Incidental Duties
Hut Usages.
Launched in his chosen region, and with his chosen comrades, the management of a leader has to observe, beyond his primary duty to his own party, one or two usages of an extraneous or incidental character.
If he is using huts, in the Alps or elsewhere, he should acquaint himself with the rules, written or not, of hut usage. Most will suggest themselves. To tidy up and leave everything in better order than he usually finds it. If other parties are in the hut, to keep the axes from cumbering the ground, and confine the wet clothes and wet boots to harmless corners. To arrange provisions and the rest the night before, so as to diminish the general confusion in starting by at least the quiet exit of his own party. To disturb sleepers as little as their customary assumption, that they are the only tired men who may, or will, ever use the hut again, will generally allow. Not to break open a hut or use any part of it for firewood except in desperate need; and to pay somewhere, or somehow, for any inevitable or accidental damage.
There is a further duty, which he owes to the position of his own party and to that of others also occupying the huts. If his party are merely guests, they are dependent upon the courtesy of other inhabitants for any treatment they receive more cordial in character than the sufferance usually extended to uninvited guests. But if, as every mountaineer in his chosen region should do, they have made themselves members of the local organization, he should insist, without demonstration, for the sake of sound hut tradition as well as for the improvement in the morals and manners of the other occupants (supposing they show themselves disobliging), upon the relations being those of courteous equality. As between his own and other amateur parties this insistence will rarely be needed; for the tradition of comradeship among amateur climbers of all nations has seldom to be recalled by remonstrance. But as between his own guides and other guides, or other guides and his own guideless party, the footing sometimes calls for a prompt clearing away of the stones. Local guides are apt to take any advantage of a foreign or younger guide who appears. As is elsewhere described, the mental attitude of a guide in hut or hotel becomes generally that of the servant or dependent of his employer. He is no longer the free man on the hills, who will be himself the first to resent any incursion on the rights of his party. Once in the hut the amateur, in his turn, becomes responsible for looking after his guide. A guide’s hut manners prevent him making any fuss, even though his own party’s interests are suffering; as, for instance, when he is deprived of his precedence at the cooking-stove, or is left an unfair share of the collective washing-up. Like a swan on a new reach of a river, the young or stranger guide is very shy. He will often let himself be put upon by some parochial swaggerer or bullied by a lazy senior of his own valley. It is in our own interests, and the interests of the future, to protect him.
Apart from the local or obstreperous guide, the worst offenders against hut manners are not the guideless parties, who are usually anxious to do as they would be done by, but the chance ‘professors,’ and other cunning folk, who have discovered that alpine huts provide free summer lodging for themselves and their families, or the erratic solitary wanderers and grouped holiday trippers, who have never learned mountain manners. With these types decided action, or the decided appearance of passion, is sometimes the only course.
It is only courteous to use the hut books which are provided for entries; even though the sight of our own names and objectives in other company may offend our British habit of climbing hauteur, to which we ourselves give the titular rank of modesty. The information has a sentimental interest; it is required by the maintainers of the hut, and, further, it may be of real service if anything untoward happens and it becomes necessary to follow the traces of our party.
Consideration.
Outside the huts we have a duty also to the fragile paths, which lead us to the glacier or the hut. They are easily depreciated by careless use, especially in wet weather, by breaking away the edges, kicking down boulders, slithering down inclines, etc.
Beyond the paths and the huts, there is a first law not to spoil the mountains: to leave no traces of meals on the summits or hillsides. Whoever discovers a portable contrivance for atomizing old bottles will confer an incalculable benefit upon conscientious mountaineers.
There is also an obligation not to spoil the mountains for others by heedless manners. This means not merely not to throw or kick stones on to other parties, or to pass them without their consent, which are matters that are regulated by positive mountaineering tradition, but also not to treat them ‘negatively’ when we meet them on the hills, as if we were all passers-by in the City at the luncheon-hour. I can call to mind still the annihilating stare of a lady whom I met on the top of the Weisshorn, because I ventured to remark about the weather without waiting for the introduction which there was no third party present in the vast panorama to perform; and again, two sterling Britons passing on a track in the highlands of Arcadia without greeting, because it transpired they did not feel that their slight degree of acquaintance was sufficient to cover a general conversation in which two other members of their parties, not similarly acquainted, would have had to be included! These are somewhat fine shades to preserve under primitive conditions, and foreigners are apt to misunderstand their respectable origin. It is better, on the whole, to be thought a cheerful idiot by our own countrymen if we hail their distant appearance on the chance of their belonging to a more sociable nationality, than to earn the reputation of racial surliness by allowing our shyness of what our own party may think to prevent us replying to the shouts of strangers of possibly more Gallic temperament. It costs little effort to make a cheerful remark to another party on the hills when we meet or pass them, and it saves an awkward restraint on both sides if we are fated to meet them afterwards again, in a hut or somewhere where we have to be together in harmony. In other countries we may safely imitate more demonstrative ways without loss of self-respect. A courteous manner and a ready explanation will take the edge of offence off many a decided course of mountaineering action, that may run us for a while beside or across the way of other human beings. It might even be better if we could introduce into our chance encounters on our own hills something more of a superficial cordiality, so as to acquire the habit of conveying to strangers less obscurely the undoubted fellowship we feel with all other pilgrims of the mountains.
