CHAPTER VI
CORRECTIVE METHOD
Mountain craft has for its object to get us up and down mountains without mistakes. All our training aims at reducing continually the limits within which our mistakes might occur. But human beings are fallible, and mountains are perverse. Mistakes will still be made; and it is our business to learn how to remedy them, as well as how to avoid them. Our corrective technique must seek to prevent mistakes developing into disasters; and, a further step, guide us to a right conduct when the disaster can no longer be prevented.
Climbing accidents have a theatrical appeal, because of their dramatic circumstance, and the world at large has an exaggerated notion of their frequency. Compared with other active sports, in which the element of danger is tacitly accepted as part of the fascination, climbing has a singularly clear record. Aviation, hunting, sailing, football--their toll of fatal accidents is accepted almost without comment. Only in mountaineering does the sudden and spectacular suggestion of annihilation make the isolated accident flare like innumerable stars in the imaginative public eye. And yet of British mountaineers not one per cent are killed climbing.
HUMAN FALLIBILITY
Although fatal accidents are extremely rare, falls, slips and missteps are common,--as common, and as a rule no more harmful than falls out hunting or skating. There are falls from over-confidence, falls from inexperience, and falls from pure accident in all active sports. It lies with the experience and skill of the party to prevent such a climbing fall being anything more than an interruption. It were better avoided altogether: but climbers are not all perfect at their start, and mountains may be perverse; and it is only sensible to recognize that mistakes must occur in spite of all precaution, and to study how to deal with their effects.
A safe mountaineer climbs without stumble, but he is also always alert to check some one else’s incipient slip. The management of the rope has prevention of accident as its first object. But correction of the consequences is its second.
[Sidenote: Giving Warning.]
When men are moving singly, up or down steep rock, a fall that can injure should be impossible for anyone but the leader or last man. If the ordinary precautions are observed, a slip of a few inches is the most that can result. But although we may count upon each other’s alertness, we must give the rope, and ourselves, every chance. If we feel a hold giving or muscles failing, we must give warning at once, and then hang on for just the extra second--nearly always possible--which will allow our friend above to brace every muscle to meet the direct pull, or to intrude his utmost ‘spring’ between the rope and the belay. There exists a superstition that to fall silently is to fall courageously. The man above is sure to hold--“that’s his business”; whereas our own concern, in such extremity, lies only with our own dignity. But even in falling we remain a member of the party, and we have no right to indulge a personal gratification. And so a quick ‘Look out!’ and the fraction of a second’s hang-on, which are enough to secure the concentration not only of the anchor-man but of all the rope, must be counted as our bounden duty.
The same obligation holds good in the case of a party all moving together along a ridge, or up or down an easy climb. If one man feels his foothold or his balance going, he has always the instant’s time to shout a warning before his weight can come on the rope. The man behind, if there is one, will have had his eyes on him and will be ready; it is the man in front, with his back turned, whom he has to consider. This front man will, if he is climbing soundly, have been all along taking holds with his margin of resistance in mind. He will also have been noting, if not using in rapid passage, all the points for a possible anchor of the rope. The instant’s warning will enable him to brace as he stands, without looking round, or to fling the rope round a point to support himself before the jerk comes. In such climbing the rope is never quite taut between climbers, and there will be the run-out of the length of rope slackened by the man falling to add to the interval of time which his shout should have given for preparation.
The last man on the rope, when all are moving together in ascent or descent, has a special obligation to give this timely warning, since no one has him in view. The instant he hears the warning or the scrape on the rock, every man braces his muscles, and, if possible, anchors his rope. A practised ear distinguishes at once between the ordinary clean scrape of a climbing boot and the scuffled scrape of a slip, or the snap of a breaking handhold. On a thoroughly united rope it sometimes seems as if a premonition of the imminent slip must have reached a good climber in front, even before the sound, some consciousness of an interruption in the current of sympathetic action, so sure has been the anticipation and swift the check. But a man who has himself passed a passage has already a half-realized idea of the sort of trap it may present, even if he himself evades it, and his quickened senses are the sooner prepared for the nerve-thrill that precedes the actual warning by as much as thought can out-distance sound.
[Sidenote: Easing the Check.]
If a climber has had no warning, or for other reasons cannot at once brace into a secure position, he should let the rope slip through his hand until he has had time to adjust his balance. This is one of the occasions when gloves are a help. The first touch will tell him if he can hold fast at once or must let the rope slip for the moment. Very few falls on places where a party is able to move together are absolutely clear, or come with the full jerk of the whole weight at the start. This is especially the case on snow, where friction also checks the pace. I have had on several occasions the man above or below me in a steep snow or ice couloir fall out of a breaking step while we were all descending together. On an occasion when the man below me slipped, my first effort to check the rope told me that I was not firm enough. A second or two were needed to allow myself and the man roped to me above to get ‘planted.’ I partially checked the rope three times, and had to let it go again at cost of hand and glove, before I felt the rope from the man above tighten on my waist, and so knew that we were ready to take the full jerk together, from our combined stances. The intermediate checks had broken the impetus sufficiently to make the final arrest easy. On another occasion in a steep couloir, when I was descending first, the man above me slipped, and the last man on the rope, then in mid-stride, was unable alone to check the slide at once. He therefore let the rope rush through his hand until the sliding man had spun down past me. Then, of course, my rope to him also came into
## action, and, dividing the shock between us, we easily stopped the fall.
On rock, as a rule, such gradual checks are impossible. Fortunately upon rock, in proportion as the need for an immediate check is the more imperative, firm stances, with sound rock hand and foot holds and complementary anchors round rock points, are more present and instantly serviceable.
