HOW TO SKI
AND
HOW NOT TO

BY

VIVIAN CAULFEILD

PHOTOGRAPHS BY K. DELAP

THIRD AND REVISED EDITION

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
597-599 FIFTH AVENUE
1914

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

RANDALL’S SKI BOOTS

SPECIAL FEATURES:

SELECTED MOOR CALF UPPERS.

Watertight Tongues, double thickness of leather

round sides.

STOUT ENGLISH BARK TANNED SOLES.

WATERPROOF: Yet flexible as a dancing-shoe.

The new “BELMONT” HEEL.

SUPERIOR TO ALL MAKES

RANDALL’S “SKI” BOOTS alone combine
all the above excellent qualities, and are made for
Gentlemen, Ladies, and Children.

RANDALL’S
For High-Grade
Footwear

H. E. RANDALL, LTD.

24 Haymarket, London, S.W.

39, 40 & 41 Poultry, London, E.C.

10 Grand Hotel Buildings, Charing

Cross, London, W.C.

Photo by Miss E. Frisby.

The Adelboden Jumping-hill.

Frontispiece.

PREFACE TO REVISED EDITION

The alterations and additions to this book in its present form are due partly to fresh practical experience; partly to adverse criticism of which I now see the justice; and partly, as I freely admit, to the picking of other people’s brains. Since this book was published I have read for the first time books on ski-ing by Zdarsky, Bilgeri, Luther, and Arnold Lunn, and have re-read those of Richardson, Rickmers, Paulcke, and Hoek. As a result I have had to alter a good deal of my theory and some of my practice, and to alter and enlarge this book accordingly. To all the above-named authors, therefore, I am more or less indebted, and feel correspondingly grateful.

In adopting an idea one can seldom help altering it more or less, and if in the body of the book I have made few direct acknowledgments, it has been from no lack of gratitude, but rather from a doubt whether the originator of the idea would be gratified at its development or indignant at its distortion.

I must however make special acknowledgments to Ober-Leutnant Bilgeri. From his excellent book I have gained much fresh knowledge of the theory and practice of ski-ing. This book, moreover, while confirming me in my opinion of the vices of the Lilienfeld system of ski-running, has given me a fresh insight into the virtues of the Lilienfeld system of teaching, and consequently a fresh sense of my indebtedness to the chief apostle of this system, my first teacher, Mr. Rickmers.

If Herr Bilgeri has ever happened to read my book, certain resemblances between it and his own—the analogy of the bicycle and tricycle with the single and double-track runner, for instance—may, since his book was published first, have struck him as remarkable. I take this opportunity of assuring him that when I wrote this book I had not read his, nor for that matter any of his writings, and that, if I had, the resemblances would have been not only fully acknowledged, but considerably more numerous.

To Mr. E. C. Richardson I must return special thanks for criticism that has shown me the error of some of my ways of thinking; I have also to thank Mr. C. W. Richardson for new ideas gained from an article by him on “Knee Action in Ski-ing.”

Finally, I wish to express my gratitude to everyone whose suggestions I have adopted, or who, either by precept or example, has taught me anything new and so has had a hand in the revision of this book, but to whom I have not referred individually.

This heavy list of acknowledgments makes me realise more than ever how difficult it is nowadays for a writer on ski-ing technique—or at any rate for this writer—to say anything new. I am afraid that even a succès de scandale as the fanatical prophet of complete sticklessness will soon be out of my reach, if it is not already, for we are all agreed now that the stick should be used as little as possible, and therefore that not to use it at all is, if possible, best. It is a short step from this to finding out by practical experience that, so long as one is travelling on snow, not ice, and has a little more than room enough to place the skis horizontally across the slope, one can move just as freely, quickly, and easily, and with just as perfect control, without the stick as with it.

E. V. S. C.

December 1912.

CONTENTS

HOW TO SKI

INTRODUCTORY

THE ENGLISHMAN AS A SKI-RUNNER

Probably every one likely to read this book knows that a ski is a snow-shoe or skate, and that it is a long narrow plank turned up in front, but he may not have a very clear idea of the use of it.

It may not have occurred to him, for instance, that in a country which is deeply covered with soft snow (the surface of snow is sometimes a hard crust) a man without snow-shoes of some kind is not merely unable to move quickly, but is unable to move at all outside the cleared roads and beaten tracks.

Merely to prevent sinking into the snow the ski is just as useful as a snow-shoe of the racquet form, such as the Canadian, and it is never less useful than the other even when it seems most likely to be. For moving through dense underwood, for instance, when its length would appear likely to be awkward, or for hauling sledges, when its slipperiness would seem a disadvantage, experience shows that the ski is fully as useful as the other type.

As a means of locomotion it is altogether superior. Over level open country a man can slide along on skis a great deal faster than he can walk (or run) on Canadian snow-shoes.

In hilly country the ski-runner has a further advantage. If a hill is not steep a man may walk straight up it on racquets rather more quickly than a man on skis can climb it by zigzagging (as he is obliged to do on all but the most gradual slopes); but on the descent the ski-runner more than makes up the time he has lost; for, helped by gravity, he slides down the hill at least three, perhaps as much as thirty, times as fast as he climbed it, according to his expertness and the nature of the ground, while the other takes almost as long to walk down as he did to walk up.

On very steep ground the ski-runner has a still greater advantage, for here the narrowness of the ski allows him to move across the steepest snow slopes with little or no discomfort to his ankles, while on a steep slope the man on racquets is practically helpless, for, on account of their shape, it is only with the utmost difficulty, if at all, that he can move either up, down, or across the hill.

A moderately expert ski-runner can manœuvre on any sort of ground which is covered with snow, provided that the surface of the snow be not so hard that the edges of his skis can make absolutely no impression in it. The steepness of a slope, no matter how great, is in itself no obstacle to his manœuvring with perfect freedom; it need only be reckoned with in so far as it relates to the danger of avalanche.

This should give some idea of the scope of ski-running considered merely as a means of locomotion.

With regard to the possibilities of ski-running considered purely as a sport, it may be said that a good runner, descending a steep hill where the ground is open, will often cover a considerable distance at an average rate of 45 miles an hour: that when moving at half that speed he can thread his way among obstacles or stop suddenly; and that the present record for a jump on skis is about 154 feet. I need hardly say, therefore, that the opportunities afforded by the sport for the exercise not only of the runner’s nerve, but of his skill and judgment are almost unlimited.

Now it is only by learning the best methods and style at the very outset (or by changing them if he has started with bad ones) that a man can develop to the utmost whatever latent capacity for ski-running he may possess, and only in this way that he is ever likely to become expert enough to have any right to the title of a good runner.

At this point I had better, for the benefit of those readers who have already used skis, give some sort of definition of good ski-running as I understand it.

