CHAPTER VII

ICE AND SNOW CRAFT

[Sidenote: The Age for Glaciers.]

Rock is the framework of mountains, and for those who discover their enthusiasm or train their activity among our western hills, rock craft must always remain the basis of mountaineering. Many of us would not be dissatisfied if the chances of time and leisure offered us no wider field. For our performance, there is more than a lifetime could hope even to examine between the precipices of our mounting uplands and the descending cliffs of our long sea coasts; and for our æsthetic pleasure, nature, through the medium of a soft and variable atmosphere, shrouds the settled lines of our hills with a delicacy of interrupted and changing colour, and a grave reticence of shadow, sun-break and mist, that leave nothing incomplete for the fulfilment of that sense of power and wonder whose realization gives something of the quality of religion to our feeling for great mountains. These ancient hills are at peace with their neighbours the fields, and rest tranquilly among them; content to contribute with their waters and pasture to the fertility, and with their mists and rocks and seclusion to the holiday pleasure of the land which in youth they were wont to cumber with the fragments of each fiery insurgence, or bury under the white burden of their glacial defeats.

In other lands, to modify the harshness and to order the exuberance of younger ranges, whose ambition would yet challenge the stars, nature has still to avail itself of the sterner and more primitive discipline of ice and perpetual snow. With this veil, constant but always renewing, it subdues the barrenness and the aggressive angularity proper to their period of immaturity and change, and preserves for them the aloofness that is at once the protection and the charm of free-growing childhood. It is a mistake to think of the Alps or the Himalaya as venerable because their heads are white: theirs are all the irrepressible impulse, the uneven humour, the unconscious cruelty and the overflowing vitality of froward but jolly children.

A mountaineer may be satisfied to nurse his athletic infancy upon home rocks, and he may be happy to pass the later years of his experience among the more elusive impressions and more subtle romance of our old and quiet hills. But in the storm years of his strength he should test his powers, learn his craft and earn his triumphs in conflict with the abrupt youth and warlike habit of great glacial ranges.

Snow and ice are permanent upon the high hills, and consequently ice and snow craft are essential departments of greater mountaineering. To treat them as decorative adjuncts, cultivated by a certain set of rather old-fashioned folk, or to say, as I have heard more than one promising climber say in effect, “Rock is good enough for me: snow and ice only mess it up; _I_ shan’t bother with that sort of Alp!” and then rush off to the Dolomites as a relief from the Fells, is equivalent to refusing to exchange the foil play of practice for the rapier play of real contest with the best champions of the mountain realm: it means the repudiation of the better half of mountain knowledge, and the renunciation of almost all its rewards.

The higher craft of mountaineering begins above the line of perpetual snow. A rock climber who leaves his rocks at that level can never discover even all that rocks may offer of difficulty and variety. The refinements of climbing develop out of the modifications that rock and ice and snow produce in one another. It is among the elastic extensions, the frequent exceptions, which their combination imposes upon our grammar rules for rock or snow, that the mountaineer is evolved out of the climber.

[Illustration: ROCK AND ICE [SYDNEY SPENCER]

Our strong years are the years in which to learn the complete craft of greater mountaineering. And it is also in these years, while the senses are keen and the imagination undimmed, that the entries and illustrations most worthy of assembling in our book of memory can be collected from among the daring sights and hazardous incidents of high mountaineering as from no other region of adventure. Never to have broken too soon with sleep, and issued up on to the grey coldness of night-frozen glaciers; never to have felt rather than seen the loneliness of frosted grey peaks, oppressed with a sanctity of reluctant seclusion; never to have endured the enchantment of solitary space, an intimate but hostile fascination that is found elsewhere only in the desert and among arctic silences; never to have almost heard the strange expectancy that fills great snow fields before dawn with questions never uttered and never answered, and whose insistence is only veiled under a livelier and more visible remoteness at the inquisitive approach of light; never to have watched the night widen and the edges of the world draw closer round, as the peaks begin to darken and the glaciers to pale, and the vague shadows of mystery and of elusive presence shrink and harden into form and line and colour with the nearing of sunrise; and, at the moment when the first rose ray quickens the first high summit and day pours in about us, never to have known the lassitude of odd illusion vanish and the summons to good sunlit action thrill every fibre, from toe to finger-tip, with a rush of human mastery in each stout blow of the axe and each fresh shock of the driving heel;--never to have known something of only this one hour of an alpine morning would have been to have missed the most vivid moments of living, and to have deprived our working and our evening hours of their most faithful comrade memories.

ICE CRAFT

For snow and ice as for rock we study primarily balance,--balance in motion, and above joints flexed as well as straight. The elementary movements and practice are identical. Rock is the substructure of mountains, and ice and snow are its accretions. Similarly, rock climbing is the groundwork of mountaineering technique; and for ice and snow we employ the same principles, availing ourselves of the mechanism of axe and claw and ski so as to render them equally applicable to new conditions of surface and texture.

For balance climbing, footwork is all-essential. On rock, only where angle or unsound texture makes footwork alone insufficient, do we help out with the hands. On ice or snow, only where angle or a texture too soft or too hard denies our feet their assurance, do we supplement them with ice-axe and ice-claw, or to a certain extent with ski. While a man remains a grip climber, he will never make an iceman; and he had better go back and learn first how to climb in balance on rocks, rather than set himself the twofold task of learning balance and axe or claw technique simultaneously and painfully on ice. Most of the early mountaineers learned what footwork they knew upon ice first, and it was therefore very natural that they should in their mountaineering precepts give the larger share of space and attention to elementary movements and exercises in stepping on ice and snow. These movements are now learned more easily and perfectly on rock, sound and unsound, and transferred, when we go to the Alps, to snow and ice, following a more logical and certainly more safe order of study. In recent years I have taken some of the very best of the new generation of ‘continuous’ rock climbers for their first climbs in the Alps, and have found that their balanced footwork took only a few hours to adapt itself to snow or ice surfaces, skipping all the elementary stages hallowed by tradition. Consequently they could start upon the more recondite branches of ice and snow craft with a rapid assurance that left the guides frankly interested.

Largely because it was the only type of mountaineering that they really studied as a craft, and consequently could fully enjoy when they mastered it, ice and snow craft came to be considered by many of our predecessors as the only true mountaineering, to the supersession of all other branches.

After the possibilities of rock surface began to be appreciated, and while rock climbing was working through its successive and isolated stages, the swing of the pendulum went all too far the other way. Ice and snow came to be regarded by all except the old alpine school as intrusions upon ascents, to be got over as best one could. Their study was proportionately neglected by guides and amateurs alike, who chose the ribs and rock faces for their routes, and were apt to be bothered if they had to come off them. The lack of any advanced technique became painfully apparent when mountaineering ambition progressed to the point of attempting great new alpine ridges and faces, where a knowledge of ice and snow craft is indispensable. Many a failure and even accident revealed what a large lacuna our rock climbers had been nourishing in their alpine understandings.

During the development of balance climbing, whose basis is footwork upon any angle and any kind of surface, the scale has been steadily readjusting itself. Simultaneously with, or possibly as a result of, the unification of our several climbing methods upon rock, ice and snow into a single technique of balance, has come the new interest in foot-attachments, the popularizing of the use of ice-claws and of ski. While balance in climbing movement was still only rudimentary, it was more comfortable to climb on a material like snow or ice, where the human could make holds and steps of the shape and at the angle that best suited his standing or his ‘walking’ balance. He preferred this to making a series of awkward bodily adjustments in order to fit himself on to existing accidents in the surface of rock. But as climbers learned to master balance during any movement and in every attitude, and to depend less and less upon the hand, they became naturally alive to the advantage of adopting footgear which secured safer and more continuous progress by adapting the feet to the surface, and saved them the time and rhythm lost in stopping to alter the surface to suit their feet. Hence the increase in our use of soft soles and scientific nailing, on rock, and the perfecting of ice-claws, which allow our feet to walk on ice at whatever angle we find it, and of ski, which make a royal progress of the most voracious snow.

A man who is a good continuous balance climber should be able, as I have said, to transfer his footwork easily and quickly to snow and ice, and to move safely upon moderate mountains, satisfactorily managing the rope and cutting the occasional steps that such ascents demand. Here many climbers stop learning, even among those who write books; and just about here the real delights of icemanship and snow craft begin faintly to suggest themselves. From this point on our rock technique cannot help us, and may, if persisted in, merely embarrass and delay us. Ice and snow, conjoined or apart, with all their significations of colour, texture and angle, and in their local or ephemeral counter-changes, form a study by themselves. As it is certain that we cannot do much route inventing or advanced climbing upon rock without knowing something of the different sorts of rock and their meanings, so is it far more certain that in really big mountaineering no one will get far or go secure whose knowledge of ice and snow is limited to the mere physical ability to climb upon them.

It is impossible to do more than suggest a few lines which training might follow, in order to attain to a point of experience where the specialized study can be begun.

[Sidenote: The Nature of Ice.]

To start with, it is as well to know something, sufficient for the working purposes of practical summer mountaineering, as to the different sorts of ice which we meet with in the mountains. There are three principal varieties:

Firstly, ‘_grainy ice_,’ or ‘_blue ice_’ as it is usually called from its colour. This is formed chiefly from snow, by regelation. Nearly all glacier ice is of this character; whence we also know it as ‘_glacier ice_.’ It is glacier ice with which we have by far the most to do in the Alps, and its successive stages have to become familiar to us as names, and recognizable from their appearance, if we ever wish to lead a party. In the first stage pressure makes the fallen grains of snow cohere, and an opaque white mass is thus formed, a fine-grained solid, containing a lot of imprisoned air. This stage is usually but incorrectly named ‘_frozen snow_.’ Under the further action of pressure these grains coalesce, by regelation, and larger grains are formed; part of the entangled air escapes, the solid becomes coarse-grained and less opaque and assumes a bluish tinge. This is called _névé_ (or _firn_). Under the continuation of the process ultimately all the imprisoned air escapes, the solid becomes transparent and very coarse-grained, and its larger masses have a distinctive, blue colour. This is called ‘_ice_.’ As the process is a continuous one, it is impossible to draw a hard-and-fast line between the different stages, or always to be sure of saying with certainty that our feet are on the one or the other.

Secondly, there is ‘_black ice_’; ice more or less continuous and generally in layers, formed by the freezing of water. This is comparatively rarely encountered in the Alps, or in mountains, but more often in winter than in summer. Where it intrudes, it is very exacting, as it calls for a different type of claw technique and a different sort of blow with the axe.

Thirdly, there is an intermediate, and intermediately attractive and frequent, class of ice, produced by the infiltration of water with snow, and by their subsequent freezing. This is called ‘_snow ice_.’

In route designing and in climbing we have to be able to recognize these types and stages. Each has its own right method of treatment. But grainy or glacier ice is the characteristic alpine ice, and most of the suggestions made as to ice technique apply to ice of this description, where it is not otherwise expressly stated.

A large, dry glacier introduces us to almost every normal type of ice, from hard blue to _firn_, and is the best practice ground for finding our ice feet and transferring our rock balance to ice angles. A week’s good practice devoted exclusively to ice craft on a glacier, under a good mentor, will set our feet on the way of better icemanship than if we trust for our training to the hours of sporadic ice work, generally of some difficulty, which we may meet year after year, and muddle through, on our big climbs. Few men are systematic enough to devote all their first alpine enthusiasm to a restricted training of this kind; but any man who hopes at some date to become a mountaineer should begin early to give his ice some intensive study. Even a mountaineer of experience has to allow for personal variations when he returns each season. However well attuned he may keep his sense of touch on rock by practice in Britain, he takes some days to recover the feel of his feet on ice, and his ice nerve; very much as a skater or a skier has to do each winter. Some of us make a habit, in theory at least, of giving the first day of a tour to work of all sorts on a dry glacier; the second day to some short climb, combining both rock and snow work; the third, probably an off-day, to going up to a hut, and the fourth to a big climb, which must embrace as much varied ice as possible. But this is for resumptive practice in technique. It is not sufficient for a commencing season, or for a grounding in common ice law.

[Sidenote: Ice-Claws.]

Any man who wishes to make big ascents is well advised if he begins early to learn how to use ice-claws (or crampons). It is not that we cannot climb without them, even as we could without nails in our boots, but that we can learn to climb more securely, and go faster and farther, with them.

Claws have been used by individuals for something like a century, but the conservatism of mountaineers long refused to recognize them as more than an individual eccentricity. It found itself able to draw a nice distinction between the ‘sporting’ character of the assistance given by a number of long spikes separately and laboriously screwed and unscrewed on the boot, and that of a similar number of spikes affixed by a single simple mechanism. It was not until the guides finally capitulated that the practice could grow at all general or that its extra security could become recognized as workmanlike. Claws were formerly assumed to be useless unless worn by every member of a party; an assumption that prevented their use by many amateurs who failed to carry their guides’ conviction with them. As a fact, even one expert furnished with claws can do much to assist the security and lighten the labour for his clawless party on difficult ice, by preceding them and helping or protecting them with the rope. Let no amateur, therefore, ever be discouraged from taking his own where he expects ice work. He will always be the happier himself, and may on occasions be able to point a prolonged moral to his party. Up to the present they have still been looked upon as an experiment, and men have been apt to get discouraged if they have taken them out once or twice and had no need for them. Sometimes they have then dropped carrying them; found that they could ‘get on all right without them’--as who cannot?--and so begun to exaggerate the labour of their portage and minimize their use. The habit has to be formed. It can become as natural to take them on a big ascent as to carry the axe, spare rope and shoes upon a rock climb.

I must premise, that claws postulate precise footwork. A slovenly habit they cannot correct, and may only confirm.

If we use claws neatly, we need no longer cut steps upon all the easier angles of ice or hard snow. We can walk straight ahead, up, down or along, without check for step-cutting or loss of rhythm. We can take foothold just as is most convenient for our balance as we move. Thus a good balance climber from the first moment gets all the advantage of the footwork he has learned upon rock: the labour of ‘finding his feet’ upon ice is reduced to a minimum. Again, claws increase our security, if we step accurately, when we are moving upon angles where, for reasons of steepness or other difficulty, steps may still have to be cut. In using slippery steps they permit of a confidence of movement, firm and continuous, similar to that which previous experience will have taught us contributed most to our security upon rock. In so far claws, even while we are learning, make for safer progress.

Their fashion has been fully dealt with, under Equipment. As to the character of claw which may be of greatest service, there exist divergent schools of thought; and each finds justification for its belief in the greater usefulness of its particular claw for some

## particular type of ice work.

In general, heavy claws are better for a heavy man, light for a light. Ten-point claws are better than eight for a large foot, and six-point claws are hardly worth their weight in carrying. A heavy claw, with long, sharp points, which suffer in contact with rock, is worth its extra weight if some big ice expedition is in prospect. At the same time, a good climber can, if he is prepared for the extra labour and for the more careful technique which their use requires, accomplish with safety all the ice work to be found on normal climbs with a lighter claw of slightly shorter points. This lighter, rougher type will be more useful to him for mixed ice and rock climbing, as he will be able to sacrifice its shorter and inevitably more blunted points with less regret, while he can retain the claw over every kind of surface. The necessity of constantly putting off and on the long, sharp claws on mixed climbing, to avoid turning their points, has the drawback of losing time, and, still more important, of changing the

## action of the leg and the feel of the feet. Consequently the rhythm

of foot and leg has to adjust itself, after each change, to the new character of surface and movement. Whereas the claw which can be worn all day if the conditions demand it, regardless of rock or blunting surface, and which can be thrown away or resharpened when it has suffered sufficiently, while it may call for more skill and effort for its secure use on long, steep passages of hard ice, possesses the compensating advantage of keeping the action constant, without change to the feel of the feet, to the rhythm, or to the greater or lesser security of the tread.

On the other hand, the finer, heavier claw, by which I mean the claw of the Eckenstein pattern, has the merit of being the only claw at the present time in which both the metal is rightly wrought and the points are shaped and placed under the foot with any scientific regard for their use. It is also the only type which it is safe to wear on hard ‘black ice’; which, even if rarely, is occasionally found on big summits in the Alps or on sunless northern faces.

Of course the claw must be made exactly to fit the boot on which it is used, and it must fasten and take off easily and securely.

The theory of the use of the claw, with all the various positions of the feet required, can only be dealt with in a monograph to itself, and this has been already more than adequately done.[13] It is sufficient for the commencing mountaineer to know that he has to learn how to use claws, and that he cannot do so effectively without preliminary practice. This practice should be on a glacier, and under direction; no man really discovers what the claw will enable him to do until he has seen what confidence and skill can accomplish in the conquest of angle and of natural nerve revulsions. The movements are not entirely natural or self-suggesting, more especially those of descending or of traversing on very steep slopes. The masters of the art can walk, and sustain weights, sideways or straight upon their feet, up to angles of 70 degrees or more. An ordinary climber can learn to move with comfort on angles, of good surface, between 55 and 60 degrees.

When we are on claws, the snow-shuffle and the normal forward swing of the walking foot, heel and toe, have to be forgotten. The foot is lifted rather higher, and is planted cleanly on the ice, without the usual forward scrape. The high, clear lift of the foot must become mechanical, otherwise the points will catch on boot or puttie, and a nasty trip or fall may result. The downward pressure or thrust of the foot varies in force according to the angle and the hardness of the surface. To prevent the points working loose in the holes they make, the foot has to be placed at once in the position and at the angle in which it will have to sustain the weight of the body passing across it. A balance climber who has mastered the tense, dancing action of the foot as it is set upon a rock hold will have to learn little new, except the habit of the higher lift and the more vertical plant.

In ascending, our object is to keep the feet pointing forward and straight as long as the angle will allow us to; only turning the toes outward when we can no longer get the heels down. On most ice it is sufficient if we get hold with two points of the claw alone; and on a fair surface we can walk straight-foot up very steep angles, trusting only to the two points on the toe. Up softer steep surfaces, or literally precipitous angles, we adopt a crab or sideways walk. We descend steep angles with the knees bent and the toes forced down. The ankles have to, and soon do, acquire an increased suppleness and strength, in claw practice.

Perhaps the most difficult task for the beginner is to learn the art of walking and balancing upon flexed ankles, while traversing across steep faces. To strike all the points in neatly and strongly sideways, and with a flexed ankle, so that the flat of the sole may meet the surface cleanly and without a scrape, takes some practice; but slab climbers, who have suppled their ankles by foot-clinging upon steep rock angles, will find themselves a day or two’s frog-marching to the good on ice.

Practice alone will bring us confidence in the new adjustments, or allow us to feel as securely in balance above a foot inclined at a high angle, over a bent ankle or a curved leg, as upon a right-angled hold of rock or ice. Once confidence has come, the sense of security in the attachment of the claw to the ice enables a freedom of movement astonishing at first to anyone accustomed only to the feel of the ordinary boot-nails on ice steps.

This additional and confident security, which the claw gives to our foothold, almost eliminates the chances of what are wrongly termed ‘accidents’ on ice; the breaking foothold, the faultily placed foot, or the slide of the sole on a bad surface as the transference of the weight produces a change in the direction of the leg-thrust. We can balance, therefore, on steep angles far more boldly, and keep our hands free for better purpose. A strong party on claws, in a couloir of uniform surface or on a sound ridge of mixed ice and rock climbing, is often free to do without the rope at all, if it so pleases. The rope is to guard against the results of ‘accidents’ to individual members; and competent icemen, if they are released from the distraction of the rope, and able to concentrate on their own good progress and safety, have all the less temptation to commit ‘accidents.’

