SNOW CRAFT
The technique of snow craft is identical in its principles with that of ice craft. The upright balanced movement, the management of the rope, turning, anchoring, etc., are the same, or only slightly modified. Only points of detail, therefore, need be mentioned which are peculiar to the different qualities of snow surface. In certain cases, such as bridges and cornices, both snow and ice are in question, and the notes are then supplementary to those made under general ice craft.
To make snow steps is a matter of muscle and rhythm; to use them, one of balance and endurance; but to know how to avoid making them and where not to make them is the science of snow craft. We may learn to identify snow states by description: nothing but experiment can teach us how to deal with them.
We may classify the states of snow under many heads; but we are only practically concerned with three points: which of these states are pleasant, which are unpleasant, and which are unsafe to walk upon. Of most importance is it to be certain which states are likely to be unsafe, and to be able to recognize their presence beforehand.
Under Reconnoitring some suggestions are made as to the signs by which snow states may be interpreted from a distance, and some of the certainly unsafe ones consequently avoided in anticipation.
As to whether the state on a particular day will be pleasant or unpleasant, the weather of the day, the hour and the angle of the snow can tell us much. The final test must always be by touch.
Some Characteristics and Countermoves.
Snow lying at above an angle of 20 degrees may slide whenever its support is not equal to its mass. Its support comes either from behind, the rock, ice or snow surface upon which it rests; or from its quality, the cohesion of its particles; or from below, the angle and mass of the subtending snow slope. In deciding about its safety we must take all those three points under our inspection. Of its sub-surface we know something if we can ascertain the lie of the rock strata or detect the presence of ice. Of its quality and mass we judge by surface signs and our recollection of the weather. Of its support from below we judge by the angle at which it lies; not only by the angle of a specimen section, but the angle of all sections of the slope below.[17]
Snow lying at easy angles, exposed to the directer rays of the sun, will usually be soft; and while we may be able to mince over its night crust before sunrise, we do well to avoid its possibilities of purgatory on our return later in the day. Snow on south and south-east faces for the same reason is the more to be respected, and its earlier deterioration must be accepted without resentment.
If a strong wind has been blowing, the snow on the sheltered side of a peak will be the softer and the more likely to avalanche. Snow on a sheltered face becomes loosened in fibre by the balance between the air-currents, whereas, on the windy side, it will get blown off or blown superficially hard.
If there has been Föhn in the wind, the snow will be untrustworthy all round. Föhn has the insidious quality of disintegrating snow through all its depth; it may appear to have affected the surface relatively little, but it will have reduced the under-snow to slush. This is the most perilous of avalanche states.
Snow may be expected to slide, under the usual conditions, not only after hot days or days of wind. Days of warm mist and diffused sunlight may be even more deleterious.
Certain states of snow may start sliding irrespective of all changes of temperature, at any time and on calm days, merely as the result of some slight disturbance. First among these is ‘powdery’ snow. This may be either fresh snow or old snow which has never been melted and refrozen. Older snow in a powdery state we shall only expect in summer to find at greater heights, where the daily sun has little power. Since we shall recognize by sight that it is older snow, and since it has neither blown off nor as yet fallen, we shall be reassured about its holding quality, provided that we can also make certain that it is not lying in great masses or at a minatory angle. Sometimes, although we may not have seen it, we shall get evidence of its presence above us, in the appearance on gusty days of cascades of thin powdery snow streaming like dust down the lower ice or snow slopes. In the Alps these wind cascades of old powdery snow are sensational to see or to feel pouring round us on a steep wall, but they are too light to be harmful. The difference in weight between a flying veil of dry snow and one of wet snow must be felt on the shoulders or ankles to be appreciated. Cascades, of a more threatening sound, betray to us the presence above of old granular or crystal snow. The grains are easily set in motion; but in the Alps snow of this sort rarely lies at a depth to be worth regarding. Old powdery or granular snow, lying at a good angle and in light mass, we shall expect to be laborious but not to avalanche:—at least until we have put it to its last test of touch.
New snow, as a dry powder, if it lies in large masses, must be expected to avalanche on all slopes of steeper angle. In lesser quantities, it may be started by wind or by an incautious passage. On ice or rock it is never stable, until it has been cleared away or melted and refrozen.
New snow, as a wet powder on rocks, is desperately chilly for the hands, and has the disagreeable quality of transforming itself into an ice glaze under the pressure of the boots or the glove. If we are caught out by a fall of new wet snow on rock, ice-claws will protect our foothold, but nothing will save the hands. I have known very few men whose hands would stand more than a very short spell of clearing out rock holds in wet snow. Gloves are soon saturated, and the ice glaze forming under the hand still further reduces the effective grip of the numbed fingers. It is this that makes climbing on rocks impossible for days after a snowfall; while from snow or ice slopes, where we are not so concerned with handhold, the same storm will restrain us by its threat of avalanches.