It is not quite easy to do so, but I take it that the best judges would hardly call a man a good runner unless he could run steadily, quickly, and easily down any hill on which ski-ing was possible at all—no matter how difficult the ground might be as regards obstacles, gradient, and condition of snow—without ever using his stick as an aid to the balance or for steering, or, except on the very rarest occasions, for helping him to slow up or stop; and unless he could, on an ordinary jumping hill, make jumps of fair length without falling very often.

Such a man would probably be able to make, in that kind of snow which is appropriate to each, all the swings and turns to either right or left while running at a good speed, and would almost certainly both run and jump in really good style.

A good runner, indeed, can nearly always be recognised by his style, although, of course, a man cannot be called a bad runner, however bad his style, if he is really fast and steady downhill, and can make long jumps with certainty. But a ski-runner with a bad style is below his proper form; if, with a bad style, he is fairly fast and steady, and is good at jumping, he would with a good style be exceptionally so.

Among the Scandinavians or the best continental runners, no one would be considered at all good on skis unless he more or less fulfilled the above definition. Among English runners, I am sorry to say, the standard, not only of performance, but of criticism, is far lower, and although there are by this time many Englishmen who are capable tourists and mountaineers on skis, there are almost none who can be called good runners in the above sense, or who can be compared with the best continental runners even, while to compare them with the best Scandinavians would be ludicrous.

Among the English at Swiss winter-places a man is often spoken of as “good at ski-ing” for no better reason than that he spends most of his time on skis and has climbed several hills on them, or has crossed several passes; while if it is known that, as a rule, he gets through a day’s run without falling, he is sure to be considered a most accomplished ski-runner. Quite as reasonably might a man gain a reputation for fine horsemanship simply through being able to make long journeys on horseback without falling off or getting exhausted. Just as the latter may easily be a poor horseman, so may the former be a very poor ski-runner; the fact that he may happen to be a great mountaineer gives him no more claim to the title of a fine ski-runner than does the fact of his being a fine ski-runner to the title of a great mountaineer.

If asked his opinion of some such champion, a good Swiss runner will usually answer tactfully, “He is good, for an Englishman.” The full value of this compliment can only be appreciated by some one who, like myself, has overheard Swiss runners criticise an exhibition of unusual awkwardness and timidity on the part of one of their own countrymen in the words, “He runs like an Englishman.”

It would be very nice to think that jealousy of our prowess in ski-ing made them talk like this, but that, unfortunately, is out of the question.

The fact is that most English runners seem to be perfectly contented with just so much skill as will enable them to get up and down a hill at a moderate speed and without many falls. Having acquired this, they give up practising altogether, and devote the rest of their ski-ing lives to making tours, never attempting to become really fast or skilful runners or to go in for jumping, even in its mildest form.

It is rather curious that this should be the case, for most English ski-runners are young and active men, accustomed to other sports and games, who, I suppose, take up ski-running at least as much for its own sake as with the object of using it as an aid to mountain-climbing and touring.

Surely, then, one might reasonably expect that a fair number of them would become really fine runners, that nearly all of them would try to, and that even those who had no ambition to excel in the sport for its own sake would be anxious to increase their efficiency as mountaineers or tourists, and would therefore, at the very least, try to run in good style; for good style, in ski-running as in every other game or athletic sport, means economy of muscular force, which is surely an important consideration to the mountaineer.

Most good Swiss runners, I am sure, think that the Englishman is constitutionally incapable of becoming really good on skis. To me, at any rate, it is by no means surprising that they should think so, for, taking any average pair of ski-runners, Swiss and English, who are about equally matched in age, physique, and ski-ing experience, even if there be little to choose between them in the matter of skill, there is in one respect a very marked difference—the Englishman nearly always running more slowly and cautiously and altogether with less dash than the Swiss. In fact, not to put too fine a point upon it, the Englishman, as compared with the Swiss, generally shows what an unsympathetic critic might call a distinct tendency to funk.

How English and Swiss ski-runners compare, in this respect, with those of other countries I have had no opportunity of judging, but that, when compared with each other, there is this difference between them must be obvious to any impartial observer. If the Englishman’s lack of dash arises entirely from poorness of nerve, he is, of course, very heavily handicapped, though not, perhaps, hopelessly so, for patience, determination, and careful training will do wonders in the improvement of bad nerve. I should like, however, to think that there may be some more flattering explanation of this phenomenon—I have, for instance, heard it said that the fact that most Englishmen are unaccustomed to steep slopes may have something to do with it—but I must confess that, so far, I have not hit upon one that entirely satisfies me.

I have heard two excuses given (by Englishmen) for the low standard of English ski-ing as compared with Swiss. One is that the Englishman gets less practice than the Swiss. This is a mistake. The average English runner perhaps gets only three or four weeks each winter, but the average Swiss gets no more, for he has his work to do, and though he spends his winter in the snow he usually only goes ski-ing on Sundays. The best Swiss runners no doubt are usually guides, or men who spend most of their time in the winter on skis; but this is not always so, and I know more than one first-class Swiss runner who gets little more than one day a week. Among English runners the proportion of those who spend most of their winter on skis is much greater than among the Swiss; yet there are now many really first-rate Swiss runners, but, as I have said, hardly any English ones.

The other excuse is that most English ski-runners have taken up the sport comparatively late in life.

No doubt they have, and so, for that matter, have many of the continental runners—and a few of the best of them. But to begin late is much less of a handicap than might be imagined, for a man may become a skilful ski-runner without possessing any of the characteristics of extreme youth.

That is to say that, provided he has a fair stock of intelligence, patience, and nerve (and a good teacher), he need have no special aptitude for picking up the knack of unaccustomed movements, nor need he have more than ordinary strength and activity.

The games and sports which are most difficult to learn late in life are those which call for “knack”—in other words, the ability to perform easily a rapid and accurate co-ordinated movement of a number of muscles. If this movement is an unaccustomed one, the ability to perform it properly is only attainable by long practice.

The action of throwing, for instance, requires knack. It is this which makes it so difficult to learn to throw with the left hand, even though one already has the ability to move the left arm with quite sufficient strength and speed, and not only knows how the movement should be made, but even how it feels to make it with the other hand. Writing is another excellent example of knack.

In ski-running nothing which can strictly be called knack comes into play. In this sport the voluntary muscular movements (as distinguished from the involuntary ones used in keeping the balance) are neither complicated nor unusual, and, except in jumping, they need seldom be rapid. Any difficulty in learning them is due partly to the disturbing effect on one’s clear-headedness of the speed at which one is travelling, and partly to the fact that some of the movements, though simple in themselves, are almost the reverse of those one’s natural instinct would prompt one to make in the circumstances. This difficulty, of course, diminishes with practice, but an effort of will goes just as far as, or even farther than practice towards overcoming it. Were it not for this difficulty, a man who had been told the right way to perform the various manœuvres employed in ski-ing might very well do them fairly correctly the first time he tried (as many people actually do), while no amount of strength, activity, intelligence, or confidence would enable him, if right-handed, to throw or to write properly with his left hand without long practice.

