What are the opportunities in Great Britain for training in snow and ice-craft? I have met with only five different kinds of snow in the hills of these islands; and all were good from the mountaineer’s point of view. The snow was either cohesive or could be made to cohere. In the Alps I have taken notes of some of the characteristic features and properties of very many distinct types of snow, the majority of which called for the exercise of special caution in venturing upon the slopes on which they lay. Ice is rarely met with in Great Britain, and then never in sufficient quantity to necessitate the cutting, at the outside, of more than a few steps—poor practice indeed for the pitiless ice slopes of the east face of Monte Rosa. Avalanches and snow-shields are unknown here; in the Alps, especially in winter, and in the Himalayas at all times, one must be on one’s guard against such dangers. Ignorance in this respect has been the cause of some of the most deplorable of mountaineering accidents. Glaciers and crevasses are non-existent in Britain. In fine, as a training ground for snow and ice-craft, our homeland hills are useless. To assert what one does not know is a fairly universal human failing; and there are some British rock-climbers who contend that snow and ice-craft is no more difficult than rock-climbing. In reality there is not one of the big snow and ice expeditions of the Alps that does not represent a far more serious undertaking, physically and mentally, than the Grépon, Requin or any other of the better known “crack” rock-climbs. Not only does British rock-climbing fail to provide the beginner with practice in the use of the axe for sounding, step-cutting and belaying, but it also fails to teach him what is almost equally important—how to handle and carry the axe when it is not actually required. On ninety-nine out of every hundred scrambles at home the axe is left behind altogether.
Moreover, in the use of the rope, non-Alpine and Alpine practices vary greatly. Owing to the shortness of climbs in Great Britain, time is immaterial. Parties move one man at a time. The leader climbs on ahead, free from the encumbrances of axe and knapsack, until he finds a suitable belay. The second man follows, likewise unencumbered, as the leader takes in the rope. The last man sometimes carries a light knapsack, though I myself have never seen it done, nor do the numerous pictures of British rock-climbing now before me show any trace of such impedimenta. Time is too valuable in the Alps to permit of such tactics except where the difficulties are considerable. In the case of almost any Alpine expedition, for more than half the time the members of a party are moving all together; and to be proficient in the use of the rope means that one must be able not only to move without its continually getting in the way, but also to look after it and keep it taut, so as to check a slip immediately, while actually climbing. Practice in this is necessarily limited in Great Britain. Hence it is no uncommon sight to see a party of British-trained rock-climbers on an easy Swiss rock peak, with the rope in loose, untidy coils, catching in jutting out rocks, dragging about loose stones and generally acting as a menace to safety. This abuse of the rope is, paradoxically enough, the outcome of the undeniable virtues of sure-footedness and steadiness that have been learned on the British crags. The fault does not lie in the climbers’ incapacity to keep the rope taut, but merely in that, trusting to their steadiness, they do not bother to do so. I have observed that many of those who err in the handling of the rope are as sure-footed as cats.
Route-finding in the Alps, and still more so in the other great mountain groups of the world, is a matter of prime importance. Before embarking on an expedition in the Alps, the climber first makes his choice of mountain, and then, according to the degree of difficulty desired, chooses the face or ridge by which to gain the summit. This done, he brings all his knowledge of route-finding to bear upon the selection of the easiest and safest way up that face or ridge. Difficulties are avoided as much as possible. The adoption of bull-at-a-gate methods will lead to much loss of time; and time, of little consequence in England, is a factor to be reckoned with seriously in the Alps. Owing to the limited nature of climbs at home, the reverse practice is adopted. One is taught to look for difficulties, instead of avoiding them and seeking the line of least resistance; and the habit thus engrained is apt to persist when the British-trained rock-climber looks for adventure abroad. The corollaries are numerous. Those that most concern our purpose are that he learns on British crags only to a very limited degree how to conserve his energy, build up his powers of endurance or cultivate the proper mentality. All these things are acquired only in a school of hardships under physical and climatic conditions that are foreign to our islands.
Once one accepts the fact that the difference between a mountain and a crag is not only one of scale, it will be readily acknowledged that he who disports himself on the latter has much to learn and, possibly, something to unlearn before he can become a mountaineer in the full sense of the word. How many of those who have begun their climbing in Great Britain have accomplished anything of note in real mountaineering? Rock-climbing is too liable to strangle any innate aptitude for mountaineering proper, and to restrict achievement in the wider craft to a level of dull mediocrity.
For those whose ambitions do not soar beyond home, the crags and fells are a pleasurable playing ground where they may scramble to their hearts’ content; to those who have well served their apprenticeship in the wider and loftier playground of the Alps, the homeland hills will provide useful muscular exercise and plenty of healthy fun; but for the beginner who aims at being a true mountaineer, the only safe place within easy reach to learn the craft is the Alps.
On the morning after our ascent of the Grépon, while waiting for the Chamonix train, Max and I were comparing with the reality M. Vallot’s well-known, panoramic sketch on the stone in front of the Montanvert. The first batch of the day’s sightseers had arrived, among them a tall, faultlessly garbed young lady, who approached and addressed us.
“Say, are you mountaineers?”—evidently having come to the conclusion at the sight of our heavy hobnailed boots and rather tattered clothes.
“Well—yes,” replied my brother. “At least, we have been doing some climbing.”