After a storm of any length, two or three fine days are required in summer for the rock to clear. The first day of sun should melt the snow; the night following will refreeze it into a glaze: the second hot day will melt the glaze; and, with luck, the third day may find the rocks clear.
All wet snow, melting in heat or rain, in Föhn or after wind, is liable to avalanche, according to the angle at which it lies and in proportion to the amount of water which it contains. Only experience and touch can tell whether snow is or is not overcharged for the angle at which it is lying. It is astonishing what a quantity of water snow will hold without moving; and again, what a trifle will set it falling or arrest it. I have seen a whole quiet mountain face break into avalanches under the extra snow weight discharged during a few minutes of after-squall; and I have watched water-logged snow streaming like thin milk over the slabs of a north precipice, stopping suddenly as heavy, cold grey clouds crept over the rocks, only to begin again the instant the clouds passed and the sun broke through.
Frothy snow, neither powdery nor wet, but of the texture of dry sea-foam, is not so frequent in summer in the Alps as in some other great ranges. But I have found it occasionally near big summits or high up on northern snow faces. In spite of its intimidating quality, it is safe at almost any angle if it lies on a good sub-surface. But it is infinitely laborious. A step takes us up to our waist or shoulders. Progress is only possible by flogging a furrow up it with forearms and shins, which leaves a trail like an ecstatic sea-serpent. Some relief can be got by slapping down the shaft of the axe flatwise above us and crossways to the line, and pulling up on it as on a horizontal bar.
Before venturing upon snow of definitely unstable type, such as powdery snow or wet snow, we must make certain of its mass, its angle and the nature of the surface below it. We then adapt our methods accordingly.
For instance, if we find that wet or powdery snow is lying upon ice at anything but a very low angle, we start by finding out if it is of the same quality for all its depth. If it is, we must clear it away at each pace and cut a step in the ice below. If the poor quality is only superficial and improves below, or if we notice that where the lowest skin of snow rests on the ice it adheres either in a film or in measle-patches,—which signifies that the ice and the snow surfaces are going through a gradual process of peaceful interpenetration,—we can count on this lower snow surface for sure footing. We need not cut steps, but only stamp through the snow to a safe depth for a sound step.
If we have any doubt as to the security of a slope, which we shall have when the angle of the slope and quality of the snow are varying and the resultant stability is indeterminable, we must ascend or descend it vertically, if possible, or on very steep zigzags. We must take care to cross incipient cleavages, or traces of horizontal strains on the surface, at right angles, and never encourage them by letting the weight of our party tramp parallel to their length.
A steep slope of doubtful quality, if it has to be traversed, should be crossed as near its upper edge as possible, and this particularly if the slope is subtended by a cliff or a snow slope of steeper inclination.
On a slope actually showing traces of a recent slide, secondary falls may be expected. A snow slope is not a sérac, and it is not so safe to assume that all has fallen that can fall without close inspection. If we cannot see the place of origin we can make a deduction, as in the case of an ice fall, from the appearance of the nearer debris: as to whether it was a recent fall, a night or day fall, a surface skim, a local powder-rush or a sample of gravitating under-slush.
On the lee side of ridges which have been exposed to the wind, we must expect to find snow accumulations of a poorer quality, and liable to slide according to the angle at which they lie. This will be especially the case if the ridges are subordinate ribs descending from a principal ridge. On such ribs, if we find wind signs on the near side, we must be careful of the snow on the far side of each rib, and in all the adjoining protected hollows.
Good snow is either snow with a hard surface, or snow which, below the surface, remains sticky and light. Except at great heights, we shall only find snow hard before the sun has touched it. Before sunrise, after wholesome cold nights, we count on finding all snow surface good and every bridge holding. When we find soft surfaces in the early hours after a warm night, it bodes us ill if we have to return the same way later. On hard, steep snow, wherever our boots begin to scratt fretfully for foothold, it is less fatiguing to put on claws, or to make a notch with a single one-handed tug stroke of the adze-blade. On very steep snow of medium hardness, when a handhold is needed, it is better to use the blade of the axe than the pick.
The more level the snow the more directly will it have felt the sun; the thinner will be its night crust and the softer its under layers. Therefore we avoid, especially later in the day, launching out upon the great snow plateaux and valleys of the higher regions of glaciers, such as are labelled ‘Firn,’ ‘Névé,’ ‘Ewige Schnee’ on maps, names of foreboding. If we have to take to them, we keep to the sides, where the snow-levels begin to climb and the rays strike less directly. If we have a choice, we select the side or line which is subject to the shortest hours of full sunlight. Always, if they are there, we use old foot tracks. The floor of an old step melts and refreezes and, protected by its depth, remains firmer than its surroundings. On popular peaks these tracks can become immense frozen ruts, very awkward and ankle-racking to descend. It was reported one radiant year that a tourist on the final slopes of the Jungfrau had fallen into one of these ‘steps,’ and had been extricated with difficulty.
Snow Travail.