The balancing difficulty is far less serious than is usually supposed. It is the unexpected movements of the skis which generally upset the balance; and if one has a clear comprehension of the way in which various combinations of gradient, speed, quality of snow, &c., affect their motion (see [p. 74], &c.), one will seldom be taken by surprise. Any one who can stand steadily on one leg, when not on skis, for a quarter of a minute, without waving his other limbs about, has sufficient sense of balance to become a first-rate ski-runner. Intelligence and nerve—the latter including both coolness and dash—are the main factors in good running. It is hard to say which is the more important. Most of one’s mistakes in ski-ing can perhaps be traced to want of nerve, but the most perfect nerve will not compensate for lack of intelligence. The intelligent man will soon see that there is very little to be afraid of, that the risk of injury from falling (on snow), even when running fast or alighting after a long jump, is very slight, and that to run with confidence and dash will lessen the danger rather than increase it. When he has thoroughly realised this, the intelligent man, though his nerve may be none of the best, will probably, if he has any determination, soon beat the absolutely intrepid but stupid one.

Unless, then, we are to believe that a man loses most of his nerve, intelligence and will-power with his first youth, there is nothing to prevent him from learning to ski well when no longer very young.

My own belief is that the best excuse for the low standard of British ski-running is ignorance and bad tuition.

A few English runners have learnt a good system of ski-ing; but these have generally had bad teachers—Swiss guides, very likely, who, though first-rate runners themselves, had more instinct than science, and were quite incapable of imparting clearly to a beginner whatever knowledge they possessed. The majority of English ski-runners have learnt a thoroughly bad system, and have very likely learnt at the same time to believe that it is an exceptionally sound one.

The members of both these classes are, as a rule, profoundly ignorant of what an expert can do on skis, of the real advantage of becoming an expert—or, at any rate, as skilful as possible—and of the best way to set about doing so.

There is no reason whatever why, with practice and good teaching, any man should not become a fairly skilful runner; even if he cannot run with great dash and speed, he can, at least, learn to do so in good style, without—or practically without—any help from his stick.

Very few Englishmen try to do this; indeed, next to caution, the most prominent characteristic of English ski-running is bad style.

Now nearly all the continental runners—certainly all the best of them—have taken the Norwegians as their model, and have, in consequence, aimed not only at running as fast and steadily, but also, in one sense, as easily as possible; that is to say, with the least muscular effort compatible with a perfect control of their skis, or, to put it more simply, in the best style.

Most Englishmen, however, have learnt a very different method of ski-ing. This system also teaches the beginner to run as easily as possible, but in quite another sense. The whole aim of the system is to dispense as far as possible with skill rather than with effort. That is to say, it directly encourages bad style.

The system is the invention of an Austrian, Herr Zdarsky, who, having never seen a ski-runner and knowing nothing about skis or their management, got a pair from Norway, and reasoned out a method of using them, eventually altering them to suit his method.

This was certainly a very surprising achievement, as every one will agree who realises not only the practical difficulty of ski-running, but the complication of its dynamics.

What is less surprising, when one remembers the origin of Zdarsky’s system, is that it teaches not one simple method of controlling the skis that had not been discovered long before, and but few of those that had been. It must in fact be regarded, not as a new and different system, but as a small part of an old one—the whole Norwegian system of ski-running.

The distinguishing features of Zdarsky’s system are an almost exclusive reliance on the snow-plough position (or an approximation to it), for either braking, turning, or stopping, a deliberate use of the stick to assist these manœuvres and to help the balance on all occasions, an extreme dislike to going fast, and, in general, a pronounced tendency to avoid difficulties of balance rather than to overcome them, and to encourage timidity as well as clumsiness.

The main object of Zdarsky’s system is to enable a beginner to run safely on steep and difficult ground with the least possible preliminary practice; and so far, no doubt, it is successful. But its very weakness is what makes it successful, for it turns out ski-runners quickly by allowing them to run badly. It is the very worst school for a beginner who takes up ski-ing no less for its own sake than as a means to an end, for if he begins in this way, sooner or later he will have to alter his methods entirely, and get rid of a lot of bad habits which he would never have acquired if he had, from the outset, learnt his ski-ing in the Norwegian manner.

To become a fairly proficient stick-riding and zigzagging crawler is a very simple matter; but to get beyond this point, and, discarding the help of the stick, to learn an equally safe but considerably quicker and more comfortable style of running, is impossible without devoting some time and pains to practising, though far less of both than is usually supposed.

Every one, of course, has a perfect right to choose the style of ski-ing that suits him best. If a man looks upon ski-running simply as a means of locomotion, or if he dislikes the trouble of practising, or has exceptionally poor nerve, or is extraordinarily clumsy, he will very likely be perfectly satisfied with a slow stick-riding system, and will quite reasonably refuse to try anything else. So far there is no harm done.

Unfortunately, however, many of those who choose this primitive method of ski-ing make the absurd mistake of thinking that their method is a particularly sound and practical one, and delude the innocent novice into thinking the same.

Realising that without the stick they themselves would be helpless, they say that its help is indispensable for safe running. Anything which they cannot do themselves, such as running with the skis together so as to leave a single track; turning or stopping by a free use of the different swings, &c., instead of by their own dreadful imitation of the Stemming turn and Christiania; fast straight-running; jumping, and so on, they condemn as showy, unsafe, and of no practical use, and class under the general heading of “fancy tricks.” The absurdity of this standpoint will be patent to any one who knows the immense superiority of good running to bad, as regards ease, sureness, and speed.

Let us compare ski-running with horsemanship. Just as the ski-runner undoubtedly finds it easier at first to run with the aid of the stick than without, so the man who mounts a horse for the first time will certainly find it a good deal easier to keep in the saddle if he holds on to it by the pommel or cantle. I believe, however, that there is no school of horsemanship which advocates this method of riding as being particularly practical.

The reasons against the use of the stick as an aid to the balance in ski-running are much the same as those against using the saddle for the same purpose in riding. There is a waste of energy in each case, for it is doing clumsily by brute force what can be done more comfortably, gracefully, and effectively by skill. Moreover, the balance, when helped in this way, never improves, but remains permanently bad.

Correct position, narrow track, complete command of the different swings—all those things, in fact, which distinguish good style from bad—mean economy of force, and are therefore eminently practical. To say that jumping is a useless accomplishment may at first sight appear justifiable. In one sense there is not much practical use in jumping, for occasions are not very often met with in the course of a tour where a jump is the only way, or even the safest way, out of a difficulty.

