CHAPTER VIII

RECONNOITRING

Reconnoitring precedes in action the exercise of mountain craft. But as an art it is the gold cup in the sack mouth of a mountaineer’s equipment. Its effective mastery must rest upon his previous accumulations of practical experience. It may therefore, fittingly, be put in last.

In the Alps and nearer European ranges, maps and guide-books relieve the mountaineer of almost all occasion to apply his powers of observation to the interpretation of the Seen or the reconstruction of the Unseen. The majority of men who climb in the Alps or Britain get no practice in making even elementary deductions from scenic details within sight; and a number more, whose experience and observation have been sufficient to enrich them with what they would call an instinctive feeling about the meaning of topographical details which they can see, or about the probabilities of those which are out of their sight, have never, for lack of opportunity, been forced to resolve this feeling into precise conclusions.

Nothing but actual necessity, the need of providing for safe progress or comfort, will induce most men on a holiday to exercise or educate their observation. The loss is considerable; not only because a developed faculty of observing, and of reasoning from the observations, is in itself a valuable permanent possession, but because the neglect involves the failure to see much that is beautiful. If we are accustomed to wait until beauty imposes itself upon the eye, as in the end it will, and almost flauntingly, in large mountain scenery, we shall have already missed the discovery of the relations of line and colour and mass to which the beautiful effect is due, and we are fated to overlook much that is lovely and much that is interesting in regions where there is grace and interest in the smallest detail, but where detail escapes unperceived among the broad and salient features of familiar magnificence.

[Illustration: MOUNTAIN ARCHITECTURE [C. F. MEADE]

On a more material plane, a man who aspires to lead a party must be able to ‘see,’ in the sense in which an artist or natural scientist ‘sees,’ and he must be able to make the necessary mountaineering deductions from his sights. A mountaineer who wishes to conduct an expedition efficiently in unexplored ranges must be able to do more: he must be practised in the art of confirming conjecture as to what is beyond his sight from ‘signs’ within view. For an expert of this sort it is fortunately sufficient to indicate what he can discover and how to set about it; fortunately, because ‘signs’ in practice are so modified by place, climate and season that no rules could be laid down without a page of exceptions to prove each one. One day of practical demonstration under guidance will reveal more of what we ought to see and how to see it than much tabulation. We may write of a ‘snow sky’ and an ‘ice sky,’ and a mountaineer who had them pointed out to him would recognize the difference; but we cannot with truth say “a snow sky is a whitish-blue, or shows as a white underside on a cloud,” or “an ice sky is a greyish-blue, and reflects in a shade of grey from a cloud,” because a different climate or region might anywhere contradict our colour definitions. But the distinction between the two would remain as a constant difference of tone under all identical conditions, and it would be perceptible to a trained eye.

Somewhat the same difficulty interferes with any accurate summary of more elementary signs to be looked for in reconnoitring,--signs whose discovery is, or should be, part of our daily alpine routine. Every mountaineer should know at a glance, in the right conditions of light, new snow from old snow, ice from crusted snow surface, open glacier from _firn_ or _névé_. But who could learn to recognize the differences, under continually changing conditions of light, from his recollections of a written classification? The suggestions here made must be understood, therefore, only to affirm that between certain groups of surface appearances there are certain constant relative differences, whose presence, or absence, can always be ascertained in the right weather and light. They are intended to indicate a few lines of less obvious investigation, which the trained eye can pursue in examining aspects and details of mountains that are visible to everybody but not equally intelligible to everybody; and further, to outline a province of yet more difficult discovery--the collection of information as to aspects and details which are not even in sight.

It may now be assumed that until a mountaineer knows something of his craft by actual experience, the choice of a route up a peak need not be left to his unaided attempts at reconnoitring. Elementary mountaineering information is far more widely diffused, and practical climbing ability has become almost an inherited instinct. The method adopted by the Badminton on Mountaineering, and by various excellent manuals in imitation of it, first synthesized for us a sample peak or climb, resolved the attributed features into their simple elements again, and then directed us, with natural confidence, precisely how to deal with them. A method advisable for purposes of picturesque propaganda in earlier, darker days is of less service to a climbing generation whose acquired craft can be more generally trusted to know how to attack its peak, if it can once attain to only a small part of the certainty about the real character and the momentary condition of distant detail which these illuminating studies could happily assume. The path so well prepared by our predecessors for the straying or reluctant feet of the potential climber, and so entertainingly bordered with composite examples, need not be retrodden. Guidance in reconnoitring, to be of later use, must now wait for its opportunity further along the way, and be ready to pester the progressive competence and self-assurance of zealous mountaineers with the well-meaning but aggravating importunity of an elder walking companion: “Can’t you see _that_?” and, “What does it _mean_?” and, finally, “Well, then, I’ll _tell_ you!”

