London, W.14,
April, 1924.
THE MAKING OF A MOUNTAINEER
CHAPTER I
EARLY DAYS
Some twenty-two years ago, on a dewy spring morning in October, I urged my panting pony towards a hill-top in the Australian bush, the better to spy out the whereabouts of a mob of wallaby. The last few feet of the ascent being too much for the pony, I dismounted and, leaving him behind, scrambled up a short, rocky chimney to the summit. The wallaby were nowhere to be seen; but my wondering eyes were held spell-bound by such a vision as I had never even dreamed of. Miles and miles away the white-washed roofs of the township of Orange gleamed brightly in the clear morning sunshine; the main roads converging upon the town showed sharp and distinct from out their setting in the rolling bush. The picture was beautiful: precise and accurate as the work of a draughtsman’s pen, but fuller of meaning than any map. I was just thirteen years old, and for the first time in my life the true significance of geography began to dawn upon me; and with the dawning was born a resolution that was to colour and widen my whole life. Before returning to my pony after this, my first mountain ascent, I had made up my mind to see the world; to see it from above, from the tops of mountains, whence I could get that wide and comprehensive view which is denied to those who observe things from their own plane.
A year later my brother Maxwell and I, now proud possessors of Edward Whymper’s Scrambles in the Alps, emulated our hero’s early exploits by scaling Beachy Head by a particularly dangerous route, much to the consternation of the lighthouse crew and subsequent disappointment of the coastguards who arrived up aloft with ropes and rescue tackle just in time to see us draw ourselves, muddy and begrimed, over the brink of the cliff into safety. That climb taught us many things; amongst them, that a cliff is often more difficult to climb than would appear from below; that flints embedded in chalk are not reliable handholds, but sometimes break away when one trusts one’s weight to them; that there are people who delight in rolling stones down a cliff without troubling to see whether anyone is underneath; and that if it be good to look down upon the world, the vision is beautiful in proportion to the difficulties overcome in gaining the eminence. A few weeks later, an ascent of Notre-Dame by an unorthodox route might well have led to trouble, had it not been for the fact that the two gendarmes and the kindly priest who were the most interested spectators of these doings did not lack a sense of humour and human understanding. Then we passed through Basle into Switzerland, bitterly disappointed to find that the railway did not wind through dark, tortuous valleys bordered by glistening snow-capped mountains.
That winter we broke bounds. Shod in the lightest of shoes, with clothing ill-suited to protect against wind, with walking sticks, and a pocketful of sandwiches we took the train to Wesen. There we bought a map and set off to climb the Speer, a mountain barely 6,000 feet in height, but nevertheless a formidable enough proposition for such an ill-equipped party in winter. All that day we struggled on, often knee-deep in snow. At dusk, still far from our goal, we sought refuge from the cold breezes of eventide. Letting ourselves in through the chimney hole in the roof of a snowed-up Alp hut, we bivouacked for the night. Shivering and sleepless we lay, watching the stars as they twinkled derisively in frosty clearness through the hole in the roof. After what seemed an eternity, morning came, and we plodded on with stiff and weary limbs to the summit. There, bathed in the warm sunshine, all hardships were forgotten, and we gazed longingly over to the ranges of the Tödi and the Glärnisch—real snow and ice mountains with great glaciers streaming down from their lofty crests. Thence the eye travelled away to the rich plains, the gleaming lakes and dark, forested hills of the lowlands, until details faded in the bluish mist of distance. Switzerland, a whole country, was at our feet. This escapade taught us further lessons: that mountaineering is a hungry game; that boots should be waterproof, and soles thick and studded with nails; that a thick warm coat can be an almost priceless possession.
Photo G. I. Finch.