memory the details of a route against the time of their
return. A climber who has to find the return line on difficult rock
or glacier, or on any climb that winds by devious ways, should never
omit at all points of divergence or of salient indication to turn round
and note how the passage or kink looks from the opposite direction;
which is generally very different from its aspect on the approach.
Distant views are often confused and absurdly distorted by mist; but
details close at hand, for whose memorizing alone red paper could be
a substitute, are seldom sufficiently obscured not to be recognizable
by a trained observation and memory. Only in two cases--one, the rare
event of an expedition over fog-bound snow being continued with the
intention of return over the same line; and two, equally singular,
the case of a party, which contains only one mountaineer capable of
leading the return route, attempting in mist a climb whose difficulty
will necessitate the expert going last on the descent--would the use of
red paper seem to be justified. Waste paper is inelegant, and makes an
unimpressive substitute for hill craft. But mist is a subtle enemy on
glaciers, and we may sympathize with folk who meet it by tricks when
they happen to have brought a box of them with them.
[Sidenote: The Sense of Direction.]
In the end, and behind all memory and observation, we have to fall back
upon that useful but mysterious faculty, the sense of direction. Its
existence is often denied, especially by men who do not possess it, and
its workings are attributed to powers of observation, to unconscious
memorizing and to reasoning. But no one who has mountaineered or
travelled much in uncharted ground with men of very divergent or very
similar powers of sight or experience will be found to discredit its
positive but entirely accidental possession. Irrespective of sight
and independently of the presence of any other respectable mental
faculties, some men are found to possess it and some not; and no
experience or study will ever equalize the capacity of those who cannot
with that of those who can exercise it in dealing with misty conditions
or unknown country. Men who have it only in a slight degree frequently
impair its fidelity by training their observation and memory. By
taking thought we can nearly always confuse it, in ourselves or in our
neighbour; and this fact has especially to be borne in mind in dealing
with less educated brains, such as those of guides, where its working
is unconscious when it exists at all. A pertinent question or reminder
may often set them, or ourselves, thinking or doubting, and lead to
hesitation or wandering where a moment before confident movement
reigned.
If we have once made certain that a guide or even a younger or less
experienced climber possesses it, we may accept its leading thankfully
in moments of doubt, although its counsel may contradict our own
reasoning or conscientious observation.
Those who do not possess the instinct, and those who possess it only
in a small degree, will find it almost impossible in thick mist
on featureless snow to avoid the inclination to turn in a circle,
generally to the left. In mist, with the most resolute intentions, it
is at times even difficult to correct the inclination, by allowing for
the stronger thrust of the right foot (or whichever may be the leading
foot in our own case) and by taking the axe in the opposite hand to
that foot; or by discovering and allowing for our exact amount of bias.
The compass is the only secure guide for the ungifted.
Some men have the sense in the form of an ability to keep a straight
line once set, no matter what the obstruction or obscurity; others in
the form of knowing their position in relation to any near or distant
point they have previously visited. With a few the sense is polarized;
they ‘feel’ the north. My own sense indicates only direction between
points already visited. Although making all allowance for the leading
foot, and conscious that as leader I was being kept to a straight line
by the compass in the hand of my last man, I have myself in thick mist
on level snow, after forty-five minutes of what was actually straight
marching, felt positive that I had led the party through one complete
and one half-circle to the right, so strong was the instinct to turn to
the left in spite of all precaution and prevision. On the other hand,
I have watched a man who had been brought round from Hammersmith to
South Kensington by Underground on his first visit to London, and set
to the task without previous warning, take and keep, in thick fog, the
most direct line back again through the maze of cross streets; which
he could not be said to be seeing for the first time, as they remained
invisible. A singular case was that of a high Wrangler, a mountaineer,
whose sense of direction was acute, but inverted: it indicated points
precisely opposed to the correct ones. Once we had discovered this, and
allowed for the idiosyncrasy, we made frequent use of his otherwise
very exact sense. For those who may have interested themselves in the
faculty, I will add that this friend similarly produced or wrote down
the results of all mental calculations with the figures in the reverse
order.
GLISSADING
Glissading is an art that rewards the skilful. For the inexpert,
though the pleasure in its prospect never dies, the actual performance
is more often productive of aching shins and wet clothes, than of
birdlike exhilaration. Until ski-ing came in to complement it, and we
may say to improve upon it, glissading gave its artists their nearest
approximation to the sensation of flying. Its physical thrill is very
little less intense than that of flying on machines through the air,
because the exciting vibration of the feet over the solid surface
provokes a lively consciousness of pace and motion disproportionate to
the actual rate usually attained.
But it has never been widely recognized that the art has to be learned.
Very little has been written about it, and much of that little has been
fundamentally wrong. All men glissade in a sort of way, as a kind of
amusing frolic, with tumbles forming an integral part of the fun, like
the periodic shrieks of the ladies on the Earl’s Court roundabouts.
But men who know how to glissade, and how to use its opportunities
as a real auxiliary to their mountain progress, have always been the
exceptions. Guides are seldom able exponents. More than a dozen fatal
accidents are directly traceable to bad glissading.
Fortunately, the greater popularity of ski-ing has come to the rescue,
and its more general practice should have prepared both the minds and
feet of a much larger number for a more serious treatment of their
mountaineering glissading. A man who can ski is half-way to becoming a
good glissader. A good glissader, once the first surprise of the ski
feeling is overcome, finds many of the simpler ski motions familiar.
In learning to glissade, a man has three points of normal contact which
he must learn to control: his two feet, and the shaft-point of his
axe. There is also a fourth point of possible contact, with which I
deal separately under sitting glissades. The head of the axe, except
in one very rare case, is useless for contact, and should never be
brought into play. In fact, during the time of learning,--and to learn
properly will take as long as has to be devoted to the beginnings of
ski-ing,--it is better to use only a stick with a single point, or a
ski-stick. The axe head during the preliminary falls is apt to point
too keen a moral.
A certain school of icemen, the devotees of the short axe, keep the axe
head always sheathed in its leathern cover. In glissading the practice
has distinct advantages: it preserves the keenness of the edge,
protects the climber, and is far warmer to grasp. Those who learn to
glissade with an axe and not a stick may well copy the practice. This
suggestion applies to learning both on snow and on glacier.
ON ICE
Glissading on ice is practically confined to short rushes on glaciers;
even there it is generally avoidable, but its mastery adds a delightful
possibility of directness and pace to the late returns down ice falls.
No sane man will ever start a glissade on ice on a mountain side,
unless the slope is evidently short and is seen to end in safe
arresting snow, or in the earth deposits found on Himalayan glaciers.
The sheer pace and rude vibration produce helplessness and, soon,
unconsciousness on a steep ice slide of any great length. Control
cannot be maintained for more than a brief period of inevitable
acceleration. Often, however, quick bands of ice intrude, visibly or
not, on a steep snow glissade, and it is then important to be able to
make the new adjustments required by ice; and so avoid being thrown
out of balance by the sudden alterations in the quality of the surface
flashing under our feet.
[Sidenote: Positions.]
In ice-glissading the point of the axe takes practically all the
weight. It is essentially axe riding. The feet become only props to
the balance. Ice is rarely quite smooth, and, if the weight is at all
on the feet, the slightest irregularity or ‘stick’ in the surface at
this high rate of speed throws the heels back and over the head. The
right hand grasps the shaft, just sufficiently far from where the
point touches the ice to avoid scraping the knuckles. The left hand
grips the head. The more the left hand forces the head up, and the
greater the weight that we throw upon the right hand holding the shaft,
the sharper is the brake upon the pace, and, incidentally, the more
prepared is our balance against an accidental trip.
On hard ice the feet cannot be used to brake; nor, except by very
gradual movements, can they attempt to steer. Their business is to
carry their small proportion of the weight as lightly as possible over
the irregular surface, and, like the front wheel of a bicycle, to
prevent a forward or sideways fall. On rotten ice, if claws are worn,
braking with the feet is possible by driving in the heels; but such
surfaces are unusual in the Alps.
The knees must be well bent, with the body bowed almost into a sitting
position, so as to keep the centre of gravity well down upon the
supporting tripod of legs and axe. The zigzag spring, formed by the
curves of knees and body, absorbs most of the jar. The soles rest flat
on the ice, with the toes pointing down the slope. The feet should be
kept slightly apart, for the better balance over roughnesses. To avoid
obvious lumps they can be slid more apart or brought together. If they
are used to steer at all, they must both be pointed sideways in the
desired direction; but no attempt can be made to drive in the edges
of the boot, as is done on snow. This would merely result in a fall.
Steering, in this position, must be left to the gradual friction of the
soles inclined sideways and downwards, and, in the main, to the swing
of the weight on the axe.
On very rough ice, or on the rough icy surfaces found in snow couloirs,
where we cannot make certain of keeping on the feet if we face squarely
forward, it is best to adopt a sideways position of the body, the sides
of both feet in contact with the slope, and one foot just below and
slightly separated from the other. The distance between the feet must
depend upon the character of the surface and the angle of the slope.
On an easy angle of rough slope, where it is desired to go slowly and
stop at any sudden point, the lower foot, with the knee only slightly
bent, can be thrust well ahead, taking somewhat more of the weight,
and acting as a shifting brake. On steep, rough ice, or wherever it
is desired to increase the pace, and at the same time to protect the
balance, the feet, still in the sideways position, should be kept close
together, while the knees and thighs are drawn up into a crouching
attitude. The weight, of course, still rests mainly on the axe.
On steep, rough slopes of snow and ice alternating, where the balance
is easily upset by the changing surface, this squatting or crouching
sideways position must always be adopted, with the heels slightly
apart and brought right up under the body, which practically sits upon
them. The centre of gravity is then well down upon the three points of
contact, which are all in firm and close relation to one another, and
the balance is steady. Ice-glissading is possible for the expert, in
this position, on many long ice intrusions where ordinary folk have
to creep carefully down in steps. For a beginner, the under faces of
the great ice hummocks below the falls on dry glaciers give the best
practice, as their length and angle can be selected. Since near the
crest these concave faces are often vertical or overhanging, early
practice should be limited to their lower curves.
As in ski-ing, the start-off from the rim of an ice slope or from the
crest of an ice wave is the most difficult moment. We cannot jump into
our glissade as we can upon snow, or at least only on ice of very mild
angles. The right position is to start in a ‘crouch,’ with the toes
just over and the heels just holding the ice edge; the weight is then
thrown back upon the axe, the toes turn down and the legs shoot out.
As soon as the balance in motion is secured, the forward, the sideways
position or the crouch, is assumed according to the feel of the surface
and the angle.
On very steep dry ice, for the first body length or so at the start
of a slide over a vertical or overhanging crest, be it on a glacier
or at the top of an ice couloir, it is sometimes necessary, in order
to remain in contact with the concave surface at all, and not to be
flung out head foremost by the kick of the axe point against the ice,
to leave the ‘crouch’ the instant the feet are launched, and to shoot
out the legs to their full extent. The whole length of the body is then
held rigid, with the feet pressed as much as possible sideways and
flat against the ice. In such a position there is considerable risk of
cutting knuckles or other surfaces against the ice. The position is,
of course, only required for a second or so, as no glissade may be
attempted where the angle does not ease off sufficiently after a few
feet to allow of continuing the descent in one of the normal attitudes
of controlled glissading.
The fortunate will sometimes find an admirable surface on the more
easily inclined planes of lower dry glaciers, where melting and
freezing have followed one another during the day. The ice is so
slippery that it is only possible to walk with maddening dislocations,
and it is generally too level for a long glissade. It is then often
feasible to adopt a ski-ing or skating stride, and strike out with
either foot alternately. On a good surface and angle one may find
oneself travelling in this way almost as easily as on skates.
Similarly, on the wet lower ends of afternoon glaciers, if rubber-soled
shoes happen to have been brought, it is worth while putting them on.
One can drift down on them as lightly as on ski.
[Sidenote: Arrests.]
If the balance is once lost upon ice, and there is no prospect of an
early arrest on a softer surface lower down, it is best to turn on
the back, keep the head and hands off the ice, and force the point of
the shaft back under the arm-pit and into the ice, so that the weight
dragging on the shaft may gradually arrest the progress. The body must
be kept head upwards; the legs, if slightly apart and rigid, will help
to check the pace by friction and by the rugosities encountered by the
heels.
If in such case the ice slope has been badly chosen, and the fallen
glissader perceives that the only hope of avoiding a fall over rock is
to stop the slide at all hazards, the risk must be taken of turning
over on the face. The head of the axe must then be gripped with both
hands, so that the adze-blade rests just over the right shoulder, and
the pick-point is ground into the ice with the whole weight. It is
useless to attempt to force in the pick if the axe is held only by the
shaft, or at the stretch of the arms above the head. The axe at arm’s
length will be torn from the hands the moment the pick touches the ice.
These two methods of arrest can also be turned to account in checking
falls on steep and hard snow, or snow with a crusted or icy surface.
ON SNOW
Even more on snow do the positions for glissading vary with the angle
and consistency of the surface. The expert glissader changes from one
attitude to another, as the feel of his feet on the changing surface
suggests, without loss of balance or even a check to the pace.
[Sidenote: Positions.]
The axe should be grasped as for ice-glissading. The knees should
be bent, slightly or more according as the surface is slow or fast,
forming a convenient arch of balance for the body. The bent leg acts as
a strong spring to absorb jolts, and it is more quickly and powerfully
adjustable to the changing demands of balance, when the body is in
rapid motion, than the straight leg. To keep the knees straight is
impracticable on all but perfectly uniform ‘show’ snow slopes. Those
who have at times advised it have been influenced by some pictorial
ideal which had small regard for the mechanism of the body or for the
conditions of the glissade in action.
The body should not be bent forward or crouched, as is done in
ice-glissading, but held upright or inclined slightly backward, so as
to form a continuous and concordant arc with whatever may be the curve
of the leg at the moment. The lower end of this curve will always be
bent more sharply at the flex of the knee; but in proportion as the
knee is more or less bent, the graceful inclination backward from the
hips will vary correspondingly.
The shoulders, especially that above the hand on the shaft, should
be braced well back, and the head inclined a little forward, for
better sight. The tendency to let the shoulders stoop forward and the
body sag downward into a sitting position has to be resisted on snow
surfaces. It is a false position, that follows inevitably on an attempt
to keep the knees straight; and it is as bad a beginner’s error as
the inclination to sit forward and not back when learning to jump on
horseback. The fact that it has been suggested as the ideal attitude,
both in description and in illustration, may have been responsible
for the large number of mountaineers who have never become more than
‘axe riders’ in snow-glissading. Sagging and axe riding are necessary
in ice-glissading, where we do not attempt to balance on the feet,
but depend for safety and steering upon the axe brake. On snow the
good glissader aims at reducing friction and riding by balance. To sag
or use the straight knee throws us back upon the axe for balance and
for our steering. Straightened knees mean the weight on the heels and
the toes up; but if the weight is more on the heels than on the toes,
steering with the feet is impossible.
The feet should be kept close together, with the toes pointing down
the slope, so as to reduce friction and facilitate foot-steering. If
the surface for a space gets icier and rougher, the feet are allowed
to separate slightly, so as to secure the balance on their wider base
and brake the pace by the angle that the two outward-pointing toes make
with the direct line of descent.
On good snow surfaces to draw the feet slowly or sharply together, so
as to grip up a snow wrinkle between them, or to thrust them apart,
with the toes slightly turned inwards, produces each a different degree
of brake, or helps to reconfirm our balance, if we require it.
Small interruptions on the surface should be allowed to pass between
the feet. In practical glissading, in fact, the feet are very rarely
kept long in one position; they drift gently about, as balance or the
surface demand.
The decision as to when they should be kept exactly parallel to one
another, with the weight evenly distributed between the two, or when
the one should travel slightly in advance, carrying the larger share of
weight for the moment, must depend upon the snow surface and angle, and
on the amount of work that is being done, in consequence, by the axe.
If the surface is roughish and steep or hard, the weight will be more,
and for longer periods, thrown back upon the axe shaft, and this for
reasons of balance. So supported on the axe, there is not the same risk
on a bad surface of our being suddenly pitched outward, head foremost.
In such case the feet are best kept parallel and together, acting as
supports supplementary to the axe, as upon ice. But if the surface
is straightforward in angle and quality there is less threat to the
balance, and our object is to reduce the surface friction and increase
the pace. To this end all the weight will be brought forward off the
axe and kept in balance above the feet. The axe will only be lightly
or occasionally in contact with the slope. The body will be sailing
down upright, but on a curve of balance agreeing with the bend of the
knees. The feet, in this case, adopt a position and a motion familiar
in ski-ing. They remain close together, but one foot travels slightly
in advance of the other, carrying for the moment the greater share of
the weight. The other foot runs in close support. It is brought up, and
in turn passes into the lead, according as ease of balance, steering,
or need of rest for the employed leg suggest. The balance sways lightly
from one leg to the other as each is employed, and the motion, allowing
for the different length of stroke, is not unlike the smooth steady
running in long-distance skating. At any second, if the surface demands
it, the weight can be thrown back upon the axe, and the feet are then
brought parallel again.
Now that ski-ing experience is familiar, it is unnecessary to explain
why glissading on one foot--that is, on a single line of contact, with
the other foot and axe in partial support and ready to take their turn
if required--is easier, quicker and less exposed to accident than
moving on the two feet parallel, with the weight distributed evenly
between them. The instance of the relative pace and security of bicycle
and tricycle, although not quite on all fours, gives us a suggestive
comparison.
On an obviously good and continuous snow slope the axe brake can be
removed altogether, and the axe is then carried easily in front across
the body, ready at any moment to be shot back under the arm into the
snow. The body then sways to the balance, above the slight bend of
the knees, and is practically upright. This is the most delightful of
all positions: there is no tension upon any of the body muscles, and
the sensation is that of a winged swoop. To brandish the axe at arm’s
length over the head, a fashion affected by performers of a theatrical
type more familiar in illustrations than on the mountains, adds nothing
to the pleasure and diminishes the security. The balance above the feet
is prejudiced, and the axe recovery in case of need is slower.
[Sidenote: Steering.]
The steering is done, as in skating or ski-ing, firstly, by canting the
feet and twisting the toes in the required direction; and secondly,
by swinging the weight of the body into the new position above them,
either by means of the sway of balance if we are glissading free, or
by the thrust from the axe point if we are axe riding. For instance,
if we wish to turn to the right, in order to avoid an obstacle or make
a zigzag on a slope too steep for comfortable direct descent, we twist
the toes to the right, and at the same time cant the feet in the same
direction; that is, we press down the right-hand edge of both boots
into the snow, gently or hard according as we wish to make a sharp
or an easy turn. If we wish to accelerate the turn, we bring the axe
into use, pressing back upon the point, which we thrust into the snow
slightly on our right. Similarly, to make a turn to the left, we twist
the toes and cant the feet to the left, and, if required, press on the
axe transferred to our left side.
By making all three movements energetically at the same moment it is
possible to execute very sharp turns. The steeper the slope the higher
the speed, and the higher the speed the more acute the angle of turn
possible.
If a glissader is expert enough to be able to descend steep slopes in
balance on his feet alone, without the axe as brake, and has mastered
the finer art of travelling upon alternating feet, he can steer his
turns also without the axe, and can descend on a succession of sharp
zigzags without the small awkwardness involved in transferring the
axe from one side to the other of his body. When he wishes to turn
to the right out of a direct descent, he sways his balance on to his
right foot, directs and cants it, and as he turns brings across his
less weighted left foot into line again below it. When he wishes to
turn back again to the left out of a zig to the right, he throws his
weight on to his heels, as in a ski-ing turn, directs and cants his
feet to the left, sways his weight over on to the left foot again, and
so continues on the new zag. In travelling on the one-foot method,
sharp turns are made by throwing the weight on to both heels; gradual
turns can be made on the one foot. Slight changes of direction, not
big enough to be turns, are more quickly made by bringing up the rear
and less weighted foot, sliding it in front into the new direction
required, and then swaying the weight across on to it.
An expert can thus swing quickly and safely down a slope or couloir
too steep for direct descent, zigzagging from side to side almost
without help from the axe. His turns are less crisp than those of ski
or skates; but he can descend on a snow ribbon or in a narrow couloir,
where only short boots could find room to travel or turn.
Even if a glissader has only accustomed himself to descend travelling
on his two feet parallel, with his weight evenly distributed between
them, he can still make slight changes of direction, without help from
the axe, by sliding one foot in front of the other. This will deflect
his course correspondingly in the opposite direction: that is, to turn
to the right, he brings forward the left foot; to turn to the left,
he advances the right. But his turns without the axe will never be
effective or sharp until he has learned to glissade mainly on one foot.
The second foot, for a one-foot glissader, acts as a free auxiliary to
indicate the new direction and to support the turning movement, while
the body swings in easy support from one foot to the other, as the turn
suggests.
[Sidenote: Jumping.]
The hands alone should never be used as rudders. Supposing we wish
completely and suddenly to change the line of descent, because we see
some obstruction below, or discover better snow farther off, this
is best done by a half-turn, and a spring on to the free leg. For
instance, to get across to our left we swing our free right foot across
us to the left until it touches the snow again at its utmost reach. The
weight is then flung across on to it by means of the axe, or by a rub
with the outside of our left arm against the snow. The left leg follows
(all without checking the descent), and we descend on the new line, or
swing the right leg again if a second spring is needed. To make these
changes of line, a sideways jump across, off the one travelling foot
and alighting on the two feet held sideways and slightly apart, is a
neater method, but it requires more practice.
Jumping, sideways or downward, is as pleasant a refinement in
glissading as it is on ski, and very generally useful. It is often
more convenient to jump interruptions, of ice blocks, rock bands and
snow humps, than to steer round them. A good glissader jumps off
either foot, and alights on both. Even large crevasses can be safely
jumped by a skilful man, with a great saving of the time usually spent
in circumventing them. But this requires considerable skill and a
discreet eye in selecting the take-off. The edges of bergschrunds are
generally hidden or rotten, and the crouch and spring have to be made
well ahead of possible breakages. The glissader has no hand-made wall
to guide him and to dispatch him on his jump at the right instant,
angle and velocity; and the angle of the slope below has not been
chosen to accord with his curve of descent on to it, and down it.
If we fall, after a jump or stumble, the first thing, on a steep
slope, is to stop any tendency to roll, which is the shortest road to
unconsciousness. The next is to get the head up. Then, if we have held
on to the axe, we get it by the head and begin to brake, as described
above. If the axe is lost, we do the same with elbows and heels,
sliding on our back; but never with fingers and toes, face downwards.
[Sidenote: Brakes.]
There are two methods of stopping or braking, the axe brake and the
foot brake, which are used in conjunction for purposes of sudden arrest.
The axe brake is made by pulling the head of the axe upward with the
one hand, and forcing the shaft point down, and into the snow, with the
other. The weight of the body is thrown on to the lower arm, and the
thighs are brought close against the axe shaft. If it is necessary to
make a sudden stop on a hard snow surface where one is being ‘run away
with,’ the most powerful brake of all is to bring the shaft of the axe
under the right arm-pit, grip the left hand on the head, with the right
hand close to it, and turn the body slightly sideways, so that the
whole edge of each boot, heel and toe, scrapes against the surface.
The foot brake is made by turning the toes up and shoving the heels in
and down into the snow, at the same time straightening the legs. If the
surface is too hard to admit the heels easily, or the pace and hard
surface combined threaten that an attempt to check with the straight
heels will mean one or both legs being torn up underneath the body, so
flinging us out and off our balance, the feet must be turned sideways
to the slope. The heels at the same instant are thrust downwards, the
legs are straightened, and the weight is thrown equally upon the axe
shaft and upon the feet.
On any surface where a glissade is justifiable it is possible to stop
with these combined brakes within a distance of a few feet, provided
that, as with a motor-car, they are not jammed on so suddenly as to
upset the equilibrium and detach the points of contact from the surface.
For gentle checks to pace, touching at intervals with the axe point, or
pressing on one or both heels momentarily, is sufficient.
[Sidenote: Sitting.]
Practically no snow slope of right consistency and termination is too
steep to glissade down; but many incline at too low an angle, or are of
too soft a surface, to glissade down in a standing position.
So long as we are young and thoughtless, and place the enthusiastic
memories of youthful tobogganing before the after-discomfort of wet
clothing,--a youth which in the case of mountaineers appears to extend
well on into the sixties,--we hail such soft slopes as the recovered
opportunity of recalling a lost ideal; and we descend them sitting-wise.
For sitting, the methods of guiding and braking with the axe and the
feet are much the same as for standing; only they are more clumsy and
proportionately less effective, as the slope also is less exacting.
The axe is held under the arm, in the same manner, to brake, and is
transferred from side to side to steer.
The foot steering is performed by obstructing with one heel or the
other. For a sharper turn, the legs are lifted and swung across in the
desired direction. To avoid rolling over in a quick turn like this,
the body leans over on the side towards which the turn is made, and
the weight is thrown inward and back upon the axe. The whole length of
the outside of the leg and thigh contributes to the steering action,
as an equivalent for the canting of the feet in a standing turn. Leg
and thigh thus supplement the ineffective guidance of the heels. The
movement checks the pace usefully, for the snow will begin to hummock
under the thighs and up under the jacket, whereas before it was merely
percolating through the breeches.
In descending direct the legs are kept together, and the body is
converted into as rigid a reproduction of a torpedo as the incidents of
descent permit. To accelerate the pace the body can be thrown back and
held stiff, which takes off the brake made by the curves of the back
and distributes the weight, as on a sleigh or ski. This movement adds
the neck to the other potential snow orifices.
On unwilling slopes, punting with the axe and a swimming motion of
the legs can be resorted to, for propulsion; but the effort is not
dignified. Shooting, or ‘chuting,’ head-foremost has an exuberant
appearance, but does not add materially to the chances of pace.
Braking is done upon easy slopes by opening the legs, and allowing a
triangle of travelling snow to pack between them. To brake sharply, the
axe point is driven into the snow under the arm, the body is arched
stiffly upward clear of the slope on the support of the axe, and the
heels are driven down and in, close together.
For standing glissading, if the surface is good, we generally each
choose a line of virgin snow. Pace will come of itself, and is not so
important as uniformity of surface. But in sitting glissading the first
to descend has the worst place. He has to make a clearer and harder
track for the rest. If a trough of this kind is once formed, it will
be most polished in its exact centre; and men are well advised to turn
slightly upon one thigh and shoot down upon their longest but narrowest
available body-surface.
A very pleasant method of descending, as a party, is to form a
fashion of bob-sleigh, each man sitting close behind the man in front
and having his legs held up by him clear of the slope. The most is
thus made of the collective weight and the least of the collective
body-surface necessarily in contact with the snow. The best situation
is towards the rear of the human sleigh. The man at the head will
collect most of the snow pack, and there will be only the usual moist
permeations to be enjoyed by the tail.
The first man descending on an unknown slope after fresh snow, or on
the occasional snow patch found at lower levels, should always make
careful examination to see that there are not rock or stones near
enough to the surface to inconvenience, if not injure, his descent.
Sitting glissading is useful not only on snow too soft or too easily
inclined for standing, but also upon surfaces where a crust has formed
over soft snow, through which the feet break under any attempt to
glissade standing. On snow of this character both steering and stopping
are even more difficult than they are in ordinary sitting glissading,
since any attempt to drive in the heels suddenly may result in a
head-over-heels fling. On such a surface it is best to lie as flat and
stiff as possible, and avoid making any abrupt local movements.
The sitting glissade has been already mentioned as of use in crossing
schrunds with awkward-angled or dubitable bridges. Each man before he
shoots for the bridge should make certain that he leaves enough free
rope and good sense behind him to allow him to come to rest on the far
side without a disruptive or a premature jerk.
[Sidenote: Stone Tests.]
It is always wise, before glissading on a slope of uncertain
consistency, to throw a few large stones on to the snow to test the
surface. They should be as heavy as possible, so as to ascertain
the weight at which the snow will avalanche. The practice has the
further advantage, on a slope whose termination we can see, and where,
therefore, a slight avalanche quality in the snow need not deter us
from glissading, of clearing away all the deciduous snow from at least
one line of descent. There is left a smooth, harder track whereon a
human being can descend comparatively dry. At the best, the stones
may start a general avalanche, and so leave a safe and clean slope
where we can choose our line. Incidentally, the stone track serves to
discover the presence or absence of concealed stones or of rock points
uncomfortably near the surface.
[Sidenote: The Rope.]
To remain roped is impossible in ice-glissading, and is a nuisance
in snow-glissading. The rope should never be necessary where there
is any long and comfortable glissade in safe prospect. Pace and real
foot-running are impossible on the rope. Its use enforces axe braking
and slow-coach running at even distances, so that the rope shall
neither tighten upon the front man and upset his balance nor entangle
in loose coils about his feet. Every one in a roped party, however
expert, must be axe braking, and wearying his shin muscles, if no more,
in the vain effort to keep an even distance over surfaces of quickly
varying quality and angle.
For the men in the middle of a rope, to be thus glissading is simple
weariness of the flesh. On short glissades, during long climbs, the
rope may have to be retained to save time, but on slopes of any length
it is always worth while to unrope. If the rope has to be retained on
such slopes for precautionary reasons, because the end of the slope
is not in sight or because there are beginners taking part, the party
should rope in pairs. Two experts can glissade fairly freely on a rope
by descending on adjacent parallel lines with the rope loosely across
between them. They have only then to see that it does not catch on
excrescences which they themselves are avoiding. In the same choric
fashion an expert can glissade alone with a beginner, protecting him
and accommodating himself to his uneven descent. He follows beside or
slightly behind, and is at liberty to quicken up, overtake, and even
get secure anchorage in time, if he sees his companion beginning to
descend the slope in other fashion than on his feet. In glissading with
a beginner on a rope the pace should never be allowed to become greater
than one is absolutely certain of being able to regulate, not only for
oneself but for one’s companion, with plenty of margin for accidents.
Once a man has been jerked off his balance, it is far harder for him to
stop himself and his companion by the travelling axe brake, on a steep
slope, than when he is stationary and upright with his heels well in.
He must therefore keep the pace well within the speed limits.
The higher refinements of glissading, the zigzag and the free sailing
on one or both feet, are of course out of the question for more than
two on the rope; and barely feasible for them.
[Sidenote: Some Variations.]
There are a few occasions where exceptional varieties of glissading may
be found of use.
[Sidenote: Alternate Glissading.]
In descending snow slopes of doubtful consistency, or slopes or
couloirs whose lower end is concealed, and therefore an object of
suspicion for free glissading, an alternate slide and anchor method can
often be adopted. It is especially good for protecting beginners who
cannot be relied upon to arrest their glissade at any given instant.
The experienced man anchors firmly in the snow with the rope round his
driven axe. The front man then glissades down until he is arrested by
the rope or a call from the rear. The rear man follows, and glissades
either down to him or past him, stopping himself in the latter case,
if he is wise, before the rope runs out. _If_ he is wise, because no
inexperienced man can be relied upon to know what security of anchorage
is required to resist the jerk of a man running out a double length of
rope on steep snow. The first man then, in turn, glissades past, and
is stopped by the expert with the rope. The process can be repeated
until the bottom of the slope is reached, or the secure termination
of a freer glissade is ascertained. The method is a good time-saver,
especially in steep couloirs, but it must be worked with all caution. I
tried it on one occasion with a mountaineer of confident self-security,
and after sailing past him, and becoming certain that my rope must
have run out, I turned round, to see him head-foremost after me down
the slope. He had been twitched from his stance without so much as
a perceptible check to my rope. Since then I always, in alternate
glissading, turn face inward when I feel the rope is near its end, and
stop myself,--for the first few ‘runs-out’ at least, until I know I can
depend on my second. With a beginner it is best to stop, as last man,
when one reaches him. With a good second it is enough to arrange with
him that each shall call out sharply to the man glissading some three
yards or so before the rope runs out, leaving him time to stop himself.
[Sidenote: Face Inward.]
Any man who wants to get all he can out of the opportunities to
glissade must be able to travel in every reasonable attitude, and to
change from one position to another at any instant without check or
loss of control in the movement. The axe is the transitional support
during all movements involving sudden or marked alteration of balance.
As a convenient variety it is useful to be able to glissade face inward
toward the snow. On slopes of doubtful termination, and in couloirs
more especially, where it proves impossible to discover if there may
not be some ‘cut-off’ below, or where the quality of the snow, and
perhaps the presence of ice beneath it, make caution imperative, a more
controlled, watchful and restful descent can be made with the face
towards the slope. The axe head is then gripped under the arm with the
pick caught behind the shoulder. The two hands are firm on the shaft in
front, ready to shove the point into the snow. The legs are slightly
apart, with the feet parallel and the toes inclined upward. The descent
can be stopped in an instant by pressing on the axe shaft, and by
forcing the toes outward and downward, so that the inside edges of the
boots scrape downward against the surface. On rough icy surfaces, in
order to allow us to look round, and also to prevent the toes catching
and throwing the body outward, it is sometimes even safer to bend one
leg up, so that the flat of the one sole rests against the slope at
about the level of the knee of the lower straighter leg. The body then
lies forward over this bent leg as on a firm spring, with the centre
of gravity low and the balance secure. The head is freer to turn and
prospect above or below. A foot brake of extra power and rapidity can
be made by scraping the upper, raised foot downward along the slope
with the whole force of the body--a sort of stopping kick. For hurrying
the descent of awkward couloirs where the glissade of short stretches
may have to be stopped within inches, I have usually preferred this
face-inward glissade. In this position we not only can stop, but steer
with great precision and power; and in a very confined space, as in a
narrow couloir, we can side-step or side-jump easily. To jump obstacles
or crevasses when glissading face inward, we must of course turn round
first; but a good glissader should find no difficulty in twisting
round, especially out of the last position described, with the one leg
raised, which is in itself already a half-turn attitude.
The position has the additional advantage of allowing us to watch
companions above; and, in suspicious couloirs, to keep a look out for
their loosened stones or small following avalanches. Stones can be
dodged once they are seen; and a fine face-inward glissader, whenever
he sees the small, wavering, pursuing avalanche, looks round and ahead
for some lower bay of shelter in the walls of the couloir, and, if need
be quickening his pace, steers out of its way into safety at the edge.
[Sidenote: Plunging.]
In couloirs or on slopes faced with soft sticky snow, too soft or too
gradual for a free glissade, it is often possible to save a long trudge
of descent by using the ‘plunging’ step. A few long springing steps,
driving the heels hard along the surface, will start a small surface
snow slide, and upon this we can ride down, until it again packs,
when the plunges are again repeated. If the snow joins in the game too
heartily, and there is a risk of losing control and of being swept down
in a cumulative avalanche, we use the swinging cross-step to the edge
of the wave, and jump clear. When the avalanche has passed there may be
a fine surface left for normal glissading.
On every slope where we begin to feel that the travelling mass of
accompanying snow is getting beyond control, the glissader must be
ready to swing-step or to jump clear of it on one side or the other.
When it is past, he has also to look out for the not infrequent chance
of the furtive slides which will pursue the first. If two men are
glissading on a rope, the upper will be in the best position to decide
when the mass is growing too big, and he must give timely warning to
his companion before he jumps clear himself.
[Sidenote: On Claws.]
In couloirs of a certain type, where there is a thin covering of fresh
snow over ice, or where snow has partially melted into ice glaze over
rock, I have occasionally found light claws a great help to safe
glissading. The angle may be too steep, and the snow upon ice too bad
to allow of a prospect of descent without prolonged, deep step-cutting
or slow ambling on our prehensile claws. A pair of light claws that one
has no fear of blunting may then be found of great service to save time
and labour. Glissading lightly and slowly on the feet, side-crouching
as upon ice, or still better face inward, the claws slip down with the
surface snow. Where the snow is thin, they scrape through on to the
ice and retard the pace; where it thickens, they can still be forced
through by throwing more of the weight off the axe on to the feet;
and the descent, with the fitful brake of the axe, remains perfectly
controlled.
As before noted, claws of the long-pointed pattern can be used in the
same fashion on rotten ice.
On hard, smooth ice at high angles, claws of the light type are often
safer than nailed boots. A good position for such claw-glissading is
one of those familiar in ski-ing. We sit astride of the axe shaft with
the point against the ice. We can then throw the weight back upon the
shaft, and brake, while we release the feet to steer, or we can let the
weight forward on to the feet and increase the pace. Either or both
feet can be relieved of the share of weight if anything threatens to
catch them and upset the balance.
This axe-riding position is occasionally convenient in icy couloirs, or
on fresh snow, where only an absolutely slow and controlled glissade
would be safe.
It can also be made use of on very rough surfaces, on dry glaciers
or practice ice slopes, without the extra security of claws and
trusting to the boot-nails alone. But on nails alone the glissade is
proportionately less regulated, and we are more dependent upon the axe
for control and braking.
ON OTHER GROUNDS
Many surfaces other than ice or snow give us good practice and
pleasurable moments. Volcanic ash is said to provide the finest
conceivable flying footing. Sand of sea-cliffs or quarries, and even
the mud shoots of the east-coast cliffs, give excellent fun; but the
most common, and perhaps the most admirable sub-alpine surface is a
light, steep scree slope.
[Sidenote: On Scree.]
Our method of descending these shoots is dictated by the size of the
stones composing them. When they are of shale, or light enough to slide
away under our weight, we need only straighten the leg, stiffen the
ankle, incline the body slightly forward from the hips, and start with
a long leaping stride, forcing the heels well down and in. Small scree,
at a good angle, will carry us on and down of itself. The axe is held
in the same way as on snow, and is only used for balance touches.
On scree at a lower angle we shall have to continue the plunging
strides, leaping from heel to heel and travelling as far as possible
on the stones set moving by each foot. The stronger the leg the longer
may be the stride. The massing of the stones under the foot will stop
each step with the softness of a slow spring, and if we are thrown out
of balance by one too abrupt foot check, we can generally recover it on
the next stride.
Towards the end of the slope the scree grows larger, and whether
sliding or plunging, we have to look out for knee and ankle twisting.
We go cautiously, but driving always harder with the heel, until the
stones refuse to yield to the thrust; and then we call in our loose
legs under control, and proceed to stumble or dance down the rest
according to the perfection of our ankles and balance. A man light of
foot and supple of joint can let his feet drift, as it were, over even
large rolling stones, letting them adjust themselves to the varying
resistances without checking his pace. A man who judges his scree not
by its size but by its angle, its shape and the way it sits on the
surface, can continue his glissade often well beyond the point where
the less expert begin to fall or crawl.
Once the blocks grow too big to be kicked into harmless motion, and
the drifting feet begin to slip over them into the interstices, the
wise man begins to look for other shoots to carry him farther. By
using the swinging cross-step described already, we can make diagonal
descents of slopes on a succession of connected parallel glissades.
By choosing a line well ahead, and crossing from shoot to shoot, many
hillside descents of weary prospect can be charmed into a few moments
of stimulating racing. It is well to remember that up-running spits of
light scree often conceal themselves in depressions between ribs of
rock or in hollows between slopes of heavier scree, especially near the
bottom of the slopes.
The light screes that lie in these lower furrows on hillsides are
among the deepest and pleasantest. Our zagging from furrow to furrow
will divert our thoughts if not our feet from the last tiresome steep
grass drop. Where the lower spits of light shilla thin out, generally
at their lower ends, it is wise to look out for the catch to the ankle
of rocks or wet earth or grass, stripped of their scree varnish by the
driving heel.
It is best for each member of a party to choose a different line,
otherwise the larger stones dislodged, often accumulating a torrent,
may surprise a speedier forerunner. Similarly, it is safer to leap
sideways occasionally ourselves, and wait while our own attendant
torrent passes.
The angle of inclination at which small scree lies is invariably the
angle of disinclination for big scree. Big scree, when we cannot avoid
it, is an unqualified worry, and we worry out of it as we can. The
method, traditionally recommended, of sitting or standing on one large
stone and tobogganing down on it over the others, would seem to be only
successful for distances not yet ascertained.
[Sidenote: In Winter Gullies.]
Except in the North, where winter snow gives much the same conditions
for glissading as the summer Alps, winter glissading in Britain is
usually upon snow-covered scree or mixed snow and scree. The end of our
glissades in this case has a special risk: where the snow thins and
weakens among the larger blocks, which it yet continues to cover--to
our downfall. To glissade near emerging rocks is risky, on account of
the probable holes and hidden pockets in the snow round them.
In gullies alone we find snow over rock. Here there is another special
risk in the rock steps or pitches, which may be only partially covered
with snow. The drop is often invisible from above, and an inexperienced
glissader may be unable to stop himself in time, when he is close
enough to recognize a break in the continuity of the snow slope.
Sometimes there is a frail lid of snow more deceptive than an open
break; and I have seen a man shoot over a pitch of this sort through
the snow lid and down the wet rock channel under the lower snow. Where
the rock of such pitches is visible, we have still to look out for
another trap. We may count upon stopping as we reach the rock; but
the very end of the slope, where the melting snow has run down and
refrozen over rock, is usually of harder surface, if not of ice. Hence
we have to allow for a sudden and surprising acceleration just where we
intended to slow up.
No man should start glissading down a gully or slope that he does not
know; or that he cannot see throughout its whole length; or until he is
expert enough to know what the snow, as he finds it, will do with his
feet.
[Sidenote: On Grass and Heather.]
Glissading is also possible and pleasant on slopes of grass, heather
or whortleberry growth, if the angle of the hill is steep and the
conditions right.
Under snow, even in small quantity or half melted, any herbage will
serve; but the dry, polished, almost glassy surface of grass or short
growth, produced by drought or hot sun, is almost as slippery as snow.
On firm covering snow over hill grass, of course a standing glissade is
indicated.
If the snow is soft or thin, so that the feet would catch through it
upon the grass or heather stems, sitting is best. On steep slopes
sitting means rapid going, while there is any snow at all showing
between the stalks.
If the snow is merely a wet skim, or if we are glissading upon dry
glassy herbage, it is better for clothes and comfort to use the feet.
The correct method is to sit or squat right down on the heels. If we
have an axe or stick, we lean back upon it, or push with it, as balance
or our relenting pace suggests. If we have no stick, we clasp the hands
round the knees and shoot down in a honeypot attitude. At a check, the
legs are shot out, and a raking action of the heels starts the slide
again. This fashion of sliding crouched upon the feet is feasible upon
nearly all steep slopes of smooth, thick, fatiguing herbage, where
the walking descent would be slippery and laborious; but it must be
used with caution. Stones, roots and hummocks intrude; and nowhere is
a human being more helpless, once he has lost control, than on steep,
slippery grass. If he once starts to roll, a broken arm or a bad
shaking may be the least disagreeable consequence. There have been more
serious accidents due to slips on grass than on all the snow mountains
of the world put together.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] _Climb. Club Ann._, 1912. Also, where there is danger of
frost-bite to the feet, as in the Himalaya, the risk of a nailed boot
is avoided by wearing claws over soft hide boots or strong wrappings.
For the same reason it is better to wear warm ski-boots, with removable
claws, rather than nailed boots in winter mountaineering in the Alps,
where the ski-ing alternates with the climbing and a soft boot would be
insufficient.
[14] See “Equipment,” p. 93.
[15] See “Rock Climbing,” p. 151.
[16] See “Norway,” p. 546.
[17] See “Mountaineering on Ski,” p. 424. This chapter should
be consulted for the more detailed study of snow phenomena required for
winter and spring ski-ing. In “Snow Craft” I have limited myself to the
conditions that a climber may meet with in the ordinary alpine summer
season.
CHAPTER VIII
RECONNOITRING
Reconnoitring precedes in action the exercise of mountain craft. But
as an art it is the gold cup in the sack mouth of a mountaineer’s
equipment. Its effective mastery must rest upon his previous
accumulations of practical experience. It may therefore, fittingly, be
put in last.
In the Alps and nearer European ranges, maps and guide-books relieve
the mountaineer of almost all occasion to apply his powers of
observation to the interpretation of the Seen or the reconstruction of
the Unseen. The majority of men who climb in the Alps or Britain get
no practice in making even elementary deductions from scenic details
within sight; and a number more, whose experience and observation have
been sufficient to enrich them with what they would call an instinctive
feeling about the meaning of topographical details which they can see,
or about the probabilities of those which are out of their sight, have
never, for lack of opportunity, been forced to resolve this feeling
into precise conclusions.
Nothing but actual necessity, the need of providing for safe progress
or comfort, will induce most men on a holiday to exercise or educate
their observation. The loss is considerable; not only because a
developed faculty of observing, and of reasoning from the observations,
is in itself a valuable permanent possession, but because the neglect
involves the failure to see much that is beautiful. If we are
accustomed to wait until beauty imposes itself upon the eye, as in the
end it will, and almost flauntingly, in large mountain scenery, we
shall have already missed the discovery of the relations of line and
colour and mass to which the beautiful effect is due, and we are fated
to overlook much that is lovely and much that is interesting in regions
where there is grace and interest in the smallest detail, but where
detail escapes unperceived among the broad and salient features of
familiar magnificence.
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN ARCHITECTURE [C. F. MEADE]
On a more material plane, a man who aspires to lead a party must be
able to ‘see,’ in the sense in which an artist or natural scientist
‘sees,’ and he must be able to make the necessary mountaineering
deductions from his sights. A mountaineer who wishes to conduct an
expedition efficiently in unexplored ranges must be able to do more:
he must be practised in the art of confirming conjecture as to what
is beyond his sight from ‘signs’ within view. For an expert of this
sort it is fortunately sufficient to indicate what he can discover and
how to set about it; fortunately, because ‘signs’ in practice are so
modified by place, climate and season that no rules could be laid down
without a page of exceptions to prove each one. One day of practical
demonstration under guidance will reveal more of what we ought to see
and how to see it than much tabulation. We may write of a ‘snow sky’
and an ‘ice sky,’ and a mountaineer who had them pointed out to him
would recognize the difference; but we cannot with truth say “a snow
sky is a whitish-blue, or shows as a white underside on a cloud,” or
“an ice sky is a greyish-blue, and reflects in a shade of grey from a
cloud,” because a different climate or region might anywhere contradict
our colour definitions. But the distinction between the two would
remain as a constant difference of tone under all identical conditions,
and it would be perceptible to a trained eye.
Somewhat the same difficulty interferes with any accurate summary
of more elementary signs to be looked for in reconnoitring,--signs
whose discovery is, or should be, part of our daily alpine routine.
Every mountaineer should know at a glance, in the right conditions of
light, new snow from old snow, ice from crusted snow surface, open
glacier from _firn_ or _névé_. But who could learn to recognize the
differences, under continually changing conditions of light, from his
recollections of a written classification? The suggestions here made
must be understood, therefore, only to affirm that between certain
groups of surface appearances there are certain constant relative
differences, whose presence, or absence, can always be ascertained
in the right weather and light. They are intended to indicate a few
lines of less obvious investigation, which the trained eye can pursue
in examining aspects and details of mountains that are visible to
everybody but not equally intelligible to everybody; and further, to
outline a province of yet more difficult discovery--the collection of
information as to aspects and details which are not even in sight.
It may now be assumed that until a mountaineer knows something of
his craft by actual experience, the choice of a route up a peak need
not be left to his unaided attempts at reconnoitring. Elementary
mountaineering information is far more widely diffused, and practical
climbing ability has become almost an inherited instinct. The method
adopted by the Badminton on Mountaineering, and by various excellent
manuals in imitation of it, first synthesized for us a sample peak or
climb, resolved the attributed features into their simple elements
again, and then directed us, with natural confidence, precisely how
to deal with them. A method advisable for purposes of picturesque
propaganda in earlier, darker days is of less service to a climbing
generation whose acquired craft can be more generally trusted to know
how to attack its peak, if it can once attain to only a small part of
the certainty about the real character and the momentary condition
of distant detail which these illuminating studies could happily
assume. The path so well prepared by our predecessors for the straying
or reluctant feet of the potential climber, and so entertainingly
bordered with composite examples, need not be retrodden. Guidance in
reconnoitring, to be of later use, must now wait for its opportunity
further along the way, and be ready to pester the progressive
competence and self-assurance of zealous mountaineers with the
well-meaning but aggravating importunity of an elder walking companion:
“Can’t you see _that_?” and, “What does it _mean_?” and, finally,
“Well, then, I’ll _tell_ you!”
Snow and rock and ice, as a triune element, alone concern us. What we
need to find out about them is their respective _angles_, to know if
we can get up at all; their several _conditions_, to ascertain if we
can do so with or without danger or difficulty; and the degree of
modification which their _combination_ may be introducing, in order to
decide if we can do so within the appointed time. For instance, our
agreeable opinion of the angle of a rock rib will counterbalance our
unfavourable view of the state of a snow face, which it relieves; or
our optimistic impression of the snow in a couloir will free us from
the gloom created by our sight of the angle and character of a rock
wall, which it bisects. With a peak as such we are only concerned in
so far as it presents to us a greater or lesser mass of favourable
or unfavourable angles and superficial conditions. We take it that
our climbing craft can get us up any mountain by any way visible or
invisible. It is for our reconnoitring craft, first, to reject those
alternatives which are interrupted by the angle of the impossible;
secondly, to condemn the lines where it detects surface conditions or
direct menaces which will introduce too large an element of danger;
thirdly, to except the routes where it decides that harsh angle and
poor condition in unrelenting succession combine to form too great a
volume of difficulty to be humanly vincible in a single expedition;
and lastly, if no agreeable or interesting remainder be left over, to
use its utmost skill to determine whether some _unseen_ aspect may not
reveal sufficient of its character to encourage a hope that it will
offer a more helpful line of attack.
The sum of the results of these investigations will of course add
up differently with every peak, and any discussion of it in the
abstract could only be hypothetical. The decision as to whether
this sum in any concrete case represents a feasible or justifiable
mountaineering attempt must take into further account the strength of
the party proposing to make it, and must be therefore, for us, equally
hypothetical. All that the grammar of reconnoitring can usefully define
are the lines which investigation should follow in order to secure
exact information about the elements which are the material for our
calculations, and therefore the chief factors in our decisions. Snow,
rock and ice are these elements; and their state, angle and influence
upon each other in certain combinations form the only matter that need
concern our examination on the spot,--or here.
THINGS SEEN
To discover whether a distant slope is snow or ice, if the character of
the surface is not apparent at once, or deducible from its position,
aspect or angle, we must wait for sun or strong daylight.
[Sidenote: Snow Surface Condition.]
Ice surfaces--that is, the smooth ice surfaces found in the
Alps--reflect light as an even, steely glimmer, like elongated pools
of water. Black ice, not so often found in the Alps, has a different
quality in reflection. Granular ice is distinguishable by its
reflection of light in facets or prisms. It will be noted that these
tend to increase in size as our inspection descends the length of a
glacial slope. The honeycombed ice found in tropical ranges is quite
distinct in character; it can be recognized from a distance, and in a
photograph, by its surface forms.
Snow surfaces show plain white or grey in comparison.
An ice crust upon snow has an appearance much like that of ice, but the
reflected light is ‘pockled’ and uneven.
New snow, which is best left alone, has a brilliant fresh surface.
Seen even from great distances, and especially upon rock, it shows a
filmy, gossamer, veil-like quality. This endures until the aeration has
escaped and the feathery surfaces have subsided into harder contours.
Old powdery snow, as contrasted with new snow, has a greyer tint when
seen from a distance, particularly if not seen in direct sunlight.
Old wet snow, laborious to cross, and deciduous according to its angle,
shows a bluish, luminous surface light, especially in its depressions.
It is often transected by visible lines of strain or cleavage.
A thawing snow surface, seen from near, is dull and drenched looking,
or pitted with small holes.
Surface hard-crusts, or plates, produced alike by wind and sun, which
afford pleasant going but possess the avalanche potentiality if the
angle is steep and their attachment to the surface below is slight,
generally mark themselves off from the surrounding snow slopes by a
lower, duller tone; sometimes they are tinged with a yellow shade. The
plates vary in thickness, deepening towards the middle, and they can
often be recognized by their edges, which run out on the neighbouring
snow in darker wavelets, sometimes with eyebrow-markings round their
curves.
Old hard snow, of deep attachment and sound progress, lies in
alternating wave and hollow of different tones of light and
shade, where the sun has been at work on the surface. It is often
dust-speckled, or shows bluish finger-prints.
Granulated snow, in strong light, may show bright or prismatic
reflections from its facets, similar to, but easily distinguishable
from, granular ice prisms.
As confirmation, or correction, of what distant observation may
have revealed about the character of ice or snow surfaces, general
considerations must also be taken into account: the recency of the
snowfall, the subsequent weather, etc. There is also the final test of
touch, which is made on the spot, before any snow slope is traversed.
The change in the condition of the snow, which may be produced by a day
of sun before we can return down the slope, must not be left out of the
calculation. Many slopes whose surface may be adjudged and found safe
for passage in the early morning cannot be trusted by nightfall.
[Sidenote: Angle on Snow.]
It is essential to be able to judge of the inclination of a slope; for
some harmless conditions may become dangerous if the snow is lying
at above a certain angle. New snow, for instance, has been known to
slide at as low an angle as twenty degrees. Hard old snow, melted and
refrozen, may be supported in small patches, and remain reliable, at as
high an angle as sixty degrees.
The power to estimate the angle of a slope by the eye only comes with
practice. Most slopes look precipitous in face. But a mountaineer who
has trained his eye by first going round to see a number of such slopes
in profile, and by then returning to see them in face, has learned what
he must deduct from an apparent angle. He is then qualified to make
a truer estimate of the real angle of slopes which he may be able to
examine in face alone.
Snow cannot lie at anything like the angle at which it often appears to
lie when seen in face. From the presence of snow, in fact, much can be
argued as to the generally mild angle of the mountain face on which it
lies. Except in narrow couloirs, where it is supported by the walls,
snow does not lie permanently above or even up to an angle of fifty
degrees. Most big snow slopes are considerably less. The broader the
face on which it lies, usually the less the real angle of the snow.
The fact that a big snow peak presents a continuous slope of snow
to its summit is evidence that the mean angle of the ascent is not
great, otherwise the even accumulation could not have proceeded. In
prospecting a new mountain, therefore, however tempting its rock face
or ridge may be to a modern climber, its snow side, if it has one, may
be assumed to offer the inclination of easier ascent. And this more
particularly if the snow slopes face towards the south, where the snow
would naturally adhere least to the face.
Interruptions to climbing on such snow faces, whether as steeper slopes
of snow or as ice walls (such as it is well to note beforehand), are
at once apparent from their different shading if the snow slopes are
inspected when the sun is overhead.
The inclination of a hanging slope of snow always appears still more
exaggerated as seen from in front if it lies on the face of what is
mainly a rock peak. We have in such case to discover if the snow is
lying on ice, or only forms a coating to the rock. If it is on ice, the
lower edge of the slopes, where the snow runs out on to the rock, will
generally betray a rim or broken wall of ice. To judge of the quality
of such a snow surface, and of the strength of its attachment to its
ice or rock sub-surface, the slopes below it must be examined, and
snow, stone or water furrows looked for. By the crumpled or the clean
appearance of the edges of the slope itself, where it touches the rock
walls on either side of its descending fan, much can be learned of its
past transmutations and present condition.
Long or short spits of lighter snow, running up against darker snow or
ice, are the retentions of later falls, and are indications of uneven
angles of surface. They betray the presence of bulges or ribs below,
and, besides their promise of easier progress on slopes where the
general surface may be frozen hard or over-steep, they give us by their
contrast a further basis for our estimate of the actual inclination.
The presence, the shape, and the number of cleavages or crevasses in
a slope of ice or snow are a further guide to our estimate. A certain
type of crevasse is only found on slopes lying at an angle of about
forty-five degrees.
We may get additional evidence, in cases of doubt, by waiting for the
sun to throw the shadow of another peak or shoulder upon the slope.
When the sun and the interruption are located, the distortion of the
reflection will allow of an approximate estimate of the angle of the
snow slope.
Faces or ridges of mingled rock and snow, and surfaces interrupted by
the intrusion of any detail, be it only of a shadow or tint, are always
easier for the experienced eye to estimate, in angle and character.
Where we have rock and snow or light and shadow in contrast, practice
in the reading of snow and ice surfaces, and in the rules that govern
their angles of inclination and attachment, and practice in the
interpretation of the details of rock structure, become mutually and
comfortably corrective.
[Sidenote: Snow Cornices.]
Cornices form against the wind, not with it. The contrary is sometimes
stated; but the error is possibly due to the fact that irregularities
in the configuration of a ridge often produce back eddies in a
cross-wind. If the prevailing wind is snow-bearing, and across, a
snow-bearing back swirl may build a small cornice on the sheltered
side of a ridge. Such a small cornice would appear to have been formed
_with_ the prevailing wind: actually it would have grown against its
return eddy. A wind blowing along (not across) a serrated ridge may
similarly produce very small cornices facing _either_ way on the ridge,
and apparently at right angles to the prevailing current, owing to
some tower or curve on one side or the other having created an inward
and upward cross-eddy, and a shelter from the main-current in which
the snow-laden eddy can work. Large cornices facing either way on the
same ridge, and the double cornices, are produced by a shift in a
snow-bearing cross-wind to the directly opposite quarter. If we find
ourselves on a corniced ridge when a strong wind, and especially a
strong wind from a warm quarter or with Föhn in it, is blowing against
the back of big cornices, i.e. from the opposite direction to that from
which the snow-bearing wind was blowing which formed the cornices,
we have to be even more careful, if that be possible, in dealing with
them, as such a wind will loosen their attachment and magnify the
suddenness and the size of their collapse. A cornice will always form
more easily on the summit of a sheer or abrupt wall, which creates
a strong upward eddy in a wind blowing against it, than upon a more
gradual or snow-rounded inclination which offers less resistance to the
current and less ‘catch’ to its snow burden. For this reason, upon a
summit or a ridge which has, as so often is the case, one more gradual
snow side and one rock side inevitably steeper, we must be prepared
to find cornices overhanging the rock face, larger if produced by a
wind-shift, lesser if by a back eddy, even though the prevailing wind
has blown regularly upon the opposite snowy face, and should have
relieved us of the necessity of caution by its failure to develop
cornices on that side.
In general, therefore, the direction of the prevailing wind can give
us no certain guidance as to whether or not to expect the existence of
cornices. If a snow-bearing wind has blown against the visible side of
our ridge or summit, we shall see them. If upon the invisible side, we
must assume their presence until we can disprove it. But a wind-shift
or variable current may always contradict our calculations. A cornice
is very quickly built.
If we have not been following the performances of the prevailing wind,
or if we mistrust its portent in any case, we have to rely upon visual
evidences when we are prospecting the approach to any snow summit
or the traverse of any snow-crowned ridge. In the case of a single
summit it is less trouble to assume the presence of a cornice, until
we fail to find it. In the case of a continuous ridge it may save us
much tribulation to ascertain its condition in this respect before
we start out for a long day upon it. If there are cornices, and they
project _towards_ us, they will at once be recognizable; if _away_, it
is not always easy to make certain, without getting a sight of some
part of the ridge in profile. Their detection at one point of a ridge
will dictate the necessity of precaution along the rest. A telescopic
examination can often discover the thin dark line of junction or
strain, running parallel to the crest in the snow on the near side,
where the projection of a cornice towards the far side starts its
inclination. (In more considerable snow ranges, such as the Andes,
this crack has, I am told, on occasion been proved to be due to a
longitudinal crevasse on the ridge. In the Alps, however, I know of no
case of this having been observed.)
An alternative and rarer indication will be the discovery of a band
of shadow or duller tint, seen in the right light, running along the
snow wall just below some part of the crest. This will be due to a
relative steepening of the snow wall, sometimes even taking the form of
a concavity, where the back of a high, steep cornice, facing towards
the far side, hummocks up off its supporting ridge. The appearance
I believe to be occasioned by a fall or a shift in the prevailing
wind,--a fall permitting the snow to accumulate upon the head of the
cornice and form a sort of bulbous whale-back over it, or a shift of
wind to the near side beginning a projection which may ultimately grow
into a ‘double’ cornice, with the higher of the two facing towards us.