[Sidenote: Checking on Traverses.]
The middle men on traverses are adequately protected, and need only be checked in the usual manner. But if a leader or last man falls, before or behind us, on a long traverse, it is not sufficient merely to hold firmly or to hold the belay. If we remain stoutly inactive, he will have enough rope out to fall far enough for injury before the rope can tighten, and far enough to risk a snap in the rope when the full jerk comes. The rope must be snatched in as he falls, round the belay or loose in the hands. If the fall is from our own level, or from only diagonally above us, we can tighten the rope at once, and this serves to give a sideways tug to the man falling, which lessens the force of the final jerk as he swings in below us. During a fall of fifty feet from a traverse on our level, there may be time to race in a fifth of the length before the jerk comes. On such traverses, except in a party of two, there will be usually some one else on our own level, or near it, who will share the shock with us by tightening his rope on our waist. If the third man is near enough to help in actually holding the loose rope, or in belaying it as it comes in, so much the better. We are the freer ourselves to rush in as much of the flying slack as time allows us. If he is not near enough to help, we must be prepared, as we cannot pull in and secure the rope at the same time, to let the rope tear out again when the jerk comes, tightening and relaxing it through our hands until we are certain that our balance has survived the shock. The action of the party of two in like circumstance is considered later.
After the ‘fall’ of a man from above or on our level, or after the few inches of downward movement, more properly termed a ‘decline,’ which are all that a well-managed rope will permit to a man below us, it is better to lower the man down to a good stance, rather than yield to a universal inclination and attempt to haul him up over the ground he has lost before he has recovered wind and nerve. It means less effort for both.
[Sidenote: The Case of the End Men.]
A leader, or a last man down, does not fall. It is the first condition of his hegemony that he must not. His fall from any height must mean injury to himself, and may involve the whole party. In insular climbing, where distances to hotels and rescue are small and easy descents usually available, a man may, if he desires it, and his second man allows it, take the chance of falling and hurting himself, provided that his party is safely anchored. His injury then only involves certain hours of delay and dangerous exposure for himself, and such anxiety and fatigue to his friends as they may suffer in finding help and in rescuing him. But in the Alps, to fall as a leader is to fail lamentably and egregiously as a mountaineer. To fall, get injured and survive in the Alps is more actually dangerous to the rest of the party than to get killed. Its members must separate. One at least must risk exposure and other objective dangers and stay with the injured man. One, or two, if happily there are four in the party, must face the peril of descent alone, probably late in the day, certainly shaken by the accident, to seek help. The risks and difficulties of mountaineering are increased tenfold for a lonely man, or for a party returning thus shorthanded and unbalanced. More than once the partial incapacitation of one climber has resulted in the death of one of the friends who went to get help for him.
In big mountains we may not take chances, not even the youngest of us. Rock climbers who have learned how to take their risks only for themselves on our own hills, with open eyes and in no rash spirit, and think to take them also only for themselves when they go to the Alps, are all too commonly blind to their very different conditions and the far graver collective effects of an individual blunder. An injured man in the Alps means a crippled party. Those uninjured are handicapped in time, combination and nerve to meet the consequent race with darkness or the chances of night, and frost, and crevasse, and avalanche; but they are forced to take these risks in double measure, at double pace, and with reduced strength, disregarding most of the usual precautions on their own account, if they are to give their injured companion a chance of timely rescue.
[Sidenote: The Measure of Courage.]
A leader or a last man in the Alps absolutely must not fall. We may accept the fact that daring leaders will take risks, and that accidents can happen, provided every leader is aware of the distinction between the risks which no man may allow himself to take for his party even with their consent, and the risks which he may take for himself alone, but which his friends will be ill-advised if they allow him to incur.