When we are really in for a steady plough through deep snow, the stride should be kept short, the knee bent, the weight well forward, and the body swaying from side to side—in fact we adopt the ‘tramp’s walk.’ To thrust with the straight knee is uselessly fatiguing. On soft snow we are lost if we cannot achieve some sort of steady rhythm. The feet should be planted straight, and not toes outward. The length of the stride with either leg should be absolutely equal.
If the weights of the party are very uneven, the heavy man should precede. It is less fatiguing for a heavy man to make his own steps, where he allows beforehand for the ‘give’ of the snow, than to stride out behind expecting a firm tread, only, in two out of three steps, to find the floor give way under him. Irregular resistances are the negation of rhythm.
Unless he has the shortest legs of his party, the step maker must always shorten his normal stride on soft snow. The length of the first man’s stride is increased as each man behind slightly deepens the steps, until the last man may have to be making a grasshopper bound to reach from tread to tread of what started as a normal pace.
On soft surfaces, especially where the resistance is irregular, it is difficult to keep in balance, and the axe comes into use at every step. I have usually found it better to reverse the axe. The head, like a ski-stick, gives broader stay on level snow, and firmer touches against inclined soft snow, than the point.
Crusted snow, where the surface has melted and refrozen, but too lightly to carry our weight, is the worst snow of all. When it lies at easy angles, it may be extraordinarily wearisome to cross. It just bears our weight until the body is fairly over the foot, then it gives and lets us through. At least the half of each lifting effort is thus lost, and each fresh step has to be made from a yielding basis uphill on to a hard one. Rhythm is impossible, and the prolonged aggravation is demoralizing. For which reason I have found soft snow the one test of sheer endurance in which good guides are inferior to good amateurs. We meet it not infrequently in our own islands, and welcome it then as good ‘alpine’ training.
For really bad crust there is no countermove, except strong thighs and a high flat-foot step. On crust of a better character, especially before sunrise, a shuffling step, which distributes the weight, often saves the foot from going through, or lets it sink to a less depth. On some crusted surfaces it is possible to slide cautiously along on the shuffle-step, where lighter men, walking ‘heel and toe,’ are going through at each stride. When the surface is too soft for even a shuffle to save us, the tread should be made with the whole flat of the sole, and not with the heel leading as is usual in road walking. Under the flat foot, as under a snow-shoe, the snow packs more quickly. To pivot upon the foot, before the weight comes upon it, widens the bearing surface.
Soft snow cannot be taken at a rush. There is a peculiarly clinging and binding quality in the snow of old avalanche debris. These are just the places where most folk start seven-leagued leaping. If we cannot restrain them, we make them take off the rope first. To be tied to a hop-o’-my-thumb when our leg has just entered binding snow, up to the thigh, at an acute angle to the pull is full of unpleasant possibilities. The wise man will continue even here to move lightly, and only as rapidly as balance and rhythm will allow.
On long monotonous snow wades, if we cannot get a good rhythm of legs or body, it is sometimes of use to supply its place by an artificial rhythm, counting the steps up to fifty and then pausing, or whistling, or following a tune in our head—anything that may introduce a rhythm, with rests, into the featureless vista of effort. The boredom that may afflict a party on snow is peculiar to itself. The even glare and the winding line of diminishing tracks hypnotize the eye and mind, and produce a conviction of exhaustion which is often in great part self-suggested. The wader feels that he absolutely cannot take another step. If counting fails, and other wiles and conversational red-herrings shrivel up in the silent white monotony, rest is the only cure. Sleep follows easily in such states, and a few minutes’ slumber often restores a man or a party surprisingly.
On long snow plods it is best to get rid of the rope whenever the absence of crevasses will allow. It but doubles the uneasy travail. If it has to be kept on, avoid spoken remonstrance when the man before or behind jerks you; let the rope do the talking. If you are leading, keep a small, loose coil in your hand, so that the man behind shall not drag you in mid-step. If you are last, you can always exercise a salutary, silent check. If you are in the middle, and you have, as is frequent in tired parties, an energetic leader trying provokingly to press the pace in front and the weakest member lagging slightly but protestingly upon your rope behind, the best way to protect yourself, inoffensively, is to take up both their ropes in your one hand, and so link their opposing pulls directly on to one another. You can thus maintain equilibrium with no further discomfort to yourself. When I was learning the craft in early years between two guides, or a guide and amateur of unequal endurance, I had many occasions for perfecting the device.
The use of ski upon snow is treated of separately. Whenever summer ski have been made as available as ice-claws, there can be no doubt that they will cancel out for us as much of the technical consideration of these penitential snow fields as claws have simplified for us the labour upon all the angles of ice.
Snow Slopes.