Once we have mastered the movements and become confident, we begin to distinguish between varieties of ice, and to vary our claw craft accordingly. For instance, in alpine ‘grainy’ ice there are three ordinary varieties: hard, soft and rotten. ‘Rotten’ ice does not lie in the Alps to more than the depth of an inch or two, though it is found of a greater thickness in other continents; when we find it in the Alps, we clear it away with the axe, to leave a firm tread for the claw on the good ice below. Hard and soft grainy ice have their several adjustments, whose differences have to be learned by practice. Hard ice will usually be found lying at high angles, so steep that we shall sometimes be unable to get more than the hold of a single claw point. Experience alone can make us feel as safe upon the one talon as we have learned to feel upon a single boot-nail on sound rock. For work of this advanced character, for which the heavy, long-pronged claw is better suited, the best practice can be found upon the big fall-ice of dry glaciers. We soon discover, in such practice, that balance is easier when we are confident to move fast, a resuscitated platitude; and that, while moving, we are satisfied with a single point where the whole ten would not have seemed superfluous, had we halted to admire the panorama. But holds, on ice as on rock, are not intended to be held in perpetuity.

The claw is not only useful upon steep ice: on hard repellent snow it spares us the penance of stamping or scraping steps. It is equally reassuring to foothold and nerve on ice-lacquered rocks, or on broken rock surfaces coated with wind-snow or glaze. In a bad season--that is, a season during which snow has been frequently falling, and the rocks are surpliced in various blends and qualities of snow, frozen and refrozen--the claws are often retained for the whole day, and become as natural to the feel of the feet as the more usual boot-nail. It is sometimes even difficult to remember if they are on or off, until they are removed, when the feet become as helpless as they do when skates are first detached. In a snowstorm, for a descent, they should always be put on; and even in clear weather and on good footing it is an immense reassurance to the leader of a tired party ascending or descending a couloir or slope of suspicious or ‘mixed’ surface, if he can count upon the extra security that claws will give to the deteriorating footwork of his party.

Again, on those early, fasting, glacier crawls by lamplight, with which most of us are familiar, when we are expected to balance, with cold joints and often without the protection of the rope, along crevasses and walls which may be easy enough by daylight but seem pulsing with danger and dread in the darkness, claws come as a great safeguard; their tactile value is a reassurance to eyes and to feet still leaden with insufficient sleep and superabundant cold.

The evening descent of a glacier, dry or partly snow-covered, with its crevasse jumping, wearisome for tired legs, and its balance traversing on ice too slippery for jaded feet or day-polished boot-nails, becomes again a delight if it can be taken directly and at a rush, with the new surety of foothold and the change of muscle movement that follow the putting on of our claws. Straight and time-saving lines through glacier falls can then be ventured, even with men dragging heavy sacks or heavy legs, if they have once the new feel of dancing security under their feet.

It is worth while putting claws on even for the short but offensive descent of the snout of a glacier. They crackle crisply down its pebble-pimpled wrinkles and make light gliding of its glassy declivities.

A belated party returning crossly at night down the breakers of a big glacier whose surface has thawed only to be refrozen later to a polished, leg-racking ice-slide, will save temper and re-roping and time if the men stop to put on their claws. Two midnight descents of the Mer de Glace in this condition, without claws, are among the most penetrating and undignified of my remembrances.

On the steep sides of moraines, or on new snow lying on grass, claws, if they happen to have been brought, save much back-sliding. On slippery rock surfaces, such as snow-slimed slate and the like, I have found light claws of constant use.

Finally, we need not take off our claws, if they are light ones, for every rock section of a climb where rock and ice are alternating. On much easy soft rock they are of assistance; and even in steep climbing, if once the novelty of the feel is mastered and the foot has got accustomed to the precautionary tread that protects the points, claws have often a positive value greater than the mere effort we save by not removing them.

To learn how to use claws, however, does not relieve us of the necessity of learning how to make and to walk in ice steps. Nor (although this is a matter of more personal opinion) do claws in my view justify climbers on big expeditions in substituting the small ice-axe recommended by some of the great authorities upon claws, and only intended for making an occasional step or for holding on, for a good step-cutting axe, which has also the potentiality of the third leg on general climbing.

In practice on dry glaciers it is both profitable and amusing to experiment in manœuvring on exceptional angles, or in walking up between the vertical walls of crevasses. Such practice is good for confidence and for training, and it is even of use to discover how comparatively easy claws make it to get out of crevasses, or similar impasses, without relying on the rescue of the rope alone. A climber on claws, for this reason, can take a measure of liberty in solitary climbing that would be folly for a man without them to allow himself. No doubt, if amateurs were able to keep constantly in practice, and had not each season to stop climbing when they have barely reached their best, they would learn to move with equal freedom on angles of this character at great heights. But as a matter of experience no holiday mountaineer can entirely acquire the same feeling of confidence and security if his ice slopes are subtended by dangerous mountain walls or are situated on exposed tracts. Fatigue, diverse air-pressures and, above all, the psychological effect of height contribute to handicap him in venturing on claws risks which he would laugh at on a twenty-foot wall on a glacier. Consequently we find that most mountaineers on very steep, hard ice at great heights prefer to cut steps to aid their claws. In mountaineering on a big scale we usually begin to feel this need when the angle of the ice approaches anywhere near to our limit of average performance upon claws in glacier practice. It is more our sensation than the angle of the ice slope which forces step-cutting upon us. And there is yet another common occasion for steps. On ice which is covered with snow, where without claws we should clear away the snow and make a step in the ice, it is of course similarly open to us to clear it away and step simply with the claw on the exposed ice. But, as a matter of fact, it is generally the practice in such case to make a nick for the claw. Unless the nick is made, the mass of snow round the clearing prevents the foot from being placed conveniently and from providing a sense of security commensurate with the sensational situation. Thus to secure a good reassuring claw hold we should have to clear away an additional quantity of snow, and we may just as well make a nick-step at once. A step in ice when claws are worn need only be a nick for a proportion of the prongs. It takes less labour and art to fashion than a step for a boot.

Again, ice at great heights is occasionally covered with a rotting coating, or crust, through which the prongs cannot reach to the good surface below. Here clearing the rotten ice will in any case be necessary, and, for the reason given above, it is more comfortable and as quick to cut through it and make a step at once.

Where, also, ice is really hard ‘black ice,’ it has an iron quality of surface, through which the prongs have to be driven with real force; and they make clean, hard holes from which we have the feeling they might slip out, as if from smooth metal sockets. Without steps, at steep angles, balance on such ice is a very delicate matter, as this is a branch of claw technique in which the Alps give us little practice. The nerve of most men will call for auxiliary steps. But whether steps are made or not, on such ice the rope must always be retained.

For the average man, therefore, it is still needful to know how to fashion and how to walk in ice steps; both for use on the brief intervals of ice and snow on climbs where the amount of difficult rock and the small proportion of ice in prospect have suggested leaving the claws behind, and for occasions, of which some have been mentioned, that arise out of exceptional mountain or personal conditions.

[Sidenote: Cutting Steps.]

We have then to learn how to cut and use steps on ice, at high angles, in awkward places, or when complicated by certain conditions. Claws cover the rest of the ice field.

A man who sets himself to learn how to cut steps well must begin by practising on ice. Theory can only help him to avoid certain false positions. A word from a mentor on the spot will save aching shoulders and blistered hands, and be of far more use than many books. Book-lore has rather hindered than helped us by some of the theory it has set down.

It is natural that amateurs who had the example of golfing and other ‘arm-movement’ sports on free angles before them should have been attracted by the idea of a step-cutting ‘swing.’ This has been therefore recommended as a saving of strength and an ideal in style. Possibly many climbers besides myself have formalized their style and retarded their acquisition of ease and security by practising the acrobatic feats of balance which an attempt to swing from the hips in step cutting necessitates. On ice slopes of an easy angle, where we need no longer cut steps at all if we use claws, the swing may be graceful. But on steep ice the swing from the hips is irreconcilable with a secure balance. The most we can attain to is an interrupted swing or ‘follow-through’ with the shoulders alone, to ease our pure armwork. It is not unlikely that the appearance of body movement which this shoulder swing gives to the whole coat of a master iceman, as seen from behind, misled early students of the art, who were following in ice steps, into the belief that they were watching their ideal swing from the hips. But such a swing on steep ice is impossible. The step-cutter is balancing in many cases on one foot, supposing him to be cutting steps at wide ‘mountaineering’ intervals, or on the downgrade; at best he is on two feet set in the same straight line. He cannot, therefore, risk any swinging movement which would disturb his balance above his single base line or point. Let anyone try the hip swing standing thus on a single foot, or on feet alined at a wide interval on the ground, even without the complication of the narrow ice step or the obstruction of the side wall. He will begin to doubt the advisability of our classic swing. Nor may a step-cutter let his swing travel inward with the axe on to the slope; because it is the essence of good step-cutting that the axe shall stop with a jerk, releasing itself from the ‘stick’ of the point in the ice while it jars loose the section of ice that it has split. The hip swing, therefore, if we attempt it, must be checked at both its ends; and very little space remains between the two checks to get the swing going. The steeper the ice the shorter the axe-strokes, and the less and less the opportunity of introducing the swing. As a further difficulty, no one but a craftsman trained in the workshops could swing the whole body so exactly as to strike with his point within a fraction of an inch of the spot required. In chopping wood, which is done with the feet spread, an amateur can achieve this; but if he is balancing on feet alined, it is beyond the skill of most experts to swing from the hips, strike absolutely true, and at the same time remain in secure balance.

Even the shorter shoulder swing, which we use on slopes of easier angle, where we can get some support for our balance, when standing on the outside foot, by pressing the inside foot or the inside knee against the ice wall, becomes impracticable when we are standing, as we must be for half our cutting time, on the inside foot, with the outside foot in a line behind us or swinging free to our poise. On steeper slopes, where we have no margin of balance for any outward swing and no room to get a support for the inside foot against the ice, the shoulder swing becomes impracticable even when we are cutting off the outside foot. On such slopes we are only free to use the short play of the arms, and cutting becomes simply accurate ‘chopping.’ Not only on these steep angles of ice, but on all awkward passages where we are not placed comfortably for free cutting, but where we have to aim our steps at cramped angles with bent arms or with one hand alone, our cutting can be no more than chopping from the elbow, or sometimes only from the wrist. Since, for men who wear claws, these are the only passages on which much step cutting should be really needed, the body and shoulder swings may be safely dropped out of the category of desirable ideals.

The characteristics of a good cutter are accuracy of aim in making the stroke, with the right inclination of the pick and the right jerk of the point; good balance upon both feet or on one foot; and an easy but restrained arm movement, so that he can continue the strokes with smooth precision for an indefinite time. A man who has acquired these will naturally use any easing of the slope in his favour, or any facilities it may offer him for better foot balance, to lighten his armwork by means of a follow-through with his shoulder. But if a mountaineer begins to learn with the idea that he has to ‘swing’ in order to cut well, he will expend most of his energy upon easy angles where claws make it unnecessary to cut steps at all, or in recovering his balance and making very bad steps upon steeper slopes--for the short spells that his strength and nerves will stand.

A good step-cutter need not ‘swing,’ but he also may not ‘press.’ It is mechanically obvious that if a man is not swinging, but has his stroke under muscular control throughout its duration, he will gain nothing, and merely fight against himself, if he tries to force the stroke or ‘press’ before he arrests his point with the final jerk. Once the stroke is started, a good cutter lets the axe fall of its own weight; that is, he follows the stroke through with only just the amount of control needed to direct the point until its contact with the ice.

Each man must discover his own fashion of sketching out a step. The sequence and arrangement of his strokes will vary with the quality of the ice and with his position for cutting.

Every step should slope slightly inward. The angle of the tread is of more importance than the size of the step. On steep ice the inside or back wall just above the step should be cleared away, to allow the shin room and to let the leg stand upright above the foot.

The outside edge of the step should never be cleared entirely or flattened. The ice dust or fragments, if not too large, should be left there, to pack under the foot and give it a further prop inwards. A good step looks like a rough notch before it has been used; but after the first foot has passed over, it should have taken the shape and size of the sole, and look like its mould.

Large steps or ‘buckets,’ such as the guides provide as the beginner’s joy, are useless to men who wear claws, and more dangerous than small steps for those who do not. A large step has a large uneven, or a large smooth floor, upon which the sole is apt to slip about as the weight is transferred. Its suggestion of moral reassurance is a poor compensation for a spoiled balance.

A step should be small, just fitting the foot and gripping the side of the boot; the back wall should just prop the ankle for better balance. It should be comfortable to leave as well as comfortable to step on to. An experienced step-cutter will always prefer to make small steps, not because of the saving of time, but because, on all but exceptional passages, the small, close step gives him a better basis of balance for his next reach-out and cut. Large buckets only become necessary when the angle of the ice wall is so steep that there is no room for the shin and knee to stand upright above the foot. A big slice has then to be cleared away above the step, and this generally involves enlarging the size of the floor of the step, especially if the cutter is not expert.

A man has to learn to cut off either shoulder. He must also be able to cut steps with either hand alone, in order to have his other hand free to take handholds on the exceptionally difficult passages or traverses where these are found necessary. To aim a step with one hand needs practice. To keep a firm grip on the axe shaft, more especially as this gets iced, makes it important to secure a shaft that is well balanced and easily grasped. It may well have some protuberance or collar which prevents the hand slipping. For the same reason the sling is a sound precaution.[14]

To cut handholds in ice calls for a very fine touch. The best that can be usually formed is no more than a steadying nick, over the edge of which the glove can be hooked. The hand shapes the edge of the nick to the curve of the fingers by pressure, and in the process the glove freezes slightly to the ice. The hand can rarely give more than a balance hold on ice. Security and anchorage must be given by the feet.

Similarly, the hand or rather axe hold that we make by driving in the pick above us, in order to help us over a bad step, is usually inadequate. The pull that comes on the shaft with our weight must always be from a direction different to that in which we drove in the point, and the strain will either loosen the point or lever out the section of ice which the blow has in part detached. To drive in the pick straight and not on a swinging arc, so that it may remain firm at an angle to take the pull of our weight in transference, requires a kind of arm stroke very difficult to make with sufficient force in hard, steep ice.

For men without claws the scrambling method, which some leaders risk to save labour in cutting, of alternating one good ice step with a scratch for the other foot, covered by an axe hold, can only be excused by rare circumstance. It is far better to take the little extra time required for making sound steps under both feet. Men on claws, however, are better able to use handholds and pick holds in ice. Their feet are firm so long as the angle and their nerve allow them to stand upright in balance. All they require is a balance hold, to cover them in starting the next movement; for so much assistance a hand nick or a driven pick can well be trusted.

The step for the foot which is passing inside and next to the ice slope can, to save time, be made smaller than that for the outside foot. For a good party, without claws, the step for the inside foot need only be a nick for the side of the boot, provided always that it is inclined at the right angle. To use such steps it is obviously important that the whole party should follow with the same foot. For men with claws there is no need to make this differentiation. Wherever steps are needed for claws, they may all be made of the same small size--just a sufficient nick to take the side points of either claw.

In cutting on a diagonal uphill, for men without claws, it is better to make the interval between the steps shorter when the rising step is to be made from the inside foot on to the outside foot. In rising from the outside foot on to the inside foot a longer stride can be made in balance, and the interval between steps can be made longer.

In cutting diagonally on the downgrade, the contrary is the case. In dropping from the inside foot on to the outside foot a longer stretch can comfortably be made than from the outside foot on to the inside foot.

In cutting horizontally, a longer stretch can be made from the outside foot on to a step for the inside foot, than vice versa. Trifling distinctions; but a good cutter who remembers them will save the inches on his alternate steps; and many inches saved on long ice slopes mean a number of steps spared and minutes, even hours, economized.

For men without claws, or not very expert, it is better to make steps too near together than too far apart. Safe progress is the best progress. This applies especially to cutting downhill. Until a climber is thoroughly practised in lowering his weight on the bending of a single knee, he will always find one instant of delicate balance in a descending stride; and the longer the interval between steps, the more difficult the balance, until the point comes at which he is reduced to axe scraping, or shuffling himself down the ice leaning against his hand. When he finds either help necessary, the step cutter should be given warning at once that the intervals are too long.

Cutting on the downgrade is usually found more difficult than cutting uphill. At the same time, the securing of the right fashion and inclination of the step is even more important on the downgrade than on the up, since the balance in taking a down-step is more difficult, not only for the cutter but for his following. The steeper the angle at which steps have to be made downhill, the more awkward becomes the balance; until, in descending at a very steep angle, the cutting has practically to be done with one hand. For this reason, on very steep slopes it is better to cut short descending zigzags of an easier angle, even in narrow couloirs where economy of time and labour would point to a vertical ladder.

Where there is no room for a descending or an ascending zigzag, it is better not to attempt to make steps for the side-length of the foot, but to descend or ascend face inward, cutting with one hand a perpendicular ladder of ‘pigeon-holes,’ or steps shaped like small church apses, to be used both by the boot-toes and the hands. For men on claws a vertical ladder of nicks, for the fingers and the two front points of the claw, is all that is needed.

In cutting zigzags for men without claws, besides making allowance for the different size and length of step and interval needed for the inside and outside feet, the turning-step at the corner has to be made of different size and shape. It should always be larger in size and semicircular at the back, so that the climber can pivot round in it on his toe, without hitch, until he faces the other way. It is well to provide a good hand-nick or an obvious hold for the pick, conveniently placed above the turning-step.

Steps upon hard, overhanging ice, or upon ice near the perpendicular, are practically impossible to make or use with any real security. The chief difficulty is to make any sound hold for the hands, such as may keep the body in balance above the feet. It is also generally impracticable upon perpendicular or overhanging ice to cut away sufficient ice in the slope at the back of the step to allow the leg to stand erect above the foot, especially if the tread is slanted downward and inward at a safe inclination. When _tours de force_ of this character are performed, it is usually upon ice which has frozen in ‘waterfall’ fashion, coat over coat, so that it becomes possible to cut through one coat and get a downward handhold between the strata of ice. Such holds, of course, cannot be reckoned upon as dependable for more than a balance lift with the hand. Claws will help us for such nice feats; but they are best only attempted on practice glaciers, or where the rest of the party is soundly anchored.

On high exposed ridges we have often to deal, in traversing across the faces of towers, with a mixed coating of snow and ice, in reality a snow cake in process of transformation into ice by infiltration. The snow has to be cleared away, and enough ice hacked from the rock to leave us on the lower sill of the gap, so formed, a sufficiently firm and broad ice edge for a step. This is fine engraving for a leader: if he cuts too roughly, the whole plate may flake off and leave him smooth, vertical rock to traverse; and if he stops too soon, the flake below may similarly peel away when his weight comes on the step formed by its upper edge.

On glacier ice, any rib, crack or flaw in the ice will naturally suggest itself as the groundwork of, if not the substitute for, an ice step. A stone on the ice, or the pocket which it leaves when cleared away, makes generally an adequate toehold,--certainly a hold for the point of a claw.

In cutting across ice flakes, or along narrow bridges through _séracs_, if the bridge is solid enough it is best to make side-foot nicks along one side of the crest. If it is not solid enough and the steps have to be made along the actual edge of crest, it is well to remember that the fit, and especially the exact length of the step, are very important. The boot sole slips about on the top of a flat ice surface, and a step on a narrow crest which is made too short or too long for the boot renders the balance precarious. If claws are worn, the steps will be unnecessary, and the party will use the side or truncated crest of the bridge according to its solidarity and their own convenience.

