# My Climbs in the Alps and Caucasus (1908)/Chapter 14

CHAPTER XIV.
THE PLEASURES AND PENALTIES OF MOUNTAINEERING.
WELL-KNOWN climbers, whose opinions necessarily carry the greatest weight, have recently declared their belief that the dangers of mountaineering no longer exist. Skill, knowledge, and textbooks have hurled them to the limbo of exploded bogies. I would fain agree with this optimistic conclusion, but I cannot forget that the first guide to whom I was ever roped, and one who possessed—may I say it?—more knowledge of mountains than is to be found even in the Badminton Library, was none the less killed on the Brouillard Mont Blanc, and his son, more recently, on Koshtantau. The memory of two rollicking parties, comprising seven men, who one day in 1879 were climbing on the west face of the Matterhorn, passes with ghost-like admonition before my mind and bids me remember that of these seven, Mr. Penhall was killed on the Wetterhorn, Ferdinand Imseng on the Macugnaga Monte Rosa, and Johann Petrus on the Fresnay Mont Blanc. To say that any single one of these men was ​less careful and competent, or had less knowledge of all that pertains to the climber's craft, than we who yet survive, is obviously and patently absurd. Our best efforts must sometimes be seconded by the great goddess of Luck; to her should the Alpine Club offer its vows and thanksgivings.
Indeed, if we consider for a moment the essence of the sport of mountaineering, it is obvious that it consists, and consists exclusively, in pitting the climber's skill against the difficulties opposed by the mountain. Any increase in skill involves, pari passu, an increase in the difficulties grappled with. From the Breuil ridge of the Matterhorn we pass on to the Dru, and from the Dm to the Aiguille de Grépon: or to take a yet wider range, from the Chamonix Mont Blanc to the same mountain by way of the Brenva glacier and the Aiguille Blanche de Peuteret. It can scarcely be argued that Bennen and Walters were less fit to grapple with the cliff above the "Linceul" than we moderns to climb the Grépon "crack"; or that Jacques Bahnat was less able to lead up the " Ancien passage " than Emile Rey to storm the ghastly precipices of the Brenva Peuteret. But if it be admitted that the skill of the climber has not increased relatively to the difficulties grappled with, it would appear to necessarily follow that climbing is neither more nor less dangerous than formerly.
It is true that extraordinary progress has been ​made in the art of rock climbing, and that, consequently, any given rock climb is much easier now than thirty years since, but the essence of the sport lies, not in ascending a peak, but in struggling with and overcoming difficulties. The happy climber, like the aged Ulysses, is one who has "Drunk delight of battle with his peers," and this delight is only attainable by assaulting cliffs which tax to their utmost limits the powers of the mountaineers engaged. This struggle involves the same risk, whether early climbers attacked what we now call easy rock, or whether we moderns attack formidable rock, or whether the ideal climber of the future assaults cliffs which we now regard as hopelessly inaccessible. Doubtless my difference with the great authorities referred to above is, in the main, due to a totally different view of the raison d'être of mountaineering. Regarded as a sport, some danger is, and always must be, inherent in it; regarded as a means of exercise amongst noble scenery, for quasi-scientific pursuits, as the raw material for interesting papers, or for the purposes of brag and bounce, it has become as safe as the ascent of the Rigi or Pilatus was to the climbers of thirty years since. But these pursuits are not mountaineering in the sense in which the founders of the Alpine Club used the term, and they are not mountaineering in the sense in which the elect—a small, perchance even a dwindling body—use it now. To set one's utmost faculties, ​physical and mental, to fight some grim precipice, or force some gaunt, ice-clad gully, is work worthy of men ; to toil up long slopes of screes behind a guide who can "lie in bed and picture every step of the way up, with all the places for hand and foot," is work worthy of the fibreless contents of fashionable clothes, dumped with all their scents and ointments, starched linen and shiny boots, at Zermatt by the railway.
The true mountaineer is a wanderer, and by a wanderer I do not mean a man who expends his whole time in travelling to and fro in the mountains on the exact tracks of his predecessors—much as a bicyclist rushes along the turnpike roads of England—but I mean a man who loves to be where no human being has been before, who delights in gripping rocks that have previously never felt the touch of human fingers, or in hewing his way up ice-filled gullies whose grim shadows have been sacred to the mists and avalanches since "Earth rose out of chaos." In other words, the true mountaineer is the man who attempts new ascents. Equally, whether he succeeds or fails, he delights in the fun and jollity of the struggle. The gaunt, bare slabs, the square, precipitous steps in the ridge, and the black, bulging ice of the gully, are the very breath of life to his being. I do not pretend to be able to analyse this feeling, still less to be able to make it clear to unbelievers. It must ​be felt to be understood, but it is potent to happiness and sends the blood tingling through the veins, destroying every trace of cynicism and striking at the very roots of pessimistic philosophy.