To make steps upon inclined snow is a matter of little difficulty. The direction and weight of the kick are suggested by the angle and texture of the surface. But to use them calls for more care than is usually given to the matter. On soft slopes it is a nuisance if the step stamper has a length of stride that makes each pace a slight effort for us. It is better to remonstrate at once: to shorten the pace by refashioning the step is to break rhythm for the whole line. Of course on easy slopes, if we are out of the rope, we go as we like, provided that we do not exhaust, by eccentric following, the energy which we should be reserving for our turn in the lead. But as the angle increases, or where the going gets more heavy, men of any experience fall into single file; and then to make missteps, to tread a step down at the heel, or to step outside the line, is to throw the whole march of those behind us out of gear, and to waste our own energy in repeating the leader’s work. It is impossible on snow not to be conscious of the leg swing of the man ahead. If he walks with the wrong foot for the trail, we are either drawn into his error, to our own inconvenience, or we resist the attraction with a conscious and tiresome effort. Our common rhythm goes. Worse than this, he spoils the steps for us. Nothing is more muddling, in ascending or descending snow slopes, than to find the steps broken or doubled. We bungle, and get the wrong foot for the leader’s tracks; our body as a result balances wrong for their angle of use. In coming down especially, a bad second man, who lets himself lollop carelessly into tracks or makes ‘tumble-steps’ on either side, confuses every one behind him as well as himself. The whole party will be wasting temper and strength in choosing between a maze of ‘joy’ tracks, or in remaking their own in despair, where they should have been following mechanically on a ready-made line.
In using steps on steep snow of uncertain stability, it is vital to tread right to the fraction of an inch. A tired man who steps a nail-breadth false on a descending ladder of this character will certainly cause some step to give, and endanger the general safety by a slide. He may explain that the step ‘broke away’; but the fault has been his. It is the ideal of all good climbers, although very few men can live up to it, to use steps as accurately and with as dancing and precise a foot at the end of a long day as they did at the beginning.
If a snow step on a steep slope looks insecure, as it often may on wet snow after several men have passed, it is best to tread slightly inside it and scrape down a shaving of fresh snow to strengthen the floor under the foot. But this intentional over-tread should never be made on the outside of a step. If a step has broken away and a new step has to be made, it should be trodden, similarly, inside the old one, over but not exactly in line above the broken step.
Descending on snow of poor quality is oddly nervous work. The descending action is awkward, as upon ice, and there is the added doubt as to what will happen when we drop on to the foothold. Every one has days when the muscles are stiff and when the descent of shaky steps does not go in easy balance. At such times it is reasonable, and safer, to make ‘arm-scoop’ holds to help the balance on the step-down. We may do on snow what we may not do on ice—take the weight momentarily off our foothold on to the arms; because on snow, if some one else slips, we can at once drive another foothold with the heel and get into balance for the jerk. In coming down steps in soft, steep snow which have been worn away by previous members of the party, it is often even advisable to make these arm-scoops in order to save the effort of making new steps and to lessen the weight on the old ones.
On high, popular ridges in fine weather the lines of old steps with their floors refrozen and their shape spoilt are often uncomfortable to use on the descent. For the mountaineer the whole day should be equally of pleasure. The more the difficulty of the climb is over, the more we may consider our comfort, even to the point of demanding a new set of steps.
On steep zigzags, if we are crossing and recrossing one another, we remember to give the man below us ascending, or above us descending, time to make his turning step at the corners. If we do not slacken, we shall jerk him or force him to let out his hand coil just when he is most occupied with the turn.
On big faces, of yielding snow, we find firmer stepping up the wind-blown crests of the undulations, often only detectable by their correspondence with the buttresses descending from the cliffs above. Conversely, on faces of recalcitrant snow, we foot it more lightly up the troughs between the waves.
The Rope and Axe.
Except on hard morning snow, or on snow where we can make absolutely certain of what is happening underneath, it is a good principle to retain the rope. Progress is quicker than on ice, but sight and prescience can ensure us less completely against the accident and the unseen. As a partial illustration of the distinctions to be observed, a strong party might be justified in making their way unroped and on claws up a formidable dry ice fall; but they would, if they knew their business, then put on the rope to traverse the easy but snow-covered angles of the névé above, seemingly far safer than the séracs they have just passed singly and unroped.
“What is happening underneath” must be interpreted to mean not only what may be lurking underneath the snow surface, in the way of ice or crevasses, but what is happening below us on the mountain side. We keep the rope on unless we are certain that the breaking of a step or a slip will lead to no worse results. If there is a long, steep wall of ice or snow below, or the suggestion of crevasses or a bergschrund, or a rock cliff, or even a section of the slope which we cannot see and which may contain a cliff, we may take no chance, and the rope must be retained.
On all smooth snow and ice slopes, unless we are moving short-roped over safe and fairly even glacier, the rope-lengths between us should be allowed to ‘travel’ lightly on the surface. This lightens the draw of a heavy rope carried on the waist or hand, and avoids the strain upon the balance. Too much travelling rope is a drag; too little tightens on us like a brake. The hand must get to know by feel when there is just enough down to let it travel lightly and freely. The hand, too, as on rock, must learn the habit of freeing, freeing the rope continually, so that it shall not catch. Over rough surface we raise it clear; and over ‘suspected’ glacier we keep it all but taut, taking up the slack in a hand coil.