We cannot but be grateful for the spirit, though it is but human to criticize the action, of men who find joy in a contest with forces greater than themselves. Too often the profitable by-products of successful courage are alone admitted as justifications for the spirit in which adventure is undertaken. Deaths above the clouds or under the water are taken as heroic incidents, excusable in the interests of human progress. Deaths upon rock or under snow, inspired by the like and often by an even more disinterested spirit of adventure, are condemned as folly. Mountaineering must be judged by a spiritual, not a utilitarian, standard. Courage, moral and physical, that has its source in vigorous vitality and its goal in the extension of human freedom, finds on the hills its hardiest school. It is a very wholesome emulation that leads men, as their skill and power increase, to measure them against ever-increasing natural difficulties. Our competition with the mountains injures no other human competitor by our success. Our conquest of them ends only in the conquest of ourselves. During these last years by none has the sacrifice been made more willingly than by our younger climbers. Their courage was that of the races from which they sprang: to mountaineering they owed its discovery and its training. We may not reproach it to the hills if the self-reliance they teach leads, here or there, some high heart into danger, before their harder lesson, of experience, has been learned.
And having said this, I must repeat that a leader in the Alps or big ranges, before he takes a chance, must make certain that the risk will be confined to himself, supposing such certainty can ever be attained. When he has made as certain of this as he can--he must not fall!
[Sidenote: The Second Man’s Action.]
But still, miscalculation is possible and accidents may occur. A hold may have broken, and an end man, leading or last, has fallen. In the case of a fall, the second man’s duty is to the party, and only in so far as the greater includes the less, to the leader. The leader has endangered the safety of the whole rope, which lay in his hands, by risking a fall; the duty devolves upon the second man to counteract the further consequences and to take up the leader’s duty to the collective security of the rope. No leader who deserves the position will have fallen on any but difficult rock, where the party are moving singly and where they are properly secured. His second man will therefore have him either well belayed, or be in a position calculated to meet the chance of his fall. On steep upward or downward climbing he will rarely be able to pull in much of the rope as it rushes past. If he is alone on the stance, he cannot take the chance, as a man often can on a traverse where he is well backed up, of doing anything that will risk the final jerk catching him unprepared. If he, too, falls, it is seldom that others of the party can arrest the twofold fall. His corrective action is practically confined to doing all he can to spring the rope, with arm, hand or body, so as to lessen the chance of its snapping.
It is one of the more serious attractions of climbing two alone, that the two men can divide all responsibility equally, and take their chances happily together, without one of them ever being placed in the painful position of choosing between two duties. In a party of two the second’s duty is only to his leader. He shares in the decision to try or not to try. If the attempt fails, and the leader falls, he holds him or he falls with him. He can give himself wholeheartedly to his first natural impulse, which is to associate himself entirely with the man in danger. If it is the best chance for both, he will hold the belay, and let the rope take its chance. But he is free to take a greater risk for himself by attempting to rush in the rope or by hazarding more of his direct intervention between the leader and the belay, if he thinks that by so doing he can lessen the even greater danger to his leader of the rope breaking. The decision, like all a second man’s decisions about his duties, is difficult, and must be made like lightning; but in a party of two it is at least not complicated by any hurried alteration in the order of his duties, such as follows upon the fall of a leader in a larger party. His first duty, in that case, is to the rest of the party; the duty to the leader descending, with him, into second place.
[Sidenote: After a Fall.]
If a leader has once fallen, even if he is not physically injured, he must be treated, for the time at least, as no longer in control. The second, in consultation with the rest of the party, must decide whether advance is still possible. No man’s judgment, nerve or temper can be entirely unaffected by a fall, and even if the nerves appear unshaken at the moment, a reaction follows later. Our object must be to postpone this inevitable nervous reaction, both for the man and for the party. If the leader is uninjured, action is the best restorative; and I believe the wiser course often is to encourage him to resume the lead, and so force himself to concentrate all his faculties upon his immediate task, and on that alone. It requires some confidence to do this; but if we know our leader, and have been justified in allowing him to try the passage at all, it is best for him and best for us to let him feel that our confidence is not diminished, and that he has still a first duty, to bring his party through the difficulty. The reaction will thus be postponed, at least as long as the necessity for serious action continues, and may be put off altogether.
If the leader is really nervously shaken, he will know it at once himself. He must then be rested, and the second takes over the lead. But the preservation of the _morale_ and good spirits of the party, including the leader, must be the first consideration. There should be no hint of criticism, even of words or tone, in any rearrangement which is decided upon. The affair should be treated at the time lightly, as an incident. If the leader has blundered through inexperience or a real defect of judgment, or if the second has grounds to think that he is off his day or has been taking unjustifiable risks without consultation, reasons which would make it unwise to trust him for the rest of a severe climb, it should be quietly assumed that he does not wish to continue leading. Any moralizing or implied reproof will only hinder the recovery of equanimity in the case of an old hand; and in the case of a less experienced man, or of one leading on his trial, criticism is better left for some more leisurely occasion.
One coincident effect even of a slight accident may perhaps be mentioned. A number of strong men, climbers among them, turn faint at the sight of blood, especially, seemingly, in times of nervous strain. They are often unaware of the tendency until the occasion arises. Even if they foresee, they cannot overcome the attack; but they can give warning. It has twice happened to me to see mountaineers of physique and nerve faint in their steps, once on ice, once on snow, when a guide had cut his hand in front. On the one occasion we had two minutes’ warning, on the other none.
[Sidenote: Accidents.]
