HOW TO JUMP.
First study closely the figures in the diagram ([Fig 33]), then read the following instructions, referring back from time to time.
Fig. 33.
Showing position of limbs and body when jumping.
N.B.—Many good ski-runners bring their ski quite level when assuming the crouched position before jumping.
The ski are omitted for the sake of clearness.
The Approach.
Imagine yourself, then, standing some 20 or 30 yards above the take-off. (The precise distance will, of course, depend on the steepness of the hill and the speed which you wish to attain; but as regards speed do not attempt too much at first; it is difficult, of course, to give an exact measure, but a rate of about 5 yards per second when approaching the edge of the jump should be sufficient to begin with.) See that your ski-fastenings are in order, and polish your ski a little on the snow, or on some fir branches or other twigs, to remove any lumps adhering to the bottom of them. Be altogether without fear, and start.
Hold the ski close together, with one of them somewhat in advance—say, with the heel of the one foot about in line with the toe of the other.
About 15 yards or so before reaching the edge of the take-off bend down, leaning a little forward ([see Fig. 33]). N.B.—About this point many good jumpers bring their feet quite level.
The Sats.
Some few yards before reaching the edge swing the body evenly forwards, at the same time straightening up.
This movement is termed the “sats.”
Note particularly that no attempt must be made to lift the feet as in ordinary jumping. The body should be swung evenly forwards, and at the same time straighten up from the crouched to the erect position. The movement, if made vigorously, does, in fact, cause a slight rising from the ground, but it is best not to be too vigorous at first. Unroll yourself, so to speak, with an easy sweep, avoiding all stiffness and jerking.
It may perhaps help you to understand what is meant if you make an attempt to rise on the toes. You should not, indeed, actually rise, but just at first, if you make an effort in that direction, it will probably assist you to arrive at the knack of the thing.
Another very important point is the timing of the movement. The body should be nearly straight just as the take-off is left. Therefore, as the movement itself takes time, the greater the speed at which you are travelling the earlier you must begin. Whilst, on the other hand, the more vigorous the straightening you intend to make the later you can defer it. You are, however, advised to take things easily, especially at first, and to aim rather at accuracy and elegance of style than at mere length. Accordingly it will be necessary for you to begin the straightening movement rather early. Remember when you first learnt to shoot how often the tails of the rabbits and pheasants suffered. For very similar reasons most beginners make the sats too late.
It follows from the above that the object of the sats is two-fold—firstly, to increase the length of the jump, and, secondly, to bring the body into the proper position for alighting. The former is achieved by the straightening movement, and the latter by the swing forward.
“But,” you ask, “why swing forward at all, why not keep quite still?” The reason is that in descending all hills on slippery things like ski the body must be kept quite straight over them—or, in other words, at about right angles to the slope on which they are travelling. This is sufficiently obvious. But observe that in jumping the slope below the take-off is considerably steeper than that above ([p. 93]). The body must accordingly be brought forward when passing from one to the other, or a fall backwards will result. And such is, indeed, the common fate of the beginner, whose tendency is invariably to hang back!
Now look at the spraet hop, shown in [Fig. 31]. Here the take-off itself is turned upwards, and the difference between its direction and that of the slope below becomes greater than ever. On such a jump it is especially necessary to swing well forwards, for which reason it is the very best practice, for once one has learnt to do that everything else is easy.
Position in the Air.
The whole body should be straight and erect. So do not check the straightening of the knees and thighs if you have not quite finished your spring when you leave the take-off.
You will feel a compelling necessity to wave your arms round and round when in the air. Everybody does so more or less, but, of course, your object should be to be reasonable in this. Frantic waving looks very ugly. Endeavour to keep your ski parallel to the slope below. There is always a tendency for the toes to fly up and the heels to drag, which should be checked as far as possible by pressing down the toes.
On Alighting.
Slide one foot forwards and the other backwards, relieving any shock by a slight bending of the knees. This extending of the feet is of great assistance in preserving the balance, and with a little practice becomes almost instinctive.