We may never trust snow steps, unless in a very fine quality of snow, to carry more than our own weight. In protecting others of the party, therefore, we cannot, as upon ice, rely exclusively on balance and our foothold to take the jerk upon our rope in case of a slip.
To anchor, on all steep and doubtful snow slopes where the angle or the quality of the snow advises the retention of the rope, the axe must be thrust into the snow beside and above us at every step. It is driven to the head or to just beyond half its length according to the condition of the surface. The rope is passed round the shaft and rests on the snow, so that in case of a slip we get the friction of the snow into which it cuts to help us. At a turning step on a zag the rope is put round the shaft in the reverse direction. This driving of the axe and the looping of the rope men should execute when the feet are at rest on the holds, and not, as many do, while they are taking the step. It is often very difficult for tired men to continue for hours the regular thrust of the axe and the careful anchor of the rope at each pace. But just on those angles and on those types of surface where the precaution is most laborious is the protection most needed. Snow is not ice, and in proportion as snow steps are easier to make they are easier to break, and more in need of assistance from the hand.
On the sharp edges of big ridges the true footing is often along the crest itself. If the crest is too frail for the feet, it can still provide the best bedding for the driven axe or an armhold. If the snow is really threatening, and it is unsafe to trust to steps along the side or on the edge, it is occasionally preferable for two climbers to make their own steps along opposite sides of the crest, with the rope riding across the snow edge between them à la mode Tartarin.
If rocks or obstacles forbid us to use the rope in this literary fashion, on such risky snow we shall, of course, only move one at a time. To secure a safe anchor step while the other man shifts, I have used the device of driving the axe almost up to the head, and then standing on the snow crook immediately behind it.
To arrest another man’s slip on steep snow, the snow itself must be used to minimize by friction the jerk of the rope on axe and arm. Any bulge or corner of snow will serve, for the rope to play over and, slowly, cleave through. I have seen a rope, held across a sharp slanting edge, cut four feet into the snow under the weight of a sliding man; the friction stopping him gently before the jerk came upon the axe. If there is no corner to help, we must lean the whole weight of our body upon the rope where it runs out to us round the belay on our axe; so crushing the racing rope into the snow and reducing the final tug upon the driven axe shaft.
Bergschrund and Bridge.
The crossing of the obvious bridges over the bergschrunds that subtend snow slopes is an art by itself. Flat or snub bridges are less secure than bridges that display a Roman archness of irregular snow on their upper surface. If the bridge is steep enough to call for steps, the steps of the leader should be followed absolutely, unless he has previously cast doubts upon their validity by falling through them. If the centre of the bridge, or the spring of the arch at its higher end, appears too frail for steps, and the word be given to crawl, the crawling should be done quite flat, and the body pulled along by the axe. To fox-trot on hands and knees is little safer than to walk on the feet.
If the bridge is only doubtful, we cat-step across it with the lightest foot we can. We carry the axe at thigh level and at right angles to the body, so that if a leg goes through, the axe comes down on the snow like a rail under the arm, and has a good chance of catching on firmer snow at either end. I once dropped ten feet into a crevasse, and was stopped thus by the axe under my arm-pit hitching between the narrowing walls. If we feel a foot going through, we must avoid above all things our first impulse, to throw the weight convulsively on to the other foot. The whole body should be allowed to fall forward flat. A swimming movement with the arms then often extricates us without further collapse. Of course on no bridge may more than one man cross at a time; and for a doubtful bridge at least two men must be stationary and anchoring the rope of any man crossing.
A steep bridge of unproven security is often best crossed, on a descent, by a prone glissade. If the bridge has an obviously continuous surface, we may prefer to fly it head forward and face down, because clothes admit less snow in such fashion. But if the continuity is doubtful—and the fact is often difficult to ascertain from above—it is best to shoot the bridge lying on the back and feet foremost. The hands and feet are held ready to shove off backward against the snow, and we are ready to finish the crossing on a flying jump, should a breach appear in the bridge as we approach it.
If there is no bridge, we sometimes have to jump considerable widths and depths. It is better then to take off soon, and not to yield to the temptation to creep just a little farther down the steep, crumbling upper lip of the schrund. Too long a descent often ends in a slip as the wall steepens, and it requires a nice judgment to continue the slip discreetly, and shove off for the jump at just the right instant to carry us across to the other lip. For a high jump into soft deep snow it is permissible to throw the axe ahead; and it is essential to see that there is enough rope out for the jump. Again, if a man has jumped and is shooting on down the snow slope beyond the rift, it is kinder not to be in a hurry to stop him categorically with the rope. On lower snow slopes the angle is rarely too steep for a man to be able to stop himself gradually and less painfully, helped by friction and the merest suggestion of restraint. Jumps of more than twenty feet into soft snow have been made; but they are not agreeable. If the snow on landing is at all sticky, it binds at once round the legs, and threatens a break or a severe strain as the weight of the body travels forward above them.