Our critics, curiously enough, repeat in substance Mr. Ruskin's original taunt that we regard the mountains as greased poles. I must confess that a natural and incurable denseness of understanding does not enable me to feel the sting of this taunt. Putting aside the question of grease, which is offensive and too horrible for contemplation in its effects on knickerbockers—worse even than the structure-destroying edges and splinters of the Grépon ridge—I do not perceive the enormity or sin of climbing poles. At one time, I will confess, I took great delight in the art, and, so far as my experience extends, the taste is still widespread amongst English youth. It is possible, nay even probable, that much of the pleasure of mountaineering is derived from the actual physical effort and from the perfect state of health to which this effort brings its votaries, and, to this extent, may plausibly be alleged to be the mere sequence and development of the pole and tree climbing of our youth. The sting of the taunt is presumably meant to lurk in the implication that the climber is incapable of enjoying noble scenery; that, in the jargon of certain modern writers, he is a "mere gymnast." But why should a man be assumed incapable of enjoying aesthetic pleasures ​because he is also capable of the physical and non-aesthetic pleasures of rock climbing?
A well-known mountaineer asserts that the fathers of the craft did not regard "the over-coming of physical obstacles by means of muscular exertion and skill" as "the chief pleasure of mountaineering." But is this so? Can any one read the great classic of mountaineering literature, "The Playground of Europe," without feeling that the overcoming of these obstacles was a main factor of its author's joy? Can any one read "Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers" and the earlier numbers of the Alpine Journal without feeling that the various writers gloried in the technique of their craft? Of course the skilful interpolation of "chief" gives an opening for much effective dialectic, but after all, what does it mean? How can a pleasure which is seated in health and jollity and the "spin of the blood" be measured and compared with a purely aesthetic feeling? It would appear difficult to argue that as a man cultivates and acquires muscular skill and knowledge of the mountains, he correspondingly dwarfs and impairs the aesthetic side of his nature. If so, we magnify the weak-kneed and the important, the lame, the halt and the blind, and brand as false the Greek ideal of the perfect man. Doubtless a tendency in this direction may be detected in some modern thought, but, like much else similarly ​enshrined, it has no ring of true metal. Those who are so completely masters of their environment that they can laugh and rollick on the ridges, free from all constraint of ropes or fear of danger, are far more able to appreciate the glories of the "eternal hills" than those who can only move in constant terror of their lives, amidst the endless chatter and rank tobacco smoke of unwashed guides.
The fact that a man enjoys scrambling up a steep rock in no way makes him insensible of all that is beautiful in nature. The two sets of feelings are indeed wholly unconnected. A man may love climbing and care naught for mountain scenery; he may love the scenery and hate climbing; or he may be equally devoted to both. The presumption obviously is that those who are most attracted by the mountains and most constantly return to their fastnesses, are those who to the fullest extent possess both these sources of enjoyment—those who can combine the fun and frolic of a splendid sport with that indefinable delight which is induced by the lovely form, tone, and colouring of the great ranges.
I am free to confess that I myself should still climb, even though there were no scenery to look at, even if the only climbing attainable were the dark and gruesome pot-holes of the Yorkshire dales. On the other hand, I should still wander among the upper snows, lured by the silent mists ​and the red blaze of the setting sun, even though physical or other infirmity, even though in after aeons the sprouting of wings and other angelic appendages, may have sunk all thought of climbing and cragsmanship in the whelming past.
It is frequently assumed, even by those who ought to know better, that if mountaineering involves danger of any sort, it should never be indulged in—at all events by such precious individuals as the members of the English Alpine Club. Before considering this most pernicious doctrine, it is well to remember, that though the perils of mountaineering may not have been wholly dissipated into space by the lightning-like flashes of the Badminton and All England series, yet, nevertheless, these perils are not very great. With a single exception, the foregoing pages contain an account of every difficulty I have experienced which has seemed to render disaster a possible contingency. As my devotion to the sport began in 1871, and has continued with unabated vigour ever since, it will be evident that the climber's perils—in so far as a modest individual may regard himself as typical of the class—are extremely few and very rarely encountered. Such, however, as they have been, I would on no account have missed them. There is an educative and purifying power in danger that is to be found in no other school, and it is worth much for a man to know that he is not ​"clean gone to flesh pots and effeminacy." It may be admitted that the mountains occasionally push things a trifle too far, and bring before their votaries a vision of the imminence of dissolution that the hangman himself with all his paraphernalia of scaffold, gallows, and drop, could hardly hope to excel. But grim and hopeless as the cliffs may sometimes look when ebbing twilight is chased by shrieking wind and snow and the furies are in mad hunt along the ridges, there is ever the feeling that brave companions and a constant spirit will cut the gathering web of peril, "forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit."
The sense of independence and self-confidence induced by the great precipices and vast silent fields of snow is something wholly delightful. Every step is health, fun, and frolic. The troubles and cares of life, together with the essential vulgarity of a plutocratic society, are left far below—foul miasmas that cling to the lowest bottoms of reeking valleys. Above, in the clear air and searching sunlight, we are afoot with the quiet gods, and men can know each other and themselves for what they are. No feeling can be more glorious than advancing to attack some gaunt precipitous wall with "comrades staunch as the founders of our race." Nothing is more exhilarating than to know that the fingers of one hand can still be trusted with the lives of a party, and that the lower limbs ​are free from all trace of "knee-dissolving fear," even though the friction of one hobnail on an outward shelving ledge alone checks the hurtling of the body through thin air, and of the soul (let us hope) to the realms above.