Failing either of these signs, any two projecting points of rock or
snow, near together on the suspected ridge, should be examined. If the
connecting line of snow between them shows sharp and continuous against
the sky, and ascends at its either end in a continuous single curve
to the points selected, the cornice on the far side, if any, will be
slight and local. If, however, the snow rim seems to merge indefinitely
on the skyline, and its curve ascends to the points at either end in
a variable arc of different centres, so that we seem to see, as it
were, round the edge of a fold where the snow-curve hangs to the rock
points, a cornice is indicated. If the breadth of the points or towers
is sufficiently ascertainable to enable us to estimate the average
thickness of the connecting rock ridge hidden below the snow between
them (as it usually is unless the towers are seen absolutely flat in
face), then the look, almost a reflection, in the sky immediately
above the snow curve, and the character of the snow curve where it
wavers over against the sky, will indicate to an expert eye whether the
cornice is large or small.
Where, again, sufficient rock points projecting from a snow ridge are
visible, as we see it in face, to suggest what must be the actual line
of the snow-covered rock connecting them, any wayward sweep away from
us in the visible line of the snow between them is an indication that
the snow rim, where the skyline thus unaccountably retreats from the
eye, is superintending a cornice on the far side.
The presence of a double cornice--the fatal cornices that face two
ways, one built up above the other--is not difficult to establish. A
band of shadow or low light on the near side of a snow crest, below a
band of higher light, means a lower cornice facing towards us under
an upper cornice curving away. A band of markedly higher light, below
a band of shadow or obvious concavity, means an upper cornice facing
towards us above a lower cornice facing away.
For all such observations on snow, which find their opportunity in the
relative positions of light and shadow, it is apparent that a time must
be chosen when the sun shines from the right quarter. Their accuracy
depends upon their being continued over a time sufficient for the sun
to travel past, and so indicate to us dimension, by the change in, or
the disappearance of, the shadows cast.
[Sidenote: Wind and Snow Signs.]
Wind is not ‘seen,’ but its immediate effects upon snow are, more
especially on high ridges, corniced or otherwise. The quality and
quantity of the surface snow on a ridge, which it is important to know
beforehand, can be discovered in times of wind from the amount and
direction of the snow particles, which are seen to be blowing off the
ridge, and appear as a film or puff of vapour upon the sky just above.
The absence of any halo to the ridge, in spite of the manifest action
of wind upon adjacent clouds, is equally valuable evidence of the
stable quality of the snow.
The direction and force of the wind will often suggest the side of the
ridge to which we shall prefer to limit our passage on the morrow. On
the windy side, if the ridge be snow-covered, according to the quarter
and character of the wind, the snow will be crusted or hard, or we may
have to encounter a bare sheet of ice. If it be rock, again according
to the wind, we shall find the holds either cleared or ice glazed in
the morning. On the side sheltered from the wind, on a high exposed
ridge the snow should be just of good quality. But even on such ridges
it may be spongy and cantankerous if the wind has had Föhn in it.
In a bad season, or after a storm of ‘dry’ snow, it is worth while
examining high ridges that have been exposed to the wind, on the chance
that they may not have been closed by snow for the usual three days,
like other peaks. A friend and I owed our own last great climb to
having observed that the Zmutt ridge of the Matterhorn had been blown
black and bravely snow-clear by the same storm that sheeted all the
other ridges and summits of Zermatt in white, untimely mourning.
Apart from the indirect evidences it brings, wind, keen or warm, gusty
or continuous, has its direct bearing upon the comfort, the safety and
even the possibility of our climbing. Of its effects on snow surface,
on rock falls and upon _morale_ I have written elsewhere.
[Sidenote: Ice.]
Ice sheets on snow peaks are located from a distance by their reflected
light; but it is well to memorize or sketch their position and extent
beforehand, especially if we expect to have to cross them upon our
descent, since they will be usually invisible from above. If there is
prospect of our glissading, the exact positions of interruptions, ice
shields, bosses, etc., must be known in advance.
Ice upon rock is apparent, either as a grey-blue, bottle-glass
bordering to the stippling and nestling of old snow, or in the refrozen
festoons of new ice, exquisite and evil, that complete the Gothic
character of granite pinnacles.
Lazy, main glaciers reveal themselves frankly. The solution of their
complexity is the business of ice craft; but distant inspection is
concerned to discover the easiest line of ascent or descent, if the
glacier is to form part of the expedition.
The most difficult hanging glaciers--that is, those with the largest
systems of crevasses--will be as a rule the most steeply inclined.
They will be therefore the easiest to prospect, even in detail, as
seen in face from far off. Very few hanging glaciers descend evenly
or straight. Either side or the centre will be moving the faster, and
receiving the fuller reinforcement. The line of the great crevasses
will slant upward or across, from one side to the other, or from both
sides to the centre. And along the edges where the lines of varying
pace and pressure adjoin and descend in conflict will be found,
if there are no abrupt ice falls due to uneven bedding, the least
interrupted route. Contrary pressures often tend to squeeze up the
ends of successive cross-lines of crevasses, creating a tortuous but
consecutive eddy of passage. Though the crevasses may still exist, as
walls, _séracs_, etc., they will be more compressed and negotiable on
this line. Frequently the cleavages will here survive only as partial
splits, and across and down the edges of the unsevered splinters or
flakes a continuous descent will be possible. But climbers may skirt
round the mazes of glacier causation, if they have but eyes for the
visible surface clues. It is enough for them to note from afar and
remember by marginal marks where the best line of traverse from side
to side, or from side to centre, should be started, in order to keep
or recover the mobile thoroughfare. On large glaciers this is often
very difficult to rediscover once we are on the ice, when our view is
restricted by its irregularities of surface.
Similarly, to enable us to get on or off any glacier, we should note
beforehand the position of convenient side-bays, where the ice runs out
on to the rock in smoother, spent waves.
[Sidenote: Couloirs.]
Even as the passage of couloirs might be considered as belonging to
snow and ice craft or to rock craft, so also their consideration is
transitional to rock reconnoitring.
On large mountains the important thing to know about a couloir
beforehand, if we intend to use it, is whether it is filled with ice or
with snow, and whether it is subject to stone fall.
To information on the first point, the study of the angle of the
couloir is the first help. A steep angle generally implies that the
lining will be ice and not snow.
But as snow, supported by retaining rock, may remain at a very high
angle, we look to see if there are any furrows in the white surface.
If there are furrows and they are in ice, they will show us ice
reflections in sunlight. If there are no ice reflections and they are
therefore in snow, or if they are only ice-backed and therefore in
snow-covered ice, the depth of the furrows will tell us what depth of
snow we may expect upon the ice. If there are no furrows, the edges of
the supposed snow must be inspected for further information. Where the
snow runs out on to the rock at the side in ice webs, the surface tone
will appear of different qualities if it be snow on ice, or if it be
ice throughout.
And after all our examination, we may be agreeably surprised to be able
to ascend on hard snow in the early hours where we had calculated from
the angle that we should be hacking in snow-ice; or as disagreeably
disappointed to find snow of avalanche quality, on a late return or
after warm wind, where we had located snow of the best bearing variety
during a morning inspection.
The base of the couloir should be inspected for traces of previous snow
avalanches, and for the character of its bergschrund. We see if we can
whether the summit of the couloir is commanded by glacier or slope
likely to use it for the discharge of snow or stones. If so, we note
during what hours the presence of sun will increase the risk, and when
shade to diminish it may be looked for.
In a big couloir we mark down islands of rock which, in case we are
detained in the recesses until stone fall time, will provide us with
screens below which to steer our line.
We study the lie of the strata and the containing walls for possible
exits from the couloir. On big peaks the top of a couloir often opens
upon an amphitheatre of slabs, too thinly ice coated for steps. It is
then important to mark down a line for escape in time.
If the base of the couloir selected can be seen, the presence there
of fallen stones is evidence that they have fallen; but their absence
there is not conclusive that they have not. They may have been
swallowed by the bergschrund, disappeared into some crevasse, or lodged
in soft concealing snow. For this end we must examine the edges of the
schrund and of any cleavages for traces, and the surface of the lower
snow for pockling. If there are channels worn in the snow or ice at
the base or back of the couloir, we shall get further evidence that
something is accustomed to fall. These channels may have been made
by stones, by ice trash or by water. In sunshine the difference is
distinguishable. If the runnels are ‘silver-backed’ in sunlight, and
there are no stones apparent, they have been made by water and are
harmless.
If the couloir to be visited descends on to a visible glacier, but is
itself invisible, the presence, absence or scarcity of fallen stones
discoverable at the bottom end of the glacier, subject always to the
possibility of the consumption by rift or crevasse, will demonstrate
the couloir, or couloirs, commanding the visible glacier to be
proportionately infected with, free from, or only in some cases liable
to, the falling sickness.
[Sidenote: Rock.]
In prospecting rock routes we have more to help us; for rock, unlike
snow, does not change its skin, and when it hides itself, under ice or
snow or water or glaze, the change from the black Ethiopian is obvious
and calculable. We have also preliminary information, if not in books
yet in the outlines of the mountains themselves, as to what is the
character of the particular rock before us. Every climber, if he can
assume the presence of limestone or granite or dolomite, sandstone,
trap, chalk, or a few other of the elementary and lay classifications,
has a clear picture in his own mind of the kind of climbing and of rock
holds that he may expect.
[Sidenote: Faces.]
The slopes of the hills will tell him in general; good glasses will
tell him more of his particular route or of local modifications in
the characteristics:--such as how the rock is weathering; in which
direction the strata are dipping; and what is the fashion of the
jointing. Putting this information and his knowledge of the type of
rock together, he will know upon which side to attack his peak.
For instance, if the strata dip through the peak, the aspect of the
mountain upon which the upper ends of the strata emerge will give him
holds sloped upwards to his advantage. This side, with its _retroussé_
ledges, will also hold fresh snow longest after a fall, and at such a
time afford him a further chance of locating the lie of traverse and
shelf. If the main cleavages, again, are vertical, he will select the
most weathered face, where the jointing will give him platform and
shelf. If they are in the main horizontal, he has to seek the side that
presents the most sequent line of weathering rifts or fractures, in
order to connect up the natural horizontal ledges.
Just as a sunny day is of most help in prospecting an unknown snow
climb, so is the day after a snowfall invaluable for the examination of
rock routes. I owe several fine new rock climbs to snowfalls. Not only
does the lodging snow indicate particular ledges and their intervals
in detail, but it discovers to the eye general connecting lines of
traverse or slope, which may be too interrupted or too foreshortened to
be perceptible upon a distant inspection of the bare and broken rock
face. Under snow the main lines of rock structure leap into sight.
By a convenient law of rock formation, the little apes the great. Thus,
if we can discover the general inclination of traverses across a face,
however large in scale, broken or interrupted their lines may be, it
is safe to assume that the small details which make up these lines,
the ledges, etc., will be reproducing the same fashion of structure
in little. Where there are big terraces, there will be small ledges
copying their form and direction. If there are big visible gaps, giant
slabs, or terraces interrupted and continuing at a higher level as a
result of uneven upheaval, in the same or similar places, although too
small to be visible, the climber has to look out for exposed passages
on slabs, or he will have to search for cracks to connect up his
interrupted ledges.
It is all but impossible to inspect a distant climb with sufficient
minuteness to be absolutely certain that a fifteen-foot wall or a
broken ledge may not stop all progress at some point. Very rarely we
can say, “It is impossible;” occasionally we can say, “It will go for
certain;” but generally we have to leave some portion to the ‘round the
corner’ chance. In such case we can reason with advantage from the big
to the small, interpreting the main features of a face or ridge into
terms of detail suitable for our lesser needs, and justifying it by our
experience of similar rock.
Fortunately, rocks generally prove us right. They seldom cheat us, by
a petty exception, of the fruits of general conclusions which we have
based upon observation of their principal tendencies. On the contrary,
we are constantly helped by kindly accidents and flaws, where we might
expect no mercy. The Grépon traverse is a delightful instance of
unreasonable progress just made possible by a series of, apparently,
gorgeous accidents. The flukes are so brilliant and so timely that
the layman cheerfully assumes them to be a rule in attacking similar
Aiguilles; and he is rarely disappointed. When the expected and the
unexpected alike fail us, on such rock we can still count upon a kindly
roughness of surface and upon homely methods of friction to join up
connections which structure and luck would have, for once, denied to us.
In reconnoitring all rock faces, especially for new routes, we are
alert about the matter of falling stones. On boldly sculptured faces
the edges of the ribs will be the safest line. On faces of shallow
relief or much interrupted modelling, we may assume that nothing but
the angle or our fortune will secure us against cross-fire. We used
to be told that we should avoid stones by selecting aspects where the
up-lie of strata emerged in sky-ward and stone-catching ledges. But
personally, I have been seldom so badly bombarded as upon the Zermatt
face of the Matterhorn, where every schoolboy knows what happens to the
strata. If the rock is known to be good rock, or if we can design a
route which by reason of its angle or its salience on the face should
be safe, we may chance a few exposed connecting links. But if the rock
is notoriously bad, or the disconnections in the safe route look to be
numerous, and this especially if they occur high up where the sun will
have had long time to act before we reach them, we must not risk the
attempt. Years ago our party turned back from completing the ascent
of the Furggen ridge of the Matterhorn on the ground of risk from
stone fall. Later it was climbed; and the story of the success might
be read as a commentary on the mountaineering value of the virtue of
renunciation.
[Sidenote: Ridges.]
The same reasoning from the big to the little helps us in prospecting
ridge climbs. If the succeeding edges, towers and large interruptions
on a great ridge show a disposition towards maintaining a steady family
connection, each with its neighbour, in spite of their bold skyline
accidentation--(I cannot put this more intelligibly, but any student of
natural outline will know what is meant)--then there is every reason to
hope that the ‘cuts-off’ between them will also prove more relenting
than they look. In their smaller detail the same indulgences, of ledge
and flake and fluke in favour of the climber, will manifest themselves.
A ridge seen end-on is very deceptive. If it rises steeply, it may
appear to be a continuous incline, whereas it consists really of
separated, ascending ‘steps.’ If a side view is not obtainable, the
look of the walls falling on either side from the ridge crest must be
our guide. The depth, extent and number of depressions indicated in
these side walls, seen in profile, will tell us that there are couloirs
below, and therefore probably syncopations in the seemingly continuous
crest-line above.
The projection of bulges or articulated ribs on either side wall may,
similarly, be identified as the edges or supporting buttresses of
isolated towers, whose depth of separation from each other is concealed
from us in the foreshortening of the ridge.
Towers on a ridge, seen in flat from one side, are equally misleading.
They are more often the ends of short ridges which run crosswise to
the line of the main ridge than the needles which they appear to the
eye. An inspection of the general lie of the strata will often tell us
whether we may assume this to be the case.
If we can get both an end-on view and some oblique view of the ridge,
or of any tower upon it, we can reason fairly closely what the two
unseen sides of any spire will be like, and even whether they can
be expected to offer traverses conveniently sloping, or weathered
surfaces, such as the dip of the strata and the jointing deny to us
upon the visible sides.
Allowance must always be made for the deceptive outlines that are
introduced by foreshortening. A view from some second point is often
necessary to counteract their false impression.
In prospecting a ridge for purpose of traverse in the early morning,
it is well also to note which side gets the sun soonest and keeps it
longest. On this side we shall find the holds most clear of snow or
morning glazing, and be able to escape the chill to the muscles of
shadow on cold rock. The rock on this side also will, for the same
reason, be probably the more superficially disintegrated, and so offer
a greater choice of holds, though not necessarily holds of such good
quality.
[Sidenote: Slabs.]
In reconnoitring slabs, on faces or on the side walls of ridges, we
find that their apparent angle as seen in face is as misleading as that
of snow slopes. In their case we have not the presumptive knowledge
that they cannot be as steep as they seem, since rock may be as
perpendicular as it looks. Nor have we the subtle variations in light
and shadow which help us, on snow, to correct the eye. Rock faces are
so broken that it is seldom possible to get the assistance of sun
shadows in estimating the angle of portions of their surface.
On the other hand, acquaintance with the characteristics of the
particular type of rock, and the visible general inclination of
its strata, give us a groundwork for a preliminary estimate of its
slabiferous sections.
New snow can again come to our assistance. Snow will reveal to us an
easy angle by lying over our slabs as an even cloak; or it may display
a vertical section by missing it altogether. It will also indicate the
surface in some detail, by the fashion of its distribution on ledge or
pocket.
Otherwise we must try to secure a side view of bare slabs, or at least
a second, oblique view. If this is not to be managed, it is of use to
inspect any near and more approachable slab of similar formation. By
an examination of the profile of a ‘sample’ slab we are often able to
revise our estimate of the angle and potential holds of its bigger,
remoter neighbours.
But on rock the final judgment of doubtful passages must be left in the
end to the practical test of attempt. The only infallible criterion is
its tactile value. When we have reduced the ‘impossible’ sections of
a route to a few isolated passages, it is always worth while going to
see. The accidents of rock, its roughness, its whimsicality and its
reticences are nearly always in the end in our favour. If we can only
make sure that the rock is sound, and fix a general line of ascent, the
overcoming of the ‘impossibles’ or the ‘improbables’ in detail can well
be left to the moment. If we could map out a whole climb before we did
it, much of the pleasure would be lost.
To the resources of rock technique no rock that is sound, and not
obviously absurd, is impossible, either by attack or turning movement.
And we may assume this to be so until we have ascertained by ‘rubbing
our noses against it’ that we have lighted on the rare and unhappy
exception.
[Sidenote: Rocks in Britain.]
In prospecting rock climbs in our own country, reconnoitring is
practically confined to scrutinizing familiar faces for alternative
routes or to orienting our own climbing in an unfamiliar district.
The first is a simple matter of good glasses, good sense and direct
assault. In the second, there is still some room for general discretion.
We have to allow for a great difference in atmosphere as between
Britain and the Alps. All alpine measures have to be reduced by about
two-thirds.
We can generally assume that the north or northward inclined aspects of
British hills will give us the best climbing. This judgment is subject
to partial revision, according as we come to know better the local
characteristics or the rock formation of the particular hill before us.
If the rock wall faces to the south, our prospect of good continuous
climbing is reduced. Rocks facing south will be more disintegrated,
as they will have been less protected from the sun and more subject
to strong variations in temperature. If broken up or inclined on this
side, they will be covered with verdure, which is offensive in itself
and hastens the action of water on all the rocks it commands.
We have also to make sure of the lie of the strata, not only for
convenience of hold, but also because on the side towards which the
stratification dips the moisture fallen on the mountain will drain, and
we shall have to look out for our principal enemies--wet rock, rock
corrupted by moisture, and, in winter, an icing or glaze.
Our islands provide us with a great variety of rock structure and hill
forms, and, according as we get to know the aspects of one hill of any
local type, it is interesting to reconstruct the unseen aspects of its
neighbours. Several good climbing cliffs were first found in this way.
The look of the outline will suggest the sort of climbing we shall find
on the faces. We get further information from the nature and size of
any scree slopes below a cliff. The presence or absence of verdure, and
the sight of the belts, knots and surface _minutiæ_, tell us the rest.
All the local rock of the same aspect and in the same structural line
will be similar, and may be bad; but if we can get at another aspect of
it, on an opposite hillside, it may be of good holding character. For
which reason rickety ridgelets may be faced across the valley by sober
and admirable slabs.
Mist and cloud in Britain are our frequent companions. Mist may do us
good service by throwing an unsuspected ridge or pinnacle into relief.
But as a rule the alterations which cloud and fog effect in mountain
details falsify rather than reveal. Their use is to place a greater
value upon the fidelity with which previous reconnoitring has been
conducted, and its result remembered, if we wish, in mist, to arrive
at an intended climb at all, or to make descent into the right valley
on our return. Not impossibly they are sent by nature to complicate
what is otherwise the over-easy mountaineering training of our hills;
to handicap the specializing gymnast, and to enforce the practices of
observing detail, using the compass and map, and exercising judgment,
memory, and the precious sense of direction.
THE HALF-SEEN
In the Alps or unfamiliar regions, to discover the truth about what
may be termed the half-seen,--that is, about formation or detail
which should be visible but for foreshortening, distance, angle or
light,--new snow is again our best auxiliary. Its presence suggests,
even emphasizes, much that is unsuspected. Seemingly straight ridges
are shown to be crooked, and plain faces rough. It helps us with light
in hidden corners, and annihilates distance.
Otherwise we have to use days of driving cloud, or wait for the morning
or evening moments of thin mist, when the drift lies across the face or
through the ridge, and picks out its angles, features and perspective.
Mists will often reveal the existence of ridges and pinnacles, whose
separation from the face behind is undiscoverable as seen in front or
in clear light.
Of more frequent service are the hours when the sunlight falls across
the face from the side, and the protuberances and hollows jump into
stereoscopic clearness in shadow and the modifications of light.
Invisible snow depressions, bosses and foreshortened angles of rock
slab or ledge are cheerfully betrayed by the veracity of cross-shadows;
and points and lines of obstinate sunlight, which remain salient and
surprising after the sun has deserted all the rest of the seemingly
even surface of snow or rock, proclaim to us unexpected inequalities
and therefore possibilities of passage.
In cases of outside difficulty upon rock, where we are reconnoitring
some great rock wall, of a granite or dolomitic type, we can generally
make sure of the vertical rifts and clefts from below; but the presence
or size of transverse fractures or belts is hidden from us. In this
case assurance as to what has been only half-seen can be completed if
a downward view of the rock, or of its local type, is also obtainable.
The information is best secured from the summit of the peak itself,
reached by another route, and many great first ascents have owed their
discovery and safe accomplishment to such complementary inspection.
Only a short section need be in sight from above in order to indicate
the general character of the cross belts, and the last section on such
peaks is always the more important to examine, as it will generally be
the severest in its details. But even without this local visitation a
downward or oblique view of any section of the face, or of an allied or
neighbouring wall of similar structure, will give adequate information,
and convert the half-seen into the two-thirds made certain.
A familiar instance of the use of such inspection would be almost any
great Welsh cliff or Irish sea cliff. Seen from below, it appears to
be continuous steep slabs, with only vertical cracks for the climber;
seen from above, it looks a jumble of vague cross-terraces of grass,
snow or rock, hardly offering a chance of good articulated climbs. Both
estimates would be false. Only by collating the two points of view can
a fair judgment of the character of the climbing be formed. A number
of delightful climbs, of late discovery, have owed their neglect to
the fact that they were only easily visible from a single aspect, and
that this produced an abiding false estimate of their quality. The
importance of securing corrective views, from different angles, be
it only of a section of a proposed route, or of a passage of similar
character more conveniently situated, attaches also to our inspection
of the half-seen on big ridges. With points to remember in such
inspection I have already dealt.
It does, in fact, belong not a little to the reasoning from the seen
to the unseen; to which more metaphysical division of reconnoitring it
leads over.
THE UNSEEN
The investigation of the unseen is a chief concern of mountaineers in
new regions. But it can also be of service to the expert, in examining
even a peak he knows well, to ascertain for him the condition of its
invisible side on a particular day.
As I have said before, it is possible only to indicate _where_ signs
may be sought, and what _relative_ differences the expert eye may
discover and convert into information.
The mountaineer, after inspection of the near side of a ridge or summit
in a big range, wishes to supplement this knowledge by the discovery
of the character or general formation of the unseen side. He wishes to
know whether it will give him snow of easier progress, or a subordinate
ridge for better assault or descent; also whether he can look for clear
rock on the far side, to assist his ascent of a ridge unfavourable in
its visible aspects, or whether he must be prepared for ice slopes.
The first conditions for the inspection are experience, good glasses,
clear sunlight and no recent snowfall. Also, if he wishes to confirm or
increase the detail of his observations, he must be prepared to spend a
whole day of good light, with the sun aiding him from different points
in the sky.
As he looks over and across his high ridges from some distant
view-point, in good sunlight, the mountaineer is able to distinguish
several different kinds of sky, according to the different character of
the unseen surfaces from which the sunlight is being reflected upward
on to clear atmosphere or on to low clouds.
_The Snow Sky._--This he will find has a distinguishable tint,
identifiable by the practised eye, as different on a given day from
the normal coloration of the sky above as is the light reflected
from different qualities of steel, or from silver as compared with
electroplate.
If the sky seen over his ridge is purely a snow sky, of uniform
appearance, it is just to assume that the unseen side of the ridge
consists of large snow slopes, and rises at a comparatively gentle
angle, since we know already that upon broad surfaces, at a steep
angle, snow can only rest while it remains new and adhesive.
If, again, the sky above is purely a snow sky, but is traversed by a
band of slightly modified quality or tone, leading away from the eye,
there will exist on the far side a correspondingly inclined great snow
ridge, from one side of which the sun, in a given position, will be
reflecting high light, but from the other, lower. By repeating the
observation at different times of day, so that the light will have
fallen and been reflected from different directions, we can confirm the
existence of such a ridge, and may be able to locate its position and
determine its magnitude with some accuracy.
A second and characteristic appearance is visible on the sky above the
unseen side, if this far side consists of two large snow fields divided
by a long rocky ridge extending away from us. We then have a snow sky
divided by a band of sky which is not catching any reflected higher
light, and which we may assume to be a ‘rock’ sky.
_The Rock Sky._--If the whole expanse of the sky above is seen to have
a uniform and normal tone with no local alterations, such as would be
produced by partial snow reflection, then the unseen side will consist
of a large wall of rock--probably, in such case, steep rock.
Under favourable conditions, a very practised observer may detect in a
uniform rock sky a band of slightly modified tone going away from the
eye on the far side. This will be produced by another great rock ridge
extending in the corresponding direction. By watching the sky above
this ridge, and observing the differences produced by the reflections
of light at different hours from its different aspects, we may even be
able to discover to our satisfaction whether the invisible ridge is all
rock or has one side covered with snow.
_The Ice Sky._--Dry glacier or large fields of ice betray themselves
upon the sky in a slightly greyer tinge, distinguishable more by
contrast than by an absolute tone from a snow sky under the same
conditions.
There is also a ‘water’ sky--the unmistakable look in a sky which is
reflecting great unseen sheets of water; but its identification is more
familiar and of more service to arctic or desert travellers than to
mountaineers.
Apart from these larger sky signs there are some more local indications
that are of particular value to the climber. The appearance of the sky
as seen across the ridge will in most cases give us evidence of a mixed
character--that the unseen side is partly rock, partly snow. It is thus
essential to know, if we propose to use the ridge we are prospecting
for our ascent, whether the rock just over or on the ridge is bare or
ice glazed, and whether the snow discovered on the far side rises up
to the edge of the ridge or leaves a crest of clear rock.
If there are bare rocks close up to the edge on the unseen side, these
will be at certain hours heated by the sun, and a hot current of air
will be ascending. The skyline above will have a wavering appearance,
showing a band of darker tint between the ridge and the normal sky.
If there is snow close up on the far side, the air will not be
disturbed, and the skyline will be steady and clean.
If the rocks beyond are free from snow but glazed with ice, the skyline
will remain undisturbed, but it will have a brilliant glistening
appearance in strong sunlight, like a strip of polished blue steel.
This last indication, if the eye can learn its significance, may often
be of service on climbs where the unseen mountain structure is already
known, but when there is uncertainty as to the actual condition of the
rocks on the day. Many fruitless ascents might have been saved if the
ice glazing on such unseen sections of a ridge could have been detected
in time.
Some of these appearances may even be recognized in photographs, if
they have been taken under the right conditions and left untouched. By
watching a given section of ridge, while the sun is moving across the
sky, all a sunny day, and by using a map at first to discover what the
different sky signs as they become visible actually mean, and also how
much they reveal of the unseen topography as displayed in the map, it
is possible for some men to train their sight to discriminate fairly
closely between a number of even more complex signs, and to ascertain
actual details as to the character and direction of unseen walls and
crests, the location of unseen snow summits, and the length of far
ridges.
The process, in practical application, is of course throughout
assisted, corrected, and its lines of observation suggested by the
nearer features which the expert reconnoitrer already has in sight.
For an observer who knows the forms usual in the type of mountain
before him, and who has the local features, on the side visible to
him, to indicate still more closely what he may look out for, the
interpretation of the meaning of sky signs presents fewer alternatives,
and the conclusions drawn from them can be far more detailed than would
seem possible were his reasoning about the unseen based only upon one
group of evidences.
Final success in reconnoitring depends upon our ability to put
together, in order of their relative importance, all our assembly of
large and small evidences. Experience is able to deduce the small from
the large and to reconstruct the large from the small; and confirmation
of the truth of our deductions, from the seen or the unseen, comes when
two such lines of evidence meet: when the detail which we discover in
a single quarter confirms the speculations that we have based upon our
experience or on our interpretation of larger evidences, or when our
induction from a number of small visible indications is proved correct
by some revelation in a greater sky sign.
For a mountaineer who has to convert his observation of distant objects
and signs, of a size altogether incommensurate with his own, into terms
of a possible advance for his eight-foot reach or four-foot stride,
no evidence is too big or too small;--and this especially because the
big, in mountains, repeats itself in the small with timely consistency.
A good mountaineer might almost claim to be able to construe a single
favourable sky sign, under certain conditions, into the assurance
of his atom-like advance up the infinite invisible detail of an
unpromising-looking mountain giant.
Sunny days, patience and good glasses are first conditions for his
task. The same glasses should always be used. A type should be selected
that gives enhanced stereoscopic effect. Above all, the sight of the
eyes must be equal, or corrective glasses should be worn. Many men
never discover even what they ought to be able to see, until they
learn that their eyesight is, if only slightly, astigmatic, and use
spectacles for their reconnoitring.
Reconnoitring is not merely the preparation for a single day or for a
particular climb. A mountaineer has to learn to see and to record all
day and every day, not only distant signs for future use, but each and
every detail of his surroundings. The detail may be forgotten, but
its accumulation will gradually form in his mind a mass of general
precedents and of knowledge of the characteristics of particular
shapes and structures. This will remain with him, and will return
instinctively to aid his judgment when some cognate detail presents
itself to be interpreted as a piece of solitary evidence. As a last
personal illustration, I may recall that one of the pleasantest new
ascents in my recollection was the outcome of a simple reasoning from
a detail in the seen to the memory of the unseen: the sight of a layer
of excellent snow, covering for the time the usually bare slabs of one
wall of a peak from which we were descending, revived the recollection
that on a famous peak in another valley was a similar wall of identical
aspect and character, as yet unascended on account of its normal
impracticability. Without further examination we made the attempt upon
it, and the speculation was confirmed in the cheeriest manner.
If care so constant that it dominates alike the exhaustion of failure
and the more dangerous enervation of triumph is essential for our safe
climbing, observation so continuous that it becomes unconscious is as
necessary for our fortunate designing. Its habit may profit us by more
even than by momentary success. For a mountaineer may read a sky sign
only for the promise that it brings him of the morrow’s exercise; but
he has learned to see it, and with the power of sight he has opened a
new world of pleasure. It was the first scientific student of the form
and reflection of clouds, of the structure and relation of hills, who
was the first understanding prophet of their significance for art and
imagination. The more we can learn to see or to reconstruct of the
mountain forms visible or invisible about us as we climb, the more
vividly will memory interpret their meaning for our lives when we are
no longer among them. If we are of a mood to use both sight and its
interpretation as servants of our spirit as much as of our performance,
we may discover a reflection from the mountains that will permanently
colour our thought. There is a reassurance no less for our journey
through the years than for our march of a day in the perception that
oncoming shadow, by its very quality of darker relief, can reveal to us
some unsuspected and relenting aspect in the daunting precipice across
our path; and a twofold message, for our mind even more than for our
mountaineering, in “the light of the unseen snow-field, lying level
behind the visible peaks, sent up with strange reflections upon the
clouds; an everlasting light of calm aurora in the north.”
CHAPTER IX
MOUNTAINEERING ON SKI
BY ARNOLD LUNN
Winter mountaineering may be said to date from Mr. Moore’s crossing of
the Strahlegg and Finsteraarjoch Passes in January 1865. The first big
peak to be climbed in winter was the Wetterhorn, which was ascended
in 1874 by the Rev. W. A. B. Coolidge and Miss Brevort; a few days
later this party climbed the Jungfrau. These brilliant expeditions
set a fashion which was, however, only followed by a select company
of mountaineers, among whom a place of honour must be given to Mrs.
Le Blonde. It was not until Paulcke crossed the Oberland at the end
of 1897 on the ski that winter mountaineering began to be a popular
sport. To wade up a big peak in deep snow on snow-shoes or on foot only
appealed to a minority, but the number of those who were attracted by
the chance of combining mountaineering with ski-ing steadily increased.
The English were slow to follow the new fashion; the number of British
ski-runners who have a long list of glacier ski tours to their credit
is still small, but abroad hundreds of experienced mountaineers have
explored the High Alps on ski, and abroad the advisability of using the
ski in the High Alps has passed beyond the limits of discussion.
The time is coming when most alpine huts will be provided with ski. A
steadily increasing number of mountaineers realize that such peaks as
Monte Rosa or the Zermatt Breithorn provide excellent ski-ing at all
months of the year, and that the trouble of dragging a light pair of
summer ski to the summit is well repaid by a magnificent run down to
the hut.
There is no month in the year in which the writer has not enjoyed
first-class ski-ing, and there is no season in the whole alpine
calendar in which ski cannot be used on the loftier snow peaks in
the Alps. Ski have come to stay as an indispensable adjunct to
mountaineering. To the rock climber the ski are perhaps mainly useful
in bad seasons; if the weather in summer were uniformly good the
enthusiastic rock climber would have little use for the ski. But long
spells of bad weather are not unknown, and many a climber who has
engaged a guide or a couple of guides for a month has spent a week,
a fortnight, or in some cases even longer without climbing a peak. I
venture to assert that if he took himself and his ski to a club hut
he would at least have the satisfaction of making good use even of an
afternoon’s fine weather. I remember once finding myself at the Egon
von Steiger hut during bad weather. It snowed all day and all night,
and cleared at ten o’clock the next morning. Two parties on foot
attempted the easy Ebnefluh. Both were driven back after a very brief
struggle with deep soft snow. Myself and a friend reached the summit on
ski in more or less normal time, and enjoyed a wonderful run back to
the hut, where the disgruntled foot-sloggers had spent the day.
Let the rock climber learn to ski, and when the big rock peaks are
deep in snow he will be able to snatch a Monte Rosa or Breithorn from
the first fine day. In bad seasons individual fine days are often
sandwiched between two or three days of bad weather. Such isolated days
are useless to the foot-climber but invaluable to the ski-runner.
[Sidenote: Technique.]
I cannot spare the space to explain the technique of ski-ing.[18] Here
I need only attempt to dispel a lingering belief, that dies hard,
to the effect that there is one technique for ordinary ski-runners
and another for mountaineers. This curious superstition is the last
relic of an exploded system of ski-ing taught by an Austrian called
Zdarsky, the main effect of which was to encourage timid, slow and
clumsy ski-ing. The ‘Lillienfeld’ ski were short, and made straight
running very difficult and turning very easy. The Lillienfeld system
taught people to ski very quickly by dodging all difficulties and
encouraged a free use of the stick. It was a bad system, and is now
quite discredited; but there still lingers a curious belief that the
Norwegian style may be all very well for small mountains but is too
dashing and insecure for the High Alps. As a rule, glacier ski-ing is
far easier than ski-ing among the lower mountains; the most difficult
of all ski-ing country is wooded country, such as extends for miles
round Christiania, the home of the ‘Norwegian style.’ Let me therefore
urge the reader to master the free Norwegian style, to make all his
turns and swings without the aid of the stick, and to acquire a free
and dashing style. The mountaineer even more than the low-level
ski-runner should have complete control of his ski, and complete
control is impossible unless you have learned to control your ski not
by means of the stick, but by means of the ski themselves.
[Illustration: SNOW WAYS [JEAN GABERELL]
There are a few occasions on which the use of the stick is permissible
on tour; but it is so dangerous to begin by using the stick as a brake,
that I would advise the beginner NEVER to use the stick until he has at
least passed the ‘THIRD-CLASS TEST’ which is held from time to time in
all ski-ing centres patronized by British runners.
Furthermore, though of course it is absurd to take risks in the High
Alps, occasions often arise where speed means safety. With bad weather
or night approaching, the man who can run fast stands more chance
than the man who can not, and, consequently, the higher your speed
consistent with safety the better your chances. Now, a high speed
consistent with safety can only be maintained by those who have lost
no chance on small expeditions of raising the speed at which they feel
comfortable, and this, again, can only be achieved by running just a
little faster than is quite comfortable.
In the High Alps a reckless runner, who is always falling, is a danger
to his companions and himself, but a man who is quite incapable of a
fair speed is always a nuisance on tour, and may sometimes prove a
danger. Steadiness is the first requisite in the High Alps, but speed
is by no means unimportant. Any man with average balance and nerve,
if he is properly taught, can learn to run steadily and to make slow
turns on average snow at the end of a fortnight. To become a really
expert ski-runner is, of course, another matter, but some of the finest
ski-turns in the High Alps have been carried through with success by
men who were not even third-class runners. Let the mountaineer learn
to ski and take such chances as a snowy summer may afford. In a few
hours he will begin to enjoy ski-ing, and his enjoyment will steadily
increase with his experience. It is easy to become a third-class
ski-runner, and very well worth while taking sufficient trouble to
become a second-class runner. First-class ski-ing is, of course, not
within the reach of all.
In order to make much that follows comprehensible to the reader,
who, though a mountaineer, has yet to become a ski-runner, a short
definition of the ski-ing turns and swings is necessary.
The object of every ski-runner is to approximate as nearly as possible
in his course to a straight line between the point of departure and
the goal. Obviously this ideal is impossible of attainment save on
comparatively short open slopes, which can be taken straight. Hence the
regrettable necessity of turns and swings which, unlike skating turns
and swings, are not an end in themselves, and are only incidentally
beautiful and graceful to execute and to watch.
There are three principal turns or swings: the _Stemming turn_, the
_Telemark_, the _Christiania_.
Each of these turns can be used either as a stop turn (i.e. in order
to stop more or less suddenly), or as a means of linking one tack to
another. For instance, a slope may be too steep to take straight; in
this case the good runner descends in a series of linked curves.
According to the condition of the snow, he will make these linked
curves either by means of the Stemming, the Telemark, or the
Christiania turns.
The Stemming turn is the easiest and slowest turn. It is the key
to alpine ski-ing, and can be employed on snow on which a Telemark
or linked Christiania would be either difficult or impossible. The
beginner should try to combine Stemming with Christianias, to begin
his turn as a Stem and to finish with a Christiania. This swing, which
is sometimes called a Stem-Christiania or a ‘Closed Christiania’ (as
opposed to ‘Open Christianias’), or by a natural abbreviation a
‘Closti,’ is the most generally useful of ski-ing swings.
The Lillienfeld system placed exclusive reliance on the Stemming turn
and dismissed the other two as fancy tricks. This was absurd, for in
many kinds of snow the Telemark or Christiania is much the more useful
manœuvre. Either of these latter turns can be executed at a very high
speed, whereas the Stemming turn cannot be done at a high speed.
The Telemark is mainly useful in deep soft snow or in soft breakable
crust; in either of which the Stemming turn and the linked Christiania
is difficult or impossible.
The Christiania, as a stop turn, is the safest method of stopping
at high speed. Linked open Christianias are not easy to master, but
are very satisfactory when mastered. Wherever a linked series of
Christianias can be executed, linked Stem-Christianias are easier, and
safer. The power to make a series of continuous non-stop turns with the
Christiania marks out the expert; nothing is more beautiful than fast
descent on glacier snow, film crust or crust slightly softened by means
of a series of swift-running Christianias.
For the High Alps I consider that the Stemming turn and the Christiania
should always be used in preference to the Telemark, excepting in very
deep soft snow--rare in the High Alps--or in soft breakable crust.
The Telemark is a one-foot turn; all the weight is on the leading foot;
consequently the Telemark is less powerful and less sure than the
Christiania, which is a two-foot turn. Furthermore, the falls resulting
from a Telemark which has gone wrong are more dangerous than from any
other turn. From a faulty Christiania or Stemming turn one is usually
thrown backwards or sideways against the slope; from a faulty Telemark
one is often thrown on to one’s head or outwards from the slope.
Further, the ski have a nasty habit of crossing behind in a badly timed
Telemark.
To sum up: Use the stick as little as possible. Make all your linked
turns by Stem-Christianias, except in deep soft snow or breakable
crust, where the Telemark should be used. For a sudden stop use the
Christiania in preference to the Telemark.
[Sidenote: Equipment.]
In addition to the ordinary mountaineer’s equipment, the ski-runner
must have ski, sealskins, ski-sticks and repair outfit for ski.
I have no space to advise on the choice of ski, but I might warn the
reader against the common illusion that ski for mountaineering should
be markedly shorter than ski for short tours. They should be a couple
of inches shorter, but very short ski should not be used save in the
summer. I have used the longest size obtainable (2·36 in.) for quite
long tours, and the next longest size (2·31 in.) in the High Alps.
Sealskin are detachable, and are fixed on to the ski to prevent the ski
side-slipping while climbing a steep slope. Ski-ing boots are bigger
than mountaineering boots. They should be nailed--lightly nailed, of
course, but on no account entirely nailless. The nailless ski-ing boot
is a superstition imported from Norway, where the hills are milder in
gradient than in the Alps.
For all glacier tours crampons, or, to use another word, ‘ice-claws,’
should be taken. Eight-pointers are best, though good work can be
done with six-pointers. The small four pointers are most insecure and
uncomfortable.
For all further details as to equipment the reader may consult my book
_Cross Country Ski-ing_.
THE ALPINE CALENDAR
The first winter snows usually fall in October: excellent ski-ing
is often obtained at the ordinary winter sports centres in October.
Glacier tours should certainly not be attempted before December, as
the danger from crevasses is at its maximum in October and November.
January and February are the best months for ski tours up to about ten
thousand feet. The winter proper is NOT the best season for glacier ski
tours, though most of the classic ski tours in the High Alps have been
carried out between December and the end of February. Good ski-ing can
be obtained at low levels well on to the end of April, and sometimes
even later. As a rule, the snow lies down to about five thousand feet
on north slopes well on into the middle of May.
MAY AND JUNE ARE THE BEST MONTHS FOR GLACIER SKI-ING, though excellent
ski-ing may be obtained throughout the summer. There is no month in
the year in which the High Alps do not yield good snow, but the best
all-round months for mountaineering on ski are undoubtedly May and June.
SNOW CRAFT
The expert cross-country ski-runner must not only be a fast and safe
runner on all kinds of snow and ground, but he must also possess
a thorough knowledge of snow craft. Unfortunately, there are nine
ski-runners whose Telemarks are perfect for one whose knowledge of snow
is even adequate, and the number of those whose understanding of snow
in all seasons of the year is really expert is indeed small.
Snow craft in winter and in spring is even more complex than in summer,
and requires a special study of its own. Even the most expert guides
whose knowledge of summer snow leaves nothing to be desired require
considerable winter experience before they are thoroughly competent to
lead a party among the High Alps in winter. The same is true of spring;
each season, in fact, requires a separate study.
The ski-runner needs to possess a more exact knowledge of snow than
that which the foot-mountaineer requires. A mountaineer on foot is
mainly interesting to discover whether the snow is hard enough to walk
uphill without sinking in, and whether the snow is likely to avalanche.
Hard snow, soft snow and avalanche snow are the three main categories
in which the foot-mountaineer divides snow. He need not bother with
all the delicate gradations of value that distinguish snow which is so
hard that it will not take a Stemming turn, and snow which, though hard
enough to bear a foot, will yet take a Christiania or even a Telemark.
The ski-runner who neglects snow craft is severely punished for his
carelessness. He runs into fast and sticky snow and pitches heavily
on his face, or from soft snow on to hard snow and falls heavily
backwards. Even the least observant ski-runner soon realizes that
an elementary knowledge of snow is essential to his comfort and his
safety. His knowledge of snow needs to be instinctive. On foot a man
has time to probe and to examine, but on ski he has to diagnose the
snow while travelling at a high speed. He has to possess an accurate
sense of direction so that he can foretell the changes of snow that
occur when travelling from, say, a north-east slope on to an eastern
slope, or an eastern slope on to a south-eastern slope.
Quite as many bad ski-ing falls are caused by deficient snow craft as
by deficient balance.
Precisely because even the most casual ski-runner is bound to learn
from the past experience of nasty falls, ski-ing inevitably teaches
even the most unobservant some knowledge of snow craft. A ski-runner
cannot hand over the whole strategy of the day’s campaign to a guide.
He must think for himself and study for himself. In summer the real
business of climbing usually begins when the glacier or the summer
snowline is reached, but in winter a ski-runner can kill himself in an
avalanche within an hour of the hotel. Snow craft begins in winter at
the hotel door.
The careful study of snow is a fascinating branch of nature study.
More can be learned from books than the reader might imagine. Once a
ski-runner has grasped how snow is affected by altitude, orientation,
wind and sun, he is in a better position to profit by his knowledge in
practice than if he was forced painfully to unravel the laws of snow
by personal observation. In the early days of ski-ing in the Alps the
guides themselves were completely ignorant of the main laws of snow in
winter. They are still, for the most part, ignorant of the subtleties
of spring ski-ing, which is much more difficult to understand than
winter ski-ing. In winter, if a snow slope holds good snow in the
morning it will probably hold good snow throughout the day, but in
spring the same slope goes through a regular cycle of changes. It may
be unskiable at dawn, yield perfect ski-ing at midday, prove absolutely
unsafe at three in the afternoon, and yield good running again in the
evening.
To time a descent accurately, to forecast from a knowledge of the
orientation and altitude of a given mountain that it will yield perfect
ski-ing at a given hour, is to know one of the most satisfactory
intellectual pleasures that the mountains afford.
WINTER SNOW
There are certain forms of snow which are characteristic of certain
seasons. ‘_Powder snow_,’ for instance, is normal in winter and
uncommon in the late spring; none the less powder snow is often found
even in summer, just as certain forms of snow which are characteristic
of spring or early summer are occasionally found even in midwinter.
‘Winter snow’ must then be taken to mean the kind of snow which is
common and characteristic of, but not limited to, winter.
[Sidenote: Powder snow.]
In winter a normal snowfall is accompanied by a temperature below
freezing; snow that falls with the temperature just above freezing
usually descends in the form of sleet. Fortunately, such conditions are
not common.
Snow will even fall when the temperature registers a degree or two of
thaw. I have known dry snow fall with a temperature of two degrees
above zero--centigrade, at a height of 5500 feet above the sea.
Similarly, as icemakers know, water will freeze on a rink even when the
temperature is above freezing-point.
The explanation for this anomaly may be sought in the well-known
law that pressure lowers the freezing-point.[19] It seems a natural
deduction that diminished pressure will _raise_ the freezing-point.
0° centigrade is the freezing-point of water at sea-level. Under a
pressure greater than that of the air at sea-level, the freezing-point
is lowered so that the bottom of a glacier will be in a condition of
liquefaction at a temperature below freezing. It should follow that an
air pressure _less_ than that of the air at sea-level should raise the
freezing-point; or, in other words, that at any point above sea-level
the freezing-point should be higher than zero. From my own observations
I believe that water will freeze and rain turn to snow when the
temperature is 2 degrees centigrade above zero at a height of 5000 feet.
Fortunately, the normal snowfall is accompanied by a temperature below
freezing, for if the snow is on the point of turning to rain, it forms
a crust when the temperature falls. A normal dry snowfall takes the
form of small hexagonal crystals. Newly fallen snow is not compact,
and contains a great deal of air, which slowly escapes as the snow
settles, so that after a day or two the new snow has lost nearly a half
of its apparent depth.
New snow is very soft and slow, but gives good running on steep slopes;
though, of course, long steep slopes are liable to avalanche. Good
running is also often obtained during a snowfall by choosing south
slopes, previously covered by a hard crust; for there is nothing
pleasanter than two or three inches of snow on hard crust, and during
a gentle snowfall it is possible to enjoy quite good sport on such
slopes. In general, expeditions--even quite short ones--are impossible
till the snow stops, and unsafe for a day or two after a heavy fall.
Newly fallen snow sticks badly in the sun even if the temperature is
well below freezing.
Once, however, that the snow has settled it soon gives perfect running.
One night’s really hard frost is sufficient to produce excellent snow.
_Powder snow_ remains good almost indefinitely in winter on northern
slopes, provided it is not spoiled by wind. It steadily improves. In
sheltered places the crystals gradually grow in size so that sometimes
you find large leaf-like formations, which rustle under the ski like
autumn leaves. Such snow is a dream of paradise.
_Powder snow_ is the ideal running surface. It is equally good for
straight running and for swings. In deep soft powder the Telemark is
the best swing, but in fairly compact powder any turn or swing is easy
and safe.
The ski-runner who visits the Alps in winter, and has good luck, may
run for day after day on perfect powder. He is in danger of thinking
himself a better runner than he is. If he concentrates on Telemarks,
the first tour in the High Alps, where he will meet varieties of hard
and soft crust, will find him out badly. He should therefore make
a point of spending a day or two on south slopes so as to master
the Stemming turn on hard snow. If he is getting pleased with his
Telemarks, let him try a Telemark on the soft breakable crust to
be found on south slopes at midday, and if he can do a series of
fast-linked Telemarks in such crust, he may then return to his powder
snow with a good conscience.
[Sidenote: The Effect of Wind on Powder Snow.]
Snow which is spoiled by the sun is never quite impossible, and is
always curable by a hair of the dog that bit it; in other words, by
another and stronger dose of sun. But snow which has been wrecked by
the wind is the despair of the ski-runner.
The wind does not affect snow that has once been crusted, so that
wind-swept snow is almost unknown in spring. The favourite victim of
wind is precisely that light, dry powdery snow which is so common in
winter.
The effect of wind depends on three factors, the strength of the wind,
the time during which the snow is exposed to the wind, and lastly the
type of snow exposed to the wind. Powder snow is the most sensitive,
the quickest to spoil and the most trying when spoiled. Hard crust is
entirely unaffected; heavy wet snow is very little affected.
A light wind produces on powder snow the markings which are known
as _ripplemark_, a term which has been applied by scientists to the
rippled effects which can be traced, not only in snow, but also in
sand, and even in clouds which have been influenced by wind. Sand and
snow behave very similarly under the influence of wind. A slightly
stronger wind, or a wind blowing for a longer spell, produces caked
powder, which is dense and compact, but has not quite lost its powdery
quality. The ski sink in to a depth of an inch or more, and though
fast running is dangerous and apt to produce broken ski points, a good
runner can derive much pleasure from caked powder, and can force linked
Telemarks without much trouble. The third stage in the deterioration
of snow occurs when the wind produces a hard crust. _Windboard_ is
hard and slippery, but so long as it is not varied with soft patches
of sticky snow or of breakable crust, windboard yields a surface which
may annoy the novice but which should not prove, at any rate on slopes
of moderate gradient, too troublesome to an expert who has mastered
his hard snow turns. Windboard is common during the winter months in
the High Alps; in appearance and texture it is not unlike the hard
marble crust, which is found on south slopes after a long spell of fine
weather, but it is vital to discriminate between windboard and marble
crust, because the former may sometimes break away in slab avalanches
whereas the latter never avalanches. Windboard betrays its origin by
ripple markings, sometimes faint but seldom invisible to the practised
eye. Windboard is often varied by pockets of sticky snow.
If wind produced nothing worse than caked powder or windboard, the
ski-runner would have less cause for complaint. Unfortunately the
wind often produces horrible surfaces which resemble each other only
in their general unsuitability for ski-ing. _Skavla_ is the generic
Norwegian name for wind-swept snow, and skavla is common on the
exposed fjords of Norway and Sweden, where it attains a degree of
unpleasantness seldom matched in the Alps. Skavla varies. Sometimes
skavla consists of patches of glittering ice varied by treacherous
pockets of sticky snow; sometimes a breakable trap crust interspersed
with windboard; sometimes waves of hard, icy snow which occasionally
attain a height of two feet or more. The prevailing wind determines
the direction of the waves and acts in precisely a contrary fashion to
that of wind on water; for wind on snow has a burrowing effect, and
forms these waves by excavating and eroding a slope, gradually forming
a series of steps. In other words, whereas on the sea the wind will be
found to be blowing up the longer slope of a wave, on snow the wind
will have been blowing against the short steep side of the snowy waves.
To sum up: The effect of wind on powder snow is always bad. The
stronger the wind and the longer that it blows, the worse the snow.
Hence in winter avoid exposed slopes and seek out sheltered valleys.
The summit slopes of winter mountains will usually be spoiled by the
wind, which is one of many reasons why spring is so superior to winter
as far as ski-ing in the High Alps is concerned.
[Sidenote: The Effect of Sun on Powder Snow.]
Powder snow acquires a crust if it is exposed to wind, to sun
shining at a sufficiently direct angle, and to an air temperature
above freezing. Wind alone has the power of forming crust without a
preliminary melting of the surface. I do not know why this should be
so, but no doubt the reason is to be found in the law that pressure
lowers the freezing-point, so that the increased pressure caused by
wind lowers the freezing-point, or, in other words, produces the
effects of a thaw at the point where the wind acts even though the
general air temperature may be well below zero centigrade.
At any rate, sun, wind and thaw are alike in producing a surface crust.
The effect of the sun depends mainly upon the angle of inclination. In
midwinter, snow will remain unaffected by the sun on northerly slopes
even though they receive several hours of sunshine in the course of the
day.
In fact, in midwinter eastern and western slopes retain powder snow for
a very considerable time, while a slope that is a few degrees north of
west or a few degrees north of east retains powder snow throughout the
winter, always providing that it is not exposed to wind or to thaw.[20]
I use the term _‘thaw’ to denote a general air temperature above
freezing as opposed to the purely local melting caused by the sun’s
rays_, which may be, and in fact normally is, accompanied by an air
temperature in the shade of several degrees below freezing.
The thermometer will often be registering more than ten degrees of
frost in the shade and twenty or more degrees of warmth--centigrade--in
the sun. It is, as icemakers know, quite common to find a belt of cold
air, two feet in height, just above the snow and just below a strata of
warm air several degrees above freezing-point.
In normal winter weather you may be uncomfortably warm in the sunshine,
and yet the sun has no power to affect powder snow on any slope which
has not a touch of south in it.
The steepest south slopes are the first to lose their powder snow.
Afterwards, the gentler south slopes follow suit. Towards the end of
February western and eastern slopes begin to crust. In March due north
slopes still hold powder,--at any rate above 5000 or 6000 feet,--but
slopes which are only a few degrees north of east or of west begin to
crust. Finally, the level outruns get crusted, then the gentle due
north slopes, and last of all steep north slopes.
Of course at high altitudes winter conditions prevail until well on
into April.
In midwinter good ski-ing is usually to be had on south slopes for
three or four days after a snowfall, though steep due south slopes soon
crust. The time during which gentle south slopes or slopes which are
just south of west or east will hold powder depends on the general air
temperature and on the altitude. I have known pretty steep due south
slopes hold powder below 4000 feet for three days of cloudless weather,
but the temperature was about 15 degrees centigrade below freezing.
This is, however, unusual, and south slopes soon crust up even in
midwinter. The sun melts the snow by day, and the melted snow refreezes
at night, producing a crust. Such a crust will, at first, be soft and
breakable.
_Soft breakable crust_ is not a bad running surface. It is quite true,
i.e. does not vary in pace from one place to another, and is usually
soft enough to enable the ski-runner to make Telemark swings, either
stop or linked, without much difficulty. Sometimes the crust is harder,
and in this case the jump-round or _quersprung_ is the only possible
manœuvre.
A peculiarly villainous form of crust, fortunately rather rare, is
known by the appropriate name of _Trap crust_. This crust is perfectly
solid at one spot, and bears the weight of the ski without breaking,
only to crack a few yards lower down. The ski-runner skids with great
speed over the hard crust, only to be pulled up suddenly as his ski
break through the soft crust below.
Trap crust is more usual in spring than in winter, especially on slopes
which change in direction, so that the ski-runner passes from snow
which has been sufficiently thawed to form a hard solid crust at night
to slopes which have only been superficially melted. Trap crust is only
found after fairly heavy falls of snow which require considerable time
to form a solid crust. As a rule, trap crust covers a foot or more of
powder snow.
To return, however, to more normal winter conditions. _Under normal
conditions the snow on south slopes in winter is gradually transformed
into crust._
This crust is at first soft and breakable, but the continuous process
of melting and refreezing gradually produces a solid unbreakable crust.
_Unbreakable crust_, as the ski-runner soon discovers, varies greatly
in quality from hard crust which is so hard that the ski slip sideways
without obtaining the least grip, crust which on any slope but the most
gentle is almost unskiable, to the other extreme, crust which though
quite hard and unbreakable is rough enough to permit even a Telemark
and to make Christianias and Stemming turns delightfully easy.
The solid crust formed in winter is usually very hard and slippery
before the sun strikes it. This crust is known as _Marble Crust_. You
find marble crust on southern slopes in winter, and at high altitudes
in spring. It is common in the High Alps. Even at the very end of April
I have known a slope at a height of 12,000 feet remain hard, slippery
and unsoftened for some little time after the sun had struck it because
a bitter north wind had lowered the temperature several degrees below
freezing.
In mid-winter a slope of marble crust will yield good ski-ing after the
sun has struck it, unless the air temperature is several degrees below
freezing. Marble crust, touched by the sun, yields a surface which
will puzzle the beginner but which is pure delight to the man who has
mastered Stemming turns and Christianias. The excellent running that
may be obtained on south slopes is too little exploited, for winter
ski-runners are firmly convinced that good ski-ing can only be found on
north slopes where powder lies.
Mid-winter may be said to last till the end of January. In February you
often find perfect spring snow, Telemark crust, etc., on south slopes,
and in February, as often as not, the best running is obtained on
southern slopes. This type of running will be dealt with later.
[Sidenote: Summary of Winter Snow.]
Winter snow may therefore be summarized as follows. The normal winter
snow which is found throughout the winter on northern slopes and
occasionally on southern slopes is powder snow which is perhaps the
ideal ski-ing snow.
Powder snow deteriorates under the influence of wind and sun. Wind is
the more mischievous. A little wind does no great harm, and the expert
can even ski with pleasure on the hard crust formed by wind, but the
extreme action of wind often produces varieties of snow which are all
but unskiable.
The High Alps and lofty summits in general being most exposed to wind
will usually yield inferior ski-ing to sheltered slopes. The best
ski-ing in winter will therefore seldom be found on the glaciers.
Snow also deteriorates under the influence of sun, which forms a crust.
This crust, however, once formed is often improved by a further dose of
sun.
Though the best ski-ing is usually obtained on north slopes, excellent
ski-ing is often obtained on south slopes by those whose knowledge of
snow craft is sufficient to time their descent and to choose their
route accurately.
Abnormal conditions produced by Föhn and thaw are dealt with on pp.
417-422.
SPRING SNOW
We have seen that good ski-ing in winter depends largely on the absence
of wind. A sudden thaw may also produce a disastrous result, for snow
which has once been rained on and refrozen will remain covered with
crust until there is a new snowfall.
The best winter snow is without rival, but spring snow is, on the
whole, safer and less capricious. In normal spring weather all snow is
crusted in the early morning, for the sun is powerful enough to melt
snow even on northern slopes. But this spring crust, as we shall soon
show, is much less troublesome than crust in winter and yields very
fine ski-ing indeed. Wind, the great enemy in winter, has no effect
in spring, for wind cannot affect hard crust, and if wind blows while
the snow is falling a few days of strong sun will melt any wind-formed
crust and produce exactly the same surface as if the snow had never
been touched by wind. It should, however, be added that, in the early
spring, wind, though powerless on snow which has once been melted
and crusted, is a great nuisance if it blows on snow which is still
powdery, as is usually the case for twenty-four hours or so after a
snowfall; snow which has once been crusted by the wind has a very
strong resisting power to the action of the sun; I have known south
snow in March retain irritating effects of wind action after several
days of strong sun that would have been sufficiently potent to melt any
ordinary crust.