If a climber is injured by his fall, more severely than will allow of his climbing unaided, surgical ministrations are the first necessity; with these I am not dealing here.
The subsequent action must depend on the place and people. If it is possible for the party to convey him at least as far as some sheltered place where help can easily reach him, this should be done at any risk. The chief danger is collapse following on the shock, and his period of cold and exposure must be shortened even at the hazard of increasing the local injuries by moving him.
On rock, if the party consists of four men, and one is strong, the injured man should be slung on to his back by slings fixed round his shoulders and thighs, and the rest of the party must assist the loaded man with rope and hand. On easy rock men can act as the bearer’s crutches, to take part of the weight. On steep rock where carrying is practically impossible, especially if there are only two or three to bring him down, he can be lowered over difficult places, suspended in the triple-bowline chair or tied firmly and rigidly to the rope, according as the injuries permit. If possible, two men should lower, using ropes from different angles above, and one should guide from below. If he is unconscious, his head should be supported by an extra sling to the rope, with a coat as a cushion round which the extra sling is passed. A broken leg should be bound with putties between ice-axes, or to one ice-axe and then to the other leg. A broken arm should be strapped with a puttie across the body.
On steep snow or ice, where carrying is impracticable, it is best for one man to convert himself into a sledge, to lie on the snow, take the injured man in his arms, and let himself be lowered on the rope, in steady stages, down the slope.
As soon as the lower slopes are reached, one man should go off for assistance (two, if possible, when glaciers are in question); and meanwhile a stretcher can be made of cross-linked rope, or of boughs or axes combined with rope. It is well to remember that carrying a stretcher over rough ground is exhausting work, and not to spare men in the rescue party. With a heavy man rapid shifts are necessary, and twelve men have been found barely sufficient to bring down a heavy man with a broken leg, in the dark, over some hours of broken ground. If the ground is too steep for a stretcher, and too broken for lowering on a slide, it is best to use a blanket or a web of rope; upon this the man can be lowered sideways, stage by stage, the men on the under side holding up their edge so as to keep the lie level. If the ground allows of the stretcher being carried freely, but is still inclined, one or, better, two men should act as a brake behind, pulling back on a rope attached to the stretcher. During the descent, one man familiar with the ground should be sent ahead to select the easiest line. A carriage or car should be brought to the nearest point of the road or track. The surgeon should have been already sent for by any available car or horse.
If it is impracticable to get the man down until the rescue party arrives, by reason of the difficulty of the climbing or the weakness of the party, one man at least must stay with him, and the other, or more happily two others, must make all speed consistent with caution to get assistance. An injured man must never be left alone. If the descent is severe, the two most capable should descend; and they must remember that even more depends upon their getting down safely than upon their getting down quickly, and resist the insidious recklessness and ‘it-can’t-be-worse’ spirit that affect the nerves of all men at such times.
A code of signals, of shouts and lights, should be arranged, if not already known. This is most important, and often forgotten. It is wonderfully cheering to hear the human voice. Nothing serves better to sustain the spirits and keep off dangerous lethargy or collapse than the shouts which let the waiting men know that their friends are safely down, and help assured, or which hearten them on the return long before the rescue party can reach them.
With the same object, if the rescue party cannot start at once, lights should be flashed at night from some point in the valley visible to the waiting men. A single match is visible for miles.
The simplest code of call for help is six shouts or flashes in the minute, followed by an interval of a minute’s silence. The reply, signifying the call is heard and understood, is three shouts or flashes in the minute, with a minute’s pause. But men do well to arrange, and write down, a fuller code of communication before they divide on such occasions.
Rescue parties, of guides or local people, are often slow in getting under way. If they find they cannot get a sufficiently strong party together at once, the friends or, if possible, some good substitutes, should form an express advance party, taking the few first necessaries and making the best pace they can. Of even more effect than their physical restoratives will be the moral reassurance they bring that the real rescue party is under way. Waiting and uncertainty materially lower the nervous resistance to injury or exposure. The men most concerned should not leave the dispatch and direction of the main rescue party to the professionals or the local people alone, who will always claim it as their business and, more from ignorance than lack of sympathy, often treat it as a function to be lingered over and discussed in all its details. Not infrequently in the Alps the first men to volunteer will be the idle and unemployed, and therefore the least competent. The officious local man, who may be only concerned to see his name in print and get credit and shillings, is particularly to be guarded against. Unless some first-rate men can be at once secured, or another amateur be found to take charge, one of the original party must stay behind to take command himself, and send his friend, with the best auxiliaries available, to conduct the first party of reassurance.
It seems advisable to mention these details, as the natural inclination of men who have been shaken by an accident and by anxiety is to yield to well-meant pressure and leave the ‘speeding up’ of the often dilatory rescue column to the local hotel-keeper or the first discoverable guide; only concerned themselves, if they are fit, to hasten back with reassurance to their waiting friends. But, of the two, the first is the more urgent duty.
