In the description of equipment I have already mentioned the necessary safeguards against frost-bite and snow blindness.
Anything more than an allusion to the danger from avalanche is quite beyond the scope of this book. It is an intricate subject, about which whole books have been, and no doubt will yet be, written.
I believe that even now the conditions which produce winter avalanches are not fully understood. On any open slope of more than certain steepness—23° or so—an avalanche may start, especially after a thaw, or before the snow of a recent fall has had time to settle down. An avalanche, once started, can of course travel over a less steep slope, or even level ground. Lose no time in collecting all the information you can on the subject; for, although the ordinary tourist (not the climber) can usually avoid it, the danger is a very serious one, and you should never willingly expose yourself to the smallest risk of it. If the risk is unavoidable, make sure that you can get your skis off your feet in a moment, for if you are caught in an avalanche this is the first thing to do. The next is, if possible, to keep your head above the surface of the snow.
The ancient quip about presence of mind and absence of body is particularly applicable in a case of this sort.
I have said something about the special discomforts and dangers of the mountains and the snow, but nothing about their extraordinary beauty and fascination. If I were better fitted for the task than the ordinary guide-book writer, I might attempt a description of them; as I am not, I will spare the reader.
To some ski-runners these beauties may be of secondary importance to the sport itself. The ski-runner may even exist who looks upon climbing a mountain as an altogether exasperating, but unfortunately inevitable, preparation for a run down, and whose ideal is an artificial jumping-hill in his garden provided with a lift. I have never met him.