We come now to investigate the position of the mountaineer, or climber of hills. Now, we may rightly call him the true mountaineer or climber of hills, who possesses the true love of mountain climbing, which, being a mean between two extremes, may be fitly termed a virtue. First, indeed, it is right to call the love of mountain climbing an active virtue, and not one of contemplation, for to no one is the ascent of a hill possible by contemplation alone; still, the virtue of a mountain climber is for a truth not wholly active, but is partly contemplative, as we shall show further on.
Moreover, the love of hill climbing, like fortitude or other virtues, has its defects, its mean, and its excess. Now, as we have said, virtue being a mean of which the extremes are the excess or the deficiency, he who is defective in this matter is one who either has not this love of climbing, or is indifferent in the matter; this man, indeed, is pitied by the hill climber, and indeed may be called the 'irrational man.' Now by the 'irrational man' we do not mean him who is unreasonable without qualification, but rather the man who is possessed of unreason from the point of view of the mountaineer, and truly amongst 'irrational men' are to be found the fathers of families, many learned men and others. Moreover, the 'irrational man' prefers rather to ascend hills by means of the telescope, or in a railway train, and if interrogated on the subject, expresses great scorn for those who rise at midnight, or in the early hours of the morning, for the purpose of imperilling their lives on the end of a rope. Again, he goes not to places where there are no hostels, alleging that he likes to be comfortable and enjoy himself. The scarcity of inns, however, in mountainous countries is a matter which, in these times, has in some few instances been remedied, for we are credibly informed that on the topmost summit of the lofty Mount Snowdon, in the Principality of Wales, an hostel exists, where the 'irrational man' may find gratification for his baser appetites, and perhaps may also at the same time experience, in a limited manner, that happiness which in its full degree is experienced by the true lover of hill climbing, whom we may call the 'mountaineer.'[X] Further, the 'irrational man' is inclined often to treat the adventures of the 'mountaineer' as travellers' tales, but in this respect he is unable rightly to distinguish between the true climber of hills and the 'pseudo-mountaineer' who haunts the smoking-rooms of certain hostels. This man climbs, but in imagination only. He will relate how he has ascended certain high and difficult, nay, even inaccessible peaks, and will brand the names of many hills on staves, that when he returns to his native land he may win much reverence. But although the 'pseudo-mountaineer' pretends to greater things than he has accomplished, and is, therefore, a depraved person, on the whole, perhaps, he appears more a vain than a bad man, for it is not for the sake of money that he would have the unwary traveller and the people of his nation believe his stories, but for the sake of honour and glory, which in itself is praiseworthy.
Now both the 'pseudo-mountaineer' and the 'irrational man' err by way of defect, being indifferent to the true joys of mountaineering. But the 'mountaineer' is he who has this virtue in the right measure. He delights not in climbing this hill or that, but in climbing itself. He loves to wander in mountainous lands; ascents of great mountains, clad in frozen snow, to him are not unprofitable. Mountain-huts ill-ventilated, nights spent under rocks, amidst snow, wind, mist, or rain, these things will he endure. Moreover, to help him, will he even pay much money to the more hardy inhabitants of the hills, who are able to guide him with skill and safety through the inhospitable fastnesses, which he loves to explore. Thus much knowledge will he gain, making observations on the heights of hills, the efficacy of meat lozenges, the movement of glaciers by day, and the pulex irritans by night. He is a searcher after sensations. But when, owing to misfortune, he finds that his desire for climbing is in inverse ratio to his opportunity for so doing, then will he spend his leisure hours in adorning his maps with red lines, or he will write papers, yea, even books, describing his former exploits, so that perchance other 'mountaineers' may receive benefit therefrom.