In the event of death and not injury swift action is of less importance. The mountaineer’s difficult task is then to get the rest of his crippled party down safely. Peasants of all lands, accustomed to the accidents of life and death, are insensitive to anything but their familiar realism. Their help may be counted upon, but they cannot be expected to show a very understanding sympathy. No later operation should therefore be left to their charge without the supervision of one of the party, or of a friend. The Press may be expected to become for the time an extra burden; its curiosity is better eluded by carefully worded anticipation than left to its own sensational inventiveness. Violent death is savage in its reactions; and manners and taste, which survive only as a thin glaze upon our semi-civilized communities, evaporate at its first rumour.
Although I have thought it right not to exclude entirely some suggestion as to dealing with cases of serious or fatal accident, forty-eight out of fifty mountaineers may, and do, finish their career without ever being actively concerned in one.
MOUNTAIN PERVERSITY
Besides the accidents which are produced by the classes of things which at times go away from us, such as holds, balance, or our common sense, there are other less evitable mishaps produced by the classes of things which at times come at us--stone falls, snow slides, or storms. Mountaineers are too sophisticated any longer to accept a naive statement, that our mishap has been due to one of these causes, as a complete exoneration.
[Sidenote: Falling Stones.]
Stones, indeed, form the most convincing excuse. Good mountaineers may use all their discretion to avoid lines where stones fall, but the casual stone, or the stone loosened by human agency, may yet overtake them.
A man hit by a stone falling from a height, even if he laughs it off, has nearly always received a greater shock than he realizes. His nerves will be vibrating for a time like strings, and we must be on the look out, especially if we are in exposed places, until we are certain that he is normal again. I have known a man grow faint ten minutes after a stone had struck him and left no apparent mark; and I have seen a guide slip half dazed from his steps a full minute after he had been hit by a spinning stone not the size of a button, which did not even cut through his hat.
But even the peril of irresponsible stone falls can be caged within narrower limits as our experience and our foresight increase. It is itself a small department of our science of reconnoitring to learn how to calculate their probability and recognize their signs. Couloirs and gullies are obvious funnels upon which wandering stones concentrate. In a snow or ice-backed couloir we must study the difference between the ominous furrows made by stones or those made by water. In a rock gully we have to look out not only for stones that may use it as a channel, but for all that its weathering walls may contribute on their own account, or that the changes of temperature, or even the disturbance of our own passage, may dislodge from the balanced accumulations. The surest signs are the absence or presence of stones on the glacier below a couloir, or the grey scars or bruises made by the cannonading stones on the rocks themselves. But these may only indicate stone fall at certain hours of the day. Big grooves in steep precipices and hollows between ribs, where stones may congregate, or featureless flat faces, where they may wander unconfined at their own wild will, are alike suspicious, and the bases of their cliffs must be inspected. Rock faces, corrugated with very shallow ribs and hollows, are particularly dangerous, as falling stones may ricochet unaccountably across the ribs,--stones harder to foresee and to dodge than direct falls. The edges of glaciers commanded by steep precipices are certain to be stone-shelled. Precipices commanded by glaciers--that is, by the small glaciers hanging high up on great peaks, which are often difficult to locate from below--have also their fixed hours; as soon as the ice feels the sun it begins to discharge its surface stones, and continues until the evening.
But without our own examination we need not condemn any face on general grounds or from hearsay. A number of fine mountain walls in the Alps have been unjustly condemned in their entirety for merely local weaknesses. Others offer salient ribs or lines sheltered by accidents of structure through the heart of suspected zones. Only inspection can say. We may presume steep faces to be more safe than those of easier inclination, because the rock should be sounder, and because chance stones ought to fall outside us if they do fall.
If we have been unfortunate in our reconnoitring, or if we have deliberately tempted fortune too far upon a suspected route, we may on occasion have to put our pride and our progress in our pocket and be content to sit out under a grateful rock screen until evening or shadow has chilled the vehemence of the stone barrage. It is better to risk a night out than persist in tackling a bad line at a bad time. An overhanging rock is a sure refuge. But we are also advised, if ever we see that sunlight is increasing the hostile fire upon some passage that we have to negotiate, to wait until a cloud has frozen up the ammunition sources. As I have never yet lighted upon a stagnant party while they were spending some portion of a climbing day in a pensive examination of the sky for this purpose, I must conclude either that clouds are as perverse as stone falls in the ill-timing of their arrival, or that men are as perverse as both in their pigheaded prosecution of a fair-weather programme.
Besides their customary routes, which we avoid by experience or as the result of examination, there are occasions both of place and time when stones fall unaccountably. Stones of large mass will fall at night; the melted snow freezes into the cracks, levers the stones from their attachment, and their weight does the rest. Stones, of smaller size but in larger profusion, will fall in the morning, as the sun again melts the ice in the cracks, which has already detached these lighter stones but kept them for the night frozen in position. During these morning hours, therefore, stones must be looked for on rock faces where they need not be expected during the rest of the day.