On glaciers, the flaking ice that we meet with on the faces of big _séracs_ demands great nicety of touch. The steps are difficult to make, as it is difficult to check the fracture at the right point. They are difficult to use, because our weight may continue the work, and the whole flake surface below our feet may come away. Claws are of real service, as they grip without starting a line of downward fracture. If we are without them, a deep pick hold must be secured, driven through into a deeper stratum of ice, to protect the precarious foothold on the flake surface or edge. Large flakes that boom or sound hollow to the axe are best left alone.

On ‘crusted’ snow, snow that has melted and refrozen to an icy surface, which is often too hard to permit of footholds being kicked, steps are best made by a dragging stroke with one corner of the adze-blade along the face of the snow. Any attempt to swing or to cut with the pick will result in the point sticking at every stroke, and thus in very slow progress. On very hard, sticky surfaces, where the pick sticks monotonously and does not split the snow-ice, and where the drag stroke of the adze-blade will not penetrate, the corner of the adze should be struck lightly in, and the axe shaft levered sharply in the direction away from the step-maker. This will burst out a small cube of ice behind the blade. Two such blows and jerks are generally enough to clear a sufficiently long step for a boot. On softer, sticky surfaces a single well-aimed jerking blow of this sort, made by a single motion of the one hand, followed by a sharp, driving kick with the boot, usually forms steps rapidly enough to allow of the maintenance of a slow walking rhythm. Of course, to a party on claws, such surfaces, which cannot lie at very steep angles, present a pleasant ballroom or billiard-table vista of indulgent promenade.

[Sidenote: Using Steps.]

We learn to use steps before we are, usually, allowed to make them. But we cannot use them until they are made. Hence the order I have followed here.

To use steps rightly calls primarily for good balance. A man must learn to walk in steps upright, merely resting his hand or axe point against the ice as he moves up or down from one step to the other. If he leans inward, or hangs on to axe or handhold, he becomes a danger to his party. The steps are not cut for the angle which his foot then makes with the ice; he may easily slip, and the faintest jerk of the rope will snatch his foot from the step. A man upright and balanced on his foothold at the right angle can take a considerable weight or jerk if he has but a second’s warning. A man on claws has double this power.

In using a step a climber has not only a duty to his own balance movement, but to every following member of the party. He must use it exactly as it is made, and leave it as he found it. The foot must arrive neatly and leave cleanly. A fractional mistread leaves for the next man an uncertain or blurred step, if it does not ruin its security. There may be no overtreading, and no twisting or turning of the foot on any step, except on the turning-steps which are designed for that purpose.

At the turning-step of a zigzag the climber twists round face inward on his toes. If the step is only cut for one foot, he must only use it with the one foot, pointing it in the direction in which the imprint indicates that the leader used it. Otherwise he will spoil the step and get the sequence of his feet wrong.

On steep ice our main difficulty is to pass the inside foot from behind to in front, between our outside foot on its step and the ice wall. Beginners and bad icemen are inclined to avoid this difficulty by shuffling from step to step with the outside foot always leading, protecting each change of foot with an axe hold. This is dangerous and ruinous to the steps. On the very rare passages where it may be found necessary,--for instance, on the few feet of traverse across the face of an ice-glazed rock wall, or across a vertical ice bulge in a couloir, where passing the foot is impossible,--the leader will have cut a continuous ledge, on which he intends the feet to be thus shuffled and without risk. Otherwise the inside foot must always be passed in front, whatever the difficulty; and the better a man balances and the less he leans inward and clings to the slope, the easier becomes the passing of the foot. Where the wall is so steep that to pass the leg and hip-bone means really a movement out of balance, the leader may be trusted to have made some handhold above, if only for his own protection.

On steep ice, men on claws have to be very careful in passing the inside foot, so as not to catch the prongs in the puttie or fastenings of the firm foot. On the other hand a man on claws, secured to the ice by his prongs and not merely by the friction of his sole, can flex his firm ankle far more freely outward and allow his inside foot room to pass.

In descending a very steep ice staircase, it is important not only to follow with the proper feet but to notice how the leader used the steps. Steps on a descending ladder are not infrequently cut with the intention that the inside foot should be dropped _behind_ the outside foot as we stand sideways on a slope, and not passed in front of the standing outside foot and then dropped, as in the more usual movement for easier angles of descent. Step cutters should remember the device. It is not only easier, on occasion, to cut a step in this fashion vertically below and not on a descending diagonal, but it is mechanically an easier movement of descent, on a steep wall, to lower the inside foot thus behind the standing foot than to pass it in front.

On a diagonal descent, if the shorter legs of a following man find the steps are made too far apart for his descending balance, and he has no time to make fresh ones, he will sometimes find it safer to turn right round and descend the steps backwards, turning his other cheek to the wall. His outstretched toe can reach farther in this attitude. It is not sound for more than a few steps, and not dignified; but dignity must be sacrificed to security if the steps are already made and it is too late to protest, and it is better to arrive cleanly with the toe on a step, even the wrong way round, than to scrabble down insecurely, leaning against the ice with thigh or hand.

It is often asserted to be the business of the second man to ‘finish off’ the leader’s steps and enlarge them. This has grown out of the mistaken belief that large steps are safer than small, well-shaped ones. The bettering may, on occasion, be done by deliberate arrangement between two men. A return by the same route may be intended, when the larger steps will endure better through the heat of the day. Or if there are weaker icemen in the party it may save time to divide the labour of making the specially good and numerous steps they need. Otherwise the alteration is quite unjustifiable and improper. The best cutter presumably is leading, and he will have made the step of the right shape to start with. If it has been good enough for him to stand upon and cut ahead from, up or down, it is good enough for the party to follow upon. A second working-over of the step risks spoiling it. A patched step is never as good as a clean step, cut just to the right point and left raw for the kick of the foot to finish and to mould. If he does not spoil it, a second man by re-cutting postpones his real business, which is to emphasize the mould of the step still further by the right planting of his foot. If he has time to spare from his functions of anchoring the leader or the men behind, he can employ his hands better elsewhere. He may make additional handholds for balance on bad passages, or, by arrangement with the leader, introduce intervening steps, to save the leader time and to favour a weaker following. If he introduces steps, he must be careful not to upset the sequence of feet for which the leader is cutting the main line of steps. He may, also by arrangement, devote himself to breaking up and dispersing any large fragments of ice left about the steps, though not, of course, to clearing out the small stuff which is expressly left to take the imprint of the foot. He thus incidentally relieves his party’s bottled-up emotions by offering a fair target for the abuse from below which follows such clearing up, but from which the leading step-cutter must always be exempt. It is a graceful concession on a leading step-cutter’s part if, when he is doing his own clearing as well as cutting, he recollects that his following have heads as well as feet.

Men following on claws, in steps, nicks, or only claw-tracks, are freer to vary their sequence of feet or their fashion of using steps; the good hold of the prongs is more than a substitute for the nice fit of the correct foot to the mould of a step. But both for retention of rhythm and for security it is better as a rule to follow the leader’s tracks and save the time which must be spent in selecting new treads. This applies more especially to exposed hard ice where the rope is retained. Men moving without the rope may prefer to digress from the actual treads and find unbroken holding surface for their own claws. The leader’s general line should, however, be followed.

[Sidenote: The Rope on Ice.]

On ice, if the rope is retained, as it will be on exacting slopes by all parties without claws and by many parties with claws, it is worn in its normal fashion, with the waist-knot under the left shoulder and on the side towards or away from the slope according to the direction of the zigzag. One hand, generally the right, holds a short length of slack, as a precaution against jerk and to leave a margin for a longer or shorter stride in our own or our front man’s advance. The rope should never be quite taut. If both hands are required for a moment, to use the axe or to take a handhold, and the slack has for the time to be dropped, we must regulate our distance carefully, step by step, from the man in front, so that the rope to him continues to hang in an easy curve, which will neither catch on the ice nor be jerked by an extra length of stride on his part. We expect the same care from the man behind us.

On hard grainy ice it is useless to attempt to belay the rope with the axe, as is possible on snow where the rope can be looped round the driven shaft. Corrective measures must be left to the firm balance on a good step or on fast claws, and to the spring that the arm, holding the slack, may be able to give to the rope before the jerk of a man sliding comes upon our waist. If a man slips, our natural inclination to lean inwards towards the slope and get some clamp with the axe or hand must at all costs be unlearned and avoided. Once the body is no longer in balance, nor weighing upon the steps, the feet are easily snatched from their hold.

On soft grainy ice it is sometimes possible to make a belay by striking in the pick at a sharp downward inclination above us, and looping the rope round the pick and close to the ice. The shaft must then be held rigid in its first position. Unless the footholds are exceptionally bad, this anchor is not more secure than that given by good balance on the feet alone. And men are very apt, when a friend slips, to throw their own weight inward upon the shaft in a clutch of security, thus pulling the shaft down and loosening the pick from the one angle at which it could have been of any service as a belay.

On zigzags it is of no use trying to keep at even distances on the rope, no matter how even the pace. The intervals must alter as the men pass to and fro on the bends. The rope has to be taken in, as slack in the hand, and again paid out, as we cross below or above our front man on zigzags ascending or descending. The turning-step is usually made face inward in ascending and face outward in descending, though occasionally it is safer to make it face inward on a descent also. The face-inward turn has two advantages: one, that we make the turn on the toes and not on the heels; and two, that if we are using a pick hold at the turn or balancing with our axe touching the ice, we have not to make either the change of hand on the shaft of a fixed axe, or the awkward swirl round of the whole axe outside us and back again on to the ice, which a face-outward turn demands. During either turn the rope should be held high, and clear of the feet.

Balance is always easier when moving in steps at a fair pace; and steps of stationary comfort for turning or special anchoring, and large enough for both feet, are only made at intervals, generally at the end of the zag. Consequently it is not always best to follow step for step with the step-cutter’s necessarily slower progress. If we do so, we are constantly having to wait standing on one foot, or with our legs straddled apart on two steps. It is better to pause in the turning-steps and make up time on the series between them. For example, the second man secures his leader from a turning-step, and can wait until his rope is nearly out. He then follows more rapidly up or down the staircase. He gathers up the rope as he goes if his leader is still cutting, or, on worse passages, the leader takes it in as the second ascends. His natural halts will be at the turning-step of a zag or at his leader’s last anchor step. This method is of particular use when, as often in a couloir, it is safer and more comfortable to make our longer pauses under the rocks at the sides, and not all to move harmonically in criss-cross up the centre. Men on claws may prefer to be without the rope in such places; in this case they make their advance when they please, and are free to halt on any more comfortable nicks to allow for the leader’s slower advance.

For continuous following up steps, the rope and axe are usually held together in the outside hand, the inside hand being left free to take balance touches against the ice or to take in the slack. For slower movement, advancing one at a time, the axe is used for the touches or for resting against the ice during the pause on each step; this saves the chill to the fingers. The axe is at these times held across the body with both hands, the outer of the two hands also holding the slack of the rope.

On very steep or otherwise dangerous ice we shall only be moving one at a time. In this case the leader cuts a large anchor step to which he brings up his second; and the halts will be made by the party only at the recurring large steps. If the ice, and party, are sound enough for continuous progress, we shall generally be pausing on steps made only for the one foot: it is clearly of advantage, at such times, to have the freedom which claws allow us--especially if we are unroped--to move on until we have found a really comfortable nick to wait upon.

On traverses or zigzags, unless we can reach a very good turning or anchor step from which to pull in the rope of the man following, we do better to divide our stance between two steps. Our feet are then well planted to resist a pull coming diagonally or from straight behind us. On a traverse, if we are facing forward, standing either on one or two steps, it is best not to turn and watch the man following, which will prejudice our balance, but to trust to the feel of the rope to tell us what is happening. The rope on ice with its smooth movement is even a surer telegraph than on rock. Moreover, in the event of a slip behind us, we have not only the sound of the slide as warning, but the time taken by a slide down ice, perceptibly longer than by a fall over rock, gives us extra seconds to brace at our strongest. We are more prepared to do this if we keep our body and head turned in the same direction as our feet, than if we first turn round and then have to recover the best holding position.

[Sidenote: Glacier Work.]

On glaciers, besides the task of making and using steps, there is the more serious mountaineering business of finding the best route, up or down, or even any route at all. The climber may or may not have been able to help himself by preliminary reconnoitring. If not, and he finds himself upon an unknown glacier, he has one or two general principles to keep in mind.

The shady side of the glacier--there is usually one more sheltered from the sun--may offer the best chance of finding closed-up crevasses: or of discovering bridges, connecting flakes, etc., such as may help him through any system of open crevasses which extends right across the glacier.

On a curving glacier, the concave side may present to the eye the steeper and more threatening waves of surface ice, since the retardation will be greater on this side. Actually, the ice on this concave side, of slower movement, will be less intricate and the crevasses more contracted. Often the steep crests of ice will be merely surface survivals of crevasses, and their bases will be merged continuously in one another, forming broad glacier dimples easy to negotiate.

On the convex side, the ice crests of swifter movement may appear to be more negotiable, but the crevasses will be open and deep; and on this side there is always more possibility of finding a secondary or tertiary system of edge-crevasses intruding upon the normal side-system. These crevasses are produced by the friction of the glacier against its containing walls, and, like other crevasses, by the unevenness of the rock bed; but being on the convex curve and unsubjected to compression they not only open but stay open. Most edge-crevasses are usually much covered with moraine and stones, on lower glacier, and by many treacherous forms of rotting snow on upper glacier, and they are thoroughly unpleasant to work through. It is best to avoid them by turning out towards the middle of the glacier, until the side-rifts run out in harmless cracks.

On a glacier of approximately straight descent the ordinary systems of crevasses are three in number: these various marginal crevasses, transverse crevasses, and crevasses running lengthways down the fall.

The transverse crevasses are caused by the falls in the rock bed of the descending glacier. They are best crossed on a direct line of ascent or descent of the glacier. According as the glacier is humped in the middle, or flat and even hollow, these crevasses will be found, in the first case, less open nearer the sides of the glacier, and in the second, less open towards the flat or concave centre.

The third system, of lengthways crevasses, is due to the opening out of the containing walls of rock, or to long ‘hog-back’ elevations in the rock bed below, which thrust up the centre of the glacier. This is the more dangerous system to negotiate. Crevasses, especially those whose edges are concealed, must be approached, for crossing, at right angles to their run. A party ascending or descending the glacier lengthways will have constantly to be swinging its whole length on the rope, wheeling until at least two of the party at a time will be approaching the crevasse at right angles to its line and their former line of march. So long as the glacier is clear of snow, the crossings can be thus safely, if tiresomely, managed; but when the crevasses are snow-covered, or where we meet lengthways and transverse crevasses interlinked, it calls for fine icemanship to prevent sometimes all the party finding themselves moving along the same line as the crevasse they intend to cross, or even over its snow-covered length.

Where a glacier, straight or crooked, has one of its sides unsupported by a rock wall, and is therefore falling away at its own edge, or where its marginal and transverse crevasses have joined hands, a disagreeable system of curving crevasses must be expected. This is difficult to prospect, and dangerous to unravel if it is under snow. To locate the direction of a ‘scimitar’ crevasse at one point, and avoid it or cross it correctly, does not protect us against its later loop of unexpected trespass upon our route. The side of the falling away of a glacier should as far as possible be avoided, in spite of the temptation of its easier-looking surface ice.

On large glaciers, where two systems of big crevasses, each equal and still active, have met, we find the worst problem of all: that is, separate ‘cubes’ or islands of ice with crevasses on all their four sides. It leads only to disappointment to attempt to get through a big system of this character. Fortunately it is generally recognizable from a distance by its upstanding squared summits. For a space, also, round the junction of any two glaciers these turbulent effects of cross-pressure must be expected, and the area entered with caution.

On high snow-covered glacier, the huge rotund depressions or mills cannot be disregarded. But they can usually be skirted closely with confidence. They are the result of strains that, fortunately, do not create subsidiary or flanking clefts. They resemble mammoth ice sea urchins, not glacial star-fish.

On glaciers of rapidly changing angle and surface, a disagreeable phenomenon is the formation of an upper crust of ice, or frozen snow, over lesser depressions of the mill type. The crust gets separated from the fall of the surface below it, and while it continues to present a harmless appearance to all but very close inspection, it may surprise a whole party by letting them down simultaneously into a sufficiently startling hollow. The situation is generally more sensational than serious. Similarly, in winter, pools are formed in glacier hollows and frozen over. Then they are covered with snow, and the water drains from under the crust. Thus ice-traps are formed very difficult to detect by the eye, but which sound hollow under the testing tap of the axe point. On covered glacier the axe may never rest idle.

Glaciers in general, like rivers, alternate between distinct falls and more level slopes of smooth shoot or broken rapid. The routes through the smooth sections are easy to trace out from above, more difficult from below. The falls are more difficult to unravel from above, on a descent. In coming down large dry glaciers we can assume that a fall rarely extends equally broken right across the glacier; and that there will be a long bending eddy of smoother surface dallying close round the edge of the more broken section, which may afford us a passage through or round the rapids. On a small or steep glacier, where the fall visibly occupies the whole breadth of the glacier, and there is no eddy round it, it is useful first to discover if there may not be a direct central line which appears to force through the fall a long arrow-point of lazier, more level flow, such as we look for when we are canoeing down rapids. Failing either of these, on a small steep glacier the fall is often best skirted on the concave, or on the shadowed side of the glacier. Only in rare years, of hot seasons following mild winters, do alpine crevasses, or more often one great crevasse, sometimes extend right across a narrow steep glacier, and offer no through route, or bridge. As a last resort then it may be necessary to take to the rocks at the side of the glacier and circumvent the fall.

To get off a glacier at the right point in the evening, and also to lose no time and patience when we turn down on to the big glaciers in the early morning, it is our business to have noted beforehand from above the lie of the crevasses, and the points where it will be best to start crossing their trend. Many glaciers tempt us with long sloping lines of good going where their crevasses slant inward and upward from the margin. If we follow these without pre-examination, we either find our entry carried out and across to where the systems meet and produce difficult ice, or our exit balked of a landing-place. A few resolute traverses of the side crevasses, based upon observation, will often take us on to the master-diagonal, that launches us clear of the central fall or lands us on our chosen marge.

It will be seen that it is of value to train the eye to read a glacier from above, and mark out the best route, before we descend upon it. This inspection should be made not only of the glacier on to which immediate descent is intended, but of all the glaciers commanded by the ridges upon which we are climbing in a given season. The information may be invaluable for a future day, and the practice will serve conveniently to develop glacier prescience and glacier instinct. In addition, we secure a general idea of the condition of the glaciers in a particular season, or in a particular locality, which will assist by analogy to the unravelling of other glaciers which we may have been unable to prospect. A good iceman not only notes from afar, but retains his recollection of the route he noted when he is actually on the glacier and exposed to the constant temptation of following lines of deceptive least resistance. A number of mountaineers learn to observe, but few to remember; and fewer still will uphold memory against the evidence of the moment.

Conversely, it is valuable practical training to note, when we are on a glacier, the character of its rock walls, and the points at which the ice could be reached on a descent of the last rocks from the surrounding peaks. The rock wall just above a glacier is like a sea cliff, smoothed below, and presents a perpetual problem, of ascent or descent. Long returns may often be avoided by our recollection of inspections of a particular wall, or by deductions from our memory of the fashion of rock finishes found on the local glaciers.