Snow and rock and ice, as a triune element, alone concern us. What we need to find out about them is their respective _angles_, to know if we can get up at all; their several _conditions_, to ascertain if we can do so with or without danger or difficulty; and the degree of modification which their _combination_ may be introducing, in order to decide if we can do so within the appointed time. For instance, our agreeable opinion of the angle of a rock rib will counterbalance our unfavourable view of the state of a snow face, which it relieves; or our optimistic impression of the snow in a couloir will free us from the gloom created by our sight of the angle and character of a rock wall, which it bisects. With a peak as such we are only concerned in so far as it presents to us a greater or lesser mass of favourable or unfavourable angles and superficial conditions. We take it that our climbing craft can get us up any mountain by any way visible or invisible. It is for our reconnoitring craft, first, to reject those alternatives which are interrupted by the angle of the impossible; secondly, to condemn the lines where it detects surface conditions or direct menaces which will introduce too large an element of danger; thirdly, to except the routes where it decides that harsh angle and poor condition in unrelenting succession combine to form too great a volume of difficulty to be humanly vincible in a single expedition; and lastly, if no agreeable or interesting remainder be left over, to use its utmost skill to determine whether some _unseen_ aspect may not reveal sufficient of its character to encourage a hope that it will offer a more helpful line of attack.

The sum of the results of these investigations will of course add up differently with every peak, and any discussion of it in the abstract could only be hypothetical. The decision as to whether this sum in any concrete case represents a feasible or justifiable mountaineering attempt must take into further account the strength of the party proposing to make it, and must be therefore, for us, equally hypothetical. All that the grammar of reconnoitring can usefully define are the lines which investigation should follow in order to secure exact information about the elements which are the material for our calculations, and therefore the chief factors in our decisions. Snow, rock and ice are these elements; and their state, angle and influence upon each other in certain combinations form the only matter that need concern our examination on the spot,--or here.

THINGS SEEN

To discover whether a distant slope is snow or ice, if the character of the surface is not apparent at once, or deducible from its position, aspect or angle, we must wait for sun or strong daylight.

[Sidenote: Snow Surface Condition.]

Ice surfaces--that is, the smooth ice surfaces found in the Alps--reflect light as an even, steely glimmer, like elongated pools of water. Black ice, not so often found in the Alps, has a different quality in reflection. Granular ice is distinguishable by its reflection of light in facets or prisms. It will be noted that these tend to increase in size as our inspection descends the length of a glacial slope. The honeycombed ice found in tropical ranges is quite distinct in character; it can be recognized from a distance, and in a photograph, by its surface forms.

Snow surfaces show plain white or grey in comparison.

An ice crust upon snow has an appearance much like that of ice, but the reflected light is ‘pockled’ and uneven.

New snow, which is best left alone, has a brilliant fresh surface. Seen even from great distances, and especially upon rock, it shows a filmy, gossamer, veil-like quality. This endures until the aeration has escaped and the feathery surfaces have subsided into harder contours.

Old powdery snow, as contrasted with new snow, has a greyer tint when seen from a distance, particularly if not seen in direct sunlight.

Old wet snow, laborious to cross, and deciduous according to its angle, shows a bluish, luminous surface light, especially in its depressions. It is often transected by visible lines of strain or cleavage.

A thawing snow surface, seen from near, is dull and drenched looking, or pitted with small holes.

Surface hard-crusts, or plates, produced alike by wind and sun, which afford pleasant going but possess the avalanche potentiality if the angle is steep and their attachment to the surface below is slight, generally mark themselves off from the surrounding snow slopes by a lower, duller tone; sometimes they are tinged with a yellow shade. The plates vary in thickness, deepening towards the middle, and they can often be recognized by their edges, which run out on the neighbouring snow in darker wavelets, sometimes with eyebrow-markings round their curves.

Old hard snow, of deep attachment and sound progress, lies in alternating wave and hollow of different tones of light and shade, where the sun has been at work on the surface. It is often dust-speckled, or shows bluish finger-prints.

Granulated snow, in strong light, may show bright or prismatic reflections from its facets, similar to, but easily distinguishable from, granular ice prisms.

