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.
[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.
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.
[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.
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.
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.
[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.”
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.