Glaciers vary from year to year, and change slightly from week to week, and even on familiar ground it is wise to keep ourselves up to date by using all points of observation for the rediscovery of their annual or local variations.

With a few general principles as guide, the instinct that comes with experience as our aid, and backed by the usual allowance of climbers’ luck, there may be said to be scarcely a glacier, in the Alps at least, which cannot be traversed by patience and skill in all but exceptional seasons. An additional measure of precaution must of course be conceded, if we are following a line after noon or after sunshine which we could take on trust in the frozen hours before sunrise. And even before sunrise, in negotiating steep glaciers, dry or snow-covered, a very careful eye has to be kept upon the chance of ice avalanches or of the fall of a _sérac_. For this risk is not confined to the afternoon hours, when they are most likely to fall. A warm night, or frost, tepid wind or rain, will put the last touch to the career of many vagabond pinnacles depraved by the sun of previous days.

Where we can command the distant glacier above us, it is not difficult to mark the dangerous pinnacles and _séracs_, and to calculate their direction of fall should they choose for it our moment of passage. Otherwise, if we are launched in the morning, without prospect, into the blind intricacies of a big ice fall, the traces of previous falls must be our signals. They will be either scars, from which we draw conclusions according to their appearance of age or newness, or, more frequently, the remains themselves of a past fall, shattered fragments of ice. From the surface of the blocks we know whether the fall was recent or not. If the surface is blue and new in the morning, it has been a recent or night fall, and another may be expected; the same if it has only the rime of frost upon it. If the surface has melted at all and been refrozen since the fall, it is the fall of the day before or of still older date, and it need not be especially regarded in making an early morning traverse. The differences are notable, and a practised eye, backed by knowledge of the weather immediately preceding, can say within a day or a night when the fall took place, and whether it was a day or a night fall, and judge accordingly, with some probability of correctness, when a similar fall may be expected. Again, if there are traces of several falls of different dates, the passage is exposed to the raking of more than one periodic _sérac_ mass, and it must be avoided. If it is but a single old fall, of a complete _sérac_, which no expert will have difficulty in discovering, it cannot fall again and may be disregarded.

After the sun has once risen, all commanding and large _séracs_, even if there is no trace of previous falls, must become objects of suspicion, if we have to pass below them. Their period of decline and fall is proceeding, and its close cannot be calculated nearer than within a few hours.

But a skilled party, with claws and experience, need not be afraid of adventuring on to a crossing of the wettest, bluest, and nastiest-looking _séracs_, provided that they can work out a route of safe footing and that the threatened zones are visible, and therefore avoidable. So long as snow does not conceal the cleavages or muffle the frailties, the difficulties of ice, as such, are a delight to master. With a good axe, good claws and a good friend, to set one’s feet on the crisp spring of morning ice and feel battle joined with the white, blue and silver giants of a glacier fall, I know no excitement so sanely joyous; and no sound so thrilling as the clean hollow smack of the axe and the bell-like rustle of the falling ice-chips returning from the deep crevasse; and yet again, no exultation more healthy than to look back through the glittering labyrinth of turquoise and grey precipice, of sapphire chasm, fretted spire, and lucent arch, flake and buttress, and see the little serpent of our blurred blue steps, edged with the tiny winking prisms of sunlit ice-dust, soaring, dipping, circling, hazarding on its absurd adventure: surely a connected thread of very happy human purpose, asserting its gay consequence triumphantly through the heart of the wildest and most beautiful of the conflicts between nature’s silent armies.

[Sidenote: Snow-covered Glacier.]

Higher glaciers, and the higher reaches of glaciers covered with snow, are the most complex of all mountain problems, and their unravelling is the final test of mountaineering. They demand for their duality of difficulty the mastery of snow and ice technique in combination; and for their associated risk a fourfold measure of precautionary skill; for on them we expect to encounter the ordinary risks of snow superimposed upon the hidden, and therefore magnified, possibilities of danger on ice. The great icemen, those who can disregard a late descent after a long day, and by memory, or by the ice instinct which is the emanation of recollected experience, are able to lead a tired party unerringly through the fantastic, often invisible entanglements of a snow-covered glacier system, intensified by sunshine, their own faculties unimpaired by darkness, fatigue or danger, are masters of the craft; and they are few enough for us to give them ungrudgingly the title of genius.

The peculiar risks of snow glaciers force upon us a reconsideration of the numbers proper for a party.

Solitary climbing is never justifiable on any type of expedition which involves either snow or ice; in fact anywhere where the increase in the so-called objective risk makes it impossible to observe the super-precautionary conditions which must always limit a lonely climber’s performance,--as elsewhere enumerated.[15] An expert on claws may pass a day alone on a dry glacier, with the knowledge that he is taking some definite risk. But anyone who ventures alone on snow-covered glacier, whatever his skill, is giving to everybody, except himself, a proof that he lacks the most important part of a mountaineer’s mental equipment.

The question as it affects a single climber is simple. With the consideration of the justifiability of a party of two venturing on snow-covered glaciers, the complications begin. A party of two, I have said elsewhere, if they are experts, is the ideal party for most rock climbing. For most normal mountaineering which includes straightforward ice work the addition of a third to a strong party adds little except a moral security, and diminishes the complete harmony in rhythm and pace. On clear ice slopes the additional protection is small. If, as between two men, one has not been able to check the other’s fall, the third man will very rarely be able to stop the slip of both the others. On snow slopes, except to share the mechanical labour or in certain exceptional cases, already mentioned, to participate in the corrective anchoring, two good mountaineers should not need reinforcement. But on snow-covered glacier, where hidden crevasses come into question, not only are two insufficient but even three may find themselves hard put to it if two of them have to pull out the third from a bad crevasse.

Some mountaineers have maintained, and in print, that it is never necessary to fall into crevasses; that in every case a man with good eyesight, knowledge of glacier signs and unfailing observation (all of which the leader of a party of two must possess for _any_ type of climbing) can always distinguish their unseen presence and locate their line. This view is nearer the truth than the large number of climbers who have never learned or never cared to use and train their senses would be prepared to admit. In nine cases out of ten the crevasse is really perceptible. But there is the tenth case, with which all men who climb must on occasion have to deal, where there has been no visible sign, and where the crevasse is discovered too late or is only escaped by accident. And further, there is also the supernumerary case when the crevasse _is_ visible, but when its crossing must yet be risked, as the milder of several critical alternatives, and the consequences accepted.

As the matter must still be considered one for discussion, and it is of real moment to clear the ground for a sounder tradition than at present regulates our diverse doctrine and chameleon practice, I shall mention a few instances of what I have called the tenth case.

In a recent alpine season a mild winter and a long hot summer produced conditions of snow sub-surface entirely unfamiliar. Crevasses had opened below long-established snow slopes of unimpeachable aspect. Their coverings had become tenuous and fragile, but until mid-August the upper surface of old snow presented no appearance of subsidence or change. No eyesight could have prevented the falls that resulted. Such a state of snow cannot be unique, or confined to the Alps; and, in fact, the same phenomena, in a less subtle form, may entrap less experienced mountaineers almost any season--guides as well as guideless amateurs. Moreover, even where the crevasse shadow would normally be visible, failing light may trick the best eye, a level sun may dazzle, or low mist may wipe out all sign; and then our expert may go through as easily as another. Few even of the most experienced guides but have suffered the experience. Some have been through; others have had their following drop through where they had passed unsuspecting; yet others have only averted the break by good luck or corrective gymnastics.

Again, there is the case when the presence of the crevasse may be visible or suspected, but where its breadth is undiscoverable.[16] Or, again, where the bounds are discoverable, but where their criss-crossing may elaborate new risks. Suppose us to be two grave men making the descent of a hanging glacier. We find ourselves faced with the alternatives of returning up the peak, of sitting out possibly in deteriorating weather, or of taking the chance of unravelling one of those glacier cross-systems of spouting volcanoes, where the ice is heaped and beaten up into snow-covered vault and dome, and only the tinkle below our feet warns us that we are walking over the brittle cupola of some hidden St. Paul’s. One of us might be pardoned for breaking through here: and how shall one other extricate him?

A more frequent, ‘supernumerary’ case is that of the bergschrund, with its single bridge which we have to cross to get at our peak at all, or to get home before night. In the morning it may have been secure; on our return its security, or the reverse, has to be rediscovered _ambulando_. The experience is common enough, and few parties of two will be able to plead not guilty to having at some time taken the flying chance.

In these and similar cases precautionary and corrective icemanship can do much to reduce the risk for the party of two. But unless such a party climbs so as never to cross snow-covered crevasses at all, which is to postulate absurdity, some risk there must always be of a break-through. And if that once occurs, for a party of two the situation is ten times as serious as for any greater number. For if the fact that a man may excusably fall through may be considered established,--and I shall assume that it is, sufficiently at all events for practical mountaineers,--it is only a question of further fortune whether the crevasse is so shaped that one of the party of only two can rescue himself or even be helped materially by the second man. Several corrective devices have been suggested, such as wearing two ropes, keeping a hand-loop ready near our hand on the rope, etc.--devices which are now used in the confidence that they form a genuine safeguard. The intention of the double rope is that if one man falls through, the other will untie one rope from his waist, and fasten it to his axe, which he will drive in securely as a belay. The man below will then pull on this rope, and the man above on the rope still attached to him; thus securing that the two men will each be pulling separately to raise the one weight. The effectiveness of the double rope so used, however, assumes that the crevasse is one with open walls and clean firm edges, which will allow the second man first to anchor the one rope round his axe, and then move up and stand close enough to the edge to be able to pull in the second rope while his friend below does acrobatics up the anchored rope. But these are not the crevasses into which any observant leader of a party of two has any right to fall. Good men, if they fall, are trapped by snow-covered crevasses of indeterminate edges, or by the midway breaking of a visible but treacherous bridge. In such crevasses the fallen man will be under the projection of a lip of snow. He will be hanging free, probably unable to do more than touch the walls with his axe. The man above will have all he can do to hold on; he may not be able to find secure snow within reach into which to drive his axe for the belay; and his hands will rarely be sufficiently free to untie one waist rope, drive the axe and fix the rope to it, so that he can move up and clear away the overhang. The ropes will cut deeply into the snow lip with the weight; and the friction hold of the snow in which the ropes are embedded will militate against the effective pulling upon his rope by either man. If the two ropes are, as usual, tied to the waist, the one will probably have twisted round the other; both will be jammed in this position in the snow cut, and neither man will be able to distinguish on which rope he is supposed to pull. Even if they have been kept clear before, the cutting through the snow will twist the ropes and jam them, so that they cannot be used separately for pulling at all. The projecting snow will interrupt communications and interfere with any simultaneous

## action in pulling from above and below. Nor can the man below,

suspended in air, really do much to help. Tie a rope round your chest and a bough; drop ten feet on it, and then try to pull yourself up it! And a man in a crevasse is much worse situated for attempting juggling feats. The constriction of the rope alone will soon make him helpless and later unconscious. The shock, the imminent peril and the cold will contribute to weaken him for the strenuous efforts required. Further, if the rope is tied, as it usually is, under the arm, the knot will work up under his shoulder and practically put one arm out of action. All the strength of the arm will be required for merely forcing down the knot and noose, so as to keep it under the arm-pit; the moment the arms are lifted to attempt a pull, the knot will force itself up and half-paralyse the one arm.

It has been suggested, as a partial solution, that the two men should not rope at the ends of the rope, but keep some feet of loose end wound round the body. Then if one falls in he can, with luck helping him, release this slack and make a foot or thigh noose on which the body can rest while suspended, thus relieving the constriction of the chest. Anything that _may_ help is worth trying, and I should certainly advise the method as giving a small extra chance in a bad situation. But this only deals with one of many difficulties.

Experience has again and again shown me that the man below becomes incapable of active co-operation, from cold and shock if not from constriction, before the men above, however prompt and expert they may be, can arrange and carry out any effective scheme of rescue. I have known of difficult situations where even two men above proved insufficient for the complex task of retaining firm fixed anchors, clearing obstructions and pulling up. In any case no mechanical device can be equivalent to the power of a third man, and two men can never be as safe as three.

Once this is conceded, we may admit that a number of good mountaineers will probably continue to hold the view that two is the best number for many sorts of climbing; and that therefore parties of two, starting out with the best intentions, will occasionally find themselves compelled by the necessity of avoiding even greater risk to hazard the crossing of snow-covered crevasses or bridges of dubious stability. They should certainly then put on a doubled or a second rope. One of the two rope-lengths when tied should be longer than the other. This runs risks of twisting and is a nuisance, but in case of a fall it secures that the ropes are at once distinguishable, and it should be prearranged that the man who has fallen should always do his pulling upon this looser rope. The second man should have the end of the looser rope attached, not to his waist, but to his axe shaft. Whenever the leader crosses an obvious bridge or pauses to probe, the second man should plant the axe, with the loose rope attached, at once in the snow, and hold the other, tighter rope in his two hands, ready for emergencies. It is clear that on this method some practical use is made of the protection of the second rope. If the leader goes through, the second man avoids all the enormous difficulty of untying one of two taut ropes, of fixing it to his axe, and then anchoring it, with the whole weight of the man below dragging on him. The weight is on the one taut rope round his waist; he has only to drive in the axe with its slack rope already attached, and the fixed anchor is ready for the man below to start pulling upon, while he himself at once has his hands free to pull on the taut rope. Again, if the rear man falls in--which of course he has even less excuse for doing--this method has the advantage of keeping the second rope already loose and distinguishable in his hand, to cling to or climb upon, and also of saving his axe for him. This double advantage is some remedy for the fact that the leader, who in this case will be the man left above, will have both ropes still fixed to his waist, as on the old faulty system. I do not suggest that the leader also should have the second rope attached to his axe. He must have his axe quite free.

It might be well also to adopt the plan of the few feet of loose end wound round the waist, to make a foot noose with, if the circumstances and position allow.

When the double rope is worn, the rear man should always carry the spare rope. If the double ropes are then, as is quite possible, twisted and jammed in the snow groove, he has yet a third chance of making free and quick connection with his leader; and unless, as I have said, both men can begin instantly to use their full strength upon distinct ropes, there is small chance that one man can get another out of an undercut crevasse.

In place of tying the looser rope to their axe, some men prefer to compromise, and make a fixed loop in the second rope near their waist, through which, in case of the fall of a man in front, they can thrust the axe into the snow, and so get a provisional anchor. This loop in the rope close to the hand, to snatch at or thrust the axe through in emergency, is also used by men in larger parties when linked by the usual single rope. The method has many objections; and all the material security it gives is quite as usefully and less objectionably obtained from the coil or so of slack we are accustomed to grip in the hand.

In the case of a larger party, if a leader or last man does fall in, the first care should be to drive an axe, or axes, securely into the snow, and loop the rope. One man must then approach the edge of the crevasse and see the run of the rope, the nature of the pull, and the clearance of overhanging snow, if any, which has to be made. If the crevasse has the character of a bergschrund, with one lip higher than the other, it is often easier to pull the man out from the opposite side to that from which he has fallen. One, or, if the numbers allow, two of the party must work round cautiously to the far side, taking a spare rope to let down. A noose should be made at the end of the rope before it is lowered. The stirrup for the foot can also well be employed in such emergencies. In a party of three, on a suspicious glacier, the spare rope should always be carried by the last man, and not by the first man, as is usually done in guided parties.

With the two ropes pulling from different sides the extrication is fairly easy. If the farther lip cannot be reached, or overhangs as much as or more than the near lip, there is nothing for it but to cut back the lip of snow overhang above the suspended man until the rope is cleared. This runs some risk of injuring the man below with the falling masses; but the chance must be taken on occasion. The longer a man hangs, the more helpless he becomes. Promptitude is essential.

Keen sight is the first quality for a good leader on snow-covered ice; to be able to remark not only every change of shade or colour or angle on the surface immediately ahead, but also to be able to read the surface well to right and left for its betrayal of crevasses that may be continuing, better hidden, across his path. He must also know all about glacier structure and the inclinations and aspect of surfaces where hidden crevasses may be expected. Tinted glasses are, for many men, an interruption to the reading of ice or snow, and often the cause of bad leading. The man is fortunate who is able to do without them when he is leading, or who finds enough protection in the clear spectacles which best suit his sight. There is an exaggerated idea of the chances of breaking ordinary clear spectacles which has little foundation. They can be worn safely on almost all rock and ice; and even on very severe rock, where they run some risk of smashing as the head is raised past a ledge, they are as safe on the nose as in a pocket. Except right up under the arm-pit, and not always there, there is no contrivable pocket which can be sure of avoiding contact with rock in some attitude of climbing.

After our eyes--and our experience--we have still another criterion, that of the hand. The probing with the axe point at every step must become perfectly automatic, and begin of itself to function as soon as sight or instinct makes us suspicious about the glacier surface. We must have the right sort of axe point, one without a large protuberant collar to the spike, so that we can probe with nicety of touch; and we must get to know exactly the feel of our axe and the meaning of the different resistances which its point signals to our hand. For this reason it is well always to use the same axe or kind of axe.

Where our eye or axe probe has given us reason to suspect a crevasse, the next test is to flog the same spot lightly with the axe point. In dealing with sun-soft surface this flick goes deeper, with less exertion, and practice can make it a very accurate reporter upon the consistency. This too is its merit in testing the thoroughfaresomeness of visible bridges. Where also the snow cover is thin, the flogging stroke tells us more quickly than the prod where sound footing ends and the crevasse begins.

Snow testing, like walking with the axe, should be shared equally between the two hands. It is not only exceedingly useful to be equally dexterous and sensitive with either hand, but the practice keeps the muscular development even and the general condition of the body proportionately better.

When we are working through crevassed glacier the second man must always watch the meaning of his leader’s movements, and halt and brace at once if the leader checks. The others watch each the man in front of him. It is essential to follow exactly in the steps on a glacier of this sort, even though the windings of the leader’s tracks may suggest many pleasant short-cuts to the tail of the rope. By watching the men ahead we know when we must be ready to let out rope, so as to enable the man in front of us, in his turn, to make a long step across a dubitable crevasse or a short jump, and when we shall have to pause and protect him with the rope, as his turn comes to start delicately over a presumed bridge. To hold the rope taut is irritating, to jerk it dangerous, and to leave it slack on the surface irritating and dangerous; the correct touch comes with experience.

The leader will always be on the look out; but the men behind will naturally be following with less close attention. Therefore if the leader comes upon a small crevasse or other easy obstacle too slight to cause him an obvious check, he should warn the man behind of its presence, as he strides on, by beating the spot with his axe; and the signal should be repeated by each man following.

Again if, when we are all moving together, we have checked in order to make some awkward step or to test a bridge, we must remember that in a few seconds the man behind us will be checking at the same place, and we must slacken our pace at the right second to allow him time to cross. It is common and aggravating error to hurry on again so as to get into rhythm with the man in front, forgetting that the man behind will have slowed up for our pause, and will be jerked or scuffled by our omission to allow him the same margin.

The same rule applies if we are serpentining rapidly down a glacier, swinging so as to cross longitudinal or diagonal crevasses at the right angle. If we resume the normal pace the moment we have swung ‘into the straight’ again ourselves, we leave no time for the man behind to finish his parabola or cross his bridge. This is a roguery ingrained in all but the best of guides.

Glacier craft, the ability to choose in anticipation the easiest line down or up a volatile succession of semi-visible obstructions, and to surpass them safely as they become concrete, can only become an actual possession by long experience and unwearying observation. There is a family likeness between whole groups of surface configurations shaped by the same cause, which, however dissimilar their momentary association, will recall to a recording eye some past occasion of encounter, and will suggest to a cool head and skilful hands the proven method of avoiding or defeating them in their new combination.