I am of course aware that it is an age which cares little for the more manly virtues, and which looks askance at any form of sport that can, by any stretch of extremest imagination, be regarded as dangerous: yet since we cannot all, for most obvious reasons, take our delight "wallowing in slimy spawn of lucre," something may surely be urged in favour of a sport that teaches, as no other teaches, endurance and mutual trust, and forces men occasionally to look death in its grimmest aspect frankly and squarely in the face. For though mountaineering is not, perhaps, more dangerous than other sports, it undoubtedly brings home to the mind a more stimulating sense of peril; a sense, indeed, that is out of all proportion to the actual risk. It is, for instance, quite impossible to look down the tremendous precipices of the Little Dru without feeling in each individual nerve the utter disintegration of everything human which a fall must involve; and the contingency of such a fall frequently brought before the mind—indeed, throughout the ascent, constant and strenuous efforts are needed to avoid it. The love of wager, our religious teachers notwithstanding, is still ​inherent in the race, and one cannot find a higher stake—at all events in these materialistic days, when Old Nick will no longer lay sterling coin against the gamester's soul—than the continuity of the cervical vertebrae; and this is the stake that the mountaineer habitually and constantly wagers. It is true the odds are all on his side, but the off-chance excites to honesty of thought and tests how far decay has penetrated the inner fibre. That mountaineering has a high educational value, few, who have the requisite knowledge to form a fair judgment, would deny. That it has its evil side I frankly admit. None can look down its gloomy death-roll without feeling that our sport demands a fearful price.
Mountaineering being a sport not wholly free from danger, it behoves us to consider the directions from which this danger may come, and the methods by which it may usually be met and conquered. Amongst the mountains, as elsewhere, "the unexpected always happens." It is the momentary carelessness in easy places, the lapsed attention, or the wandering look that is the usual parent of disaster. It may appear that to this extent dangers are avoidable, and the high authorities referred to above justified in their optimism. But which of us can boast that his attention to the slope and his companions never flags, that his eyes are always on the watch for falling stones, for ​loose rocks, for undercut ice, and all the traps and pitfalls that Madame Nature scatters with such profusion among the "lonely hills"? The chief source of danger is this need for incessant care, the unvarying readiness of ice, snow, and rock to punish relentlessly an instant's forgetfulness, or the most trifling neglect. The first lesson the novice has to learn is to be ever on his guard, and it is one that the oldest climber rarely fully masters. Unfortunately it is one which the beginner must find out for himself, it is a habit that must be acquired, and to which no road, other than constant practice, will ever lead him. It wants long experience to impress upon the mind that the chief danger of extremely difficult climbing is to be found on the easy places by which it is followed; that it lies less in the stress of desperate wrestling with the crags than in the relaxed attention which such work is apt to induce on the return to comparatively easy ground. Nothing is more usual than to hear a man say after some very formidable ascent—it may even be read in the Alpine Journal—that on the way up, certain preliminary rocks appeared distinctly difficult, but on the way down, after the terrible grapple with the cliffs above, these same rocks appeared "ridiculously easy." It is the delusive appearance of safety presented by these "ridiculously easy rocks" that swells the list of Alpine victims. There are few, even of the oldest and most cunning climbers, who ​do not have to struggle against the feeling that the difficulties are over and care is no longer essential. Twice have I seen incipient accidents arise from this cause, and on each occasion none but the fair goddess of luck could have rescued a friend from disaster.
There is, again, the impossibility of learning, except by actual experience, the length of time during which the nervous system may be relied on. The protracted strain of a long ice slope tells on men in wholly different ways. To some it means merely the sharpening of their faculties, and with every hour they get steadier and safer in their steps; with others it means utter exhaustion and collapse. It is distinctly unpleasant when a companion, who you think is enjoying himself, suddenly informs you that he is doubtful of his power to stand in the steps, that his knees are wobbling, and that he may be expected to slip at any moment. At such times nothing but the fact that one has been brought up surrounded by the best religious influences, prevents the ejaculation of the strongest and most soul-satisfying expletives known to the English tongue. It may be said that such a man should not go climbing ; but how is he to know that he is affected in this way till he has so gone? A man can never know his capabilities till he has tried them, and this testing process involves risk. Going over ground where a slip would not be serious is of no use; ​so long as this is the case he may be as good or better than his companions. It is the knowledge that he holds the lives of the party in his hand that masters and conquers him, not the mere technical difficulties of the slope, which, to a man who has good steps cut for him, may be practically nil.