Spring ski-ing is, as a rule, delightful. Snow is troublesome in the
intermediate stage between powder and crust. Once a crust is formed,
the more often that crust is remelted and refrozen the better, as
there is nothing better than old crystalline snow which has been
through the mill of melting and refreezing again and again. Unless wet
Föhn blows such snow will always retain its crystalline character,
even when remelted by the sun, and will always yield good ski-ing. Of
course in the late spring at low altitudes the sun is powerful enough
thoroughly to thaw and drench the snow, and in the middle of May below
7000 feet wet snow in the middle of the day is unpleasant. But in March
and April ski-ing on melted crust is wholly delightful. Incidentally
the best ‘Spring snow’ is often found at the end of or in the middle of
February on southern slopes.
From the beginning of March onwards all slopes, save those at very high
altitudes, begin to crust over. The process is gradual on northern
slopes. There is a period when the northern slopes no longer hold the
dry loose powder of winter but have not yet begun to crust.
_Spring powder_ is common on north slopes in March. It is denser than
winter powder, and is not so dry. It is slightly moist on the surface,
and much heavier. It yields, however, a first-class running surface,
and will take any turn or swing. Its main objection is the fact that it
is peculiarly liable to avalanche.
Gradually, however, Spring powder disappears, save at great heights,
and all slopes are covered by crust. In the afternoon the crust is
melted, and the snow is soft and wet on all slopes. At night the snow
is refrozen.
The normal cycle, then, of a normal spring (say April, at altitudes
between 3000 and 9000 feet) is as follows: Hard crust at dawn; crust
superficially softened between sunrise and midday; soft melted snow in
the afternoon; soft breakable crust as the sun loses in strength; and
solid hard crust after the sunset.
First let us consider the hard crust usually found at dawn.
This differs materially from the marble crust of winter, and from
any of the crusts formed by wind action. It is, as a rule, slightly
softer. What is more to the point, it is rougher. The surface of normal
spring crust is perforated by numberless little holes. Sometimes
these holes are quite small, mere pockmarks, sometimes they are as
large as half-crown pieces. It is the presence of these holes and the
roughness of the crust that makes steering easy, so that control is
not difficult, and linked Christianias or Stemming turns are within the
power of the good runner.
_Perforated crust_, in fact, is a delightful running surface. It is
common at low altitudes in March, at moderate altitudes in April, and
is normal in the High Alps in May, June, July and even August.
_Film crust_ is found in May and June on the glaciers, and occasionally
at low altitudes in April. It forms a delightful running surface.
Unlike marble and perforated crust, it is not quite homogeneous. It
is composed of a hard under-surface of solid crust, covered by a very
thin, soft, and transparent film of ice, which glistens in the sun like
burnished silver.
This film of soft ice is shorn away as the ski begin to come round on
a turn. It provides a splendid purchase, preventing effectually all
side-slip, and yet not sufficiently strong to make turns difficult.
Film crust is admirable for fast straight running, because at any
moment the pace can be regulated by a swift turn. There is nothing
finer than a run down the glaciers in the early morning on film crust.
We have seen that the cold nights of winter produce marble crust, which
is hard and slippery. Marble crust is the kind of surface which needs
crampons or a chip with the axe if it is climbed on foot.
Further, marble crust, and all forms of crust produced by winter winds,
yield a very unsatisfactory surface, too slippery to give good purchase.
We have seen that the milder nights of April produce perforated crust
which is much rougher and gives good ski-ing, while the even warmer
nights of May and June produce film crust in which Christianias and
Stemming turns are easy and safe. In fact film crust gives such a
wonderful grip that even Telemarks are possible.
From this we deduce the following law:
Provided the night’s frost is sufficient to produce a solid unbreakable
crust, the crust will give the best ski-ing when the frost has been
least severe.
In other words, “THE MILDER THE FROST THE BETTER THE CRUST.”
This rule is important. It often happens in spring that one has to
start down before the sun has produced a surface melting. Again and
again the first thousand feet or so of descent have been spoiled
because the crust was too hard and slippery. But the lower one ran
down the better the ski-ing. The hard marble crust of winter gave way
to the perforated or film crust of spring. In April, in the High Alps,
winter conditions often prevail at high altitudes to give way to spring
conditions lower down. You start a run on marble crust and end on
perforated or film crust. The lower the altitude the milder the night
frost, and hence the better the crust.
But of course the hard crust of dawn is soon changed under the
influence of the sun. At first the sun produces a slight surface
softening which is, however, quite sufficient to make a great deal
of difference. Even marble crust, if superficially softened, yields
excellent running. Gradually the melting process becomes more
pronounced. Sun-touched crust with a slight surface moistening--quite
sufficient to make Christianias and Stemming turns a joy--yields to
crust covered by an inch or two of melted snow. Such crust is known as
_Telemark crust_--not because Christianias are not easy, but because
Telemarks are very simple, whereas Telemarks are difficult, if not
impossible, on hard crust.
Telemark crust is a normal stage in the passage of hard crust to melted
snow. It is the practical certainty of finding Telemark crust at
certain hours in spring that makes spring ski-ing in fine weather such
a delight.[21]
As the sun increases in strength all trace of the underlying crust
disappears. The snow is melted through and through, and becomes
dangerous on steep slopes.
This wet snow is often slow, but it never sticks like the wet snow of
winter. On steep slopes it gives good running--if unsafe.
Snow sticks in the intermediate stage between freezing and thawing.
Thus powder snow which is beginning to thaw sticks abominably, but snow
which is melted through and through does not stick. Snow which has once
been thoroughly melted and then refrozen will never stick badly again.
A surface of wet snow overlying powder will, of course, stick, but
melting snow which rests either on hard crust or on the hard ground
does not stick. It may be slow, but it does not adhere in sticky lumps
to the running surface.
Thus two inches of melted snow on top of crust (Telemark crust) gives
a fine running surface, and an inch or even less of wet snow on grass
also gives excellent sport.
Snow that has been melted and refrozen night after night soon acquires
a crystalline character. When the crust begins to melt after the
sun has struck it, the melting surface is composed of numerous wet
crystals, sometimes about the size of salt crystals, sometimes much
larger.
This _granular_ snow is familiar to all spring runners, and gives an
excellent ski-ing surface. Occasionally towards sunset, as the wet
heavy snow that is usually found in the afternoon during the wet spring
begins to freeze again, you will find the snow assuming a very marked
crystalline formation, which resembles the wet hypo crystals with which
photographers are familiar.
In general, so long as snow retains a crystalline formation it gives
good running. Salt snow or hypo snow yields excellent sport. In May at
_low_ altitudes the sun, however, is so powerful that it dissolves the
crystals and reduces all the snow to one consistent heavy wet slush.
Such snow does not stick--that is to say, it does not adhere to the
running surface--but it is very slow. Furthermore it is dangerous,
because if you run suddenly on to a patch of this very heavy snow you
are liable to be pitched on to your face. Often the snow is not only
melted downwards but upwards, for the ground is very warm in spring,
and thaws the snow from below, so that you will often find a patch of
soft heavy snow resting in the form of a shallow bridge on an empty
space. The ski break down the bridge of snow, and the ski-runner
pitches heavily forward. Such hollow snow is seldom found in April,
but is common in May at lowish altitudes. In May the best ski-ing at
low altitudes (5000-7000 feet) is obtained before 10 a.m. and after 7
p.m. In the early morning and just after sunset I have often enjoyed
first-class ski-ing right down to 5000 feet and lower, well on into the
middle of May.
We may therefore sum up the normal cycle of a spring day as follows:
At dawn every slope will be covered by a hard homogeneous crust. This
crust will be either marble crust, in which case it will yield very
difficult and unpleasant ski-ing, or perforated crust or film crust.
Perforated and film crusts give excellent ski-ing even _before_ the sun
has begun to soften the crust.
When the sun begins to gain in strength the hard crust is superficially
softened, and gives good running even in the case of marble crust.
A later stage is reached when the hard crust is softened to a depth
of about two or three inches (Telemark crust). This again gives good
running.
Either before or after midday, according to altitude and inclination,
all traces of crust disappear, and all slopes at moderate altitudes
are reduced to wet, heavy and more or less water-logged snow. In the
early spring this stage is perhaps only reached on southern slopes.
In the late spring it is reached on all slopes at low altitudes and
on north slopes, save, perhaps, at very high altitudes. In general,
the ski-runner should not be abroad at such hours. Towards evening the
slopes begin to refreeze. There may be an interval of hypo snow--soft
hypo-like crystals in which fast running and every kind of swing is
perfectly safe and easy. This is soon followed by the formation of a
soft breakable crust, which gradually hardens until at last the cycle
is complete by the formation of a hard solid crust.
THUS IN GENERAL THERE ARE TWO PERIODS OF A SPRING DAY WHEN SKI-ING IS
EASY, FAST AND SAFE. THE FIRST PERIOD IS WHEN THE HARD CRUST BEGINS TO
SOFTEN, AND THE SECOND PERIOD IS WHEN THE WET MELTED SNOW BEGINS TO
FREEZE. THE SKI-ING IS LEAST PLEASANT AND MOST DANGEROUS BETWEEN MIDDAY
AND SUNSET.
THE EFFECT OF FÖHN AND THAW
So far we have discussed normal winter and spring conditions. Föhn is,
unfortunately, associated not only with spring but with winter. The
conditions that are produced by Föhn are, however, spring conditions
rather than winter conditions; for Föhn, though by no means uncommon in
winter, is at least abnormal, whereas periods, more or less prolonged,
of Föhn weather may be regarded as normal in spring. The peasants have
a saying that, if the Föhn did not blow, the good God and the warm sun
could do little with the snow. Certainly but for Föhn Switzerland would
still be covered with glaciers.
Föhn, strictly speaking, should be used only for the warm dry wind that
blows from the south, and which has been the cause of so many fires.
The fire of Grindelwald was caused by this type of Föhn. The wind dries
up the wooden chalets, and a spark from a cigar or a kitchen fire,
carried on the wind, is enough to kindle wooden buildings from which
the wind has absorbed every trace of moisture. But the word Föhn is
also used for the warm, damp south-west wind, which is in every way
utterly different from dry Föhn. They are alike only in that both dry
and wet Föhn raise the temperature and melt the snow.
I propose to call the true Föhn DRY FÖHN and the wet, warm south-west
wind WET FÖHN.
Dry Föhn is often associated with long spells of warm dry weather. The
skies are cloudless, and there is no hint of rain to be seen. You know
that there is Föhn in the air by a peculiar warm dryness, a marked
absence of coolness and moisture in the atmosphere.
The wet Föhn always brings rain. Sometimes dry and wet Föhn will fight
for the mastery. Sometimes dry Föhn will emerge into wet Föhn and bring
down the rain, only to recover its mastery a day or two later.
[Sidenote: Föhn in Winter.]
Let us consider the effect of wet Föhn in winter proper. The ski-runner
is bound to detect the first hint of wet Föhn in the air by a slight
stickiness in any powder snow that he may chance to be ski-ing on. If
the wet Föhn is slight, copious waxing will eliminate its effects; but
if it is pronounced, the snow will ball and stick atrociously.
Should the Föhn disappear, it leaves its legacy behind. All slopes of
powder snow which have been affected are covered with a crust, which
will be more or less thick according as the thaw has been more or less
severe. I assume, of course, that the thaw had been followed by the
frost at night, without which crust cannot be produced. Only a new
snowfall can restore a slope of powder snow which has once been melted
by Föhn to its pristine conditions.
Sometimes the Föhn is so slight that the surface of the powder snow is
barely touched. It is not covered by crust, but there is a suspicion of
resistance as the ski drive through due to an embryo crust. Telemarks
are not quite so easy, and a very fast swing is apt to throw the
ski-runner outwards, owing to the fact that the side-slip is less
pronounced; for the snow gives less easily when covered by the first
hint of crust. More usually the Föhn, if it once begins, is accompanied
by rain. Often even in December heavy rain will fall on all slopes
below 12,000 feet. Directly the Föhn disappears the usual winter frosts
will convert such slopes into solid icy crust which is harder and more
slippery than any marble crust produced by sun or wind. I have seen
crust, formed by Föhn followed by frost, so hard that neither ski nor
hobnailed boots left any perceptible trace; and on an easy slope which
a beginner could take straight I have slid down helplessly on my back
some hundred yards, only to be saved from a further and probably fatal
fall by a guide, who thoughtfully received my head in the pit of his
stomach, breaking a thumb in the effort to arrest me.
That was an extreme case of ice crust produced by Föhn, but it is not
uncommon to find every slope below 10,000 feet covered by an icy crust,
on which ski-ing is impossible. The wise ski-runner climbs on crampons,
and selects a due south slope for the descent, and times his descent
for midday. The slight surface softening produced by the sun is usually
enough to produce superficial stickiness, which gives capital running,
provided that you have mastered the Stemming turn and Christiania.
But, except at or near midday, and except on south slopes, ski-ing is
impossible during such periods.
Sometimes good ski-ing is obtained near stream beds when all other
slopes are covered by hard crust. The mist that rises from the stream
bed descends in hoar frost and covers the crust with a layer of
crystals deep enough to take a turn. But such slopes are scarce.
Occasionally the wet Föhn is followed by a period of dry Föhn.
In this case the frost at night is much milder, and you will often
find instead of marble or icy crust typical spring formations. I have
found perforated crust and even film crust in January, when a period
of dry Föhn with high temperatures by day and mild frosts by night had
followed two or three days of rain.
For weeks together I have known the crust formed by dry Föhn to
resemble perforated crust, but formed of a much smoother and more
slippery texture. Imagine a hard surface pitted by numberless smooth
little round hollows about the size of half-crown pieces. This type
of hard perforated crust gives good running, but calls for a thorough
mastery of hard snow turns.
Often the dry Föhn produced a surface-melting to a depth of two or
three inches--_typical spring conditions in midwinter_.
This again is an illustration of the law stated on p. 414: “The milder
the frost the better the crust.” In other words, once the snow in
midwinter has been thoroughly spoiled by thaw followed by frost, the
ski-ing will be best when the conditions approximate as nearly as
possible to those characteristic of spring.
Spring snow is quite common in winter when dry Föhn follows wet Föhn,
and the wise ski-runner will seize every chance of securing spring
conditions once he has despaired of proper winter conditions. He will
choose south slopes instead of north slopes, low altitudes instead of
high altitudes, and time his descent for the sunny rather than the
shady hours. “The milder the frost the better the crust.” From which it
follows that the lower the altitude and the drier the Föhn the better
the ski-ing--once normal winter conditions have been interrupted.
It is most interesting to observe how the same slope will be composed
of typical spring crust one day and of impossible slippery winter
marble crust the next day. The difference is solely due to the fact
that, in the first case, the night’s frost had been mild, and in the
second case severe.
After Föhn you will often, for instance, find a queer kind of surface,
called Foam crust, composed of innumerable overlapping edges, miniature
cornices formed by a little trickle of water, a mere drop, which has
run off a thin small eave of snow. Now hard frozen foam crust is
very unpleasant, but directly the dry Föhn gains the mastery, and
directly the hard foam crust is exposed to a hot sun and a hot dry Föhn
atmosphere, it immediately softens, and yields very fine ski-ing not
unlike the best Telemark crust.
To summarize the effect of Föhn in WINTER:
Wet Föhn followed by frosts produces a crust on all slopes which
have been exposed to thaw. If the Föhn is very pronounced, and is
accompanied by rain, which is followed by frost, all slopes will be
covered by a hard solid crust.
If a period of normal cold winter weather sets in, this crust will be
very hard and very slippery, and will only yield good ski-ing on south
slopes exposed to the sun.
If the wet Föhn is followed by dry Föhn, you will get spring conditions
at any rate at low altitudes--a hard crust, smoother but not unlike
perforated crust, in the early morning, and a soft crust, not unlike
Telemark crust, on south slopes when the sun is shining on them.
[Sidenote: Föhn in Spring.]
The Föhn is less deadly in spring, because snow which has been crusted
by Föhn and frost is remelted by the sun, and the sun and frost
together will always produce the same surface, whatever has gone
before. A wind-swept slope or a Föhn-crusted slope are affected in
precisely the same way. In winter Föhn spoils all snow that it has
affected, and, save for the lucky accident of dry Föhn, one has to
wait for a new fall till normal winter conditions are restored. But
in spring, once the Föhn has ceased, a single sunny day followed by a
single cold night’s frost is sufficient to produce the normal spring
conditions, hard crust in the morning passing through the normal
transformations of the spring day.
Wet Föhn is, however, most unpleasant in spring while it lasts. If you
are caught by wet Föhn in a club hut you are imprisoned till the Föhn
passes, for the wet Föhn brings down the avalanches on every slope
above 23 degrees (see p. 430). Ski-ing, while there is a touch of wet
Föhn in the air, is always unpleasant. Snow which has been melted
by the sun in a dry atmosphere never entirely loses its crystalline
formation, excepting at low altitudes in the very late spring. And even
then sun-melted snow is never so unpleasant as snow melted by the Föhn.
The Föhn disintegrates the snow, destroys the crystalline formation,
reduces the snow to one uniform heavy mass.
Such snow does not stick _in spring_, provided it has been through
the usual process of melting and refreezing on previous days. But
though the spring Föhn does not produce stickiness, it gives the
snow a dragging, clogging grip. It may not ‘ball’ under the ski like
sticky snow in winter, but on all but steep slopes it makes ski-ing
desperately slow. Uphill work is most trying, for the friction between
wet Föhn snow and the ski is very marked. The ski have to be thrust
through the clinging surface, and the wet Föhn not only affects the
snow, it affects one’s whole body and produces a general sense of
lassitude.
SUMMER SNOW
Between July and the end of September the snowline climbs ever higher.
The snow above this snowline obeys the laws that we have tried to
explain in the preceding pages. Snow is transformed into crust by the
action of sun or thaw or wind, and the crust itself affords good or bad
ski-ing, according to the conditions under which it has been produced
and the conditions that affect it when once it has been formed.
In the summer you will meet with every type of snow in the High Alps.
After a fresh snowfall the snow will often remain powdery for days on
northern slopes at great altitudes. Between July and the beginning
of the winter you will find typical winter snow, powder snow or
wind-driven snow: you will find typical spring snow, such as film
crust or perforated crust, but you will not find any type of snow
which can fairly be described as mainly characteristic of the summer.
The conditions in July and the first half of August will approximate
to those of June, though of course there will be far less snow in
August than in June. Towards the end of September the snow conditions
will approximate to those of the winter proper, with the important
difference that the snow at the end of September approaches a minimum.
Once the ski are left behind and the final climb begun on foot, there
will be many complex and difficult problems of snow craft to solve
which, however, hardly come within the scope of pure ski-ing. Of these
the most important is the problem of safety. Once the ski are left
behind, the climber’s interest in the snow is reduced to two main
problems: Is the snow hard enough to make going easy and yet not so
hard as to need step-cutting? Is the snow safe or will it avalanche?
The avalanche question will be treated in its proper place. Summer
Ski-ing will be dealt with on pp. 468-470.
I have tried to condense this section, and, like all condensed and
theoretic writing, it will no doubt prove rather dull reading. In the
later sections I shall try to provide concrete illustrations of the
principles here explained, and to show how the laws of snow craft may
be applied in order to get good ski-ing in the months of the alpine
calendar.
SNOW AVALANCHES
Snow avalanches may be classified either as _Ground avalanches_ or as
_Superficial avalanches_.
GROUND AVALANCHES--the ‘Grundlawinen’ of Continental writers--may be
defined as avalanches in which the entire snow surface is stripped off
a slope, revealing the underlying earth, grass or rock.
SUPERFICIAL AVALANCHES may be defined as avalanches in which a layer of
snow, more or less deep, slides off an underlying layer of snow or ice.
Before proceeding to discuss avalanches in general, and to analyse more
exactly the various subdivisions of these two principal categories, it
is essential to analyse the primary conditions that produce avalanches.
_Primary conditions_ may be defined as those which exist before the
snow has covered a slope, originally bare of snow. These primary
conditions are the _contour_ and _gradient_ of the slope and the
_nature of the surface_ that underlies the snow.
No avalanche has yet been observed on slopes whose gradient is less
than 23 degrees, though, of course, even level slopes have often been
overwhelmed by avalanches falling from steep slopes above.
Other things being equal, the stability of a snow slope depends not
only on its gradient, but also on the gradient of the slopes just below
and the slopes just above.
A concave slope, for instance, which has an even outflow so that there
is no sudden change of gradient and so that the steeper slopes merge
gradually into gentle slopes and these gentle slopes into a level
outrun, is infinitely safer than a convex slope the higher portions
of which are more gradual than the lower portions below. Slopes that
steepen suddenly below a comparatively safe gradient should always be
treated with great respect.
A slope, whose gradient would be perfectly safe if the slope petered
out gradually, may be highly dangerous if the gentler slope ends
suddenly in a steep slope, for the snow on the gentle slope is, so
to speak, ‘in the air.’ It has lost the natural support which is
afforded by a gradual concave base leading out on to the level, and
there is a reasonable chance of the weight of the snow on the safer
slope proving just too much to stand the strain at the point where the
slope steepens. In general concave slopes are safer than convex slopes,
and slopes where the gradient steadily diminishes towards the base
are safer than those in which the gradient increases before the base
is reached. Of course, any slope overhanging a cliff is always to be
treated with very great care, as even a superficial snow slide which
would be quite innocuous if the slope ended on easy safe ground may
prove fatal if it carries the ski-runner to the edge of a cliff below.
The chance of surviving an avalanche depends greatly on the nature of
the ground where the avalanche comes to rest. Many ski-runners have
escaped unhurt after being carried down several hundred feet because
they have managed to keep on the surface of the avalanche and because
the avalanche has gradually spread out fan-shaped on open, gentle
slopes. But an avalanche falling into the bed of a narrow V-shaped
valley with steep sides is almost certain to prove fatal, for the
victim of this avalanche will be buried by the snow falling above,
and this snow will fill up the narrow bed of the valley and freeze
solid instantaneously by pressure. Thus all narrow valleys such as the
Urbachthal, or the upper Rhone valley between Gletsch and Oberwald,
should only be ascended when the snow is thoroughly safe.
An analogous case is where a tributary ridge runs across a hillside. An
avalanche falling down this hillside will pile itself up against the
tributary ridge and a ski-runner will probably be crushed below the
avalanche, squeezed in between the tributary ridge and the main slope.
Often a large moraine fulfils these conditions, so that an avalanche
falling from a neighbouring slope is arrested at the moraine and piled
up against it.
Similarly, if you are caught by an avalanche while ascending a gully,
your chance of escape is much greater if the gully widens below the
point where the avalanche overwhelms you. If it contracts, the pressure
of the snow forcing its way through a narrow space may crush you to
death. Compare the account of the avalanche that killed Bennen quoted
in _Scrambles in the Alps_.
The bottom of a valley is not only dangerous for reasons just stated,
but also because the stream at the bottom of a valley often exercises,
especially in spring, an undercutting effect on the snow slopes that
end in the stream bed.
_The nature of the underlying surface_, apart from its contour and
gradient, is a factor of vital importance, especially in the early
winter and in the spring. At intervening periods most avalanches are
superficial, and slide from an underlying surface of hard snow; but in
the early winter and in the late spring the whole snow slope slides
away, so that the nature of the underlying surface and the probable
support that it affords is of great importance.
Steep grass-slopes form a dangerous under-surface, especially where it
is never or seldom mown; for long unmown grass generally lies facing
downwards, and offers a most slippery surface.
Grass which is regularly mown is usually short and stubby in winter,
and gives better purchase to the snow. A slope covered by stony
boulders, bushes or trees is usually fairly safe, though a big
avalanche, once it is fairly under weigh, will sweep over shrubs and
even over small trees. Fairly dense wood may usually be considered
as safe, provided one avoids the long open clearings made by old
avalanches, which so often run down the middle of a forest.
An elementary knowledge of geology is useful; the excellent geological
maps published by the Swiss Survey can often be consulted with benefit.
Rocks which suffer much surface disintegration provide a better
purchase for snow than very hard and consequently very smooth rocks.
The hard ‘Hochgebirgskalk,’ an alpine variety of limestone, which is
very common, especially in high regions, is slippery, and instead of
disintegrating gradually, as gneiss or granite disintegrates, has a
habit of breaking away along vertical and horizontal joints.
The common rock known as ‘Flysch,’ common in the lower Alps, provides a
much safer surface.
Glacier-polished rocks are, of course, especially dangerous, and the
whole Grimsel region is consequently swept by avalanches throughout the
winter.
The lie of the strata is an important factor. Where, as is usually the
case, the strata are inclined, one slope of a mountain will usually
be safer than the other. Diagrams I and II represent the north and
south slopes of a ridge running more or less east and west. The ridge
is formed by parallel but inclined bands of strata. Rock climbers
know that the slope in Diagram I, though of the same gradient as the
slope in Diagram II, is very much more difficult to climb. It is also
much more liable to avalanche, as the outcrop of the strata provide
a natural check to avalanches in Diagram II; whereas in Diagram I
each outcrop forms a small steep snow slope quite unsupported. If the
outcrops are of reasonable breadth, there will be belts running across
the face of the slope at A’, B’, C’, D’ which will be inclined into the
slope, and provide a safe line of traverse; whereas there is no safe
line for a ski-runner desiring to traverse or ascend the slope A, B, C,
D.
[Illustration: DIAGRAM I.]
[Illustration: DIAGRAM II.]
Geological maps indicate the ‘strike’ of the strata, and therefore
provide useful clues as to the varying liability of slopes to avalanche.
Loose scree guarantees the ski-runner against ground avalanches,
but, as the winter advances, loose scree is soon covered with deep
snow, from which later layers of snow can slide uninfluenced by the
underlying scree. In fact, as the winter advances, the original
underlying surface plays a smaller part in the problem of avalanches.
Hard-crusted snow covered by soft snow is especially dangerous, and
of course ice, as is so often met with in the High Alps, is the worst
under-surface of all. Fortunately, snow often attaches itself firmly to
ice, transforming an ice slope into a snow slope.
The conditions necessary for this transformation will be explained on
pp. 426-427.
So far we have dealt with _primary_ conditions, the nature of the
ground before the snow has begun to fall and the gradient of the slope
from which the avalanche slides. An important factor is the _quantity_
of snow on the slope. It often happens that a shallow superficial layer
detaches itself and carries a ski-runner down the slope. If the slope
ends on gentle ground, no damage is done beyond the loss of height
and the consequent waste of time and effort in reascending to the
spot from which the avalanche started. But if the snow slide carries
the ski-runner over a cliff or into a bergschrund or crevasse, it is
clearly immaterial to the ski-runner whether his original snow slide
was 1 inch or 6 feet in thickness.
I propose to use the word SNOW SLIDE for such small avalanches as are
only dangerous where they carry the ski-runner on to dangerous ground,
such as the edge of a precipice, and to reserve the word AVALANCHE for
avalanches deep enough in themselves to overwhelm and possibly to kill
a ski-runner.
Though a very small layer of snow--an inch or even less--is enough to
produce a snow slide, especially if the shallow layer rests on ice, the
amount of snow necessary to produce a real avalanche is much greater,
and varies very much with the quality of the snow.
CLASSIFICATION OF AVALANCHES
The old writers divided avalanches into ‘Grundlawinen’ (ground
avalanches) and ‘Staublawinen’ (dust avalanches)--a misleading
classification, for a ground avalanche may be composed of dry powder
snow, and produce all the appearance of a ‘Staublawinen’: the clouds
of white snow dust, once supposed to be peculiar to avalanches of
powder snow, are really common in almost every type of big avalanche,
especially where the avalanche falls over steep cliffs. I prefer to
divide snow avalanches into four main classes:
I. Dry powder avalanches.
II. Wet new snow avalanches (i.e. powder snow which has begun to thaw
as differentiated from old wet snow which is formed by crust which has
been thoroughly melted).
III. Snow-slabs.
IV. Wet old snow avalanches--the Grundlawinen of the older authors.
I. DRY POWDER AVALANCHES.--Newly fallen snow, which has not been
subject to thaw or sun, contains a great deal of air until it settles,
and even when it has settled it still imprisons a considerable quantity
of air. This makes for stability, for snow is less likely to avalanche
when it lacks cohesion. I have often experimented on newly fallen snow
at a low temperature, and I have found it almost impossible to start an
avalanche on any slope below about 35 degrees and less than about 200
feet in height. Small snow slides are common enough if the underlying
surface is hard; but as a rule even snow slides come to a standstill
after a few yards. The really dangerous dry powder avalanches only
occur on very long and steep slopes, where the amount and mass of
the snow is sufficient to produce the necessary momentum for a big
avalanche. Dry powder has a strong internal friction, and, as a rule,
some powerful external impact is necessary to start an avalanche.
Of such impacts wind is the most dangerous. A sudden blizzard may
convert a valley, safe when the ski-runner entered it, into a veritable
death-trap. Further, the fall of an avalanche on one side of a valley
may precipitate other avalanches on the opposite side. Partly owing
to the air imprisoned in dry powder, and partly owing to the momentum
of the avalanche itself, the wind caused by a big fall of snow is
extremely powerful and destructive. Houses and trees are torn away by
the blast, even though they may be beyond the track of the avalanche.
The force of the wind is multiplied manifold when the avalanche falls
into a constricted space, such as the floor of a narrow valley. I have
seen a bridge just below Gletsch destroyed by a spring avalanche, or
rather by the wind caused by an avalanche on the opposite side of this
very narrow valley. A large part of the bridge, weighing several tons,
had been thrown _upwards_ to a height of about 150 feet!
After a heavy snowfall the danger of dry powder avalanches may last for
a day or two, or even more; but as a rule two or three days of settled
weather and keen frosts render most northern slopes--in winter, though
not in spring--safe enough. When the powder snow has passed into the
stage known as _Crystal powder_--i.e. when the small light dry powder
has been converted into crystals of an appreciable size--the danger of
avalanches is very remote. On a windless day with a temperature in the
shade below freezing, I should not hesitate to cross almost any slope
up to 35 degrees which was covered by genuine crystal powder snow,
provided that the slope petered out gradually on to the level and did
not overhang a cliff.
II. WET NEW SNOW AVALANCHES.--Directly the powder snow is exposed to
surface thaw, either owing to a rise of temperature or to the sun,
its weight and cohesiveness increase, and the danger of avalanches is
consequently much greater. Sometimes the snow falls with a temperature
above freezing. This wet new snow is dangerous, but as it is also
extremely unpleasant for ski-ing, few ski-runners are likely to be
abroad. On the other hand, ski-runners are often tempted to cross a
southern slope where the powder is beginning to melt. Snow on a steep
southern slope soon gets thawed through the bottom, so that ground
avalanches are quite normal in winter on south slopes. As a rule, south
slopes in winter get rid of their superfluous snow in the first two
or three days of fine weather. The snow that remains is thawed by day
and frozen by night, so that at the end of four or five days the south
slopes have got rid of their avalanches, and the snow that remains is a
crust more or less hard and slippery. This crust by day may become soft
breakable crust, but once it has crusted, a slope in the winter is not
likely to avalanche until there is a new snowfall. A very marked rise
in temperature may make a south slope that has been crusted dangerous
again; but such sudden and marked rises of temperature are rare in
winter.
In general, therefore, south slopes in winter are safer than north
slopes. They give rise to more avalanches, but such avalanches as
fall off south slopes generally fall within two or three days after
a snowfall, after which a south slope is crusted and safe in winter;
and though after a few days of settled weather most north slopes are
absolutely safe, very steep and very long north slopes, or short steep
slopes overhanging a cliff, are always dangerous. Of course, whenever
the wet Föhn is blowing, or whenever there is a general thaw, _all_
steep slopes, and a great many moderate slopes, become very dangerous
indeed. The effect of the thaw is to give the snow the cohesiveness
and weight which it lacks in its pristine dry condition. The dampness
in the air saturates the snow with moisture and increases its weight.
During a severe Föhn you will often see huge ground avalanches
almost as destructive as those that fall in spring. When the Föhn is
blowing ski-ing is always extremely dangerous. Fortunately, it is
also extremely unpleasant, or fatal avalanche accidents would be more
frequent.
The dry Föhn (see p. 418) is much less dangerous. Unless it is very
pronounced, it will hardly affect northern slopes in winter, though it
may convert a south slope, usually covered by hard crust, and therefore
safe, into soft wet and dangerous snow.
In spring northern slopes usually hold powder snow for a few days at
high altitudes, and even at moderate altitudes in the early spring,
such as March. This powder snow soon loses the dry, light, powdery
characteristics of winter powder. Though it continues to yield
excellent running, spring powder is very liable to avalanche. It is
damper and more cohesive than dry powder, and therefore more dangerous.
Dry powder often rests on the ground below. A northern slope will often
be covered with a homogeneous layer of powder some feet in depth, but
spring powder (see p. 413) invariably rests on a hard-crusted slope
below. It therefore tends to slide away during the warm hours of the
day, and should be treated with very great caution.
Avalanches composed of spring powder are, properly speaking, new wet
snow avalanches. They must be carefully distinguished from old wet snow
avalanches, for old wet snow is formed by the melting of crust, whereas
spring powder is formed by the melting of powder snow, i.e. ‘new
snow.’ Snow may be defined as ‘new’ before it has been crusted, and as
‘old’ when it has been through the crusting process. Thus powder snow
is always ‘new,’ however long it may be since it fell. On the other
hand, a snowfall in June may be turned into crust within twenty-four
hours, and thereby become ‘old snow.’ Crust and soft snow formed by the
melting of crust are both ‘old’ snow.
Spring powder is all the more dangerous, because it yields wonderful
ski-ing at a time when other slopes have been spoiled by the sun.
Furthermore, as spring powder is found on north slopes, ignorant
ski-runners underestimate its danger; for it is a common fallacy among
the inexperienced that south slopes are more dangerous than north. In
spring the reverse is usually the case, for avalanches in spring are
occasioned by the general air temperature just as much as by the sun.
(See also below, p. 438)
III. THE WIND-SLAB.--The _wind-slab_ is the most treacherous of all
avalanches, the most difficult to foresee, and the most incalculable in
effect.
Falling snow is usually accompanied in the High Alps, and often
accompanied in the lower regions, by wind. If the wind is powerful,
the falling snow is driven over exposed ridges in whirlwinds, and
comes to rest on the lee-side and in sheltered hollows. In this way
the snowy avenues leading to glacier passes and the more sheltered
snow-fields receive more than a fair share of snow. This action of
the wind, denuding the exposed ridges and feeding the hollows and
lee-sides, takes place on both a large and a small scale: on a large
scale, when snowy valleys are fed from the snow blown off the exposed
ridges that rise out of them, and on a small scale on any slope exposed
to wind which is divided by ridges, however small. Any tributary ridge
on a slope across which a wind is blowing will have a wind-side and a
lee-side, and will accumulate snow on the lee-side and give off snow on
the wind-side. A stone wall or even a hedge provides an example of this
on a small scale.
Snow driven by wind and settled on lee-sides may either be more or less
powdery, a denser, heavier powder than normal powder, or it may assume
one of the many forms of wind-caused crust. We have described on p. 407
the various forms of winded powder, such as ripplemark, caked powder,
etc., and on p. 408 the various forms of wind-formed crust, such as
windboard and _Skavla_.
In general, the greatest caution should be exercised when crossing
any slope which has accumulated much wind-driven snow. Wind-driven
powder snow is heavier and more adhesive than ordinary powder. It is
more detached from the underlying surface, and is much more conducive
to avalanches. The ski-runner should keep his eyes open for traces of
wind action, and when he finds snow which has obviously been exposed
to severe wind, he should exercise the greatest possible caution on
crossing over to the lee-side of a ridge dividing slopes, whence the
snow has obviously been blown away, from slopes where the wind-driven
snow may have fallen back to earth. Wind-driven powder may in turn be
covered by a new snowfall, which adds to the difficulties of diagnosing
the avalanche risk.
So far we have been dealing with wind-driven snow which still retains
some suggestion of powder, which is soft and dense and caky. A still
more treacherous and dangerous wind formation is the wind-slab, or
‘Schneebrett,’ of Continental authors.
Windboard, as already explained (p. 407), is a hard, slippery crust
formed by wind. Windboard is common on glaciers in the winter months,
and though disagreeable to ski on, it is safe enough in most cases.
Sometimes, however, this windboard, instead of being homogeneous with
the underlying snow, is loosely attached, and in places forms a vault
with a hollow space between the windboard and the snow beneath. The
windboard is, then, properly speaking, a wind-slab. The wind-slab,
or, as some writers prefer to call it, the snow-slab, is formed by
wind-driven snow, which eventually settles into a hard crust. As the
wind-drifted snow is of a different density to the snow on which it
settles, it tends to form a distinct stratum from the underlying snow.
In winter the temperature is usually considerably below freezing, so
that snow which falls, or snow which is drifted by the wind, cannot
bind with the snow below. In order for two strata of snow of very
different density to form a homogeneous whole, there must be a period
when the temperature is just above freezing in order to produce the
melting followed by frost, which is a necessary factor in the fusing
together of two successive layers of different types of snow.
The wind-drifted snow, ultimately transformed into a hard crust,
is then of a different density to the snow below, to which it is
loosely attached. This underlying snow may be either soft snow or hard
crust; in either case the wind-slab forms a covering layer insecurely
attached to the foundation snow. This superficial layer is subject to
different strains from those which affect the underlying snow; for the
tension due to the expansion and contraction which follows changes of
temperature affects the layers formed of snows of different density
and character in varying ways. The surface layer, or wind-slab, may
contract more obviously than the snow below, so that if the slope is
concave in shape, the wind-slab, in contracting, tends to form an arch
above a more or less shallow vault.
There is little if any surface indication to betray the fact that the
wind-slab is not homogeneous with the underlying snow; the ski-runner
may cross some such slope without the least suspicion that the hard,
slippery crust is not quite so solid as it appears. Suddenly he will
hear a sharp cracking noise; the hard crust will settle under him and
cave in; the crust cracks along the line made by his ski, and the whole
slope comes down on top of him in a cataract of tumbling blocks. The
strata formed by the wind comes away, tearing with it much of the soft
underlying snow, and pours down in a floor of hard, icy blocks of snow.
The wind-slab is the most dangerous and deceptive form of avalanche.
Its hard polished surface gives a false sense of security. The
temperature is no guide, for wind-slabs can avalanche at any
temperature. Indeed, extreme frost tends to make the wind-slab more
brittle. It can avalanche after days or weeks of fine weather when all
the more obvious avalanches have fallen. Lastly, this wind-slab is to
be found in the natural line of approach to glacier passes, in the long
sheltered avenues that collect the snow blown off the exposed ridges.
It is of primary importance to distinguish most carefully between the
crust formed by sun action and the crust formed by wind. A south slope
crusted by sun followed by frost will never avalanche so long as the
crust remains unmelted. Sun-formed crusts never avalanche. A careful
study of south slopes will soon teach the ski-runner to recognize
crust formed by sun and to distinguish it from crust formed by wind.
The wind-slab is usually patchy, granulated, and often betrays the
action of wind by a slight rippled appearance. The expert can detect
wind-formed crust and can distinguish it from sun-formed crust.
The contrast between crust formed by sun (or by any process of
alternate melting and frost) and crust formed by wind is instructive.
The fact that the former is safe and the latter often dangerous is
due not to any surface differences but to the difference in the nature
of the connection between the under-surface of the crust and the
underlying snow.
Sun-formed crust always merges gradually into the underlying snow.
There is no sharp plane of cleavage. The hard crust merges into softer
crust; the softer crust into soft snow. There is often, of course,
a plane of cleavage between two successive falls of snow--the upper
layer may be soft snow resting on crust; or it may be snow which is
superficially crusted resting on crust. And directly the sun melts the
superficial crust there may be danger. But so long as crust formed by
alternate melting and frost remains unsoftened by the sun, it may be
deemed to be absolutely safe so far as avalanches are concerned, for
this sun-formed crust will merge gradually into the snow immediately
below it.
Wind-formed crust is, however, often sharply separated from the snow
underneath it. Wind-swept crust may overlie powder snow with no
intervening and softer crust to act as a binding influence. The crust
may be absolutely separate, susceptible to different strains and
tensions, and forming the shallow vault described above.
Should you suspect a wind-slab, sound with the ice-axe, and try to
discover whether the snow is homogeneous or rests on a soft streak of
snow below. If, at the border of the dangerous slope, a sharp stamping
with your ski produces a settling noise, followed by the breaking away
of detached fragments of snow-slab, you will know that the slab is
probably insecurely poised on a shallow vault below.
Wind-slabs are, fortunately, not very common. They can only exist under
winter conditions, heavy snowfalls, severe wind and comparatively weak
sun action. After April, for instance, the formation of a wind-slab
would be impossible, for the May sun is strong enough to melt any crust
formed by wind or by any other action. In summer they are uncommon
excepting under unusual conditions. They sometimes occur in late
summer, when the sun has lost much of its strength and is no longer
powerful enough to thaw snow which has been converted by wind into a
wind-slab.
IV. OLD WET SNOW AVALANCHES.--For the distinction between old wet snow
and new wet snow, see p. 427.
Old wet snow avalanches are very common in spring. The snow, which
has been melted and frozen, and remelted again and again, gradually
becomes denser and heavier. As the spring advances the power of the
sun becomes very great. In the afternoon, and at lower altitudes long
before midday, most snow slopes are saturated to a greater or a lesser
depth by the melting power of the sun. Such old wet snow is of course
extremely dangerous.
The great spring avalanches, the ‘Grundlawinen’ of Continental writers,
usually select well-known tracks. Some of them have local names, and
their annual occurrence is as regular as the return of spring. The long
tongues of bare spaces between forests mark their track. Incredible
quantities of snow are torn from the mountain side; trees are uprooted
and boulders carried downwards. The avalanche comes to rest far below,
and spreads out a discoloured tongue of snow-blocks, dark with the
earth rooted from the mountain side, and strewn with small trees and
shrubs. Sometimes, after an unusually severe winter, these big spring
avalanches extend their domain, and destroy chalets, and bridges, and
even villages. Roads that cross the line of these spring avalanches
must be ensured against destruction by tunnels.
Superficial avalanches of old wet snow are more common than these big
ground avalanches. These superficial avalanches occur daily in spring
weather. The snow is saturated with water, which acts as a lubricant
between one layer of snow and the harder crust beneath. Sometimes
avalanches are started by the snow thawing from the ground upwards,
for the ground in the late spring is warm enough to thaw the snow
immediately above it. I have seen a vault one foot in height between
the ground and the overlying snow.
The power of avalanches is best appreciated by those who have visited
the Alps in May. It is an interesting, if annoying, experience to be
confined to some high alpine club hut in May by a sudden invasion of
Föhn. If the club hut can only be approached over steep ground or up
a steep and narrow valley, there is nothing to be done but to wait
till the Föhn disappears. Hardly a minute passes without an avalanche
falling off some near or distant slope. The roar of big avalanches is
varied by the hiss of the smaller snow-slides. Thousands of tons of
snow are removed from the steeper slopes every hour.
Old wet snow avalanches are much more deadly than avalanches formed of
new snow. Newly fallen snow weighs about 1½ cwt. the cubic yard. Old
wet spring snow weighs about 15 cwt. or ¾ of a ton the cubic yard--in
other words, ten times as much as newly fallen snow.
Furthermore, if you are overwhelmed by old wet snow, you will find the
very greatest difficulty in freeing yourself, even if you are only
covered by a layer a foot or so in depth. Powder snow contains a great
deal of air, so that you can live for some time even if buried in a
powder avalanche, but the wet spring snow contains nothing but water,
and suffocation is a matter of minutes.
Whenever the Föhn blows in spring, all slopes above a very moderate
degree of steepness immediately become extremely dangerous. In normal
clear weather there is a frost at night, so that any slope, however
steep, can be crossed without fear of avalanches between sunset and
dawn. As soon as the superficial soft crust begins to form on the wet
snow all danger of avalanches disappears.
On the lower slopes in May, the interval after the dawn during which
a steep slope may be crossed with safety varies greatly. In May hard
crust softens with surprising speed, and after 9 a.m., or even earlier,
the risk of avalanches below the glacier level soon becomes formidable.
A vital distinction must be drawn between the kind of softening that
is produced when a solid homogeneous crust softens superficially, and
the melting of a superficial layer or crust resting on an older crust
below. The second case occurs when a layer of soft snow, or of crust,
rests on the older strata of crust. Once this new layer has melted it
is very liable to slide off from the older layer below. On the other
hand, a homogeneous crust softening superficially is usually safe
enough so long as the underlying crust remains hard. Telemark crust,
which is crust softened superficially so that Telemarks are easy (p.
415), is usually safe.
The great danger is the existence of a layer of crust formed by a
recent snowfall resting on an older layer. I was once climbing the
steep slopes that lead from Zinal to the Mountet glacier. It was on
the last day of April, and the sun had just struck the slope. The
local guide was leading, and I ventured to suggest a detour to avoid a
traverse across a slope that had begun to soften. He ignored the risk,
and proceeded. I remained behind and watched him. Suddenly a layer of
snow about six inches in thickness, which had softened down to the old
hard crust beneath, slid away with startling rapidity. The guide gave a
small jump, and got his ski into the old layer, while the softened snow
slid away and disappeared over the cliff below. The guide’s top ski
had cut through to the old layer before the snow slipped, otherwise he
would have been killed.
In May in the High Alps the risks of such avalanches is small on all
save very steep slopes. Most of the big spring avalanches fall below
the limits of the summer snowline. They slide off slopes which are
bare of snow in summer. Once the region of the _névés_ is reached the
danger is very much less, though of course by no means non-existent,
especially when the Föhn is blowing. The May ski-runner must often time
his ascent to a club hut to arrive in the early hours of the morning,
and wait for his descent from the glaciers to the lower valleys for the
hour after sunset.
As the winter advances the danger from avalanches increases, not only
because the quantity of snow increases and because the sun is more
powerful and the temperature higher, but also because the inequalities
on the underlying surface gradually disappear. Scree, small boulders,
shrubs and other natural checks to the flow of an avalanche vanish
in the ever-deepening snow. Roads and small shelving plateaus, which
break up a steep slope, get buried. Each succeeding avalanche leaves
some of its burden on all protruding shelves, and thereby tends to
smooth out the mountain side, creating, in place of a slope broken by
inequalities, one long, even flow which presents no hindrance to the
avalanche. Thus big avalanches tend to take the place of the smaller
avalanches which fell down part of the slope, only to be arrested at
some convenient terrace, such as a road or small plateau.
In the spring avalanches often fall right across rivers, which very
soon form a tunnel beneath the snow-bridge of the avalanche. Such
snow-bridges should be crossed with caution. More than one ski-runner
has been killed by breaking through the remains of an avalanche into a
river.
It is a common illusion among the inexperienced that north slopes are
safer than south slopes in spring. They are not--in fact, north slopes
are more dangerous than south slopes. In spring it is the general air
temperature which determines the fall of avalanches. True, the south
slopes avalanche first, and for this reason north slopes hold much
more snow, so that when they finally get rid of their superfluous snow
they produce far and away the most destructive avalanches. Of course
in spring the sun shines on all slopes, and it shines with quite
sufficient force even on due north slopes to produce an avalanche. In
fact, the really great spring avalanches are those which fall from
northerly slopes.
SUMMER SNOW AVALANCHES
During the summer months, as already explained, every type of snow can
be found in the High Alps from pure winter powder to the numberless
varieties of spring crusts and spring soft snow.
It follows that avalanches in summer obey the same laws as in spring.
There are far fewer avalanches in summer than in spring, for there
is far less snow to fall. Quite enough, however, is left to make the
avalanche problem of vital importance for the ski-runner and the summer
climber.
The various types of avalanches described in this chapter are not
confined to winter or spring, with the possible exception of the
wind-slab avalanche. I should have said, a priori, that wind-slab
avalanches were peculiar to winter and the early spring, for they
depend for their existence on snow falling at a very low temperature,
and on the snowfall being followed by strong and cold winds before
the sun has time to melt the snow and to bind it into the underlying
surface. I am told by Mr. Young that he has seen wind-slab avalanches
in summer--probably, I should imagine, in the very late summer or early
autumn, when the conditions begin to approximate to winter conditions.
Apart, then, from wind-slab avalanches, which must be very uncommon
in summer, all the other types are by no means unusual. Avalanches of
powder snow, of old wet snow and new wet snow can occur at any month of
the year.
It is not necessary to give separate rules for summer and for spring.
The important factors in the problem are not so much the season as
the amount of snow that has fallen, the temperature, the angle of the
sun, etc. etc. If the reader thoroughly understands avalanche craft in
winter and in spring, he should be able to cope with the same or with
similar problems in summer.
The majority of fatal avalanche accidents in summer are due to snow
slides. I have for convenience’ sake adopted the arbitrary distinction
of avalanches into avalanches proper--those which are dangerous owing
to the weight and quantity of the snow that falls--and snow-slides,
which are only dangerous in so far as they carry the climber or
ski-runner with them over a cliff or into a crevasse. Most summer
avalanche accidents are due to snow slides, and occur in places which
the ski-runner could not reach on ski. Snow resting on ice in gullies,
or snow resting on smooth slabs, etc., are frequent causes of fatal
accidents. Such avalanches or snow-slides have been described by Mr.
Young.
The classical device for testing whether snow is resting on ice--i.e.
throwing a big rock down the suspicious slope--is often of use to a
ski-runner who is in doubt whether to descend a doubtful slope on ski
or on foot.
TACTICS ON AVALANCHE GROUND
The simplest rule is to avoid avalanche ground. Unfortunately, this
is not always possible. The limits of danger are so wide that one may
occasionally find oneself on a slope which might conceivably avalanche.
Such a slope may provide the only possible means of getting down to
the valley, so that the choice is not merely between giving up an
expedition or risking an avalanche, but between the certainty of a
night out if one recrosses the pass and the possibility of an avalanche.
It has sometimes been asserted that a ski-runner could escape an
avalanche by turning his ski downhill and making a sudden dive
downward. Of course this is wildly absurd. I have only once been caught
in an avalanche, and, long before I could have turned my ski downhill,
the avalanche had carried me some twenty yards downhill. An avalanche
does not start by a kind of snowball action. It starts with a sharp
crack, and the sudden sliding away of a deep layer of snow. Watch snow
sliding off a roof and you will understand that an avalanche is very
sudden and overwhelming. Almost every avalanche leaves a clean line
of cleavage behind--a wall of snow which is exactly as deep as the
avalanche at its birth.
The chance of escaping an avalanche by flight is infinitesimal if you
are near the point where the avalanche starts. You are lucky if you
have time enough to kick your ski off, and you will only be able to
do this if you have unloosened the bindings previous to crossing the
dangerous slope. There will be no chance of unstrapping them once the
avalanche is upon you. If you cannot kick them off instantaneously,
they will remain attached to you.
Your chance of surviving is very much greater if you can get rid of
your ski, for the ski drag you under, and prevent all hope of fighting
your way to the surface of the avalanche. Once you are overwhelmed
you should adopt a swimming motion. Above all, try to keep your head
uppermost. A vigorous swimming motion with the hands is said to be
useful by people who have survived.
Dangerous slopes should always be crossed as high as possible. An
avalanche is much more dangerous if it overwhelms you from above than
if it starts from the immediate neighbourhood of your ski. Steep slopes
below a cliff usually yield a fairly safe passage just below the rocks,
for there is often a little gap between the edge of the snow and the
rocks which affords a secure route. Take advantage of every belt or
shelf of gentler ground that may run across a steep slope. Traces of
old roads or even of footpaths are better than nothing.
Clearly a man on ski is much more likely to start an avalanche than
a man on foot. I have often been surprised to see chamois-tracks
down slopes 40-50 degrees steep. It is true chamois occasionally get
killed by avalanches, but they certainly possess a great immunity. The
reason is obvious. The chamois’ slender hoofs sink in very deeply.
They penetrate right through the snow to any hard underlying crust
that there may be beneath. Further, the chamois does not, like the
ski-runner, cut the snow by a continuous line which divides the slope
in two, and deprives the snow above the ski-tracks of much of its
support. Chamois-tracks form a row of small holes, and therefore have a
much less unsettling effect.
A man on foot has some of the advantages of the chamois. He is at
least much safer than on ski. His feet get down to the old crust below
unless the soft snow is very deep. On ski it is extremely easy to start
a small superficial avalanche or snow-slide; and on ski it is very
difficult to check such a small or big avalanche once it is started.
The ski may sink just into the superficial layer and help to detach it.
On dangerous ground you should therefore remove the ski and proceed on
foot. If possible, tackle such slopes by a direct ascent or descent in
single file. Traversing is much more likely to cut the snow slope and
start an avalanche.
Never rope on avalanche ground unless one member of the party can
remain on safe ground, i.e. a cluster of rocks, and secure the man
who is traversing a short stretch of dangerous snow. If two or three
ski-runners are caught by an avalanche while roped together, their
chance of escape is slight, as the rope tends to get caught, to drag
them under the snow and to suffocate them.
Dangerous ground should, of course, be crossed by only one man at a
time.
It has been suggested by an experienced mountaineer that each member
of the party should drag behind him a long thin red cord, which would
provide a clue to the whereabouts of a man who had been buried by an
avalanche. The ski-ing mountaineer’s kit is already so overcharged that
few people would be likely to add to it for this purpose.
For the descent of dangerous slopes, if the party do not proceed on
foot, they should put on their sealskins, so as to run the slopes as
steeply and directly as possible.
The ice-axe should always be driven in as far as possible, so as to
find purchase in the underlying snow. Ski-sticks that are provided with
removable disks are very useful, as they can be driven in much deeper
than ordinary ski-sticks.
When in doubt, sound with an axe or stick and try to discover whether
the snow is homogeneous, and if not, what lies below the surface layer
and what lies below the snow itself.
When in doubt, turn back if possible. If it is necessary to proceed,
take off your ski. If speed is important, keep on your ski; and if you
are descending, put on sealskins. If you cannot spare the time to put
on sealskins, sit on your ski and descend by a sitting ski-glissade,
which is, by the way, a knack in itself.
THE HIGH ALPS IN WINTER
[Sidenote: Weather Conditions.]
The weather after the New Year is usually more settled than in the
summer. A spell of absolutely unbroken weather lasting from three
weeks to a month or more is almost inevitable some time in January or
February. As a rule, February is the finest month in the winter.
These typical fine-weather periods are often accompanied by mild
weather. The temperature even by night is often surprisingly high on
the glaciers, even when there is no touch of Föhn in the air. This has
led some observers to claim that the temperature in winter--even in
the shade--is often lower in the valleys than on the mountains. I have
never seen any evidence produced for the phenomenon which has been
romantically described as ‘inverted temperature,’ and have no reason
to believe that any such violation of the laws of temperature really
exists. It is often, of course, colder in the plains when the plains
are covered by _nebelmeer_ than in sunny alpine stations, but this is
very different to any general inversion of temperature. I have, it is
true, sat on the summit of the Finsteraarhorn in midwinter stripped to
the waist, and I have often been uncomfortably hot at great altitudes
in the sun. But it is dangerous to generalize from such experiences,
and though on a windless day, winter mountaineering may be as warm and
comfortable as summer climbing, the ski-runner must always be prepared
for sudden danger of temperature, and severe cold.
The variations in temperature are surprising. A cushion of cold air,
several degrees below freezing, may exist near the surface of the snow,
and three feet above the surface of the snow the air may be quite
mild. This is a phenomenon well known to rink-makers. In the sun the
heat may be quite intense, and yet, a few yards off, in the shade the
temperature may be several degrees below freezing.
A suspicion of wind may transform a mild and equable into an
unpleasantly cold atmosphere. The changes of temperature are very
sudden. You may be basking in shirt-sleeves on one side of a ridge, and
be frost-bitten within a few minutes on turning a corner into the wind.
The great danger of winter mountaineering is the risk of a sudden
change of weather. Storms seem to blow up out of clear skies with a
suddenness to which summer affords no parallel. The man who is caught
in a big winter storm is lucky if he escapes without casualty. A
driving wind makes ski-ing almost impossible. The snow is blown into
one’s face, and in a few minutes one’s eyelashes are gummed up with
miniature icicles.
The big storms that sometimes prevail for more than a week at a time
may imprison the climber in a club hut until all his provisions are
exhausted. From most club huts escape is completely impossible till
the storm drops. Even when the storm has given place to fine weather,
retreat may be very dangerous owing to the avalanche peril.
Under fair conditions winter mountaineering is often surprisingly easy.
Men who have enjoyed unbroken good luck with their weather are tempted
to discount the very real dangers of mountaineering in winter, and to
adopt a paradoxical attitude towards the Alps in winter, implying that
the only danger to be feared is sunstroke and snow-blindness. Those who
have not been so uniformly lucky realize that winter mountaineering on
a big scale is a sport from which the element of danger will never be
lacking; that a sudden storm may transform even an easy expedition into
a desperate struggle for safety.
[Sidenote: The Approaches to the High Alps.]
Often the most difficult, and sometimes the most dangerous, part of a
winter expedition in the High Alps is the first day’s march to the club
hut. Once the upper regions are attained, progress is usually fairly
straightforward. It is quite normal for ski-runners to make nearly as
good time on the ascent of a snow-peak as summer climbers, but it is
very rare indeed that the club hut is reached in anything approaching
summer time. From one and a half to twice as long must be allowed for
the ascent to most club huts.
The long, narrow valleys that so often lead to huts are usually very
deep in soft powdery snow, so that progress must be slow, whereas in
the upper regions the snow is usually more or less packed by the wind,
which makes for easier going on the ascent, even though the descent may
be far from pleasant. Moreover, the danger from avalanches is usually
much more serious in the lower regions, where the slopes are much
steeper and the valleys narrower.
On the first day’s march the guides will be heavily loaded, for the
full equipment for a serious expedition in the High Alps is very much
more bulky and weighty than that necessary in summer. In the first
place, no prudent ski-runner commits himself to a High Alp tour without
ample reserves of food. He must allow for the danger of finding himself
stormbound in a hut for a period which may be anything from a day to
a fortnight. Plenty of compressed reserve food is essential until the
club huts begin to store emergency rations. Further, as a broken ski
may involve serious consequences, he must burden himself with spare
ski-tips and all the apparatus for mending ski. Extra clothes, plenty
of gloves, and, of course, crampons add to the overburdened rucksacks.
Unless one is prepared to carry very heavy sacks it does not pay to
economize in porters. As a rule, you should reckon two guides or
porters for every member of the party if you contemplate an expedition
of some five to six days in length, unless, of course, you are prepared
to carry some thirty pounds or so in your own sack for the first day.
Of course, if you take two porters to the hut, they may be sent back
from the hut; but it is obviously unfair to expect a solitary porter to
make the descent alone.
Everything should be done to make matters easy. If the first part of
the ascent lies up a path or a wood-track, a boy should be hired to
carry your ski. If the ascent begins from some out-of-the-way alpine
valley, it will often pay to send a guide on ahead the day before to
make tracks for part of the distance in soft snow. This is especially
useful if you are attempting a very big climb from one of the rather
higher alpine valleys or mountain inns without using a club hut. It is
unwise to reckon on climbing more than an average of 500 feet per hour
for the first day.
An early start is essential. The longest days pass fairly comfortably
if you break them up with frequent _short_ halts and short feeds. It is
often impossible in winter to make a prolonged halt owing to the cold.
A few caramels or some chocolate, which can be easily got at, should
be kept in one’s pocket, and munched during short halts. Napoleon’s
rule of a short rest and something to eat every hour is a good rule for
climbers, especially winter climbers who are heavily laden.