During all the hours of hot sunlight, slopes of mixed rock and snow, even of easy angle and harmless aspect, may become operative. Rock extruding from ice is generally more disintegrated, and much of its freshly exposed surface, temporarily cemented by frost, is liable to discharge in sunshine. Any slope of ascent which drains a wide stone-shed of such mixed character must be approached with caution.
Again in hot seasons, after snowless winters, whole regions of rock, gradually disintegrated under their normal covering of ice or snow, become exposed; and in such seasons stones must be looked for on the most respectable peaks. Impeccable cliffs, of traditional mountaineering approach, will be cinctured at their base, and not only there, by bands of discharging rock, remote from and disregarding the time-honoured waste-shoots.
Bad weather, rain, and especially wind, will start volleys in unaccountable places at the most inconvenient times. After storm or heavy rain, even secure lower paths may be raked by a dropping fusillade. But such passing exuberances have also their comfortable aspect. The bruises that surprise us by their appearance on sheer hard crag, where no stone had any business to fall, or the intimidating fragments on the glacier below our firm and promising rib, may be merely such a single past morning’s effervescence or the excesses of a solitary thunderstorm.
Other surprise stones may be due to the passing of goats or chamois above--a rare case in the Western Alps--or more frequently to the presence of other parties. These are a very definite and constant danger, especially on loose faces like the Matterhorn ascent from Zermatt, where half a century of clumsy climbing seems only to have augmented the supply of mountain ammunition available for daily use. It can only be avoided by keeping off these routes, or by making sure of starting first. If we succeed in so doing, we must remember our mountain manners. On any route where stones are likely to fall, no party, however expert, has the right to increase the risk for others below by racing ahead. Unless our line takes us well out of range, we must wait, in ascending or descending, before crossing any passages where there is a prospect of our dislodging loose stones, until the party below is temporarily sheltered or near enough to suffer small damage from the event. We may expect the same consideration from our forerunners, or make ourselves clamorously audible until we secure it.
Stones loosened by the party upon itself, by rough grip climbing, by sitting while descending, by a rope carelessly managed, and so on, are matters for the correction of climbing technique, and cannot be rated, either mentally or vocally and emphatically, as risks from external causes.
But there is still always the familiar terror of the single stealthy stone, that shoots out for a solitary venture on the blandest of mixed rock and ice climbs, sliding soundlessly or skipping venomously on a sharp edge. It can only be countered by the warning of an alert leader and by prompt dodging.
The throwing of stones from the tops of peaks or cliffs is happily confined, apart from a few classical recorded cases, to tourists in our own islands. It is not done by mountaineers; and the method of impressing its serious dangers upon the offenders may be left to the emotional coefficient of the party imperilled to elaborate.
If, in spite of all precautions, a falling stone, or a fall of stones, threatens us, our position at the moment decides our action. In the case of a rock avalanche, whose minatory sound is unmistakable, we shall hear it before we see it; there is nothing to be done but to crouch and get what cover the rock will afford, especially for the head, without trying to locate it. If it is a single stone, or a few stones, sight and not sound will be giving us the warning (unless the risk is already past), and it is best to wait, with back or side turned towards the stone, and watch over our shoulder. A stone falls surprisingly slowly to the eye; its course can be followed, and dodged most effectively at the last second, if it is not in any case aimed to miss us. In dodging or taking cover from stones, the rope must not be forgotten. It is little less serious for the rope to be caught by a large stone falling than for one of the party. To run is often more dangerous, for other reasons, than to stand still. Most guides are terrified of falling stones. They are the one risk external and unaccountable which they cannot train themselves to meet, because no skill can foresee them. Some part of their allied dread of bad weather is due to the increased risk of stones it brings: “A terrible sound of stones cast down, or a running that could not be seen of skipping beasts, ... or a rebounding echo from the hollow mountains, these things made them swoon with fear.” The majority of guides will shout and start skipping indiscriminately in panic. Men who do this must be brought sharply to their senses. An effective, if possibly fallacious, argument is to point out that a stone by falling on a particular line has enormously reduced the chance that another will fall on the same line again.
This argument does not apply to the case of stones which converge from wider areas above, to fall through a particular gully or couloir. A mountaineer, if he finds himself in such a conduit, had certainly better get out of it as quickly as may be safely possible.
If it is absolutely necessary to cross a couloir where falling stones may be expected, or heard, it is best for the party to cross singly, unroped. But if crossing unroped involves a more immediate risk than the chance of a stone striking, not more than two men should remain on the same rope together. One man should cross the couloir alone, with plenty of rope loose for a spring forward or backward to safety, while the other anchors under shelter. If there are three men on the rope, the two end men should cross first, each with plenty of rope; the middle man follows last, with the same allowance. This reduces the danger for the middle man. To be caught by stones in a couloir on the middle of a rope held at both ends is to be trapped. There is no time for the man at either end to release his rope, or, even were that possible, to discover towards which side the middle man intends to escape.