But in another sense jumping is extremely practical. It accustoms a runner to moving at the highest possible speed, and shows him that he need not mind taking a fall at this speed; moreover, to quote from Mr. Richardson’s excellent jumping chapter in “The Ski-Runner,” “the first thing which a jumper has to learn is how to keep calm and collected and to make up his mind instantly what to do next when travelling at top speed—just the very things, in fact, which he must learn if he wants to be a good cross-country runner. For these reasons it is the very best and quickest way of generally improving a man’s running.”

A very common attitude of Englishmen towards ski-jumping is to treat it as a showy and dangerous acrobatic display, all very well for reckless and athletic youths, but out of the question for any one else. Yet I suppose that among the men who take up this attitude there are many who ride to hounds, and very few who, though they may not themselves hunt, would dream of attributing to men or even women who do so either undue recklessness or unusual acrobatic ability.

Though there may be a doubt as to whether making a jump of moderate length on skis or riding a horse over a fence is the more difficult feat, there can be none whatever as to which is the more dangerous. Ski-jumping, indeed, is so safe that perhaps it could hardly lay claim to the title of a great sport but for the fact that it is not only difficult, but also exceedingly, if unreasonably, alarming—at all events to the beginner. It seems strange that so many able-bodied English ski-runners never so much as give jumping a trial, unless they have an altogether wrong idea of its danger.

I spoke just now of the ignorance which made many bad runners condemn a better style of ski-ing than their own. It is not easy, at first sight, to see why this ignorance as to the comparative advantages of good and bad running should be so common as it is, for at most of the Swiss winter places there are among the natives some really good performers. The English, however, get few opportunities of watching the Swiss runners, except on the jumping hill, and seldom see them doing their best across country, for these men, unless they happen to be guides, do most of their ski-ing with their own countrymen, the members of their own local ski-club.

Moreover, a good ski-runner is not seen at his best when acting as a guide, for he has to go slowly, and look after the weaker members of the party, and there is no element of competition to put him on his mettle.

Whatever may be the reason, the fact remains that the average British ski-runner has little or no idea of the superiority of good running to bad as regards safety, comfort, and speed—to say nothing of interest or beauty. He would probably be surprised and somewhat sceptical if told that by learning a good style of ski-ing he would find it possible to do the downhill portion of his tours in about half the time (or less), with half the fatigue, with just as few falls (if he wished to avoid them), and with far less chance of hurting himself when he did fall—for bad style means awkward falls; that he would thus get infinitely more pleasure, interest, and excitement out of his ski-ing, and that, moreover, by going in for jumping he would still further increase all these benefits without increasing his risks.

I hope that by means of this rather rambling discourse I may have managed, not only to show what, in my opinion, are the reasons for the low standard of English ski-ing, but at the same time to implant a conviction of sin in the conscience of the average English ski-runner.

The object of the rest of this book is to show him what, to my thinking, is the way of salvation, and to place the innocent novice in the path of virtue at the very outset.

EQUIPMENT

THE SKI

The Wood.—Skis are usually made of ash, which is, perhaps, on the whole, a more suitable wood than any other. Hickory is excellent, but is said to be more brittle than ash, and is also heavier. It is, however, but little heavier than the best ash, for in the latter wood lightness means bad quality. The wood must be well seasoned, and as free as possible from knots, especially near the bend and the binding, though small knots which do not extend through the whole thickness of the ski cannot do much harm.

The grain of the wood should be wide and well marked. The way it runs in the ski is most important; it should run parallel with the long axis of the ski throughout its length, above all at the front bend and the binding; for if the grain run out at these points, the ski will be very liable to break there. If anywhere else the grain runs out at all, see that it does so in such a way that the lines on the side of the ski run backwards and downwards ([Fig. 1], a), not forwards and downwards ([Fig. 1], b).

Fig. 1.

Cross-grain; in a it does not much matter, as it only occurs at some distance from the binding and points backwards; b is very bad.

If the lines of grain on the sole of the ski run across at all instead of parallel to the sides, the ski, when it gets rather worn, will not run straight. If, of a pair of skis, one runs to the right and one to the left, it does not much matter, for in that case the former can be put on the left foot and the latter on the right; they will then merely keep together and hold each other straight.

But if both skis run off to the same side there is nothing to be done, so look carefully at the grain of the sole when choosing them, to see that there is no chance of this ([Fig. 2]).

Fig. 2.

Cross-grain on running surface: a converging, not very serious; b parallel, very bad.

There is one more point to be noticed about the arrangement of the grain in the ski.

If you look at the heel end of the ski, you will generally see the grain disposed in vertical lines, as in [Fig. 3], b. The ski will not only be stronger and more springy, but will wear better and run faster if cut so that the grain lies horizontally ([Fig. 3], c).[1] [Fig. 3], a shows a disposition of the grain which is likely to weaken the ski and should be avoided.

Fig. 3.

a bad, b good, c still better.

The colour of a ski is a matter of taste. Dark colours have the disadvantage of causing the snow which collects on the top of the ski to melt more readily; it may then refreeze and accumulate, forming an unnecessary load of ice.

A dark colour also makes it more difficult to detect faults in the grain, and it is wiser for this reason to buy plain varnished skis, and colour them afterwards if you want them darker.

New skis should be given several coats of boiled linseed oil, each being allowed to sink in before the next is applied. When at last the wood will absorb no more, give it a coat of raw linseed oil; this dries hard, with a surface just rough enough for easy climbing, but slippery enough to make waxing unnecessary, except for the very stickiest snow. The more often skis are oiled, even when in use, the better.

Dimensions.—When you are standing with your arm stretched at full length above your head, the ski, placed upright, should be at least long enough for its tip to reach the roots of your fingers; it may well reach a few inches beyond the finger-ends.

Fig. 4.

The longer the ski the pleasanter you will find it for straight-running. On a long ski you keep your balance more easily, run more smoothly on rough ground, and keep a straight course with less trouble. A short ski is slightly easier for turning, but if you learn correct methods of turning, the difference is insignificant; and in any case, however much you may twist and turn, you are bound for the greater part of the time to be running straight, and you might as well do so as comfortably as possible.

The ski should be as narrow as possible, hardly more than 2¾ inches (7 centimetres) at the narrowest part—i.e. where the foot rests on it—even for the biggest man.

If it measures 2¾ inches in width at the narrowest part, it should be about 3¾ inches wide at the front bend, and just over 3 inches at the heel.

A narrow ski is in every way better than a wide one; the only object of increasing the width of a ski is to make its bearing surface on the snow proportionate to the weight of a heavier man, and so to prevent it from sinking more deeply and therefore running more slowly. But this should be done by increasing the length rather than the width.