The huts as a rule are comfortable enough in winter, though the stoves
often prove troublesome. Wood is usually kept in large quantities,
brought up at the end of the autumn, though it is as well to make
inquiries on this point before starting. On reaching the hut, set the
aneroid barometer usually found in most huts. A pocket-barometer is not
so reliable, for, as Whymper pointed out and conclusively proved, the
usual aneroid tends to lose on the mercurial. In other words, if you
carry a pocket-aneroid up some thousands of feet and then set it at the
hut, it will usually fall a point during the night, where a mercurial
barometer would have remained stationary.
So, too, if you descend from a peak to a hut, the pocket-aneroid will
rise where a mercurial would remain stationary, thereby often conveying
very dangerous and misleading information. It is most important to set
the hut aneroid, so as to have some warning of the approach of a sudden
storm.
If you are unlucky enough to be caught by bad weather in a hut, and if
your provisions run short, you should spend as much of your time as
possible lying down and keeping warm, for the less exercise you take
the less food you will need. People who practise the ‘fast cure’ have
proved that a man can go without any food for a week and carry on his
ordinary business without feeling unduly weakened. It is therefore in
every way better to stay at the hut fasting--even for three or four
days--than to attempt to descend in a bad storm. If the worst comes to
the worst, and the party is thoroughly weakened by lack of food, they
can always stay at the hut and await the search party.
If a sally is attempted in bad weather from a hut which is situated
among glacier snow-fields, it is advisable to cut up a number of small
stakes from the firewood. These can be planted in the snow at intervals
of a hundred yards or so in order that a retreat can always be made
back to the hut if further advance is impossible.
[Sidenote: Snow Conditions in the High Alps.]
If the Alps were windless, the snow that falls between November and the
end of February would remain powdery and unspoiled on all save very
steep south slopes. At high altitudes the sun is powerless to affect
the snow in midwinter on _gentle_ south slopes. The snow would remain
powdery on _northern_ slopes till the middle of April but for wind.
Unfortunately, the High Alps are swept by wind, more especially during
long spells of fine cloudless weather, during which the ‘bise,’ or
north wind, sweeps across all exposed ridges and faces. Consequently,
the snow seldom remains long unspoiled. In sheltered glacier valleys
it may retain its powdery condition, but on all more or less exposed
slopes it soon hardens. Of course, if an expedition is planned within
two or three days of a fresh snowfall, the party may have perfect
powder snow; but such snow is the exception in winter in the High Alps,
whereas it is the rule in spring.
[Sidenote: Rock Ridges and Ice Slopes.]
Rock climbing does not properly come within the scope of mountaineering
on ski; but so many ski-runners combine a ski tour with a final
scramble up a rock ridge, such as the last arête of Monte Rosa or the
Zinal Rothhorn, that some discussion of the condition of rocks and ice
slopes in winter is essential.
As a rule, rock ridges are as dry, or drier, in winter than in summer.
Snow that falls in summer often falls at a temperature little below
freezing. It is often most adhesive stuff. The strong summer sun
followed by frosts at night turns this snow into crust, or at least
into snow with a considerable power of sticking to the rocks. In summer
it is often several days before the big rock peaks will go after a
heavy snowfall. But in winter the snow that falls in the High Alps is
light and powdery. The low temperatures and the reduced power of the
sun prevent the snow melting; it retains its light powdery character,
and is swept away from exposed ridges by the wind. It offers no
resistance to the wind, for it is composed of light dry crystals with
no cohesive or adhesive power. Consequently, the rock ridges in the
winter are often freer from snow than in average summer weather, which
is a mixture of good and bad. In winter, cornices have little chance
of forming. In fact, if the weather is mild and the ridge windless on
the day of the ascent, it is scarcely more difficult to climb a rock
ridge of average difficulty in winter than in summer. South ridges are,
of course, much warmer than north ridges, but they are not necessarily
more free of snow; for the agent that reduces the snow on the rock
ridges is not the sun--powerless as a melting agent at these altitudes
in winter--but the wind; and in fine weather the wind, as often as not,
blows from the north. Of course, if the north wind is blowing, a north
ridge may be impossible, for the rocks promptly become extremely cold
to touch, so that in general it is wisest to select south rock ridges
in preference to north. None the less, rock ridges facing north, such
as the north ridge of the Zinal Rothhorn or the north ridge of the
Gspaltenhorn, have been climbed without difficulty in midwinter.[22]
The same causes which keep the rock ridges comparatively free from snow
tend to remove any snow that may fall on to steep ice slopes.
Inexperienced winter mountaineers are often surprised to find as much
or more ice on summit slopes in winter than in summer.
As a matter of fact, there is often quite as much ice on steep exposed
slopes in winter as in summer.
An ice slope is transformed into a snow slope when falling snow is
accompanied by a temperature just above freezing-point--in other
words, when the snow is very nearly sleet. Such snow adheres to the
underlying ice, and by the normal process of alternate thaw and frost
becomes more and more firmly attached. The next snowfall that occurs
attaches itself to the underlying thin stratum of snow crust lying
on ice, so that in the course of time the ice slope is covered by a
compact and reliable layer of crusted snow.
But the dry powder of midwinter has no chance of finding a permanent
resting-place on steep ice. The first strong wind that blows will
remove it.
Many slopes vary from season to season and from month to month.
Sometimes they are ice, sometimes snow. Such slopes, if they are ice
in October, will remain ice until the following spring. May and June
are the months in which the conversion of ice slopes into snow slopes
usually takes place.
GLACIERS IN WINTER
The light powder snow which is swept from rock and ice ridges is
deposited on the broad glacier snow-fields, which therefore receive
more than their fair share of snow. In midwinter there are few open
crevasses to be seen, save at the icefalls, and most traces of
concealed crevasses disappear from the upper _névés_. None the less,
the danger from concealed crevasses is by no means trivial. The dry
powder snow forms the most brittle of snow-bridges.
In the Grenz glacier accident a snow-bridge _fourteen feet thick_
collapsed beneath a party of ski-runners. Of course, sooner or later,
most crevasses are bridged, not only by powder snow, but various forms
of wind-driven snow and wind-formed crust. Such crust is, of course,
less brittle than powder snow-bridges, but it is quite brittle enough.
The low temperature tends to increase the brittleness of snow-bridges.
In the early hours of a _summer_ morning a snow-bridge two or three
inches thick will usually be safe enough; for such bridges are
generally formed of a mixture of ice and hard snow which is due to
alternate melting and freezing. Such crust is much more compact, more
solid, and far less brittle than crust formed by wind.
Glaciers are, in fact, safer in summer than in winter; for though
there are many more crevasses open, there are far fewer dangerous
crevasses whose existence cannot easily be detected. The droop on the
snow and other unmistakable signs in ordinary seasons betray most
concealed crevasses to the experienced eye. In winter the winds are so
powerful, and their effect is so much greater (for reasons explained on
pp. 446-447), that they obliterate all traces of underlying crevasses.
The surface of the snow is apparently one uniform field of wind-driven
snow, and even the most expert cannot possibly detect the presence of
concealed crevasses.
This raises the very vexed question of ski-ing on a rope. It is quite
easy with a little practice to ski at a reasonably high speed on a
rope, and to make combined swings. Roped running is, in fact, quite
enjoyable, but it is not, and never can be, as enjoyable or as easy as
free ski-ing. Consequently, many ski-runners will never consent to rope
on the descent, save on glaciers, which are known to be badly crevassed.
There are three methods of ski-ing on a glacier:
1. _A Roped Descent._--For the technique of ski-ing on a rope, see pp.
452-456.
2. _A Descent in exactly the same Tracks as were used for the
Ascent._--This method is based on the presumption that a snow-bridge
which held in the morning during the ascent will hold during the
descent. Obviously the strain is much less during the fast descent than
during the climb. Also, as the variations of temperature in winter are
of no great importance, provided that the temperature remains below
freezing, a snow-bridge which holds in the morning should hold in the
afternoon, though the same cannot, of course, be said in summer. As the
tracks of the ascent were presumably made on sealskins, the descent
must also be made on sealskins if it be desired to follow with any
accuracy the line of the ascent and to avoid rapid swings and turns
which are liable to test severely a snow-bridge strong enough to resist
the ordinary uphill track. For my part, though this method is sometimes
used, I consider that the necessity to wear skins and to keep exactly
along one line is just as troublesome and not nearly so safe as the
rope.
What usually happens when people start a descent _without_ skins, but
with the pious intention of keeping to the uphill tracks, is that they
very soon find themselves curving and swinging some considerable
distance from their old tracks.
3. _A Free Descent Unroped._--If you discard the rope, you should be
doubly careful to reduce risk to a minimum by paying attention to
the general laws of crevasse formation. The middle of a glacier is
usually the safest part of the glacier in winter. Lateral crevasses,
i.e. crevasses at the side of the glacier, are wider, more numerous,
and more complicated than transverse crevasses. The crevasses in the
middle of a glacier are usually at right angles to the line of flow,
so that a ski-runner who is running straight will cross them at their
narrowest breadth. Lateral crevasses usually run at an angle of 30-45
degrees to the line of flow,[23] so that they will usually be crossed
by a ski-runner at a more or less wide angle, and the danger of running
along the whole length instead of across a snow-bridge is therefore
great.
The principal rules for glacier ski-ing in order of importance are
as follows: (1) Don’t fall. (2) Don’t make sudden swings. (3) Run
straight. (4) Don’t use your stick. (5) Keep to the middle of the
glacier.
In other words, run as straight as you can consistent with not falling.
It is better to run straight and to use your stick to reduce your
speed than to check your speed by swings and turns, for a swing to
a standstill above a crevasse is more likely than any other ski-ing
manœuvre to break a snow-bridge.
Keep close together on the descent, but not too close. Above all
things, avoid crossing the same snow-bridge while another member of the
party is crossing it. In the Grenz glacier accident three members of
the party fell into the same crevasse.
Avoid short sharp turns, and cultivate long gentle turns if you cannot
run straight.
It is often advisable to follow the leader’s tracks, for if the leader
has passed over a crevasse without falling in, the chances are that you
will be equally fortunate.
There should be two ropes in the party, so that if one rope disappears
with its bearer into a crevasse the second rope may be available to
pull him out.
At least one rope, and, in addition, the first-aid case and mending
apparatus for ski, should be in the rear of the party, as nothing is
more annoying than to see the leader disappearing far below with the
spare ski-tip just as your ski-point has snapped off.
“Always rope on snow-covered glaciers.” This is the law, and in theory
the law admits of no exceptions. But in winter, as in summer, this
law is often broken. Few climbers have a clear record on this point.
The temptation to break the law is, of course, much stronger for the
ski-runner than for the foot-climber. There have been comparatively few
accidents in which ski-runners have fallen into crevasses. On glaciers
that are known to be little, if at all, crevassed in summer, only a
pedant would rope in winter. Local knowledge is therefore very useful
indeed, and if a local guide can be taken, so much the better.
Such accidents as have happened have been either on the ascent, or
during a more or less level traverse, or as the result of a sudden
swing or stem which has disturbed the snow. I know of no case in which
a ski-runner has fallen into a crevasse during a fast, free, unchecked
descent. Indeed, I should doubt if it would be possible to break
through a snow-bridge while moving fast and running straight. I have
myself shot an open crevasse about ten feet or more in breadth while
travelling at a fairly high speed.
Most ski-runners would rope in winter on a glacier that was known to be
very crevassed in summer. Many ski-runners always rope in winter, but
far more only rope when they know the glacier to be very crevassed.
In May or June there is no reason to rope for the descent, save under
very exceptional circumstances. The risk of falling into a crevasse in
May or June is so slight that the rope may usually be discarded.
[Sidenote: Ski-ing on a Rope.]
Ski-ing on a rope is not so difficult as the inexperienced might
suppose. Experts who have practised together can attain high speeds,
and perform all the turns while roped together. A couple of good
runners with a little practice should be able to run safely at a fair
speed. But practice is necessary, and an hour or two of roped running
in the valley is well worth while.
Two is the most manageable number on a rope, and of course, there need
never be more than three, for larger parties can divide up into two
twos, a two and a three, etc.
First a word as to roping. Most guides make a loop at the very end of
the rope. This is quite unsound. The loop should be made about four
feet from the end of the rope, and this four feet of spare rope should
again be tied round the waist. Otherwise, if you fall into a crevasse,
the pressure on your waist may almost suffocate you before you are
withdrawn; whereas, if you have four feet of spare rope, you can uncoil
this, make a new loop into which you can place a foot, thereby at once
relieving the pressure on your body. With a little effort you should be
able to wriggle out of the main noose, standing in what may be called
the stirrup noose. If you are not exhausted, you might then be able to
swarm up the rope, which would of course be quite impossible if, as
would otherwise be the case, the end of the rope was originally tied
round your body. Two men on a glacier alone sometimes adopt Mummery’s
plan of wearing a second rope, which, in the event of a fall into a
crevasse, is untied by the man above and wound round the head of an axe
driven into the snow. The man below pulls on to the rope wound round
the axe. The man above pulls on to the rope round the fallen man’s
body. Thus there are virtually two men pulling one.
There is another method of roping sometimes used when three ski-runners
are tied to the same rope, which--though it has been employed by
experienced guides--seems to me most unsound. In this method two
ski-runners are tied to one rope, along which runs a small iron ring.
To this ring a second rope is fastened, and to this second rope the
third ski-runner attaches himself. The theory is that the third
ski-runner, being attached to a rope which in turn is attached to a
movable ring free to slide on the main rope, is far less constrained in
his movements than if all three were on the same rope. This is true,
but I should be sorry to be the third ski-runner if I was to fall into
a crevasse. Suppose the other two ski-runners are on opposite sides
of this crevasse. The man in the crevasse is then attached to a rope
which slides helplessly with the ring along the main rope. The iron
ring probably buries itself in the lower lip of the crevasse. I do not
quite see how any tension is to be exerted on the secondary rope.
It is simpler to begin by considering the case of two ski-runners,
A and B, running on a rope. If there is a marked difference in the
ability of A and B, the poorer ski-runner should lead, for it is much
easier to lead on a rope than to be the last man. The last man on the
rope has to moderate his pace and his direction in accordance with the
movements of the leader. If, however, A and B are equally good runners,
then the leader should be the one whose ski are the faster: I do _not_
mean the faster ski-runner, but the one whose ski are running better,
either because the ski themselves are faster and more slippery, or
because their owner is the heavier of the two, and therefore, other
things being equal, tends to get downhill quicker. For if, on a gradual
slope which is to be taken straight without braking or stemming, A
(whose ski are faster) is constantly overrunning B, the rope will get
mixed up with the ski, and A will have to regulate his pace by stemming
or braking in order to keep the proper distance. On the other hand, if
A leads, his extra speed will keep the rope taut, and the tension of
the rope will enable B to keep a uniform distance.
On easy ground A and B can ski in single file. B, whose ski are slower,
will be kept in line by the tension of the rope. It is not necessary
nor desirable for B to follow exactly the same spoor as A: his spoor
should be an inch or two to the side of, and parallel to, A’s spoor.
B must be on the look out for sudden increases in pace on the part of
A: A may, for instance, come to a steeper gradient, and B, if he is
not on the look out, is liable to be pulled over and pitched on to his
head. Similarly B, if A runs on to a gentler gradient, will have to
guard against overrunning A, and thereby rendering the rope useless;
for if A and B are on the same snow-bridge they may both fall in. _At
least_ 75 feet of rope should be allowed between A and B. On easy
ground this rope may be allowed to be taut; on more difficult ground B
should keep a coil of rope in his hand to allow a margin in the event
of A suddenly increasing his speed.
The normal position for straight running should be modified. In free
running lateral strains may usually be disregarded; the main risk
of a fall lies in fore and aft changes of speed. Consequently, for
normal running the narrow groove and the lengthened base, as in the
Telemark position, are usually preferable to a broad track. But a
ski-runner on a rope is always liable to lateral strains. It is rare
that one runs exactly in line; whenever one’s track is parallel rather
than coincident with the track of the leader, and whenever the leader
changes his direction, however slightly, the rope exercises a certain
amount of sideways pull. The greater the distance between the parallel
tracks, the greater the lateral tension of the rope. Consequently, the
ski-runner on a rope must be prepared, not only for forward and, in the
case of the leader, for backward jerks, but also for sideway strains.
The best position for roped running is to hold the ski about 8 inches
apart. One ski should be a few inches ahead of the other, and the knees
should be loose. The body should be slightly bent below the waist. The
Telemark position is, of course, most unsound.
On average ground the ski-sticks should be held together in the left
hand, leaving the right hand free to hold a spare coil of rope. If it
is necessary to brake or to control your speed, you should do so by
stemming and not by the stick.
On difficult ground you should use the stick to control your speed--a
recourse which is seldom, if ever, justified, except when running on
the rope. It is quite easy to hold both the sticks and also a spare
coil of rope in your two hands; and if you intend to brake with your
sticks, you must, of course, put your sticks together and get both
your hands on to them. The most efficient stop turn on a rope is the
Christiania helped out with the sticks. If you are unroped, a yard
or two of sideslip after a sudden stop is quite a good thing, but if
you are roped, you need to stop in the smallest possible compass,
especially if you are leading and the man behind falls. For this
purpose there is nothing to beat the stop Christiania helped out with
the sticks. As a rule, however, stemming is sufficient without using
the sticks. Good runners can, of course, make a series of linked turns
on ski, and there are few prettier sights than a skilful party on a
rope descending in a series of Stemming turns.
Whether leading or going last, always keep your partner fully informed
as to your changes of speed or direction. If the back man feels that he
is going to fall, he must shout out at once, so as to give the leader
time to stop by a stick Christiania. Similarly the leader, if he comes
to a steeper gradient, should warn his partner that the speed is likely
to increase.
_Be prepared to fall neatly and with the maximum of effect._ Should
the leader fall into a crevasse, don’t allow yourself to be dragged
after him. Throw yourself on the ground, and bring your ski round, as
you fall, at right angles to the track and below you. This is more
difficult than might be imagined. An indifferent runner, or even a good
runner who had not trained himself to expect a fall, would run a big
risk of being pulled into the crevasse by the first man.
The ‘falling Christiania’ is the best method of avoiding being pulled
after the leader into a crevasse.
On fairly steep slopes it is best not to run in line. A and B should
run side by side. Provided the rope is long enough (and at least 75
feet should be allowed between each partner), there is no danger that
A and B will fall into the same crevasse. A and B will probably not
be exactly side by side. B will be just a little behind A. In other
words, the line of the rope will not be exactly at right angles to the
parallel lines of the two tracks cut by A and B. This side-by-side
method is much easier than running in line; if A suddenly quickens in
speed, the only result is that A, instead of being side by side with
B, tends to run on ahead, and the two tracks tend to close up together
until the speed is readjusted. So, too, if B falls suddenly, A has much
more chance and more room in which to make a stop Christiania than if
they were running exactly in line. Also it is not necessary for either
A or B to hold a coil of rope in his hands. If the snow is smooth, the
rope need not be taut between the runners if they are running side by
side. It cannot be allowed to hang loose and to sweep the snow.
All that has been said above applies equally to three men on a rope:
three on a rope is, however, a more difficult combination; the position
of the middle man liable to both fore and aft jerks is far from
enviable. The best man should be placed in the middle. It is, however,
surprising how easily a party of three practised roped runners can
execute straight running and even combined turns on a rope.
Ropes that are employed in winter should be new. Old summer ropes
should not be used up in winter. Ropes break much more easily in winter
than in summer, and the strain is much greater in the event of a fall
into a crevasse owing to the greater speed on ski than on foot.
THE HIGH ALPS IN SPRING
There is a fascination about the High Alps in winter that is unique.
Never are the great peaks so icily aloof, the silences of the glaciers
so inviolate. No moon compares with the full moon of January shining
on some great glacier causeway; no views are clearer than the summit
panorama of February. None the less, winter is _not_ the proper season
for ski tours in the High Alps. It is true that the rock ridges are
usually free from snow in the winter and corniced in spring, so that
for expeditions which combine ski-ing with more or less difficult
rock climbing, winter is preferable to spring. At the same time, it
is possible to exaggerate this point. An ardent champion of winter
mountaineering once cited to me the Lyskamm as a mountain that could
not be climbed in May owing to cornices. Unfortunately for his case,
the Lyskamm _had_ been climbed in May. I have known the cornice on the
Wetterhorn almost invisible in May, whereas in many winters it is quite
formidable.
Still we may concede that rock ridges are certainly far easier in
February than in May, and cornices in general much larger in spring
than in winter.
And of course the snowline is lower in winter than in spring; but, as
we shall try to prove, this is not of very great importance.
The winter is the season for ski tours of modest length. It is the
season for what may be called _sub-alpine_ ski-ing. (We need some handy
expression in English for the most useful German word _Mittelgebirge_.)
Spring, on the other hand, is eminently suitable for ski tours in the
High Alps.
The best month for glacier ski-ing is May. June is also excellent.
Indeed, from about the middle of May to the middle of June is, on the
average, as good a month as any in the year for glacier ski-ing.
February is usually the best of the winter months, and May is the best
month for spring ski-ing. May is, among other things, usually fine.
April is almost always stormy; but the weather usually mends at the end
of April, and a long spell of perfect weather is as common in May as in
February.
Let us then compare ski-ing among the glaciers in May and in February
from the point of view of (1) Safety; (2) Quality of ski-ing; (3)
Effort; (4) Scenery.
(1) _Safety._--The shortness of the days and the great variations of
temperature, from mild and equable to bitterly cold, all add an element
of danger to the High Alps in February. A small mishap may have very
serious consequences. A broken leg half-way down Monte Rosa or the
Wetterhorn probably means a night in the open, and a night in the open
may mean a fatal ending. The sudden changes of weather, the storms that
rise in a night and last for days, all make February ski-ing among
the glaciers a sport with its own dangers. In May all these risks
are reduced almost to vanishing-point. A broken leg is a broken leg
in February or in May, but a night in the open in May should have no
permanent effect on any but a very badly wounded climber.
We have already dealt with avalanches. Here we need only repeat that
though avalanches are of daily occurrence in May, an experienced party
has no difficulty in avoiding them. They have a regular time-table,
and, provided one times one’s ascent or descent so as to avoid
crossing certain slopes at certain hours, one is absolutely safe. In
winter, avalanches can fall at any hour of the day, under certain
circumstances, and at any temperature. To take a concrete example: the
Gauli hut. This hut lies at the head of a very steep and narrow valley,
the Urbachthal. In winter one would never be quite safe in this valley.
A sudden wind might rise and bring down a powder avalanche; and even in
steady weather the risk of a powder avalanche from the very steep sides
of this valley is never entirely absent.
In spring one leaves Meiringen before midnight, climbs this valley
at night, and, provided the weather is fine, one is absolutely safe;
for in spring, avalanches fall in the afternoon and never fall at
night, save when the Föhn is blowing. And when the Föhn is blowing the
ski-runner stays at home, or remains in a club hut.
Finally, the glaciers are not oversafe in winter, for reasons explained
on pp. 448-449. In May all save very badly crevassed glaciers can be
descended on ski by an unroped party, without greater risks than those
which must be faced by every bold pedestrian that crosses Piccadilly
Circus. The crevasses are never so securely bridged as in spring.
(2) _Quality of the Ski-ing._--In winter it is the exception to find
good snow in the High Alps. The wind, as has already been explained,
spoils the snow on all exposed slopes. But in May the wind is
powerless, for the first fine day and hot sun will melt the snow so
thoroughly that all traces of wind action during the snowfall will
entirely disappear. Thenceforward the wind is powerless, for the wind
cannot churn up the heavy melted snow of spring, still less the hard
crust which is found in the early morning.
Snow in spring is hard crust in the early morning, Telemark crust up to
midday or later on high north slopes. In the afternoon it is usually
soft and heavy, but in the evening it once again yields fine ski-ing.
The ski-runner who visits the High Alps in winter can form no forecast
as to the possible conditions of the snow, for the snow is dependent on
the direction and on the strength of the winds that have blown since
the snow fell. It is therefore a matter of chance whether the snow is
good or bad, for nobody can foretell the conditions which depend on
such a fickle element as the wind. The longer fine weather endures in
winter, the greater the chance that the snow will be spoiled. In spring
the reverse is the case. _The more often snow is melted and refrozen
the better it becomes._ In general, provided the weather remains fine,
the spring ski-runner can count almost with certainty on perfect
ski-ing and perfect snow.
An important point in favour of spring is the fact that one usually
gets good ski-ing for every foot that one climbs on snow. In winter the
summit snow slopes are often so windswept, that the ski are left some
distance below the actual top and the final ascent is made on foot.
In spring the snow is just as good on the most exposed summit slope
as lower down. I have started spring or summer ski descents from the
_actual summits_ of such peaks as the Dom, Ebnefluh, Galmihorn, etc.
This is an important advantage, and more than counterbalances the fact
that the snowline is higher in May than in February; for though one may
lose a thousand feet of ski-ing on the last day, one more than balances
this loss by the fact that good ski-ing is obtained from the highest
limit of the snow.
The snowline in May usually extends down to 5000 feet. I have spent
three May months in the Alps, and I have always been able to get good
ski-ing well on to the middle of May down to about 5500 feet, and
sometimes lower. In narrow valleys the remains of spring avalanches
survive into the summer. I have skied in the middle of June below 6000
feet in the Gredetschthal, and I have often, in the middle or end of
June, obtained first-class ski-ing below 7000 feet.
Of course the height of the snowline is of no very great importance if,
as is usually the case, one spends four or five days on the glaciers.
One can sacrifice a thousand or two thousand feet of ski-ing on the
last day with complete composure if one is certain, as one is never
certain in winter, that one will get really good ski-ing for every foot
of snow slope that one climbs.
(3) _Effort._--Much less energy is expended on a spring than on a
winter ski tour. In winter most of the climbing is done on ski. Tracks
have to be made in the soft snow; a gradual zigzag course has to be
taken; time is wasted over ‘kick turns.’
In spring one climbs on foot or on crampons. The ski are dragged
behind on string. On level or gentle slopes the weight of the ski is
almost imperceptible if they are pulled along on string. On steep
slopes they are by no means a great hindrance. It is surprising what
can be accomplished by a man who is dragging instead of carrying ski.
I have seen Knubel climb a short but very steep snow and ice wall in
which he had to cut half a dozen handholds, and on which he had to
steady himself with one hand while he cut hand and foot holes with
the axe held in his right hand. Meanwhile his ski were dangling on
string--attached to his waist--over the bergschrund below.
The ski should, of course, always be secured by two strings in case one
breaks.
In spring on hard snow one climbs very nearly as fast dragging one’s
ski as one would climb without ski, and from 50-100 per cent faster
than one would climb if one was forced to ascend the same slope on ski
with soft winter snow.
The saving of effort is as remarkable as the saving of time, for it is
much easier to climb direct on foot than to zigzag up soft snow on ski.
Apart from the upper snows, the approaches to the High Alps are easier
in spring than in winter. The snow at night is nearly always hard in
May. The narrow valleys, filled with soft powder snow, are covered
with a firm groundwork of hard crust in spring. The climb to the club
hut is usually done at night or in the early morning. Though the snow
lies down to five thousand feet well on into the middle or end of May,
so that the ski descent can be prolonged down to very low levels, it
is usually possible to pick a route up snow-free slopes (either on
southern or south-westerly or south-easterly slopes) far higher than
the lowest levels of the snowline. Paths can be utilized instead of
snow slopes, more especially if the peasants have begun to tramp out
the paths for their own purposes. The long detours, often necessary in
winter, to avoid dangerous avalanche slopes are needless in spring, for
such slopes can always be crossed with safety at night when the snow is
crusted.
(4) _Scenery._--I have tried to show that the High Alps yield better
and safer ski-ing in May than in winter. Even if this were not so, May
would possess a charm for the mountaineer that no other month affords.
It is perhaps idle to compare the rival beauties of the four great
alpine seasons, for, even if one season could be proved paramount, the
true mountaineer would wish to study the mountains in all their moods.
The icy virginity of the High Alps in winter reveals secrets that are
hidden in spring and in summer.
None the less, if it be permitted to state a preference, I for one
should give my vote to May months. Contrast is the greater teacher,
and May is the month of contrasts. I think of moments when one stepped
on to a high ridge after hours among the burning snow-fields of May,
and looked down, with a shock of surprise, on to the valleys dressed
in a green that was different, transfigured, miraculous--a green that
the valley-dweller has never seen. I think of quiet evenings after
long days among the snows, when one strolled down through the scented
pines with one’s ski on one’s back and the music of a perfect run still
echoing in one’s heart--of the Dollfuss in May, a little oasis of
green young turf covered with gentian and anemone in a wilderness of
burning snow and granite ridges. I think of a sunset hour just above
Rosenlaui, following four perfect days among the May glaciers, the
foreground of marsh-marigolds a sheet of flame, and the whole valley
one full-throated chorus of spring. Running water is always beautiful,
but there is no music in all the harmonies of Nature to compare with
mountain torrents in spring after days among the dead silence of the
upper snows. Such are the contrasts that reward the mountaineer in May.
Within the compass of dawn and sunset he can live through the cycle
of the seasons, can pass from winter to spring, can enjoy the best
that snow yields to the ski-runner, and the chiefest rewards that the
hills yield to those that explore them when the great rebirth of colour
and music has finally prevailed over the stubborn obstinacy of the
retreating snows.
In order to understand the conditions that prevail in the High Alps in
spring, the effect of sun on snow and the various habits of sun-formed
and sun-melted crust must be grasped. These are dealt with on pp.
412-417. Avalanches are analysed on pp. 423-438. All that now remains
is to consider the application of the principles laid down to the
various months of spring.
[Sidenote: March.]
The winter of the calendar ends officially on 23 March, and the
calendar spring lasts from 24 March to 23 June. None the less March,
whatever the calendar may say, is winter in the High Alps. The snow,
unless disturbed by wind, remains powdery on all north slopes and
gentle south slopes. March is often a month of snowstorms, though
occasionally it is distinguished by really fine weather. On the whole,
however, it cannot be said to be a good month for glacier ski-ing,
though, on the other hand, the days are longer than in February. The
sun is stronger and the crevasses more securely bridged.
[Sidenote: April.]
April marks the transition from winter to spring. As a rule, April is
marked in the Alps by frequent storms, varied by periods of wet Föhn.
Occasionally one gets a week of really good weather and fine ski-ing,
even at very low altitudes, and it often happens that the last week
in April is perfect succeeding to a long period of snowstorms. But as
a rule good weather is less common in April than in any month of the
alpine year.
The snow itself varies. Powder snow is found on north slopes at high
altitudes. South slopes are usually crusted. The crust varies a great
deal, and resembles, in general, the crust found in winter at low
altitudes. In other words, April crust on the glaciers is usually
marble crust in the early mornings. The law, explained on p. 414, “The
milder the frost the better the crust,” often gives the clue to timing
a successful descent. As one descends on an early morning in April the
crust usually improves.
As a rule, the sun is strong enough to melt the crust just before or
just after midday, and in this case you get perfect running on Telemark
crust. Owing to the lower temperature the snow remains good much longer
than in May. In fact, at high altitudes it seldom becomes completely
thawed, so that the ski-ing on April afternoons is usually better than
on May afternoons.
It is important to notice that when, as in spring and summer, the sun
remains above the horizon after 6 p.m., the northern slopes will be in
the sun after the southern slopes have lost the sun, for the sun at
6 p.m. is due west and after 6 p.m. is north of west. Of course, as
the sun is low in the sky only north slopes that are not shut in by
neighbouring slopes will keep the sun.
If a north wind is blowing, the snow on north slopes, previously
crusted by sun and frost, may remain quite unmelted throughout the day.
I have found hard slippery crust in the late afternoon at the end of
April just below the rocks of the Zinal Rothhorn, with the result that
the ski-ing was most unpleasant. A bitter north wind was blowing at the
time. So, too, south slopes when the north wind is blowing may resist
the sun, and though they will not, like north slopes, remain really
hard, they will not be thoroughly melted.
If you are lucky enough to get fine weather, April ski-ing is often
delightful. After a few days of sun traces of wind action disappear
from all slopes, save perhaps north slopes at very high altitudes.
Telemark crust towards midday, and even later, and salt snow or hypo
snow (p. 417) as you descend from the glaciers to the lower regions,
are characteristic of April ski-ing.
It may be necessary to time your descent to the valley so as to pass
a dangerous slope before the sun has struck it. With ordinary caution
an experienced party should run no risk whatever of being caught by
an avalanche; but it is undeniable that inexperienced parties come to
grief more frequently in April than in any other month. This does not
prove that the avalanche danger is really greater, but only that it is
greater for the inexperienced.
[Sidenote: May.]
In May newly fallen snow usually remains powdery for one or two days
on north slopes, and even longer at high altitudes. But, in general,
powder snow is the exception in May. At high altitudes you will find
hard marble crust in the early morning. At lower altitudes you will
usually find ‘film crust’ and ‘perforated crust.’ For the formation of
these excellent running surfaces, see p. 414.
The main difference between marble crust on the one hand, and either
film crust or perforated crust on the other hand, is that the former is
too slippery to give the ski purchase, whereas film or perforated crust
is a splendid surface for Stemming turns or Christianias.
As a rule, in spring one descends after the sun has softened the crust.
Whether the original morning crust was hard and slippery, or covered by
a film or perforated crust, does not matter once the sun has melted its
surface.[24] In any case, there will be a period of ski-ing on Telemark
crust (p. 415). The main importance of film or perforated crust is its
value when you have to begin a descent before the sun has softened the
snow. I remember starting one morning just after the dawn from the
Oberaarjoch. I intended to ski down to the Grimsel and thence to climb
the Galenstock, and I hoped to go from the Oberaarjoch hut to the Furka
between dawn and sunset, taking the Galenstock _en route_. It was
obvious that an early start was necessary. At that date I had done
little ski-ing in June, and I fully expected that the top slopes of the
Oberaarjoch would be covered by very hard and slippery marble crust. To
my great surprise the crust, though hard, was covered by a beautiful
film of soft, transparent brittle ice. As the ski swung round on a turn,
this soft film peeled away and rustled down the slope with a soft
splashing sound. No surface could be finer. Straight running was
absolutely safe on the even, unchanging gradients of those summit
slopes. There were no hidden rocks or hidden crevasses to fear. The film
crust was absolutely true. There was no risk of running into a soft
sticky patch or a windswept pocket. One could run as fast as one liked,
secure in the knowledge that at any moment one could stop by a
long-drawn-out Christiania. On really steep slopes one could link a
succession of sweeping Christianias, the loveliest of all conceivable
turns, and on gentle slopes one could run straight. The soft film gave
an excellent purchase and prevented the ski side-slipping helplessly as
one began to turn, for the ski cut in under the film and peeled it away.
Until a man has skied down from some glacier pass at dawn on film crust
he has yet to learn the best that ski-ing can yield. That run from the
Oberaarjoch stands out as one of the finest runs of my life. The great
charm of film crust is that fast running can be combined with absolute
safety, for a dangerous fall is almost impossible on this surface. I
remember that we took twenty minutes from the pass to the snout of the
glacier, and duly arrived at Gletsch after taking the Galenstock _en
route_ before sunset.
Perforated crust is harder and firmer than film crust. On very steep
slopes it is a little too slippery, but on anything below 25 degrees it
gives perfect running.
In May film crust and perforated crust are common in the early morning,
and marble crust is unusual. After fresh snow one finds all sorts of
shades of snow from pure winter snow to film crust, but a few days of
cloudless weather is usually sufficient to change powder into crust on
all but very high north slopes.
[Sidenote: June.]
June differs mainly from May in that the snowline is higher and that
winter snow is even more uncommon. Film crust and perforated crust is
the rule at all save high altitudes and just after fresh snow.
As a rule the snow is even better in June than in May. _The more
frequently spring snow is melted and refrozen the better it becomes.
Old snow that has passed through this process again and again acquires
a granular and crystalline character._ It does not melt so thoroughly.
Provided there is no touch of Föhn in the air, it retains this
crystalline form even when it is melted. In June the snow remains good
for ski-ing much later in the day than in May, even though the sun is
higher in the sky. In May the period of transition from wet snow to
crust is very sudden. One moment the snow is wet and heavy, and half
an hour later the first crust has formed. In June there is often a
well-marked intermediate period when the snow gradually gets colder
and more crystalline. This granular snow is very fast and very true,
and suitable for every kind of turn and swing at high speed. On May
evenings the soft crust is very pleasant, but it is a little too soft
and the snow underneath the crust is a little too woolly; but in June
when the sun goes off the slopes the snow becomes crystalline, cold,
fast and just compact enough to prevent the ski sinking in too deep.
In June the lower limits of the _névé_ often show signs of furrowing.
The action of the sun forms ridges and furrows producing a wavy effect.
These ridges are unpleasant to ski on or to ski over when the snow is
hard, but quite harmless when the snow has begun to soften. On steep
slopes the ridges run roughly parallel with the fall of the slope. On
the level the snow is divided into numberless little hillocks with
corresponding holes.
The action is similar on a small scale to the erosive action of water
on a large scale. Water furrows an even mountain side with gullies and
a more or less level plain with intersecting ravines that produce a
series of hills. And just as in the geological cycle the last stage of
a mountainous country is a peneplane, so on snow the action of the sun
acts on the ridges and hillocks formed by previous action of the sun
and once again reduces the surface to a plain. I have seen in winter
one heavy rainstorm furrow the hillsides with miniature ridges and
a level snow slope with miniature hillocks, and I have seen the next
rainstorm--which followed two days later--erode the ridges and hillocks
formed by the first storm and once again produce slopes of even contour
and levels unbroken by hillocks.
THE SPRING TIME-TABLE
The spring ski-runner has, in general, the choice of two periods of
the day for his descent. He can descend in the morning just after
the sun has begun to soften the surface of the hard crust, or in the
evening when the soft melted snow is beginning to freeze again. If
the day’s run ends at some club hut situated at a reasonable height,
say 9000-10,000 feet, he can usually leave the hut about dawn and
return about midday, for the snow at this height is usually perfect
just before midday; or he can time his descent for just before or just
after sunset. If he is descending to the valley, it is usually best to
time his descent a great deal earlier. In May the snow below 8000 feet
softens very quickly directly the sun touches it, and becomes dangerous
on steep slopes. In this case, should the snow on the glaciers be
film or perforated crust, he can start his descent before the sun has
softened the crust, so as to reach the lowest limits of the snow before
they have been softened by the sun.
As this is often impossible, it is best to time the descent from the
peak to the club hut for midday, or rather before midday, and then to
wait in the hut till sunset, and continue the run down to the valley
after the sun has set and the snow begun to freeze again. Guides are
often dreadfully impatient, and have the greatest objection to spending
a long time on the summit of a peak. Many guides seem to regard summit
views with studied malevolence, and very few guides really understand
spring snow. If, as often happens, the arrival on the summit occurs
after midday, it is absurd to spoil a perfect descent by running down
in the afternoon. The amateur must exercise reasonable restraint and
insist on waiting. There are many things more unpleasant than to lie
about on the summit of some great peak for three or four hours studying
the changing effect of a May afternoon on distant hills and valleys,
what time the snow gradually improves.
Great judgment is required in spring to get the best value out of the
descent; it will often pay a party to wait three or four hours for the
snow to improve. Summer climbers seldom linger on the summit, for in
summer the wind usually makes itself felt, but in May or June one can
bask on the top of a peak in shirt sleeves even after the sun has set.
Eastern slopes, of course, are the first to soften in the morning and
the first to freeze at night. The best moment to descend varies with
the orientation of a slope. It is often possible to choose one of two
alternatives,--an eastern or a western route,--and the wise ski-runner
can often improve the quality of the descent by a clever choice of line
and slope.
Considerable experience is needed after a fresh fall of snow. Snow
usually remains powdery for a day or two on north slopes in May or
June. Perfect powder snow is by no means the exception in spring;
an inch or two of winter powder on spring crust provides a surface
which is absolutely unrivalled. When, however, the powder begins to
turn into crust the ski-ing may often be difficult. After a snowfall
you should try either to find slopes holding winter snow or slopes
holding spring snow, but not slopes on which the snow is just changing
from powder to crust. You may, for instance, have spent the night at
a club hut at a height of 9000 feet above the sea. You have arrived
in the middle of June on the first fine day after a snowstorm. The
snow near the hut has been thoroughly melted by the sun before your
arrival. The weather is clear, and there is a north wind blowing. You
may reasonably expect powder snow on north slopes down to about 10,000
feet, so that if you have a choice of an expedition on north snow, say
a peak 13,000 feet high, you should attempt it, and you will probably
find powder snow most of the way. On the other hand, a peak of the
same height that faced south might be an unpleasant condition, powder
turning into sticky snow or crust. It might therefore be best to choose
a small peak, say 11,000 feet, facing south, and run down below the
hut, remounting in the evening. Such an expedition might yield better
ski-ing than a high peak.
After a day or two of fine weather all snow, excepting snow on north
slopes at a very great height, is transformed into ordinary spring
snow. Thenceforward the ski-runner may count on perfect snow, provided
he times his descent right.
It is only with forty-eight hours of a snowfall that there is any real
difficulty. During such short periods the experienced spring ski-runner
will know whether to go for north slopes in the hope of winter snow or
for southern slopes, or north slopes at lower altitudes, in search of
spring snow.
SUMMER AND AUTUMN SKI-ING
In summer the snowline climbs ever higher, and the scope of the
ski-runner is accordingly limited. Climbers who go straight up a peak
and down again to the valley will therefore be unwilling to burden
themselves with ski; but for a man who spends several days in club huts
without ever descending far below the summer snowline, the use of ski
for snow-peaks is as valuable as at any other season of the year. Monte
Rosa, Ebnefluh, Fiescherhorn, etc., yield quite as good ski-ing down to
the club-hut levels in August as in January--better, in fact, for the
snow is usually better in August than in January.
Of course the crevasses are more open than in spring, and the greatest
care is needed after a fresh fall of snow.
The snow conditions as the summer advances gradually change. July is
not unlike June, excepting that there is less snow on the mountains
and that the snowline is higher. Otherwise one finds in July all the
varieties of spring snow from film crust to granular snow.
On 20 August the sun is at the same altitude as on 20 April, and on 20
September it is at the same altitude as on 20 March. So that towards
the end of September we should expect that the sun would be powerless
to affect powder snow on north slopes just as it is powerless at
the end of March to transform powder into crust on north slopes at
reasonably high altitudes.
In August powder snow on north slopes usually remains uncrusted for
two or three days after a fall. The wind, which was powerless in May
or June, begins to regain its ascendancy. In August one finds at high
altitudes on north slopes all the usual effects of wind action that one
may observe in April. One does not see the same traces of wind that
one observes in January, for the snowfalls are lighter and the sun is
stronger, but windboard and rippled snow are common enough in August.
In September and October snow remains powdery unless affected by Föhn
on north slopes above 9000 feet.
In October the snowfalls usually begin at the ordinary alpine centres.
I have enjoyed perfect ski-ing at Mürren by the middle of October; ski
expeditions in the High Alps have also been carried out at this date,
though the practice is to be discouraged; for, of course, the glaciers
are never so dangerous as in October or November, when the maximum
number of crevasses are open and the snow bridges more insecure than at
any other period of the year.
In a few years’ time many club huts will be provided with ski, so
that the trouble of carrying ski to the summer snowline will no
longer exist. When once this obstacle to summer ski-ing is removed, I
confidently expect that it will be the exception rather than the rule
to see climbers ascending Monte Rosa or similar peaks without ski at
any period of the year.
SUMMER SKI
Short summer ski are very useful. A handy size is about 5½ feet in
length. Such ski are very light and easily carried, and can be tied on
between the rucksack and the back. They are becoming very popular, and
have a great future.
On hard snow short ski are nearly as fast and as steady as long ski.
On soft snow they are, of course, nothing like so fast, and are apt
to be jerky and unpleasant if the snow varies in density or in speed.
On steep slopes of soft snow they are quite as good as long ski, for
they are very easy to turn; and so long as the slope is steep enough
to descend with continuous turns, short ski are as good or better than
long ski. It is on gradual slopes of soft snow or crust that their
disadvantage is marked.
They are amazingly handy for really steep narrow slopes, such as
gullies. On short summer ski one can descend a gully 40 degrees steep
and about 12 feet wide with sharp continuous turns. Stemming turns and
Christianias are ridiculously easy.
Mountaineers who have never been on ski will find short ski quite easy
to manage. A man who can glissade with safety down a steep gully will
be able to ski almost at once on good snow and on easy slopes without
too many falls, and should be able to make slow turns on short ski
after a day or two’s practice. Provided the snow is good, the average
_névé_ is an ideal practice-ground for beginners owing to the absence
of obstacles.
Even very short ski, 3 feet or 4 feet in length, are a great deal
better than no ski. On steep slopes they are most useful, and even on
gentle slopes, provided the snow is hard, one can get a really fine run
on a pair of ski no more than a yard in length.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] I may perhaps refer the reader to my own book _Cross
Country Ski-ing_ (Methuen) or to V. Caulfeild’s book _How to Ski_ for
the technique of ski-ing.
[19] I am ignorant of physics and should be glad to have this
guess corroborated by a physicist.
[20] Eastern slopes retain powder snow rather longer than
western slopes, possibly because the morning sun is less powerful
than the evening sun, as the atmosphere warms up as the day proceeds.
Further, as the prevailing alpine winds blow from the west, slopes that
face east are less often spoiled by wind than those which face west.
[21] Sometimes when the night is unusually mild the crust
is not sufficiently firm, and at the first touch of sun, it does not
merely melt superficially producing Telemark crust, but gives under the
ski and yields very nasty running. This is usually the case at _low_
altitudes in May.
[22] As the prevailing alpine winds blow from the west, western rock
ridges and rock faces are usually more free from snow than eastern
ridges. See footnote, p. 409.
[23] As the middle of the glacier moves faster than the sides,
and as the line of cleavage is at right angles to the line of tension,
lateral crevasses, contrary to what casual deduction might suppose, run
backwards from the side of the glacier to the centre.
[24] Provided that the night has been cloudless. An overcast
sky, or Föhn, will only produce a very weak crust which gives at once
when the sun rises. See footnote on p. 415. A couple of hours of a
cloudless sky is, however, quite enough to produce a good firm crust at
night.
CHAPTER X
MOUNTAIN PHOTOGRAPHY
BY SYDNEY SPENCER
It is somewhat superfluous to draw attention to the immense popularity
attained by photography in the mountains. Among climbers very few are
content to supply their requirements from the work of others, and it
may safely be asserted that a camera is almost certain of its place in
the outfit of at least three-fourths of the climbing parties of the
present day. It is true that the majority of these confine themselves
to snapshot photography. This cannot be regarded as a serious form of
the art, seeing that it is practically impossible to compose a picture
on the diminutive scale of the usual view-finder, and that the films
generally used are too uncertain in results. Photographers, also, of
this class very rarely trouble to do their own developing.
Excellent work can, however, be done with a hand camera. It has one
drawback: the lens is usually a fixture, and provides only one fixed
focus, a very important consideration in serious photography. But if
the climber decides to use such a hand camera, the following remarks
may be of service.
[Sidenote: The Camera.]
The best form for mountain work is the folding variety. There are
innumerable good makes from which to choose. Reflex cameras are
too bulky for mountain work. The adjustments should be as simple
as possible; and for good work a focussing glass is essential. The
lens, by far the most important portion of the camera, should be the
very best obtainable. It should be fitted with automatic shutter for
instantaneous and time exposures, and also with a lens cap. This latter
I have always preferred to use for long exposures in preference to an
automatic shutter. It is much easier to avoid shaking the camera in
removing a lens cap than it is in pressing the lever of an automatic
shutter. The use of a wooden folding tripod with a triangle top I
strongly recommend in preference to the brass or aluminium tripod
with telescoping legs, since such legs are not sufficiently rigid. I
advocate the use of glass plates; and three dark slides, or better
still, a changing box to hold six plates or twelve cut films, complete
the apparatus. So far, the most satisfactory changing box I have come
across is one ‘made in Germany’; of which the description is given on
another page of this chapter. An adapter for a film-pack adds very
little to the weight, and is a useful addition to the outfit. A hand
camera such as I have described is of great service on rock climbs of
difficulty, where it is not expedient to embarrass the party by taking
the more complicated paraphernalia of a stand camera.
There is a type of climber to whom the merely gymnastic or, we will
say, athletic side of climbing is not the sole aim and object of the
sport. He is an enthusiastic lover of the marvellous beauties of the
mountain recesses, and wishes to take home impressions of the peaks
and glaciers as he himself has seen them; for climbers know well that
the mountains are ever changing in aspect from one year to another, or
even from season to season. He sees and desires to record atmospheric
effects which may never be repeated during his climbing experience. He
takes his photography seriously, and he is consequently prepared to put
himself to a considerable amount of trouble to obtain really artistic
records of the scenery amongst which he climbs.
For such a type of climber I decidedly recommend the stand camera in
preference to the hand camera. It entails rather more trouble, but this
is certain to be justified by the superior results.
The component parts of a stand camera outfit may be enumerated shortly
as follows:
1. _Body of the Camera._--This should be of the best possible make,
with metal-bound corners, and fitted with a metal turn-table. All the
metal parts should be of aluminium, for the sake of lightness. It
should have the usual rising front and swing-back, and an adjustable
focussing glass for horizontal or vertical pictures. The body must, of
course, fold up, and it is most important that all the adjustments
should be as simple as possible, so as not to waste valuable time in a
climbing day.
2. _The Lens._--This, as I have already remarked, is the most vital
feature of a camera. For stand camera work I would urge the adoption
of a set of three or four interchangeable lenses, as this gives
the photographer a wide range of focal angles to choose from, and
practically enables him to include in his pictures just as much as
he desires. For a half-plate camera, two 14-inch, one 11½-inch and
one 9-inch lens make a good set, giving a series of focal lengths
ranging from 5¾ inches to 14 inches. For a quarter-plate camera, two
11½-inch, one 9-inch and one 7¼-inch lens will give a range of focal
lengths from 4⅛ inches to 11½ inches. The lens mount is fitted with
an iris diaphragm and a detachable ring marked with the apertures
suitable for each lens combination. A yellow screen, of such a shade
as to increase the exposure by three times, is useful where there
are trees or grass in the foreground, and serves also to soften the
shadows. Its use ensures clouds not being lost in development through
over-exposure, although it cannot be claimed that successful results
may not be obtained without it. It is also of distinct advantage in a
hazy atmosphere. A Thornton Pickard shutter will be found useful, but
for time exposures the lens cap is really all that is necessary.
3. Three ordinary double-back slides are usually taken; but they may
be replaced by a changing box--a more convenient and compact way of
carrying the plates. Most of the changing boxes on the market are made
with a folding leather bag at one end, and the changing of the plates
from front to back is effected by hand; but the writer has always used
a changing box in which an inner shell pulls out like a drawer, taking
with it, by means of a clip, the exposed plate in its sheath. As soon
as the inner shell is drawn out to its full length the sheath drops
to the bottom of the shell. This is then pushed back again, and the
used plate slides in at the back of the unexposed plates, which have
meanwhile been pushed up by a spring. The metal sheaths are numbered
on the back. The photographer can see which number has been taken by
turning over the box when he has partly pushed back the inner shell
after the exposed plate has dropped to the bottom. He will then see
the number through a red glass-covered opening. As this appears to be
the only box of the kind which is made, it may be advisable to state
that it is known as the ‘Grundmann’ changing box. Some enterprising
British firm should be induced to bring out something similar. The
movements are so simple that it can hardly fail to work properly.
Six plates are generally sufficient for one day’s work, and a changing
box made for that number will not weigh more than three dark slides
with the same number of plates. If desired, the six plates can be
replaced by twelve cut films in suitable thin sheaths.
4. _The Tripod._--The ordinary camera legs on the market are, even
when folded, inconveniently long for mountain work, and for rock
climbing may prove a real source of danger. For comfort, legs when
folded should not measure more than 12 inches at the utmost. It is
best to have a set specially made, and I know of nothing better than a
set made in the following manner. The bottom section of each leg is a
solid square-sided aluminium bar with a very sharp point. This slides
into a square wooden frame. Over the frame the two next sections are
folded; the top one folds inside the second, so as to unfold in the
same direction. Made in this way, the tops need only to be pressed
together in order to fit them, with a slight spring, on to the pegs of
the turn-table. A cross strut makes the fit tight and immovable. The
total length of the legs opened out is about 42 inches, which is quite
as long as is necessary for mountain work. A set of legs made in this
way stands perfectly rigid; it will also go easily into the side pocket
of the rucksack, or it can be carried on the top of the sack without
the slightest inconvenience to the climber.
5. The outfit is completed by a focussing cloth, with a running tape
along one side, which prevents the cloth from blowing about in the wind.
As regards the comparative merits of glass plates and films, the latter
have the one great advantage of lightness, but they are notoriously
uncertain and much more difficult to control in development. The most
satisfactory results are obtained with slow plates, of which six are
enough for any ordinary expedition.
It is not a bad plan to take in addition an adapter with a film-pack,
for snapshots of climbing incidents.
The best size of camera to take is a debatable point. Half plate is the
largest which can be carried with convenience; and for the best results
there is no question whatever that the larger size is the better to
work with. A half-plate camera, as described, can be carried on most
ascents of average difficulty; with the possible exception, perhaps, of
strenuous rock climbs, such as the Dru or the Grépon, where anything
but a hand camera is liable to be a distinct incumbrance.
But on the whole, for all-round utility I am inclined to recommend the
quarter-plate size. In addition to the economy in weight and bulk of
the whole apparatus, the quarter-plate negatives are a more convenient
size from which to make lantern slides, and excellent enlargements can
always be made from good negatives of this dimension.
[Sidenote: The Choice of Subject.]
We come now to the all-important question of choice of subject; one on
which it is most difficult to give definite advice, seeing that so much
depends on the artistic perceptions of the photographer. Photography
to a certain extent is a mechanical art, but good photographers invest
their work with a decided individuality; and it is this at which the
novice should aim.
The first thing to bear in mind is the proper balance of proportions.
To achieve this the set of interchangeable lenses already recommended
are indispensable. Without them a photographer must find considerable
difficulty in conveying the true impressions of the mountain landscape
as seen from the point at which the photograph is taken.
Panoramic views of distant ranges will of course always continue to be
taken; but as pictures they are of small value unless they are assisted
by atmospheric effects of cloud or mist.
In photographing peaks close at hand, it is usually best not to include
more than one summit in the picture, or at any rate to make one peak
the central point of interest. Others may only be included if they can
be made to enhance the value of the main feature in the composition.
The majority of views of this type look best if they are taken on
plates placed vertically; but this is by no means a rule to be rigidly
followed. Broad mountain masses, such as Mont Blanc and the Grandes
Jorasses, or composite peaks, of the type of Monte Rosa, should always
be taken horizontally.
The chief feature in the picture should never be placed in the centre,
but rather to one side of the view; and the lines of intervening ridges
and glaciers should be included, so as to lead the eye towards the
main object. This produces the necessary impression of distance and
depth; an easy effect generally, if the photo is taken from below,
but not always feasible if the view is from a summit. The effect of
distance and depth is always much helped by a good foreground, but the
foreground must not on any account draw the attention from the main
feature.
Such a foreground is of special value in the case of views of peaks
as seen from a summit, where it is not possible to include the base
of the peaks in the picture. A few rocks intruding in the immediate
foreground, or a ridge running so as to connect the distant view with
the standpoint of the photographer, removes the feeling of blankness
and of lack of distance which the absence of any foreground is apt to
produce.
The amount of sky which may be properly included should occupy from
about a quarter to a third of the plate. Too much sky produces a very
bad effect; whilst, on the other hand, many photographers make the
mistake of bringing the peaks too near the top of the picture, giving
them an unnaturally attenuated appearance.
Ice-falls and much-broken glaciers compose very easily. On the other
hand, broad expanses of snow-field are about the most difficult subject
the mountain photographer can tackle. The texture of the snow is
the one thing to aim at. If this is not brought out, the picture is
valueless. Slight under-exposure is the secret of success. For these
subjects it is better to have the sun well in front, as the light on
the snowy surface is then well broken by shadows.
For the other kinds of mountain subjects I should recommend the novice,
where slow plates are used, to err on the side of over-exposure, and
to develop slowly. By this method he will find it is easier to get
atmosphere into his pictures. A certain amount of detail may be lost in
the distant objects, but he will secure a much truer gradation between
his distances.
As regards the development of slow plates, it should be noted that
this can be carried out with comparative strong light, provided it
is suitably shaded. The developer should be gradually increased in
strength. The photographer can then see easily what he is doing, and,
by means of brushwork, can control the development of any portion of
the negative.
Broken light is essential to the success of most mountain photographs,
and for this reason the best time for taking them is usually early and
late in the day. This is of course not an invariable rule, and the
photographer must be guided by the subject he has in front of him.
Moreover, the climber is not always able to choose the time of day for
his work. If the midday light is very brilliant, the yellow screen
can be utilized. Personally, I have used it very seldom, but have
made a practice of using a very small stop, and have trusted to slow
development for the rest.
[Sidenote: Colour Photography.]
I should like also to draw attention to two other forms of photography
which have been introduced in recent years, and have proved very
attractive to climbers. Colour photography exercises an extraordinary
fascination, and it would doubtless become still more popular if
the plates were less costly. There are several forms of plates
and processes, and with all of them some remarkable results have
been obtained. The different processes vary somewhat in simplicity
of manipulation. One of the simplest is the Lumière Autochrome.
The photograph is taken in the ordinary way, but with the proper
light filter, as prescribed, fixed on the lens front. It is to be
remembered that the focussing glass must be reversed owing to the
fact that the plate is placed in the dark slide with the film turned
inside. The essential point is to learn to judge of the correct
exposure. Over-exposure can be corrected by intensification, but it
is a troublesome process. The development is perfectly simple if the
instructions given are carefully followed. It is very important to
see that the solutions used are cold enough, otherwise the unhappy
photographer runs the risk of watching a perfectly successful colour
picture melt away in front of his eyes.
[Sidenote: Stereoscopic Photography.]
The other form referred to is stereoscopic photography, which is more
particularly adapted to snapshots of climbing incidents and to studies
of rock and glacier scenery near at hand, since the pictures can be
taken with the camera held at any angle, even pointing directly above
the head or below the feet, and the scenes are afterwards reproduced
in marvellously lifelike manner in the stereoscope. To secure the
full stereoscopic effect the ‘lines’ of the picture should start from
the immediate foreground and carry the eye away to the main object,
i.e. the camera should be held close down to the surface of water or
glacier, or with one side close against a wall of rock as foreground. A
rock crest running immediately away from the camera, or two, containing
walls of ice or rock on either hand, give the best results, and provide
the framework of illusion for the more distant scene. The stereoscopic
effect is lost in distant views. The handiest size in this camera, the
‘Verascope,’ is 107 cm. by 45 cm. It is made of metal throughout. It
carries a detachable magazine of twelve plates, and weighs rather more
than a pair of field-glasses. Films can be substituted for plates for
lightness, but the results are on the whole inferior. If it is carried
in a strong leather case, the camera will stand an extraordinary amount
of rough treatment on rocks and immersion in rivers. It is especially
suited for difficult climbing and exploration, where it is desired to
record special passages and incidents, at angles, and in circumstances
and climates, in which the ordinary camera is useless.
* * * * *
My final piece of advice is, never leave the camera behind, and never
waste plates or time unless the result is likely to be successful.