Glaciers form our avenues of tempting approach, and, as often, of tedious return. During the hours when human vivacity is on the wane the higher ice falls are opening always wider eyes of watchful malice. Towards their confounding not only ice craft but all the qualities which produce the _collective_ strength of a party, from temper to the sense of direction, must contribute in concert. Among glacier ambuscades a party that has not found unity will fall to pieces. They are yet more demoralizing to one whose leadership is in commission,--that grievous blunder of divided responsibility, which, arising out of the sociable conjunction of two or more self-contained

## parties for the purpose of a single climb, leads too often through

disjointed action to failure, and even, as our chronicles bear witness, to disaster.

A really united rope, well led, which can work through disheartening glacier falls long, and late, and _like_ them, has graduated in mountaineering; and may be considered to hold the freedom of the great peaks.

SNOW CRAFT

The technique of snow craft is identical in its principles with that of ice craft. The upright balanced movement, the management of the rope, turning, anchoring, etc., are the same, or only slightly modified. Only points of detail, therefore, need be mentioned which are peculiar to the different qualities of snow surface. In certain cases, such as bridges and cornices, both snow and ice are in question, and the notes are then supplementary to those made under general ice craft.

To make snow steps is a matter of muscle and rhythm; to use them, one of balance and endurance; but to know how to avoid making them and where not to make them is the science of snow craft. We may learn to identify snow states by description: nothing but experiment can teach us how to deal with them.

We may classify the states of snow under many heads; but we are only practically concerned with three points: which of these states are pleasant, which are unpleasant, and which are unsafe to walk upon. Of most importance is it to be certain which states are likely to be unsafe, and to be able to recognize their presence beforehand.

Under Reconnoitring some suggestions are made as to the signs by which snow states may be interpreted from a distance, and some of the certainly unsafe ones consequently avoided in anticipation.

As to whether the state on a particular day will be pleasant or unpleasant, the weather of the day, the hour and the angle of the snow can tell us much. The final test must always be by touch.

[Sidenote: Some Characteristics and Countermoves.]

Snow lying at above an angle of 20 degrees may slide whenever its support is not equal to its mass. Its support comes either from behind, the rock, ice or snow surface upon which it rests; or from its quality, the cohesion of its particles; or from below, the angle and mass of the subtending snow slope. In deciding about its safety we must take all those three points under our inspection. Of its sub-surface we know something if we can ascertain the lie of the rock strata or detect the presence of ice. Of its quality and mass we judge by surface signs and our recollection of the weather. Of its support from below we judge by the angle at which it lies; not only by the angle of a specimen section, but the angle of all sections of the slope below.[17]

Snow lying at easy angles, exposed to the directer rays of the sun, will usually be soft; and while we may be able to mince over its night crust before sunrise, we do well to avoid its possibilities of purgatory on our return later in the day. Snow on south and south-east faces for the same reason is the more to be respected, and its earlier deterioration must be accepted without resentment.

If a strong wind has been blowing, the snow on the sheltered side of a peak will be the softer and the more likely to avalanche. Snow on a sheltered face becomes loosened in fibre by the balance between the air-currents, whereas, on the windy side, it will get blown off or blown superficially hard.

If there has been Föhn in the wind, the snow will be untrustworthy all round. Föhn has the insidious quality of disintegrating snow through all its depth; it may appear to have affected the surface relatively little, but it will have reduced the under-snow to slush. This is the most perilous of avalanche states.

Snow may be expected to slide, under the usual conditions, not only after hot days or days of wind. Days of warm mist and diffused sunlight may be even more deleterious.

Certain states of snow may start sliding irrespective of all changes of temperature, at any time and on calm days, merely as the result of some slight disturbance. First among these is ‘powdery’ snow. This may be either fresh snow or old snow which has never been melted and refrozen. Older snow in a powdery state we shall only expect in summer to find at greater heights, where the daily sun has little power. Since we shall recognize by sight that it is older snow, and since it has neither blown off nor as yet fallen, we shall be reassured about its holding quality, provided that we can also make certain that it is not lying in great masses or at a minatory angle. Sometimes, although we may not have seen it, we shall get evidence of its presence above us, in the appearance on gusty days of cascades of thin powdery snow streaming like dust down the lower ice or snow slopes. In the Alps these wind cascades of old powdery snow are sensational to see or to feel pouring round us on a steep wall, but they are too light to be harmful. The difference in weight between a flying veil of dry snow and one of wet snow must be felt on the shoulders or ankles to be appreciated. Cascades, of a more threatening sound, betray to us the presence above of old granular or crystal snow. The grains are easily set in motion; but in the Alps snow of this sort rarely lies at a depth to be worth regarding. Old powdery or granular snow, lying at a good angle and in light mass, we shall expect to be laborious but not to avalanche:--at least until we have put it to its last test of touch.

New snow, as a dry powder, if it lies in large masses, must be expected to avalanche on all slopes of steeper angle. In lesser quantities, it may be started by wind or by an incautious passage. On ice or rock it is never stable, until it has been cleared away or melted and refrozen.

New snow, as a wet powder on rocks, is desperately chilly for the hands, and has the disagreeable quality of transforming itself into an ice glaze under the pressure of the boots or the glove. If we are caught out by a fall of new wet snow on rock, ice-claws will protect our foothold, but nothing will save the hands. I have known very few men whose hands would stand more than a very short spell of clearing out rock holds in wet snow. Gloves are soon saturated, and the ice glaze forming under the hand still further reduces the effective grip of the numbed fingers. It is this that makes climbing on rocks impossible for days after a snowfall; while from snow or ice slopes, where we are not so concerned with handhold, the same storm will restrain us by its threat of avalanches.

After a storm of any length, two or three fine days are required in summer for the rock to clear. The first day of sun should melt the snow; the night following will refreeze it into a glaze: the second hot day will melt the glaze; and, with luck, the third day may find the rocks clear.

All wet snow, melting in heat or rain, in Föhn or after wind, is liable to avalanche, according to the angle at which it lies and in proportion to the amount of water which it contains. Only experience and touch can tell whether snow is or is not overcharged for the angle at which it is lying. It is astonishing what a quantity of water snow will hold without moving; and again, what a trifle will set it falling or arrest it. I have seen a whole quiet mountain face break into avalanches under the extra snow weight discharged during a few minutes of after-squall; and I have watched water-logged snow streaming like thin milk over the slabs of a north precipice, stopping suddenly as heavy, cold grey clouds crept over the rocks, only to begin again the instant the clouds passed and the sun broke through.

Frothy snow, neither powdery nor wet, but of the texture of dry sea-foam, is not so frequent in summer in the Alps as in some other great ranges. But I have found it occasionally near big summits or high up on northern snow faces. In spite of its intimidating quality, it is safe at almost any angle if it lies on a good sub-surface. But it is infinitely laborious. A step takes us up to our waist or shoulders. Progress is only possible by flogging a furrow up it with forearms and shins, which leaves a trail like an ecstatic sea-serpent. Some relief can be got by slapping down the shaft of the axe flatwise above us and crossways to the line, and pulling up on it as on a horizontal bar.

Before venturing upon snow of definitely unstable type, such as powdery snow or wet snow, we must make certain of its mass, its angle and the nature of the surface below it. We then adapt our methods accordingly.

For instance, if we find that wet or powdery snow is lying upon ice at anything but a very low angle, we start by finding out if it is of the same quality for all its depth. If it is, we must clear it away at each pace and cut a step in the ice below. If the poor quality is only superficial and improves below, or if we notice that where the lowest skin of snow rests on the ice it adheres either in a film or in measle-patches,--which signifies that the ice and the snow surfaces are going through a gradual process of peaceful interpenetration,--we can count on this lower snow surface for sure footing. We need not cut steps, but only stamp through the snow to a safe depth for a sound step.

If we have any doubt as to the security of a slope, which we shall have when the angle of the slope and quality of the snow are varying and the resultant stability is indeterminable, we must ascend or descend it vertically, if possible, or on very steep zigzags. We must take care to cross incipient cleavages, or traces of horizontal strains on the surface, at right angles, and never encourage them by letting the weight of our party tramp parallel to their length.

A steep slope of doubtful quality, if it has to be traversed, should be crossed as near its upper edge as possible, and this particularly if the slope is subtended by a cliff or a snow slope of steeper inclination.

On a slope actually showing traces of a recent slide, secondary falls may be expected. A snow slope is not a _sérac_, and it is not so safe to assume that all has fallen that can fall without close inspection. If we cannot see the place of origin we can make a deduction, as in the case of an ice fall, from the appearance of the nearer debris: as to whether it was a recent fall, a night or day fall, a surface skim, a local powder-rush or a sample of gravitating under-slush.

On the lee side of ridges which have been exposed to the wind, we must expect to find snow accumulations of a poorer quality, and liable to slide according to the angle at which they lie. This will be especially the case if the ridges are subordinate ribs descending from a principal ridge. On such ribs, if we find wind signs on the near side, we must be careful of the snow on the far side of each rib, and in all the adjoining protected hollows.

Good snow is either snow with a hard surface, or snow which, below the surface, remains sticky and light. Except at great heights, we shall only find snow hard before the sun has touched it. Before sunrise, after wholesome cold nights, we count on finding all snow surface good and every bridge holding. When we find soft surfaces in the early hours after a warm night, it bodes us ill if we have to return the same way later. On hard, steep snow, wherever our boots begin to scratt fretfully for foothold, it is less fatiguing to put on claws, or to make a notch with a single one-handed tug stroke of the adze-blade. On very steep snow of medium hardness, when a handhold is needed, it is better to use the blade of the axe than the pick.

The more level the snow the more directly will it have felt the sun; the thinner will be its night crust and the softer its under layers. Therefore we avoid, especially later in the day, launching out upon the great snow plateaux and valleys of the higher regions of glaciers, such as are labelled ‘_Firn_,’ ‘_Névé_,’ ‘_Ewige Schnee_’ on maps, names of foreboding. If we have to take to them, we keep to the sides, where the snow-levels begin to climb and the rays strike less directly. If we have a choice, we select the side or line which is subject to the shortest hours of full sunlight. Always, if they are there, we use old foot tracks. The floor of an old step melts and refreezes and, protected by its depth, remains firmer than its surroundings. On popular peaks these tracks can become immense frozen ruts, very awkward and ankle-racking to descend. It was reported one radiant year that a tourist on the final slopes of the Jungfrau had fallen into one of these ‘steps,’ and had been extricated with difficulty.

[Sidenote: Snow Travail.]

When we are really in for a steady plough through deep snow, the stride should be kept short, the knee bent, the weight well forward, and the body swaying from side to side--in fact we adopt the ‘tramp’s walk.’ To thrust with the straight knee is uselessly fatiguing. On soft snow we are lost if we cannot achieve some sort of steady rhythm. The feet should be planted _straight_, and not toes outward. The length of the stride with either leg should be absolutely equal.

If the weights of the party are very uneven, the heavy man should precede. It is less fatiguing for a heavy man to make his own steps, where he allows beforehand for the ‘give’ of the snow, than to stride out behind expecting a firm tread, only, in two out of three steps, to find the floor give way under him. Irregular resistances are the negation of rhythm.

Unless he has the shortest legs of his party, the step maker must always shorten his normal stride on soft snow. The length of the first man’s stride is increased as each man behind slightly deepens the steps, until the last man may have to be making a grasshopper bound to reach from tread to tread of what started as a normal pace.

On soft surfaces, especially where the resistance is irregular, it is difficult to keep in balance, and the axe comes into use at every step. I have usually found it better to reverse the axe. The head, like a ski-stick, gives broader stay on level snow, and firmer touches against inclined soft snow, than the point.

Crusted snow, where the surface has melted and refrozen, but too lightly to carry our weight, is the worst snow of all. When it lies at easy angles, it may be extraordinarily wearisome to cross. It just bears our weight until the body is fairly over the foot, then it gives and lets us through. At least the half of each lifting effort is thus lost, and each fresh step has to be made from a yielding basis uphill on to a hard one. Rhythm is impossible, and the prolonged aggravation is demoralizing. For which reason I have found soft snow the one test of sheer endurance in which good guides are inferior to good amateurs. We meet it not infrequently in our own islands, and welcome it then as good ‘alpine’ training.

For really bad crust there is no countermove, except strong thighs and a high flat-foot step. On crust of a better character, especially before sunrise, a shuffling step, which distributes the weight, often saves the foot from going through, or lets it sink to a less depth. On some crusted surfaces it is possible to slide cautiously along on the shuffle-step, where lighter men, walking ‘heel and toe,’ are going through at each stride. When the surface is too soft for even a shuffle to save us, the tread should be made with the whole flat of the sole, and not with the heel leading as is usual in road walking. Under the flat foot, as under a snow-shoe, the snow packs more quickly. To pivot upon the foot, before the weight comes upon it, widens the bearing surface.

Soft snow cannot be taken at a rush. There is a peculiarly clinging and binding quality in the snow of old avalanche debris. These are just the places where most folk start seven-leagued leaping. If we cannot restrain them, we make them take off the rope first. To be tied to a hop-o’-my-thumb when our leg has just entered binding snow, up to the thigh, at an acute angle to the pull is full of unpleasant possibilities. The wise man will continue even here to move lightly, and only as rapidly as balance and rhythm will allow.

On long monotonous snow wades, if we cannot get a good rhythm of legs or body, it is sometimes of use to supply its place by an artificial rhythm, counting the steps up to fifty and then pausing, or whistling, or following a tune in our head--anything that may introduce a rhythm, with rests, into the featureless vista of effort. The boredom that may afflict a party on snow is peculiar to itself. The even glare and the winding line of diminishing tracks hypnotize the eye and mind, and produce a conviction of exhaustion which is often in great part self-suggested. The wader feels that he absolutely cannot take another step. If counting fails, and other wiles and conversational red-herrings shrivel up in the silent white monotony, rest is the only cure. Sleep follows easily in such states, and a few minutes’ slumber often restores a man or a party surprisingly.

On long snow plods it is best to get rid of the rope whenever the absence of crevasses will allow. It but doubles the uneasy travail. If it has to be kept on, avoid spoken remonstrance when the man before or behind jerks you; let the rope do the talking. If you are leading, keep a small, loose coil in your hand, so that the man behind shall not drag you in mid-step. If you are last, you can always exercise a salutary, silent check. If you are in the middle, and you have, as is frequent in tired parties, an energetic leader trying provokingly to press the pace in front and the weakest member lagging slightly but protestingly upon your rope behind, the best way to protect yourself, inoffensively, is to take up both their ropes in your one hand, and so link their opposing pulls directly on to one another. You can thus maintain equilibrium with no further discomfort to yourself. When I was learning the craft in early years between two guides, or a guide and amateur of unequal endurance, I had many occasions for perfecting the device.

The use of ski upon snow is treated of separately. Whenever summer ski have been made as available as ice-claws, there can be no doubt that they will cancel out for us as much of the technical consideration of these penitential snow fields as claws have simplified for us the labour upon all the angles of ice.

[Sidenote: Snow Slopes.]

To make steps upon inclined snow is a matter of little difficulty. The direction and weight of the kick are suggested by the angle and texture of the surface. But to use them calls for more care than is usually given to the matter. On soft slopes it is a nuisance if the step stamper has a length of stride that makes each pace a slight effort for us. It is better to remonstrate at once: to shorten the pace by refashioning the step is to break rhythm for the whole line. Of course on easy slopes, if we are out of the rope, we go as we like, provided that we do not exhaust, by eccentric following, the energy which we should be reserving for our turn in the lead. But as the angle increases, or where the going gets more heavy, men of any experience fall into single file; and then to make missteps, to tread a step down at the heel, or to step outside the line, is to throw the whole march of those behind us out of gear, and to waste our own energy in repeating the leader’s work. It is impossible on snow not to be conscious of the leg swing of the man ahead. If he walks with the wrong foot for the trail, we are either drawn into his error, to our own inconvenience, or we resist the attraction with a conscious and tiresome effort. Our common rhythm goes. Worse than this, he spoils the steps for us. Nothing is more muddling, in ascending or descending snow slopes, than to find the steps broken or doubled. We bungle, and get the wrong foot for the leader’s tracks; our body as a result balances wrong for their angle of use. In coming down especially, a bad second man, who lets himself lollop carelessly into tracks or makes ‘tumble-steps’ on either side, confuses every one behind him as well as himself. The whole party will be wasting temper and strength in choosing between a maze of ‘joy’ tracks, or in remaking their own in despair, where they should have been following mechanically on a ready-made line.

In using steps on steep snow of uncertain stability, it is vital to tread right to the fraction of an inch. A tired man who steps a nail-breadth false on a descending ladder of this character will certainly cause some step to give, and endanger the general safety by a slide. He may explain that the step ‘broke away’; but the fault has been his. It is the ideal of all good climbers, although very few men can live up to it, to use steps as accurately and with as dancing and precise a foot at the end of a long day as they did at the beginning.

If a snow step on a steep slope looks insecure, as it often may on wet snow after several men have passed, it is best to tread slightly inside it and scrape down a shaving of fresh snow to strengthen the floor under the foot. But this intentional over-tread should never be made on the outside of a step. If a step has broken away and a new step has to be made, it should be trodden, similarly, inside the old one, over but not exactly in line above the broken step.

Descending on snow of poor quality is oddly nervous work. The descending action is awkward, as upon ice, and there is the added doubt as to what will happen when we drop on to the foothold. Every one has days when the muscles are stiff and when the descent of shaky steps does not go in easy balance. At such times it is reasonable, and safer, to make ‘arm-scoop’ holds to help the balance on the step-down. We may do on snow what we may not do on ice--take the weight momentarily off our foothold on to the arms; because on snow, if some one else slips, we can at once drive another foothold with the heel and get into balance for the jerk. In coming down steps in soft, steep snow which have been worn away by previous members of the party, it is often even advisable to make these arm-scoops in order to save the effort of making new steps and to lessen the weight on the old ones.

On high, popular ridges in fine weather the lines of old steps with their floors refrozen and their shape spoilt are often uncomfortable to use on the descent. For the mountaineer the whole day should be equally of pleasure. The more the difficulty of the climb is over, the more we may consider our comfort, even to the point of demanding a new set of steps.

On steep zigzags, if we are crossing and recrossing one another, we remember to give the man below us ascending, or above us descending, time to make his turning step at the corners. If we do not slacken, we shall jerk him or force him to let out his hand coil just when he is most occupied with the turn.

On big faces, of yielding snow, we find firmer stepping up the wind-blown crests of the undulations, often only detectable by their correspondence with the buttresses descending from the cliffs above. Conversely, on faces of recalcitrant snow, we foot it more lightly up the troughs between the waves.

[Sidenote: The Rope and Axe.]

Except on hard morning snow, or on snow where we can make absolutely certain of what is happening underneath, it is a good principle to retain the rope. Progress is quicker than on ice, but sight and prescience can ensure us less completely against the accident and the unseen. As a partial illustration of the distinctions to be observed, a strong party might be justified in making their way unroped and on claws up a formidable dry ice fall; but they would, if they knew their business, then put on the rope to traverse the easy but snow-covered angles of the _névé_ above, seemingly far safer than the _séracs_ they have just passed singly and unroped.