Of course every leader must acquaint himself with the code of rescue signals now recognized in the mountains, by waving or flashing or shouting. But he should further consider it as more than discourteous to refrain from replying to any shout directed at himself or his party. It is impossible for him to know by instinct what is merely the salute of high spirits and what may express some more urgent need. Similarly, if one member of a party gets separated from the rest, and is out of sight, it is not sufficient for him merely to guide himself back secretly by their shouts; he should reply to each of their calls, and so indicate that he is approaching. It is oddly irritating to keep shouting for an unseen man, realizing that his silence may mean that he is getting more and more astray, and then see him walk round the next rock, reproving by his silent proximity both our growing anxiety and our clamorous waste of breath. Our co-Britons will never shout unnecessarily, and we should reply each time, and leave the interpretation to them.
Some Night Notes.
In using paths or tracks at night, if a light cannot be procured, it is worth while remembering that the instinct of the feet is often a better guide than the straining of the eyes to see. The feet, left to themselves, will balance naturally along the track, much as the original makers of the natural paths found it expedient to balance over the same ground. They will be able to keep the track better of themselves than if they are driven forward by an ill-balanced body along an ill-seen line. A leader following a track by daylight may often wonder in advance at small wanderings which seem to the eye unaccountable; but as soon as the body in balance reaches the spot, it follows their sequence quite naturally. Left to themselves, the feet and body will do much the same in the dark, and keep surprisingly well upon a track that is not arbitrarily interrupted.
In following a lamp, unless the leader holds it himself, his best place is not that immediately behind the lamp-bearer, which the selfish will press for. Detail and dim outline ahead are better seen from farther back in the line, where the actual glare of the lamp is hidden and the light is diffused over the way. The eye soon accustoms itself to half-light, but not to the dazzle of a flame.
(To procure light for a lamp, fire or pipe, especially in a wind, a familiar method may not be universally known. Part of the stern of a wax match should be unravelled and a few strands wound loosely round the head, so as to catch the first flare. To light a wood fire, in camp or hut, without paper, the wood should be shaved thinly upwards towards one end of a stick. The shavings should not be completely detached, but left curling up at the end like the flower on a stalk. Lit at this end, the stick easily burns and the fire follows.)
A compass and watch with radium points are always useful for all night hours or hut intervals.
If a path or track is lost in the dark, especially on snow-covered ground, the party should rope up at the full length of the rope, and make casts round the end man, who waits at a fixed point ’till it is, or may be, recovered. The motionless man at the fixed point acts as pointer for the original direction, and will prevent the complete loss of orientation in the circle of search.
In the dark on a track the increased risk from the axe-points before and behind us, as well as from our own, must be kept in mind, and extra intervals maintained.
Where there is no track, the last man on the rope should carry the radium compass and correct the direction, as in mist. Even without a compass he is the better able to keep a line, guided by the rope ahead.
A leader measuring the remainder of a climb against the coming of darkness must recollect that snow retains light very late—in summer, in fact, it rarely becomes quite dark. But the snowless lower slopes, which he will reach last, will be far darker. He must not be deceived, therefore, by the apparent amount of light still illuminating the higher snows, into taking things easily.
A party frankly benighted, if it has only a short distance to descend over ground known to be safe, supposing that a right route, not difficult to find, can be followed, does best to rope up. This has the merit of keeping the party together and in line, and confines the disturbances of falling over rocks and into holes to the person of the responsible leader.
If he gets benighted on higher ground, as in the Alps, or sees that he must necessarily become so, the leader should look about for a good bivouac before the light fails; not press on to the last and then take the chance of hurriedly finding a suitable shelter or ledge.
Whenever there is no short or easy descent in near prospect, and night is at hand, it is always wiser to sit out for the few hours of darkness than to let impatience risk the chance of a sprained ankle or broken leg.