It will be evident that all these dangers press on the novice far more than on the old and seasoned mountaineer. Those who have learnt the craft, and spent fifteen or twenty summers amongst the mountains, are scarcely likely to be unaware of their own failings and weaknesses, and may be trusted to be generally on the alert. The dangers to which such "old hands" are subject come in the main from other directions, and are chiefly connected with "new expeditions." In the Alps, such ascents can only be found on previously unclimbed sides of peaks, and the mountaineer usually has the knowledge that if he reaches the top he can descend by an easy and well-known route. The temptation to persevere in an ascent, especially if anything very formidable has already been passed, is extremely great, and a party may even be urged forward by the fear of retreat. This fear should, however, never be yielded to; it may easily result in forcing the party into difficulties from which they have neither the time nor the ability to extricate themselves. If a place cannot be descended it should never be climbed.
​A somewhat similar and still more deceitful peril is involved by the ascent in the early morning of gullies, which, though fairly safe at that hour, are known to be the channel of avalanches and falling stones in the afternoon. Should any unforeseen cause stop the party high up on the mountain, no safe line of retreat is open. In this way, when Herren Lammer and Lorria, foiled by the ice-glazed rocks of the western face of the Matterhorn, were forced to return, they found the great couloir ceaselessly swept by stones and snow. Persisting, none the less, in the descent, they were carried down by an avalanche, and though, by extraordinary luck, they both escaped with their lives, they suffered very serious injuries. Unless, therefore, the climber is absolutely certain that the ascent can be completed, it is in the highest degree perilous to enter such gullies, and those who do so should clearly recognise that they are running very serious risks. If, however, the risk has been run and the party is checked high up on; the mountain, it is usually the better course to spend the night on the rocks, and wait till frost has sealed up the loose stones, snow and ice. This expedient has been adopted more than once by my old guide, Alexander Burgener. On the memorable descent of the Col du Lion, it undoubtedly saved both Dr. Güssfeldt's life and his own. I ​am aware that this procedure involves some slight risk from adverse changes in the weather, and extreme discomfort from cold, and possibly hunger, but these latter are mere trifles to strong men, properly clad; and as for the former, such places as the great couloir of the western Matterhorn are far safer in a snowstorm than when the setting sun is blazing on the great slopes above. Indeed, when snow falls at a low temperature it instantly dries up the trickles of water, stops the melting of the great pendent icicles, and generally checks the fall of missiles, thus rendering slopes and couloirs, which one dare not climb in fine weather, fairly safe. On the other hand, a summer snow squall followed by a wind above freezing point (a not infrequent phenomenon), will convert rock slopes, usually innocent, into cascades of water, armed and rendered terrible by stones and dislodged crags. It will thus be seen that most accurate judgment is necessary, and the requisite knowledge for this judgment is hardly to be obtained tin the climber has learnt, by dangerous experience, to grasp the exact nature of the storm, and the effect it is likely to have on the slope he is dealing with.
Climbers sometimes write as though it were possible to avoid all slopes down which stones or ice can ever fall. In actual fact, though such slopes may, to some extent, be avoided on the days and at the hours when such falls may be most ​expected, it is impossible to keep wholly clear of them.
Mountaineers of the widest experience and most approved prudence, even presidents and ex-presidents of the Alpine Club, have been known to descend, for hours on end, shelterless slopes of rock and ice, liable at any moment to be raked from top to bottom by falling stones and ice. The orthodox critic may protest, but none the less those who seek to effect new passes will occasionally find themselves in positions which leave them no endurable alternative. The pseudo mountaineer can, it is true, almost wholly avoid these dangers. Accompanied by guides who know every step of the way, he is led by a fairly sheltered route, or, if none such exists, he is told this fact before he starts, and can alter his plans accordingly. But the repetition of an accurately timed and adjusted performance, under the rigid rule of a guide as stage manager, does not commend itself to the real mountaineer. His delight and pleasure in the sport are chiefly derived from the very uncertainty and difficulties which it is the main function of such a guide to eliminate. Even if the pass is not exactly new, he likes to encounter it without the exact knowledge of the route which reduces it to a mere tramp of so many hours duration, and as a consequence he cannot invariably avoid all risk.
As a matter of fact, very few of the usual and ​customary ascents are quite free from ice and rock falls. Even the Chamonix route up Mont Blanc passes one place where the track is sometimes swept by stones from the Aiguille du Midi, and a second, where ice avalanches from the Dôme du Gouter threaten, and sometimes slay, the traveller. There is, in fact, no absolute immunity from this danger, and it is desirable, therefore, that the young mountaineer should learn the various methods by which it may most suitably be grappled. To acquire the art of watching a falling stone, and, at the critical moment, to remove oneself from the line of fire, is essential to the cragsman. To attain the knowledge requisite to judge where and when ice and snow avalanches may be expected to fall, is equally necessary for the safe guidance of a party. It requires, however, the best teaching that the oldest and steadiest guides can give, combined with a long experience of the upper snows. Those who aspire to lead a party cannot devote too great attention to this subject, and should be able to judge, with tolerable certainty, the effects which new snow on the one hand, or persistently fine weather on the other, has caused in the séracs towering above the lower glacier. Beginners are apt to forget that at no time is falling ice more greatly to be feared than when protracted sunshine has wrought havoc amongst the leering monsters poised above their track. To adapt ​the expedition to the weather is frequently of critical importance, and may make not merely the difference between success and failure, but even between health and jollity, and irremediable disaster.