As confirmation, or correction, of what distant observation may have revealed about the character of ice or snow surfaces, general considerations must also be taken into account: the recency of the snowfall, the subsequent weather, etc. There is also the final test of touch, which is made on the spot, before any snow slope is traversed. The change in the condition of the snow, which may be produced by a day of sun before we can return down the slope, must not be left out of the calculation. Many slopes whose surface may be adjudged and found safe for passage in the early morning cannot be trusted by nightfall.

[Sidenote: Angle on Snow.]

It is essential to be able to judge of the inclination of a slope; for some harmless conditions may become dangerous if the snow is lying at above a certain angle. New snow, for instance, has been known to slide at as low an angle as twenty degrees. Hard old snow, melted and refrozen, may be supported in small patches, and remain reliable, at as high an angle as sixty degrees.

The power to estimate the angle of a slope by the eye only comes with practice. Most slopes look precipitous in face. But a mountaineer who has trained his eye by first going round to see a number of such slopes in profile, and by then returning to see them in face, has learned what he must deduct from an apparent angle. He is then qualified to make a truer estimate of the real angle of slopes which he may be able to examine in face alone.

Snow cannot lie at anything like the angle at which it often appears to lie when seen in face. From the presence of snow, in fact, much can be argued as to the generally mild angle of the mountain face on which it lies. Except in narrow couloirs, where it is supported by the walls, snow does not lie permanently above or even up to an angle of fifty degrees. Most big snow slopes are considerably less. The broader the face on which it lies, usually the less the real angle of the snow.

The fact that a big snow peak presents a continuous slope of snow to its summit is evidence that the mean angle of the ascent is not great, otherwise the even accumulation could not have proceeded. In prospecting a new mountain, therefore, however tempting its rock face or ridge may be to a modern climber, its snow side, if it has one, may be assumed to offer the inclination of easier ascent. And this more

## particularly if the snow slopes face towards the south, where the snow

would naturally adhere least to the face.

Interruptions to climbing on such snow faces, whether as steeper slopes of snow or as ice walls (such as it is well to note beforehand), are at once apparent from their different shading if the snow slopes are inspected when the sun is overhead.

The inclination of a hanging slope of snow always appears still more exaggerated as seen from in front if it lies on the face of what is mainly a rock peak. We have in such case to discover if the snow is lying on ice, or only forms a coating to the rock. If it is on ice, the lower edge of the slopes, where the snow runs out on to the rock, will generally betray a rim or broken wall of ice. To judge of the quality of such a snow surface, and of the strength of its attachment to its ice or rock sub-surface, the slopes below it must be examined, and snow, stone or water furrows looked for. By the crumpled or the clean appearance of the edges of the slope itself, where it touches the rock walls on either side of its descending fan, much can be learned of its past transmutations and present condition.

Long or short spits of lighter snow, running up against darker snow or ice, are the retentions of later falls, and are indications of uneven angles of surface. They betray the presence of bulges or ribs below, and, besides their promise of easier progress on slopes where the general surface may be frozen hard or over-steep, they give us by their contrast a further basis for our estimate of the actual inclination.

The presence, the shape, and the number of cleavages or crevasses in a slope of ice or snow are a further guide to our estimate. A certain type of crevasse is only found on slopes lying at an angle of about forty-five degrees.

We may get additional evidence, in cases of doubt, by waiting for the sun to throw the shadow of another peak or shoulder upon the slope. When the sun and the interruption are located, the distortion of the reflection will allow of an approximate estimate of the angle of the snow slope.

Faces or ridges of mingled rock and snow, and surfaces interrupted by the intrusion of any detail, be it only of a shadow or tint, are always easier for the experienced eye to estimate, in angle and character. Where we have rock and snow or light and shadow in contrast, practice in the reading of snow and ice surfaces, and in the rules that govern their angles of inclination and attachment, and practice in the interpretation of the details of rock structure, become mutually and comfortably corrective.

[Sidenote: Snow Cornices.]