In selecting a rock for a bivouac in doubtful weather, he has to remember that unless the roof is absolutely concave, rain will trickle in and across the roof and make trouble even far within the shelter; also, that in sleeping on rock or sand or turf it is more important to comfort to secure a hole for the hip-bone than a pillow for the head of his charges.
Where only a ledge is available, the members of a party should rope together, to prevent anyone wandering away or slipping off in sleep. Song promotes warmth, and preserves harmony—in a sense.
A Last Task.
Of the management of the guides during the tour something is said in a later section. If he has employed them, the leader’s last task of management, one of regretful but presumably proud memory, will be to write up the guides’ books. His fashion of entry is governed by no tradition; which makes these books the more entertaining and varied reading during dim days in the huts. But if he does not wish to blush in later years over his early paragons and phrases, and desires to make the notice, as it should be, of some service to other leaders, he may be guided by one or two common-sense principles.
A mountaineer of experience, when he looks at a guide’s book before engaging him, looks first for the signatures he knows, then at the opinions about the guide which they underwrite, and makes his allowance for the opinions according to his knowledge of the mountaineering equation of the owners of the names. Secondly, he looks at what the man has done, both with the names he knows and with the names he does not know. The opinions of those whom he does not know he reads merely in relation to the actual climbs which the man is stated to have done with them. Thus, when we are writing, since our name is likely to be known but to few, especially among climbers of other races, it is of importance first to state clearly what the man has done with us, and under what conditions, of weather, party, etc.; more particularly, to state if he has ‘led,’ and what, or if he has come as second guide or porter. Then, for the benefit of our own race, who will know how to interpret the ‘atmosphere’ of an English testimonial even though they do not know our name, we may add an opinion of the man, written very carefully so as to be read in relation to that which we have stated he has done with us. For instance, if we have included several big snow climbs among our list, and then write our opinion that the man is a ‘brilliant rock climber,’ those who can read testimonials will know what to conclude about his icemanship. If we wish to guard against such a conclusion being drawn, and yet have had no opportunity of forming a clear opinion, we should add something conventional, such as that the man ‘had no opportunity to lead on snow,’ or that ‘the climbs must speak for themselves:—the conditions were perfect.’ At the end of a list of fine ascents to say only that a man is ‘willing,’ leaves us in the dark as to how far he took any real part. To say that he is ‘enterprising’ gives a clearer idea of his initiative. If the conditions of any climbs on the list are stated to have been trying, and the opinion adds that he is ‘safe and good-tempered,’ we have learned something positive to go upon. These are small instances. The comments should only be made with definite regard to what we have seen and what we state to have been executed in our employment. Unrelated generalities are valueless. Similarly, we must confine our appreciations to what our experience enables us to say with authority. It is better for this reason to refer our estimate to an absolute standard of merit, such as other mountaineers will understand, than to indulge our friendship by writing a character that means nothing to the initiated, and may get the man a place of responsibility with the uninitiated for which he is not fit. Our first duty is to other mountaineers. To say a man is a ‘first-class rock climber,’ if we feel ourselves competent to pronounce so much, is a definite classification; but to say he is a ‘first-rate rock climber’ is to err into the meaningless weakness of superlatives. To say he is a ‘fine iceman’ gives the guide the benefit of an authoritative reference to an accepted standard; but to say ‘there is no finer iceman in the Alps’ risks the calling of our own experience in question by those to whom our qualifications for making such a statement are unknown, and does the guide little good.
We are all inclined to think that our first good guide, or the man who has brought us well through a difficult situation, must be the finest fellow in the Alps; and in the moments of generous after-enthusiasm we are in a hurry to say so with an emphasis that we hope will convince a cold-blooded later reader that he is at least a very fine fellow. We produce the same effect better by stating exactly what he did, and our opinion of this rather than of him, leaving it to other leaders to draw their own conclusions about the man himself. We avoid then for the guide the peril of that natural revulsion towards an attitude of antagonistic criticism into which all northern humanity is prone to lapse in the presence of other people’s enthusiasm, and for ourselves the tolerant smile of the time and guide worn mountaineer.
When we read in a guide’s book, returning like an echo from the records we wrote in our own earlier and romantic days, that ‘there is no greater rock climber in the present generation, a born iceman, an intuitive route-finder, a delightful companion and an unrivalled cook,’ we turn on hastily to another reference, with yet a half-sigh of good cheer and thankfulness for the assurance that one more very young climber has started wholeheartedly on our pleasant mountain ways.