In this connection it is desirable to notice that an unroped party is safer than a roped one, and that its chances of escape from the missiles at the mountain's disposal vary, at the very least, inversely with its size. With three on the rope the middle man is more or less of a fixture, and has very little chance of saving himself from falling stones unless cover is close at hand. If no cover is available the fact that the party is spread over a considerable extent of rock renders it highly probable that the true line of escape for its first and last members will lie in opposite directions. Should this be the case no movement is immediately possible, and the middle man occupies a most unenviable position. Personally I much prefer discarding the rope in all such places, and if this is not desirable, consider two quite the maximum permissible. I may add that this opinion is shared by such men as Alex. Burgener and Emile Rey. I have known each of them object to add a third to the party, on the ground that it would prevent rapidity of movement in places where such rapidity might be desirable. There is also the very serious risk of stones upset by the leader, and which may acquire very dangerous velocity before they pass the lowest man when ​several climbers are on the slope. During the first ascent of the Rothhom from Zermatt, disaster was narrowly escaped from this very cause.
There are many gullies in which it is absolutely impossible to avoid dislodging stones, and as a consequence large parties are forced to "close up." Whilst this, to some extent, obviates the risk from falling stones, it negatives any advantage from the rope, and frequently compels all but the first man to be simultaneously on bad ground. Even then I have, more than once, seen a man badly hurt by such stones, and it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that some unexplained accidents may have resulted from a dislodged stone knocking a companion out of his steps, and his fall dragging the members of a "closed up" party, one after another, from their hold. On very steep ice, again, the leader is sometimes seriously hampered by the existence of a large party below him, and the consequent necessity of only cutting small pieces of ice with each stroke of the axe, and absolutely to avoid, on reaching rocks, any endeavour to clear the ice from them; the chance of detaching a fragment sufficiently large to knock a companion seventy or eighty feet below from his steps, being greater than the advantage of getting reliable footing.
These considerations of roping and numbers apply with even greater force to any danger arising ​from ice avalanches. Every additional man on the rope means a serious decrease of the extreme speed at which the party can move, and it is in speed, and in speed alone, that a party so surprised can hope for safety. In 1871 Mr. Tuckett's party were nearly swept away by a great avalanche falling from the Eiger, and he attributes his escape, in no small measure, to the fact that the party was not roped, and had, in consequence, much greater power of rapid movement than would otherwise have been the case.
Of course if an incompetent man is included, the rope must be worn constantly, and at least two sound and reliable mountaineers must be watching over his idiosyncrasies; but parties so hampered should avoid such gullies as that ascended on the way up the Shreckhorn, or the pitiless slopes of the Italian side of the Col des Hirondelles.
There is one other condition in which the rope seriously increases the risks of competent mountaineers. In the event of an avalanche being started, a roped party is almost helpless. It may be frequently possible for any one of the party to escape from the seething snow, but he is, if roped, of necessity dragged back by his companions. In such a case escape from the avalanche is only possible if all can jump from the sliding snow on the same side and at the same moment, and even ​then only if they can free the rope from the wet masses of snow in which it is certain to have become somewhat involved. It is obvious, that under circumstances which may afford each single member of the party a dozen chances of escape, it will be highly improbable that all of them will get a simultaneous chance, and the rope in such a case is a veritable death-trap. In larger avalanches, where the utmost the climber can do is to keep his head above the crest of the wave, the roped climber is hampered, as a swimmer in a furious surf would be hampered, by the entanglement of his companions. One has only to read the account of the death of Bennen to realise how disastrous a rope may be.
I have no wish to advocate the disuse of the rope, but merely to point out certain well-known facts that have been lost sight of in recent contributions to the literature of mountaineering. As a general rule it is of the utmost value, and where climbers are of unequal skill and experience, its constant use is demanded by the primary feelings of comradeship and good faith. There is, however, some danger of its being regarded as a sort of Providence, always ready to save the reckless and incompetent, no matter how slight their experience, no matter how little they may be fitted for the expeditions they undertake. Though I have dwelt at some length on the occasional ​advantages the rope entails, and said but little about the safety it so constantly assures, this is merely because there seems no danger of the latter being overlooked, and much that the former will be wholly forgotten. It is, moreover, to be remembered that the conduct of guideless parties has been chiefly in view. Since each member of such a party should be absolutely certain never to slip, the monotony of this precaution may in many places be relaxed with safety, and sometimes even with advantage.