On the whole, considering the amount of stones that fall in the Alps, especially on frequented peaks, the amount of stones that are dislodged by inexperienced climbers on one another on our own cliffs, and the amount of recent stones that litter all mountain bases, and that must have fallen some time, it is astonishing how few and how slight have been the injuries they have caused.
[Sidenote: Snow Slides.]
Snow slides or avalanches are restricted in summer to more definite danger-zones than are the errant stones. But when they come they are less evitable and more overwhelming in action. Snow falls not only according to the accident of its position, which is ascertainable, but also according to the chance of its condition; and this is susceptible to influences more numerous and more volatile than the comparatively better delimited and more violent forces that produce the loosening and fall of stones.
Again, if we are forced to cross danger-areas of stones or snow, we have the better chance in the case of stones. Each falling stone only occupies in its fall a fraction of the area of danger, and may be eluded; but every inch of snow in an area of avalanche risk is alike pregnant with danger. It is no longer a question of artful dodging individually, but of an escape in time by the whole party, possibly over a considerable extent of slope, all of it equally treacherous.
But snow makes these concessions to the skilful leader: its presence can be located; its condition can be tested in advance. Experienced reconnoitring beforehand may advise us to avoid a snow passage altogether: precaution on the spot, a thorough testing of its holding quality, gives us a second chance of eluding an unpleasing surprise. But these safeguards are precautionary rather than corrective, and belong properly to the province of prevention, that is of snow craft.
Correction becomes needful when we have been deceived in our craft, and find ourselves by error, or perhaps by chance, on a risky snow passage. The snow threatens to slide or to avalanche, because it is either powdery and superficially slithery, or water-logged, or crusted and detached below, or bedded deceitfully upon ice. Now, to continue to trough horizontally across suspicious snow is equivalent to sawing through a high branch, on which you are seated, between yourself and the trunk. We must turn vertically up, or down, or follow as steep a diagonal as we may. We make steps as far as possible apart, and we tread exactly and lightly in each other’s. If there is firmer snow below, we drive the axe to the head at each step, and loop the rope. In extreme cases we may turn face inward, as the toe is less disturbing than the heel or side-boot. Or we may have to clear away the snow and make steps in the ice below. All as our craft dictates. On positively dangerous snow there is much to be said for unroping, should we have to continue long in equal insecurity. The rope can be little protection; concerted action once a slide starts is impossible, and if the slide embraces the footing of all the party, the individual chances of survival are greater without it. But while admitting that there is a case for unroping, I have never known a party do it.
If, in spite of all our discretion, the snow slide or avalanche starts, any further chance of corrective action passes out of our hands with the loss of our footing. A good deal has been written about what we ought to do in an avalanche: cut the rope, adopt a swimming attitude, roll sideways and so on. To anyone who has ever bathed in broken surf, or felt the weight of even a thin film of snow sliding about his ankles or on to his shoulders, all such nostrums will seem about as practical as that delightful recommendation that we should all wear a red appendage of trailing string, as a signal to those who search for us in an avalanche. The vision of a line of sturdy mountaineers tripping intricately across a snowfield like embarrassed macaws in pursuit of each other’s scarlet tails may give us some pleasurable moments. Possibly coloured air-balloons, to keep the string-tails floating archly above our heads, might add to their picturesque efficacy.
A man in an avalanche can only act by instinct; and he will instinctively struggle. If he keeps, or ends, upon the surface, it will be due to the shallowness of the slide or the depth of his good fortune. It is well to remember that a man, by an accident of compression, may live for some time although overwhelmed and out of sight under the snow; the survivors therefore must take the risk of further snow falling and attempt the rescue work at once. The chances of survival will always be greater in a slide of powdery snow than in one of wet snow.
[Sidenote: Ice Fragments.]
Ice falls in fashions more fathomable than snow, over more limited areas and by more discoverable rules. We may find ourselves forced to pass below _séracs_ on glaciers. A _sérac_ may fall; but _séracs_ are very obvious as well as beautiful, and the really capable eye is at fault if it cannot foretell when one is likely to fall, within an hour or two, and hurry out of its track. Even if it is too far above us for inspection, there is plenty to guide us in the condition of the ice near us and in the feel of the atmosphere. _Séracs_ are usually safer than they look; and it is wiser, if we find ourselves unwittingly under fire, to glide out of it quietly and competently than to rush into the real frying-pan of a panicky flight. If there is opportunity, we get rid of the rope; a man on claws, without the rope, has a much better chance of dodging the _sérac_ that topples. Heavy step-cutting just below a poised column had better be avoided; but I am half sorry to record that the hallowed myth that it is dangerous to talk or breathe loudly on such passages is not borne out by latter-day _séracs_. I have shouted very loudly and clearly into the ear of a number of very promising ones--of course from safe positions on their shoulders, and not, like Lauener, from their ‘dangerous’ heads--without eliciting even a nod of response.