CHAPTER XI
MOUNTAINEERING IN TROPICAL COUNTRIES
BY A. F. R. WOLLASTON
(_The suggestions contained in this chapter are based on some
experience of travel in the mountains of Africa and New Guinea, and
it is assumed that the conditions are not materially different in the
mountains of tropical South America. It is taken for granted that
the transport animal is man, and that after entering the mountains
the traveller must depend entirely on the provisions he carries with
him. The medical suggestions are intended only for those who have no
special knowledge of the subject, and for conditions in which only the
simplest treatment is possible._)
HEALTH
The first essential to the success of an expedition lies in the good
health of the various members of the party. Hard work in the trying
conditions of tropical mountains soon saps the energy of the most
robust, but by taking proper precautions a man may continue in good
health for six months or even longer.
[Sidenote: Prevention of Sickness.]
When the body is for many hours daily bathed in sweat and smeared with
mud, personal cleanliness becomes of the first importance. A bath, if
it can be managed, or a sponge-down, should be the rule every evening,
and all cuts and scratches must be carefully attended to and protected
from infection. The question of hot or cold water may be left to the
preference of the individual, with this reservation, that no man should
ever take a cold bath when he has cooled down after freely perspiring.
The teeth are liable in hot climates to become loose and even to fall
out. They should be kept scrupulously clean, and the mouth may be
washed out with a weak solution of Condy’s fluid. The hair should
at all times be cropped short both for comfort and cleanliness, and
paraffin or some other oil should be rubbed into the scalp.
A regular action of the bowels is even more necessary in tropical than
in temperate climates. There may be some difficulty about this on a
diet of tinned foods, but it can generally be ensured by a daily plate
of porridge (see below, Constipation). To avoid malaria every effort
must be made to escape the attacks of the _anopheles_ mosquito. It will
not be possible for the traveller to carry with him a mosquito-proof
tent, but failing this, he must use a well-constructed mosquito net,
made in one piece, without an opening at the side. The lower edge of
the net should not hang loosely, but should be tucked under the edge
of the mattress if one be used, or otherwise stretched tightly round
the edge of the bed. The meshes of the muslin should not be less than
twelve to the inch. It is good economy, as well as being more humane,
to provide your ‘boys’ and other servants with mosquito nets. Mosquito
boots, i.e. light boots with long loose uppers of canvas or thin
leather, into which the trousers can be tucked, are conveniently worn
in the evening to prevent mosquitoes biting the ankles. If a camp be
occupied for several days, it is advisable to see that stagnant pools
near by are filled up, and that no discarded tins are lying about to
become filled with rain-water, in which mosquitoes may breed.
Here it may be convenient to state that very many diseases of the
Tropics--cholera, dysentery, typhoid, bilharzia, etc.--are spread
chiefly by means of water. It is therefore of the greatest importance
to make sure of a supply of pure water. Filters will remove mud and
other suspended matter from water, and a good filter in perfect
condition _may_ provide a sterile water; but it is seldom possible
to keep a filter perfectly clean, and it is better to do without it
altogether. If the water is stagnant, or if there is any possibility of
its having been contaminated in any way, it is always advisable to boil
it and make tea, or if it is preferred, to aerate it with sparklets.
“When in doubt, boil,” is a golden rule.
As a medicinal prevention of malaria there is nothing more effectual
than to take a daily dose of 5 grains of quinine bihydrochloride.
As this is a somewhat expensive drug, the native members of the
expedition, if they are numerous, may be given the less costly (but
less soluble) quinine bisulphate, 5 grains. If it is not convenient
to give quinine to the natives every day, it may be given to them in
10-grain doses twice a week on consecutive days. The tabloids may be
sugar-coated for the natives, who may otherwise surreptitiously reject
them.
(_The following suggestions are intended for the necessarily limited
possibilities of a mountain camp._)
[Sidenote: Treatment.]
_Malaria._--So long as his temperature is above normal, the sick man
should, if possible, be kept in bed. Give 3 grains of calomel followed
by a dose of Epsom salts to clear the liver and bowels. Continue to
give three doses of 5 grains each of quinine bihydrochloride every day
that the fever lasts; but do not give the quinine while the temperature
is raised. When the attack has ceased give 10 grains daily for a week,
and afterwards continue with the regular daily dose of 5 grains. At
the same time it is very important to make sure of a regular action of
the bowels. If, while the attack lasts, headache is very severe and
persistent, 5 or 10 grains of phenacetin may be given; but this drug
is greatly abused and is often of little or no use. Sweating may be
stimulated by giving copious draughts of hot tea; when the sweating
stage is at an end, the pyjamas should be immediately changed.
_Diarrhœa_ is a very common trouble, particularly when no fresh food
is obtainable. It is usually sufficient to take a dose of castor oil
and to eat as little as possible for 24 hours. If this treatment is
not effective, give 10 grains of bismuth subnitrate three times daily,
and a diet of milk and arrowroot or Horlick’s malted milk. If the
diarrhœa ceases, but there is still discomfort in the bowels, 10 drops
of chlorodyne may be given, but in most cases it is better to avoid the
use of this drug.
_Dysentery._--Rest in bed, warmth, a diet of milk and water and
arrowroot, and a preliminary dose of castor oil are the first
essentials of the treatment. Severe cases may be well treated by the
use of emetine hydrochloride, in keratin-coated cachets, containing
one ½-grain dose. One dose should be taken each day, and the treatment
should be continued until he has taken altogether 8 grains. As an
after-treatment it may be good practice to take 2 drams of liquid
paraffin every night. There are some who advocate the regular use of
this every day as a preventative of intestinal disease, but such a
thing will be hardly practicable on a mountain expedition with limited
transport. The treatment by ipecacuanha cannot be recommended for
camp use. Less severe types of dysentery may be treated by giving
small doses (1 dram) of sulphate of magnesia every two or three hours
to ensure a free watery purgation, which may be continued until the
pain has ceased. If the disease proves to be intractable, the sick
man should be removed to the nearest place of civilization as soon as
possible.
_Constipation_ is not a very common trouble in tropical mountain
expeditions. It may generally be avoided by eating a daily plate of
porridge and, if they can be carried, by eating prunes and figs. If
the camp arrangements make bread-making possible, it is a good plan to
mix with the white flour some whole meal, or, in countries where it is
grown, the meal made from millet. If none of these measures ensures
a daily action of the bowels, a dose of sulphate of magnesia (½ to 1
ounce) may be taken early in the morning, or one ‘Livingstone Rouser’
or cascara sagrada or two vegetable laxatives (Burroughs & Wellcome)
may be taken over-night.
_Sunstroke_ is not at all likely to occur, but if a serious case should
happen, and the temperature rise to 105 or 106, the patient should be
stripped and wrapped in cold wet blankets until the temperature falls
to 103, after which he should be placed in bed in the darkest and
coolest place possible; the bowels must be kept open and a liquid diet
given for some days.
_Coughs_ and _Colds_ are sometimes exceedingly troublesome. They
may often be cured at the outset by taking a hot bath (if that be
practicable) with mustard in it, followed by bed with many blankets
and a dose (10 to 15 grains) of Dover’s powder. A sore throat may be
treated by frequent gargles of weak solution of potassium permanganate
(Condy’s fluid) and by sucking tabloids of chlorate of potash. Nasal
catarrh may sometimes be cured by sniffing the vapour arising from the
open mouth of a bottle of formalin.
_Toothache_ is one of the most frequent and most distressing troubles
of a mountain expedition, and it ought, as far as possible, to be
avoided by visiting a dentist before leaving civilization. If the pain
is in a decayed tooth, it is sometimes sufficient, after clearing away
the debris, to put into the cavity some powdered carbonate of soda;
it is more efficacious to put in very carefully a small drop of pure
carbolic acid on a plug of cotton wool. Pain at the root of a tooth
may be relieved by painting the gum with tincture of iodine, but the
cheek should be held away from the jaw until the tincture has dried.
Some forms of toothache can only be treated by extraction, and no
expedition ought to make a long journey without three or four forceps.
The sufferer will probably prefer extraction at the hands of an amateur
to the horrors of prolonged toothache.
_Sleeplessness_ is often a very serious trouble, not less at high
altitudes than in the sweltering heat of the foothills. Sleep may
sometimes be induced by drinking a cup of hot cocoa shortly before
going to bed; it is also a good plan to have biscuits within reach
during the night. If the insomnia is very persistent, it may become
necessary to give up smoking and to reduce as far as possible the
consumption of tea. The use of powerful sleeping-draughts is strongly
to be deprecated, except in extreme cases.
_Conjunctivitis_ is certain to occur to one or more members of the
expedition. It is easily treated by a weak solution of boric acid, or
an astringent solution of zinc sulphate (1 grain in 1 ounce of water).
An eye-bath is easily carried, and is very useful.
_Skin Diseases._--The most common that is likely to be met with is
‘prickly heat,’ which is due to extensive sweating. The amount of
fluids drunk should be cut down as much as possible, and some relief
may be obtained by the use of a weak solution of carbolic acid (1 in
50). It is a good plan to use a dusting powder before going to bed.
‘_Scrub Itch_’ and ‘_Dhobie Itch_’ are names given to a very irritating
and inflamed condition of the skin, more especially of the moister
parts, such as the arm-pits and the inside of the thighs. It is in many
cases particularly troublesome at night, and it is not at all easy
to cure. The part should be kept scrupulously clean, and a sulphur
ointment (10 per cent) may be applied. A dusting powder of zinc and
boric acid often gives temporary relief from the irritation.
_Ringworm_ of one kind or another is almost certain to occur among a
large number of men. It is hopeless to expect to cure a case during the
course of an expedition, but the spread of it may be checked by the use
of a sulphur ointment or by painting the part with liniment of iodine.
_Body Parasites._--In places where ‘jiggers’ are found, it is certain
that the men are adepts at their extraction; but a European, who takes
proper care of his feet and wears long boots in camp, need not be
troubled by them. If the body is invaded by lice, they can be got rid
of by the use of a mercury ointment.
_Snake Bite_ requires the most prompt treatment. Without loss of time a
strong ligature must be tied about the limb above the bite: thus, for
a bite on the finger the ligature may be at the base of the fingers,
for a bite on the hand or forearm it must be above the elbow, and for
a bite on the foot or leg the ligature must be above the knee. The
ligature must be twisted tightly by means of a stick, and at intervals
of about half an hour it should be relaxed for a few seconds to prevent
the risk of gangrene. With a sharp knife the whole of the area about
the puncture should be freely cut away, and the wound should be washed
with a strong solution of permanganate of potash. A less heroic,
but less reliable, treatment is to make two or three incisions into
the flesh about the puncture, and to rub into the cuts crystals of
permanganate of potash. A small quantity of alcohol may be given, and
the patient may be put to bed and kept warm. The popular remedies of
large quantities of brandy, walking about, and sucking the wound are of
no value.
_Leeches_, by reason of their delicate gait, often find their way into
the most intimate and unexpected places, and may be gorged with blood
before they are detected. They should never be pulled off: a touch with
the juice out of a well-smoked pipe will cause them to shrivel and drop
off. In the early mornings, when leeches stretch themselves expectant
on every twig, a wise man will walk in the rear of his caravan.
_Cuts_ and _Scratches_, if not attended to at once, may lead to
abscesses and ‘veldt-sores’ and an infinity of trouble. Even the
smallest scratch should be treated at once with the iodine bottle,
which may be easily carried in a pocket, or if necessary, with a
bandage.
_Boils_ are best treated by dusting with boric acid powder and
protecting them with a gauze dressing. When they come to a head, the
top may be cut off and a drop of pure carbolic acid applied, after
which a gauze dressing must be used until it is completely healed.
_Abscesses_ may be opened with a sharp knife, when they ‘point,’ and
dressed with a wet gauze dressing, frequently changed, until the
discharge has ceased. The smallest abscesses and boils should be
treated with extreme care, as they are very liable in the Tropics to
develop into ulcers if neglected.
The treatment of _Sprains_ and _Fractures_ must be learnt from one of
the many small handbooks of First-aid.
[Sidenote: Medicine Cases and Drugs.]
For use in Africa no better case has been devised than the ‘Congo
Chest’ (No. 250) of Messrs. Burroughs, Wellcome & Co., and in other
countries, where it cannot be carried far, it is useful as a store to
be kept at the base camp. A smaller case, which will fulfil most of the
ordinary requirements, is the No. 231 case, weight about 7 lb. For the
higher ascents, where only the barest necessities can be carried, a
leathern pocket-case (such as No. 114, B. W. & Co.) should be taken. In
all circumstances it will be advisable to take an additional supply of
bandages and dressings, which cannot be contained in the case itself.
It is important that all drugs should be obtained fresh from the makers
shortly before the departure of the expedition.
The following is a list of drugs, etc., which may be found useful in a
tropical expedition:
Quinine bihydrochloride gr. v.
Quinine bisulphate gr. v.
Blaud pill gr. iv.
Potassium chlorate gr. v.
Dover powder gr. v.
Iron and arsenic compound.
Bismuth subnitrate gr. v.
Ginger essence min. x.
Potassium permanganate gr. ii.
Calomel gr. i.
Salol gr. v.
Salicin gr. v.
Laxative vegetable.
‘Livingstone Rouser.’
Zinc sulphate gr. i.
Opium gr. i.
Aspirin gr. v.
Phenacetin gr. v.
Soda mint.
Easton syrup dr. ½
Cascara sagrada gr. ii.
Ipecacuanha (sine emetine) gr. v.
In addition to the above, which are taken in tabloid form, a supply
should be taken of the following:
Pure carbolic acid.
Boric acid.
Castor oil.
Sulphate of magnesia.
Iodoform.
Lanolin.
Vaselin.
Sulphur ointment (1 in 10).
Ammoniated mercury ointment (1 in 10).
Iodine liniment.
And the following various articles:
Metal-handled lancet.
Dressing scissors.
Dissecting forceps.
Probe.
Clinical thermometers.
Caustic holder and points.
Suture needles and silk.
Safety pins.
Mustard leaves.
Adhesive plaster, 1 inch and 2 inch.
Court plaster.
Oiled silk.
Large supply of bandages of 1-inch and 2-inch width.
Supply of lint.
Gauze.
EQUIPMENT
(_These notes are merely intended to supplement, with special
reference to the Tropics, the information on this subject contained in
other chapters._)
[Sidenote: Food.]
The mainstay of the ‘Sahib’ or ‘Bwana’ or ‘Tuan’ must be the same as
the food of his men: thus, in a wheat country his food is flour, in
a millet country, millet, and in a rice country, rice; and to the
ordinary Englishman the worst of these is rice. An important point to
arrive at in selecting tinned provisions is to take as great a variety
as possible. Though it is true that after a few months all tins, meat
or fish or fruit, seem to have one and the same flavour, it is possible
that a stomach jaded by a long course of beef or mutton may welcome
jugged hare or curried prawns. It is worth while, too, to take a few
tins _de luxe_ for special festivals. In hot places there is often
a craving for strong flavours, and a palate which shuns such things
at home cries out for pickles and sauces. There is perhaps little
need to say that all tinned foods should be obtained from the best
manufacturers, and that any tin which shows a suspicion of ‘bulging’
should be at once discarded. It is probable that no fresh vegetables
will be available, and it is unfortunate that of those in tins the wet
vegetables are too heavy for limited transport, while the dried variety
are tasteless and require a long time for cooking: an exception must
be made in favour of Murray Cooksley’s dried potatoes which can be
strongly recommended. Failing vegetables, it is very important to eat
fruit: dried apple chips, pears, prunes, peaches and apricots, more
particularly the latter, should be eaten daily. Raisins and figs are
good food, and are conveniently carried in the pocket with biscuits
for lunch. Ginger is useful in counteracting the prevailing flavour of
tin. Some of the cheeses, notably the flat Dutch variety, are a useful
food, and should certainly be taken; nor should anchovies and olives be
forgotten. In the higher regions there will be a strong desire--even
stronger than in the Alps, possibly on account of the distaste for it
in the hot country below--for butter, and this should be of the best
kind: it is a good plan to take two varieties, as the flavour of tinned
butters varies considerably. The usual drink will probably be tea, as
coffee is heavy to carry, and is usually undrinkable as made by the
native cook. A cup of cocoa before bedtime is an easily carried luxury.
Condensed milk should certainly be taken in considerable quantities for
use in sickness; the ‘Ideal’ brand of unsweetened milk mixes well with
porridge or stewed fruit. A great saving in transport may be effected
by the use of saccharine (or preferably saxin) tabloids.
The use of alcohol is a question about which no one will dare to
dogmatize. It should certainly not be taken during the day, but, in
the opinion of the writer, a small glass of whisky or, in the Dutch
fashion, of gin at or before the evening meal adds to the enjoyment
of monotonous food and assists digestion. A bottle or two of brandy
should be taken for emergencies, and champagne is of great value in the
convalescent stage of malaria or other fevers: this latter should be
taken in pint bottles, which may be left at the base camp, whither sick
men will necessarily be sent.
[Sidenote: Canteen.]
A great deal of ingenuity has been devoted to the invention of
canteens, but most of them are useless to the mountain explorer, who
can only afford to carry the fewest and most necessary articles. Weight
may be saved by using plates of aluminium, and cooking-pots may be of
the same metal if it is possible to ensure their thorough cleaning.
Kettles should be made of iron, and cups or mugs of enamelled iron;
cups can be made to pack more conveniently one inside the other if the
lower half of the handle is cut off. In those Eastern countries, where
kerosene tins are used for the transport of provisions, an excellent
fire-place can be made by using discarded tins laid on their side--a
few holes are knocked in the top and the fire placed inside. Tins of
the same kind can be easily adapted to the purpose of baking bread;
and in this connection it may be mentioned that in countries where
banana wine cannot be obtained, a very good substitute is yeast cakes,
one tin of which (price about 1s. 6d.) makes bread enough for one man
for six months: bread made with baking powder very quickly becomes dry
and uneatable. Tin-openers are very liable to be lost or broken, and a
quantity of them should be taken.
[Sidenote: Clothing.]
The most important parts of the clothing in tropical mountaineering are
the head-gear and foot-gear. In the lower hills and in the early part
of the day when the sun is really hot, a wide-brimmed hat or a helmet
with a good protection for the back of the neck should be used; if the
helmet is made of ‘pith’ it should be covered on the outside with the
thinnest waterproof material, otherwise it becomes sodden and heavy
with the first rain. Hats and helmets should be lined with thin red
cloth; the latter are more cheaply bought in tropical towns than in
this country.
The most careful attention should be devoted to the question of
_boots_, and it is in all cases wise to take more pairs than are
thought to be necessary. Most people will find it impossible to wear
in the Tropics the heavy boots to which many are accustomed in the
Alps; the excessive perspiration makes the feet soft and more easily
blistered, and every extra ounce of weight is a serious consideration.
The most suitable are ordinary nailed shooting boots, with a plentiful
supply of spare nails or ‘saccorb’ screws for the higher ascents. It
is a good plan to have the uppers made in one piece, i.e. with no seam
down the back. In the Tropics all leathern objects become coated with
mould in a few hours, and rot with astonishing rapidity, so that it is
advisable to expose spare boots to the sun whenever the opportunity
occurs. Dubbin, or some other preparation of the kind, should be
freely used.[25] At the end of a hard day it is the greatest comfort to
be able to change into a pair of light and soft shoes or boots; when
transport is very limited it will still be possible to carry a pair of
Canadian moccasins. In the lower country and at the base camp it is
advisable in the evening to wear mosquito boots (see above, Malaria).
Khaki or drill _suits_ are more cheaply made locally than in this
country; they should be made very amply, and large pockets provided.
Sleeves are an almost intolerable nuisance in the lower ground, and
they may be cut very short or dispensed with altogether. Shorts are
cool and comfortable, but they should not be worn in places where
leeches are found, and they cannot be recommended in any case, as the
bruises and scratches on the knees are very liable to suppurate in hot
climates. Trousers are preferable to breeches or knickerbockers, and
light canvas anklets holding the ends of the trousers over the boots
are cooler than putties. For underclothing every man must decide for
himself. There are those who can wear woollen vests and flannel shirts
in the Tropics; but both of those garments quickly become ‘felted’ with
profuse sweating, and no amount of washing will restore their softness.
Linen or cotton vests are easily washed, and are usually found to be
the most comfortable. A flannel shirt and soft woollen sweater should
be taken to wear at night in the mountains. Thick woollen socks,
several sizes too large, will often help you to sleep on a cold night:
a warm woollen cap is useful in the same way.
Cholera belts have been strongly recommended by some travellers, but
they are often a source of danger rather than otherwise. The important
thing to aim at is to protect the vital organs of the abdomen from
chill during the night, and this may be effected by fastening a wide
towel about the middle of the body; even in the hottest night this
will not be found oppressive: the same purpose will be answered by a
folded blanket, which may be pulled up and down over the shoulders and
feet when the night becomes chilly. A light mackintosh cape or poncho
reaching to the knees is of great use for wearing about the camp, when
a dry change of clothes has been put on after a day’s march.
[Sidenote: Furniture.]
Of _beds_ none has yet been found better than the ordinary X-pattern,
but as this is somewhat heavy to carry, it will probably have to be
left behind when the mountains are reached. In countries where bulky
loads can be carried, the ‘Wolseley’ valise is of the greatest value.
One load carries a man’s bedding, spare boots, clothing and a variety
of odds and ends, and the valise itself is used as a bed, which can
be made tolerably comfortable by putting leaves and moss underneath
it; if the flaps are sufficiently wide, the valise can also be used
as a sort of makeshift tent. Blankets should be of large size (96 by
60 inches), and it will be found that two or three light blankets are
better than a single heavy one; by sewing tapes at the edges of one of
the blankets it can be converted into a sleeping-bag when required.
Clothes should be carried, not haphazard with the blankets, but in thin
cotton bags (about 30 by 20 inches): one of these bags, filled with
soft clothes, may be used as a pillow; but the extra labour of carrying
a well-made hair or feather pillow is more than balanced by the comfort
it ensures. In mountain regions, where vegetation is luxuriant, a more
comfortable bed can be made in this fashion: four Y-shaped pieces of
wood are driven into the ground at intervals corresponding to the
four corners of a bed; two short pieces of stiff wood are laid across
the forks of the Y’s at the head and foot of the bed, and on them are
laid long saplings from one end to another--these are easily secured
in their place by rattans or other creepers or fibres, which are sure
to be found growing in such places, or by string. On the top of the
bedstead thus made leaves or grass may be laid, and on the top of this
the bedding. In places where there is no vegetation, and where the
Wolseley valise cannot be carried, the bedding must be laid on a thin
waterproof sheet, which should measure not less than 96 by 60 inches.
Such a waterproof sheet may be of use in other places also: it is not
generally known that fleas have a strong dislike to india-rubber, and
in places where these little creatures abound a complete immunity from
them may be enjoyed by sleeping on a mackintosh sheet.
A _camp-chair_ is a necessity which must be carried as far as
circumstances will allow. The best is the ‘Rhoorkee’ chair, which
accommodates itself to the most uneven ground, and can be taken to
pieces and packed with the bedding; spare canvas should be taken for
mending. A useful but less strong type is the X-pattern folding chair.
_Washing Apparatus._--An aluminium basin with a canvas cover will hold
all the necessary gear. Duplicates should be taken of everything,
particularly sponges, which are very liable to be attacked and devoured
by crickets. A pair of barber’s clippers is indispensable.
[Sidenote: Tents.]
Tents are among the most important part of the equipment, and at the
same time they present the greatest difficulty. In an expedition
to high mountains in the Tropics every variety of climate will be
experienced, from the sweltering heat of the plains to the alpine cold
of the heights, and it will not be possible to carry tents suitable to
all these conditions. The only thing to do is to effect a compromise
by taking tents which will not be unbearably hot in the low country,
and which at the same time are not too heavy to be carried into the
mountains. The first of these requirements is met by using a tent
provided with an outer fly--an absolute essential in a hot country;
the second is achieved by making the tent such that the fly and the
tent itself can be used separately when transport is strictly limited.
One condition is certain to be met with at all altitudes, and that is
the frequent and abundant rainfall; this makes it imperative that both
the outer fly and the roof of the tent should be made of rain-proof
canvas. In the lower country it is advisable to aim at the ideal of one
man one tent, as the close proximity of persons in a small, hot tent
is likely to lead to friction of another kind. The smallest compatible
with comfort for one man is a ‘Whymper’ pattern tent, 6½ by 6½ feet on
the ground, and 6½ feet high at the ridge. A tent of this size may be
occupied by two people in the mountains, but a tent of 7½ by 7½ feet
would be preferable, though heavier. The inner tent is slung from the
ridge pole by loops about 6 inches long; the outer fly is stretched
over the ridge pole, and should project beyond the inner tent not less
than 1 foot at each end and 2 feet at the sides. The outer fly and
the roof of the tent should be made of some form of Willesden canvas
capable of withstanding a heavy downpour of rain; to ensure lightness,
the ends and side walls of the tent may be made of a lighter material,
such as waterproof duck. Both ends should be made to open, and also
to be laced up tightly in the event of heavy rain or strong wind
or cold. Large pockets sewn on to the side walls, and a light cord
stretched from end to end under the ridge, will be found useful. In
heavily timbered countries a considerable amount of transport may be
saved by discarding tent-poles and cutting wood for the purpose from
the neighbouring jungle. If a belt of bamboos is met with, some of
these may be cut and carried on from camp to camp. At the base or
other long-occupied camp it will generally be found possible to build
a house thatched with grass or leaves, which will be always cooler
than a tent, as well as more commodious for the Europeans. One or more
‘Mummery’ tents for the Europeans may be taken for the final ascents of
mountains. A great disadvantage of these tents, if made of some light
waterproof material, is the excessive condensation that takes place
inside them in places where the atmosphere is saturated with moisture.
Special attention must be devoted to the tents of the ‘boys’ and
carriers, who, if they want less ‘head-room’ and less protection from
the sun than their masters, require an equal amount of protection from
the cold and rain. Their tents may be made without an outer fly, of
the same material as above described, and it may be calculated that a
tent of 10 by 6 feet with a height of 4½ feet is sufficient for six
men. A light rope should be sewn firmly along the outside of the ridge,
terminating at either end in a free loop, which can be attached to a
tree or to a post driven into the ground. The roof may be made sloping
to reach the ground; more room, with a little extra weight and cost, is
provided by bringing the roof to within 1 foot of the ground and sewing
to the edge of it a hanging wall or valence 1 foot wide. To accommodate
a large number of men, a good plan is that practised by the Dutch army
in the East Indies. Two upright poles are driven into the ground, and a
horizontal pole tied from one to the other at a height of about 7 feet.
Many poles 12 to 15 feet long are then laid about 1 foot apart, with
one end on the ground and the other resting on the horizontal, to which
they may be tied by rattan or cord; the angle at which these poles are
laid should be as low as is consistent with the waterproofness of the
roofing material, and they may be strengthened by tying horizontal
poles across them at intervals of 2 to 3 feet. On the structure thus
made, which resembles the framework of half the roof of a house, is
laid a light Willesden canvas 10 feet wide, and of a length calculated
according to the weight of the material and the average loads carried,
and to the number of men to be accommodated. It is obvious that such a
shelter, which gives plenty of room and has many advantages in a hot
climate, can only be made in districts where timber is plentiful, and
is not suited to cold weather, nor to places where strong winds are
frequent.
It is advisable to provide each man with a waterproof ground sheet
measuring 72 by 30 inches; an even better plan, which will cause much
gratification and good-will, is to give to each man a waterproof canvas
sack of the same dimensions, which he can use as a ground sheet or as
a sleeping-bag, and at all times as a ‘hold-all’ for his clothes and
personal belongings.
MANAGEMENT
[Sidenote: Loads and Packing.]
The conditions of transport vary so much in different places--in one
place men carry loads on their heads, and in another on their backs:
here they carry a 60-lb. load, there only 40 lb., and so on--that it is
impossible to specify in detail here the size and shape of the loads,
and only a few general principles can be suggested. After finding out
the local conditions, it is important, so far as it is possible, to
pack provisions in loads as they will be required, so that it will
not be necessary to open one box for salt, another for meat, another
for jam, and so on. By a careful calculation it will be possible to
pack the boxes with all (or most of) the food required for a certain
number of days. The ‘Vanesta’ case of three-ply wood (made by the
Vanesta Company) is by far the lightest and strongest box for packing
provisions and other gear. The boxes should be made of the size suited
to the local conditions of porterage, and each one should be fully
addressed on the lid, and a number attached with reference to a list of
its contents; it is advisable also to put the numbers on the _ends_ of
the boxes, so that when they are all piled up on board ship or at the
base camp or elsewhere, a sought-for box may be found with the minimum
of trouble. When their contents have been used, these boxes should
not be thrown away, but should be kept for the use of natural history
specimens or other curious objects found during the course of the
expedition.
All loads should be as nearly as possible of the same weight, but some
will necessarily be heavier than others, and a few days’ experience of
the men will suffice for their proper distribution. Much time will be
saved at the beginning of the day if the same man always carries the
same load. Double loads are to be avoided at all cost. Personal loads,
i.e. bedding, tents, kitchen apparatus, and other things that may be
wanted on the march or as soon as camp is reached, should be given to
strong men who are not likely to dawdle behind the caravan. If it can
be arranged, it is wise to have one or two spare or lightly loaded men
to take up the burdens of any who fall out by sickness or any other
accident.
[Sidenote: Trade Goods, Natives, etc.]
In Africa, where the manufactured products of civilization have
penetrated even to the remotest districts, the question of trade goods
is a constant worry. Every inquiry, therefore, must be made beforehand
as to the kind of goods required in the district to be visited and
in the regions to be passed through on the way. But fashions are
constantly changing; on one side of a river you can get nothing without
brass wire, and on the other glass beads are the only currency: if the
people ask for small white beads nothing will induce them to take your
large red ones; so it is necessary in those places to go provided with
many different kinds of goods to suit the local tastes. Salt is in some
places of the greatest value for barter, and in places where the people
understand their use, fish-hooks are greatly appreciated. In unexplored
regions, such as parts of New Guinea, where the natives have received
nothing from the outside world, the question is simpler, and it is
only necessary to take those things which the people are certain to
appreciate, such as glass beads, red cloth (turkey twill) and straight
knives. Even the most uncultured of “savages” are expert barterers,
and it is advisable to establish a definite scale of payment--such
as, for example, one bead for one sweet potato, a piece of cloth for
a spear or club, and so on. They are quick to appreciate justice and
honesty, and attempts on the part of the carriers of the expedition to
defraud them must be checked. On first coming into contact with a new
tribe it is necessary, without making a display of force, to be on the
watch against a treacherous attack. Presents should be given to the
head-men and (if they are seen) to the old women. It is well to learn
and practise the native form of greeting, and to submit to any ceremony
of blood-brotherhood or the like. If it is possible to learn the names
of individuals and to so address them, it will always be appreciated as
a compliment. Undue familiarity between the carriers of the expedition
and the native women will inevitably lead to trouble, and should be
severely punished. It is unwise to point at native people, and (in
some cases) to laugh at them. Unless they are travelling with the
expedition, natives should never be allowed to remain in the camp after
nightfall. Medical treatment is one of the surest ways to win the
affection and respect of the ‘savage,’ and castor oil or bandages will
often make a way easier where words or rifles would be of no avail.
[Sidenote: Carriers, etc.]
The management of the carriers themselves is a matter which can be
learnt by experience alone. Generally speaking, it may be said that a
just and strict impartiality to all men is a foundation of their good
services; men of all colours are quick to notice and to take advantage
of the smallest sign of weakness or of favouritism on the part of their
master. Cases of insubordination or other faults must be punished in
some way; but, unfortunately, the use of the stick, which alone among
certain races appeals to the delinquent (and is indeed expected by
him), is forbidden by the constituted authority, and an infringement
of the rule leads to trouble after returning to civilization: the
appeal to the pocket by cutting off a part of the man’s wages is the
most effectual punishment that remains. One of the most annoying
troubles that the leader of an expedition has to contend with is
malingering. This does not often present much difficulty to anyone
with a knowledge of medicine, and others may often detect it by means
of the clinical thermometer; the most appropriate punishment for it is
the administration of a powerful purgative. Finally, it may be said
that very little trouble will be experienced if the men have hard work,
adequate food, tobacco, and days of rest at stated intervals.
[Sidenote: Camps, and Things in General.]
When a camp is made on the banks of a river, the tents of the Europeans
should be pitched upstream of those of the men. A careful examination
of the high-water mark should be made before the tents are pitched.
The cook-house should be made within a very short distance of the
Europeans’ tents, as it rains more often than not at the time of the
evening meal.
A good ‘boy’ is one who has a fire going to make tea while the camp is
being pitched.
At a base camp latrines should be constructed, and at a temporary camp
the men should be instructed to go to a certain definite distance.
Trenches to carry off water should be made round the tents, even if
there seems to be no probability of rain.
In choosing a site for a camp, avoid as far as possible the proximity
of a native village; and if strong winds are frequent, avoid the
neighbourhood of large and decaying trees.
The leader of an expedition should often personally supervise the
distribution of rations to the men; and, except in the case of very
large expeditions, he should always supervise the apportionment of
loads at the beginning of a journey.
Flies are often an intolerable nuisance in a camp; they may be driven
out of the tent at dusk by putting a lamp outside and then shaking
the roof of the tent, so that they are unable to settle: after a few
minutes they will have settled elsewhere and the lamp may be brought
inside.
The following is a list of articles which might be overlooked in
preparing the equipment for an expedition: A spring balance for
weighing loads; a steel measuring-tape; a cold chisel; wire for
mending; assorted nails and screws; a housewife with needles and
cottons, etc.; stencil and ink for marking boxes; a small electric
torch; many bootlaces; spare watch-glasses; a flint and steel;
pocket-books in which notes can be written in duplicate.
Finally, it may be appropriate to quote the advice given by a
distinguished traveller, the late Mrs. Bishop: “Never take anything you
can possibly do without.” To this we might add another counsel: Take
everything you are likely to require, and leave things behind when they
can no longer be carried.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] See also “Equipment,” p. 82.
CHAPTER XII
MOUNTAINEERING IN THE ARCTIC (SPITSBERGEN)
BY SIR W. MARTIN CONWAY
Since the expedition which I took to Spitsbergen in the years 1896 and
1897, I have not heard of any parties of mountaineers going to that
country. Mountains were incidentally climbed by the Russian-Swedish
surveyors, who went up there in several successive years to measure an
arc of the Meridian. Indeed, they discovered and climbed the highest
point in the main island, which Garwood and I had beheld afar off in
1897 but were unable to reach. Mountaineering, however, was merely
an incident in the work of those parties. It has always seemed to
me strange that English climbers have never followed our example in
the Far North, and it is therefore with little hope of being very
serviceable that I now accede to the request of the editor of this work
to contribute a chapter on “Arctic Mountaineering,” and how to set
to work about it. Truth to tell, my own memory of details has become
feeble; but such as it is, it shall be placed at the reader’s service.
[Sidenote: Modes of Access.]
The first question, of course, is how to get to Spitsbergen, and having
got there, how to get away from it; for though tourist steamers not
infrequently visit the western coast of the main island, they stop so
short a time as to be useless for even the briefest mountaineering
expeditions. The climber who wishes to have the best of the season
should arrive not earlier than the end of June, and start away at
latest towards the end of August, when the sun has already begun to set.
Nowadays a good many industrial enterprises, such as mines and, I
believe, quarries, are being prosecuted in Spitsbergen, so that
there must really be plenty of opportunities of being carried thither
from Tromsö and brought back again; but it is impossible to predict
beforehand what they will be. Probably the easiest way would be to make
arrangements with the owner of one of the Tromsö or Hammerfest fishing
sloops to convey the party up to its selected base and call for it
again on a day fixed in advance. The price that should be charged for
such accommodation ought to be moderate; but my experience of the North
Norwegians was that they are liable to open their mouths pretty wide
when they think they have a traveller in their power. In any case, such
arrangements are best made by an agent long in advance and with all
legal exactitude.
[Sidenote: Equipment and Outfit.]
The equipment necessary for Spitsbergen mountaineering need not be very
elaborate. The temperatures to be faced will not exceed those of an
ordinary English winter, and clothes will therefore not require to be
of the Arctic character we associate with Polar expeditions. But a man
does need to be really warmly clad with plenty of thick underclothing
and thoroughly strong garments. For when the wind blows and the snow
drives on the higher levels it is cold enough even at Midsummer, though
on rare occasions in still air the warmth of the sun may be felt to
a quite surprising degree. Near the sea-level and on the moraines
and rocks the strongest mountaineering boots are none too strong. I
doubt whether the ski-ing boots commonly worn for winter sport would
adapt themselves for use in such places. Once the upper levels of the
glaciers have been gained, which generally involves two or three days’
work with sledges from sea-level, travelling becomes easier and more
agreeable, and is done almost entirely on ski. Sledges, ski, warm
sleeping-bags, goat-hair stockings and warm clothing generally can be
bought very well at Bergen or Trondhjem on the way out; but it would be
well, as far as the sledges are concerned, to write beforehand and make
sure that they would be available. British consuls at those places or
the Norwegian Consul-General in London would doubtless inform inquirers
as to the names of the best shops to deal with. Reindeer sleeping-bags
are delightfully comfortable and warm, but they are distinctly heavy
and bulky. Good eiderdown sleeping-bags with a rug or two would, I
think, be quite warm enough till the 20th of August at any rate. The
best tents to take are relatively large tents of the ‘Mummery’ type,
made of strong Willesden canvas with rubber sheeting floor sewn in. It
is absolutely essential that the floor should be sewn in, otherwise the
tent could be easily blown away in a gale. I do not remember the exact
arrangements of the tents of this kind made for me by Edgington’s. The
floor space was probably about 6 feet or 6 feet 6 inches by 4 feet. The
height may be judged by the fact that for poles we used ice-axes, with
extra pieces about 18 inches long to fit over the points with a socket
to lengthen them. Three or even four people might be crowded into such
a tent, but no one would wish to share such a tent with more than one
companion on a pleasure journey of a few weeks’ duration. The remainder
of the kit would consist of cooking apparatus and supplies, to wit,
a primus stove, some aluminium plates and pans, aluminium spoons
and forks; and for provisions the usual tinned goods, concentrated
soups and pots of jam, and a sufficient quantity of highly nutritious
biscuits to take the place of bread. Far the best biscuits for this
purpose we found were named ‘Triticumina,’ which contained plasmon;
but the biscuits which have currants sandwiched into them form a very
welcome change.
A liberal supply of brown sugar in tins should on no account be
forgotten, though jam is almost as good. If the party contemplate
spending their time in one district of the island, they will probably
make for themselves a heavy and comfortable base camp, which may be as
well stored as they please, as it will, of course, be situated close
to the shore of some bay or harbour, and everything belonging to it
will be landed direct from the boat, so that the question of porterage
will not arise. This base camp ought to be equipped with a rowing boat
of the type called a whale boat, such as can be readily hired from any
North Norwegian port. It would be well to have one or two able-bodied
Norwegian sailors to man the boat and help drag the sledges, and no
difficulty would be experienced in finding in or about the Lofoten
Islands suitable men, skilful also in going on ski. Our experience
was that young unmarried men were to be preferred. The others got
home-sick.
[Sidenote: Plans of Campaign.]
A mountaineering expedition to Spitsbergen might lay out its plans on
many different lines, but, broadly speaking, there are two main choices
between which to select. In one, the mountains of the coast region
accessible directly in one day, or at most in two days, from the sea
would be the principal object of attention. In the other, the high
interior regions of inland ice remote from the shore, and the mountains
rising out of them, would be the goal. There is much to be said for
either plan. The former would be the less laborious and the more
comfortable; the latter harder work, more adventurous, and opening up a
stranger and more wonderful world. There is also a third region, that
of the unglaciated, boggy valleys around Advent Bay and Bell Sound;
but this, after a season’s experience, I cannot honestly recommend as
pleasant travelling country.
[Sidenote: From the Coast.]
Let us then take the other two alternatives one by one. Climbers who
would hug the coast may go up with a fairly large party prepared to
subdivide on arrival, and pitch base camps in different bays if so they
please. But a large party is, of course, not essential, and a couple
of good friends, with one or two Norwegian sailors at their disposal,
would have a very good time on shore or afloat in their whale boat.
Having chosen a well-protected landing-place with a shelving beach up
which to haul their boat, and having pitched their tents well out of
reach of the highest tides and storms, they could either climb the
mountains close at hand, or they could row off or sail away in their
boat to any others accessible from their fjord, taking with them a
light camp and provisions only for two or three days. Or, again, they
can make short trips of one or two days’ duration merely into the
interior, not cumbering themselves with a sledge, but carrying on
their backs a very light camping equipment of a kind brought to much
perfection by the Amateur Camping Club. On this system the same base
camp need not be adhered to for the whole season, but in suitable
weather it could be moved, by help of the whale boat, even from one of
the western fiords to another.
The great question which naturally arises is what sites by the seashore
are best suited for climbing centres. Broadly speaking, the north half
and the south toe of the main island alone come into consideration,
for the east islands are not practically accessible, nor would it
often be wise to make a sea-base at all far to the eastward on the
north coast. Practically, therefore, we may take the coast-line round
from Wijde Bay westward and then southward down the coast to King’s
Bay, then all along either coast to Foreland Sound to the mouth of Ice
Sound, whilst at the south end of the island only Horn Sound need be
considered.
Coming now to detail, in the high summer of a very open season, when
the ice-pack has withdrawn to somewhere in the neighbourhood of 80°
30“, it might be safe to make a base camp for a week or two in Wijde
Bay itself, preferably on its eastern shore, from which the high peaks
of 7000 feet and thereabouts, which range down the west side of New
Friesland, can be climbed in a two-day expedition. These peaks are
very indifferently explored; only the highest of them has ever been
climbed; they stand in the midst of a region of extraordinary interest,
and must command wonderful views to the eastward over the little-known
north-east land and away off to the romantic Wyches Islands. Probably
there is no district in the whole Archipelago which would so well
reward the season’s work; whilst if the ice-pack were to come down and
seal the mouth of Wijde Bay, retreat is always open overland to Cape
Thordsen in Ice Sound by one or other of two obvious routes.
A less heroic base could be found at a dozen points near the north-east
angle of the island, and this is probably the best and most practical
region to choose; for here it would be possible to shift the base camp
every few days, whilst there are any number of mountains rising from
the coast built of the hard primary rocks and apparently offering
delectable scrambles. The main bay, called Mauritius Bay by the Dutch
in the old days, and in particular the south-east corner, would
probably be the best place to begin. The labyrinth of glaciers that
empty into Redcliff Sound must be well worth a visit, and the same is
true of the peaks and glaciers of Magdalena Bay. The fact that the
whole of this region has been admirably mapped by the Prince of Monaco
is a further advantage for the prospective climber. Between Magdalena
Bay and Close Cove (now wrongly called Cross Bay) there is no place
for a base camp; but Close Cove, King’s Bay, Cove Comfortless and
the north part of Prince Charles’s Foreland form together an enclosed
area containing innumerable excellent coast-line bases. Probably
one of the narrow bays at the head of Close Cove would provide an
attractive situation, besides giving access to an intimately glaciated
and beridged interior. But the south-east extremity of King’s Bay,
as we found, is a delightful situation, and from it the Three Crowns
and countless other peaks can be reached. Prince Charles’s Foreland
has been excellently mapped by Dr. Bruce, and seems to have some good
climbing peaks, most of which, and all of those along the opposite side
of Foreland Sound, await their first experience of a human foot. It
must be admitted that the region nearest the west coast suffers from
the worst weather, for it continually happens that the clouds lie low,
whilst above the level of 1000 or 1200 feet there is brilliant sunshine
for days and perhaps weeks together, and of course no night at all.
From Horn Sound in the south some splendid peaks are accessible, only
one of which has ever been climbed. This is perhaps the best place for
a week or two at the close of the season, though it might be rather
difficult to get there in an open boat from the northern parts. The
hospitality of some passing steamer, however, might be available for
such transfer.
[Sidenote: Into the Interior.]
Far more interesting and delightful, however, than merely climbing
peaks from a sea-base is a bold venture into the far interior. Indeed,
a climber standing on the summit of any peak and looking inland over
the vast glaciers and at the countless ranges and beautiful mountains
spread abroad before him on a clear day will, I think, be irresistibly
drawn into that white labyrinth. Of course the most delightful
experience is a traverse of some part of the island from sea to sea.
This requires a good deal of organization, because it is necessary to
have a boat to meet the party arriving from the other side at some
point arranged in advance. From Magdalena Bay to Cross Bay the traverse
has been made, and leads through splendid scenery. More interesting,
because new, would be the traverse from Wood Bay to King’s Bay, or from
King’s Bay along the King’s Highway and down to North Fjord; or again,
from the head of Sassen Bay over to the east coast and back. It would
scarcely be possible to have a boat prepared to meet a party on the
east coast, so that either from Ice Sound or Bell Sound journeys to the
east coast must be made to and fro by the same route. In the nature
of things little general advice can be given for such expeditions;
each must be organized according to its own special circumstances. It
is obvious, in any case, a large margin would have to be provided for
the unexpected. A sledge may break down, or delays may be caused in
a thousand ways, so that a considerable reserve stock of provisions
must be taken. The first day from the coast, sometimes the first two
days, will be very laborious. A sledge and its load will have to be
carried by repeated journeys over rough ground and generally over broad
moraines before the camp can be pitched at the edge of the clear ice.
Then, generally speaking, there will be a crevassed region to traverse,
where progress must be slow; but after two or three days at the outside
easier conditions will be met with. Soon, however, the snow-covered
belt of the glacier will be reached, and as at this time of year a
slight but continuous thaw is proceeding, it necessarily follows that,
where there are no crevasses to drain off the water, there will be
a wild belt covered with water-logged snow and intersected by wide
and rushing streams which it is often very difficult to cross. The
water-logged snow is merely unpleasant and laborious, as the ski and
the sledge will sink into it, and every hollow thus made is instantly
filled with ice-cold water. The only way to deal with the big streams
is to follow up alongside of them till they divide into smaller brooks
which can be crossed in detail. Yet higher up, however, the thaw is
left behind and a splendid hard surface is found, over which ski-ing
and sledging are a pleasant pastime, and longer distances can be
covered in a day’s march. Out of this higher region peaks, of no great
absolute height indeed, but of fine form, arise in all directions, and
from a suitably chosen high camp it will be possible in a few days to
make many ascents, either of summits in the ranges bordering one’s own
glacier on either hand, or in other ranges behind them which can be
readily reached over undulating passes.
[Sidenote: Exceptional and Beautiful Phenomena.]
A traveller who has made one such expedition into the interior of
Spitsbergen will have become acquainted with glacier phenomena such
as no ordinary alpine region can display. The pools and ice caverns
of Arctic glaciers, the strange blue river-tunnels through the ice,
the burst lakes scattering huge ice-blocks afar, the curious sheaves
of crystalline ice-rods, the rivers of water stained crimson by
disintegrating dolomite rock and flowing over the white ice-like veins
of jasper in marble, the frozen heaps of ice, in shape like volcanoes,
which rise where springs force themselves out of the ground--these and
many other strange and beautiful sights await the student of glaciers
in the Arctic regions. Moreover, the glaciers themselves have quite
a different look from alpine glaciers. They appear to be far more
viscous, as in fact they are, so that if they end on a piece of flat
ground and do not reach the sea, the end spreads out into a great round
mass, as a stream of honey might if it emerged from some narrow gap on
to a flat area. But where a glacier reaches the sea, and especially
a great glacier perhaps seven miles in width, it has to terminate,
of course, in a splendid cliff, and this cliff is, as it were, made
of towering _séracs_, blue in the hollows and white on the crown, in
height perhaps 100 feet above the water-level, and these _séracs_ are
continually falling into the sea and breaking up into little icebergs,
causing a great commotion in the waters as they plunge in their fall
and jostle against one another till they come to rest.
Nor must I forget to mention another of the great glories of this
mountain region, to wit, the long sunset. Towards the middle of August
the sun, in the hours corresponding to midnight, approaches close to
the horizon, and presently actually dips beneath it. It follows that
a sunset colouring, paler and more delicate but not less beautiful
than that we know in the Alps, illumines the sky, the clouds, the
mountains and the glaciers at this time, and that not merely for a few
minutes but for four or five hours on end, according to the atmospheric
conditions. I know of nothing more wonderful than to climb a mountain
which commands a wide view over the flat, fog-covered ocean and the
clear, snow-covered interior when the whole of this enormous expanse
shines pink in the lights and blue in the shadows, and the effect lasts
on for four or five hours spent amid such surroundings.
[Sidenote: Summary, Cost, etc.]
But it is not my business to describe the beauties of Arctic scenery
in this place, but only to indicate as best I may how the intending
mountain traveller in those regions may set to work. Conditions,
of course, of accessibility and the like change from year to year,
especially nowadays when Spitsbergen has become the scene of industrial
undertakings; it will be necessary for any intending traveller to make
inquiries well ahead as to the circumstances attending his own case. I
feel convinced, however, that an enterprising party of three or four
climbers could spend a season in Spitsbergen and have an excellent
time at not more than twice the cost of a corresponding season in the
Alps, and possibly for a good deal less. Ingenuity, adaptability and
enterprise will be essential. After all, for what kind of travel that
is worth while are they not?
_Note._--The foregoing was written before the war. Recent commercial
developments have made Spitsbergen much more easy of access.
CHAPTER XIII
THE CAUCASUS
BY HAROLD RAEBURN
The Caucasus of the mountaineer is that more or less continuous chain
of great glaciated peaks which extends for nearly 600 miles between the
Caspian and Black Seas.
[Sidenote: General Topography and Structure.]
Geographically, the water-parting of the ridge forms the boundary
between Europe and Asia.
Politically speaking the mountains run, with a general south-east to
north-west direction, through almost the centre of the Russian province
of the Caucasus, dividing it into the two districts of Cis-Caucasia,
with the chief city of Vladikavkaz, and Trans-Caucasia, with Tiflis as
the centre of government. Situated in about the same latitude as the
Pyrenees, with a more continental climate, the ranges of temperature
are much greater than in the Alps.
In such an extensive tract of elevated country great variation of
conditions must naturally occur. Speaking generally, and with more
special reference to the central group of summits, the glaciation is
somewhat less than in the Alps in proportion to the elevation, about
2000 feet greater than that of the central Pennines. The average level
to which the glaciers descend is rather higher. As the average slope of
the mountains is more abrupt, the glaciers are steeper. In consequence,
the Caucasian glaciers are as a rule more difficult and broken, and the
ice-falls more continuous.
The prevailing wind is warm and moisture-laden, blowing from the
south-west, off the almost sub-tropical shores of the Black Sea;
condensed by the cold peaks, the moisture is thereon deposited in the
form of snow. Thus, in spite of its northern aspect, the glaciation of
the European slope is little greater than that of the southern.
[Illustration: MAP OF PART OF CIS AND TRANS CAUCASIA
Showing approaches to the Mountains]
The height at which trees cease is very much the same on both sides
(7000-8000 feet). A feature of the country is the great forests which
cover the upper basins of many valleys, particularly on the south side.
In many of the southern valleys these forests are composed of deciduous
trees of various species, such as birch, beech, oak, maple and
chestnut, giving a variety and charm which the more sombre pine forests
of the north do not provide. Some of the northern valleys are destitute
of timber, and the fuel difficulty is one which confronts the climbing
explorer.
The whole mountain system may for present purposes be divided into
three principal groups.
1. All the peaks south and east of the line of the Dariel, more
correctly the Krestovaya Gora, Pass; in which though many peaks exist
as high as the Oberland Mountains, yet the glaciation is not continuous
for long distances.
2. The great central group. This is the most important and best known.
It extends from Kasbek, immediately west of the above pass, to the
Klukhor Pass, west of Elbrus, a distance of about 130 miles.
In the whole of this distance there is only one driving road, that of
the Mamison Pass (9280 feet), the highest road in Europe. All other
routes across the range, except one or two grass passes, must be made
over glacier passes, the lowest about 10,500 feet above sea-level.
3. West and north of the Klukhor Pass lies a tangled group of somewhat
lower glaciated summits, some of which are still unascended.
[Sidenote: Records and Literature.]
If we pass over the ancient traditions and tales of the Arabians,
Greeks and Jews, mountaineering in the Caucasus is of very modern
growth.
The Arabian Kaf, the Jewish Ararat and the great mountain celebrated by
Æschylus as the prison of Prometheus, are all situated in or near the
Caucasus range; whether it be true or not that the Tower of Babel was
built not far from the borders, this mountain land remains a Tower of
Babel to this day.
In the city of Baku there are even now said to be one hundred different
languages and dialects spoken. The Caucasus Mountains themselves give
homes to as many tribes and dialects as there are rivers.
These tribes were almost always more or less at enmity amongst
themselves. This lack of nationality rendered the task of absorption
by Russia an easy one. It should not be forgotten that a good part
of the Caucasus proper was not conquered by Russia. The nominal
sovereignty possessed by the kings of Georgia over many of the mountain
tribes only began to be made real when the last king placed himself
under Russian protection.
This great diversity of peoples, languages, religions and customs
renders travel in the Caucasus, if more interesting, much more
difficult. Most of the people know nothing of Russian, and it is
therefore necessary for a climbing party to have an interpreter
with them who has knowledge of as many of the different languages
as possible. Apart from the fabulous, the earliest effort of
mountaineering in the Caucasus appears to have been an attempt
to ascend Elbrus by a party of four savants, attached to the
politico-geographical expedition of General Emanuel, in 1829.
The first writer to draw attention to the Caucasus as a field for
mountain exploration was the Rev. H. B. George, in a paper read before
the Alpine Club on 2 May 1865. The pioneer expedition was that of
Messrs. Freshfield, Moore and Tucker, with François Devouassoud, in
1868. Mr. Grove’s party followed, in 1874, and his book, _The Frosty
Caucasus_, is now a valuable alpine classic. During the ’80’s British
mountaineers, with Swiss guides, conquered the majority of the highest
peaks. Mr. Cockin was the most successful: three of the greatest peaks
fell to him and his guides in one season. Messrs. Dent, Woolley and
Holder were also very successful.
_My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus_, by Mr. A. F. Mummery, describes
his expedition in 1888, when the great peak of Dykh-Tau was ascended.
In the ’90’s a number of British guideless parties went out, but from
various causes had little success.
Since then, in spite of three splendidly illustrated volumes, _The
Exploration of the Caucasus_, by Freshfield and Sella, in 1896, _Aus
den Hochregionen des Kaukasus_, by Merzbacher, in 1901, and _Kaukasus
Reisen und Forschungen_, by de Déchy, in 1904, British interest in the
district has been slight. Messrs. Longstaff and Rolleston had, however,
a very successful guideless campaign in Suanetia, in 1903.
A Russian author, Afanasief, published in German, in 1913, a very
useful little compendium of the ascents made up to date, _100 Kaukasus
Gipfel_.
As a proof that the Caucasus as a new mountaineering centre is still
very far from being exhausted, British expeditions in 1913 and 1914
succeeded in effecting the ascents of ten new summits, none of which
was below 13,500 feet in height.
[Sidenote: Routes of Access.]
The easiest, cheapest and quickest way to the central group from
London is that to the north side, overland. The route is via Berlin,
Warsaw and Rostoff on the Don. Thence either by the Baku train to
Beslan, for Vladikavkaz, or by the Russian Spas express to Mineralnia
Vodé, for Piatigorsk. An even better starting-point for the mountains
is Naltshik, to which a branch railway, opened in July 1912, should
run in two hours from the junction on the main Rostoff-Baku line of
Kotliarefskaia.
The south side may be reached by driving from Vladikavkaz or from
Darkop on the main line over the Mamison Pass.
Another excellent way of reaching the south side of the range from the
north side would be by taking the motor service (office in the annex
of the Grand Hotel) from Vladikavkaz over the Dariel--correctly the
Krestovaya Gora--Pass to Tiflis, and round by the Tiflis-Batum railway.
The motor line passes close under the huge mass of Kasbek (16,546
feet), and its glaciers can be reached in a few hours from Vladikavkaz.
The old route to the south side of the range followed by most of
the earlier English parties is that by Vienna and Odessa, thence by
steamer, in from two to four days, across the Black Sea--calling at
Sevastopol--to Batum. From Batum a short branch-line connects with
Kutais. From here the Mamison road leads up to Oni on the Upper Rion,
and can be utilized for driving for part or the whole of the distance,
according to which valley or group of peaks it is desired to visit.
For the most westerly group, that lying west of Elbrus, the port
of Sukhum Kalé on the Black Sea will probably be found most
convenient. For the extreme eastern groups Tiflis will prove the best
starting-point.
[Sidenote: Modes of Travel.]
The usual, and the best mode of travel in the mountains is on foot. All
the railhead towns mentioned are more than a day’s march distant from
the hills. Kasbek alone is closely approached by a motorable road.
At the towns elected for approach--Tiflis, Kutais, Vladikavkaz,
Piatigorsk or Naltshik--it is necessary to engage vehicles or horses,
and a cook-interpreter. Whether it is advisable to buy horses for the
whole journey depends upon whether much travelling, and in consequence
little climbing, is to be done. The purchase of horses sets the
party free from the endless haggling, delay and annoyance which seem
inseparable from hiring. On the other hand, the purchase necessitates
engaging at least one man for every two horses, and this adds greatly
to the expense and to the commissariat difficulties.
Though considerably improved of late years, the various roads up
Caucasian valleys, where they exist at all, are not of the best. A
Russian road on the steppe is not a road in the usual sense of the
word; it is merely a part of the ground over which one drives, and is
not made in any way except by the wheels of passing traffic. The road
of the Mamison Pass is a built road; but it is exceedingly rough in
places, and is frequently interrupted by landslides, tree-falls and
avalanches.
The most comfortable vehicle to obtain is the troika or phaeton, a
light, low carriage something like the alpine char. A rougher and more
usual carriage is the lineika, seated like a low-set Irish jaunting-car
on four wheels. It is wonderfully elastic, its light, loose method of
construction allowing it to adapt itself to the potholes, boulders and
tree-trunks of the rougher parts of the road. Most of these vehicles
will be found to suffer from the general debility consequent upon
extreme old age. It is advisable to have each one carefully inspected
before the start.
In the more out-of-the-way parts, where such luxurious modes of travel
cannot be indulged in, an arba can often be obtained. This is a light,
springless two-wheeled cart. It is often drawn by a pair of small but
strong oxen, and though the pace is very slow, a large quantity of
baggage can be conveyed in one.
The horses--almost invariably mares--are small, light animals showing
evident trace of Arab blood. They are docile, free from vice, and
marvellously sure-footed. Indeed, in this last respect they far surpass
an average mule. Some of the ‘horse passes’ on the south side of the
range would be considered by most people impossible for horses and more
fitted for goats.
The saddles are Turkish, i.e. with a high pommel in front and behind.
Some travellers have recommended taking out an English saddle. Few
riders, however, would be able to retain their seat on an English
saddle while their mounts were scrambling down or up the precipitous
broken bank of some ravine or bed of a glacier stream.
[Sidenote: Centres.]
As in the Alps, so in the Caucasus, more climbing will be got by
settling at a centre than by travelling about from one place to
another. On this method the necessity of carrying heavy tents, large
supplies of stores, etc., is avoided. A couple of light tents, to
accommodate two or three men each, are all that is necessary.
Good centres for the various districts are, on the north side,
Urusbieh, Chegem, Balkar, Bezingi, Stirdigor and Dsinago; in the Tsaya
valley, the sanatorium kept by M. Sanghiev in the pine forest near
Rekom; the inn at Saramag on the Upper Ardon; the Russian road-houses
of Kalaki on the north and Tshantshakhi on the south side of the
Mamison Pass; Gebi on the West Rion River; Ushkul on the headwaters
of the Ingur; Mestia or Mulakh on the Mulkhora; and Betsho just below
the giant precipices of Ushba. To Gebi and Tshantshakhi Kasarma on the
south, and to most places on the European side of the range, driving
should be _possible_ nowadays.
[Sidenote: Equipment and Commissariat.]
Mountaineering in the Caucasus is still very much on exploring lines.