I am, of course, aware that high authorities assert that a party should always be roped, and that it should never consist of less than three—does not the All England series tell that "whatever number may be right two is wrong"? I must, however, confess that I fail to apprehend the reasons which have led to this unqualified dictum. It would rather appear that the best number depends on a variety of conditions, which vary with the expedition in view. For instance, on the Col du Lion, two is undoubtedly the best and safest number. Not merely is it desirable to reduce to the smallest dimensions the target offered to the mountain musketry and big guns, but it is also essential to move with the utmost speed attainable. Wherever this is the case each additional man is a source of danger.
Much recent writing on this question assumes that on steep slopes or cliffs three men are safer ​than two. It would, however, appear obvious that this is an error. If the leader slips, it almost of necessity involves the destruction of the party. In any case the whole impact of his fall must come on the man next him in the line, and if this man is dragged from his hold it is absurd to suppose that the third will be able to support the shock of the two men falling. Exactly the same may be said of a traverse; if the leader slips he must be held, if he is held at all, by the man next him in the line. No matter how many may be behind, they will, of necessity, be dragged, one after another, from their hold. It is obvious that if the leader is held by the man next him in the line, two are sufficient for safety; if he is not so held, then three, or any greater number, are equally doomed to destruction. Writers on this subject seem to assume that a party of three or more have no ends to the rope—that each member of the party is between two others—in which case, doubtless, fairly efficient help could be given. It is needless to point out, however, that this is impossible. In every party there are two men, the slip of either of whom, on a steep traverse, is extremely dangerous, if not fatal. The insertion of a third climber, between these two, in no way reduces or diminishes this danger, though, in circumstances which can readily be imagined, it may gravely add to it.
The truth would appear to be, that if from a ​party of three you remove the worst climber, the two remaining men will, on steep slopes, be distinctly safer than the whole party. If, on the other hand, from the party of three you remove either of the more competent men, then the remaining two will be very much less safe. It must be remembered that I am not arguing in favour of a party consisting of one mountaineer and a duffer, but of two men, equally competent and skilled in all that pertains to the climber's craft.
A careful consideration of the various possibilities that can assail the mountaineer on the steeper slopes would appear to lead to the conclusion that a party of three or four is as often too many, as a party of two is too few. The loss of time and the danger of upset stones, and even of ice and snow hewn out in the process of step cutting, appear to fairly balance the advantages of a greater number.
These advantages are chiefly, that in places where the second man is giving the leader a shoulder, a third man may be able to anchor the party with a hitched rope; or where the upper lip of a Schrund is almost out of reach, a third man can materially aid in the work of lifting and holding the leader on the shoulders of his companion whilst the necessary steps are being cut. It is also desirable, in all expeditions where much backing up is required, that the second man should be free from the encumbrance of the ​knapsack, spare rope, etc., and this, necessarily, involves a third to act as porter. It would appear then, that so far as the steeper slopes are concerned, the number of the party should be adapted to the nature of the expedition, and no attempt should be made to lay down any hard and fast rule.
The main strength of the objection to two men climbing alone is, perhaps, to be found in the common belief that if one man falls into a crevasse, his companion will be unable to pull him out. With regard to this extremely unpleasant supposition, it may be pointed out that there is no particular reason for him to fall in. Why any one should wish to dangle on the rope, in a dark and chilly chasm, is one of those profound and inscrutable mysteries which may be regarded as past all finding out. It is, of course, a quite unnecessary incident, and one which is not, perhaps, nearly so frequently indulged in as some people imagine. Once only have I been near falling into a crevasse, but on that occasion, being unroped, I felt it desirable to abandon such pleasure as this proceeding may afford.
A crevasse, except immediately after fresh snow, is always visible to any one who takes the trouble to look for it; and even if the leader is careless and does break through, the rope, if used with any readiness and skill, ought to check his going in beyond his waist.
It is a curious fact that, from the very earliest ​days of mountaineering, two guides, dismissed after crossing a pass, have been in the habit of returning home by themselves. So far as I have been able to learn, no single crevasse accident has ever happened to them. When it is remembered that such extensive and fissured fields of névé, as those traversed by the routes over the Col du Géant, the Mönch Joch, the Weiss Thor, the Col d'Hérens and the Brèche de la Meije, are amongst those which have been habitually crossed by two guides alone, it would appear that the danger to such parties is almost or quite non-existent. It is, indeed, obvious that if such parties were exposed to the danger alleged, it would be little short of criminal to take two men across an ice pass and dismiss them under conditions which practically involve their climbing two on a rope. To permit guides to run risks, which their employer is warned on no account to face, would be, to say the least of it, contrary to the traditions of Englishmen at large and the Alpine Club in particular.