Resume as soon as possible the normal position—i.e., ski close together, one foot slightly in advance, body slightly crouched. As soon as possible after reaching the level stop yourself by making a Telemark or Christiania swing.
Points to be remembered:—
1. Don’t be frightened.
2. Ski close together.
3. Swing forward, “unroll.”
4. Extend ski on alighting.
Pay great attention to your “form,” which is all important, as in rowing. Think of nothing else, and you will soon succeed. At competitions the prize is not necessarily awarded to the competitor who jumps furthest, even if he “stood” after alighting. For if the jump was made in bad style assuredly it was a fluke, and will seldom be repeated. All ski-jumpers fall more or less, but it is equally a matter of surprise if the awkward should “stand,” or the elegant and correct should fail.
The style of jumping above recommended is that known in Norway as the Svæve—one swoops motionless through the air. It is certainly the prettiest, as well as the easiest to learn. Another method, however, exists, known as the Trække op, in which the leaper draws up his legs during his flight, the object being to cover a longer distance. This, however, however, looks rather ugly (according, at least, to most people’s ideas), and it is questionable whether one comes so much further with it, after all.
Leif Berg Jumping 90 Feet, at Glarus, ’05.
Photo by E. Jeanrenaud.
But there is yet another point which it is far more difficult to decide. Shall the runner jump with feet perfectly level or shall he advance one of them as shown in [Fig. 33]? As will be seen from the above description, the writer has not ventured to speak positively as to this. On the one hand he has the authority of one of the Holmenkollen judges for asserting that it is best for the beginner to keep one foot in advance, whilst on the other the general practice of many (if not, indeed, most) first-class performers undoubtedly is to keep the feet quite level. The advocates of the advanced foot contend that extreme steadiness is of vital importance in taking the sats, and that, inasmuch as the advanced foot position is admittedly steadier than the other for glissading, it should also be adopted at this stage. In addition to which they argue that, after the flight through the air, when the runner first touches ground the advanced foot is the more stable position of the two. On the other side, those in favour of the “level-footed” style contend:—Firstly, that to jump with one foot forward looks ugly (and the writer is inclined to agree with them in this), and, secondly, that it defeats its own ends, for it involves leaning forward on to one foot, and accordingly jumping chiefly with it. And this (they say) is conducive to a crooked flight through the air. It is not, however, apparent how this is a necessary consequence, for in ordinary long-jumping the spring is taken almost entirely with one leg without the balance being in any way upset.
These are, however, theoretical matters, as to which the reader interested may well be left to work out conclusions for himself, whilst those who do not care for argument can console themselves with the reflection that whichever style they like to adopt they have excellent authority for their choice.
Is it possible that this is another question like that of the bindings and that perhaps it does not matter so very much, after all? Or may not both sides be right? May it not, for example, be best to jump with level feet when the track is smooth and easy, but with one foot forward when it is irregular and difficult? On the Continent rough jumping on tour has hardly yet “caught on,” everything being regarded, so to speak, through competition spectacles. And perhaps this is why the level-footed style is there so much insisted on. He, however, who limits himself to jumping at competitions and on elaborately prepared tracks will never be a really clever ski-runner, and will miss a vast deal of the possibilities and pleasures of this branch of the sport.
SKI MOUNTAINEERING.
By W. R. Rickmers.
It is quite impossible to define exactly what constitutes mountaineering as apart from strolling and short excursions, but its chief characteristics are distance from human dwellings and human help, and the presence of special dangers. The term “mountaineering” comprises a multitude of rules which teach how to overcome the difficulties and how to avoid the dangers of rising ground. Mountaineering is a science admirably expounded in a series of classical text-books, the result of the experience of thousands of climbers, and the essence of a literature of over 10,000 volumes. From a subjective point of view mountaineering begins when a wanderer, approaching a hill or mountain, is conscious of the fact that he will meet with special conditions which demand a special knowledge. And the minimum required of a man who wishes to be called a “mountaineer,” a good mountain climber, an expert, is that as to the theory he should have “Dent” at his finger-ends (C. T. Dent, Mountaineering, Badminton Library); and as to the practice, he must be a man who can be trusted to attempt any peak in the world without endangering the lives of his companions.