The beginner usually imagines that the wider the ski the more easily he will be able to balance on it. This is a great mistake. A narrow ski is far steadier than a wide one for straight running; it is easier for turning, and infinitely more comfortable for moving across a steep slope of hard snow, the diminished leverage putting less strain on the ankles, as the diagram shows.[2]

Fig. 5.

The thickness of the ski is proportionate to its elasticity and the weight of the runner, being about 1¼ inches at the binding and ³⁄₈ inch at the front bend and the heel. A stiff ski runs rather less comfortably than a thinner and more flexible one, but it is safer to choose a ski of ample thickness near the binding, especially if it is to be used for jumping.

The turn up at the front of the ski should begin at about one-fifth of the distance from the tip to the heel end. It should be very gradual, for a sudden bend makes the ski run more slowly and far less smoothly. The under side of the tip need not be more than five inches above the ground.

There is a slight upward arch between the front bend and the heel. It should be no more than ¾ of an inch high at its highest point, below the heel of the boot, only just sufficient to prevent the ski when resting on soft snow from bending downwards in the middle under the weight of the runner. The height of this arch should therefore vary slightly according to the length and stiffness of the ski, and to the runner’s weight.

Of course any twist in the ski will prevent it from running true. A simple way of making sure that a ski is free from any such twist is as follows: draw a few lines across its sole, at right angles to a line down the middle of it, and, holding the ski so that a very much fore-shortened view of the sole is obtained, see if all these lines are parallel.

Nothing is more uncomfortable and difficult to run on than a ski which has become warped and has a downward bend in the middle. To prevent this happening and to preserve the upward arch, a pair of skis, when not in use, should be placed sole to sole and bound together at the front bend and the heel, with a block of wood about 1¾ inches thick put between them 8 inches or so behind the binding, just where the boot-heel rests on the ski.

Most skis are made with a groove running along the middle of the sole from the front bend to the heel. This groove greatly increases the ski’s steadiness in straight-running, and on no account should be omitted. A smooth-soled ski makes turning easier for the runner who has not learnt the right way to do it, but this slight advantage by no means compensates for the wobbliness in straight-running which it entails. If you want easy steering, choose extra-flexible skis, but not grooveless or extra-short ones.

Most of the ordinary foot-bindings are fixed to the ski by means of a hole bored from side to side through its thickest part. See that this hole is made almost entirely in the upper half of the ski’s thickness, well away from the sole. When lifted by a strap passed through this hole, the ski should point downwards at an angle of about 45 degrees.

In order that they shall be stronger in relation to their weight and less flexible, skis are sometimes made with a convex, instead of a flat upper-surface. The increased stiffness makes them less comfortable for ordinary running but safer for jumping. The convexity should always stop short of the beginning of the front bend.

[Fig. 6] shows that it depends on how this convexity is obtained as to whether and how it is an advantage or otherwise. Supposing the wood in each case to be of exactly the same quality, b will obviously be not only stiffer but heavier than a, c will be stiffer but no heavier, d will be equally stiff but lighter. It is evident, then, that one cannot say off-hand that the convex shape is either better or worse than the flat, but only that, weight for weight, the convex shape gives greater stiffness and strength, the flat gives more elasticity.

Fig. 6.

The Binding.—The question of the binding, by which the ski is fastened to the foot, is a very vexed one; I shall treat it as shortly as I can.

The binding should, if possible, fulfil the following conditions:—

(1) It should be light; (2) should be easily adjusted to fit the boot; (3) should admit of being quickly and easily fastened and unfastened; (4) should be difficult to break and easy to mend; (5) should allow fairly free vertical movement of the foot, but limit its lateral movement enough to make steering easy; (6) should be comfortable, and not likely to injure the runner in case of a fall.

There are innumerable forms of binding on the market, not one of which is absolutely satisfactory in every respect; the choice of a binding is largely a matter of taste. But, though it is not possible to say that any one binding is the best, it is possible to say that certain forms are more generally popular than others. The reader who is not a novice probably knows all there is to be said for and against the more common forms; while to give a long description of several kinds of bindings, setting forth their various good and bad points, would be more likely to confuse a novice than to help him to choose one that suited him. I shall therefore describe one binding only, the Huitfeldt, which is by far the most generally popular one, especially in Norway, and shall show how it answers to the above-mentioned requirements.

The Huitfeldt binding ([Fig. 7]) consists of an iron, leather-lined toe-piece which is passed through the hole in the ski and bent up at each side; a short strap passing over the toes and connecting the ends of the metal toe-piece; and a long strap which passes through the hole in the ski and round the heel of the boot.

Fig. 7.

Huitfeldt binding, with Ellefsen clamp X (left foot).

A third strap, which passes under the waist of the boot, prevents the heel-strap from slipping up the side of the foot, as it is sometimes inclined to do when the heel is much raised; and a fourth strap, crossing the foot behind the toe-strap, prevents the heel-strap from slipping under the boot sole at the side. The heel-strap, however, will often be found to keep in place perfectly without these two straps, or, at any rate, without the latter, and in that case there is no object in keeping them on the binding.

The ski is fastened on and taken off without buckling or unbuckling the straps when once they have been properly adjusted. In order to put on the ski, simply push the foot well home between the toe-irons, and then pull the heel-strap up over the boot-heel.

The toe-strap may be quite loose; the heel-strap must be so tight that it is only just possible to force it over the boot-heel.

The toe-irons must be hammered or bent (a heavy screw-wrench is useful for this) to fit the sole of the boot exactly, so that when the boot is pushed home between them the centre of the heel lies in the very middle of the ski. This means that for boots of an ordinary shape the inside toe-iron must be more nearly parallel to the side of the ski than the outside one, as in diagram; otherwise the boot-heel will rest on the inner side of the ski ([Fig. 8]).

If the toe-irons show any tendency to wobble, small wooden wedges may be driven between them and the side of the cavity in the ski, but by the sides of the toe-irons, not below them, or the ski may split.

The toe-irons should be so adjusted that when the boot is pushed right home the toe only projects a little way beyond the toe-strap (see [Fig. 7]). If the toe-strap crosses the foot too far back, it does not allow a free enough movement when the heel is raised, and in a fall forward may sprain the foot.

If the fastening fits properly there should be enough freedom to allow the knee just to touch the front of the ski.

Fig. 8.

A A right, B B wrong positions for toe-irons (left ski).

In order to prevent the heel-strap from slipping off the boot, the heel of the boot should be made to project at the back, both top and bottom of the projection being rounded to allow of the strap being easily pulled on and off (see [Fig. 9, p. 41]). This is a better and a simpler arrangement than the strap and buckle at the back of the heel with which ski-boots are often fitted.

The heel-strap should be bent first downwards and then backwards on each side of the ski, so that the side of it which is uppermost within the cavity of the ski becomes outermost round the foot. This arrangement increases the tension when the heel rises.