Snow Cornices.
The cunning of hidden cornices cannot be overrated. Its detection is dealt with elsewhere.
Once we have located what we take to be their line of junction with the parent snow crest, we must allow a further broad margin in selecting a safe line for our steps. I have known a section of cornice thirty feet deep break away along the line of our steps, when we thought we had allowed a good ten-foot margin from its line of junction. The heavier the cornice, the deeper the margin we must leave; not an easy rule to keep, as the snow curve backing a big cornice will be all the more gradual and solid-looking. Leaders are always apt to cut the margin too fine, for the reason that the farther we move away down the back of a cornice, the steeper becomes the slope, and the harder probably will be the snow for step-making. At great heights the same cold winds which blew the cornice may have blown the snow slope to crusted snow or snow-ice; whereas, where the angle eases off right upon the crest and the back curves over into the cornice, the direct exposure to the sun will often produce a band of softer snow, easy to kick steps in. When we are dealing with huge ridges and long distances, it is very trying to have to continue to cut steps at a snail’s pace, on a steep wall, when three feet above there is a line where we could walk. But these are just the situations which differentiate between good and bad mountaineers. Danger is a matter for our individual judgment, and if a guide, however famous, makes steps at a level that seems to our mountain sense to allow too narrow a margin, we need never have the least hesitation in starting to make another line below. The implied criticism is better than remonstrance.
Occasionally when the cornice is not too big and its back is ice-crusted or exposed to a high wind, it is possible to work along underneath it, below the crest of the wave. This must be done with caution; the shock of step-making may easily loosen a section of the overhang on to our heads.
Where a ridge is surmounted by a double cornice, that is, by two cornices curving opposite ways, one on the top of the other, there is simply no safe way of getting past them. Parties who persist in traversing a great ridge when they find it in this condition must be persuaded that their luck will take pity on their understanding.
In approaching the edge of any ridge, if it is not otherwise obvious that no cornice exists, the leader must test for the cornice every few inches with strong, deep thrusts of the axe shaft. The rest of the party, protecting him with the rope, must remain well below on the face until he has demonstrated that no cornice exists, or until he has had time to locate its line and to return to a point well below the junction. Such a crest should never be approached diagonally, lest two men might find themselves on the cornice together, but always at right angles. If an uncorniced ridge gives us reason to suspect, as we follow along its crest, that a cornice is beginning, at least two of the party should descend well down the face (if rock anchorage is not available), and protect the leader while he investigates.
If we wish to cross a ridge or a pass and the far side is overhung by a cornice, the leader must be strongly protected while he flogs away a section of the cornice, back to the sound edge. A large slice in this case should be cleared away, as adjacent parts of the cornice weakened by the fracture may fall upon the party subsequently as they descend. These crossings should never be made where the cornice is really heavy.
We shall never, of course, approach a crest up a wall crowned by a large cornice; which is equivalent to climbing deliberately up under a toppling sérac. A light cornice we may approach, but preferably at a point where it has broken away. If no such gap exists, we may be forced to cut our own skylight through it. This calls for great caution and skill; a small fragment may easily sweep away any man below us on the slope.
Snow in Couloirs.
In couloirs and chimneys snow can remain at a higher angle than on open slopes, and presents therefore some exceptional features. Certain of these are dealt with under other headings. Snow in a rock couloir, late in the day, must always be tested before we descend on to it. This can sometimes be done with less trouble by throwing heavy stones on to the surface. The way the snow spurts or squelches or rives to receive them tells much to the practised eye. If they start a surface avalanche they may either betray ice below, or they may leave bare a tract of hard under-snow down which we can kick good steps. The presence of ice below snow is often evident at the edges where the snow-ice splays out on to the containing walls. The testing process should be repeated at intervals, as we descend, on doubtful snow. A long couloir, of pure snow above, has frequently ice below snow in its lower sections.
In descending couloirs of uncertain snow, we naturally make use of the rock walls, when possible, for belays or holds. There are often good leg stances between the rock and the snow, where the snow veil has shrunk away, with an ice-trimmed border.
If the snow is of good quality, we proceed as we like; but if it is shallow, lying on ice, or of suspicious consistency, we ascend it in as direct a line as possible, or in steep zags, with a disposition to keep near the sides. On really threatening snow we ascend and descend by means of the vertical ladder of apses or pigeon-holes, climbing face inwards, and using both hands and feet. Our tread in this fashion is more feline, and our weight better distributed.
If we desire to leave a snow couloir by the rocks on either hand, or to use the rocks to help the ascent, it is sage first to try the side which is exposed for the longest time to the sun: the snow adhering to these rocks will be kindlier, and there will be less chance of an ice glaze. We have, however, to remember that the sunny side is usually that upon which falls of stones start earlier and occur more frequently; and our decision must depend upon the evidences of their spoor on the snow.