“What is happening underneath” must be interpreted to mean not only what may be lurking underneath the snow surface, in the way of ice or crevasses, but what is happening below us on the mountain side. We keep the rope on unless we are _certain_ that the breaking of a step or a slip will lead to no worse results. If there is a long, steep wall of ice or snow below, or the suggestion of crevasses or a bergschrund, or a rock cliff, or even a section of the slope which we cannot see and which may contain a cliff, we may take no chance, and the rope must be retained.

On all smooth snow and ice slopes, unless we are moving short-roped over safe and fairly even glacier, the rope-lengths between us should be allowed to ‘travel’ lightly on the surface. This lightens the draw of a heavy rope carried on the waist or hand, and avoids the strain upon the balance. Too much travelling rope is a drag; too little tightens on us like a brake. The hand must get to know by feel when there is just enough down to let it travel lightly and freely. The hand, too, as on rock, must learn the habit of freeing, freeing the rope continually, so that it shall not catch. Over rough surface we raise it clear; and over ‘suspected’ glacier we keep it all but taut, taking up the slack in a hand coil.

We may never trust snow steps, unless in a very fine quality of snow, to carry more than our own weight. In protecting others of the party, therefore, we cannot, as upon ice, rely exclusively on balance and our foothold to take the jerk upon our rope in case of a slip.

To anchor, on all steep and doubtful snow slopes where the angle or the quality of the snow advises the retention of the rope, the axe must be thrust into the snow beside and above us at every step. It is driven to the head or to just beyond half its length according to the condition of the surface. The rope is passed round the shaft and rests on the snow, so that in case of a slip we get the friction of the snow into which it cuts to help us. At a turning step on a zag the rope is put round the shaft in the reverse direction. This driving of the axe and the looping of the rope men should execute when the feet are at rest on the holds, and not, as many do, while they are taking the step. It is often very difficult for tired men to continue for hours the regular thrust of the axe and the careful anchor of the rope at each pace. But just on those angles and on those types of surface where the precaution is most laborious is the protection most needed. Snow is not ice, and in proportion as snow steps are easier to make they are easier to break, and more in need of assistance from the hand.

On the sharp edges of big ridges the true footing is often along the crest itself. If the crest is too frail for the feet, it can still provide the best bedding for the driven axe or an armhold. If the snow is really threatening, and it is unsafe to trust to steps along the side or on the edge, it is occasionally preferable for two climbers to make their own steps along opposite sides of the crest, with the rope riding across the snow edge between them _à la mode Tartarin_.

If rocks or obstacles forbid us to use the rope in this literary fashion, on such risky snow we shall, of course, only move one at a time. To secure a safe anchor step while the other man shifts, I have used the device of driving the axe almost up to the head, and then standing on the snow crook immediately behind it.

To arrest another man’s slip on steep snow, the snow itself must be used to minimize by friction the jerk of the rope on axe and arm. Any bulge or corner of snow will serve, for the rope to play over and, slowly, cleave through. I have seen a rope, held across a sharp slanting edge, cut four feet into the snow under the weight of a sliding man; the friction stopping him gently before the jerk came upon the axe. If there is no corner to help, we must lean the whole weight of our body upon the rope where it runs out to us round the belay on our axe; so crushing the racing rope into the snow and reducing the final tug upon the driven axe shaft.

[Sidenote: Bergschrund and Bridge.]

The crossing of the obvious bridges over the bergschrunds that subtend snow slopes is an art by itself. Flat or snub bridges are less secure than bridges that display a Roman archness of irregular snow on their upper surface. If the bridge is steep enough to call for steps, the steps of the leader should be followed absolutely, unless he has previously cast doubts upon their validity by falling through them. If the centre of the bridge, or the spring of the arch at its higher end, appears too frail for steps, and the word be given to crawl, the crawling should be done quite flat, and the body pulled along by the axe. To fox-trot on hands and knees is little safer than to walk on the feet.

If the bridge is only doubtful, we cat-step across it with the lightest foot we can. We carry the axe at thigh level and at right angles to the body, so that if a leg goes through, the axe comes down on the snow like a rail under the arm, and has a good chance of catching on firmer snow at either end. I once dropped ten feet into a crevasse, and was stopped thus by the axe under my arm-pit hitching between the narrowing walls. If we feel a foot going through, we must avoid above all things our first impulse, to throw the weight convulsively on to the other foot. The whole body should be allowed to fall forward flat. A swimming movement with the arms then often extricates us without further collapse. Of course on no bridge may more than one man cross at a time; and for a doubtful bridge at least two men must be stationary and anchoring the rope of any man crossing.

A steep bridge of unproven security is often best crossed, on a descent, by a prone glissade. If the bridge has an obviously continuous surface, we may prefer to fly it head forward and face down, because clothes admit less snow in such fashion. But if the continuity is doubtful--and the fact is often difficult to ascertain from above--it is best to shoot the bridge lying on the back and feet foremost. The hands and feet are held ready to shove off backward against the snow, and we are ready to finish the crossing on a flying jump, should a breach appear in the bridge as we approach it.

If there is no bridge, we sometimes have to jump considerable widths and depths. It is better then to take off soon, and not to yield to the temptation to creep just a little farther down the steep, crumbling upper lip of the schrund. Too long a descent often ends in a slip as the wall steepens, and it requires a nice judgment to continue the slip discreetly, and shove off for the jump at just the right instant to carry us across to the other lip. For a high jump into soft deep snow it is permissible to throw the axe ahead; and it is essential to see that there is enough rope out for the jump. Again, if a man has jumped and is shooting on down the snow slope beyond the rift, it is kinder not to be in a hurry to stop him categorically with the rope. On lower snow slopes the angle is rarely too steep for a man to be able to stop himself gradually and less painfully, helped by friction and the merest suggestion of restraint. Jumps of more than twenty feet into soft snow have been made; but they are not agreeable. If the snow on landing is at all sticky, it binds at once round the legs, and threatens a break or a severe strain as the weight of the body travels forward above them.

[Sidenote: Snow Cornices.]

The cunning of hidden cornices cannot be overrated. Its detection is dealt with elsewhere.

Once we have located what we take to be their line of junction with the parent snow crest, we must allow a further broad margin in selecting a safe line for our steps. I have known a section of cornice thirty feet deep break away along the line of our steps, when we thought we had allowed a good ten-foot margin from its line of junction. The heavier the cornice, the deeper the margin we must leave; not an easy rule to keep, as the snow curve backing a big cornice will be all the more gradual and solid-looking. Leaders are always apt to cut the margin too fine, for the reason that the farther we move away down the back of a cornice, the steeper becomes the slope, and the harder probably will be the snow for step-making. At great heights the same cold winds which blew the cornice may have blown the snow slope to crusted snow or snow-ice; whereas, where the angle eases off right upon the crest and the back curves over into the cornice, the direct exposure to the sun will often produce a band of softer snow, easy to kick steps in. When we are dealing with huge ridges and long distances, it is very trying to have to continue to cut steps at a snail’s pace, on a steep wall, when three feet above there is a line where we could walk. But these are just the situations which differentiate between good and bad mountaineers. Danger is a matter for our individual judgment, and if a guide, however famous, makes steps at a level that seems to our mountain sense to allow too narrow a margin, we need never have the least hesitation in starting to make another line below. The implied criticism is better than remonstrance.

Occasionally when the cornice is not too big and its back is ice-crusted or exposed to a high wind, it is possible to work along underneath it, below the crest of the wave. This must be done with caution; the shock of step-making may easily loosen a section of the overhang on to our heads.

Where a ridge is surmounted by a double cornice, that is, by two cornices curving opposite ways, one on the top of the other, there is simply no safe way of getting past them. Parties who persist in traversing a great ridge when they find it in this condition must be persuaded that their luck will take pity on their understanding.

In approaching the edge of any ridge, if it is not otherwise obvious that no cornice exists, the leader must test for the cornice every few inches with strong, deep thrusts of the axe shaft. The rest of the party, protecting him with the rope, must remain well below on the face until he has demonstrated that no cornice exists, or until he has had time to locate its line and to return to a point well below the junction. Such a crest should never be approached diagonally, lest two men might find themselves on the cornice together, but always at right angles. If an uncorniced ridge gives us reason to suspect, as we follow along its crest, that a cornice is beginning, at least two of the party should descend well down the face (if rock anchorage is not available), and protect the leader while he investigates.

If we wish to cross a ridge or a pass and the far side is overhung by a cornice, the leader must be strongly protected while he flogs away a section of the cornice, back to the sound edge. A large slice in this case should be cleared away, as adjacent parts of the cornice weakened by the fracture may fall upon the party subsequently as they descend. These crossings should never be made where the cornice is really heavy.

We shall never, of course, approach a crest up a wall crowned by a large cornice; which is equivalent to climbing deliberately up under a toppling _sérac_. A light cornice we may approach, but preferably at a point where it has broken away. If no such gap exists, we may be forced to cut our own skylight through it. This calls for great caution and skill; a small fragment may easily sweep away any man below us on the slope.

[Sidenote: Snow in Couloirs.]

In couloirs and chimneys snow can remain at a higher angle than on open slopes, and presents therefore some exceptional features. Certain of these are dealt with under other headings. Snow in a rock couloir, late in the day, must always be tested before we descend on to it. This can sometimes be done with less trouble by throwing heavy stones on to the surface. The way the snow spurts or squelches or rives to receive them tells much to the practised eye. If they start a surface avalanche they may either betray ice below, or they may leave bare a tract of hard under-snow down which we can kick good steps. The presence of ice below snow is often evident at the edges where the snow-ice splays out on to the containing walls. The testing process should be repeated at intervals, as we descend, on doubtful snow. A long couloir, of pure snow above, has frequently ice below snow in its lower sections.

In descending couloirs of uncertain snow, we naturally make use of the rock walls, when possible, for belays or holds. There are often good leg stances between the rock and the snow, where the snow veil has shrunk away, with an ice-trimmed border.

If the snow is of good quality, we proceed as we like; but if it is shallow, lying on ice, or of suspicious consistency, we ascend it in as direct a line as possible, or in steep zags, with a disposition to keep near the sides. On really threatening snow we ascend and descend by means of the vertical ladder of apses or pigeon-holes, climbing face inwards, and using both hands and feet. Our tread in this fashion is more feline, and our weight better distributed.

If we desire to leave a snow couloir by the rocks on either hand, or to use the rocks to help the ascent, it is sage first to try the side which is exposed for the longest time to the sun: the snow adhering to these rocks will be kindlier, and there will be less chance of an ice glaze. We have, however, to remember that the sunny side is usually that upon which falls of stones start earlier and occur more frequently; and our decision must depend upon the evidences of their spoor on the snow.

Outcrops of rock, in large snow couloirs, on ice or snow slopes, often appear as welcome islands in a long labour of step-making. But outcrops are apt to be more or less disintegrated, according to the character of the rock. If they are not rotten, they are not unusually rubbed bare and holdless by the passage of ice, stones and snow over them. Such islands, on ice slopes, are nearly always encircled by harder ice for a space round their lower walls, which increases our labour in approaching or leaving them. On their upper side they sometimes support a convenient spit of good snow. On the whole, they generally give more trouble than they save.

A particular type of couloir which is found in the Alps is worth mentioning, because of its false heart and honest, grubby face. These are the easy couloirs that debouch on to the glaciers at the bases of many sound granite peaks. They are plastered inside with loose rubble and snow or gritty mud, and we assume sound granite at the back. With dirt and care they seem fair enough to scramble down. But they are often in a precarious state of deeper decay. The passage of the party will start a gradual or rapid dissolution; and on occasion I have seen the whole cuticle of couloirs of this type, grubble, snow and large rocks, slough itself off on to the glacier a few minutes after the descent of a party. They should always be tested before entry by discharging large rocks down them, to prove their honesty or expose their enamelled senility.

[Sidenote: Snow at Home.]

Among the Scottish mountains practice of a very useful character in our snow craft can be had during the winter months. From November to May snow will be found of different qualities: the best during March and April. On northern and eastern faces we may get step-cutting on hard crust and ripple crust, passable glissading, and happy experience of small snow slides, large cornices and snow travail. On north faces, exposed and crusted by the cold winds, snow will stay at an exceedingly high angle, and as there is small risk of underlying ice, we can adventure admirable practice in very steep snow work with more excitement than peril. The snow couloirs at times introduce us to bergschrunds, and, educatively, to reconnoitring exercises in identifying the respective runnels of stone fall and water spurt.

On north faces in the Lakes and in North Wales normally the snow work is confined to the first quarter of a cold season. Ice is rare, except as glaze or as frozen water-fall or drip in wet gullies sheltered from the sun. Step-making is commoner than step-cutting. Of snowy, icy and glazed rocks we can get more than we may desire; but for snow technique little but practice in travail, step-kicking, back-sliding, rope craft and blizzard-facing,--all very pleasurable holiday experiences, for which it is worth while taking down the ice-axe.

It is curious to note that ski-ing as a common device used once to be practised by the boys and herds of the north, the primitive ski being formed out of the hoops of barrels. The custom has now lapsed: the effect of the enclosing of the hills by walls, or of the boys by Board Schools. The reintroduction of some less elaborate ski might revive a more romantic spirit.

[Sidenote: Confusing Weather.]

In fair weather route finding on snow has no difficulties comparable with those of ice or snow glacier. The flaws are obvious, and there are no hidden angles. The one complication is weather and atmospheric condition. As a result of the somewhat featureless simplicity of snow slight changes produce more serious confusions.

High wind is always an enemy,--not only on snow. A mountaineer is more afraid of going out on windy days than on days of rain and snow fall. On snow, wind finds a new weapon to hand in the snow particles, whose blinding assault interferes with the discretion. The sight of the faint blur of snow as it is blown up from the skyline of a high ridge will always give us pause: no passage there will be possible while the halo remains. Wind and snow combined may confuse the best of mountaineers, and often the compass proves the one rescue from a complete reversal of direction. However resolutely they march, few men can resist on a long tramp the impulse of snow or wind on their faces to swing unconsciously one way or the other for protection. A shift of wind in a mist may take a party, steering by it on snow, through a complete circle. I have known of men, attempting a descent on the sheltered side of a level but interrupted ridge, who were led, by a spinning wind in mist, through the ridge and back along its other side to their starting-point, and all in twenty minutes.

But even when unsupported by wind or obscurity, a slight depression or a light cloud may make way-finding difficult on even snow, where there are no rock outlines to penetrate its guile. A diaphanous mist, approaching in tint that of the snow surface, is sufficient to conceal or completely alter distances and angles.

In cases where the mist exactly combines in tone with the snow, a curious phenomenon makes itself uncomfortably evident. The leader on a snowy crevassed glacier will suddenly, and apparently wilfully, begin to fall into crevasses which are visible to those following behind him on the rope. They will marvel at his stupidity, until they begin to lead themselves, when they will reproduce it. The reason will have been that whereas those behind have some dark object, man or rope, upon which to focus their eyes, the eyes of the man in front, looking only upon a uniform blank surface, go out of focus, and become unable to distinguish between details of the same tone. Any detail darker by contrast--a rock, or the length of the rope ahead, or even the sight of a distant peak,--for such mists are often transparent--will yield them a focal point again. If he has no such natural assistance, the leader must keep looking methodically at his feet, and then forward. This will discover to him the nearer crevasses. For a longer view he may try the device of balling snow, till it crushes to a darker colour, and throwing it ahead: he will then again be able to see more distant details in their relation to the passage of the snowball.

In a mist or at night, on glaciers, or on snow slopes where there is reason to suspect the neighbourhood of rocks, it is possible to keep direction, and to discover towards which side of a slope or glacier our march is tending, by shouting, and calculating our position by the time it takes for the echo to return from the rock on either side. Across smooth slopes a very small and remote obstruction will give echo to our appeal.

On open snow slopes where there are no retaining walls, the best method is to have the full length of the rope out, and put a man with the compass at the rear end to correct the leader’s line. If a compass is lacking--if it can ever be lacking in the mountains!--the man far behind is still in the better position to judge, by the pointer of the rope, whether the line is being maintained or is inclining either way.

If a return in mist over the same ground is expected, the tracks should be made intentionally deep, in order to reinforce the line against the sun’s action, which may be all the more rapid when the light is diffused through such mist. The axe should be driven deeply into the snow at short intervals, so as to leave marks which may last longer than footprints; and this especially on hard snow.

On rocks or snow in mist, and even with less excuse on clear days, some other-land climbers adopt the device of marking the line of return at important points of divergence by squares of red paper fixed under stones. In emergency these can be of service; but they are unsightly, and their frequent use encourages climbers to pay insufficient attention to a very important part of their work--which is to note and record in memory the details of a route against the time of their return. A climber who has to find the return line on difficult rock or glacier, or on any climb that winds by devious ways, should never omit at all points of divergence or of salient indication to turn round and note how the passage or kink looks from the opposite direction; which is generally very different from its aspect on the approach. Distant views are often confused and absurdly distorted by mist; but details close at hand, for whose memorizing alone red paper could be a substitute, are seldom sufficiently obscured not to be recognizable by a trained observation and memory. Only in two cases--one, the rare event of an expedition over fog-bound snow being continued with the intention of return over the same line; and two, equally singular, the case of a party, which contains only one mountaineer capable of leading the return route, attempting in mist a climb whose difficulty will necessitate the expert going last on the descent--would the use of red paper seem to be justified. Waste paper is inelegant, and makes an unimpressive substitute for hill craft. But mist is a subtle enemy on glaciers, and we may sympathize with folk who meet it by tricks when they happen to have brought a box of them with them.

[Sidenote: The Sense of Direction.]

In the end, and behind all memory and observation, we have to fall back upon that useful but mysterious faculty, the sense of direction. Its existence is often denied, especially by men who do not possess it, and its workings are attributed to powers of observation, to unconscious memorizing and to reasoning. But no one who has mountaineered or travelled much in uncharted ground with men of very divergent or very similar powers of sight or experience will be found to discredit its positive but entirely accidental possession. Irrespective of sight and independently of the presence of any other respectable mental faculties, some men are found to possess it and some not; and no experience or study will ever equalize the capacity of those who cannot with that of those who can exercise it in dealing with misty conditions or unknown country. Men who have it only in a slight degree frequently impair its fidelity by training their observation and memory. By taking thought we can nearly always confuse it, in ourselves or in our neighbour; and this fact has especially to be borne in mind in dealing with less educated brains, such as those of guides, where its working is unconscious when it exists at all. A pertinent question or reminder may often set them, or ourselves, thinking or doubting, and lead to hesitation or wandering where a moment before confident movement reigned.

If we have once made certain that a guide or even a younger or less experienced climber possesses it, we may accept its leading thankfully in moments of doubt, although its counsel may contradict our own reasoning or conscientious observation.

Those who do not possess the instinct, and those who possess it only in a small degree, will find it almost impossible in thick mist on featureless snow to avoid the inclination to turn in a circle, generally to the left. In mist, with the most resolute intentions, it is at times even difficult to correct the inclination, by allowing for the stronger thrust of the right foot (or whichever may be the leading foot in our own case) and by taking the axe in the opposite hand to that foot; or by discovering and allowing for our exact amount of bias. The compass is the only secure guide for the ungifted.