It is most important that the heel-strap should be very tight, for its tension not only limits the vertical movement of the foot, and so makes it possible to lift the heel of the ski, but also, by keeping the boot firmly jammed between the toe-irons, prevents nearly all lateral movement, and so makes steering easy.

The heel-strap consists of two parts; the back part should be fitted with a metal lever called “The Ellefsen Shortening Clamp” ([Fig. 7], x). Opening and closing this lever lengthens and shortens the heel-strap; the strap is buckled so that with the lever open it will just pass over the projection on the boot-heel; it can be thoroughly tightened up, when on, by the closing of the lever.

This lever should be so fitted on the heel-strap that it comes on the outside of the heel near the back.

The advantages of the Huitfeldt binding are as follows:—

It is very light. If fitted with the shortening lever it can be put on and taken off in a second or two. It is not easily broken, and is not difficult to mend. If properly fitted, it limits the movement of the foot enough to give ample steering power. It is quite comfortable, and is most unlikely to injure the foot even in the worst fall.

Its disadvantages are that great care is needed to adjust the toe-irons so as exactly to fit the boot, and keep it in the middle of the ski; and that the heel-strap is rather quickly worn at the points where it rubs against the edges of the toe-irons. This wearing, however, can be diminished by filing down the sharp edges of the toe-iron where they touch the strap, and by occasionally pulling the strap through the hole in the ski far enough to expose another part of it to the friction.

Another slight drawback lies in the fact that the heel-strap, where it projects on each side of the ski, diminishes the speed somewhat by brushing against the snow; but this is hardly worth mentioning.

On the whole, then, the Huitfeldt binding has more good points than bad ones, and is just as likely to suit the beginner permanently as any of the other bindings, if he is obliged to buy his skis at the outset.

If he is able to try two or three different bindings before making his choice, he no doubt will do so; but it is not likely that he will fully understand the pros and cons of any good binding until he has given it a longish trial, and has a fair practical knowledge of ski-running.

In any case, I strongly advise him not to worry too much on the subject of bindings. With all, except the very worst and least widely used bindings, it is possible to learn to ski well, provided they fit properly.

He should be careful to see that the middle of the heel rests naturally on the middle of the ski; that the foot has enough vertical freedom to allow the knee just to touch the ski in front, but not enough to allow it to touch without considerable tension; and that the lateral movement of the foot is very limited. If these conditions are fulfilled, the binding will be comfortable, safe, and will give ample steering power.

In the Huitfeldt binding and several others of the same type, the steering power and control of the ski is obtained by the tension between the heel-strap and toe-irons. There is another type in which this power is obtained by a false sole, generally made of driving-belting, which is fixed to the ski under the toe of the boot and is free at the heel end. This system gives greater, or even absolute lateral rigidity, and is therefore more likely to injure the foot.

The most widely used forms of this type of binding are the Ellefsen, a very good binding; the Black Forest or Balata binding, in which the false sole is fitted with a socket for the heel, a great favourite with shopkeepers who hire out skis, because, without adjustment, it will fit anyone somehow—generally badly; and the Lilienfeld binding, an Austrian invention, made almost completely of metal, and giving absolute lateral rigidity, but unsuitable for jumping and disliked by most good runners.[3] Absolute lateral rigidity is not only dangerous, but is quite unnecessary for a runner who has learnt, or who means to learn, correct methods. For in braking or steering, when properly done, the effect is produced by the distribution of the weight, and by vertical pressure on the ski rather than by forcibly twisting or pushing it sideways.

With any binding on the Huitfeldt principle it is necessary to wear a boot with a wide-welted sole which is double throughout its length, in order that it may not buckle at the waist of the foot under the strain of the heel-strap.

The part of the ski on which the foot rests should be covered by a thin plate of some such metal as brass or tin, which does not oxidise readily. This protects the ski if nailed boots are worn, and prevents snow from accumulating in an uncomfortable lump under the foot. If the boots have no nails, or if the binding has a false sole, a plate of celluloid or linoleum is sufficient.

The Stick.—The ski-runner carries either one or two sticks. He uses them to increase his pace on level ground, or when running down a gentle slope; to help him in walking uphill; to steady him when turning while standing on a slope; and possibly, on very rare occasions, to help to check his pace.

To use them while on the move, either as a help to the balance or for steering, is the mark of a bad runner.

The sticks (for two are more useful than one) should be light; cane or hazel is the usual wood. They should be long enough to reach two or three inches above the elbow, when resting on the snow.

At the top the stick is provided with a leather loop to support the hand while punting. At the other end it is shod with a metal spike, a few inches above which a movable disc, generally made of wicker, is attached to prevent the stick from sinking into the snow. Choose some disc attachment which does not involve the passing of a thong through a hole in the stick, for one of that sort wears out very soon.

CLOTHING

Boots.—In order to avoid frost-bite, to the risk of which the ski-runner is often exposed, the boots must be stout, flexible, waterproof, and exceedingly loose—large enough, in fact, to hold two pairs, at any rate, of the very thickest stockings without the least pressure, especially on the toes. Boots made on the Norwegian “Laupar” principle are particularly good only in the respect of giving the toes perfect freedom.

Fig. 9.

Boot showing rounded projection on heel; sole of uniform thickness from toe to beginning of heel; and metal plates (x) to prevent wear of toe-iron.

The heel must be very low, and, as explained above, it should be made to project at the back to prevent the heel-strap from slipping off, if the binding has one. For a binding of the Huitfeldt type the sole must be thick, not only at the ball of the foot, but at the waist; it should have a widish welt to prevent the toe-irons from pressing against the foot.[4]

Where the toe-irons touch the side of the sole, they are apt to wear a hollow, and the boot then works gradually forwards. This can be prevented by screwing thin plates of metal to the side of the sole at this point. To enable the toe-irons to hold the boot as steady as possible, it is better that the sides of the sole should be rather straight (though not parallel) than curved.

The boots should be greased or oiled often enough to keep them quite soft and flexible.

Some form of felt or canvas boot-cover is a great safeguard against frost-bite, which is a danger that can by no means be overrated.

Whether the boots shall be nailed or not is a matter of taste. Nails cut the skis and make the snow ball between them and the boots. Boots with no nails at all make climbing an icy path on foot rather troublesome. If no nails are worn, climbing irons can be carried to strap on to the boot for walking on icy places. Most people wear a few small nails, though many (myself included) wear none. A complete rubber sole (which grips on ice but picks up no snow) might work even better than the “Scafe” rubber studs; but I know these are good.

Stockings.—As I have said, two or three pairs of stockings should be worn. However waterproof the boot, it is impossible to keep the stockings perfectly dry owing to the condensation of water vapour from the foot which takes place on the inner surface of the boot. In severe cold this wet layer freezes, and should therefore be kept as far as possible from the foot. It is useless, however, to fill the boot with stockings to such an extent as to cause pressure on the foot and check the circulation, for this is even more likely to cause frost-bite than is insufficient covering.