Now, it would be absurd to try to teach mountaineering in a chapter of this book, for it takes ten years at least to make a mountaineer. Still less dare I insult the mountaineer by advising him how to behave in his element, for he will not go high and far until he feels at home on the planks. By the time he has mastered the technicalities of ski-ing, he knows everything about the outfit which suits him best, and about his line of conduct on any expedition he may plan. My remarks on the subject in hand cannot, therefore, be anything but a series of very general reflections and impressions, simply intended as a loud warning to ski-runners that they should study “Alpinism,” and as a gentle reminder to mountaineers, that ski-running is a somewhat tricky complication of their art. Why should I tell the latter what type of ski to take on long tours, seeing that he knows on which kind he travels best; why should he ask me about his ice-axe when he is sure to take one or not according to the object in view?[9]
Ski-runners, unless they are climbing experts, or accompanied by such, must confine themselves to the usual practice-grounds and safe excursions, for only a mountaineer can decide on the spot whether hill craft is necessary or not. To explain how he arrives at this decision would mean a very thick volume. The ski-runner, therefore, who wishes to form a correct opinion of his own should make up his mind to learn from amateurs, guides, and books how to look about, think, and behave when he leaves the beaten track where multitudes are accustomed to go unthinking and unadvised. My random observations are to impress him with that necessity, and for the mountaineer they shall be an epitome of familiar principles.
In the winter the problem of the avalanche eclipses all others. The rule to go only with guides or experienced friends disposes of the general advice respecting glaciers, crevasses, slips, strategy, and discipline, for in these things a man must train himself during many seasons. The rule that only good ski-runners dare aspire towards high peaks saves a long repetition of detail as to outfit.[10] The ski-runner-mountaineer ought always to be a man who, during his apprenticeship, knew something of cold, hunger, slow companions, and broken ski. To have no spare gloves and no provisions, to fall where one ought to stand, to step on a hollow, or to risk a dashing slide, may have merely disagreeable results two miles from home; but the same omissions and commissions can be suicidal, nay, even criminal, when ten miles from the nearest human habitation. If you wish to kill, go alone, and kill yourself, for every party of mountaineers suffers for the thoughtlessness of each of its members, while the greatest skill or ability of one of them is as nothing in the balance of fate when the whole has to bear the inadequacy of the lowest unit.
Extreme suspicion and wariness are the only correct attitude towards the mountains in their winter garb. The number of factors which combine to prepare or prevent an avalanche is truly bewildering, and any single one of them may be the prime mover or the reliable safeguard in a given instance. And this one was perhaps overlooked in weighing the evidence. The secret of the avalanche is the breaking strain and snapping point of an unseen tension. Avalanches owe their growth and collapse to some or all of the following indications: The angle of the slope; the surface of the ground; the quantity of the snow; the snow of a month ago, of yesterday, and to-day; the temperature and the wind of a month ago, yesterday, and today, while the snow fell, or before it fell, or after it had fallen. And to consummate or prevent the catastrophy there are, in conjunction with the above, the temperature at the time of our arrival on the spot, the weight of the party, its methods of walking or ski-ing, and sundry other accidents. So many possibilities produce tantalising doubt rather than definite conviction, and more often than not a slope, which presents all the visible elements of danger, may be perfectly harmless. On the other hand, well-known guides have walked into mouse-traps because one exceptional condition had altered the internal character of a particular slope which, throughout their lives, they had known as perfectly safe. A strong sense of human weakness is therefore the proper frame of mind towards the mysterious and overwhelming power of the snow.
The mountaineer must condense the theory of avalanches into a few comprehensive rules of thumb, and when in doubt he must give the benefit to himself and not to the avalanche.
Suspicious.—Every open slope of about 25 deg. or steeper, and all new snow in warm weather. A thaw after a heavy fall of snow is the most common cause of the thick and heavy slides known as ground avalanches.