Some men have the sense in the form of an ability to keep a straight line once set, no matter what the obstruction or obscurity; others in the form of knowing their position in relation to any near or distant point they have previously visited. With a few the sense is polarized; they ‘feel’ the north. My own sense indicates only direction between points already visited. Although making all allowance for the leading foot, and conscious that as leader I was being kept to a straight line by the compass in the hand of my last man, I have myself in thick mist on level snow, after forty-five minutes of what was actually straight marching, felt positive that I had led the party through one complete and one half-circle to the right, so strong was the instinct to turn to the left in spite of all precaution and prevision. On the other hand, I have watched a man who had been brought round from Hammersmith to South Kensington by Underground on his first visit to London, and set to the task without previous warning, take and keep, in thick fog, the most direct line back again through the maze of cross streets; which he could not be said to be seeing for the first time, as they remained invisible. A singular case was that of a high Wrangler, a mountaineer, whose sense of direction was acute, but inverted: it indicated points precisely opposed to the correct ones. Once we had discovered this, and allowed for the idiosyncrasy, we made frequent use of his otherwise very exact sense. For those who may have interested themselves in the faculty, I will add that this friend similarly produced or wrote down the results of all mental calculations with the figures in the reverse order.

GLISSADING

Glissading is an art that rewards the skilful. For the inexpert, though the pleasure in its prospect never dies, the actual performance is more often productive of aching shins and wet clothes, than of birdlike exhilaration. Until ski-ing came in to complement it, and we may say to improve upon it, glissading gave its artists their nearest approximation to the sensation of flying. Its physical thrill is very little less intense than that of flying on machines through the air, because the exciting vibration of the feet over the solid surface provokes a lively consciousness of pace and motion disproportionate to the actual rate usually attained.

But it has never been widely recognized that the art has to be learned. Very little has been written about it, and much of that little has been fundamentally wrong. All men glissade in a sort of way, as a kind of amusing frolic, with tumbles forming an integral part of the fun, like the periodic shrieks of the ladies on the Earl’s Court roundabouts. But men who know how to glissade, and how to use its opportunities as a real auxiliary to their mountain progress, have always been the exceptions. Guides are seldom able exponents. More than a dozen fatal accidents are directly traceable to bad glissading.

Fortunately, the greater popularity of ski-ing has come to the rescue, and its more general practice should have prepared both the minds and feet of a much larger number for a more serious treatment of their mountaineering glissading. A man who can ski is half-way to becoming a good glissader. A good glissader, once the first surprise of the ski feeling is overcome, finds many of the simpler ski motions familiar.

In learning to glissade, a man has three points of normal contact which he must learn to control: his two feet, and the shaft-point of his axe. There is also a fourth point of possible contact, with which I deal separately under sitting glissades. The head of the axe, except in one very rare case, is useless for contact, and should never be brought into play. In fact, during the time of learning,--and to learn properly will take as long as has to be devoted to the beginnings of ski-ing,--it is better to use only a stick with a single point, or a ski-stick. The axe head during the preliminary falls is apt to point too keen a moral.

A certain school of icemen, the devotees of the short axe, keep the axe head always sheathed in its leathern cover. In glissading the practice has distinct advantages: it preserves the keenness of the edge, protects the climber, and is far warmer to grasp. Those who learn to glissade with an axe and not a stick may well copy the practice. This suggestion applies to learning both on snow and on glacier.

ON ICE

Glissading on ice is practically confined to short rushes on glaciers; even there it is generally avoidable, but its mastery adds a delightful possibility of directness and pace to the late returns down ice falls.

No sane man will ever start a glissade on ice on a mountain side, unless the slope is evidently short and is seen to end in safe arresting snow, or in the earth deposits found on Himalayan glaciers. The sheer pace and rude vibration produce helplessness and, soon, unconsciousness on a steep ice slide of any great length. Control cannot be maintained for more than a brief period of inevitable acceleration. Often, however, quick bands of ice intrude, visibly or not, on a steep snow glissade, and it is then important to be able to make the new adjustments required by ice; and so avoid being thrown out of balance by the sudden alterations in the quality of the surface flashing under our feet.

[Sidenote: Positions.]

In ice-glissading the point of the axe takes practically all the weight. It is essentially axe riding. The feet become only props to the balance. Ice is rarely quite smooth, and, if the weight is at all on the feet, the slightest irregularity or ‘stick’ in the surface at this high rate of speed throws the heels back and over the head. The right hand grasps the shaft, just sufficiently far from where the point touches the ice to avoid scraping the knuckles. The left hand grips the head. The more the left hand forces the head up, and the greater the weight that we throw upon the right hand holding the shaft, the sharper is the brake upon the pace, and, incidentally, the more prepared is our balance against an accidental trip.

On hard ice the feet cannot be used to brake; nor, except by very gradual movements, can they attempt to steer. Their business is to carry their small proportion of the weight as lightly as possible over the irregular surface, and, like the front wheel of a bicycle, to prevent a forward or sideways fall. On rotten ice, if claws are worn, braking with the feet is possible by driving in the heels; but such surfaces are unusual in the Alps.

The knees must be well bent, with the body bowed almost into a sitting position, so as to keep the centre of gravity well down upon the supporting tripod of legs and axe. The zigzag spring, formed by the curves of knees and body, absorbs most of the jar. The soles rest flat on the ice, with the toes pointing down the slope. The feet should be kept slightly apart, for the better balance over roughnesses. To avoid obvious lumps they can be slid more apart or brought together. If they are used to steer at all, they must both be pointed sideways in the desired direction; but no attempt can be made to drive in the edges of the boot, as is done on snow. This would merely result in a fall. Steering, in this position, must be left to the gradual friction of the soles inclined sideways and downwards, and, in the main, to the swing of the weight on the axe.

On very rough ice, or on the rough icy surfaces found in snow couloirs, where we cannot make certain of keeping on the feet if we face squarely forward, it is best to adopt a sideways position of the body, the sides of both feet in contact with the slope, and one foot just below and slightly separated from the other. The distance between the feet must depend upon the character of the surface and the angle of the slope. On an easy angle of rough slope, where it is desired to go slowly and stop at any sudden point, the lower foot, with the knee only slightly bent, can be thrust well ahead, taking somewhat more of the weight, and acting as a shifting brake. On steep, rough ice, or wherever it is desired to increase the pace, and at the same time to protect the balance, the feet, still in the sideways position, should be kept close together, while the knees and thighs are drawn up into a crouching attitude. The weight, of course, still rests mainly on the axe.

On steep, rough slopes of snow and ice alternating, where the balance is easily upset by the changing surface, this squatting or crouching sideways position must always be adopted, with the heels slightly apart and brought right up under the body, which practically sits upon them. The centre of gravity is then well down upon the three points of contact, which are all in firm and close relation to one another, and the balance is steady. Ice-glissading is possible for the expert, in this position, on many long ice intrusions where ordinary folk have to creep carefully down in steps. For a beginner, the under faces of the great ice hummocks below the falls on dry glaciers give the best practice, as their length and angle can be selected. Since near the crest these concave faces are often vertical or overhanging, early practice should be limited to their lower curves.

As in ski-ing, the start-off from the rim of an ice slope or from the crest of an ice wave is the most difficult moment. We cannot jump into our glissade as we can upon snow, or at least only on ice of very mild angles. The right position is to start in a ‘crouch,’ with the toes just over and the heels just holding the ice edge; the weight is then thrown back upon the axe, the toes turn down and the legs shoot out. As soon as the balance in motion is secured, the forward, the sideways position or the crouch, is assumed according to the feel of the surface and the angle.

On very steep dry ice, for the first body length or so at the start of a slide over a vertical or overhanging crest, be it on a glacier or at the top of an ice couloir, it is sometimes necessary, in order to remain in contact with the concave surface at all, and not to be flung out head foremost by the kick of the axe point against the ice, to leave the ‘crouch’ the instant the feet are launched, and to shoot out the legs to their full extent. The whole length of the body is then held rigid, with the feet pressed as much as possible sideways and flat against the ice. In such a position there is considerable risk of cutting knuckles or other surfaces against the ice. The position is, of course, only required for a second or so, as no glissade may be attempted where the angle does not ease off sufficiently after a few feet to allow of continuing the descent in one of the normal attitudes of controlled glissading.

The fortunate will sometimes find an admirable surface on the more easily inclined planes of lower dry glaciers, where melting and freezing have followed one another during the day. The ice is so slippery that it is only possible to walk with maddening dislocations, and it is generally too level for a long glissade. It is then often feasible to adopt a ski-ing or skating stride, and strike out with either foot alternately. On a good surface and angle one may find oneself travelling in this way almost as easily as on skates. Similarly, on the wet lower ends of afternoon glaciers, if rubber-soled shoes happen to have been brought, it is worth while putting them on. One can drift down on them as lightly as on ski.

[Sidenote: Arrests.]

If the balance is once lost upon ice, and there is no prospect of an early arrest on a softer surface lower down, it is best to turn on the back, keep the head and hands off the ice, and force the point of the shaft back under the arm-pit and into the ice, so that the weight dragging on the shaft may gradually arrest the progress. The body must be kept head upwards; the legs, if slightly apart and rigid, will help to check the pace by friction and by the rugosities encountered by the heels.

If in such case the ice slope has been badly chosen, and the fallen glissader perceives that the only hope of avoiding a fall over rock is to stop the slide at all hazards, the risk must be taken of turning over on the face. The head of the axe must then be gripped with both hands, so that the adze-blade rests just over the right shoulder, and the pick-point is ground into the ice with the whole weight. It is useless to attempt to force in the pick if the axe is held only by the shaft, or at the stretch of the arms above the head. The axe at arm’s length will be torn from the hands the moment the pick touches the ice.

These two methods of arrest can also be turned to account in checking falls on steep and hard snow, or snow with a crusted or icy surface.

ON SNOW

Even more on snow do the positions for glissading vary with the angle and consistency of the surface. The expert glissader changes from one attitude to another, as the feel of his feet on the changing surface suggests, without loss of balance or even a check to the pace.

[Sidenote: Positions.]

The axe should be grasped as for ice-glissading. The knees should be bent, slightly or more according as the surface is slow or fast, forming a convenient arch of balance for the body. The bent leg acts as a strong spring to absorb jolts, and it is more quickly and powerfully adjustable to the changing demands of balance, when the body is in rapid motion, than the straight leg. To keep the knees straight is impracticable on all but perfectly uniform ‘show’ snow slopes. Those who have at times advised it have been influenced by some pictorial ideal which had small regard for the mechanism of the body or for the conditions of the glissade in action.

The body should not be bent forward or crouched, as is done in ice-glissading, but held upright or inclined slightly backward, so as to form a continuous and concordant arc with whatever may be the curve of the leg at the moment. The lower end of this curve will always be bent more sharply at the flex of the knee; but in proportion as the knee is more or less bent, the graceful inclination backward from the hips will vary correspondingly.

The shoulders, especially that above the hand on the shaft, should be braced well back, and the head inclined a little forward, for better sight. The tendency to let the shoulders stoop forward and the body sag downward into a sitting position has to be resisted on snow surfaces. It is a false position, that follows inevitably on an attempt to keep the knees straight; and it is as bad a beginner’s error as the inclination to sit forward and not back when learning to jump on horseback. The fact that it has been suggested as the ideal attitude, both in description and in illustration, may have been responsible for the large number of mountaineers who have never become more than ‘axe riders’ in snow-glissading. Sagging and axe riding are necessary in ice-glissading, where we do not attempt to balance on the feet, but depend for safety and steering upon the axe brake. On snow the good glissader aims at reducing friction and riding by balance. To sag or use the straight knee throws us back upon the axe for balance and for our steering. Straightened knees mean the weight on the heels and the toes up; but if the weight is more on the heels than on the toes, steering with the feet is impossible.

The feet should be kept close together, with the toes pointing down the slope, so as to reduce friction and facilitate foot-steering. If the surface for a space gets icier and rougher, the feet are allowed to separate slightly, so as to secure the balance on their wider base and brake the pace by the angle that the two outward-pointing toes make with the direct line of descent.

On good snow surfaces to draw the feet slowly or sharply together, so as to grip up a snow wrinkle between them, or to thrust them apart, with the toes slightly turned inwards, produces each a different degree of brake, or helps to reconfirm our balance, if we require it.

Small interruptions on the surface should be allowed to pass between the feet. In practical glissading, in fact, the feet are very rarely kept long in one position; they drift gently about, as balance or the surface demand.

The decision as to when they should be kept exactly parallel to one another, with the weight evenly distributed between the two, or when the one should travel slightly in advance, carrying the larger share of weight for the moment, must depend upon the snow surface and angle, and on the amount of work that is being done, in consequence, by the axe. If the surface is roughish and steep or hard, the weight will be more, and for longer periods, thrown back upon the axe shaft, and this for reasons of balance. So supported on the axe, there is not the same risk on a bad surface of our being suddenly pitched outward, head foremost. In such case the feet are best kept parallel and together, acting as supports supplementary to the axe, as upon ice. But if the surface is straightforward in angle and quality there is less threat to the balance, and our object is to reduce the surface friction and increase the pace. To this end all the weight will be brought forward off the axe and kept in balance above the feet. The axe will only be lightly or occasionally in contact with the slope. The body will be sailing down upright, but on a curve of balance agreeing with the bend of the knees. The feet, in this case, adopt a position and a motion familiar in ski-ing. They remain close together, but one foot travels slightly in advance of the other, carrying for the moment the greater share of the weight. The other foot runs in close support. It is brought up, and in turn passes into the lead, according as ease of balance, steering, or need of rest for the employed leg suggest. The balance sways lightly from one leg to the other as each is employed, and the motion, allowing for the different length of stroke, is not unlike the smooth steady running in long-distance skating. At any second, if the surface demands it, the weight can be thrown back upon the axe, and the feet are then brought parallel again.

Now that ski-ing experience is familiar, it is unnecessary to explain why glissading on one foot--that is, on a single line of contact, with the other foot and axe in partial support and ready to take their turn if required--is easier, quicker and less exposed to accident than moving on the two feet parallel, with the weight distributed evenly between them. The instance of the relative pace and security of bicycle and tricycle, although not quite on all fours, gives us a suggestive comparison.

On an obviously good and continuous snow slope the axe brake can be removed altogether, and the axe is then carried easily in front across the body, ready at any moment to be shot back under the arm into the snow. The body then sways to the balance, above the slight bend of the knees, and is practically upright. This is the most delightful of all positions: there is no tension upon any of the body muscles, and the sensation is that of a winged swoop. To brandish the axe at arm’s length over the head, a fashion affected by performers of a theatrical type more familiar in illustrations than on the mountains, adds nothing to the pleasure and diminishes the security. The balance above the feet is prejudiced, and the axe recovery in case of need is slower.

[Sidenote: Steering.]

The steering is done, as in skating or ski-ing, firstly, by canting the feet and twisting the toes in the required direction; and secondly, by swinging the weight of the body into the new position above them, either by means of the sway of balance if we are glissading free, or by the thrust from the axe point if we are axe riding. For instance, if we wish to turn to the right, in order to avoid an obstacle or make a zigzag on a slope too steep for comfortable direct descent, we twist the toes to the right, and at the same time cant the feet in the same direction; that is, we press down the right-hand edge of both boots into the snow, gently or hard according as we wish to make a sharp or an easy turn. If we wish to accelerate the turn, we bring the axe into use, pressing back upon the point, which we thrust into the snow slightly on our right. Similarly, to make a turn to the left, we twist the toes and cant the feet to the left, and, if required, press on the axe transferred to our left side.

By making all three movements energetically at the same moment it is possible to execute very sharp turns. The steeper the slope the higher the speed, and the higher the speed the more acute the angle of turn possible.

If a glissader is expert enough to be able to descend steep slopes in balance on his feet alone, without the axe as brake, and has mastered the finer art of travelling upon alternating feet, he can steer his turns also without the axe, and can descend on a succession of sharp zigzags without the small awkwardness involved in transferring the axe from one side to the other of his body. When he wishes to turn to the right out of a direct descent, he sways his balance on to his right foot, directs and cants it, and as he turns brings across his less weighted left foot into line again below it. When he wishes to turn back again to the left out of a zig to the right, he throws his weight on to his heels, as in a ski-ing turn, directs and cants his feet to the left, sways his weight over on to the left foot again, and so continues on the new zag. In travelling on the one-foot method, sharp turns are made by throwing the weight on to both heels; gradual turns can be made on the one foot. Slight changes of direction, not big enough to be turns, are more quickly made by bringing up the rear and less weighted foot, sliding it in front into the new direction required, and then swaying the weight across on to it.

An expert can thus swing quickly and safely down a slope or couloir too steep for direct descent, zigzagging from side to side almost without help from the axe. His turns are less crisp than those of ski or skates; but he can descend on a snow ribbon or in a narrow couloir, where only short boots could find room to travel or turn.

Even if a glissader has only accustomed himself to descend travelling on his two feet parallel, with his weight evenly distributed between them, he can still make slight changes of direction, without help from the axe, by sliding one foot in front of the other. This will deflect his course correspondingly in the opposite direction: that is, to turn to the right, he brings forward the left foot; to turn to the left, he advances the right. But his turns without the axe will never be effective or sharp until he has learned to glissade mainly on one foot. The second foot, for a one-foot glissader, acts as a free auxiliary to indicate the new direction and to support the turning movement, while the body swings in easy support from one foot to the other, as the turn suggests.

[Sidenote: Jumping.]

The hands alone should never be used as rudders. Supposing we wish completely and suddenly to change the line of descent, because we see some obstruction below, or discover better snow farther off, this is best done by a half-turn, and a spring on to the free leg. For instance, to get across to our left we swing our free right foot across us to the left until it touches the snow again at its utmost reach. The weight is then flung across on to it by means of the axe, or by a rub with the outside of our left arm against the snow. The left leg follows (all without checking the descent), and we descend on the new line, or swing the right leg again if a second spring is needed. To make these changes of line, a sideways jump across, off the one travelling foot and alighting on the two feet held sideways and slightly apart, is a neater method, but it requires more practice.

Jumping, sideways or downward, is as pleasant a refinement in glissading as it is on ski, and very generally useful. It is often more convenient to jump interruptions, of ice blocks, rock bands and snow humps, than to steer round them. A good glissader jumps off either foot, and alights on both. Even large crevasses can be safely jumped by a skilful man, with a great saving of the time usually spent in circumventing them. But this requires considerable skill and a discreet eye in selecting the take-off. The edges of bergschrunds are generally hidden or rotten, and the crouch and spring have to be made well ahead of possible breakages. The glissader has no hand-made wall to guide him and to dispatch him on his jump at the right instant, angle and velocity; and the angle of the slope below has not been chosen to accord with his curve of descent on to it, and down it.

If we fall, after a jump or stumble, the first thing, on a steep slope, is to stop any tendency to roll, which is the shortest road to unconsciousness. The next is to get the head up. Then, if we have held on to the axe, we get it by the head and begin to brake, as described above. If the axe is lost, we do the same with elbows and heels, sliding on our back; but never with fingers and toes, face downwards.

[Sidenote: Brakes.]

There are two methods of stopping or braking, the axe brake and the foot brake, which are used in conjunction for purposes of sudden arrest.

The axe brake is made by pulling the head of the axe upward with the one hand, and forcing the shaft point down, and into the snow, with the other. The weight of the body is thrown on to the lower arm, and the thighs are brought close against the axe shaft. If it is necessary to make a sudden stop on a hard snow surface where one is being ‘run away with,’ the most powerful brake of all is to bring the shaft of the axe under the right arm-pit, grip the left hand on the head, with the right hand close to it, and turn the body slightly sideways, so that the whole edge of each boot, heel and toe, scrapes against the surface.

The foot brake is made by turning the toes up and shoving the heels in and down into the snow, at the same time straightening the legs. If the surface is too hard to admit the heels easily, or the pace and hard surface combined threaten that an attempt to check with the straight heels will mean one or both legs being torn up underneath the body, so flinging us out and off our balance, the feet must be turned sideways to the slope. The heels at the same instant are thrust downwards, the legs are straightened, and the weight is thrown equally upon the axe shaft and upon the feet.