But, as we have already said, the love of mountain climbing, like fortitude and other virtues, has its mean and its defect; as to the mean, we have seen that it is the virtue of the 'mountaineer,' whilst the defect constitutes the habit of the 'pseudo mountaineer' and the 'irrational man.' But the extreme is found in the man who has the desire to climb hills out of all reason, therefore we call him the 'oromaniac,' or he who is incontinent in the matter. He it is who ascends hills on the wrong side, and cares not to travel in the line of least resistance; also should he hear that a pinnacle of rock is inaccessible, he is at once seized with a great desire to climb that pinnacle. For he climbs not mountains for the exercise, or the love of climbing itself, but for the mere base desire to beat all records or to outdo an enemy, or that he may see his name blazoned in the local papers. And not unfrequently do accidents befall such an one, and he hurts himself grievously; hence come those accidents which we may call indefinite, for of this kind of accident there is often no definite cause, for the cause of it is casual, and that is indefinite. Thus such an one may have fallen. Now if it was not his intention so to do, and he either slipped or was otherwise moved in a direction suddenly downwards, it happened accidentally. The accident, therefore was generated, and is, but not so far as itself is, but as something else is. Moreover, in this kind of accident, as we have already stated, it often happens that the 'oromaniac' suffers many woes; breaking sometimes a limb, or, if still more unfortunate, his neck, or he suffers mutilation[Y] in respect to his garments. Again, accidents may be called that which is inherent to something, and of which something may be truly asserted; as for instance, if any one going up one mountain in a mist should, after much fatigue, find himself at the summit of another, the ascent would be an accident to him who climbs the mountain. Nor, if any one climbs one mountain, does he for the most part climb another. Accident is after another manner denominated, that which essentially belongs—'The inseparable,' for instance, the mountains themselves. Hence, indeed, it happens that accidents of this kind are perpetual, which is not the case with any others. Now concerning the love of mountain climbing, and the excess and deficiency thereof, as well as the mean which is also a virtue, and concerning also accidents both separable and inseparable of mountain climbing, let this suffice.
NOTES ON THE HIMALAYAN MOUNTAINS
The great flood of the Indus in 1841 seems to have been one of the most tremendous cataclysms recorded as having occurred on the continent of India. The exact reason of it was for many years unknown. Major Cunningham suggested that it was due to the bursting of an ice-dammed lake on the Shayok river. Major Becher seems, however, to have been the first who expressed a belief that it was caused by a landslip blocking the Indus near Gor. In a letter (Journ. Asiat. Soc. Bengal, vol. xxviii. p. 219) he writes that a mountain called Ultoo Kunn, near Gor, owing to an earthquake, subsided into the valley of the main Indus. Drew, in his book on Kashmir (p. 415), gives the following description: 'The flood of 1841 was in this wise. It occurred, as near as I can make out, in the beginning of June of that year. At Atak, a place twelve or fifteen miles below where the latitude-parallel of 34° crosses the Indus, the river had been observed during several months, indeed from December of the previous year onwards, to be unusually low; in the spring it had risen a little from the snow melting, but only a little, so that at the end of May (when in ordinary years the volume has greatly increased) it was still extraordinarily low. This in itself should have been enough to warn the people who dwelt by its banks, but so little was it thought of that a portion of the Sikh army was encamped on the low plain of Chach which bordered the river. One day in the beginning of June, at two in the afternoon, the waters were seen by those who were there encamped to be coming upon them, down the various channels, and to be swelling out of these to overspread the plain in a dark, muddy mass, which swept everything before it. The camp was completely overwhelmed; five hundred soldiers at once perished; only those who were within near reach of the hill-sides could hope for safety. Neither trees nor houses could avail to keep those surprised in the plain out of the power of the flood, for trees and houses themselves were swept away; every trace of cultivation was effaced; and the tents, the baggage, and the artillery, all were involved in the ruin. The result was graphically described by a native eye-witness, whose words were, "As a woman with a wet towel sweeps away a legion of ants, so the river blotted out the army of the Raja."' Drew was probably the first to actually visit the place where the block occurred. And a villager from Gor pointed out to him the exact spot where the debris of the landslip blocked the river. These floods seem to be of somewhat frequent occurrence. In 1844 one came from the Tshkoman valley above Gilgit. In 1858 another did great damage at Naushahra. The Indus at Attock (Atak) on 10th August was very low. In the early morning it rose ten feet in two hours, and five hours later it had risen no less that fifty feet, and continued rising till it stood no less than ninety feet higher than in the morning. It is probable that this flood came from the Hunza valley.
Smaller floods in the narrow Himalayan valleys are of frequent occurrence. For instance at Tashing, in 1850, a large lake was formed in the Rupal nullah by the snout of the Tashing glacier crossing the valley till it was jammed against the rock wall on the opposite side, thus blocking the Rupal torrent. Probably this will again happen, for when we were there in 1895 the Tashing glacier had once more blocked the valley to the depth of at least 200 feet, the Rupal stream finding its way underneath the ice; should this passage become in any way stopped, a huge lake must at once form behind the glacier.
The extreme narrowness, and often the great depth, of many of these Himalayan valleys will always be favourable to the production of these floods. Should a landslip occur, or should a glacier, such as the Tashing glacier, block the valley, a flood must be the inevitable result. On the Indus there are many places where a dam might easily be formed. In the bend underneath Haramosh, at Lechre under Nanga Parbat, or further down below Chilas in that unknown country where the Indus begins to flow in a southerly direction. For there on the map the Indus is made to flow between two peaks, not three miles apart: one is marked 16,942 feet, and the other 15,250 feet, thus making the depth of this ravine over 12,000 feet.