Save in the case of Kasbek or, in a minor degree, of Elbrus, no
huts, guides or organization for climbing exists. The success of an
expedition must therefore largely depend upon the care and forethought
bestowed upon the equipment and organization of the party before it
leaves railhead.
The climbing equipment should be exactly similar to that of the
Alps; but as anything lost cannot be replaced, everything must be
at least in duplicate. Indeed, it is advisable to take out three
pairs of climbing boots--the odd pair for the purpose of lending to
porters if it is found necessary to take them over a glacier, since
it is not fair or safe to take heavily loaded men with ‘gloved’ feet
up steep and slippery ice and snow. Two ice-axes are essential: one
may easily get broken, lost or stolen. Tents, of any of the lighter
English makes, are best taken out. Eastern bags, with padlock and
key, are the most convenient method of carrying spare clothes. Among
these, two or three complete changes of underclothing--of course all
wool--are necessary. Plenty of spare flannel collars and abundance of
stockings, and, of course, undersocks, are well worth their slight
extra weight. _Crampons_ are almost a necessity, though cumbrous and
annoying to carry. It is advisable to have a tin case for these. They
are of immense service in levelling up the good and the inferior icemen
of a party, and in conserving the energies of the step-cutter, or
step-cutters, for really difficult work on rocks or ice slopes higher
up.
With two pairs of new--but broken-in--modern mountaineering boots it
ought to be quite unnecessary to take out nails, iron boot anvil or
hammer for a two months’ campaign.
The general stores--cooking utensils, plates or bowls, cups (mugs are
preferable), table cutlery, travelling stoves (primus and alpine),
candles, etc.--are best obtained in the country. The most convenient
packages are strong baskets. These should be made at home, and covered
with strong waterproof material. Size 25 inches by 15 inches by 11
inches is convenient for horse carriage, and should be furnished with a
strong lock. They can also serve as seats in or outside the tents.
The personal equipment should include a roll-up mattress--hair is the
best--6 feet 6 inches by 2 feet 4 inches, a down quilt or sleeping-bag
and a small pillow. If the tent has a ground sheet, a waterproof cover
for the mattress is not required. To save trouble and expense on the
journey and at the Customs, it is much the best plan to bring as
little as possible into the country in the way of consumable stores.
Jam is perhaps the one exception. For high work jam is of great
importance, and the little ¼-lb. tins to be obtained in London are
extremely convenient. A few soups--powder or tabloid--are also useful
for emergencies. Excellent shops are to be found at all the chief
railhead towns, such as Tiflis, Vladikavkaz, Piatigorsk and Naltshik;
also at Kutais and Oni on the Mamison road. In them almost everything
obtainable in western Europe may be got.
Many different kinds of tinned meats, fruits and fish are to be had,
but the party would do well to have as little to do with these as
possible, except perhaps a few boxes of sardines. In the country,
mutton, fowls and eggs are always to be obtained, and these are safer
and more palatable than the tinned foods, which should be kept for
emergencies and given away at the end of the trip. The great weakness
of the Caucasian commissariat is in the all-important item of bread.
Away from the towns this is invariably very bad. It is made of maize or
wheat flour mixed with rye, or of rye alone; no yeast or baking powder
is used, and it is never properly cooked. Naturally it is exceedingly
trying to a western stomach. When forced to use it, one should have
it well toasted. Very good bread can be bought in the towns, and as
large a supply of this as possible should be taken. There is also an
excellent form of bread to be got in some of the small _dukhans_ or
shops up country. It is in hard glazed small rings, and is threaded
on strings and hung up like onions to the roof. It keeps well, and
is quite palatable and digestible. One way of overcoming the bread
difficulty would be to engage a cook-interpreter, who could bake, and
to carry flour and a small portable oven with the party.
[Sidenote: Organization.]
Interpreter-couriers are to be found at Tiflis and Vladikavkaz. These,
however, would not care to attach themselves to a climbing party, or,
in fact, to leave the roads at all; walking for even a few miles is not
in their line. There are guides and tariffs--fairly reasonable--for
both Kasbek and Elbrus. Good material undoubtedly exists for the
development of a school of real mountain guides, but their time is not
yet. A climbing party must bring its own guides, or, better still,
have some one in the party who, by previous experience or knowledge of
guideless climbing in the Alps, is qualified to act as guide and leader
on high ascents.
After bread and horses, porters are the principal worry for the leader
of a party in the Caucasus. The mountain tribes are independent and
‘huffy,’ and great tact and patience are needed in dealing with these
semi-civilized children of nature. The men are not, like the Swiss,
accustomed to carry heavy burdens, and are quite ready to throw up
their job and throw down their loads at or without a moment’s notice.
The cook is a very important member of the party. He stands for
creature comforts, and the party is fortunate which succeeds in
engaging a capable man at the town from which the expedition starts.
It is very necessary for all purposes that one at least of the party
should know some Russian. The cook-interpreter, if only one man is
engaged, must speak, besides Russian, at least one western European
language, and he must have a good knowledge of as many of the Caucasian
languages as possible.
[Sidenote: Maps.]
The general map of the country is that known as the 5-verst map, which
is to be obtained in Tiflis or from the principal London map-sellers.
It is on the scale of 5 versts = 3½ miles = 1 in 210,000, to the inch.
This, though quite accurate as far as the low country is concerned,
is of little use in the mountains. The best known map is that issued
with Messrs. Freshfield & Sellas’s _The Exploration of the Caucasus_
(Edward Arnold, London, 1896). It is on the 5-verst scale, and is a
useful general map, though the scale is too small to show the mountains
properly.
Herr Merzbacher issued with his weighty work, _Aus den Hochregionen des
Kaukasus_ (Leipzig, 1901), a very convenient map on the scale of 3⅓
versts = 1 in 140,000. This map is to be obtained from the publishers.
It endeavours to give more names, heights and details of mountains than
Mr. Freshfield’s; but this, in some cases, has led to a multiplication
of errors. Mountains have been inserted which explorers of the locality
have failed to find, and in the south-eastern portion of the central
group the nomenclature and heights given are often very misleading. By
far the most useful map, and the map which is practically indispensable
for the mountain explorer who is not prepared to make his own, is the
Russian 1-verst map. This is on a large scale (1/42000). It gives with
very considerable accuracy the forms of such glaciers and mountains
as are visible from positions reasonably accessible to the surveyors.
It seldom commits itself by giving any names at all to the peaks,
except to the principal ones--although the more important glaciers
are generally named. The printing of the names and figures--of course
in Russian characters--is often exceedingly bad. The maps are on the
hâchure system. With the exception of the sheet covering Kasbek, which
is on sale at Vladikavkaz, they can only be obtained through the
military authorities in Tiflis.
[Sidenote: Expense.]
This will, of course, greatly depend upon the style in which the
expedition is conducted. If a courier-interpreter is engaged, and Swiss
guides are brought, the expense must be expected to be considerable.
In spite of the general rise in the cost of living and in the price of
labour, which of late years has increased in the Caucasus--between 50
and a 100 per cent--an eight or nine weeks’ journey out from London
and back can be done comfortably at a cost not exceeding £100 for each
member of a party of four, five or six. Below are given a few prices,
based on the experience of the expeditions made in the years 1904, 1911
and 1913. They are, of course, only approximate. Foodstuffs will be
found not to vary so much in cost as the hire of horses and porters.
1904. 1911. 1913.
Horse, per day 1-3 R. 1½-2 R. 3-4 R.
Porter, per day -- 1 R. 1½-4 R.
Sheep (small) 4-6 R. -- 3-5 R.
Hens (small) 20-40 K. -- 35-50 K.
Eggs (small) 1-2 K. -- 1½-2 K.
Bread (about 2 lb.) 8 K. -- 10 K.
Cheese 15 K. -- 10-20 K.
Wine (Kakhetinskoe), litre -- -- 1 R.
Beer -- -- 15-20 K
Sucking-pig (very small) 2-3 R. -- 2 R.
Rouble = 2s. 1½d.
Kopeck = ¼d.
_Note._--All prices given are pre-war.
CHAPTER XIV
THE MOUNTAINS OF CORSICA
BY GEORGE FINCH
[Sidenote: Season.]
The best time of the year for climbing in Corsica is the spring.
The weather is fine during the months of April, May, June and July;
but in the latter half of June and in July the midday heat is often
oppressive. This is seldom the case in April or May. During these two
months the melting snows ensure a supply of water, which is often
deficient in the hot summer months. In April, also, the snowline
is still very low; from the mountaineer’s point of view this is an
advantage, as the approach to the climbs often lies over long slopes
covered with dense undergrowth, known as ‘maquis,’ and most troublesome
for walking when not snow-covered. As early as towards the end of March
the steeper rocks are already sufficiently free from snow for climbing,
while the snow on the gentler slopes remains to facilitate the crossing
of the ‘maquis.’
Another point in favour of an early season is the greater clearness of
the atmosphere. In March and April of 1909 from every summit we had a
clear view of the Apennines and of the Maritime Alps even late in the
day. In the summer months mists rising from the Mediterranean partially
obscure the view shortly after sunrise.
[Sidenote: Equipment.]
A light tent and sleeping-bags should be taken, as the nights are
often cold. A primus oil-stove (petroleum used to be obtained almost
anywhere, but methylated spirits were difficult to procure), and tinned
milk, meats, vegetables, fruit and jam must all be imported, as they
are not procurable in Corsica. Such provisions are dutiable, but my
personal experience has been that the Customs are indulgent if informed
of the mountaineering object.
For porterage, mules can be procured. One mule will carry 250 lb., and
costs, together with the services of the mule-driver, according to the
locality, from four to eight francs a day.
Both driver and mule entertain a dislike to snow, and will shy at the
prospect of crossing even the most diminutive snow-patches. Otherwise
they will go almost anywhere. I have covered as much as 38 miles of
road, scrub and mountain-track in a day with one mule carrying rather
over 200 lb.
The character of the usual hotel accommodation in the interior will
be found to bias the climber in favour of camping out. He can thus
also move at once nearer to the base of his climbs. Wood for fires
is plentiful, and many streams provide trout-fishing (three to the
pound).[26]
The two most important mountain groups are those of the Rotondo and the
Cinto.
[Sidenote: Centres, Modes of Access, and Topography.]
The garrison town of Corte will act as a centre to both these
districts. It is reached by a four hours’ rail journey from either
Bastia or Ajaccio.
A steamship service connects Bastia with Leghorn three times a week
(five hours’ crossing). Fairly frequent services likewise connect
Ajaccio with Nice (twelve hours) and with Marseilles (sixteen hours).
The approach to Corsica by all three routes is magnificent, especially
that of Nice to Ajaccio. It is well worth while to make this crossing
by a day service.
From Corte a good camping centre at the head of the Restonica valley,
in the heart of the Rotondo group, can be reached in four hours
(mule-track most of the way).
The true centre of the Cinto group is Calacuccia. This village can
be reached from Corte in six hours, walking over the Col de la
Rinella; but there is no mule-track. The view from this Col embraces
practically the whole Cinto group. An alternative route, advisable
when it is necessary to transport baggage, is from Corte to Francardo
(half an hour’s rail), and thence in three hours by carriage (postal
service, or hired conveyance, 15 francs) to Calacuccia. Convenient
camping centres in the Rodda, Erco, Viro and Golo valleys can thence be
reached in from three to five hours.
For the northern slopes of the Cinto group Asco is the best centre
(three hours by road from the railway station, Ponte Leggia). This
village also serves as a base for the magnificent chain of mountains
running eastwards from Monte Padro (2400 metres) to Monte Corona
(2143 metres), and thence in a southerly direction to Punta Minuta
(2547 metres) in the Cinto group. To the north of Monte Padro lies
the Tartagine valley, at the head of which is the Capo al Dente (2032
metres), one of the most sporting peaks in the island. A number of
unclimbed peaks close in the valley to the north. The approach to
the Tartagine valley is rather troublesome. From Palasca (on the
Bastia-Calvi railway line) via Mausoléo to the _maison forestière_, the
best centre, takes eight to ten hours by a good road.
Other groups offering good climbing and an abundance of ‘first
ascents’ and ‘new routes’ are the Monte d’Oro and Monte Renoso groups.
Vizzavona, the centre for both these ranges, boasts of good hotel
accommodation, and can be reached in three hours by rail from Ajaccio
and in one hour from Corte.
The above-mentioned mountain groups are those which will attract
the climber most of all. They offer almost endless possibilities
for first-rate climbing over both known and virgin ground. With the
exception of Monte Renosa, the main mountain groups lie to the east of
the Ajaccio-Bastia railway, and for this reason most climbers prefer to
approach the mountains from the east, from Corte, the half-way station
on the line. There is, however, little to choose between the eastern
and western slopes--both offer high-class climbing, and preference
might now well be given to the western slopes, as here much more
remains to be accomplished in the way of pioneer work. As a general
rule, camp centres for climbing on the western slopes of the d’Oro,
Rotondo, Cinto and Corona groups are best reached by crossing the main
chains from Corte. In these cases the mountaineer will have to act as
his own beast of burden unless the route be _entirely_ free from snow,
which is very unlikely in the spring.
There are a great number of mountain groups either of minor importance
or difficult of access (the Incudine, 2136 metres; Punta di Capella,
2044; etc.), but as a rule from the climbing point of view they are
of little interest. Mention should be made of the chain of hills,
attaining heights of over 1300 metres, which forms the backbone of the
promontory of Cap Corse. The main ridge can be traversed throughout
its length in one long day from Bastia, and the splendour of the views
down on to the Mediterranean and towards the ranges of the interior is
beyond all description.[27]
[Sidenote: Nature of the Climbing.]
There are no glaciers in Corsica, though in the Cinto and Rotondo
groups snow-patches occasionally survive the summer’s heat. Both these
groups show marked traces of glacier action. The ice work is limited
to cutting in ice-choked chimneys and to clearing rocks. Long, steep,
hard-frozen snow slopes necessitating a sustained use of the axe are
seldom encountered, and ice-claws may safely be dispensed with. On the
other hand, ski might prove to be of great value, as the return on foot
from a climb over the long slopes of soft snow lying on the ‘maquis’
is often very trying. Devotees of ski-ing will find plenty of splendid
ground, especially on the eastern and southern slopes of the Cinto
group.
The rock is sound, and handholds are only too abundant. As a general
rule, only those climbs are difficult which lead up over apparently
perpendicular rock walls or ridges, rocks which from the distance look
hopelessly impossible.
This deceptive appearance may account for the fact that until 1909 no
climb of exceptional difficulty was accomplished in the island. Paglia
Orba (2500 metres), the Matterhorn of Corsica and the most conspicuous
mountain of the Cinto group, may be taken as an instance.
The east wall was first climbed in the Spring of 1909. The final
1000 feet of this wall appear to overhang, and actually do so for
considerable sections of the ascent. The unique character of this climb
would alone justify a visit to the island. The possibilities of new
climbs--both new routes and first ascents--are still numerous. Nothing
need be declared impossible on the strength of an inspection from a
distance; the chances are that a route of the most hopeless appearance
will ‘go,’ and also provide the best of climbing.
The view from almost any summit embraces greater or lesser portions of
the sunny coast-line, which adds the charm of contrast to the alpine
surroundings.
FOOTNOTES:
[26] From the point of view of expense, the mountaineer will
find mountaineering in Corsica exceptionally cheap. Hotel prices
average five to six francs per diem, but the climber who spends most
of his time in tents will incur even this moderate expense only for
comparatively brief periods. The return fare to Ajaccio is about £8,
and, provided the climber imports his own stock of tinned provisions,
a further sum of £15 to £20 should be more than ample for a month’s
sojourn in the island, on a pre-war estimate.
[27] When one considers the proximity of the mountains to the
coast, their height (Monte Cinto, 2710 metres) is considerable; and
many magnificent walls of well over 2000 or even 3000 feet are to be
met with.
Joanne’s guide-book, _La Corse_ (Hachette et Cie, Paris), and
_Baedeker_, contain very full information as regards accommodation,
etc. _Baedeker_ supplies much useful information on the mountains
themselves. The best maps are those of the Corps d’État-Major, on a
scale of 1 to 80,000. They are somewhat unreliable, and the reverse of
clear. These and other maps are procurable at the stationers’ shops in
Ajaccio and Bastia.
CHAPTER XV
THE HIMALAYA
BY T. G. LONGSTAFF
Although the natural and physical conditions in those ranges loosely
called the Himalaya are probably more diverse than in any other
mountain region in the world, still a certain amount of generalization
is possible.
GENERAL CONSIDERATIONS
[Sidenote: Configuration.]
Essentially, we find two more or less parallel ranges. The southern
and highest is visible from the plains. On this stand the great peaks
whose names are familiar to us. This outer range is pierced by numerous
rivers which burst through a series of deep, narrow gorges. The low
elevation of these river valleys brings an almost tropical fauna and
flora up to the foot of the Snows. The snowline on this range, owing
to greater precipitation, reaches down lower than on the second range,
that to the north. This second, or northern, range constitutes the
local water-parting between India and the countries to the north. It is
reached by broad, open, treeless valleys almost Tibetan in character as
in fauna. Its snowline is high owing to the drier climate. The peaks
seldom attain 25,000 feet, and, in general, are not so precipitous as
the great line of peaks to the south.
Even in Kashmir this arrangement of two parallel ranges may be traced;
but though there is plenty of fine climbing on the ranges which enclose
between them the Vale of Kashmir, most of which have already fallen
to the attacks of residents and British officers, yet the eyes of
the mountaineer from England will be fixed on the vast range of the
Karakoram beyond the Indus.
[Illustration: THE HIMALAYA
[C. F. MEADE
] This grand chain has a character of its own, though there are
points of resemblance to both ranges of the Himalaya. The glaciers are
the largest outside the Polar regions. The peaks are very high and
very precipitous. It is the country _par excellence_ for the mountain
explorer; but for the mountain climber the greatest drawback is the
journey of four to six weeks from England to the scene of operations.
[Sidenote: Climbing Conditions.]
Rock climbing is the same all the world over in that the conditions
vary on every mountain in any range. Also, a rock peak cannot be
really reconnoitred from a distance; we must come to grips with the
rocks before we can know the practicability of a route. As to snow
and ice, I think conditions are worse in the Himalaya than in the
Alps or Caucasus, chiefly owing to greater variations of temperature.
Avalanches of all kinds are bigger, and great caution must be exercised
in the choice of camps and bivouacs. Snow and ice slopes in the Alps
appear to me to look steeper than they eventually turn out to be. In
the Caucasus they are about as steep as they look. In the Himalaya I
have usually found them markedly steeper than their distant appearance
led me to expect.
[Sidenote: Management.]
Diverse as are the physical conditions of the Himalayan regions,
the inhabitants thereof show an even greater variety of character.
Some general rules of conduct may, however, be indicated, though
most of them may be considered by mountaineers as truisms not worth
the stating. The first object to keep in view is to create such an
impression amongst the natives as will make the path of subsequent
visitors easier and not harder. Almost all hill men are superstitious.
You must expect timidity at first. Remember particularly that native
servants are very prone to abuse the authority which in the eyes of the
villagers is acquired by the mere fact of their being in your service.
The hill man is usually inarticulate; he knows you cannot speak his
dialect, and probably your servants are the only interpreters. Your
watchfulness is his only chance of a square deal. Pay for _everything_
with your own hand, if it be only an anna for a few eggs. Of course
always pay your day-to-day coolies yourself, and, if they desire it,
give each his four or eight annas separately, only paying over a whole
rupee to a group from the same hamlet.
Religious beliefs are very mixed in the hills, and it is a good rule
to keep well away when your coolies, whatever their race, are cooking
or eating. Of course you must never offer them cooked food. Away from
the villages, and if only two or three men are with you, such things
as biscuits and jam--being assumed not to be made by hand--may be
offered if necessary. This applies more especially to Hindus; but
though Moslems should eat with Christians, the same rules had better
be applied. With Gurkhas (though nominal Hindus) or others with the
strain of Mongolian blood in them--who are or have till lately been
Buddhists--the code need not be quite so strict.
These remarks might seem unnecessary to anyone having experience only
of sport or travel in High Asia; but for the mountaineer who essays
to take coolies or shikaris to high bivouacs it is obviously of great
advantage to get them to adopt European foods and methods of cooking.
This was successfully done by the Italian expedition to the Karakoram
in 1909. Tea (native green is best) and the vilest cigarettes may be
offered to any coolie without fear of offence as a reward after an
extra hard day. The gift of a sheep or goat on suitable occasions
produces a glow of contentment all through the camp.
As to more general conduct: Refrain from whistling. Do not bathe naked
before natives. Never lose your temper except on purpose and with a
definite object. Never allow your servants to be familiar or to enter
your tent with their shoes on. Do not laugh or joke with your men
unless you are master of the language. If you do, you may be as broad
as possible, especially with Gurkhas. Exact proper respect from all
village officials with whom you come in contact. Conversely, treat a
native gentleman with the same courtesy that you expect yourself. Hindu
religious mendicants and devotees are easily irritated, and are best
left severely alone.
[Sidenote: The Campaign.]
It is absolutely essential that the climber planning a visit to
the Himalaya should make up his mind exactly what he wants to do.
Leaving aside exploration, the most dangerous lure on the path of
the mountaineer, we may for convenience confine ourselves to two
courses--the attack on some particular and probably very high peak; or
a less ambitious and more general campaign in some selected district in
which climbing for its own sake, apart from any design of raising ‘the
record,’ is the object aimed at.
Having settled the strategic idea, we must next consider tactics. In
the case of a single big mountain, the method of attack will be in the
nature of siege operations; and in this case a siege train, in the form
of Piedmontese guides, makes for success. Still, a siege is dull, and
to get the full pleasure out of a trip in the Himalaya, amateurs and
not guides are the best companions. The difficulty is to get them for
an absence of several months from England.
As a matter of tactics, the writer prefers, with or without guides,
to try and ‘rush’ peaks; for by this means far the most climbing is
secured. On the other hand, more frequent failure is risked by such
direct attacks. Unless the weather is favourable, a successful high
ascent is quite impossible; and if a climber is moving about and
continually attacking different peaks, he loses chances on particular
peaks which the besieger, waiting upon their favourable moments, can
take instant advantage of.
There is, further, the vexed question of the actual final assault.
Should it be a gradual pushing of bivouacs higher and higher, in the
hope of acclimatizing ourselves to the want of oxygen; or should we
make the last bivouac as low down as possible, in the hope that better
conditions for digestion and sleep will enable us to put forth one
tremendous effort on the final day of the adventure? Subjection to
low pressures, or want of oxygen, for days or weeks will find out our
weakest spots. With some the belly, with others the mind. For myself, I
know that after several nights at very high altitudes my mind is dull
and my courage reduced to vanishing-point. In all cases, so far as I
know, there is considerable loss of weight. To actual mountain sickness
we can acclimatize ourselves by going as frequently as possible above
20,000 feet. But we cannot stay for long at very high altitudes and
preserve all our strength. We must come down again soon to 15,000
feet, or lower if we can. It is easier to deny than to prove the
existence of mountain sickness; but although we do not bleed from the
ears, or even the nose, nowadays, most of us suffer some diminution of
our powers. This being so, it appears that the best chance of success
on a very high mountain is to send _some one else_ to examine the final
route and to lay the last bivouac for the storming party; just high
enough for them, supposing they are in good condition, to reach the
summit well on in the following afternoon. This may seem a soulless
way to wear a mountain down; but it is merely the application of Polar
methods to slightly changed conditions.
As in the Polar regions, also, the weather decides between success
and failure, between return and no return. Because of the cold, it is
unwise to start before sunrise.[28] The risk is less in descending easy
ground at night--perhaps because movement is then quicker.
A concrete example puts the case shortly. Trisul is only some 23,400
feet high, but it appears to be the highest peak of which the complete
ascent is universally admitted. After two nights, at about 20,000 feet,
in bad weather, the party retreated to 14,000 feet. Three days later,
after one bivouac at about 18,000 feet, the summit was reached at 4
p.m. (10 hours), and the night was spent on the return at about 16,500
feet.
[Sidenote: Season.]
Generally speaking, the regular rainy season (‘monsoon’) commences in
July and ends in September; but all the world over more rain falls, and
falls more frequently, on mountains than on the country immediately
surrounding them. Hence, though probably June is the best month for the
high peaks, we cannot even then count on continuous fine weather.
It is always easy to avoid the monsoon by pushing north into the second
range; but here again it must not be expected that the highest peaks
will completely conform to the rainless character of the rest of this
region.
When the rains are over, in September and October spells of gloriously
fine and clear weather are the rule; but the nights are then bitterly
cold above the tree-line.
THE CHIEF DISTRICTS
Though the Himalaya, in the widest sense of the term, extend beyond
the Brahmapootra on the east and beyond the Indus on the west, we may
impose these limits upon them for present purposes. Furthermore, only
sections of these ranges are at present politically accessible to the
mountaineer.
Practically the whole of the Himalayan region is covered by the Great
Trigonometrical Survey of India on a scale of one inch to four miles.
The sheets are obtainable in London.
It would be easy to criticize this map in detail. For reasons of
finance and policy, the surveyors were ordered to cover a very large
area each season and not to attempt detailed surveys of uninhabited
areas. It would be, therefore, manifestly unfair to set up claims which
were never made by the authors and then to demolish them.[29]
[Sidenote: The Eastern Himalaya.]
For Bhutan, it is best to consult Claude White’s _Sikkim and Bhutan_
(Arnold, 1909). It would be necessary to obtain special leave from
the Government of India to travel here; and the country is not very
promising from our point of view.
[Sidenote: Sikkim.]
For Sikkim, consult Mr. Freshfield’s Round _Kangchenjunga_, and several
papers by Dr. Kellas in the _Alpine_ and _Geographical Journals_.
Sikkim is a region of tropical contrasts, merging on the north into
Tibetan conditions. The vegetation is magnificent. The great peaks in
the south are difficult; in the north much easier, where the isolated
peak of Chumolhari (23,930 feet) has long challenged attention.
The starting-point is Darjeeling, reached by rail in a day and night
from Calcutta, or in three days from Bombay. A call should be made on
the Deputy Commissioner, especially if the climber intends to enter
native Sikkim. At present permission would not be given to enter Nepal
or Tibet, and probably not for Bhutan. Stores can be bought beforehand
at Darjeeling, and a Buddhist cook should be, if possible, secured.
The semi-Tibetan natives of Upper Sikkim, and similar immigrants from
north-eastern Nepal, are splendid material for glacier work. Dr.
Kellas with these people found himself quite able to dispense with
alpine guides. They are cheerful, smiling and easy for Europeans to get
on with, fond of a joke, and, if handled well, honest and reliable. For
the first part of the journey in the lower country temporary coolies
can well be used.
[Sidenote: Nepal.]
In Nepal, though in certain circumstances the frontier is not
inviolable, yet for a variety of reasons, not all political, an
Englishman is not likely to be able to penetrate to any of the great
peaks. At the same time, for the mountaineer as well as for the
explorer, few journeys are better worth making than that up the valley
of the Gandak, or the Kosi, into the heart of the grandest of all
mountain ranges.
[Sidenote: Kumaon and Garhwal.]
To my mind this is the finest part of the Himalaya at present
accessible. It is the most ‘alpine’ portion of the Himalaya, possessing
peaks over 25,000 feet. The scenery, flora and fauna are exceedingly
beautiful and varied. It contains much difficult ground, even below the
tree-line. Most of the highest peaks are very severe. Towards Tibet the
country opens out and the mountains are easier.[30]
The approach is by rail to Kathgodam. There follows a short drive
to Naini Tal, where all ordinary supplies may be obtained. Thence a
driving road to Ranikhet and a pony road to Almora, where fair supplies
are also obtainable.
A formal permit must be obtained from the Deputy Commissioner of
Almora, and two chuprassis will be told off to engage coolies from
village to village. For Garhwal it will probably be necessary to get a
separate permit and chuprassis from the Deputy Commissioner at Pawri.
When the base of operations is reached in Garhwal or Kumaon, it is
advisable to engage a few local men as permanent coolies. The ordinary
stages are worked by relays of coolies from village to village. In
these, native flour (_ata_), rice, fowls, goats and, higher up, sheep
can usually be obtained. A Mussulman cook can be obtained in Naini Tal.
An army reservist--Garhwali or Gurkha--would be found of assistance. He
should be provided with an extra broad pair of good nailed boots.
Gurla Mandhata (25,350 feet) is just over the frontier in Tibet.
Access to it is at present barred by our own Government. It can be
reached through Kumaon in a fortnight from Almora, and is probably
easily climbable from the Gurla Glacier.[31]
In Garhwal the Rishi Nali with Nanda Devi (25,660 feet) is the centre
of attraction.[32] Under present conditions it is not likely to be
climbed.
Dunagiri (23,184 feet), an outlier of this group, is pretty certainly
climbable by Graham’s route--the south-west ridge--from a bivouac at
the head of the Tolma valley. Farther north, Kamet (25,443 feet),
allied with bad weather, has so far defied repeated attacks.
Every variety of climbing is to be found on these mountains, and it is
a region that seems to exert an extraordinary fascination on every one
who has visited it.
In the matter of securing coolies for climbing purposes, it is well to
remember that the Kumaonis are a poor lot; the Danpurias and Garhwalis
are better; the partially Hinduized Bhotias of Badrinath Niti and
Milam are good; the still more Mongolian people of Gharbyang, and of
the north-west corner of Nepal, are splendid, and can be taken on into
Tibet.
[Sidenote: Tehri Garhwal.]
This small native hill state, west of British Garhwal, contains some
very fine peaks around Gangotri. It is reached from Lansdowne or
Mussoori. To facilitate travel, an introduction should be obtained
to the Rajah. The mountains present a most promising and practically
untouched field for the mountaineer. As coolies, the local men in the
north are probably pretty good.
[Sidenote: The Simla Hill States.]
Kangra, Kulu, Spiti, Lahaol and Bushahr embrace a very large mountain
area, and offer unlimited scope to the less ambitious mountaineer. It
is an ‘alpine’ region, but still on the Himalayan scale. The peaks
rarely attain 23,000 feet. But probably more actual climbing can be
obtained in one season here than in any other section of the Himalaya.
General Bruce’s book, _Kulu and Lahoul_, should be consulted.
The entry is from Dharmsala or Simla. The latter, probably, will be
easiest for new-comers to India, since there is a railway to Simla;
and at Simla supplies and servants can be obtained.
Hindus, Buddhists, and nominal Moslems are met with, and for coolies,
it would seem that the quality of the natives improves as we move north.
Chamba is a semi-independent hill state. The arrangements for
travelling must be made with the Rajah. It is a difficult country,
and not very promising. Manimais (or Mani Mahais), however, looks
magnificent.
[Sidenote: Kashmir and Karakoram.]
The mountaineering literature on the Karakoram is voluminous, and it
would be out of place to enter into details. A drawback to this region
is the time it takes to reach the mountains. The railway runs to Rawal
Pindi; thence by carriage or motor to Srinagar, two to ten days,
according to the state of the road. From there it is a matter of coolie
or pony transport, according to the time of year and the route chosen.
The time taken from Srinagar to Astor (for the Nanga Parbat group) will
be again about ten days; or from Srinagar to Skardu (for the western
Karakoram) about a fortnight. From Srinagar to Leh takes about three
weeks. The routes themselves vary considerably according to the time of
year.
It may be remarked that there is a very promising 25,000-foot group,
which can be easily reached from Panamik in the Upper Nubra Valley.[33]
Unfortunately, our party was prevented by bad weather from making
anything like a thorough reconnaissance. It would probably take two
months to reach the foot of the peak from England.
The Kashmiris (mainly Moslems) on the whole are a poor lot, and as
servants and followers they are apt to ill-treat and rob the up-country
villagers. But both Baltis (Moslems) and Ladakhis (Buddhists) are
splendid as coolies if they are handled properly.
[Sidenote: The Hindu Khush, etc.]
With regard to the Gilgit Agency, of which the native states of Hunza
and Nagar form part, it must be borne in mind that permission to travel
is difficult to obtain. The country is poor, and transport and supplies
are hardly sufficient for the use of the garrison and the frontier
officers, who have to be constantly on tour.
The seven distinct tribes inhabiting the Agency vary in quality from
the point of view of the mountaineer. Most of the shikaris are splendid
cragsmen, and some of the Hunza men are acquainted with axe and rope.
The Hindu Khush, extending from Hunza through Ishkoman, Punyal,
Yasin, Ghizr and Chitral to the Afghan border, contains many, almost
untouched, fine mountains and glaciers, culminating in the wonderful
group of Tirich Mir (25,426 feet). But the conditions of transport and
frontier policy will render access difficult for some years to come.
Yet the region is a most interesting one and the scenery very varied,
for it includes the water-parting between the Indus and the Oxus. Many
aspects of the country, both physical and human, vividly recalled to me
memories of the Caucasus.
PERSONAL MATTERS
[Sidenote: Expense.]
The cost of a climbing expedition in the Himalaya entirely depends on
the scale of preparation. If guides are taken, their fares, outfit and
pay will be a heavy item--not less than £250 each. It is obvious that
the further English stores have to be transported the more they will
cost by the time the mountains are reached. It is cheaper in the end to
get most of the stores at the last hill station, and to pay a little
more for them. The equipment for the high bivouacs, however, must be
brought out from home. This will cost, say £50. A first-class return by
P. & O., plus fare to the end of the railway transport, may be put at
£100.
If the expedition is on a modest scale, and the climber has some
knowledge of the language and customs of the country, and can limit
himself and his servants to a dozen loads, the actual expense of travel
in the hills is not great. Twenty pounds a month is a liberal estimate
for each European. This includes everything: food, servants and
coolies’ wages. Two amateurs, contributing £500 in all between them,
and with four months to spare, ought to be able to put in ten weeks in
the hills without any difficulty. In Kashmir, with the same allowance
of time and money, they would only get eight or nine weeks in the
mountains, and in the Karakoram not more than a month. (All estimates
are pre-war.)
Obviously a big expedition with guides must cost a great deal more
than this, but the amount can be calculated on the basis of the
figures given above. For a large party it would be advisable to bring
out all the supplies for the mountains packed in numbered Vanesta
cases. A number must be put _on every side_ of each package, and lists
of contents to correspond prepared. These cases also serve as good
substitutes for chairs and tables.
[Sidenote: Outfit.]
The days or weeks of travel to the foot of the Snows require an outfit
distinct from that required for high mountaineering. The extent of
the travelling outfit depends primarily upon the time and money at
the disposal of the individual. A camp-bed and an 80-lb. Kabul tent,
ordered beforehand from the Elgin Mills at Cawnpore or through the A.
& N. Stores at Bombay, is worth serious consideration. Personally, I
prefer a Whymper tent, with an extra fly to keep the sun off and with
the floor-cloth sewn in. A Whymper tent can also be used by the cook
and followers, without the double fly and with a loose floor-cloth; if
this is sewn in, it is apt to get burned when fires are lighted inside
the tent on wet evenings.
On all railway journeys, in most bungalows--public and private--and
even in some hotels, bedding must be carried. A very thin cork or hair
mattress is a luxury; the sleeping-bag does nearly as well. Two Jaeger
sheets, two Jaeger blankets, a pillow and a couple of pillow-cases,
aided by a bath towel, really suffice. The whole is wrapped up and
strapped in a strong ground sheet laced down the middle, or in a more
complicated valise sold in India. This bundle constitutes the _bistra_,
one coolie-load; it should be as rain- and vermin-proof as possible.
A folding X-table and chair are almost necessary concessions to caste.
A spare chair should be available if natives of chair rank are likely
to be met. An india-rubber or canvas bath is also necessary for other
purposes. When bathing in the open, as before said, drawers at least
should always be worn out of respect for native sentiment. Toilet kit
is carried in an enamelled iron basin with a leather cover, called a
_chilamchi_.
Cooking vessels (_degchis_) should be of aluminium, but cups and plates
and teapot may be enamel-ware. Either hurricane lanterns (kerosene),
or candle-lanterns that can stand on a table, are necessary in camp.
All these should be obtained from the A. & N. or other stores in India.
[Sidenote: Food.]
As to food, the necessary tinned butter, biscuits, jam and other
groceries can be bought at the last hill station. In most places in
the hills sheep or goats can be bought as required. Farther on you
must bring your own live stock along with you; this should ensure milk
of sorts. Chickens and eggs, rice and native flour (_ata_), can be
purchased in most villages.
On the glaciers, cocoa, chocolate or tea, with plasmon, are needed for
breakfast, and, for the evening, maggi (vegetable) soups with rice. At
the highest camps by far the best drink is some sort of dried malted
milk preparation, like Horlick’s or Allen & Hanbury’s diet. The above
must be brought out from England, unless it is found to be obtainable
from the A. & N. Stores in Bombay.
[Sidenote: The High Camp Outfit.]
The tent should be the Mummery pattern if carried by yourself, but may
be Whymper pattern if coolies are still available. Ice-axes can be
lengthened to serve as tent poles, if desired, by means of a piece of
hollow bamboo 10 or 12 inches long which is slipped over the point. The
bamboo must be bound round with wire at the end to prevent splitting.
In bad weather a small ventilator to the tent is necessary, as it may
be found impossible to open the door. Sleeping-bags can be made of
any thickness and warmth of goose-down. Balloon-silk should be sewn
underneath the bag, and brought up for at least 18 inches over the
feet. At high altitudes only a primus stove, burning kerosene, will
serve. Absolute alcohol should be carried to start the apparatus, and
a flat strip of perforated brass as a wind-shield is necessary. The
primus stove and reserve of kerosene, in old petrol tins, must not
be carried in the same load with any food. This must be specially
remembered during the _whole_ of the expedition.
It is a good plan to camp not later than 3 p.m., and to start melting
snow at once. The first melting will probably be drunk tepid. Then the
evening meal, or rather drink, of soup or cocoa or malted milk must be
taken; following this, while the stove is still alive, more snow should
be melted and the morning’s drink prepared. If this is placed in large
thermos-bottles inside the sleeping-bags it will last, if untouched,
till the following afternoon.
It is worse than useless to invite frost-bite by a very early start.
But in any case the time cannot be spared to melt snow in the morning.
[Sidenote: Clothing.]
So long as you wear a good ‘Cawnpore’ pith helmet (_topi_) nothing
else matters much. Sunburn will prevent you wearing too little. Some
people prefer a turban. This consists of the _pugari_ or _loonghi_ and
the _koolla_ or conical cap affected by Mohammedans and Europeans, and
round which the pugaree is worn. On a cold morning the tail of the
pugaree can be wrapped round the neck. It is easy to tie--in a fashion.
It is in some ways better than a pith helmet, but does not protect
the eyes from glare. Shorts are very cool for marching; but beware of
blisters at the back of the knees. A spine pad is necessary in the
valleys, and pleasant at even the greatest altitudes.
Footgear for high climbing is still a vexed problem. You must have very
heavily nailed boots for the moraines. On snow I have worn a covering
of raw cowhide, _hair outside_ over the front half of the boot. The
half sole is made of stoutest canvas. The whole may be garnished with
a common pair of Swiss ice-claws. Boots should be large enough for
two pairs of socks to be worn. Since putties will be invariably used,
stockings will only be needed for a change in the evening. No doubt
for very high work some Polar footgear would be better than climbing
boots.[34] Possibly ski-boots may meet the difficulty. But a piece of
blanket wrapped over the whole boot and held in place with a large pair
of claws, or by the boot-nails as they wear through, ought to be an
efficient substitute. Swiss snow-shoes are hardly worth carrying, but
on easy slopes at high altitudes they can be very useful, and I have
been glad of them. Ski are probably useless, for our purpose, owing to
transport difficulties.
Smoked glasses are only better than nothing; the proper colour is
something between yellow and green, such as Sinclair’s ‘N.W.V.’
glasses, or their like.
[Sidenote: Instruments.]
You cannot produce a good map without sacrificing much time and energy.
But apart from this, it is useful to know the heights of camps,
etc. For this purpose use at your camps a boiling-point thermometer
(hypsometer), specially constructed for high altitudes: you must
observe the air temperature with a swing thermometer at the same time.
Also take a large (4½ inch) Watkin mountain aneroid (J. Hicks, Hatton
Garden), graduated from 31 to 10 inches. Keep it permanently out of
action as soon as you go above 5000 feet, and only throw it into gear
when taking a reading--allowing not more than a few minutes for it to
settle. Put it out of gear as soon as the reading has been made.
A reading should be taken with the Watkin whenever the hypsometer is
used, as a check on both instruments. When climbing, and at the highest
camp, probably only the Watkin will be used, since, even with absolute
alcohol, an hour may be spent over an hypsometer observation at great
heights. The Watkin must be read both on leaving camp and on returning.
The air temperature ought to be taken at each observation; but this is
a refinement.
All observations must be immediately entered in a special notebook
with hour, date and place. These should be worked out by some one else
on a return to civilization. The Indian Meteorological Department or
the Survey at Dehra Dun or the Royal Geographical Society would be the
natural referees.
FOOTNOTES:
[28] _Alpine Journal_, vol. xxiii. p. 223.
[29] _Alpine Journal_, vol. xxv. p. 389.
[30] Consult A. L. Mumm’s _Five Months in the Himalaya_ (Arnold).
[31] _Alpine Journal_, vol. xxiii. p. 217 _et seq._, and map.
[32] Consult _Alpine Journal_, vol. xxiii. p. 202, and maps, and vol.
xxiv. p. 107, and map.
[33] _Alpine Journal_, vol. xxv. p. 487, with map, and Neve’s
_Picturesque Kashmir_, chap. xii.
[34] Consult _Appalachia_, Oct. 1914, vol. xiii. p. 160.
CHAPTER XVI
THE MOUNTAINS OF NORWAY
BY W. CECIL SLINGSBY
Concerning the mountains of Norway, their geography and the history of
their exploration, a considerable amount of published information is
already available for mountaineers: it is, therefore, unnecessary to do
more than give a general idea of the mountaineering potentialities of
the country, and of the facilities of travel and provisioning.
[Sidenote: Guide-books and Literature.]
_Baedeker_ is excellent as a general guide, and a copy should be in
the hands, and to some extent also in the head, of at least one member
of every mountaineering party. In addition, maps should be obtained
of each district which the climbers intend to visit. The Amts Karter,
price 1 _krone_ each, will answer this purpose.
There are no ‘Climbers’ Guides’ for Norway, though many books deal
more or less with its mountains. The great mountain classic is _Norway
and its Glaciers_, by Professor J. D. Forbes. Mrs. Aubrey le Blond
has dealt solely with one group, the mountains of Lyngen Fjord, in
_Mountaineering in the Land of the Midnight Sun_. This is of use to
those who wish to climb between lat. 69° and 70°, but is not of service
in Central Norway. _New Climbs in Norway_, by Mr. E. C. Oppenheim,
deals also with certain individual peaks. There is an excellent book
in Norsk on the Söndmöre Alps, near Aalesund. _Norway, the Northern
Playground_, is the result of many years’ experience on my own part,
but barely touches the romantic regions of Arctic Norway. The _Alpine
Journal_ has many papers by many authors on all parts of the country.
[Illustration: NORWEGIAN PEAKS [NORMAN COLLIE]
Of late years Norsk mountaineers have been very active, not only in
Norway and in the Alps, but also in far-off Himalaya and the Southern
Andes. The _Aarbog_ of “Den Norske Turist Forening” virtually resembles
an alpine journal, and its illustrations of glaciers and aiguilles
are valuable. It has had for many years mountaineering papers both in
English and Norsk. Every one who intends to climb in Norway should
become a member of this most useful club. He will have considerable
privileges, connected with mountain huts, etc. No mountaineering
qualification is required; merely a small subscription. T. Bennett &
Sons, or F. Beyer (Tourist Agents at Bergen), as well as the keepers of
the tourist huts, will enrol members. There is also an inner circle,
the “Norske Tinder Klub,” whose mountaineering qualification is at
least as high as that of the Alpine Club.
A slight knowledge of the language is essential. Norsk is easier for
north-country folk to acquire than for southerners, as much of our
northern dialect is almost identical with Norsk. As an outcome of
perhaps laudable ultra-patriotism, great changes, which in the main
lead to a simplification of the language, are being made. The natives
themselves during this period of transition apparently have no fixed
rules of spelling, and a foreigner need not feel uneasy on the subject.
The greatest difficulty in connection with this phase is that--so far
as I am aware--there is no Norsk-English dictionary which has adopted,
or at present _can_ adopt, the spelling mostly in use.
[Sidenote: Season.]
As in Switzerland, July and August are the best months for
mountaineering in Norway, though, speaking generally, there is more
often settled weather in June and September. In some years, the two
last weeks in June are perfect for climbing, but as in the Alps again,
there is often too much snow for pleasant mountaineering before July.
Similarly, there is often ideal weather in September, and though the
days are getting short, grand climbing may be done during the whole
of the month. Once the weather breaks, and heavy snows fall, no good
climbing can be done. The presence of the Gulf Stream causes a rather
larger rainfall in Norway than in the Alps. Often bad weather in the
Alps means excellent weather in Norway, and vice versa.
[Sidenote: Routes of Access, Travel, etc.]
Travelling facilities have much improved during the last few years. The
steamboat service from England is better, but more remains yet to be
done in this respect. The North Sea has not improved, and never will.
A quickened train service from Christiania to Throndhjem shortens the
journey up to the romantic north by a good day. The completion of the
picturesque Bergen to Christiania railway has revolutionized travel in
many ways, both good and bad. The usual routes to Norway are by Hull
or Newcastle to Bergen, Christiania or Throndhjem. Dozens of public
steam-yachts, some starting from London, run every summer. Some are
ocean liners of a large tonnage, and they may occasionally be used. To
‘consult Cook’ is good advice.
Bergen is the best starting-place. From thence mountaineers may proceed
direct by steamer to Skjolden at the head of the Sogne Fjord, and from
thence may now drive up to Turtegrö, the favourite centre for the
Horungtinder--one of the finest ranges in Norway; or, and better still,
they may go by rail to Vossevangen, drive to Gudvangen and then take
steamer. Or further, by rail to Myrdal, and drive to Aurland and take
steamer there.
Bergen is reached in about thirty-six hours from Hull or Newcastle.
Numerous steamers leave there for every mountaineering district. Three
days must be allowed by steamer from Bergen to Svolvaer, the centre
of the Lofotens. Another day to Tromsö and Lyngen Fjord. It is always
advisable to book berths on the north-going boats a fortnight before
leaving. Thos. Cook & Son can do this.
Christiania is a good starting-point, and the railway to Throndhjem
much shortens the time to get to Arctic Norway. The mineral railway,
terminating at Narvik, near the mouth of the Ofoten Fjord, close to
lat. 69°, is in direct communication with Stockholm, from which a
‘Lapland Express’ runs two or three times a week. By means of this,
Arctic Norway can readily be reached by those who prefer railway
travelling to steamboats--mostly within the Skjaergaard (or Skerries).
[Sidenote: Expense]
The return fare, Newcastle to Bergen, food included, is £6 first class.
Rather more by Wilsons. The cost of two men for a three weeks’ tour in
Central Norway, including going and returning, should be from £20 to
£25 each. I have done it for considerably less. It may also easily be
increased to £30 or £35 if the travellers are ultra-luxurious in their
ways and habits. It should never be forgotten that a _krone_ (1 kr.) is
worth 1s. 1½d. Many novices, used to francs and lire, forget this fact.
One pound only produces about 18 _krone_, and not 25. A large number of
persons who take yachting cruises in huge steamboats, and who only land
here and there, throw about their money in a wicked manner, and have
much spoiled the very few natives with whom they have come in contact.
Away from the haunts of the tourist horde, on the west coast, prices
are still very reasonable. Tips must not be given on quite so generous
a scale as in the Alps. (These prices are pre-war.)
[Sidenote: Equipment.]
For camp life excellent provisions are obtainable in Christiania,
Throndhjem and Bergen, and by getting them in the country the worry of
passing the Customs, which is not very serious, is avoided.
Experience shows that bacon and porridge form a great stand-by for a
camp breakfast. First-rate sides of Yorkshire bacon and good oatmeal
can be bought in the three above-named cities. As tinned meats, useful
as they are, have their limitations, it is well to purchase a leg or
two of mutton whenever possible. There is no doubt at all that one
can climb infinitely better when fortified by fresh, rather than by
tinned, meats. A trout-rod, and the ability to use it efficiently, is
often most serviceable anywhere in Norway, and in the Lofotens a few
sea-fishing appliances frequently add a welcome change to camp meals.
One result of the great cod fishery in the Far North is that excellent
French and Spanish wines are procurable at the posting stations at
reasonable prices in Arctic Norway. Speaking generally, the farther
north one goes the more comfortable are the steamers, and certainly the
more interesting is the company met with. Ashore, the hospitality which
many of us have met with leaves behind most happy memories.
With regard to the equipment requisite, generally speaking what is
suitable for Switzerland is fit for Norway. It must, however, be taken
for granted that, except in Christiania, and possibly to some extent
now in Bergen, no alpine nails, ice-axes, goggles, alpine rope, etc.,
are procurable. If extra boots are not taken, it is also very desirable
to take an ample supply of spare nails or screws. With these much can
be added to the security of a party, by fitting up a casual porter or
two with nails of a kind which he has probably never seen before. He
may at first object, but in the course of the first day on the snows
he will heartily approve, unless he may happen to come upon the--not
uncommon--highly polished _roches moutonnées_ of gneiss.
No longer is it necessary to take tents into Jotunheim or elsewhere
in Central Norway, as comfortable inns and mountain huts are to be
found here, there and everywhere. In Arctic Norway it is otherwise. In
many places not only are tents a luxury but also a necessity, unless
mountaineers have the use of a yacht where they can sleep, or unless
they charter a small steamboat. Even then it is advisable to have
tents, as now and then the question of safe anchorage is a difficult
one. Nowadays the well-to-do merchants in Lofoten, and also on the
mainland, very often possess motor-boats, which can be hired to take
mountaineers to remote fjords together with their tents.
In Scandinavia it is a safe maxim to hold that the farther north one
goes the more numerous are the mosquitoes. Hence mosquito nets should
always be taken north of Throndhjem. Mosquitoes, fortunately, are not
always in evidence even in hot summers.
[Sidenote: Guides.]
The question of guides is a difficult one. At least 90 per cent of the
best climbing in Norway has been done without them, solely because they
were non-existent when most needed. There are a few excellent men,
experienced alike on difficult glaciers, on steep snow slopes and on
rocks of the Chamonix Aiguille type, but their number is very limited.
Several are to be met with in various places in the Jotun Fjelde, which
include the Horungtinder.
In the neighbourhood of the Justedals-brae, which is by far the largest
snow field in Continental Europe, and over 400 square miles in extent,
there are naturally a few good icemen able and willing to tackle the
very complex glacier problems. They can be found at Fjaerland, in the
valley of Justedal, at Stryn, Olden and Loen, and probably also by now
in Stardal and Jölster.
At or near Öie on the Hjörund Fjord, two or three very fair guides
may be found for the Söndmöre Alps. These men have been trained more
or less by British mountaineers. The same may be said for Romsdal,
Eikisdal, as well as for Sundal in Nordmöre, where in the adjacent
Troldheim are a few fine glaciers and interesting peaks of gneiss. At
the same time, it is true that in every mountain valley in Central
Norway there is at least one excellent cragsman to be found, who is
invariably called to rescue crag-fast sheep or goats. These men, shod
in _snaukopper_, or soft-soled shoes, climb fearlessly on the smooth
glaciated crags of gneiss, and make excellent guides so far as rock
climbing is concerned.
In Norway, which is at the same time the most democratic and the most
conservative country in Europe, the guides and porters are often much
better educated than their fellows in Switzerland, and know how to
read a map intelligently. They are frequently landowners on a moderate
scale, and consider that they confer a favour by acting as guides.
They will not use the prefix ‘Mr.’ or ‘Herr’; and why should they?
Frequently they can trace their ancestry back to the Viking Age, and
even occasionally to the “Early Kings of Norway.” Though generally very
nice fellows, they are fully conscious of the monetary value of their
services, i.e. when they are really capable men. They have not yet
learned to carry as much as the Swiss. As the summer is short, there
is more than enough work to occupy the whole manhood of any particular
district on the land without question of mountains. This condition has
become of late years much aggravated by the enormous emigration to
Canada and the United States.
Within the Arctic circle, amongst the hundred and twenty miles of
aiguilles of gabbro and granite in the Lofoten Islands, there are no
real mountain guides. This is the case, too, on the whole mainland of
Norway within the magic circle, whether it be amongst the aiguilles of
Lyngen Fjord or the weird truncated pyramids of gneiss along the coast,
though even here a few good cragsmen are to be found.
We must to some extent make an exception in the case of the nomad Lapps
who wander with their reindeer across the glaciers. The gallant French
explorer of the snow fields and glaciers along the Swedish border,
Monsieur Charles Rabot, made use of some of these men, and in his
interesting book, _Au Cap Nord_, has recorded his experiences.
[Sidenote: General Topography and Structure.]
Though Norway is 1100 miles in length, the mountains which afford scope
for indulging in the sport of mountaineering are confined between lat.
60° and 70°, i.e. from the glaciers of the Folgefond to the north point
of the peninsula of Lyngen Fjord. More or less they are groups where
gabbro has been upheaved through the surrounding silurian strata,
granite or gneiss. These groups are unconnected save by relatively
uninteresting rolling fjelde, the haunt of the wild reindeer and
its enemy the lynx. Though there is as good climbing to be found in
Norway as in the Alps, no mountain attains the height of 9000 feet,
and consequently there is no continuous ice stream falling so far as
that from the summit of Mont Blanc to the snout of the Glacier des
Bossons. But there are many continuous icefalls of over 5000 feet,
and some glaciers which descend over 6000 feet nearly to the fjords
below. In many cases, as these ice streams are exceptionally steep
and are hemmed in by straight-cut mountain walls of gneiss, the ice
is more compressed, harder and of a deeper blue colour than what one
sees in Switzerland. Notably is this the case in the glaciers of the
Justedals-brae. There are also similar conditions in Lyngen Fjord in
Arctic Norway, e.g. in the case of the noble Fornæsbrae, descending
from Gjækkevarre--the Mont Blanc of the North.
The finest range in Central Norway is that of the Horungtinder and
portion of the Jotun Fjelde. Its dominating point is Skagastölstind.
This range has the advantages, and likewise possibly the disadvantages,
of possessing a well-recognized centre at Turtegrö, which, from a
picturesque point of view, is at the wrong side of the range. The many
fine peaks are nowadays being worked out with a persistency worthy of
Wasdale Head or Pen-y-Pass. Those of us who know the Coolin in Skye
well, know what grand climbing is suggested by the word ‘gabbro,’ the
formation of the Horungtinder.
In several other districts gabbro spires give the tone to the picture
and afford magnificent climbing to the mountaineer. Notably is this the
case in Söndmöre, on each side of the Hjörund Fjord, where some lovely
mountains, such as Slogen, bathe their feet in the sea. Unfortunately,
they frequently have their heads bound up with fleecy clouds, owing to
their proximity to the Gulf Stream and to nature’s condensers in the
form of huge snow fields. The 120 miles’ length of the Lofoten Islands
are also built up of granite and gabbro. The first view of these
islands gives a sensation of exaltation and joy. And their colour! It
is the same formation as the Coolin, and the same influences are at
work. The Gulf Stream, that rare and subtle painter, simply touches
the mountains with its moisture-laden breezes, and, helped by the sun,
a richness and delicacy of tint appears which is unknown elsewhere in
Europe. It lacks only the contrast which the Coolin possess of the
changing colour of heather.
The mountains of the Lyngen Peninsula, a grand region of rugged
aiguilles and huge glaciers, which stream down seawards from, in some
cases, a height of over 6000 feet, all consist of gabbro. But it must
not be concluded that the only good climbing is confined to mountains
of this order. As in the Alps, granite and gneiss hold their own,
and very many beautiful mountains afford arête and face climbing of
exceptional interest.
In Romsdal, Eikisdal and Troldheim, the latter until recently a much
neglected district, there is grand sport to be had, not only on rocks
but on steep and difficult glaciers as well.
North of Throndhjem are the Oxtinder. Though high and girt about their
loins with glaciers, they are, it is said, disappointing. The glacier
region of Svartisen and a few rock peaks south of Bodö, but yet within
the Arctic circle, deserve more detailed attention from our countrymen
than they have yet met with.
On the mainland, north of Bodö and the Salten Fjord but south of
the Ofoten Fjord, are some of the most beautiful and some of the
most fiendish-looking rock mountains conceivable in a mountaineer’s
nightmare. In the first category is the Strandaatind, which has a
most lovely outline, and is also a difficult mountain to ascend. Not
far away are two hideous and truncated obelisks. These are in South
Folden Fjord. At the head of this fjord, and on and within the Swedish
frontier, there is a grand glacier region.
Sixty-five miles farther north the Stedtind, or Anvil peak, a monolith
with one diagonal crack across the face, rises 5200 feet out of the
sea. Probably it is the most hideous mountain monster on our planet.
Yet there are only 15 feet of especial difficulty to be crossed when
the ascent is made from the back. True, but these 15 feet are highly
sensational!
There are still left unclimbed in this region other gruesome peaks
which await mountaineers capable of taking the initiative. The glaciers
of Frostisen and a few of the high peaks rising out of this snow field
have been fairly well explored, but as yet little information has been
given us on the subject.
Up to comparatively recent years there was a strange ignorance about
the higher mountains in Norway, and great uncertainty as to which was
the highest. Once upon a time Sulitelma held the honour. Snehaettan
also had a short reign. In an old atlas of mine, Skagastölstind is
termed “the culminating point of Scandinavia.” Then came the plea
for Galdhöpiggen; and not many years ago a claim was put in for
Knutshultind, which was never looked upon seriously. For a good many
years, however, Galdhöpiggen has been recognized as the king, though
its neighbour, Glittertind, was only twenty odd feet lower. The summit
of the former consists of a narrow rock ridge terminating abruptly in a
precipice at one end, which therefore cannot hold much snow. The latter
is a snow dome. I pointed out many years ago the probability that after
two or three years of unusually heavy snows the snow dome would rise,
that Glittertind would be raised to the throne, and Galdhöpiggen be
deposed. This has come to pass, and now Glittertind--a much duller
mountain than its rival--is “the culminating point of Scandinavia.” It
may and ought to be deposed ere long.
[Sidenote: Local Conditions.]
In both Central and Arctic Norway there are some conditions which
do not prevail in the Alps. The long nightless days have both their
advantages and their disadvantages. In Arctic Norway there is a
topsy-turvyness to which we are unaccustomed. One never knows when to
go to bed, and, as the snow does not get so soft as in Central Norway,
there is a great temptation to delay departure and waste much time on
the way. There is naturally a feeling of romance in arriving on the
summit of a difficult mountain a few minutes before midnight, and of
watching the sun roll along several degrees above the mountain horizon.
Still, for the sake of the sub-conscious machinery of the body, it is
best to observe the usual hours for work and for sleep.
In Central Norway I have seen the sun both set and rise again a couple
of hours later while I was traversing a difficult mountain ridge. But
there is an enormous difference between the length of days in the
end of June or July and that in the middle of August. Occasionally
mountaineers who do not recognize this fact get benighted.
In Central Norway the snows become soft by 9 a.m., though not to the
same extent as in the Alps. Still, an early start is desirable when
a fine expedition is contemplated. Especially is this the case when
crossing the Justedals-brae or other huge snow fields.
Avalanches fall as they do in the Alps, but rarely between the end of
June and the beginning of September, and stones, icebound at night,
are loosened by the sun in the morning, and come toppling down in the
orthodox manner, and may, perchance, be a danger to the unwary. In
fact, the ordinary dangers associated with high mountains exist equally
in Norway.
In some regions magnetic rocks occur, and then the compass is of no
use. Where this is the case, and mists come on, and there is no wind
to indicate the cardinal points, the interest of the expedition may
unexpectedly be increased.