On any surface where a glissade is justifiable it is possible to stop with these combined brakes within a distance of a few feet, provided that, as with a motor-car, they are not jammed on so suddenly as to upset the equilibrium and detach the points of contact from the surface.

For gentle checks to pace, touching at intervals with the axe point, or pressing on one or both heels momentarily, is sufficient.

[Sidenote: Sitting.]

Practically no snow slope of right consistency and termination is too steep to glissade down; but many incline at too low an angle, or are of too soft a surface, to glissade down in a standing position.

So long as we are young and thoughtless, and place the enthusiastic memories of youthful tobogganing before the after-discomfort of wet clothing,--a youth which in the case of mountaineers appears to extend well on into the sixties,--we hail such soft slopes as the recovered opportunity of recalling a lost ideal; and we descend them sitting-wise.

For sitting, the methods of guiding and braking with the axe and the feet are much the same as for standing; only they are more clumsy and proportionately less effective, as the slope also is less exacting. The axe is held under the arm, in the same manner, to brake, and is transferred from side to side to steer.

The foot steering is performed by obstructing with one heel or the other. For a sharper turn, the legs are lifted and swung across in the desired direction. To avoid rolling over in a quick turn like this, the body leans over on the side towards which the turn is made, and the weight is thrown inward and back upon the axe. The whole length of the outside of the leg and thigh contributes to the steering action, as an equivalent for the canting of the feet in a standing turn. Leg and thigh thus supplement the ineffective guidance of the heels. The movement checks the pace usefully, for the snow will begin to hummock under the thighs and up under the jacket, whereas before it was merely percolating through the breeches.

In descending direct the legs are kept together, and the body is converted into as rigid a reproduction of a torpedo as the incidents of descent permit. To accelerate the pace the body can be thrown back and held stiff, which takes off the brake made by the curves of the back and distributes the weight, as on a sleigh or ski. This movement adds the neck to the other potential snow orifices.

On unwilling slopes, punting with the axe and a swimming motion of the legs can be resorted to, for propulsion; but the effort is not dignified. Shooting, or ‘chuting,’ head-foremost has an exuberant appearance, but does not add materially to the chances of pace.

Braking is done upon easy slopes by opening the legs, and allowing a triangle of travelling snow to pack between them. To brake sharply, the axe point is driven into the snow under the arm, the body is arched stiffly upward clear of the slope on the support of the axe, and the heels are driven down and in, close together.

For standing glissading, if the surface is good, we generally each choose a line of virgin snow. Pace will come of itself, and is not so important as uniformity of surface. But in sitting glissading the first to descend has the worst place. He has to make a clearer and harder track for the rest. If a trough of this kind is once formed, it will be most polished in its exact centre; and men are well advised to turn slightly upon one thigh and shoot down upon their longest but narrowest available body-surface.

A very pleasant method of descending, as a party, is to form a fashion of bob-sleigh, each man sitting close behind the man in front and having his legs held up by him clear of the slope. The most is thus made of the collective weight and the least of the collective body-surface necessarily in contact with the snow. The best situation is towards the rear of the human sleigh. The man at the head will collect most of the snow pack, and there will be only the usual moist permeations to be enjoyed by the tail.

The first man descending on an unknown slope after fresh snow, or on the occasional snow patch found at lower levels, should always make careful examination to see that there are not rock or stones near enough to the surface to inconvenience, if not injure, his descent.

Sitting glissading is useful not only on snow too soft or too easily inclined for standing, but also upon surfaces where a crust has formed over soft snow, through which the feet break under any attempt to glissade standing. On snow of this character both steering and stopping are even more difficult than they are in ordinary sitting glissading, since any attempt to drive in the heels suddenly may result in a head-over-heels fling. On such a surface it is best to lie as flat and stiff as possible, and avoid making any abrupt local movements.

The sitting glissade has been already mentioned as of use in crossing schrunds with awkward-angled or dubitable bridges. Each man before he shoots for the bridge should make certain that he leaves enough free rope and good sense behind him to allow him to come to rest on the far side without a disruptive or a premature jerk.

[Sidenote: Stone Tests.]

It is always wise, before glissading on a slope of uncertain consistency, to throw a few large stones on to the snow to test the surface. They should be as heavy as possible, so as to ascertain the weight at which the snow will avalanche. The practice has the further advantage, on a slope whose termination we can see, and where, therefore, a slight avalanche quality in the snow need not deter us from glissading, of clearing away all the deciduous snow from at least one line of descent. There is left a smooth, harder track whereon a human being can descend comparatively dry. At the best, the stones may start a general avalanche, and so leave a safe and clean slope where we can choose our line. Incidentally, the stone track serves to discover the presence or absence of concealed stones or of rock points uncomfortably near the surface.

[Sidenote: The Rope.]

To remain roped is impossible in ice-glissading, and is a nuisance in snow-glissading. The rope should never be necessary where there is any long and comfortable glissade in safe prospect. Pace and real foot-running are impossible on the rope. Its use enforces axe braking and slow-coach running at even distances, so that the rope shall neither tighten upon the front man and upset his balance nor entangle in loose coils about his feet. Every one in a roped party, however expert, must be axe braking, and wearying his shin muscles, if no more, in the vain effort to keep an even distance over surfaces of quickly varying quality and angle.

For the men in the middle of a rope, to be thus glissading is simple weariness of the flesh. On short glissades, during long climbs, the rope may have to be retained to save time, but on slopes of any length it is always worth while to unrope. If the rope has to be retained on such slopes for precautionary reasons, because the end of the slope is not in sight or because there are beginners taking part, the party should rope in pairs. Two experts can glissade fairly freely on a rope by descending on adjacent parallel lines with the rope loosely across between them. They have only then to see that it does not catch on excrescences which they themselves are avoiding. In the same choric fashion an expert can glissade alone with a beginner, protecting him and accommodating himself to his uneven descent. He follows beside or slightly behind, and is at liberty to quicken up, overtake, and even get secure anchorage in time, if he sees his companion beginning to descend the slope in other fashion than on his feet. In glissading with a beginner on a rope the pace should never be allowed to become greater than one is absolutely certain of being able to regulate, not only for oneself but for one’s companion, with plenty of margin for accidents. Once a man has been jerked off his balance, it is far harder for him to stop himself and his companion by the travelling axe brake, on a steep slope, than when he is stationary and upright with his heels well in. He must therefore keep the pace well within the speed limits.

The higher refinements of glissading, the zigzag and the free sailing on one or both feet, are of course out of the question for more than two on the rope; and barely feasible for them.

[Sidenote: Some Variations.]

There are a few occasions where exceptional varieties of glissading may be found of use.

[Sidenote: Alternate Glissading.]

In descending snow slopes of doubtful consistency, or slopes or couloirs whose lower end is concealed, and therefore an object of suspicion for free glissading, an alternate slide and anchor method can often be adopted. It is especially good for protecting beginners who cannot be relied upon to arrest their glissade at any given instant. The experienced man anchors firmly in the snow with the rope round his driven axe. The front man then glissades down until he is arrested by the rope or a call from the rear. The rear man follows, and glissades either down to him or past him, stopping himself in the latter case, if he is wise, before the rope runs out. _If_ he is wise, because no inexperienced man can be relied upon to know what security of anchorage is required to resist the jerk of a man running out a double length of rope on steep snow. The first man then, in turn, glissades past, and is stopped by the expert with the rope. The process can be repeated until the bottom of the slope is reached, or the secure termination of a freer glissade is ascertained. The method is a good time-saver, especially in steep couloirs, but it must be worked with all caution. I tried it on one occasion with a mountaineer of confident self-security, and after sailing past him, and becoming certain that my rope must have run out, I turned round, to see him head-foremost after me down the slope. He had been twitched from his stance without so much as a perceptible check to my rope. Since then I always, in alternate glissading, turn face inward when I feel the rope is near its end, and stop myself,--for the first few ‘runs-out’ at least, until I know I can depend on my second. With a beginner it is best to stop, as last man, when one reaches him. With a good second it is enough to arrange with him that each shall call out sharply to the man glissading some three yards or so before the rope runs out, leaving him time to stop himself.

[Sidenote: Face Inward.]

Any man who wants to get all he can out of the opportunities to glissade must be able to travel in every reasonable attitude, and to change from one position to another at any instant without check or loss of control in the movement. The axe is the transitional support during all movements involving sudden or marked alteration of balance. As a convenient variety it is useful to be able to glissade face inward toward the snow. On slopes of doubtful termination, and in couloirs more especially, where it proves impossible to discover if there may not be some ‘cut-off’ below, or where the quality of the snow, and perhaps the presence of ice beneath it, make caution imperative, a more controlled, watchful and restful descent can be made with the face towards the slope. The axe head is then gripped under the arm with the pick caught behind the shoulder. The two hands are firm on the shaft in front, ready to shove the point into the snow. The legs are slightly apart, with the feet parallel and the toes inclined upward. The descent can be stopped in an instant by pressing on the axe shaft, and by forcing the toes outward and downward, so that the inside edges of the boots scrape downward against the surface. On rough icy surfaces, in order to allow us to look round, and also to prevent the toes catching and throwing the body outward, it is sometimes even safer to bend one leg up, so that the flat of the one sole rests against the slope at about the level of the knee of the lower straighter leg. The body then lies forward over this bent leg as on a firm spring, with the centre of gravity low and the balance secure. The head is freer to turn and prospect above or below. A foot brake of extra power and rapidity can be made by scraping the upper, raised foot downward along the slope with the whole force of the body--a sort of stopping kick. For hurrying the descent of awkward couloirs where the glissade of short stretches may have to be stopped within inches, I have usually preferred this face-inward glissade. In this position we not only can stop, but steer with great precision and power; and in a very confined space, as in a narrow couloir, we can side-step or side-jump easily. To jump obstacles or crevasses when glissading face inward, we must of course turn round first; but a good glissader should find no difficulty in twisting round, especially out of the last position described, with the one leg raised, which is in itself already a half-turn attitude.

The position has the additional advantage of allowing us to watch companions above; and, in suspicious couloirs, to keep a look out for their loosened stones or small following avalanches. Stones can be dodged once they are seen; and a fine face-inward glissader, whenever he sees the small, wavering, pursuing avalanche, looks round and ahead for some lower bay of shelter in the walls of the couloir, and, if need be quickening his pace, steers out of its way into safety at the edge.

[Sidenote: Plunging.]

In couloirs or on slopes faced with soft sticky snow, too soft or too gradual for a free glissade, it is often possible to save a long trudge of descent by using the ‘plunging’ step. A few long springing steps, driving the heels hard along the surface, will start a small surface snow slide, and upon this we can ride down, until it again packs, when the plunges are again repeated. If the snow joins in the game too heartily, and there is a risk of losing control and of being swept down in a cumulative avalanche, we use the swinging cross-step to the edge of the wave, and jump clear. When the avalanche has passed there may be a fine surface left for normal glissading.

On every slope where we begin to feel that the travelling mass of accompanying snow is getting beyond control, the glissader must be ready to swing-step or to jump clear of it on one side or the other. When it is past, he has also to look out for the not infrequent chance of the furtive slides which will pursue the first. If two men are glissading on a rope, the upper will be in the best position to decide when the mass is growing too big, and he must give timely warning to his companion before he jumps clear himself.

[Sidenote: On Claws.]

In couloirs of a certain type, where there is a thin covering of fresh snow over ice, or where snow has partially melted into ice glaze over rock, I have occasionally found light claws a great help to safe glissading. The angle may be too steep, and the snow upon ice too bad to allow of a prospect of descent without prolonged, deep step-cutting or slow ambling on our prehensile claws. A pair of light claws that one has no fear of blunting may then be found of great service to save time and labour. Glissading lightly and slowly on the feet, side-crouching as upon ice, or still better face inward, the claws slip down with the surface snow. Where the snow is thin, they scrape through on to the ice and retard the pace; where it thickens, they can still be forced through by throwing more of the weight off the axe on to the feet; and the descent, with the fitful brake of the axe, remains perfectly controlled.

As before noted, claws of the long-pointed pattern can be used in the same fashion on rotten ice.

On hard, smooth ice at high angles, claws of the light type are often safer than nailed boots. A good position for such claw-glissading is one of those familiar in ski-ing. We sit astride of the axe shaft with the point against the ice. We can then throw the weight back upon the shaft, and brake, while we release the feet to steer, or we can let the weight forward on to the feet and increase the pace. Either or both feet can be relieved of the share of weight if anything threatens to catch them and upset the balance.

This axe-riding position is occasionally convenient in icy couloirs, or on fresh snow, where only an absolutely slow and controlled glissade would be safe.

It can also be made use of on very rough surfaces, on dry glaciers or practice ice slopes, without the extra security of claws and trusting to the boot-nails alone. But on nails alone the glissade is proportionately less regulated, and we are more dependent upon the axe for control and braking.

ON OTHER GROUNDS

Many surfaces other than ice or snow give us good practice and pleasurable moments. Volcanic ash is said to provide the finest conceivable flying footing. Sand of sea-cliffs or quarries, and even the mud shoots of the east-coast cliffs, give excellent fun; but the most common, and perhaps the most admirable sub-alpine surface is a light, steep scree slope.

[Sidenote: On Scree.]

Our method of descending these shoots is dictated by the size of the stones composing them. When they are of shale, or light enough to slide away under our weight, we need only straighten the leg, stiffen the ankle, incline the body slightly forward from the hips, and start with a long leaping stride, forcing the heels well down and in. Small scree, at a good angle, will carry us on and down of itself. The axe is held in the same way as on snow, and is only used for balance touches.

On scree at a lower angle we shall have to continue the plunging strides, leaping from heel to heel and travelling as far as possible on the stones set moving by each foot. The stronger the leg the longer may be the stride. The massing of the stones under the foot will stop each step with the softness of a slow spring, and if we are thrown out of balance by one too abrupt foot check, we can generally recover it on the next stride.

Towards the end of the slope the scree grows larger, and whether sliding or plunging, we have to look out for knee and ankle twisting. We go cautiously, but driving always harder with the heel, until the stones refuse to yield to the thrust; and then we call in our loose legs under control, and proceed to stumble or dance down the rest according to the perfection of our ankles and balance. A man light of foot and supple of joint can let his feet drift, as it were, over even large rolling stones, letting them adjust themselves to the varying resistances without checking his pace. A man who judges his scree not by its size but by its angle, its shape and the way it sits on the surface, can continue his glissade often well beyond the point where the less expert begin to fall or crawl.

Once the blocks grow too big to be kicked into harmless motion, and the drifting feet begin to slip over them into the interstices, the wise man begins to look for other shoots to carry him farther. By using the swinging cross-step described already, we can make diagonal descents of slopes on a succession of connected parallel glissades. By choosing a line well ahead, and crossing from shoot to shoot, many hillside descents of weary prospect can be charmed into a few moments of stimulating racing. It is well to remember that up-running spits of light scree often conceal themselves in depressions between ribs of rock or in hollows between slopes of heavier scree, especially near the bottom of the slopes.

The light screes that lie in these lower furrows on hillsides are among the deepest and pleasantest. Our zagging from furrow to furrow will divert our thoughts if not our feet from the last tiresome steep grass drop. Where the lower spits of light shilla thin out, generally at their lower ends, it is wise to look out for the catch to the ankle of rocks or wet earth or grass, stripped of their scree varnish by the driving heel.

It is best for each member of a party to choose a different line, otherwise the larger stones dislodged, often accumulating a torrent, may surprise a speedier forerunner. Similarly, it is safer to leap sideways occasionally ourselves, and wait while our own attendant torrent passes.

The angle of inclination at which small scree lies is invariably the angle of disinclination for big scree. Big scree, when we cannot avoid it, is an unqualified worry, and we worry out of it as we can. The method, traditionally recommended, of sitting or standing on one large stone and tobogganing down on it over the others, would seem to be only successful for distances not yet ascertained.

[Sidenote: In Winter Gullies.]

Except in the North, where winter snow gives much the same conditions for glissading as the summer Alps, winter glissading in Britain is usually upon snow-covered scree or mixed snow and scree. The end of our glissades in this case has a special risk: where the snow thins and weakens among the larger blocks, which it yet continues to cover--to our downfall. To glissade near emerging rocks is risky, on account of the probable holes and hidden pockets in the snow round them.

In gullies alone we find snow over rock. Here there is another special risk in the rock steps or pitches, which may be only partially covered with snow. The drop is often invisible from above, and an inexperienced glissader may be unable to stop himself in time, when he is close enough to recognize a break in the continuity of the snow slope. Sometimes there is a frail lid of snow more deceptive than an open break; and I have seen a man shoot over a pitch of this sort through the snow lid and down the wet rock channel under the lower snow. Where the rock of such pitches is visible, we have still to look out for another trap. We may count upon stopping as we reach the rock; but the very end of the slope, where the melting snow has run down and refrozen over rock, is usually of harder surface, if not of ice. Hence we have to allow for a sudden and surprising acceleration just where we intended to slow up.

No man should start glissading down a gully or slope that he does not know; or that he cannot see throughout its whole length; or until he is expert enough to know what the snow, as he finds it, will do with his feet.

[Sidenote: On Grass and Heather.]

Glissading is also possible and pleasant on slopes of grass, heather or whortleberry growth, if the angle of the hill is steep and the conditions right.

Under snow, even in small quantity or half melted, any herbage will serve; but the dry, polished, almost glassy surface of grass or short growth, produced by drought or hot sun, is almost as slippery as snow.

On firm covering snow over hill grass, of course a standing glissade is indicated.

If the snow is soft or thin, so that the feet would catch through it upon the grass or heather stems, sitting is best. On steep slopes sitting means rapid going, while there is any snow at all showing between the stalks.

If the snow is merely a wet skim, or if we are glissading upon dry glassy herbage, it is better for clothes and comfort to use the feet. The correct method is to sit or squat right down on the heels. If we have an axe or stick, we lean back upon it, or push with it, as balance or our relenting pace suggests. If we have no stick, we clasp the hands round the knees and shoot down in a honeypot attitude. At a check, the legs are shot out, and a raking action of the heels starts the slide again. This fashion of sliding crouched upon the feet is feasible upon nearly all steep slopes of smooth, thick, fatiguing herbage, where the walking descent would be slippery and laborious; but it must be used with caution. Stones, roots and hummocks intrude; and nowhere is a human being more helpless, once he has lost control, than on steep, slippery grass. If he once starts to roll, a broken arm or a bad shaking may be the least disagreeable consequence. There have been more serious accidents due to slips on grass than on all the snow mountains of the world put together.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] _Climb. Club Ann._, 1912. Also, where there is danger of frost-bite to the feet, as in the Himalaya, the risk of a nailed boot is avoided by wearing claws over soft hide boots or strong wrappings. For the same reason it is better to wear warm ski-boots, with removable claws, rather than nailed boots in winter mountaineering in the Alps, where the ski-ing alternates with the climbing and a soft boot would be insufficient.

[14] See “Equipment,” p. 93.

[15] See “Rock Climbing,” p. 151.

[16] See “Norway,” p. 546.

[17] See “Mountaineering on Ski,” p. 424. This chapter should be consulted for the more detailed study of snow phenomena required for winter and spring ski-ing. In “Snow Craft” I have limited myself to the conditions that a climber may meet with in the ordinary alpine summer season.

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