Outcrops of rock, in large snow couloirs, on ice or snow slopes, often appear as welcome islands in a long labour of step-making. But outcrops are apt to be more or less disintegrated, according to the character of the rock. If they are not rotten, they are not unusually rubbed bare and holdless by the passage of ice, stones and snow over them. Such islands, on ice slopes, are nearly always encircled by harder ice for a space round their lower walls, which increases our labour in approaching or leaving them. On their upper side they sometimes support a convenient spit of good snow. On the whole, they generally give more trouble than they save.
A particular type of couloir which is found in the Alps is worth mentioning, because of its false heart and honest, grubby face. These are the easy couloirs that debouch on to the glaciers at the bases of many sound granite peaks. They are plastered inside with loose rubble and snow or gritty mud, and we assume sound granite at the back. With dirt and care they seem fair enough to scramble down. But they are often in a precarious state of deeper decay. The passage of the party will start a gradual or rapid dissolution; and on occasion I have seen the whole cuticle of couloirs of this type, grubble, snow and large rocks, slough itself off on to the glacier a few minutes after the descent of a party. They should always be tested before entry by discharging large rocks down them, to prove their honesty or expose their enamelled senility.
Snow at Home.
Among the Scottish mountains practice of a very useful character in our snow craft can be had during the winter months. From November to May snow will be found of different qualities: the best during March and April. On northern and eastern faces we may get step-cutting on hard crust and ripple crust, passable glissading, and happy experience of small snow slides, large cornices and snow travail. On north faces, exposed and crusted by the cold winds, snow will stay at an exceedingly high angle, and as there is small risk of underlying ice, we can adventure admirable practice in very steep snow work with more excitement than peril. The snow couloirs at times introduce us to bergschrunds, and, educatively, to reconnoitring exercises in identifying the respective runnels of stone fall and water spurt.
On north faces in the Lakes and in North Wales normally the snow work is confined to the first quarter of a cold season. Ice is rare, except as glaze or as frozen water-fall or drip in wet gullies sheltered from the sun. Step-making is commoner than step-cutting. Of snowy, icy and glazed rocks we can get more than we may desire; but for snow technique little but practice in travail, step-kicking, back-sliding, rope craft and blizzard-facing,—all very pleasurable holiday experiences, for which it is worth while taking down the ice-axe.
It is curious to note that ski-ing as a common device used once to be practised by the boys and herds of the north, the primitive ski being formed out of the hoops of barrels. The custom has now lapsed: the effect of the enclosing of the hills by walls, or of the boys by Board Schools. The reintroduction of some less elaborate ski might revive a more romantic spirit.
Confusing Weather.
In fair weather route finding on snow has no difficulties comparable with those of ice or snow glacier. The flaws are obvious, and there are no hidden angles. The one complication is weather and atmospheric condition. As a result of the somewhat featureless simplicity of snow slight changes produce more serious confusions.
High wind is always an enemy,—not only on snow. A mountaineer is more afraid of going out on windy days than on days of rain and snow fall. On snow, wind finds a new weapon to hand in the snow particles, whose blinding assault interferes with the discretion. The sight of the faint blur of snow as it is blown up from the skyline of a high ridge will always give us pause: no passage there will be possible while the halo remains. Wind and snow combined may confuse the best of mountaineers, and often the compass proves the one rescue from a complete reversal of direction. However resolutely they march, few men can resist on a long tramp the impulse of snow or wind on their faces to swing unconsciously one way or the other for protection. A shift of wind in a mist may take a party, steering by it on snow, through a complete circle. I have known of men, attempting a descent on the sheltered side of a level but interrupted ridge, who were led, by a spinning wind in mist, through the ridge and back along its other side to their starting-point, and all in twenty minutes.
But even when unsupported by wind or obscurity, a slight depression or a light cloud may make way-finding difficult on even snow, where there are no rock outlines to penetrate its guile. A diaphanous mist, approaching in tint that of the snow surface, is sufficient to conceal or completely alter distances and angles.
In cases where the mist exactly combines in tone with the snow, a curious phenomenon makes itself uncomfortably evident. The leader on a snowy crevassed glacier will suddenly, and apparently wilfully, begin to fall into crevasses which are visible to those following behind him on the rope. They will marvel at his stupidity, until they begin to lead themselves, when they will reproduce it. The reason will have been that whereas those behind have some dark object, man or rope, upon which to focus their eyes, the eyes of the man in front, looking only upon a uniform blank surface, go out of focus, and become unable to distinguish between details of the same tone. Any detail darker by contrast—a rock, or the length of the rope ahead, or even the sight of a distant peak,—for such mists are often transparent—will yield them a focal point again. If he has no such natural assistance, the leader must keep looking methodically at his feet, and then forward. This will discover to him the nearer crevasses. For a longer view he may try the device of balling snow, till it crushes to a darker colour, and throwing it ahead: he will then again be able to see more distant details in their relation to the passage of the snowball.