Ice, hard blue ice, is much more often encountered on the Norwegian
glaciers and gullies than in the Alps.
On very steep snow slopes and glaciers in the Far North one frequently
comes upon a deep square-sided groove in the snow; at the top of the
slope it may be 12 feet wide and 4 feet deep. This imperceptibly
widens, during a descent of between 1500 and 2000 feet, to a groove,
still square-sided but now 20 to 25 feet in width and 7 or 8 feet
deep. Such grooves are most difficult to cross, and on one memorable
expedition on Rulten, when victory was almost assured, the party was
driven back by the apparent danger of making such a crossing. These
grooves show no sign of the work of falling stones or rocks, but are
probably, at an earlier period of the year, caused by water. I have
never met similar grooves in Central Norway, nor yet in the Alps.
After a long spell of fine weather during the nightless days of the
summer months, the glaciers may become very dangerous by reason of a
peculiarity in the character of their crevasses. The larger and the
flatter the glacier, the greater the danger. This is especially the
case on the Justedals-brae, though by no means confined to that region.
The condition is caused, in my belief, principally by the comparatively
low altitude of the sun above the horizon. The rays of the sun are
directed more horizontally upon the snow, and for a considerably larger
number of hours during the long days in Norway than is the case in the
Alps. This approximation to horizontality causes an abnormal melting
power to be directed to the under side of the snow eaves and of the
bridges of open crevasses. Especially is this the case when these
eaves are attached and frozen to the north or northerly walls of the
crevasses. Under these conditions crevasses of 25 or 30 feet in width
may only have the appearance of a width of 2 or 3 feet. Not only this,
but they often have clear-cut and well-defined edges and not jagged
lines. On the surface there may be little or no indication of the
hidden dangers which are shielded from view.
The interest in hot seasons may be much increased by the presence of
‘pink snow,’ _Protococcus nivalis_, which has been known to lie in
patches covering several acres.
In Norway there are several great snow fields, Greenlands in miniature.
Hill and dale on these snowy uplands are alike covered with glacier,
and only here and there rocky islets or _nunataks_ appear, and
usually as alpine gardens. In nearly all cases the rock below the
ice sheet is gneiss, and if the glaciers were to disappear, rolling
fjelde, or rounded hog-backed peakless mountains 5000 to nearly 7000
feet in height, would appear. Such snow fields are rare in the Alps;
consequently British mountaineers have little experience, on a large
scale, of glaciers which rest on broad, gently sloping ridges, and
which slowly descend, maintaining connection at the same time with
glaciers on either side moving nearly in the same direction. The
process is natural enough. The results are more or less novel and
appalling. On the ridges gravitation is at work, and the ice moves
onwards in three directions: down the main axis of the ridge and
downwards on each side. In years of little snow, consequently, scores
of quadrangular masses of _névé_ and ice are left, on every side of
which are deep square-walled crevasses. Woe betide the party which
descends such a ridge without using the greatest care. Few men may have
experienced these conditions, but those who have will always retain a
lively memory of them.
It is not necessary to repeat, to mountaineers, that most Englishmen
who have climbed in Norway return again and again, to a country which
has still much of the romance of exploration, and, for them, the
sympathetic interest of an historical connection with their racial
consciousness. I myself like to believe that we, who take our pleasures
on the mountains--and the more grisly these mountains are the better we
like them!--have inherited the passion from our ‘Norsk ancestry,’ who,
as we gather from an old Saga, indulged in the sport of cliff climbing
nearly one thousand years ago.
CHAPTER XVII
THE SOUTHERN ALPS OF NEW ZEALAND
BY MALCOLM ROSS
While distance lends enchantment, it also, not infrequently, presents
difficulties. The mountaineer, probably more than most people,
realizes this as, beside his winter fire in England, he sees through
the smoke-rings of evening pipes alluring visions of the pine-clad
Rockies, of the lonely Caucasus, of the giant Himalaya, of the high
Andes and of the far-distant Southern Alps. Most climbers are also
workers, and it is the time taken and the expense of the journey that
no doubt give them pause when they think of the distant ranges; but
more particularly of the Himalaya or the New Zealand Alps. In regard to
the latter, however, the expedition need not be an expensive one. The
return passage from London to New Zealand by the big direct liners is
not costly.
[Sidenote: Routes, etc.]
A good service is run by the New Zealand Shipping Company and the Shaw
Savill & Albion Company. The voyage out is by the Cape of Good Hope and
the return by Cape Horn. The return passages by the alternative and
more interesting route between London and Lyttelton cost £132 first
class and £75, 10s. second class. The British steamers on this route
belong to the P. & O. Company and the Orient Company. The passage
occupies about six weeks, but it can be shortened by a week by crossing
the English Channel, taking train across France and joining the steamer
at Marseilles.
The advantage of this route is that we are often within sight of
interesting lands and call at quite a number of ports--Gibraltar,
Marseilles, Port Said, Suez, Aden, Ceylon, Perth, Adelaide, Melbourne
and Sydney. At the southern end of the journey time can be saved by
taking train from Adelaide to Melbourne, and thence a Union Company’s
steamer to the Bluff, which is the southernmost port in New Zealand.
The New Zealand steamers on this route may not, however, be considered
so good as those running from Sydney to Auckland or Wellington, and
the passage to the Bluff is generally a colder and more stormy one
than that from Sydney in the more northern latitude. Besides, Sydney,
with its charming harbour, is well worth seeing, and time can still
be saved by taking train right through from Adelaide to Sydney. Still
quicker though slightly more expensive routes are those across the
Atlantic via San Francisco or Vancouver. A change of scene is provided
by either of these routes, which avoid the heat of the Red Sea and the
cold of the more southern route taken by the direct steamers. Another
alternative would be to go East and return by the Western line, thus
circumnavigating the globe; and variations in the latter route can
be made by which Java, China and Japan can be visited. Yet a further
choice will be opened up with the completion of the Panama Canal. My
own preference would be to take a return ticket by P. & O. steamer
between Marseilles and Adelaide, travel by train from the latter port
to Sydney, and from Sydney proceed direct to Wellington, New Zealand,
by one of the Union Company’s steamers. At Wellington full particulars
regarding the charges _en route_ to Mount Cook and the cost of guides
and accommodation can be obtained from the Tourist Department or from
the writer of this chapter, who will willingly place at the disposal of
any climber any information and advice that he can give.
[Sidenote: Local Conditions, Guides, etc.]
At Mount Cook there is an accommodation house, under Government
control, and all charges are reasonable. The best guides are servants
of the Government. Their services, however, may not always be available
when most wanted, and a man will do better, if he can afford it and
desires it, to bring with him his own guide.
The ideal party would be one of three first-rate amateurs, or two
amateurs and a good guide, used to both rock and ice work. It would
be practically independent of local assistance, and ready to seize
all opportunities of fine weather to do first-class climbs or new
expeditions. The local guides would willingly co-operate with or
advise such a party regarding local conditions, weather, routes, etc.
The weather in New Zealand, as in all mountainous countries, plays an
important part in such expeditions, and the climber of high peaks will
be well advised to keep his eye on the dreaded north-wester, which
sweeps across the Pacific Ocean and assails the beetling crags and
snowy summits of the great range with a force and fury which it is
difficult successfully to combat.
Our mountains, though not so high as those of the European Alps, are
practically the same height from a mountaineering point of view,
because in New Zealand the snowline is so much lower and the ranges
rise directly from lower elevations than they do in Switzerland. Our
alpine chain seems to be more heavily glaciated and the rocks more
friable than is the case in Europe. Our glaciers are certainly larger,
and the moraines upon and beside them such as to tax the patience if
not the endurance of the climber unused to them. The scenery is grand
from the purely alpine point of view, but one used to Swiss mountains
will miss the well-formed road, the fine hotels and the high mountain
hut, to say nothing of the mountain railway, which we must hope may
never become the vogue in New Zealand.
On the west coast the scenery is more varied than on the east, because
of the forest that clothes the lower Alps; but the weather is wetter,
and the dense vegetation often a bar or at least a hindrance to the
attainment of a high bivouac. The difficulty is accentuated when one
has to carry one’s own tent and provisions on one’s own back, although
there is not nowadays the same difficulty in obtaining porters which
the pioneers had to put up with. Such huts as there are, are low down
in the valleys; and if new ground is to be broken, the expedition
should come provided with its own tents and sleeping-bags, and be
prepared often to spend the night under the more or less friendly
shelter of some detached rock. To the mountaineer, however, the
dispensing with such luxuries will only add to the joy of his new
climbs and tend to make him more fully appreciate the luxuries of
civilization when, with his peak in his pocket, he returns again to
the lower altitudes. From the technical point of view the climbing
is very much like what it is in Switzerland; but the strange climber
would always do well to remember that the dangers from avalanches
and falling rocks are not so accurately mapped out as they are in
ranges that have been climbed by several generations of experienced
mountaineers.
While the new field will certainly prove fascinating from the climber’s
point of view, it is also worth remembering that it abounds in objects
of interest to the geologist, the botanist and the zoologist. The
glaciers are among the largest and most interesting in the world; the
flora is of the most diversified character; and the fauna, though
limited, is curious.
[Sidenote: Topography and Structure.]
Large as the glacier system is at the present day, it is small as
compared with the extent of the glaciers which descended far down
the plains in the Pleistocene period. The greatest accumulation of
ice and snow lies at the head of the Tasman and Murchison glaciers,
on the eastern side of the main range of the Alps. The Mueller, the
Hooker and the Godley glaciers, on the same side, are, however,
likewise of large extent; while on the western side of the Mount
Cook Range there are other glaciers of large size, one of which--the
Franz Josef glacier--descends to within about 600 feet of the sea,
and has beautiful tree-ferns, and a vegetation which appears almost
semi-tropical, growing within a few yards of its terminal face.
One peculiar feature of the Southern Alps is the absence of any number
of low sub-alpine passes over the main range. The principal low passes
are the Haast Pass, leading from Lake Wanaka to the west coast; the
Hurunui Pass, dividing the sources of the river of that name; and
Arthur’s Pass, over 3000 feet high, across which the coach runs through
the wonderful scenery of the Otira Gorge to Hokitika and Greymouth.
The first point to be noticed in regard to the central chain is that
it does not present an unbroken line of watershed, but rather a series
of peaks and broken ridges, separated from each other by deep ravines,
and for the most part not easy of access. The clue to this system of
ravines and ridges is to be found in the fact that the Palæozoic rocks
forming the main range have been at a very early period subjected to
extensive pressure, the effect of which has been to crumple them up
into huge folds, the upper portions of which have been removed, leaving
the remaining portions of the strata standing up on edge, either in
a vertical position or at very steep inclinations. The strike of the
beds differs from the general direction of the dividing range by 33°.
The rule which has been found to prevail in other mountain chains of
similar formation appears also to hold good in the central chain--viz.,
that the greatest amount of denudation has taken place along the
original ridges, which are now occupied by valleys, whilst the existing
peaks and ridges are on the sites of former depressions.
The next feature to be noticed is the jointed structure of the rocks.
Although the joints cross each other in all directions, apparently
without order, there are two prevailing systems of joints which have
an important influence on the configuration of the surface. These
are: First, a system of vertical cross-joints at right angles to the
stratification, and running in unbroken lines for great distances,
with such regularity that they might easily be mistaken for planes
of stratification were it not for the frequent occurrence of beds of
trap-rock, the outcrop of which marks unmistakably the true bedding;
secondly, a system of joints, more or less inclined to the horizon,
not running in parallel planes, but arranged in a series of curves
radiating from a common centre.
The effect of this system of jointing, combined with the strike of
the beds, or the direction of the axis of folding, is to produce
two distinct systems of valleys in the central chain, the direction
of which is very remarkable. The one radiates from a common centre,
situated about fifty miles north of Mount Darien, in the sea near
Cliffy Head. This system includes all the principal valleys from the
Teremakau on the north to the Makarora on the south, their direction
varying from N. 82° E. to S. 30° W., giving the idea that the country
has been starred, just as a mirror is starred by a violent blow.
To the other system belong the valleys of rivers and watercourses,
running either on the strike of the beds, or in the direction of the
cross-joints, or in a zigzag course, following alternately these
two directions and giving to the cliffs which bound these valleys
a peculiar rectangular appearance, resembling ruined masonry on a
gigantic scale.
The western slope and part of the central chain consist of crystalline
rocks and metamorphic schists resting on a basis of granite, that
presents itself here and there to the view in the rugged bluffs and
declivities on the west coast. To the eastward of the crystalline
zone stratified sedimentary rocks appear, such as slates, sandstones,
conglomerates and indurated shales. These compose the greater part
of the eastern side of the central chain, exhibiting everywhere huge
foldings. The extensive development of limestones such as are peculiar
to the European Alps is totally lacking, and it is easily seen that
only the eastern half of a complete mountain system has been preserved,
while the western half is buried in the depth of the main.
[Sidenote: Flora and Fauna.]
At Mount Cook the botanist has a splendid field before him. The
alpine and sub-alpine flora is of the most beautiful and diversified
character, and to the traveller making his first visit from Australia
or the Northern Hemisphere it will also have the charm of novelty.
Among the shrubs there is considerable variety, and many of the bushes
are during the autumn laden with prettily coloured berries. Among the
larger trees a variety of beech is most prominent. The pretty green
foliage of the broadleaf is also conspicuous, and a number of the
Coniferæ. But it is probably among the herbaceous plants that the
botanist will delight most to linger.
On Mount Torlesse, in the lower and more eastern range, Dr. von Haast,
during his early explorations, collected over two hundred flowering
plants, over thirty of which were new to science, and even in these
later years new discoveries are still being made.
Splendid herds of red deer inhabit the heights and vales of the lesser
Alps, so that after the mountaineer has bagged his peaks he can change
his ice-axe for his rifle and bag a few fine heads as well. Recently
chamois have been successfully acclimatized in the Mount Cook region,
while elk and moose have been liberated in other localities. In the
rivers of both the North and the South Island there are fish that will
make the rods bend and the reels give to some purpose.
The birds of the alpine and sub-alpine regions are especially
interesting. The kiwi and the kakapo, those strange flightless birds of
the South and West, will prove a novelty to the explorer from northern
climes; while the inquisitive friendly weka, with his rudimentary
wings, and the curious kea, who digs into the loins of the living sheep
with his powerful hooked beak to make a meal of the kidney fat, will
be a never-failing source of interest to the traveller, who will find
the former a thief and the latter rather a noisy companion whilst he is
endeavouring to seek repose in one or other of the iron-roofed mountain
huts. Wood-pigeons and a bush parrot known as the kaka are also to be
found, and, in unexplored country, may make a welcome addition to the
larder. A native thrush, two species of cuckoo that come down from the
equatorial islands, wrens and fly-catchers are also met with; while the
tui and the bell bird sometimes fill the woods with glorious song. In
a chapter on mountains there is not space to do them all justice; but
anyone who is specially interested in that strange bird, the kea, will
find his habits and his character more fully described in my recently
published book, _A Climber in New Zealand_.
[Sidenote: Glaciers.]
The following table, showing comparative sizes of the Canterbury or
east coast glaciers compiled by Mr. T. N. Brodrick of the New Zealand
Government Survey Department, will give some idea of the extent
of the glaciation and prove interesting to anyone contemplating a
mountaineering expedition to the Southern Alps:
TABLE SHOWING COMPARATIVE SIZES OF THE CANTERBURY GLACIERS
+---------+--------+------------+---------+-----------+--------+---------+
| Name. |Area of | Area of |Length of| Average |Greatest|Narrowest|
| |Glacier.|Country from| Glacier.| Width. | Width. | Width. |
| | |which Supply| | | | |
| | | of Ice is | | | | |
| | | drawn.[35] | | | | |
+---------+--------+------------+---------+-----------+--------+---------+
| | Acres. | Acres. | Mls. Cs.|Mls. Cs. |Mls. Cs.|Mls. Cs.|
|Tasman |13,664 | 25,000 | 18 0| 1 15 | 2 14| 0 60|
|Murchison| 5,800 | 14,000 | 10 70| 0 66-7/10| 1 5| 0 42|
|Godley | 5,312 | 10,560 | 8 0| 1 3 | 1 55| 0 58|
|Mueller | 3,200 | 7,740 | 8 0| 0 50 | 0 61| 0 37|
|Hooker | 2,416 | 4,112 | 7 25| 0 41-3/10| 0 54| 0 30|
|Classen | 1,707 | 3,972 | 4 70| 0 43¾ | 0 73| 0 21|
+---------+--------+------------+---------+-----------+--------+---------+
First-class mountains in the New Zealand Alps may be said to range in
height from 10,000 feet to 12,347 feet, which latter is the height
of Mount Cook. All the mountains of 10,000 feet and over have now
been climbed; but there is much interesting work yet to be done in
connection with new routes and high pinnacles and passes on the main
range, while there are still many untrodden peaks of the second class
scattered over a wide extent of explored and unexplored country. In
short, there is in New Zealand work for generations of climbers yet to
do.
FOOTNOTES:
[35] This is not the whole watershed, but only that portion on
which the _névé_ snow lies.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PYRENEES
BY CLAUDE ELLIOTT
The claims of the Pyrenees on the alpine climber have been set forth
with charm and vigour by Count Henry Russell and Mr. Packe, and yet
they remain singularly neglected. Possibly it is the very ardour of
their advocates that has betrayed their cause. For it is not as the
rival of the Alps, but as a preparatory training-ground for the Alps
or as a refuge from the cosmopolitan tourist, that the Pyrenees should
be regarded. Let it be said at once that as a climbing-ground pure
and simple there can be no comparison between the ranges. The biggest
peak in the Pyrenees has a height of 11,160 feet; their glaciers are
small--their total area is about 13 square miles--they do not flow down
into the valleys, but as a rule are as broad as they are long; and the
snowline is about 1000 feet higher than it is in Switzerland. The very
lack of snow and ice at once renders the ordinary routes up the larger
Pyrenean peaks infinitely more easy than the ordinary first-class
alpine ascent.
Of course rock climbs of great difficulty can be found if search is
made for them, but the normal routes up the rock peaks of reputation,
such as the Fourcanade or the Pic du Midi d’Ossau, do not present
difficulties approaching those, say, of the Chamonix Aiguilles.
The climbing on the whole resembles that of the western end of the
Oberland or of Tyrol. With some exceptions the angles are not steep,
the rock is inclined to be rotten, and the snow and ice work is easy.
The mountains possess, however, a peculiar charm of their own, which
is not nowadays to be found in the Alps, and is due to their solitude,
their wildness, their freedom from the works of man. And this very
desolation provides the Pyrenees with peculiar difficulties: there the
mountaineer will find himself almost completely alone; there are few
guides, few climbing parties, few huts, no good climbing centres, no
good maps, and seldom any detailed descriptions of routes. He will have
to be dependent on himself and himself only, and it is in this that
their appeal and their value lie.
[Sidenote: General Topography and Structure.]
The portion of the Pyrenees which will most interest the mountaineer is
that which lies between the Vallée d’Aspe immediately to the south of
Pau, on the west, and the Val d’Aran, immediately beyond Luchon, on the
east--a distance of some 70 miles. The structure is more complicated
than appears at first sight, because the biggest peaks do not lie on
the central frontier range, but on one side or the other, and because
the subsidiary ridges often join the main range at very acute angles.
The reason for this is that the lines of original folding lie at an
acute angle to the general direction of the chain; M. Schrader has
pointed out that “while the chain as a whole lies in the direction E.
9° S., this particular direction is not produced by a continuous line,
but by a series of oblique folds whose direction is about E. 30° S.”
The folds are of granite, schist or limestone, and thus provide a great
variety of rock work.
The sketch overleaf only indicates _general_ topography. Starting at
the Vallée d’Aspe and proceeding eastwards, we find that the main
frontier range is comparatively low, while the higher peaks are thrown
out to the north, the chief being the Pic du Midi d’Ossau (9460 feet)
above the village of Gabas, a fine double-peaked mountain of rotten
granite and schist, the traverse of which makes an excellent climb.
The main range, however, still keeping its schistous character, soon
rises to over 10,000 feet in the Balaitous, which lies at the head of
the Val d’Azun and provides good climbing. After this it maintains its
high level, but it is overtopped by the Pic d’Enfer (10,200 feet), a
granite mass immediately to the south and above the Baths of Panticosa
in Spain. The frontier chain after passing the Pic d’Enfer culminates
in the Vignemale (10,800 feet), a schistous peak with a fine glacier,
and then bends south to the ice-covered limestone massif above the
Cirque de Gavarnie, comprising the Taillon (10,300 feet) and the
Marboré (10,600 feet), on the frontier, and Mount Perdu (10,900 feet)
immediately to the south. A little farther eastwards it throws out a
high rib, running into France and culminating in the Pic Long (10,400
feet). Continuing along the main range we find that it maintains its
height, and though it never rises much above 10,000 feet it only twice
falls below 8000, and then only by a few feet, till it reaches the
Val d’Aran. The formation of this easterly portion is of granite, and
provides a quantity of good rock climbing. The highest mountains,
however, lie in two massifs on the Spanish side of this part of the
range. The most westerly of these contains the Pic des Posets (11,040
feet), an interesting peak of granite and schist rising from an easy
glacier, and the other is the massif of the Maladetta, culminating in
the Pic de Néthou (11,160 feet), the highest summit of the Pyrenees,
on whose flank lies the largest glacier of the range. The two massifs
are separated from one another by the deep valley of the Esera,
where Venasque is situated, which can be reached easily from Luchon,
in France, by the mule-track over the Port de Venasque. Beyond the
Port the main range is cut across by the Val d’Aran, running roughly
west-north-west, which marks a line of geological folding. South of the
Val d’Aran and east of the Maladetta group lies the Montarto massif
(not to be confused with the Pic de Montarto d’Aran), a rocky ridge,
rising out of a snow field on the east resembling a small glacier, of
which the highest point is the Comolo Forno (_c._ 10,100 feet) and
the most striking the Pic de Bécibéri, some 100 feet lower. Farther
eastward and still south and east of the Val d’Aran, is an unusually
wild and complex region of granite peaks, averaging 9500 feet, and
innumerable small lakes, comprising the Cirques of Colomés, Sabouredo
and the Sierra de los Encantados. The main frontier chain starts again
beyond the Val d’Aran some miles to the northward, and though it still
remains high and still forms one of the most remarkable mountain
barriers in Europe, it contains no glacier and little perpetual snow,
and on the whole the mountains are less steep. So from a purely
technical point of view it is of comparatively small interest to the
climber. But there are few people who would not enjoy visiting it, both
because of the wildness and desolation of the country, and because
hidden away in its recesses is the principality of Andorra, which lies
immediately to the south of the watershed, some 40 miles beyond the Val
d’Aran, and accessible without great difficulty from the railway at Ax
in France.
[Illustration: MAP OF PYRENEES]
It will be seen from this brief description that the range is an
extended one, and that the larger peaks are far apart from one another.
Moreover, there are few towns among the mountains, and the higher
summits are separated from one another by difficult country. On the
French side there are a certain number of good roads connecting the
northward running valleys, but on the Spanish side there is often not
even the faintest of paths. Also from the Val d’Ossau to Ax, 150 miles
to the east, no large road actually crosses the main range, and even
footpaths across are surprisingly rare. It follows, then, that the
Pyrenees are not mountains for the climber who is fond of the comforts
of life. A tent or sleeping-bag is absolutely necessary for their real
appreciation.
[Sidenote: Centres.]
The only centres are Luchon and Gavarnie, but these are not good;
the climbing round them is limited, and would soon be exhausted by a
competent party, unless it were content with infinite small variations.
Gavarnie (5000 feet) is easily reached from Paris via Bordeaux, Dax and
Lourdes to Pierrefitte in under 24 hours; thence by a short electric
railway to Luz, and finally by 12 miles of excellent road. It contains
several good hotels, and in summer it is crowded with tourists. From
here a number of interesting peaks can be climbed direct. Immediately
to the south is the magnificent Cirque de Gavarnie, above which lies
the frontier ridge rising to the points of the Gabiétou (10,000 feet),
the Taillon (10,320 feet), the Casque, the Tour de Marboré (10,670
feet) and the Pic d’Astazou. From the Marboré a still higher ridge runs
south-east, on which lie the Cylindre (10,900 feet), Mont Perdu (10,990
feet) and the Soum de Ramond (10,760 feet). The frontier peaks may all
be climbed in a day from Gavarnie, and the energetic may traverse two
or even three of them in the day.
The others also are not too far for a day’s excursion; but it may be
found preferable to sleep in the Cabane de Gaulis, on the flank of the
Perdu, or better still, to bivouac.
Hanging on these peaks is a mass of _névé_ and broken glacier, allowing
difficult variations to be made on the usual routes, which are easy;
here alone, indeed, can glacier work of any difficulty be found.
For instance, a route has been made up the Perdu from the north,
which involves the ascent of an ice-fall. The rock work is not so
satisfactory, but some really hard and interesting ascents have been
made straight up these frontier peaks from the Cirque de Gavarnie.
Farther to the east we find first the Cirque d’Estaubé, and then the
Cirque de Troumouse, facing north, and cut off from Gavarnie and from
each other by subsidiary ridges.
Surrounding the Cirque d’Estaubé are ranged in order the Tuqueroye, the
Pic de Pinède and other peaks, providing some difficult rock routes,
and accessible in a day from Gavarnie. Above the Cirque de Troumouse is
an interesting rock ridge, of which the chief point is the Pic de la
Munia (10,300 feet). It is, however, rather far from Gavarnie, and many
people will prefer to spend the night at the small but expensive inn at
Héas before attacking it.
From near the Munia a ridge runs due north to the Pic Long. This
mountain can be climbed by its glacier or by its sound granite rocks
in a long day from Gavarnie, or the night can first be spent at Gédre,
where also the inn is dear.
To the west of Gavarnie lies the Vignemale, which is ascended by a
crevassed, but easy, glacier. Here again difficult climbing can be
found if search is made; for instance, it has been ascended by a very
difficult couloir on the north side.
Luchon (2000 feet) is even more easily reached than Gavarnie.
Trains run direct from Paris via Toulouse and Montrejeau, and the
whole journey from London should take just over 24 hours. It is
altogether a larger town than Gavarnie, and is one of the fashionable
watering-places of the Pyrenees. It has some good if expensive shops.
From here it is easy to attack the interesting granite peaks on the
main range. Running southward, a little to the west of Luchon, is the
Val d’Oo or d’Astau, enclosed by the Pic du Port d’Oo (10,300 feet),
the Perdighero (10,500 feet), the Crabioules (10,200 feet) and the
Quairat (10,000 feet). The ordinary routes up these can be accomplished
in a longish day from Luchon, and are quite easy according to alpine
standards. They may also be visited on the way to the Posets, which
lie immediately to the south.
Immediately to the east of the Val d’Oo and nearer Luchon is the Vallée
de Lys, which is dominated by the Pic de Quairat, the Crabioules, the
Maupas (10,200 feet) and the Boum (10,000 feet), and the small glaciers
on their flanks.
The ascents of these are again rather long from Luchon, but there is an
inn some 3½ hours up the valley where the night may be spent.
Farther to the east, and running south-east from Luchon, is the Vallée
de la Pique, which leads up to the Port de Venasque. The mountains
round this valley are not so fine, and are mostly too easy to demand
attention. One exception is the Pic de la Pique (_c._ 8000 feet), a
small, sharp rock peak in the valley, with a great local reputation,
but not really of serious difficulty.
These are the only peaks of interest in the immediate neighbourhood of
Luchon. But by crossing the Port de Venasque (7900 feet), or preferably
some more interesting col to the west, and sleeping out, the Maladetta
group can easily be climbed. This massif faces the Port de Venasque,
and consists of a somewhat amorphous base from which rise several
granite ridges and summits--the Pic d’Albe (10,700 feet) on the west,
then the Maladetta (10,800 feet) and the Néthou (11,160 feet), from
which flow two large glaciers, then the Pic de Salenques, the Pic
Moulières, and finally also the Fourcanade (9400 feet). At the foot
of the Glacier du Néthou is a hut called the Rencluse. Most people
would have preferred a bivouac to the old refuge there, but a new
building has just been opened, and the track thereto from the Port de
Venasque was in 1919 being marked with blazes of green paint (a unique
phenomenon in the Pyrenees, at all events on the Spanish side).
The climbing on the Maladetta group is very easy on the whole. The
glaciers are simple, and the rock, though rotten, is easy. The
Fourcanade, a bold granite peak, more easily approached from Las Bordas
or Viella in the Val d’Aran than from Luchon, presents no difficulty
by the ordinary route from the south, but might afford some very
interesting fancy routes on the precipitous northern side. The best
climbing from Luchon lies on the main range, and the peaks here have
not been so thoroughly explored as those round Gavarnie; indeed there
is room for some most interesting new rock routes to be made. The
rock again is granite, and is much sounder than the limestone of the
Gavarnie peaks; and the main range provides some beautifully sound rock
arêtes.
The mountains round Gavarnie and Luchon are not big, are grouped
closely together, and the ascent of more than one can often be made in
a moderately long day. Therefore a party which clings to civilization
will soon exhaust the more important routes and be driven back on
making minor variations. Yet there are no other centres worthy of the
name. Of course there are places such as Cauterets, or the Baths of
Panticosa in Spain, from which a few peaks can be ascended, but these
can hardly be called centres. It follows, then, that a party which
wishes for any quantity or variety of mountaineering proper must sleep
either in inns or huts or must camp out, and inns are so rare and huts
are so dirty that it will be forced to camp out if it is to see the
most attractive parts of the range. For it is precisely the wildness
and solitude of these parts, far from human habitation,--of the Posets,
for instance, or the Balaitous, or the region east of the Maladetta
group,--that mark off the Pyrenees from the Alps and give them a charm
that is all their own. The wise climber will abandon centres and inns
and move along the main range, sleeping out, climbing such peaks as
attract him, and occasionally visiting some high village for the sake
of renewing his food supplies.
This is the only way in which to see and appreciate the Pyrenees, and
if the climber adopts it he will have to face problems very different
from those of the Alps. Though the ascents will be far easier than
those of first-class alpine peaks, yet the external help will be
infinitely smaller. He will find the country a primitive one, and if he
is to achieve success he must depend mainly on himself and little on
professional or artificial aid.
[Sidenote: Guides.]
In the first place, little help can be obtained locally. At Gavarnie
and Luchon there are a few capable men; but the majority of the class
called guides in the Pyrenees are guides rather in the old sense of
the word than in the newer sense of professional climbers. They are,
of course, competent to show the way over the mountains from one place
to another, and often even the easy routes up the peaks; sometimes
they are good rock climbers. But of actual mountaineering, as a rule
they know nothing. Most of them have little knowledge of snow craft or
of the use of the rope--which they are apt to regard as a danger to
themselves rather than as a safeguard to their party; and above all,
they have nothing of the high tradition of the alpine guide. A guided
party in the Pyrenees would save time below the snowline in getting
across country; but, provided they had a little experience of the Alps
and of English climbing, above the snowline they would usually be safer
alone.
There is also in the more remote districts a class of men who offer
themselves as guides, but in whom it would be unwise to put any trust
for any purpose whatever, especially in the off season when the
mountains are more than usually desolate.
Though brigandage is now extinct in the Pyrenees, there are still
persons who will seize any chance of returning to a modified form of
it. But even if we allow that some guides are better than others, the
Pyrenees remain essentially mountains for the guideless, and if the
climber takes a guide, he will lose half their charm while adding
little to his own safety or achievements.
[Sidenote: Maps.]
Again, in Switzerland, the climber rightly puts implicit confidence
in the accuracy of his maps even for minute detail. In the Pyrenees
he is unable to do so. There are three maps of importance, and none
of them approaches the excellence of the Siegfried map. The first is
that issued by the French Ministère de l’Intérieur, and published by
Hachette et Cie, in plain paper sheet. Its scale is small (1/100000),
it has no contour lines, it is rather indistinctly printed, it makes
little attempt to delineate accurately the higher mountains, and on
the Spanish side it gives no more than a general indication of the
geography of the country.
The map of the État-Major de la Guerre, which is on a larger scale
(1/80000), formerly sold at 1 fr. 20 c. a sheet, is even worse; this
also is not a contour map, and it stops entirely at the frontier, and
leaves the Spanish side a complete blank. Its printing, moreover, is
blurred and indistinct.
The third map is the most useful; it is drawn by M. Schrader, and
issued by the Club Alpin Français, in 6 sheets, and covers only the
High Pyrenees. It is absolutely essential for the Spanish side, and it
is best for the French side also. Its scale is only 1/100000, and it is
not quite so detailed as we might wish. But it gives the contours, and
it is clearly printed. Unfortunately most, if not all, of the sheets
are out of print and difficult to obtain.
Finally, there is said to be a Spanish military map of the High
Pyrenees; whether it exists or not, it is unobtainable by the public.
The defects of these maps are felt even more in the valleys than in the
high mountains. In climbing a peak in good weather comparatively little
help is needed from a map; but the configuration of the higher valleys
and gorges is such that for them a really good detailed map would be
invaluable. They are often narrow, steep and heavily wooded; paths are
few and very hard to find, or to keep to when found, and the existing
maps give little accurate indication of them. In consequence, it is
here that a guideless party has special difficulties, and these are
increased by the prevalence of the cirque formation. The upper valleys
are often cut into two parts by a horseshoe wall of rock, extending
right across them from one side to the other, and thus consist of an
upper and lower plane with a precipice between. In ascending a valley
it is usually not difficult to see an easy way up these cirques, but in
descending, when nothing can be seen between the immediate foreground
and the valley below, it is often hard to tell where the line of least
resistance lies. The map as a rule gives no clue, and a guideless party
may have to make several attempts to find a feasible route. Thus it is
really in the valleys, and especially in the Spanish valleys, where all
difficulties seem to be accentuated, that the lack of a good map is
most felt.
There is, however, a prospect that soon we shall be better equipped
in this respect, as the publication of the Pyrenean sheets of the new
French 1/50000 map is expected in the course of the next few years,
and there is also talk of the issue of a 1/20000 map of the Gavarnie
peaks. The reproduction of the 1/40000 manuscript map, which forms
the basis of the 1/80000 État-Major map (France only), has also been
discussed.
[Sidenote: Huts and Inns.]
Another respect in which the Pyrenees will be found more primitive than
the Alps is in the absence of climbing huts. There are, indeed, huts in
the Pyrenees in certain numbers, but they are shepherds’ huts, built
of uncemented stones with no flooring, and as a rule so filthy that no
civilized person would use them unless driven to it by great stress
of weather. The majority of the huts marked on the maps are of this
nature, and as they are liable to fall to pieces from time to time,
here also the maps may become untrustworthy. (A special instance of
this is the Cabane de Turmes, under the Pic des Posets; this is marked
in the Schrader map, but has for some time ceased to exist.) There are,
however, a very few climbing huts proper, especially near Luchon and
Gavarnie, either kept by private individuals for profit, or erected by
the C.A.F. on alpine lines.
Inns also are rarely to be found high up in the mountains; on the
French side they are more common than on the Spanish, and they are also
more likely to be good; in Spain they are sometimes fairly clean, but
always very primitive, with a peculiar style of cooking, involving a
lavish use of oil, which is extremely unpalatable to most Englishmen.
Probably the best inn in the high valleys on the Spanish side, except
at the Baths of Panticosa, which are on a high road, is at the thermal
establishment and shrine of Caldas de Bolis. It may be useful to
mention this for those who wish to explore the region east of the
Maladetta, as it finds no place in Joanne’s guide.
[Sidenote: Equipment.]
In these circumstances, huts and inns being both few and bad, a tent or
a sleeping-bag is an absolute necessity in the Pyrenees. The latter is
preferable for a party which wishes to be as free as possible; a tent
is, of course, more comfortable, but it almost necessarily involves
the taking of a mule, and the party will be at once restricted in
its movements; the mule will be unable to traverse peaks, and more
especially it will be unable to cross a large number of low cols which
involve no serious climbing, but which would be too difficult for four
legs. This means that the party would be able to cross the main range
only at a few points, and in moving along the range it would often be
forced down into the lower valleys. Again, in bad weather sleeping-bags
are not such a disadvantage in the Pyrenees as elsewhere, for their
limestone and schist tend to weather into caves, and if a bivouac is
made near a cave or an overhang or a shepherds’ hut (and there will
generally be little difficulty about finding one of these), shelter can
at once be found in the event of storm.
On the other hand, a party travelling without porters or mules and
sleeping out will find that it has a great weight to carry. The
sleeping-bags ought to be thick, as it will often be necessary
to bivouac at about 7000 feet, which is occasionally above the
tree-level, and warmth at night is worth a few extra pounds. Below
the tree-level it is easy to make a fire, but a large supply of wood
must be collected, and some wakefulness is required to prevent the
fire from going out in the small hours of the morning when the cold is
greatest. For cooking it is usually best to use an aluminium cooker
with methylated spirits. A large quantity of food must also be carried,
especially on the Spanish side, where a human habitation may not be
met with for four days on end. Occasionally a shepherd may be able to
provide some cheese, or a limb of an izzard, the Pyrenean chamois; but
a climbing party will have to rely mainly on the high villages for
supplies, and these are few and far between. The French villages are
more civilized, and will provide more luxurious food; but the Spanish
villages are more worth visiting, the people are kindly, and at least
the necessaries of life are obtainable. Usually they can provide
coffee, chickens, sardines, eggs and, of course, bread. But jam,
potted meats, compressed soups, etc., are better brought straight from
England, though they can be bought as a rule at the larger towns on
the French side. Chocolate is better bought on the French side, though
generally obtainable on the Spanish. It is curious that cows are rarely
kept in the high villages, and milk and butter are often unobtainable.
On the Spanish side most people will prefer to drink water, as the wine
has a peculiar taste; in France it is good, but rough. Streams, of
course, are plentiful in the mountains. The natives carry their liquor
in bags of goatskin, smooth on the outside and hairy inside; the hair
imparts a very goaty taste to the contents, so it is wise to add an
ordinary English metal water-bottle to one’s equipment. If one of the
party is a fisherman, it would probably pay to take a rod and line, as
many of the small lakes abound with trout. Some people carry with them
rope-soled shoes, alpargatas, which are used by the natives for walking
on the rough mule-paths and over grass. They are certainly light and
restful for one’s feet, but it is doubtful whether they are worth their
weight and bulk in one’s rucksack; for rock climbing they would be here
of doubtful use.
The usual alpine clothing should be worn.
The valleys are very hot in summer, but the temperature and weather in
the mountains are similar to those of Switzerland.
It is important to remember that often civilization is several days
distant, and in consequence many extras must be taken. Most of these
must be brought from England, as it is impossible to obtain real
climbing equipment on the spot. It is quite essential to carry a
first-aid case, including a few simple medicines, extra pairs of
snow-glasses, an extra folding lantern, plenty of candles and matches,
string, waterproof bags--sponge-bags do very well--to protect matches,
maps, etc. A prismatic compass with a protractor and an aneroid will be
found very useful for ascertaining the exact position of the party.
A passport should on no account be forgotten: the Customs officers and
frontier police give little serious trouble, but occasionally they
are apt to assert themselves, and in this case a passport has a most
soothing influence upon them.
If no member of the party knows Spanish, a conversation book would be
of use. A small knowledge of French is essential, and in each Spanish
village there is usually some one who knows French and will act as
interpreter. Still, it would save some trouble to be able to talk a
little Spanish; since the war especially knowledge of French seems to
have become rarer at some of the more remote Spanish inns. English, of
course, is unknown except in the larger French towns. Basque would
only be of use in the country west of the Vallée d’Aspe, where the
range is lower.
It is clear, then, that each member of a party ought to have a rucksack
of the largest size. His sleeping-bag, if he takes one, will fill most
of it, and the rest will be taken up by his extra clothes or his share
of food and equipment. In all, he will be carrying more than is usual
in the Alps (probably between 20 and 25 lb.), but not too much to
affect his enjoyment.
It is possibly a wise precaution for a party, starting out of
condition, to hire a mule to convey their rucksacks--which will be at
their heaviest at the start--as far as the first bivouac.
[Sidenote: Expense.]
One great advantage of a holiday spent in the Pyrenees is its
cheapness. This is partially due to the fact that the climber will
spend much of his time either in camp or else in small mountain
inns, where the charges are quite moderate as a rule, the chief
exceptions being the inns round the tourist centres, which tend to be
extortionate. On the Spanish side the stranger ought to make a bargain
with his host, who expects it of him as a matter of course. This is
particularly necessary if the hire of a mule is in question.
In addition, the journey from England is not expensive; the pre-war
return fare to any of the mountain termini ranged from £9 to £10 or £11
first class, and from £7 to £8 second class. Existing rates are perhaps
30 per cent or 40 per cent higher. Guides, if they are used, are also
cheap, 10 to 15 francs a day with food was a normal wage before the
war, though they would often demand more. Most mountains near any
civilization have a fixed tariff; the bigger peaks as a rule run from
20 to 30 francs, with a few running to 40 francs (pre-war prices). Thus
a party accustomed to the Alps will be surprised at the cheapness of a
holiday spent in the Pyrenees, unless, indeed, it spends much time in
the centres on the French side.
It is necessary to provide oneself with Spanish money for Spain. French
money is not accepted as a rule. If considerable loss over exchange is
to be avoided, it is desirable to obtain both French and Spanish notes
before leaving England. English money can be changed, at a price, in
the bigger French towns.
[Sidenote: Literature.]
Some knowledge of the literature of our mountains is almost essential
to the success of a climbing tour, and there is no lack of books and
articles on the subject. _Baedeker’s South-Western France_ is, of
course, good for the more civilized region, but makes no pretence at
being a mountaineer’s guide. Joanne’s _Pyrénées_ (Hachette et Cie,
1912, revised to 1914) is better, as it gives fairly detailed accounts
of the principal climbs, and contains a good general introduction.
Count Henry Russell’s _Grandes Ascensions des Pyrénées_ (Hachette,
1866) and _Souvenirs d’un Montagnard_ (Pau, 1888) are both of value;
they describe all the more important routes, but the style is emotional
rather than practical. Probably the climber will find Packe’s _Guide to
the Pyrenees_ (Longmans, 1867) of the greatest use; it is essentially
a mountaineer’s guide, and restricts itself to the region between the
Vallée d’Aspe and the Val d’Aran; its directions for climbing the
peaks are of a practical nature, and often give as much detail as is
necessary. Unfortunately it is out of print, and difficult to find. In
addition to these guides we have an account of two climbing holidays,
called _Through the High Pyrenees_ (Innes, 1898), by H. Spender and
H. Llewellyn Smith. This book gives a good picture of the country and
of the type of climbing, and it contains an excellent appendix on the
“Pyrenees as a Climbing Centre,” and an extremely useful bibliography,
including a full list of the many papers on Pyrenean climbing to be
found in past numbers of the _Alpine Journal_ and the _Annuaire_ of the
C.A.F. It is in these journals, and especially in the latter, that the
more difficult modern routes, accomplished since the publication of
Packe’s guide, are recorded, and here we have a ready means of knowing
in which volume to find them. Finally, Belloc’s _Pyrenees_ makes
interesting reading, but it is of more value to the walker than to the
climber, and it contains some imaginative detail.
* * * * *
From this short account it will be seen that the Pyrenees make no
appeal to climbers who are only content with long and arduous peaks and
difficult ice-work, or to those who prefer to climb from a comfortable
hotel or a clean hut and who dislike attending in person to the
troublesome details of bivouacking and cooking. But to the climber of
moderate ambitions, who is weary of the clatter of Swiss hotels or the
picnic-parties on Swiss peaks, there are no near mountains which offer
so attractive a refuge. The novice, also, who has spent a few summers
behind guides in the Alps will discover that one season of guideless
climbing in the Pyrenees will infinitely increase his knowledge of
mountaineering in the larger sense of the word; he will have experience
of route-finding both in the valleys and on rock and glacier, of
step-cutting, of using aneroid and compass and of camping, and he will
return to the greater peaks with a heightened capacity for appreciating
the mountains and their craft.
CHAPTER XIX
THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS
BY A. L. MUMM
[Sidenote: General Topography.]
The Rocky Mountains form the backbone of the North-American Continent,
and the Canadian Rockies extend from the United States frontier in a
north-westerly direction for some hundreds of miles. Of the regions
which are of interest to mountaineers, the northern limit is marked
by Mount Sir Alexander, a peak which rises a few miles to the west of
the continental divide or watershed, a little over 400 miles, as the
crow flies (_very_ roughly speaking), from the frontier, and from 60 to
80 miles beyond Mount Robson. The country situated between these two
mountains is full of interest for explorers and climbers, but is at
present very imperfectly known and mapped. From Mount Robson southward
we possess mountaineering knowledge which is extensive, but not quite
continuous and far from complete, as far as Mount Assiniboine, a
distance in a direct line of about 200 miles (another rough estimate).
Till quite recently nothing of alpine or mountaineering interest was
known to exist in the main chain of the Canadian Rockies south of
Mount Assiniboine, but, in the course of an official survey of the
watershed between Kicking Horse Pass and the frontier (1913-16), no
less than four groups of mountains, clad in snow fields and glaciers,
and containing three peaks of over 11,000 feet, were discovered. No
climbing has as yet been attempted on any of them. They extend for
about 40 miles beyond the Assiniboine group.[36]
The continental watershed pursues a very tortuous and irregular course,
and is probably at least half as long again as the ‘air-line’ length
of the range. East of the watershed the mountain region extends for
a comparatively short distance and ends with remarkable abruptness.
Through much of its length there is a succession of minor groups
and ranges situated close to the main chain, but separated from it
by the upper valleys of the great rivers, which show a striking
tendency to run parallel to it. These possess some extensive snow
fields and considerable glaciers, and will probably receive attention
from climbers in the near future, but very little is known of them
at present. Beyond them is a belt of mountains, not attaining to the
snow-level but often rocky and bold in outline, which reaches to
the edge of the great central plain, and presents to the traveller
approaching it by the railway the appearance of a solid impenetrable
wall. There are no snow fields or glaciers in this outer belt so far
as I am aware. (It may be as well to say here once for all that this
qualification is often unavoidable in dealing with an area so extensive
and little known as the mountain region of Canada; it is impossible
to give any information at all without putting forward as probable
statements which may turn out to be erroneous.) To the west of the
watershed, on the other hand, the country is continuously mountainous
all the way to the Pacific Coast, three hundred miles away, and there
are several ranges, alpine in size and character, standing quite apart
from and independent of the main chain. Of these the Selkirks, an
immense mountain system, enclosed by the great loops of the Columbia
and Kootenay Rivers, are by far the largest and most important.
The outstanding feature of all this region is that till quite modern
times it was entirely uninhabited, and for the most part still remains
so. Indians in old days came up into the mountains to hunt, and to some
extent for purposes of trade, but they did not live among them. Two or
three outposts of the Hudson Bay Company, long since abandoned, were
the only permanent human habitations. This differentiates mountain
travel in Canada in many ways--as soon as the immediate neighbourhood
of the railway is left--from mountain travel in the Caucasus or the
Himalaya, particularly with respect to food supplies, roads and
methods of transport. In the high mountain region the railways have had
little or no effect on the character of the country, except within a
few miles of the line.
The Rockies are now accessible by two lines of railway. Of these
the Grand Trunk Pacific was completed early in 1914. It enters the
mountains by the valley of the Athabasca River, and at the point where
it leaves the Athabasca to ascend to the Yellowhead Pass (17 miles
away) stands Jasper, destined to become a tourist centre, to which we
shall return later. The other line, the Canadian Pacific, which has
been in existence more than thirty years, crosses the main chain at the
Kicking Horse Pass, and then, after descending into the deep trench of
the Columbia River, passes through the very heart of the Selkirk Range.
Climbing has now been carried on continuously and systematically for
nearly thirty years among the mountains adjacent to this railway both
in the main chain and in the Selkirks. It will be convenient to deal
at once with the region here indicated, which will be referred to as
the C.P.R. district. It is the only region where at the present moment
conditions prevail at all resembling those of the European Alps, and
climbing within its limits is quite a different affair from climbing
elsewhere in Canada.
A climber wishing to see something of the mountains of Canada, who has
not ample time at his disposal after arriving among them--I should be
inclined to say _at the very least_ a month--would be well advised to
confine himself to the C.P.R. district, making, perhaps, one short
trip of the kind mentioned below. He would find enough, and more than
enough, to occupy him.
[Sidenote: The ‘C.P.R.’ District.]
Taking the main chain first, the extent of the C.P.R. district may be
taken to be the area dealt with in _Baedeker’s Canada_ (1907), which
contains about ten pages packed with accurate and highly condensed
information. The alpine particulars given are mainly based on chapters
i. to ix. of _In the Heart of the Canadian Rockies_, by the Rev.
Sir James Outram, who has been over almost the whole district and
has supplemented his own experiences by copious extracts from the
original narratives of Dr. Collie, Mr. Wilcox, and the members of the
Appalachian Mountain Club.[37]
The railway enters the mountains from the east by the valley of the
Bow River, the principal constituent of the _South_ Saskatchewan, and
soon afterwards arrives at Banff. The excellent C.P.R. Banff Springs
Hotel is the most frequented place in the Rockies; but Banff itself is
not a mountaineering centre, though Dr. Collie discovered a good rock
climb in the neighbourhood on Mount Edith, and doubtless others might
be found.[38] It is, however, of interest to climbers as the site of
the Club House of the Alpine Club of Canada (of which more anon), and
as the starting-point for Mount Assiniboine. This peak is the highest
to the south of the railway, and its ascent is a very fine expedition.
Given favourable conditions it can be reached and climbed, and the
return journey to Banff completed, within six days. This involves
travelling with a camp outfit and pack-horses; but it would be well
worth while for a climber visiting Canada for the first time to make
one such trip (and this one is probably the most repaying), for,
besides being pleasant and interesting in itself, it would give him
much useful experience in case he contemplated returning another year,
and making a more extended journey off the beaten track.
Soon after leaving Banff, the valley of the Bow River runs parallel
with the main chain, passing Storm Mountain and Mount Ball, which can
be reached via the Vermilion Pass in two days from Banff.[39]
Thirty-five miles beyond Banff is Laggan, where the railway leaves
the Bow River, and ascends by Bath Creek to the Kicking Horse Pass.
Laggan[40] is the station for Lake Louise, where there is another
first-class C.P.R. hotel (3 miles from the railway), the principal
centre for the mountains on the south side of the line. Several
of these can be climbed from the hotel itself; and there may be a
permanent summer camp for the use of climbers in the valley of the Ten
Peaks. If not, it is easy to have a tent, provisions, etc., sent there
from the hotel.[41] A similar arrangement could be made either at Lake
Louise or Field for a camp at Lake O’Hara, and this would bring within
easy reach all the other peaks which deserve attention, except those of
the Ottertail Range.
The last-mentioned group is best attacked from Field, 16 miles beyond
Laggan and 8 miles to the west of the Kicking Horse Pass, where there
is another C.P.R. hotel, the Mount Stephen House, the best centre
for visiting the mountains on the north side of the railway. Besides
the hotel at Field there are a chalet hotel on Emerald Lake and two
permanent summer camps, one at the Takakkaw Falls; the other, Camp
Warren, I have not been able to locate. It is, of course, also possible
to approach the mountains of the Waputik Range by making a short trip
up the Bow River, but the Yoho and Emerald Valleys seem to be more
attractive. From the climber’s point of view these mountains are
distinctly inferior in interest to those on the south side of the line,
and the same may be said of Mount Hector, the highest summit between
the Bow and Pipestone Valleys. East of the Pipestone the mountains of
the Ptarmigan Lake district, just opposite Laggan, should be worth a
visit.[42]
The best general map that I can discover of this part of the C.P.R.
district is the southern sheet of a map of “The Rocky Mountains between
lat. 51° and lat. 53°,” published by the Department of the Interior.
Unfortunately, it comes to an end four or five miles short of Mount
Assiniboine. The part of it which is material for present purposes
is given in a pamphlet issued by the C.P.R. Company, entitled _The
Challenge of the Mountains_. The scale is 4 miles to an inch. The
large-scale maps accompanying the Report mentioned on p. 572 show
the mountains actually forming the watershed (and this includes the
Assiniboine group) southward from Vulture Col and Mount Gordon in the
Waputik Range.
Coming now to the Selkirks, Glacier House (about 90 miles by rail
beyond Field and 3 miles beyond Rogers
Pass, where the line crosses the crest of the range), is probably
the best of the centres of the C.P.R. district, in so far that the
largest number of expeditions can be carried out from the hotel itself,
or with only one night out. In this respect Glacier House has very
few rivals even in Switzerland. _Baedeker_ gives a short summary of
these expeditions and an excellent little map of the mountains, which
literally surround the hotel.
[Sidenote: The Selkirks.]
But much more than _Baedeker_ is available. Besides Mr. Palmer’s
exhaustive book (of which more presently), no visitor to the Selkirks
should omit to secure a copy of Mr. A. O. Wheeler’s _Selkirk Range_
and the accompanying map in four large sheets, which covers a large
portion of the range on a scale of practically 1 mile to an inch. The
topographical information secured by Mr. Wheeler during his survey
is embodied in the form of a Climbers’ Guide in chapter ii. of _The
Selkirk Mountains, a Guide for Mountain Pilgrims and Climbers_, where
very full particulars are given as to the number of days and nights
required for each expedition, whether pack-horses are available, etc.
Huts or cabins are mentioned at Rogers Pass and the Caves of Cheops.
There seem to be no huts or summer camps south of the railway, and it
must be borne in mind that pack-horses cannot be taken southward into
the mountains direct from Glacier House.[43]
The limits in the Selkirks of the C.P.R. district can be easily grasped
by examining together the map in _Baedeker_ and that in the Climbers’
Guide (difficult to read, but useful as showing at a glance the area
comprised in Mr. Wheeler’s large maps). It will be seen at once that
the latter covers a wider area, and in particular has a large extension
to the west and south-west, reaching even beyond the Columbia River to
the Gold Range--a quite independent group. This extension seems to come
well within the C.P.R. district: one or two of the expeditions in it
can be taken from Glacier House; the remainder are treated in chapter
vi. of the Guide in connection with Revelstoke, which accordingly must
be added to the list of C.P.R. centres. Since the publication of the
Guide fine climbing has been accomplished on Mount Moloch and other
peaks reached by the north branch of the Illecillewaet River.[44] The
extension of Mr. Wheeler’s map to the north is unimportant; the notices
in the Guide of Mountain Creek and Mount Pearce are not encouraging,
and, so far as Glacier House is concerned, the crest of the Hermit
Range forms the limit of ordinary mountaineering in this direction.
To the south, on the other hand, both maps extend to regions which
can only be reached by a journey of some days, and several of the
expeditions described in the Guide clearly lie outside the category
now under consideration. No hard-and-fast line can be drawn, and the
traveller must use his own judgment; only, if he is at all tied as to
time, let him bear in mind that estimates of a journey’s length by
little-trodden trails are necessarily very rough, and that what is
called a week’s trip may easily turn out to require two or three days
less _or more_.
[Sidenote: Guides and Equipment.]
Swiss guides, to the number of six or eight, are imported every summer
by the C.P.R. Company, and endeavours are being made to induce some of
them to settle permanently at Edelweiss, near Golden, on the Columbia.
They are distributed during the season among the four or five centres
which have been mentioned. Anyone desiring their services, the charge
for which is (or used to be) $5 per day, should communicate as early as
possible with the hotel from which he intends to climb. A mountaineer
arriving in the C.P.R. district with his ordinary Swiss outfit could
thus enjoy plenty of climbing without any special preparations. Even
ropes and ice-axes are supplied at Glacier House, and, probably, at
the other centres also. The Hudson Bay Company’s excellent blankets
can be procured at Banff, and for a single odd night out bedding could
probably be borrowed.
There is also plenty of scope for guideless climbing. Some of the
expeditions are undoubtedly difficult, and only suitable for an
exceptionally strong unguided party; but three reasonably experienced
amateurs could accomplish a great deal. As compared with the main
chain, the Selkirks offer more snow and ice work and less rock work,
and there seem to be more climbs of only moderate difficulty than
in the Rockies on the south side of the railway. (For a general
comparison of the Selkirks with the Rockies, see Palmer, op. cit. pp.
3-10.)
[Sidenote: The Northern Selkirks.]
Turning now to remoter and less known ground in the Selkirks, to the
north of the railway, beyond the Hermit and Clach na Cooden Ranges, a
very considerable mountain area is enclosed in the Great Bend of the
Columbia River. Pack-horses cannot be used in it effectively, and the
conditions of travel are exceptional and extremely difficult; but a
large part of it, probably the most interesting part, was explored with
extraordinary perseverance by Mr. Howard Palmer’s party from 1908 to
1912. Only in the latter year, on their fifth visit, did they succeed
in attaining the summit of Mount Sir Sandford, the monarch of the
region. For further information the reader is referred to part iii. of
Mr. Palmer’s _Mountaineering and Exploration in the Selkirks_. Part
ii. of this fascinating book is equally valuable as a guide to the
mountains immediately south of Glacier House, which have already been
noticed. Beyond these a still more extensive region remains to be dealt
with.
It will have been noticed that Mr. Wheeler’s map, breaking off abruptly
along most of its southern margin in the very middle of untrodden snow
fields, is itself a challenge to further exploration. His work has
been carried a short distance further by the ascents of Mount Beaver
and Mount Duncan, and some climbs in the Battle Range, but the regions
beyond are still, so far as I am aware, a _terra incognita_, and I
am quite unable to say how much further the southern portion of the
Selkirks proper continues its alpine character.
[Sidenote: The Purcell Range.]
Between this southern portion and the main chain of the Rockies is
another large mountainous tract forming part of the Selkirks system and
known as the Purcell Range, comprising the Dogtooth, Spillimacheen and
South Purcell Ranges. A rough idea of its extent and situation may be
obtained from the sketch map accompanying Dr. Longstaff’s paper in the
_Canadian Alpine Journal_,[45] bearing in mind that Mounts Beaver and
Duncan rise close to the watershed between the two rivers which also
bear those names.
The Dogtooth Range appears to be sub-alpine, and is disposed of in
chapter v. of the Guide; but from the Beaver-Duncan divide to the
neighbourhood of Wells Pass there is a continuous stretch of alpine
country, which rivals in height, beauty and general interest the main
Selkirk Range itself. The Spillimacheen Range has as yet hardly been
touched, but south of Bugaboo Pass a series of energetic campaigns
have, since 1910, been carried on from the Upper Columbia Valley. The
district is far from being an ‘exhausted’ one, but the remarkable group
of mountains situated between Horse Thief Creek and Toby Creek has been
thoroughly explored and mapped.[46]
[Sidenote: Some Minor Ranges.]
It has been said that the range rapidly loses its interest to the south
of Wells Pass, but it is rash to make such a statement in Canada, where
the alpine area is being continually enlarged by fresh discoveries so
rapidly that it is difficult to keep pace with them. In illustration
of this, reference may here be made to an entirely unexpected alpine
region found in 1912 in Vancouver Island, and to Dr. A. P. Coleman’s
recent explorations in the Torngats (Labrador) on the other side of the
continent.[47]
Another outlying district which deserves mention, though not so recent
a discovery, is the Garibaldi Range, near Vancouver City.[48]
[Sidenote: The Main Chain from Laggan to Jasper.]