Dangerous.—Every heavy accumulation of snow at an angle of 40 deg. or more, on long open slopes, and in gullies. At lesser angles all snow which lies on a hard and smooth surface (grass, earth, old snow, crust, ice, &c.). Hard snow under the lee of ridges. This is liable to crack and to become suddenly transformed into what looks like a huge waterfall of lumps of sugar. Therefore, one ought to cross such slopes as high up as possible. The cornice which overhangs the ridge is more dangerous to those who walk on it than to those under it.
Safe.—All slopes under 25 deg; all slopes evenly dotted with trees or rocks; almost every perfectly homogeneous snow not deeper than 2ft. which lies on a rough surface (screes, &c.).
More cannot be said without conjuring up a flood of detail. This experience and acquired instinct must fill in. The tourist can find almost daily an opportunity of making experiments on a small scale, though he should not forget that a cubic yard of snow can dislocate his arm or break his leg.
As an instance, showing the effect of surface, I may mention that, in the Alpine spring, the grass slopes send down in huge avalanches the solid layer accumulated and consolidated during the winter. At the same time the firm, wet snow of exactly the same texture which lies on screes remains perfectly safe, and affords splendid ski-ing. It never slips off, but gradually melts, evaporates, and vanishes as the summer draws near.
The only exact method of dealing with avalanches would be to make “avalanche maps” of popular centres. In these maps the slopes and gullies which are always bad are coloured, let us say, red. A blue slope would be dangerous under such and such conditions; a green slope becomes threatening in the spring, &c. On these maps all those expeditions should be marked which can be guaranteed as safe.
The fear of the avalanche must always be before the ski-runner’s conscience. All the rest is a matter of well-defined dogma, of strict attention to well-known precautions, which belong to the routine of every mountaineer deserving of the name.
(1) Never go alone; three is the minimum.
(2) One man at least must be an Alpine climber of experience.
(3) All members of the party must be equal in skill.
These three commandments are the essence. Let a few comments suffice.
(1) The solitary mountaineer is a fool. This is an article of faith. Permissible exceptions are rare.
(2) The experienced leader will tell his friends all about the crevasses, outfit, provisions, the importance of an early start, the duty of keeping together, and the courage to turn back before the approach of the night or bad weather. He will ask if everyone has his goggles, spare gloves, provisions, snow-helmets, repairing tools. He will take from everyone the promise to be strictly obeyed.
(3) This is a necessary complement to 1 and 2. Ten stumblers of equal proficiency are a good party, for they will generally get as far as they deserve. Nine good men and one stumbler are bad, for they will probably make that one poor man feel worse than he is.
On long tours only persons can go who do not fall when they have the will not to fall. He is not a fit companion for difficult expeditions who is not sure that he can keep on his feet throughout the day. A mountaineer never has a spill unless he forgets himself, his companions, or his surroundings.
Note.—In our experience by far the commonest form of winter avalanche occurs when a ski-runner crosses (or some other influence disturbs) a long steep slope of freshly-fallen snow. The weight of the runner is the last straw which causes the slenderly coherent mass to snap. It does so with a curious report, something like the cracking of thick ice on a frozen lake. Below the dividing line, which may be half a mile long, the snow slides off the hill-side much as it slides off the roof of a house, forming itself into thick slabs like paving stones which accumulate one on top of the other, and which ultimately overwhelm the runner. The snow usually breaks only a short distance above the runner, and consequently, in the event of an accident, search should first be made in that part of the mass which is highest up the hill.
Freshly-fallen snow is accordingly quite the most serious danger of ski-running, and, inasmuch as it usually affords but poor going, it is seldom worth while venturing far on very steep ground after a recent fall. After a few days of fine weather, however, the snow settles down, the avalanches run off, and what remains becomes firmer and more crystalline in structure. Under the pressure of its own weight, and owing to the peculiar property of regelation which solid water possesses, the new fall attaches itself to the old crusts, and the conditions become, comparatively speaking, safe.
It is a common saying amongst the Swiss that it is unsafe to venture above the tree-line, as long as any snow is left clinging to the trees on the sunny side of the valleys. This rough test we have found to be a very useful one.—Ed.
Broad Peak, Kashmir.
Ski in foreground at a height of 20,000 feet.
Photo by Dr. Guillarmod.