In a mist or at night, on glaciers, or on snow slopes where there is reason to suspect the neighbourhood of rocks, it is possible to keep direction, and to discover towards which side of a slope or glacier our march is tending, by shouting, and calculating our position by the time it takes for the echo to return from the rock on either side. Across smooth slopes a very small and remote obstruction will give echo to our appeal.
On open snow slopes where there are no retaining walls, the best method is to have the full length of the rope out, and put a man with the compass at the rear end to correct the leader’s line. If a compass is lacking—if it can ever be lacking in the mountains!—the man far behind is still in the better position to judge, by the pointer of the rope, whether the line is being maintained or is inclining either way.
If a return in mist over the same ground is expected, the tracks should be made intentionally deep, in order to reinforce the line against the sun’s action, which may be all the more rapid when the light is diffused through such mist. The axe should be driven deeply into the snow at short intervals, so as to leave marks which may last longer than footprints; and this especially on hard snow.
On rocks or snow in mist, and even with less excuse on clear days, some other-land climbers adopt the device of marking the line of return at important points of divergence by squares of red paper fixed under stones. In emergency these can be of service; but they are unsightly, and their frequent use encourages climbers to pay insufficient attention to a very important part of their work—which is to note and record in memory the details of a route against the time of their return. A climber who has to find the return line on difficult rock or glacier, or on any climb that winds by devious ways, should never omit at all points of divergence or of salient indication to turn round and note how the passage or kink looks from the opposite direction; which is generally very different from its aspect on the approach. Distant views are often confused and absurdly distorted by mist; but details close at hand, for whose memorizing alone red paper could be a substitute, are seldom sufficiently obscured not to be recognizable by a trained observation and memory. Only in two cases—one, the rare event of an expedition over fog-bound snow being continued with the intention of return over the same line; and two, equally singular, the case of a party, which contains only one mountaineer capable of leading the return route, attempting in mist a climb whose difficulty will necessitate the expert going last on the descent—would the use of red paper seem to be justified. Waste paper is inelegant, and makes an unimpressive substitute for hill craft. But mist is a subtle enemy on glaciers, and we may sympathize with folk who meet it by tricks when they happen to have brought a box of them with them.
The Sense of Direction.
In the end, and behind all memory and observation, we have to fall back upon that useful but mysterious faculty, the sense of direction. Its existence is often denied, especially by men who do not possess it, and its workings are attributed to powers of observation, to unconscious memorizing and to reasoning. But no one who has mountaineered or travelled much in uncharted ground with men of very divergent or very similar powers of sight or experience will be found to discredit its positive but entirely accidental possession. Irrespective of sight and independently of the presence of any other respectable mental faculties, some men are found to possess it and some not; and no experience or study will ever equalize the capacity of those who cannot with that of those who can exercise it in dealing with misty conditions or unknown country. Men who have it only in a slight degree frequently impair its fidelity by training their observation and memory. By taking thought we can nearly always confuse it, in ourselves or in our neighbour; and this fact has especially to be borne in mind in dealing with less educated brains, such as those of guides, where its working is unconscious when it exists at all. A pertinent question or reminder may often set them, or ourselves, thinking or doubting, and lead to hesitation or wandering where a moment before confident movement reigned.
If we have once made certain that a guide or even a younger or less experienced climber possesses it, we may accept its leading thankfully in moments of doubt, although its counsel may contradict our own reasoning or conscientious observation.
Those who do not possess the instinct, and those who possess it only in a small degree, will find it almost impossible in thick mist on featureless snow to avoid the inclination to turn in a circle, generally to the left. In mist, with the most resolute intentions, it is at times even difficult to correct the inclination, by allowing for the stronger thrust of the right foot (or whichever may be the leading foot in our own case) and by taking the axe in the opposite hand to that foot; or by discovering and allowing for our exact amount of bias. The compass is the only secure guide for the ungifted.
Some men have the sense in the form of an ability to keep a straight line once set, no matter what the obstruction or obscurity; others in the form of knowing their position in relation to any near or distant point they have previously visited. With a few the sense is polarized; they ‘feel’ the north. My own sense indicates only direction between points already visited. Although making all allowance for the leading foot, and conscious that as leader I was being kept to a straight line by the compass in the hand of my last man, I have myself in thick mist on level snow, after forty-five minutes of what was actually straight marching, felt positive that I had led the party through one complete and one half-circle to the right, so strong was the instinct to turn to the left in spite of all precaution and prevision. On the other hand, I have watched a man who had been brought round from Hammersmith to South Kensington by Underground on his first visit to London, and set to the task without previous warning, take and keep, in thick fog, the most direct line back again through the maze of cross streets; which he could not be said to be seeing for the first time, as they remained invisible. A singular case was that of a high Wrangler, a mountaineer, whose sense of direction was acute, but inverted: it indicated points precisely opposed to the correct ones. Once we had discovered this, and allowed for the idiosyncrasy, we made frequent use of his otherwise very exact sense. For those who may have interested themselves in the faculty, I will add that this friend similarly produced or wrote down the results of all mental calculations with the figures in the reverse order.