Returning now to the main chain, there is nothing to be added, so far
as the south side of the C.P.R. is concerned, to what has been already
said. There remains the main chain to the north, which falls naturally
into two sections--that lying beyond the G.T.P. railway, and that
situated between the two railways, the largest, and in many respects
the most interesting, of all the areas with which we have to deal. This
section, or rather that part of it lying south of the Athabasca Pass,
was divided by Dr. Norman Collie[49] into four main groups: (1) The
Balfour (or Waputik) group, between the Kicking Horse Pass and Howse
Pass; (2) the Forbes group, between Howse Pass and Thompson Pass, 30
miles farther north; (3) the Columbia group, extending over the 35
miles from Thompson Pass to Fortress Lake Pass; (4) the Mount Hooker
group, between the Fortress Lake Pass and the Athabasca Pass, 25 miles
farther. Sir J. Outram’s divisions and subdivisions,[50] so far as they
are carried, practically coincide with those of Dr. Collie. To these
must now be added a fifth group, the mountains between the Athabasca
and Yellowhead Passes, which may be called the Edith Cavell group.
As far as the Athabasca Pass the range has a very definite western
boundary consisting of the great trench of the Columbia River, and
it is this portion of it which Sir J. Outram refers to when he says
the Rockies are 60 miles in breadth. At the Athabasca Pass the range
connects with the mass of mountains that separate the Columbia and
Fraser River basins, and from this point northward no precise statement
as to the breadth of the chain is possible.
Of the groups above mentioned the first falls within the C.P.R.
district, and has been already dealt with; the second and third were
the scene of much climbing and exploration from 1898 to 1902, in which
the leading part was played by Dr. Collie. He and Mr. Stutfield have
described his three expeditions in _Climbs and Exploration in the
Canadian Rockies_, one of the Alpine classics of Canada. The whole of
this exploratory work is well summarized in the second half (chapters
x.-xv.) of Sir J. Outram’s book. Since that time the energies of
pioneers have been diverted in other directions, and few, if any,
additions have been made to our knowledge of the region.[51] The
credit of having mapped it belongs to Dr. Collie; all subsequent maps
are based on his; the only extensions of importance are due to Dr. A.
P. Coleman.[52] A study of the records will show that there is still
plenty of scope for exploration in groups 3 and 4, and if first ascents
are not the principal object, groups 2, 3 and 4 probably offer as fine
a field for climbing as any district in Canada.
Attempts have been made to approach the crest of the range from the
west by the lateral valleys descending to the Columbia River, but the
travelling proved to be exceptionally bad even for the Rockies, and
this line of attack is only mentioned to be dismissed. The explorations
above mentioned were carried on wholly on the eastern side of the
range, and the route generally followed holds so important a place in
mountaineering geography that it must be described in some detail.
Starting from Laggan, it ascends the valley of the Bow River, running
parallel to the Waputik Range, to the Bow Pass. Thence it descends into
the basin of the North Saskatchewan by the south branch of that river
(also called Bear Creek, and, more rarely, the Mistaya River), and
leaves it again by the north branch. Both these streams, as their names
suggest, also run parallel to the main chain. At the head of the north
branch the Wilcox Pass leads to the valley of the Athabasca, which
also runs nearly due north, and is followed till the G.T.P. Railway
is reached at Jasper. The ‘air line’ from Laggan to Jasper is just
130 miles, and a good idea of the scale and character of the journey
may be formed by comparing it with that from Chur to Martigny, which
are almost precisely the same distance apart. Starting from Chur, the
Vorderrhein represents the Upper Bow, and the Oberalp the Bow Pass.
The Reuss corresponds to the North Saskatchewan, the Furca to Wilcox
Pass, and the Rhone to the Athabasca. In each case the main chain is
on the traveller’s left hand, while other ranges of varying size and
importance rise on his right, though, unfortunately, the Rockies have
nothing comparable to the Bernese Oberland. Of course there is no
correspondence, in point of distance, between the intervening points.
Very roughly speaking, it is 70 miles to Wilcox Pass, the valleys of
the Upper Bow and the two branches of the Saskatchewan being each a
little over 20 miles in length, while it is about 60 miles from Wilcox
Pass to Jasper. The early explorers all started from Laggan, and
only one of them, Dr. Coleman,[53] followed the route here described
throughout its whole length. It is scarcely necessary to point out
how enormously its importance and value have been enhanced by the
construction of the second line of railway.
The groups mentioned above are progressively more imperfectly known as
one moves farther north, mainly owing to the difficulty of time and
the necessity which formerly existed of a long return journey. The
mountains north of Wilcox Pass can now be much more rapidly and easily
reached from Jasper. Those which enclose the Whirlpool River are still
almost untouched, and would well repay a prolonged visit. The best
line of attack for those on the left bank (the fifth or Edith Cavell
group) would probably be found by going through the depression to the
west of Mount Edith Cavell. The ascent from the Whirlpool trail to it
is steep, but a good packer could get horses up it. Mount Edith Cavell
was approached by this route and climbed by Mr. E. D. Holway in 1915.
Some of the mountains to the west of the depression look difficult.[54]
On the opposite side of the Whirlpool, which in its ordinary condition
is fordable here, a large valley running deeply into the mountains on
the right bank looks well adapted to facilitate the exploration of the
blank space on Dr. Coleman’s map between the Whirlpool and Wood Rivers;
horses could probably be taken up it. The starting-point for this
valley or for the Edith Cavell depression can be reached in three days
from Jasper.[55]
Close to the Yellowhead Pass, Mount Fitzwilliam, a prominent rock peak,
must be of exceptional interest as a view-point, and may be a good
climb as well.
[Sidenote: The Groups East of the Main Chain.]
Of the groups situated to the east of the main chain, the one between
the Bow and Saskatchewan Rivers can be traversed by the Pipestone Creek
and Pass and Siffleur Creek. This route, which reaches the Saskatchewan
a few miles below the confluence of its north and south branches, was
several times used as an alternative to that by the Bow Pass; and there
are transverse passes from the Upper Bow Valley to both the Pipestone
and the Siffleur Creeks, but the early explorers seem to have found no
great inducements to linger in this region.[56]
A much larger block of mountains is that which separates the
Saskatchewan from the Athabasca, and gives rise to its important
tributary, the Brazeau; its southern portion was crossed in three or
four directions by Dr. Coleman,[57] who is the only authority on it
that I have come across. In the northern portion, between Mount Brazeau
and the Athabasca, is Maligne Lake, reached in 1908 by Mrs. Schæffer’s
party,[58] the first white visitors, via Poboktan Creek, and probably
also accessible by a pass nearly opposite the mouth of the Whirlpool
Valley. The few people who have visited Maligne Lake are remarkably
enthusiastic about it, and, judging from photographs, the peaks round
its head should prove very interesting to climbers. Much more is likely
to be heard of them in the near future, as the lower end of the lake is
only fifteen miles from Jasper by the valley--hitherto impassable for
horses--of the Maligne River, up which a trail will certainly be made
very shortly, if it has not been already completed, and the results of
further investigation will have an important effect on the reputation
of Jasper as a centre.
[Sidenote: The Main Chain North of the G.T.P.]
We now come to the mountains north of the G.T.P. Railway, which spread
over an extensive and indefinite area, of which our present knowledge
may be described as considerable but patchy. Mount Robson, the magnet
which first drew explorers here in the pre-railway days, is, and must
remain, the principal centre of interest. It is the great alpine asset
of the G.T.P., and an hotel will probably soon arise somewhere near
Mount Robson Station, opposite the mouth of the Grand Forks River, a
tributary of the Fraser. Up the Grand Forks Valley the base of its
western face--the best line of ascent--can now be reached in a long
half-day, by rail and trail, from Jasper. Very full information with
regard to this great peak, the highest in the Canadian Rockies, and its
satellites and surroundings, is now available, but it would take too
long to deal with it here.[59] Swift Current Creek and two or three
other valleys descending into the Fraser below the Grand Forks were
visited by Mr. Holway in 1915 and 1916; he reports: “A wonderful field
for exploration, especially in the big bend of the Fraser.” The same
energetic explorer paid a brief visit in 1916 to the Cariboo Range,
on the other side of the Fraser, probably the most important of the
independent minor ranges.[60]
The main watershed immediately to the north of Mount Robson (Robson
Pass) consists of a long flat plain, so level that the water issuing
from the Robson Glacier flows both ways. All climbing hitherto has
been done from camps on this plain, which was formerly inaccessible,
except by actual climbing, from the much lower Grand Forks Valley,
and attainable only by a roundabout route from the east via the Moose
River and Pass. It can now be reached via the Grand Forks by a trail
engineered in 1913, in seven or eight hours from Mount Robson Station.
If an ascent of Mount Robson itself be the sole object, it would
probably be the quickest way--as above suggested--to go up to a bivouac
direct from the Grand Forks Valley; but the higher camping-ground on
the divide is much the best centre for exploring the neighbourhood
generally. The round trip by the Moose River route is also worth making
for its own sake, especially if time permits of some climbing being
done on the way. There are interesting expeditions to be made near the
Moose Pass: Resplendent Valley, at the head of the West Fork of the
Moose River, is well worth a visit, and, though the actual line of the
divide has been laid down by Mr. Wheeler, there is still exploratory
work to be done among the mountains between the East Fork and Grant
Creek.
For the whole of this region Mr. Wheeler’s map[61] is indispensable.
The mountains facing Mount Robson _immediately_ on the other side of
the level plain above mentioned have all been climbed, but behind these
there is a remarkable region which is still very little known. The
range duplicates itself in a curious way difficult to explain on paper,
enclosing a low plateau, along which, strange to say, the main divide
seems to run. On the eastern side of the plateau is the Chown group,
first visited by Dr. Collie’s party in 1911.[62] Our further knowledge
of the country in this direction is mainly due to Donald Phillips, who
has made a rough sketch-map extending considerably farther north,[63]
and conducted three expeditions farther still, through very difficult
country, to Mount Sir Alexander[64] and Jarvis Pass. This is the
farthest north yet reached by climbers. Whether there are any alpine
regions beyond it is, I believe, quite uncertain.
North of the Yellowhead Pass there are no blocks of mountains to
the east of the main chain, and definitely separated from it, of a
character at all comparable to those found between the G.T.P. and
the C.P.R.; but there is a considerable area lying just outside the
limits of Mr. Wheeler’s map, and shown as a blank on Dr. Collie’s
map, closely connected with the divide itself, which would certainly
repay farther exploration, and is within fairly easy reach of Jasper.
There are three possible lines of attack: First it may be possible to
approach it from the west, by the Miette River; secondly, there is the
valley of the Snaring River, which joins the Athabasca a few miles
below Jasper: whatever else he may find there, all the charm of the
unexpected awaits the first visitor to its mysterious upper basin. It
is said to be very difficult, if not impossible, of access, but the
attempt would be well worth making. Anyone contemplating it should,
before starting, make the ascent of Pyramid Peak at the head of Jasper
Lake, and carefully note what he sees from there. Lastly, there is
the much larger Stony River,[65] which enters the Athabasca below
Jasper Lake, and should provide a happy hunting-ground to a climber
with topographical inclinations. The southern branch already referred
to calls most urgently for attention, but higher up the main valley
several fine glaciers offer tempting roads to the skyline. A pass at
the head of the main Stony leads to the Smoky River, which it strikes
just opposite the Chown group, and thus supplies an attractive though
lengthy alternative route to the Robson region. There are some wild
and striking rock peaks on the right hand of the traveller crossing
this pass from Jasper, but apart from these, there is nothing beyond
the Stony River of any interest to a climber.
An attempt on that remarkable mountain, the Roche Miette, is recorded
in the _Canadian Alpine Journal_, ix. 141.
[Sidenote: Modes and Manners of Travel.]
Travel away from the railway, as has already been indicated, means
travelling with a camp outfit and a pack-train. The business of
‘packing’ is a highly organized one, and it is a vocation which, in
untrodden country at least, makes as severe demands as that of a guide,
and more varied in character, on the courage and resourcefulness
of those who follow it. The packers, indeed, hold a position which
presents many analogies to that of guides in the Alps, and a first-rate
packer, like a first-rate guide, is a treasure beyond all price. It
may be as well to mention here, for the benefit of those who have not
visited the Rockies, that they are a very independent set of men, and
that the social distinctions which are universally taken for granted in
Europe simply do not exist for them. The sooner and more completely the
traveller can get himself into the same mental attitude on this point,
the more pleasantly will he fare. He will also discover, if he keeps
his eyes and ears open, that there is a very well-defined, unwritten
code of camp manners, of which the outstanding rules are: Never
grumble; never be impatient; never tell anybody to do anything, always
ask him.
The usual way of making arrangements with a packer is to inform him,
as long as possible beforehand, of the number of the party and the
proposed duration of the trip. He then takes charge of everything,
providing saddle-horses, pack-horses, tents, cooking equipment,
provisions, etc., for a fixed sum per day: the only thing which
the traveller is expected to provide is his bedding. In the C.P.R.
district packing is now almost wholly in the hands of the Brewster
Transfer Co. Ltd., whose head-quarters are at Lake Louise. They have a
good reputation, and are said to provide good men. Their usual rates
are--for one person $15 per day; for two persons $12.50 for each
person; and $10 per day for three persons, “with liberal reduction for
larger parties.” Outside the C.P.R. district packing is still a matter
of individual private enterprise; some of the packers who formerly
worked in the C.P.R. district have migrated to Jasper, and probably
others will make it their head-quarters as time goes on; but at present
the principal centre of the packers of Northern Alberta is at Lac St.
Anne, near Edmonton. Their ordinary charges are about the same as those
of the Brewster Company. (_N.B._--Written in 1913; charges may now be
higher.)
[Sidenote: Outfit.]
A few suggestions with regard to some of the above-mentioned items may
be useful.
1. Having once tried the experiment of dispensing with saddle-horses,
partly on general ascetic principles, partly with a view to getting
into training, I have no hesitation in saying that it is a great
mistake. If one keeps with the rest of the outfit,[66] it is dreary
work; if one goes at one’s own time and pace, trouble arises when
rivers have to be crossed--either the traveller has to wait for
the outfit or the outfit for the traveller (and to check a lot of
pack-horses when on the move is a tiresome matter); while it is
surprisingly easy for the unwary pedestrian to lose touch with the
outfit altogether, even on such a well-trodden trail as the Jasper
trail in pre-railway days.
2. The traveller should make sure that one of the tents is a
_teepee_.[67] During a spell of cold, wet weather (and even snow
is sometimes encountered in August at quite low levels) a _teepee_
makes things much less intolerable. A packer with a large and varied
experience of both summer and winter travel told me he preferred a
large ordinary tent with a stove. I have no personal experience of
this, but one or the other is essential. The other tents provided
by the packers satisfy all ordinary requirements, but are sometimes
inadequate under stress of prolonged wet weather. I once took a Whymper
tent made of extra light material, which, besides being absolutely
watertight, possessed two great advantages: first, it had a floor;
secondly, it could be put up immediately on arriving in camp: other
tents have to wait till the necessary poles can be cut down, and a good
many other things have to be attended to before this can be done. The
drawback to it--a serious one--was that the poles were inconveniently
long for packing purposes: this might perhaps be got over by making the
poles with two joints instead of one. A small Mummery tent for making
a flying camp is not required so often as alpine experience would lead
one to expect, but on the whole it is worth taking.
3. As to clothing, the same sort is required as in the Alps. It is
well to bear in mind that one spends more time--generally much more
time--‘on the trail’ than in climbing, and heavily nailed climbing
boots are not very suitable for riding; they are apt to stick in the
stirrups, which might easily be a source of great danger in case of
a fall. Shooting boots with ordinary (not projecting) nails are much
better for an ordinary day’s travel. Gloves are useful in riding
through thick forest, and a silk neckerchief is some protection against
mosquitoes. Fortnum & Mason, Jermyn Street, London, have a good camp
boot which is also useful for this purpose.
Either a mackintosh or a suit of ‘oilies’ is indispensable for riding
in wet weather. ‘Oilies’ are a more complete protection against rain,
but difficult to get in and out of quickly, and appallingly hot when
the character of the trail makes it necessary to dismount and walk. On
the whole, a mackintosh is to be preferred.
For bedding, a couple of blankets are all that is required in fine
weather; spruce boughs make a perfect mattress. But there is much to
be said in favour of a camp-bed, especially if the tent has no floor
to it. With an X-bed, a sleeping-bag and a blanket any weather can be
faced with equanimity, and the extra weight of the bed is not a matter
of importance. It is much more necessary that the packages containing
one’s personal baggage should be tightly packed, compact and easy
to handle, than that they should be light. A couple of suit-cases
(preferably of crushed cane) _not more than 26 inches long_, hold all
that is wanted for a two months’ trip, and go well on each side of
a pack-saddle. A _chilamchi_[68] of the Indian type is useful, but
rather unwieldy; it is easy to get a rather smaller basin (preferably
_not_ enamelled) at the Army and Navy Stores, and have a leather case
specially made for it.
4. Camping out is very extensively practised in Canada, and it is
quite unnecessary to think of taking out any special luxuries from
England in the way of provisions. Anything of that nature, also whisky
of excellent quality, and cigars (good and cheap), can be obtained
at the Hudson Bay Company’s Stores at Edmonton or Calgary. As to
provisions generally, packers usually have a very good idea of what
is wanted; but if one has any special preferences--e.g. for cocoa or
coffee over tea--it is as well to mention them.
[Sidenote: Season.]
The season for climbing in Canada and weather conditions generally are,
roughly speaking, similar to those in the Alps; but the season closes
rather earlier, and the spell of fine weather which is so often met
with in the Alps early in September does not seem to occur there. When
well-trodden ground is left, it must be borne in mind that rivers are
more likely to be troublesome early in the summer (i.e. till towards
the end of July) than later on; but quite insignificant creeks may
suddenly become impassable obstacles for a day or two at any time.
Trails, moreover, which are not regularly used often deteriorate, and,
as was remarked above, snowstorms sometimes make travel temporarily
impossible even in August. The moral of all which is, that it is rash
to try and work out cut-and-dried plans beforehand, so far as dates and
times are concerned.
[Sidenote: The Annual Camps.]
No account of mountaineering in Canada would be complete which omitted
to make mention of the Alpine Club of Canada, and the annual camps of
its members in the mountains, which indeed have become the outstanding
feature of mountaineering as practised by Canadians themselves. They
are usually held towards the end of July, and last for eight or ten
days. They are necessarily situated near one or other of the railways,
but their area is sometimes extended by the formation of subsidiary
camps, and parties for more distant expeditions are frequently
formed when the camp breaks up. A climber intending to make a first
acquaintance with the Rockies could not do so in a pleasanter and more
profitable manner than by paying a visit to one of these camps, and
for this and many other reasons he would be well advised to become a
member of the club. The cordial welcome offered to English mountaineers
generally, and to members of the Alpine Club in particular, must be
experienced in order to be properly appreciated, and it is hardly
necessary to point out that the camps give an unequalled opportunity
of obtaining first-hand information from the most authoritative
sources with regard to topography, new expeditions, methods of travel
and similar matters. If a visit to the camp was not practicable,
the traveller, as a member of the club, could procure advice and
assistance from its officials and other members which would otherwise
be unattainable.
[Sidenote: Access, Cost, etc.]
With regard to the journey from England, the following particulars were
given in the invitation issued to members of the (English) Alpine Club
in 1913:
“The steamer fare, first class, from Liverpool to Montreal is £18, 10s.
each way (£11 by one-class boats).
“The cost of return ticket, first class, from Montreal to Laggan
(C.P.R.) is £13. The extra charge for a berth in a sleeping-car is £6
for the double journey.
“The cost of return ticket, first class, from Montreal to Mount Robson
Station (G.T.P.) is £14. The extra charge for a berth in a sleeping-car
is about £6, 10s. for the double journey.
“The time occupied by the journey from Liverpool to Mount Robson or
Laggan Stations is ten to eleven days.”
_N.B._--The voyage in one-class boats takes some days longer. A berth
in the sleeping-car is practically indispensable. Two persons taking
a ‘compartment’ can make the journey in far greater comfort at an
additional expense of £2, 3s. each. The time and fares to Jasper would
be rather less than to Mount Robson. The times from Liverpool to Laggan
or Mount Robson Stations are short, and involve hard and continuous
travelling. Full particulars, together with pamphlets, descriptive
time-tables, etc., can be obtained at the London offices of the C.P.R.
and the G.T.P., both in Cockspur Street, London, within one hundred
yards of each other. The only alternative route to Montreal of any
importance is that via New York, as to which see _Baedeker’s Canada_.
FOOTNOTES:
[36] See _Report of the Commission appointed to determine the
Boundary between the Provinces of Alberta and British Columbia_, part
i. (1917). It is illustrated by numerous photographs and accompanied
by many large-scale maps. A summary of it is given in the _Alpine
Journal_, xxxii.
[37] _Climbs and Exploration in the Canadian Rockies_, by
H. E. M. Stutfield and J. Norman Collie; _Camping in the Canadian
Rockies_, by W. D. Wilcox; _Appalachia_, vols. viii. to xi.
[38] E.g. Mount Louis, see _Canadian Alpine Journal_, viii.
79, ix. 32; and _Alpine Journal_, xxxii. 68; Mount Norquay, _ibid._
viii. 134.
[39] _Canadian Alpine Journal_, i. No. 1, p. 85, v. 122.
[40] The name of the _station_ has been altered to Lake Louise, but it
is known as Laggan in all the books.
[41] Cf. “A Glimpse of the Rockies,” _Alpine Journal_, xxiv. 229;
_Canadian Alpine Journal_, x. 6.
[42] _Canadian Alpine Journal_, iv. 110, 142, vii. 58, 124.
[43] See, on this point, _Alpine Journal_, xxix. 95.
[44] _Canadian Alpine Journal_, v. 34, vii. 33, 48, ix. 17; Palmer,
_Mountaineering and Exploration in the Selkirks_, ch. xx.
[45] _Canadian Alpine Journal_, iii. 26. See also _Geographical
Journal_, xxxvii. 589, 601. Mr. Wheeler’s promised map does not seem to
have materialized.
[46] _Canadian Alpine Journal_, iii. 14, 26, 147, iv. 98, vi. 103, 112,
vii. 12, viii. 17, 43.
[47] _Ibid._ vii. 5, 67, viii. 34.
[48] _Ibid._ iv. 140, viii. 121.
[49] _Climbing in the Himalaya and other Mountain Ranges_, p. 144. The
whole of this chapter on the Rockies is still well worth reading.
[50] Op. cit. pp. 15-16.
[51] Mr. Eaton made some new ascents in the Freshfield Range, a
subdivision of group 2, in 1910. _Canadian Alpine Journal_, iii. 1.
[52] _The Canadian Rockies, New and Old Trails._ A delightful book.
[53] Op. cit., chapters xxvii.-xxix. See _Canadian Alpine Journal_, v.
84, 87.
[54] _Alpine Journal_, xxviii. 355; _Canadian Alpine Journal_, vi. 74,
84, vii. 63.
[55] Much new information as to the country round Jasper is contained
in an article by Mr. M. P. Bridgland in the _Canadian Alpine Journal_,
x. 70; and the recently published _Guide to Jasper Park_ (see _ibid._
105) would probably be found very useful.
[56] As to Mount Hector, see p. 576.
[57] See his map and book, chapters xvii., xxi. and xxvi.
[58] _Canadian Alpine Journal_, iv. 92; _Old Indian Trails_, by Mrs.
Schæffer.
[59] Coleman, op. cit., chapters xxx.-xli.; _Geographical Journal_,
xxxvi. 57, xxxix. 223; _Alpine Journal_, xxv. 293, xxvi. 5, 382, xxvii.
329, xxx. 358 (summary of the expeditions of 1913); _Canadian Alpine
Journal_, ii. part i. 1, part ii. 1, 21 (ascent of G. B. Kinney and D.
Phillips), iv. 1, vi. 11-73 (the expeditions of 1913).
[60] _Canadian Alpine Journal_, vii. 63, viii. 30, 133.
[61] _Alpine Journal_, xxvi. 404; _Canadian Alpine Journal_, iv.
[62] See his map, _Geographical Journal_, xxxix. 312.
[63] _Canadian Alpine Journal_, vi. 178, 186.
[64] _Ibid._ vi. 170, 188, vii. 82, ix. 79.
[65] See Dr. Collie’s map and papers, _Alpine Journal_, xxvi, 5;
_Geographical Journal_, xxxix. 223.
[66] The whole caravan--men, horses, baggage, etc.--is generally
compendiously referred to as an ‘outfit.’
[67] A large Indian tent in which a fire can be kept going.
[68] Metal basin in a leather case.
INDEX
Accidents, mountaineering, causes of, 149, 256
-- -- how to deal with, 264-7
-- -- prevention of, 256-78
-- -- their effect on others, 264
Afanasief’s _100 Kaukasus Gipfel_ cited, 509, 510
Ailments, 9
Alpine Club of Canada, annual camps of the, 590
-- Ski-ing, Calendar for, 402, 403, 456-70
Alps, the Dolomites of the Eastern, 47
-- the Eastern, 201
-- the High, hints for winter equipment for, 444-6
-- -- in spring, 456-68
-- -- in winter, 442-56
-- -- snow conditions in the, 446
-- the Southern, 47
Amateur mountaineer, the, 108, 109, 134, 135, 136
-- -- improvement in his skill, 105, 106
Anchor, the, 220, 223
Anchoring on a descent, 191, 192
Andorra, 559, 560
Aneroid, 98, 445
-- the Watkin, 535
Angle of lie of snow, the, 325, 326, 328, 329
-- -- reconnoitring, 375, 376
-- of rock, 387, 388
Ankle, part played by the, in climbing, 158, 159, 289, 303
Anticipation in climbing, importance of, 157, 158
Arctic mountaineering, 497-505
Arms, use of the, in climbing, 161, 162
Association among climbers, 150
Automatic actions and adjustments in climbing, 69, 70
Autumn ski-ing, 468, 469
Avalanche ground, tactics on, 439-42
Avalanche, liability of snow to, 328
Avalanches, 273-5
-- classification of, 427, 428
-- conditions for their production, 273, 423-7
-- dangers of, 424, 425, 426, 430, 432, 433-8
-- dry powder, 428, 429
-- ground, 423, 427, 435
-- in Norway, 545
-- new wet snow, 429-31
-- old wet snow, 435-8
-- power of, 274, 428, 435, 436
-- rock, 271
-- summer snow, 438, 439
-- wind slab, 431-4
Axe, the, 91, 92
-- as an extra hand, 206, 207
-- as a third leg, 178, 207, 292
-- in descent, 208
-- on rocks, 204-8
-- on snow, 336, 337
_Baedeker’s Canada_ cited, 574, 577
-- _Norway_ cited, 536
-- _S. W. France_ cited, 570
Balaitous, the, 557
Balance climbing, 144-8, 156, 157
-- factors involved in, 28-32, 140, 149, 156, 157
Barometer. _See_ Aneroid
Bath, the hot, 5
-- in tropics, 479
-- morning, cold, 4
Bathing, 12, 13, 524, 532
Bed, portable, 99
Beginner, the, 113-6, 118
-- his choice of trainer, 114, 115
Beginners, initial practice for, 148, 152, 153; and _see under_ Rope
Behind, the rope, 215
Belay, the direct, 220, 221
-- the indirect, 221, 222
Belays, 219-25
Belloc’s _Pyrenees_ cited, 570
Benightment, 52, 53, 74, 75
Bergschrund, 317, 337
Bhutan, 527
_Bise_, the, 446
Bivouac, outfit for, 99
-- selection of a, 53
Blindness, snow, 11, 343
Blistering from sun, 11, 12, 90, 97
Blizzards, danger of, 276
Body brake, the, 196
Boils, 484, 485
Boots, 4, 80, 81, 82, 153-5
-- canvas, 155
-- care of, 81, 82
-- for the Himalaya, 534
-- for ski-ing, 402
-- nailing, 82, 83, 154, 155
-- rubber, 89
Boracic powder for the feet, 5
Boredom, 15, 16
-- of tramps over snow, 332
Bouldering, 153, 171, 183
Boum, the, 562
Brakes, 195, 196
-- for glissading, 358, 359
Breeches, 87, 88
Breithorn, ski-ing on the Zermatt, 397
Bridges, ice, 337, 338
Bridgland’s _Guide to Jasper Park_, etc., cited, 583 n.
Britain, mist and cloud in, 389, 390
-- rocks in, 388, 389
-- snow in, 342
Bruce’s _Kulu and Lahoul_ cited, 529
Bucket steps, 297
Calendar for Alpine Ski-ing, 402, 403, 456-70
Camera, the folding, 471
-- the hand, 471, 472
-- the Verascope, 478
Canadian Pacific Railway District, the, 574-81
Canteen for tropics, 487, 488
Canvas boots, 155
Capo al Dente, the, 519
Carriers in tropics, 495
Casque, the, 560
Caucasus, the, climate of, 506
-- forests of, 508
-- literature of, 509, 510
-- maps of, 515, 516
-- modes of travel in, 511, 512, 514, 515
-- mountain system of, 508
-- mountaineering in, 506-16
-- -- centres for, 512
Caucasus, mountaineering in, commissariat for, 513, 514
-- -- cost of, 516
-- -- equipment for, 512, 513
-- records of, 508
-- routes of access to, 510
-- topography and structure of, 506-9
Caulfield’s _How to Ski_ cited, 398 n.
‘Chair,’ the, 196, 197
Chalk, its peculiarities and risks, 180
Chamois, as a danger, 271
-- in relation to avalanches, 441
Chamonix Aiguilles, the, 46, 47, 277
-- granite, 146
Check, easing of a, 258-60
Checking on the rope, 259, 260
Chill, avoidance of, 85
-- risk of, 5, 6, 7, 13
Chimney climbing, 167-9
Chimneys, descent of, 191
Chocolate, 6, 445
Christiania turn, the, 401
Claws, 96, 97, 287-94
-- in glissading, 365, 366
-- in mountain ski-ing, 402, 419
-- their value, 286, 294, 513
-- theory of their use, 288, 289
-- types of, 287, 288
Cliffs, sea, 181, 182
Climbing down, 184-99
-- in combination, 209-55
Closti turn, the, 401
Clothing, 5, 11, 84-90
-- for the tropics, 488, 489
-- for women, 89, 90
-- for the Himalaya, 534
Clouds as weather portents, 57-9
-- cirrus, 58
-- cumulus, 58
-- ‘fish’, 59
-- ‘mare’s-tails,’ 58
-- stratus, 58
-- thunder, 59
Coat, the, 84, 85, 86, 87, 90
Col du Lion, the, 57
-- Theodule, the, 57
Cold, effect of, on endurance, 10, 11
Coleman’s _The Canadian Rockies, New and Old Trails_, etc., cited, 581
n., 582, 583, 584, 586
Collective confidence of party, 17, 18, 240
-- rhythm, 209, 211
Colour photography, 477
Combination, climbing in, 209-55
-- the secret of time-saving, 76
Comolo Forno, the, 559
Compass, 98
-- the radium, 52
Confidence, danger of over-, 24, 25
-- necessity of self-, for leader, 17, 238
Confusing effects of weather when on snow, 342-5
Conjunctivitis, 483
Constipation, 480, 481, 482
Continuous going, 76-8
Cooking apparatus, 98
Cornices, snow, 338-40
-- -- double, 380
-- -- reconnoitring, 377-80
Cornwall, cliff climbing in, 181
Corsica, literature of, 520
-- modes of access to, 518
-- mountaineering in, 517-21
-- -- centres for, 518, 519
-- -- cost of, 518 n.
-- -- equipment for, 517, 518
-- -- season for, 517
-- nature of climbing in, 520
-- topography and maps of, 518-21
Coughs and colds, 482
Couloirs, 268, 272
-- glissading on claws in, 365
-- reconnoitring, 382-4
-- snow in, 340-2
-- the plunging step in, 364, 365
Courage, the measure of, 261, 262
Courmayeur, weather in, 56
Cover for the axe, use of a, 349
Crabioules, the, 561
Cracks, climbing, 165, 166
-- descent of, 191
Crampons. _See_ Claws
Crevasses, 316-21, 452, 455
-- hidden, 315-22, 449
-- marginal, 309, 450
-- reconnoitring, 381, 382
-- scimitar, 310
-- systems of, 309-11
Crust, snow, 301, 331
-- effect of Föhn on, 413
-- -- -- frost on, 414
-- -- -- sun on, 415
-- -- film, 414
-- -- forms of, 410, 411
-- -- marble, 411, 414
-- -- perforated, 414
-- -- soft breakable, 410
-- -- trap, 410
-- -- unbreakable, 410, 411
Cups, drinking, 98
Cushion, rubber, 99
Cuts and scratches, 485
Cutting. _See under_ Steps
Cylindre, the, 560
Damp, risks of, 5
Dancing, as training, 4, 66, 156
-- movements analogous to those of climbing, 156, 157, 208
Danger, 26, 27, 72, 149, 152, 237, 260, 261
De Déchy’s _Kaukasus Reisen und Forschungen_ cited, 509
Descent, 42, 184-99
Detached rock, 176, 177
Diarrhœa, 481
Direction, the sense of, 345-7
Disappointment, 24
Discipline of parties, 2, 3
District, the choice of, 43-8
Dogtooth Range, the, 580
Dollfuss in May, 461
Dom, the, 459
Doubled rope, the, in descent, 192-5
-- on glaciers, 317-21
Down, climbing, 184-99
Drinks, 7, 8
Dru, the, 47, 152
Dunagiri, 529
Dysentery, 481, 482
Earth glissade, 182
Earthquakes, 277, 278
Ebnefluh, ski-work on the, 398, 459, 468
Eckenstein, Mr., crampons designed by, 92, 96, 288
-- ice-axe designed by, 92
-- on knots for Alpine ropes, 94, 95
-- on nails for boots, 83
-- on ropes for Alpine work, 93, 94, 95
Elbrus, 509
End man, dangers of his fall, 260
Equipment, for Alps, 80-8
-- for Arctic mountaineering, 498, 499
-- for Caucasus, 512-4
-- for Corsica, 517, 518
-- for Himalaya, 532-5
-- for mountain ski-ing, 402
-- for Norway, 539, 540
-- for Pyrenees, 566-9
-- for rock climbing in Britain, 88, 89
-- for Rocky Mountains, 588-90
_Ewige Schnee_, 330
Exceptional ascents, 120-2, 149
Excitement, dangers of over-, 16
Exercise, forms of preliminary, 4, 156, 158, 159, 181
Exhaustion, 26, 27
Experts, guide and amateur as, 111, 112, 118, 119
Eyes, right use of the, in climbing, 146, 147, 166, 184, 185, 186,
187, 192, 312, 313, 321, 370-396
Face-inward position in descent, 190, 191
---- in glissading, 363, 364
Face-outward position in descent, 188, 189
Face-sideways position in descent, 189, 190
Fall, 256
-- after a, 262-4
Fallibility, human, 256, 257
Fatigue, temper as a sign of, 20
Fear, 26, 27
Feet, care of the, 4, 5, 83
Fell climbers, 142
Fellowship, necessity of good, 3
Fencing as training, 4, 66
Fiescherhorn, the, 468
Finsteraarhorn, the, 442
Finsteraarjoch Pass, in winter, 397
_Firn_, 285, 330
First man on the rope, duty of the, 237-9
_Flysch_, 425
Fog. _See_ Mist
Föhn, the, 59, 60, 61, 417-22
-- effects of, on snow, 326, 328, 377, 380, 412, 413
-- in spring, 421, 422, 436
-- in winter, 418-21
-- the dry, 418, 430
-- the wet, 413, 418, 429, 430
Folgefond, the, 542
Following and leading, 217, 218
Food, the choice of, 6
-- -- for tropics, 486, 487
Foot brake, the, 195
Footing, the right, for guide and climber, 125-9
Footwork, 140, 141, 153-8, 161, 176
-- for balance climbing, 282-4
Forbes, Prof. J. D., his _Norway and its Glaciers_ cited, 536
Fourcanade, the, 556, 562, 563
Freak climbs, 182, 183
Freshfield’s _Round Kangchenjunga_ cited, 527
Freshfield and Sella’s _The Exploration of the Caucasus_ cited, 509,
515
Front, the rope in, 214, 215
Frost-bite, precautions against, 5, 288 n.
-- remedies for, 10
Frostisen, 544
Fruit ice, 8
Funicula, 254, 255
Furka, the, 464
Gabbro, 542, 543
Gabiétou, the, 560
Gaiters, 84
Galdhöpiggen, 544
Galenstock, the, 463, 464
Galmihorn, the, 459
Garhwal, 528
Gauli Hut, the, 457
Géant, the Dent du, 152, 201, 278
Geology, value of knowledge of, 425, 426
Giddiness, 9, 28-31, 182
Gjækkevarre, the, 542
Glacier falls, 311, 314
-- mills, 310
Glaciers, 279-81, 285, 308-24
-- in the Himalaya, 531
-- in New Zealand, 554
-- in Norway, 545, 546
-- in the Pyrenees, 556-62
-- in the Rocky Mountains, 586
-- in Spitsbergen, 503, 504
-- practice in ice work on, 285, 286
-- ski-ing on, in winter, 448-56
-- snow-covered, 314-22
Glacier work, 308-24
Glasses, field, 97, 98
-- for prevention of snow-blindness, 11, 97, 321, 322, 534
-- for reconnoitring, 395
Glazed rock, risks of, 170, 171, 193
Glissading, 348-69
-- alternate, 362, 363
-- arrest of, 352
-- face-inward, 363, 364
-- jumping while, 357, 358
-- on claws, 365, 366
-- -- in couloirs, 365
-- on earth, 182
-- on grass, 368, 369
-- on heather, 368, 369
-- on ice, 349-52
-- -- position for, 349-52
-- on sand, 366
-- on scree, 366-8
-- on snow, 353-66
-- on volcanic ash, 366
-- -- braking, 354, 355, 358, 359, 360
-- positions for, 353-61
-- -- steering, 355-7
-- stone tests for, 361
-- the axe brake for, 354, 358, 359
-- the foot brake for, 358, 359
-- the rope in, 361, 362
Glittertind, 544
Gloves, 10, 86, 89, 195, 258
Goats as a danger, 271
Grand Trunk Pacific Railway, the, 582-4
Grease on the face, 11, 90, 97
Gredetschthal, the, 459
Grépon, the, 47, 152, 385
Grimsel region, the, 425, 463
Grip climbing, 142, 143, 145, 174, 176
Gritstone, 180
Grove’s _The Frosty Caucasus_ cited, 509
_Grundlawinen. See_ Avalanches, ground
Gspaltenhorn, the, 447
Guide as mountaineer, the ideal, 107, 108
-- companionship of amateur and, 128, 129, 136, 137
-- nature, 123-37
Guides, Alpine, changed conditions of, 103, 104
-- as experts, 111, 112, 119
-- care for their comfort, 126, 127
-- estimation of their qualities, 53-5
-- management of, 123-37
-- misconceptions of their function, 101-3
-- question of engaging, 118-22
-- traditional idea of, 102
Guides’ books, hints as to writing up, 53-5
Gullies, 141, 142, 268
-- glissading in winter, 368
Gurla Mandhata, 528, 529
‘Half step’ trick, the, 37
Halts, 40, 77, 78, 332
-- the rope during, 251, 252
Handholds, to cut, in ice, 298
Hands, use of the, 161-7
Hat, the, 85, 89
Headaches, 9
Health, importance of, 3, 4
Heart, training and development of the, 67, 68
Height, advantages of, 71
-- the psychological effect of, 31, 32, 293
Helmet, woollen, 86
Hill-shock. _See_ Hysteria
Himalaya, the, climbing conditions in, 523, 525, 526
-- configuration of, 522, 523
-- glaciers of, 529
-- management of expedition to, 523-525
-- mountaineering in, 522-35
-- -- clothing for, 534
-- -- cost of, 531, 532
-- -- equipment for, 528, 532, 533, 535
-- -- food for, 533
-- -- hints for, 533, 534
-- -- instruments for, 535
-- -- season for, 526
-- -- use of claws in, 288 n.
-- topography of, 527-9
Hindu Khush, the, 530, 531
_Hochgebirgskalk_, 425
Holding the rope, 225-7
Holds, anatomical, 244
-- cling, 161-2
-- finger, 161
-- friction, 160, 161, 169
-- on rock and ice, practice of, 69
-- over, 162
-- press, 163, 164, 179
-- pull, 174, 177, 179
-- push, 163
-- side, 162
-- under, 162
Humours, preventable, 14-7
Hurry, the blunder of, 38, 39, 40, 76, 77, 332
Hut usages, 48-50
Hysteria, or hill-shock, 26-8
Ice, black, 285, 288, 294, 374
-- blue, 284
-- glacier, 284
-- grainy, 284
-- -- hard, 290, 291, 545
-- honeycombed, 374
-- -- rotten, 290, 294
-- -- soft, 290
-- snow, 285
Ice axe. _See_ Axe
Ice claws. _See under_ Claws
-- climbing in relation to rock climbing, 282-4
-- craft, 282-324
-- fragments, danger from falling, 275, 276
-- sky, the, 393, 394
Imitation, in collective climbing, 211-3
Incudine, the, 520
Infection of leader by party, 25, 26
Injured man, a danger to his party, 260, 261
Instruments, 57, 535
Ireland, cliff climbing in, 181, 182, 391
Joanne’s _Pyrénées_ cited, 570
Jungfrau, first winter ascent of, 397
Justedals-brae, the, 545, 546
Kamet, 529
Kasbek, 512
Kashmir and Karakoram, 530
Kellas, Dr., on Sikkim, cited, 527, 528
_Kletterschuhe_, 96, and _see_ Soles
Knee, right use of the, in climbing, 146, 160
Knickerbockers, 85
Knots for ropes for mountaineering, 94, 95, 96, 255
-- tests of, 96
Knutshultind, 544
Kumaon, 528
Lakes, the, 140, 152
-- snowcraft in, 342
Lantern, folding, 52, 98
Lava, old, 180
Leader, duties of the, 1, 6, 8, 9, 10, 13, 18, 23, 39, 43, 44, 48-55,
125, 150, 151, 237-9, 323, 332
-- guide or amateur as, 109, 111
-- qualifications for, 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 14, 15, 16, 19, 20, 21, 25, 33,
56, 150, 151, 237, 238, 239, 321
-- responsibilities of, 2, 6, 9, 10, 16, 17, 27, 32, 34, 35, 36, 38,
39, 111, 133, 134, 150, 151, 153, 227, 237-9, 260, 261, 263
Le Blonde’s, Mrs., _Mountaineering in the Land of the Midnight Sun_
cited, 536
Leeches, 484
Lens, 471, 473
Light, to procure a, 52
Lillienfeld ski, 398
-- system, 399, 401
Limestone, 180, 181
Loads, risks of unnecessary, 22, 75, 76
Long rope, the, 198, 199
Longstaff, Dr., on the Purcell Range, cited, 579
Loops in ropes for glacier work, 320
_Lumière autochrome_, the, 477
Lungs, training and development of the, 67, 68
Lunn’s _Cross Country Ski-ing_ cited, 398 n., 402
Lyskamm, the, 4
Malaria, 480
Maps, 98
Marble, 180
-- crust, 411, 414
Marboré, the, 557
Mascot, uses of a, 34
Matterhorn, the, 57, 112, 113, 201, 271, 272, 381, 386
Maupas, the, 562
May in the High Alps, 456-61, 463, 464
Medicine chest for tropics, 485, 486
Medicines, 100
Merzbacher’s _Aus den Hochregionen des Kaukasus_ cited, 509, 515
Mind, influence of, on the body, 14, 129, 240
Mist and cloud, uses of, 389, 390
-- dangers of, 277, 343, 346
Moine, the, 152
Mont Perdu, the, 559, 560, 561
Monte Cinto, 520
-- Corona, 519
-- d’Oro, 519
-- Padro, 519
-- Renosa, 519
-- Rosa, 446, 457, 468, 469
-- -- ski-ing on, 397
Moraines, 178, 208, 292
Mosquitoes, 480, 540
Moods, abnormal, 23-8
Mount Assiniboine, 575
-- Ball, 575
-- Beaver, 579
-- Cook, 551, 553
-- Duncan, 579
-- Edith Cavell, 575, 583
-- Fitzwilliam, 583
-- Hector, 576
-- Moloch, 577
-- Robson, 584, 585
-- Sir Sandford, 579
-- Torlesse, 553
Mountain photography, 471-8
-- sickness, 9, 10
Mountaineer, the amateur, contrasted with the guide, 103-8
-- the composite, 106
-- the moderate, 116-8
-- the true, 280
Mountaineering in winter, 397
Muffler, 86
Mumm’s _Five Months in the Himalaya_ cited, 528 n.
Mummery’s _My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus_ cited, 509
Mürren, 469
Muscular fitness, 9, 65, 66
Nails, special, for climbing boots, 82, 83, 154
Nanda Devi, 529
Napes ridges, the, 152
Natives, management of, 494, 495
Nepal, 528
Nerve, 70
-- exhaustion, 9, 26, 27
Nerves, 68, 69
_Névé_, 285, 330, 335, 448, 465, 470
Neve’s _Picturesque Kashmir_ cited, 530 n.
New Zealand, flora and fauna of, 553, 554
-- glaciers in, 554
-- guides for the Alps of, 549
-- mountains of, 550, 551, 555
-- routes to, 548, 549
-- the Southern Alps of, 548-55
-- topography and structure of, 551-3
-- weather of, 550
Night dangers. _See_ Benightment
Night, hints for walking at, 51-3
Norway, glaciers of, 540, 541, 542, 543
-- guide books and literature, 536, 537
-- local conditions in, 544-7
-- mountaineering in, 536-47
-- -- equipment for, 539, 540
-- -- expense of, 538, 539
-- -- guides for, 540, 541, 542
-- -- season for, 537
-- mountains of, 542-4
-- routes of access to, 538
-- topography and structure of, 542-4
Norway and Sweden, wind-swept snow in, 408
Numbers suitable for parties, 34, 35
Oberaarjoch, the, 463, 464
Oberland, the, crossed on ski, 397
-- its opportunities and characteristics, 45, 46
-- weather in the, 57
Obstinacy, hysterical, 28
Old age, climbing in, 73
Oppenheim’s _New Climbs in Norway_ cited, 536
Order, the, on the rope, 227-36
-- of moving on the rope, the, 236, 237;
and _see under_ Rope
Outfit for the Alps, 91-100
Outram’s _In the Heart of the Canadian Rockies_ cited, 574, 581
Overhang, in descent, 194, 195
Pace, adjustment of, to the task, 74-9
-- setting the, 37
Packe’s _Guide to the Pyrénées_ cited, 570
Paglia Orba, 521
Palmer’s _Mountaineering and Exploration in the Selkirks_ cited, 578
n., 579
Panic, 27, 272
Parasites, body, 484
Passing ahead, 37, 38
Paulcke, 397
Pegs and aids, 96, 200-3
Pennines, characteristics of the, 46
Perdighero, 561
Persistence in uncertain weather, 63, 64
Perversity, mountain, 267-72
Photography, mountain, 471-8
-- -- choice of subjects, 475-7
-- -- equipment for, 471-5
-- -- in colour, 477
-- -- stereoscopic, 477-8
Pic d’Albe, 562
-- d’Astazou, 560
-- de Bécibéri, 559
-- d’Enfer, 557
-- Long, 559, 561
-- du Midi d’Ossau, 556, 557
-- Moulières, 562
-- du Munia, 561
-- de Néthou, 559, 562
-- de la Pique, 562
-- de Pinède, 561
-- du Port d’Oo, 561
-- des Posets, 559, 562
-- de Salenques, 562
Pitons. _See under_ Pegs
Port de Venasque, 562
Positions in descent, 187-91
Powder snow, 326, 327, 405-11
-- -- effect of sun on, 408-11
-- -- -- wind on, 407, 408
-- -- the ideal ski-ing surface, 406
-- -- reconnoitring, 374
-- -- in spring, 412-7, 430
-- -- in winter, 411, 412
Preparations, psychological, for ascent, 129, 130
Punta di Capella, 520
Purcell Range, the, 579-80
Putties, 89, 125, 289
Pyramid Peak, 586
Pyrenees, the, 556-71
-- centres for climbing, 560
-- huts and inns, 566
-- literature of the, 570
-- maps of, 564-6
-- mountaineering in, 556, 557, 563
-- -- cost of, 569
-- -- equipment for, 566-9
-- -- guides for, 563, 564
-- topography and structure of, 557-563
Quairat, the, 561
Quarries, scrambling in, for practice, 181
Quartz, its peculiarities and risks, 179, 180
Rabot’s _Au Cap Nord_ cited, 542
Reach, advantages of, in climbing, 71
Reconnoitring, 370-96
-- angle on snow, 375-7
-- couloirs, 382-4
-- glaciers, 311-4, 381, 382
-- the half-seen, 390, 391
-- ice, 374, 381, 382
-- importance of, 370-3
-- ridges, 386, 387
-- rock, 384
-- rock faces, 384-6
-- rocks in Britain, 388-90
-- slabs, 387, 388
-- snow cornices, 377-80
-- snow surface conditions, 374, 375
-- the unseen, 391-6
-- wind and snow signs, 380, 381
Réquin, the, 152
Rescue parties, 266, 267
Rhone Valley, the upper, 424
Rhythm, balance, 144, 156, 157
-- collective, 209-11
-- of movement, importance of, 140, 141, 143, 145, 148, 156, 157
-- of step, importance of, 39, 40, 41, 76, 77, 78, 79, 145, 148
Rib riding, 169
Ring, use of the, 193
-- risks of the, 194, 198
Ringworm, 484
Ripple mark, 407
Roche Miette, the, 587
Rock avalanche, 271
Rock climber, the good, 138, 146-9, 171
Rock climbing, 138-208
-- -- in relation to ice climbing, 282-4
-- -- development of, 138-44
Rock sky, the, 393
Rocks, knowledge of structure of, 138
-- in Britain, 388, 389
Rocky Mountains, access to the, 574, 591
-- -- literature of the, 574, 586
-- -- maps of the, 576, 579, 581, 585, 586
-- -- minor ranges of the, 580
-- -- modes and cost of travel in the, 587-8
-- -- mountaineering in the, 572-91
-- -- -- guides and equipment for, 578, 588-90
-- -- topography of the, 572-87
Rope, best handgrip on the, 225
-- carrying the, 253
-- choice of the, 93-4
-- coiling the, 246, 252, 253
-- in collective climbing, 213-7
-- danger of abuse of the, 216, 217
-- drying the, 253
-- first man on the, 237-9
-- frequent examination of the, necessity for, 253
-- on ice, 305-8
-- kinks in the, 253
-- length of the, 253, 254
-- management of the, 246-55
-- order of moving on the, 236-7
-- order on the, 227-36
-- -- on difficult or new ascents and descents, 228
-- -- on direct ascents and descents, 227, 228
-- -- on easy ascents and descents, 228
-- -- on traverses, 229-32
-- -- with beginners, 233-6
-- right use of the, in descent, 191-9
-- -- on snow, 335-7
-- second man on the, 239-45
-- third man on the, 245-6;
and _see under_ Doubled, Knots, Long, Funicula, and Halts
“Rope-riding,” 217
Rosenlaui, 461
Ross’s _A Climber in New Zealand_ cited, 554
Rubber soles, 155, 182
Rucksack, the, 5, 91
Rulten, 545
Running as training, 4
Russell’s _Grandes Ascensions des Pyrénées_ cited, 570
-- _Souvenirs d’un Montagnard_ cited, 570
Safety-pins, 85, 86
Sandstone, risks and peculiarities of, 180
Sark, the island of, cliff climbing on, 181
Schaeffer, Mrs., her _Old Indian Trails_ cited, 584 n.
_Schneebrett. See_ Wind slab
Schrader, M., on the Pyrenees, quoted, 557
Scotland, cliff climbing in, 181, 182
Scottish mountains, snow craft on, 342
Scree, 178, 179
-- glissading on, 366, 368
-- in relation to ski-ing, 426
Sea cliffs, 181, 182
Sealskins for ski-ing, 402, 449
Season, habit of the, 62, 63
Second man on the rope, the, duty of the, 239-45
-- -- -- in case of accident, 262, 263
Selkirk mountains, the, 577-9
_Séracs_, 275, 301, 313, 335
Shirts, 85, 88
Signals, code of rescue, 51, 266
Sikkim, 527
Silence, dangers of, 18, 20, 51, 238
-- uses of, 23, 240
Simla Hill States, the, 529
Sitting glissading, 360, 361
Skagastölstind, 542, 544
Skating movements, analogous to those of climbing, 156
_Skavla_, 408
Ski, mountaineering on, 397-470
-- Lillienfeld, 398
-- for mountain work, 402
-- for summer work, 64, 397, 469, 470
Ski-ing in the High Alps, 399, 400
-- Lillienfeld system of, 399, 401
-- Norwegian style of, 399
-- technique of, 398-401
-- turns, 400, 401
-- Zdarsky’s system of, 398
Skin diseases, 483
Skipping as training, 4, 66
Sky, ice as affecting its tint, 393, 394
-- rock as affecting its tint, 393
-- snow as affecting its tint, 392, 393
Skye, climbing in, 152
Slab climbing, 142, 143, 166, 167, 387, 388
Slate, its peculiarities and risks, 179
Sleeping sack, 99, 498, 499, 513, 532, 567, 589
Sleeplessness, 483
Slides, photographic, 473, 474
Sling for axe, 93, 298
Slings, rope, 193, 194
Slingsby’s _Norway the Northern Playground_ cited, 536
Slips, how to accept, 41, 42
Smoking, 89
Snake-bite, 484
Snow a bar to starting, 63, 64
-- avalanches, 423-42
-- bridges, 337
-- cornices, 338
-- craft, 16, 325-46
-- -- for ski-ing, 403, 404
-- crusted, 331
-- -- reconnoitring, 374
-- granular, 416
-- in couloirs, 340-2
-- new, risks of, 327
-- pink, 546
-- powdery, 326, 327;
and _see under_ Powder snow
-- the rope and axe on, 335-7
-- sky, the, 392, 393
-- slides, danger of, 273-5
-- slopes, reconnoitring, 375-7
-- -- security of, 329, 333-5
-- soft, its risks and difficulties, 330-332
-- spring, for ski-ing, 412-7
-- steps, 333, 334
-- summer, for ski-ing, 422, 423
-- travail, 330-3
-- winter, for ski-ing, 411, 412
Snow-blindness, 11, 343
Snow-line, the, 459
Snow-water, its supposed danger, 8
Social composition of a party, 32-6, 109, 110, 150
Socks, 4, 5, 10, 83, 87, 88, 89, 155, 156
Soles, hard, 153, 154
-- rubber, 155, 182
-- soft, 154, 155, 171, 179, 284
Solitary climbing, 151, 152
-- -- unjustifiable on snow or ice, 315
Soum de Raymond, 560
Spectacles. _See under_ Glasses
Spender and Llewellyn Smith’s _Through the High Pyrenees_ cited, 570
Spitsbergen, coast of, 500-2
-- glaciers of, 501, 502, 503, 504
-- interior of, 502-4
-- modes of access to, 497, 498
-- mountaineering in, 497-505
-- -- cost of, 505
-- mountains of, 502-4
Spring in the High Alps, 456-68
-- snow for ski-ing, 412-7
-- Time-table for ski-ing, the, 466-8
Springing the rope, 197, 198
Stances, on rock, 218, 219, 223-7, 246, 247
-- on snow, 336, 337
-- on ice, 298, 306, 307
Stedtind, 544
Stemming turn, the, 400, 401
Step-cutting practice, 182
Steps, cutting, 294-302
-- using, 302-5
Stereoscopic photography, 477, 478
Stick, use of the, in ski-ing, 399, 400, 401, 442, 450, 454
Stimulants, their use, 7, 8
-- -- in the tropics, 487
Stockings, 83, 86, 155
Stomach, care of the, 4, 5, 86, 479, 480, 482
Stones, dangers of falling, 250, 251, 268-73
-- reconnoitring couloirs for, 382-4
-- -- faces for, 386
Storm Mountain, 575
Strahlegg Pass, crossing in winter, 397
Strandaatind, 543
Strata, rock, importance of acquaintance with, 383-5, 388, 425, 426
Stutfield and Collie’s _Climbs and Explorations in the Canadian
Rockies_, cited, 575 n., 580 n., 581
Subconsciousness, sphere of, in mountaineering, 69
Sulitelma, 544
Summer ski. _See under_ Ski
Sun, dangers of, 11
Sunburn, 90, 97
Sunstroke, 12, 482
Sutherlandshire, cliff climbing in, 181
Sweater, 86, 88
Sweet-stuffs, value of, 6, 7
Swimming as training, 66
Taillon, the, 557, 560
Teeth, care of the, 479, 480, 482, 483
Tehri Garhwal, 529
Telemark turn, the, 400, 401
Temper of mountaineering party, the, 19-23
Tennis as training, 4
Tents, 99, 513;
and _see_ Equipment
-- for tropics, 491-3
-- Mummery, 492, 499, 533
-- _teepee_, 588
-- Whymper, 491, 532
Thawing of snow, the, 409, 415, 416
Thigh brake, the, 195, 196
Third man on the rope, duty of the, 245-6
Thirst, 7, 8
Thunderstorms, danger of, 276
Tirich Mir, 531
Tour de Marboré, 560
Tourist, the mountaineer, 112, 113, 118
Trade goods for tropics, 494, 495
Training, 65-73
Trap crust, 410
Tricouni nails for boots, 82, 83
Tripod for camera, 472, 474
Tropical diseases, 480, 481
-- mountaineering, 479-96
-- -- equipment for, 486-93
-- -- health in, 479-86
-- -- management of expedition for, 493-6
Tryfan, the buttresses of, 152
U.H.U. Stollen nails for boots, 82
Underwear, 88, and _see_ Equipment
Unsound rock, 173-9
Unusual rock 179-83
Urbachthal, 424, 457
Val d’Evoléna, 46
Vanesta packing-case, the, 493, 494, 532
Verascope camera, the, 478
Vertigo, 28-31
Vignemale, the, 557, 561
Waistcoat, the, 85
Wales, cliffs in, 142, 152, 181, 182, 391
-- North, snowcraft in, 342
Walking as training, 4
-- manners, 36-41
-- notes on hill-, 41-3
Warmth, the conservation of, 5
Warning, to give, 257, 258
Water-bottles, 98
Waterproof cape, 86
Weather, the, 56-64
-- alternating, 44, 45
-- confusing, 342-5
-- evil, 276, 277
-- signs, 60-2
Weight handicaps, 75, 76
Wet rock, risks of, 169, 170
Wetterhorn, the, 456, 457
-- -- first winter ascent of, 397
Wheeler’s _Selkirk Range_, etc., cited, 577
White’s _Sikkim and Bhutan_ cited, 527
Wilcox’s _Camping in the Canadian Rockies_ cited, 575 n.
Will, function of, in climbing, 68
Wind, an enemy, 11, 258, 276, 343
-- a friend, 277, 380, 381
-- as weather portent, 59-60
-- effect of, on snow, 326
-- protection against, 5
Windboard, 407, 408, 432
Wind ‘signs,’ 380, 381
Wind slab, 432, 433
Wine, 7
Winter conditions in the High Alps, 442-56
-- mountaineering, 397
-- snow for ski-ing, 411, 412
Woman mountaineers, dress for, 89, 90
Wood-chopping as training, 4
Young climbers, care of, 13, 14
Zermatt, weather at, 56, 381
Zinal Rothhorn, 446, 447, 462
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Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious errors or omissions in punctuation have been corrected.
Page 78: “when the deterioriation” changed to “when the deterioration”
Page 159: “changing but steelly arch” changed to “changing but steely
arch”
Page 333-334: “possibility of the i consumption” changed to
“possibility of the consumption”
Page 425: “The hard ‘Hochgebirgsalk,’” changed to “The hard
‘Hochgebirgskalk,’”
Page 564: “Ministère de l’Interieur” changed to “Ministère de
l’Intérieur”
Page 580: The footnote 2 _Ibid._ v. 20, 44, 82. was removed from the
page because it has no corresponding marker in the text.
Page 589: “ordinary’s day’s travel” changed to “ordinary day’s travel”
In the index, “d’Astazon” changed to “d’Astazou”
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Mountain Craft" ***
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