The difficulty of reconciling practice and teaching on this point leads me to suppose that, possibly, these denunciations are levelled, not against parties of two mountaineers, but against parties of one mountaineer and one duffer. Politeness, that arch-corrupter of truth, has, perchance, led our teachers to say "a party should never consist of less than three, of whom two should be guides," in preference to saying that "a party should always consist of two ​mountaineers, with or without one or more pieces of animate luggage." It would, indeed, be passing strange, if my old friends Alex. Burgener and Emile Rey, being seized with a desire to cross the Col du Géant, were compelled to obtain the help of some weakly school girl, or decrepit tourist, before being able to face the perils of the pass! Yet this is the conclusion to which the doctrines of our prophets necessarily lead! Truly those who aspire to walk with the "quiet gods" on more than Olympian heights should shun the formal politeness which conceals truth and say their whole meaning, regardless of the feelings of the incompetent and the duffer. Two friends of mine once wished to cross an extensive Norwegian snow field; being learned in the written wisdom of the mountains, they felt that a third man was essential to their safety. They found him, and during the succeeding two days were able to rejoice in the security so afforded! Not only did he cause them to go so slowly that they were benighted in the most inconvenient quarters, not only did he do his best to drag them off the rocks whenever there was any possibility of his efforts being rewarded with success, but I am assured, on authority which is absolutely indisputable, that he indulged, at times, in the most profane and unbecoming language! From that time forth my friends have been firm converts to the doctrine, that if from a party of three you abstract the weakest member, ​the party is very materially strengthened and improved, and that two competent climbers constitute a far safer and better party than the two guides and a traveller, so dear to the orthodox authorities on mountaineering.
Since, however, it is conceivable that an extensive snow bridge might give way, and let the leader fall some distance before the rope could come into play, it may be of advantage to describe a method of using the rope by which, even in this case, a party of two should still be able to work out their own salvation. It is a fairly well known fact, attested by a considerable number of involuntary experiments, that one man can hold a companion who has fallen some distance into a crevasse. The friction of the rope on the edge of the crevasse, and the splendid holding ground which the soft, level snow affords, enables the fall to be checked without very grave difficulty. The crucial point is, however, to get your companion out again. This, with the rope used in the customary manner, is impossible. Ferdinand Imseng and other of the experimenters referred to above have tried it and failed, and their experience may, I think, be taken as conclusive. If, however, instead of the usual rope, a rope of half its weight and strength be used doubled, the problem ​is easily solved. One of these ropes is provided with two loops, one close to each climber. In the event of a bridge breaking, and as soon as the fall has been checked, the remaining climber drives his axe into the snow, cuts himself free from the looped rope and slips this loop over the axe head. The position of affairs is now as follows. The man in the crevasse has hold of a rope fast to the ice-axe; round his waist is a second rope, also round his companion's waist and held by him. The man in the crevasse pulls on the rope fast to the axe, and the man outside pulls on the rope round his companion's waist: in other words two men are engaged in lifting one. Every advance is made secure and permanent by the man outside, who holds no slack in his hands but pushes his way back from the crevasse, step by step, as his companion nears the lip. Arrived at this point, where the ropes will have cut deep into the snow, the engulfed man has only to rest his whole weight on the rope round his waist, and he can then jerk the other rope free from the snow, and get fresh hold higher up, and little by little, extricate himself.
Whilst the rope so used is a fairly effective safeguard against this danger—as efficient perhaps as the rope used in the ordinary way by a party of three—it may be admitted that those who have a constant and irresistible impulse to plunge into the blue depths of crevasses would be wise to travel with two or more companions. A light and portable ​windlass would, perhaps, be a judicious investment for any spare carrying power such a party might possess. Those, however, who have the fortitude to resist the blandishments of the crevasse, whose ears are stuffed with wax and do not hear the sirens singing in their depths, may adopt the precaution of the doubled rope and feel fairly assured of its efficacy. It ought, however, to be remembered that at least fifty feet should be put between two men, when they are on a glacier by themselves.
The habit of climbing alone is open to far other and more serious objections. It is true that under very exceptional circumstances, when, for instance, settled fine weather has rendered every crevasse visible, snow fields may be crossed in the early morning without much risk. At such times I have strolled over the Trift Joch, the Weiss Thor, the Col du Géant and other passes without experiencing any symptom of danger; but the sense of loneliness, a sense which, when fog and mists curl round the ridges, becomes almost painful, is apt to affect a man's steadiness and resource. It is certainly undesirable to push such solitary wanderings beyond very narrow limits.
On the other hand, nothing develops a man's faculties so rapidly and completely. No one detects a crevasse so readily as the man who is accustomed to traverse snow fields by himself. No one takes such careful note of the line of ascent as the cragsman ​who has got to find his way back alone. The concentration of all responsibility and all the work on a single individual forces him to acquire an all-round skill which is hardly to be gained in any other way. Climbing in parties is apt to develop one-sidedness. One man cuts the steps, another climbs the rocks, and a third always knows the way. Division of laboiir is doubtless excellent, and perchance deserves all that Adam Smith has said in its favour, but it does not develop the ideal mountaineer. In this department of human duty Mr, William Morris gives sounder advice. Of course this is merely another way of saying that the chamois hunter—i.e., the solitary mountaineer —is the best raw material for a guide. The fact that a man has been in the habit of climbing alone, means that the law of the survival of the fittest has had full and ample opportunity of elimmatlng him should he be, in any way, a careless or incapable mountaineer.