Only one other case suggests itself where falling ice might be classed as an external or objective risk; and that more because the extent of its danger-zone is undiscoverable than because its position, or the probability of its fall, is concealed from ordinary foresight. In a snowy season, with alternates of melting sun and freezing wind, the day comes when the rocks of a peak or ridge are armoured with ice plates or ice spears. If we traverse unsuspectingly below such walls, an hour’s sunlight may expose us, in the middle of our enjoyment of our postponed fine day, to a raking and dangerous fire. The missiles may come shooting over the edge of any innocent, black jut or buttress far above us. The only course is to watch, and dodge, and make carefully for open country. That what has fallen once cannot fall again in the same place is even more true of these ice plates than of stones. For our mischance, also, we may have to blame ourselves as much as the mountain. Rocks in such a state generally betray some gleam of their ice armour to a heedful examination, and as the chance of such a condition occurring should have been suggested to us by the kind of weather that produced it, we ought to have been able approximately to locate the peril beforehand, and avoid its zone.
[Sidenote: Evil Weather.]
Thunderstorms or blizzards may produce direct catastrophe. Of a blizzard we should have had premonitory signs; and if we are caught in it, we must just fight through it, and we may not afterwards justly blame the mountains. It is a foolish pride which thinks to show hardihood by persisting wilfully, among big mountains, against the threat or oncoming of evil weather.
But thunderstorms may take us unawares; and then our only refuge is retreat. Their chief menace lies along the edges of ridges and on outstanding points. If a storm threatens, we must get off the ridges and away from pinnacles as quickly as possible, even if it may mean cutting down an ice slope. Sometimes our first warning may be an electric shock, coming out of a dark and windless silence or through a warm oppression of slow-falling and separate snow-flakes, and thrilling us helplessly from heel to hair. If there is no other sign, and in the heart of the worst storms there is no flash and no thunder, the singing of our axes and the hissing crackle of the discharge from every point of the ridge will give warning that it is well to go elsewhere. We are generally advised to get rid of our axes. If we are on a big peak, this will mean our seeking scanty shelter not very far below the ridge where the storm caught us. Personally, I prefer to keep my axe, and use it to climb well down one of the flanking walls. While we remain on the ridge or near it, all points, including ourselves, are potential conductors, and it is awkward to get far down without an axe. We once came on a whole grove of axes abandoned on a summit. When we saw, later, the angle and the condition of the snow slopes that this party had been driven to descend without their axes, to escape from the storm, we realized what frightening things men can do if they are only frightened enough.
Thunderstorms apart, the perils of bad weather are indirect, and give us time to use precautionary rather than corrective skill. A very strong wind may of course blow us right out of our steps. I have only seen this actually happen once, to a light-limbed mountaineer, who pitched very neatly on the ice steps ten feet lower down. Ordinarily we cling on as we can, and evade the direct blast by moving on to the other side of a ridge. Wind will also pelt us with stones and icicles in unexpected places, or lacerate our faces with snow particles. But its principal effect is usually upon men’s nerves, who get ‘rattled’ and lose their collective rhythm. Continuous loud noise always interrupts communications, and breeds flurry or confusion. It is worth while taking shelter behind rocks, if only for a minute or two at intervals, to steady the nerves again.
Mist and fog can only harm us if our craft fails. We meet them by compass and the sense of direction. Wind can make a gracious exception to its usual offensiveness, and help us in mist. If we have noted its direction, and have observed that it is a constant and not a gusty or spinning wind, we can keep a straight course by keeping it always on the same cheek. Again, when he is approaching the crest of a ridge or a pass, what mountaineer has not had cause, in mist, or even in sun, to welcome the little rushes or breaths of wind that tell him the edge is near and assure him of his direction? After a weary plough up foggy snow terraces or a harsh struggle on mist-wet rocks, these soughs seem like the mountain, too, sighing with our relief, or like the end of our travail surprising our mournful faces with a kindly but derisive ‘pooh!’
Earthquakes are natural perversities outside the sphere of ordinary mountaineering prevision. Among mountains their danger is indirect or subsequent. They injure a number of good rock routes, and after a series of shocks we may expect some grievous deterioration in the condition of rock pinnacles and faces. Large masses will have been precariously loosened, and our ledges will be littered with poised blocks and cranky rubble. The peaks affected may require markedly cautious climbing for some seasons, until time and weather shall have tidied down the surfaces again. Some years ago certain of the Chamonix Aiguilles had to be left unvisited for a time on this account. As to how we should meet the uproar of the eruptive moments, it is difficult to suggest an approved method. A mountaineer of reputation relates how an earthquake caught him on the precipitous north face of the Dent du Géant; and how that proud pinnacle rocked so portentously that his feet were flung free, and he only saved himself by swinging perilously, like a pendulum, from his handholds. It is reassuring to feel that such exceptional circumstance does generally select the exceptional man, and that it invariably finds him inspired to deal with its crises imaginatively. For upon such natural inspiration it would be difficult to improve by devising any more formal code.
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