Most ski-runners wear a pair of the thickest ordinary stockings, or socks, and over this a pair of goat’s-hair socks which are more than twice as thick. These goat’s-hair socks (or what are generally sold as such) wear badly, and a pair of socks of the same thickness, but made of wool, seem just as warm.

Spare socks should always be carried on long expeditions in case the pair next the feet should get wet through.

Gloves.—These are an important item. They should be of mitten-shape, with a bag for the fingers, and should have a gauntlet-shaped arm long enough to pull well over the sleeve. Like the boots, they must be roomy. Felt or wool is the usual material.

A canvas outer covering makes them less liable to get wet through, for the snow sticks to it less. It is always difficult, however, to keep them dry, and a spare pair is often as necessary as spare socks.

Cap.—Some kind of cap which can at least be pulled down over the ears, if not over the neck and chin, is indispensable. As an addition or substitute, an ample scarf or muffler is useful, especially, perhaps, for women.

No hat-brim protects the eyes sufficiently to be the least safeguard against snow-blindness. Dark glasses should always be carried, especially above the tree-line, and should be put on the instant that any discomfort is felt from the glare.

Outer Clothing.—This should be as nearly windproof as possible, and should have a smooth surface, for if it be hairy the snow will stick to it, and, when that melts, the clothes will become soaked. For this reason a sweater is not satisfactory as the outermost garment on a long expedition.

Any clothing which cannot be removed during a climb should be fairly light and not too hot, for climbing is often excessively hot work.

A moderately stout whipcord is perhaps as good a material as anything.

In order to keep out the snow the collar of a coat should be made to button close round the neck, and the sleeves round the wrists.

The pockets should have large flaps to button. Most English runners clothe themselves, as to the legs, in breeches and puttees, which are a very efficient means of keeping out the snow. Leather gaiters are useless.

Until recently most Norwegians used to wear rather close-fitting trousers which buttoned tightly round the ankles inside the boots, and a sort of very short puttee round the tops of the boots themselves. For warmth, comfort, and simplicity this system seems hard to beat.

All the foregoing remarks as to boots, stockings, gloves, caps, and material, of course, apply equally to women’s clothing.

Whether in addition to snowproof knickerbockers and puttees a woman shall wear a skirt is, of course, a matter of taste or strength of mind. In Germany and Austria most lady ski-runners dispense with it.

If a skirt is worn it is particularly important that both it and the knickerbockers shall be of very smooth texture, otherwise the snow which works up between them in a fall will not shake out again, but will accumulate in large quantities and soak the clothes in melting.

The shorter the skirt, the better as regards comfort. Even a skirt which only just covers the knees will touch the snow during manœuvres which involve a semi-kneeling position.

As to appearance, I can assure any one who is distressed at the apparent size of her feet and ankles when properly clad that a longish skirt makes them far more conspicuous than a very short one; a skirt long enough to hide them completely is, of course, out of the question. If the thick goat’s-hair or woollen oversock goes some way up the leg instead of stopping short just above the boot, and if the puttee is thin and smooth instead of being about half an inch thick and woolly, a less gloomy outlook on life will perhaps be induced.

Underclothing.—Climbing a hill on skis is generally very hot work, but one is often exposed to the most bitter cold on the top, especially when the sun is hidden, or when wind and sunshine come from the same quarter, and it is impossible to take shelter from the former without losing the latter. This makes it very difficult to regulate satisfactorily the thickness of one’s clothing. On the whole, it is perhaps better to wear fairly light underclothing, and to rely for warmth mainly on outer garments which can be carried, instead of worn, during the climb.

If light clothing is worn, two extra sweaters or cardigans may well be carried. In this case they must never be forgotten, but must be carried always, no matter what the weather may be, for it may change quickly without the least warning, and, in any case, there is often a bitter wind high up when the heat is almost tropical in the valley.

A windproof coat of thin oil-silk or of a kind of paper-cloth made by a Paris firm, is a very good substitute for a spare sweater. It is warmer, lighter, and takes up hardly any space.

The following things are very useful, some of them indispensable on a long expedition. They can mostly be bought ready made, and I shall not attempt a description where their application is obvious.

Wax, either in a block or a collapsible tube, which is used to prevent wet snow from sticking to the ski. It is smeared on the ski and rubbed in with a rag. It is better, if possible, to do this before starting out; or, at any rate, to dry the ski first.

A good knife.

Some blunt instrument for scraping ice off the ski without injuring the wood.

A metal ski-tip to fit on the ski, if the point is broken off and lost. A few tools for mending a broken ski—gimlet, screw-driver, and punch (unless the knife is fitted with these); perhaps also a hammer, saw, and file. Small cases of tools with a common handle can be bought.

One or two small steel plates and pieces of sheet brass or zinc with holes bored in them, and a few screws to fit them; or a clamp[5] consisting of two metal plates connected by two bolts with wing-nuts.

[Fig. 10] shows how these may be used to mend a broken ski.

Fig. 10.

Ski mended with (a) metal plates, (b) clamp.

Spare parts of the binding itself may be carried in case it breaks, and a thong of raw hide about two yards long, with a loop at one end, is often useful.

This thong, when used as a substitute for the Huitfeldt heel-strap, constitutes what is known as the Lapp binding. This is a most firm and comfortable binding, especially for jumping, but since it cannot be adjusted quickly nor with gloved hands, is unsuitable for occasions which involve frequent taking off and putting on of the skis, or exposure to extreme cold.

[Fig. 11] explains the arrangement of the thong.

Fig. 11.

When arranged as above so that it passes twice round the heel of the boot, the thong is hauled perfectly taut and made fast.

This can be done in slightly different ways; I find the following a satisfactory one. Arrange the thong so that, when it is pulled tight, the points a b are about an inch in front of the heel of the boot, the loop a being on the outside of the foot. Then pass the free end under the waist of the foot, up across the thongs on the inner side, over the instep, and back to a, finishing with a half-hitch round both parts of the thong at a. If this half-hitch is made with the end of the thong pushed through it in a bight, it can be pulled undone like a bow, which is an advantage when the thong is frozen hard.

A few yards of strong cord, some string, and some brass wire are often useful.

A ski may be prevented from slipping backwards in hill-climbing by tying one end of a piece of cord to its tip, passing a few half hitches round it at intervals, hauling all taut, and tying the other end of the cord to the binding. This, however, makes it necessary to lift the ski forward at each step instead of sliding it.