From the individual's point of view this elimination may not, perhaps, appear wholly desirable. Yet, judging from his habits, the faithful climber, carried away by altruistic feelings and thinking merely of the welfare of future companions, prefers that the law of the survival of the fittest should have full scope and should pass him through its searching fires. Possibly critics may suggest other and less pleasing motives, perhaps I could even do so myself, but wherefore filch from the lurking foe the joy of a ​trenchant onslaught? Any way, no matter what his motive may have been, the man so proved is quite independent of the rope, and moves as freely, or more freely, without it than with. He suggests at every step that he adds to the pool of safety that may be regarded as embodied in it. Those, on the other hand, who are imbued with the text books, and fear to move hand or foot when free from the trammels of loops and knots, insensibly suggest that they subtract from this same pool of safety.
It must not be supposed that I am an advocate of solitary climbing. It requires but a trifling knowledge of the average amateur to feel assured that at least nine out of every ten will break their necks if they seriously attempt it. All that is desirable to do, is to point out to those who wish to go without guides, the direction in which they may seek for reliable companions. The more orthodox methods of ascending peaks, between two good guides, has much to recommend it, but its votaries had best be avoided by those who aspire to face the great ridges, trusting exclusively in their own right arms and slowly won experience.
The rope should, indeed, be regarded by each member of the party, exclusively as an aid and protection to his companions. Those who feel its constant use essential to their own comfort, should regard this as indisputable evidence that they are engaging in expeditions too difficult for ​them; a practice which will never make good and self-reliant climbers. To be able to move safely and freely on a mountain slope should be the one object which the young mountaineer sets before himself. At occasional "mauvais pas" he may legitimately ask his companions to look after him and either give actual help, or rescue him from disaster should he slip, but this help should be quite exceptional. If he finds on any expedition that this protection is constantly required, he should frankly recognise that he is attempting work for which he is unfit.
The iIatterhom gives a curious illustration of the way in which the modern amateur is deteriorating. The early climbers roped at the "shoulder." In 1873 they roped at the old hut. In 1886 they roped some distance below the old hut. Now they rope at the new hut, and the exploits of a gentleman in 1893 render it not impossible that future climbers will rope at the Homh. Yet these unfortunates fail to recognise that they are attempting work altogether beyond their powers, and are being nursed and coddled by their guides in a way that is destructive of all proper self-respect and of every feeling of self-reliant manhness. Miilst the true mountaineer is undoubtedly
"... the noblest work of God,"
a thing that is pushed and hustled up peaks by ​Swiss peasants, and which is so wholly unable to take care of itself that it cannot be trusted to sit on a crag unroped, is as contemptible an object as may easily be imagined. A man should never knowingly and deliberately thrust himself into places where he is hopelessly mastered and dominated by his environment. He who does this is regarded by his guides as a sort of "vache au lait," a convenient source of tariffs and Trinkgeld; a butt for small jokes and witticisms; an object to smear with grease, to decorate with masks and veils, and to button up in strange, chain-clad gaiters; a thing to be wound up with wine and brandy, and which must never be lost sight of till safely handed over to the landlord of an inn. It is difficult to apprehend how men, who in other departments of life are not wanting in a sufficient sense of their own personal dignity, should consent to be treated in this way. It is not, even, as if it were the only form of mountain expedition open to them. Work within the powers of the least competent is abundant in every Alpine valley, much of it surrounded by the noblest scenery both of ice and snow. The art of mountaineering consists in being able to climb easily and securely, in being able to relate one's skill to the difficulties of the slopes above and around, and it may, to some extent, be practised and enjoyed, consistently with reasonable safety and self-respect, by every man, no matter how slight his natural ​aptitude and training may be. It is merely necessary that he should recognise the limits so imposed.
High proficiency in the sport is only attainable when a natural aptitude is combined with long years of practice, and not without some, perhaps much, danger to life and limb. Happily, the faithful climber usually acquires this skill at an age when the responsibilities of life have not yet laid firm hold upon him, and when he may fairly claim some latitude in matters of this sort. On the other hand he gains a knowledge of himself, a love of all that is most beautiful in nature, and an outlet such as no other sport affords for the stirring energies of youth; gains for which no price is, perhaps, too high. It is true the great ridges sometimes demand their sacrifice, but the mountaineer would hardly forego his worship though he knew himself to be the destined victim. But happily to most of us the great brown slabs bending over into immeasurable space, the lines and curves of the wind-moulded cornice, the delicate undulations of the fissured snow, are old and trusted friends, ever luring us to health and fun and laughter, and enabling us to bid a sturdy defiance to all the ills that time and life oppose.
THE END.
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T. NELSON AND SONS
PRINTERS AND PUBLISHERS
* ↑ "In den Hochalpen," pp. 269, 270.
* ↑ "Above the Snow Line," pp. 49, 50.
* ↑ Alpine Journal, vol. ii. p. 341 et seq.
* ↑ "Hours of Exercise in the Alps," pp. 204, 205.
* ↑ Happily on each of these occasions another party was within hail, and by its assistance the entombed climber's rescue was effected.