The only satisfactory preventive of back-slip is a strip of sealskin fastened underneath the ski; this also prevents wet snow from sticking to the ski, as it sometimes does in masses almost too heavy to lift. To prevent back-slip a strip half the length of the ski is sufficient; for sticky snow, however, it is of course better for the ski to be quite covered. Which of the many forms of detachable sealskin in the market work the best I am not competent to say, having so far managed to do without it. There is no doubt that sealskin is a great labour saver. With its help it is possible to climb so much more quickly than without, that for long mountain tours it is almost indispensable. Moreover, when it is used for the climb, the soles of the skis can be kept polished or varnished to a degree of slipperiness that prevents even the worst of sticky snow from being much hindrance during the run down.

The rucksack, in which these things, spare clothing, food, &c., are carried, should be very large, snowproof and strong, but not heavy. Its straps should be wide at the shoulder and long.

About food, or the special equipment necessary for mountaineering, or any other special application of ski-running, I shall not attempt to speak, this book being only concerned with what is absolutely necessary to the ski-runner quâ ski-runner.

Those who wish for further information will find it in a vast number of books on mountaineering proper, in Rickmers’ “Ski-ing for Beginners and Mountaineers,” Richardson’s “The Ski-Runner,” Arnold Lunn’s Alpine Ski Club Guide-books, and in many books in other languages on ski-running and kindred subjects; for instance, “Der Ski-lauf,” by Paulcke (of which a French translation, “Manuel de Ski,” is published), and Bilgeri’s “Alpine Ski-lauf.”

THE MANAGEMENT OF THE SKIS

ON THE LEVEL AND UPHILL

Putting on Skis.—Lay the skis side by side on the snow.

In order to put on the right ski, place the left foot on it just behind the binding as in [Fig. 12], the toe of the boot being on the left side of the ski and the heel on the right. Your weight then holds the ski steady while you push the right foot well home and fasten the binding. Now lift the right foot and ski, stand them on the left ski in a similar way, and fasten that to the foot.

Fig. 12.

On a hill-side lay the skis across the slope; stand below them, and put on the lower ski first, bringing the foot to it across the front of the other leg.

On the Level.—The ski-runner moves on the level with an action much like that of ordinary walking, except that he does not lift his skis from the snow, but slides them along it.

Hold your skis exactly parallel and as close together as possible—not more than two inches apart—and take a long, easy, lunging step, keeping the knee of the advancing leg well over the foot, and leaning the body well forwards ([Plate I.]).

Move the stick, or sticks, in time with the opposite leg, giving a push at each, or at every alternate stride, according as you carry two sticks or one.

Slide as far as you can after the advanced foot has received the weight, and don’t be in a hurry to bring forward the other one.

The body must be swayed slightly from side to side with each step in order to balance it well over the ski which carries the weight.

If you wish to get up the greatest possible speed on the level with two sticks, take three running—not sliding—steps, swinging the sticks forwards with the first two, and, at the third, giving a push with both sticks, followed by a long slide.

Then do the same again, starting with the other foot.

Uphill.—If the gradient is very slight, you can slide straight uphill in just the same way as on the level.

At a rather steeper gradient (the angle depending on the slipperiness of the snow and the skis) you will still be able to move in the same way, but without the extra forward slide after the weight has come on to the advanced ski.

If the slope becomes still steeper you will find that the friction is hardly enough to make the skis hold. The moment you feel they have a tendency to slip backwards as the weight comes on them, walk as upright as possible, even leaning slightly backwards, so as to bring the weight on the heels and throw a little tension on the toe-strap. Shorten your stride, and, instead of sliding the skis along the snow, lift their points six inches or so into the air as you move them forwards (but do not let their heel ends leave the snow), and bring them down again in front of you with a gentle but decided stamp.

In making this stamping movement, take care, as you bring the foot to the ground, to stamp it in a direction exactly at right angles to the surface of the slope. The least suspicion of pawing backwards, or lunging forwards, as the ski touches the snow is sure to make it slip.

By moving steadily and carefully in this way it is possible to walk up an appreciably steeper gradient than the one at which the skis first show a tendency to slip back. But it is no use attempting to struggle or hurry; no amount of effort will help you, and if you cannot do it easily you cannot do it at all.

If the gradient becomes any steeper than this—and except in the worst conditions of sticky snow, the slope will still be quite gentle, the skis will slip backwards in spite of all your care. At the first sudden and unexpected back-slip instinct will prompt you to throw yourself forward, strike out with the back foot, and make a sort of pawing movement with the advanced one. If you do this, your skis will slip from under you and you will fall on your nose. Do nothing of the sort, therefore, but the moment the ski slips lean right backwards, with a free swing of the body, at the same time lifting the slipping ski quickly round behind the heel of, and to right angles with, the other ski, to stop you ([Plate II.]). To proceed as before being now impossible, you have the choice of three different methods: zigzagging, herring-boning, and side-stepping.

Zigzagging.—Turn more or less sideways to the hill and then move forwards at a gradient just easy enough to prevent back-slipping. The skis are held as close together as possible, and moved just as before; but now, instead of being “flat” to the surface of the snow, they are “edged” (cutting more deeply into it with the edges which are nearest the hill) and one ski is more or less above the other, according to the steepness of the slope.

If the surface is very hard and icy, and the skis cut in very little, less than half their width may rest on the snow. In order to lessen the muscular effort then needed to hold the ankles vertical (see [p. 28]) press both knees, especially the lower one, well over towards the hill.

Hold the sticks in each hand, and use them just as before, no matter how steep the slope. If the slope be very steep, the stick on the uphill side can be held shorter, but the two sticks should never (except on a dangerous slope) be put together and held across the body with both hands, as a climber holds his ice-axe. To do so will only get you into a bad habit of leaning towards the hill and supporting yourself with the stick, and will prevent you from balancing yourself properly and walking freely.

If only one stick be used, it should be carried in the hand which is nearest the hill.

If a steep slope is so hard and slippery that nothing will make the edges of the skis grip, hold the point of each stick close against the downhill side of each foot, move the sticks exactly in unison with the feet, and dig their points hard into the crust at each step. This gives a perfectly firm support for the skis and answers the purpose of climbing-irons. It is, however, very seldom necessary.

Having found the steepest gradient which you can negotiate without back-slipping, so adjust your course across the hill that this gradient remains constant. That is to say, if you come to a spot which is steeper—no matter how slightly, or for how short a distance—don’t dream of trying to move on to it without altering your course; but instantly turn more sideways to the hill, so that although the direction of your course is altered its gradient remains the same as before. By this means only will you avoid falling on your nose, or, at any rate, struggling and slipping uselessly.

Nothing is more common than to see a beginner making frantic efforts to cross a short bit of steeper ground without altering his course. He could attempt nothing more hopeless.

It is amazing how many exhausting struggles and falls are usually needed to impress on a learner the fact that it is utterly impossible for him to advance even one single step on steeper ground—however slight the difference in gradient may be—without altering his course.