Cornices form against the wind, not with it. The contrary is sometimes stated; but the error is possibly due to the fact that irregularities in the configuration of a ridge often produce back eddies in a cross-wind. If the prevailing wind is snow-bearing, and across, a snow-bearing back swirl may build a small cornice on the sheltered side of a ridge. Such a small cornice would appear to have been formed _with_ the prevailing wind: actually it would have grown against its return eddy. A wind blowing along (not across) a serrated ridge may similarly produce very small cornices facing _either_ way on the ridge, and apparently at right angles to the prevailing current, owing to some tower or curve on one side or the other having created an inward and upward cross-eddy, and a shelter from the main-current in which the snow-laden eddy can work. Large cornices facing either way on the same ridge, and the double cornices, are produced by a shift in a snow-bearing cross-wind to the directly opposite quarter. If we find ourselves on a corniced ridge when a strong wind, and especially a strong wind from a warm quarter or with Föhn in it, is blowing against the back of big cornices, i.e. from the opposite direction to that from which the snow-bearing wind was blowing which formed the cornices, we have to be even more careful, if that be possible, in dealing with them, as such a wind will loosen their attachment and magnify the suddenness and the size of their collapse. A cornice will always form more easily on the summit of a sheer or abrupt wall, which creates a strong upward eddy in a wind blowing against it, than upon a more gradual or snow-rounded inclination which offers less resistance to the current and less ‘catch’ to its snow burden. For this reason, upon a summit or a ridge which has, as so often is the case, one more gradual snow side and one rock side inevitably steeper, we must be prepared to find cornices overhanging the rock face, larger if produced by a wind-shift, lesser if by a back eddy, even though the prevailing wind has blown regularly upon the opposite snowy face, and should have relieved us of the necessity of caution by its failure to develop cornices on that side.

In general, therefore, the direction of the prevailing wind can give us no certain guidance as to whether or not to expect the existence of cornices. If a snow-bearing wind has blown against the visible side of our ridge or summit, we shall see them. If upon the invisible side, we must assume their presence until we can disprove it. But a wind-shift or variable current may always contradict our calculations. A cornice is very quickly built.

If we have not been following the performances of the prevailing wind, or if we mistrust its portent in any case, we have to rely upon visual evidences when we are prospecting the approach to any snow summit or the traverse of any snow-crowned ridge. In the case of a single summit it is less trouble to assume the presence of a cornice, until we fail to find it. In the case of a continuous ridge it may save us much tribulation to ascertain its condition in this respect before we start out for a long day upon it. If there are cornices, and they project _towards_ us, they will at once be recognizable; if _away_, it is not always easy to make certain, without getting a sight of some part of the ridge in profile. Their detection at one point of a ridge will dictate the necessity of precaution along the rest. A telescopic examination can often discover the thin dark line of junction or strain, running parallel to the crest in the snow on the near side, where the projection of a cornice towards the far side starts its inclination. (In more considerable snow ranges, such as the Andes, this crack has, I am told, on occasion been proved to be due to a longitudinal crevasse on the ridge. In the Alps, however, I know of no case of this having been observed.)

An alternative and rarer indication will be the discovery of a band of shadow or duller tint, seen in the right light, running along the snow wall just below some part of the crest. This will be due to a relative steepening of the snow wall, sometimes even taking the form of a concavity, where the back of a high, steep cornice, facing towards the far side, hummocks up off its supporting ridge. The appearance I believe to be occasioned by a fall or a shift in the prevailing wind,--a fall permitting the snow to accumulate upon the head of the cornice and form a sort of bulbous whale-back over it, or a shift of wind to the near side beginning a projection which may ultimately grow into a ‘double’ cornice, with the higher of the two facing towards us.

Failing either of these signs, any two projecting points of rock or snow, near together on the suspected ridge, should be examined. If the connecting line of snow between them shows sharp and continuous against the sky, and ascends at its either end in a continuous single curve to the points selected, the cornice on the far side, if any, will be slight and local. If, however, the snow rim seems to merge indefinitely on the skyline, and its curve ascends to the points at either end in a variable arc of different centres, so that we seem to see, as it were, round the edge of a fold where the snow-curve hangs to the rock points, a cornice is indicated. If the breadth of the points or towers is sufficiently ascertainable to enable us to estimate the average thickness of the connecting rock ridge hidden below the snow between them (as it usually is unless the towers are seen absolutely flat in face), then the look, almost a reflection, in the sky immediately above the snow curve, and the character of the snow curve where it wavers over against the sky, will indicate to an expert eye whether the cornice is large or small.

Where, again, sufficient rock points projecting from a snow ridge are visible, as we see it in face, to suggest what must be the actual line of the snow-covered rock connecting them, any wayward sweep away from us in the visible line of the snow between them is an indication that the snow rim, where the skyline thus unaccountably retreats from the eye, is superintending a cornice on the far side.

The presence of a double cornice--the fatal cornices that face two ways, one built up above the other--is not difficult to establish. A band of shadow or low light on the near side of a snow crest, below a band of higher light, means a lower cornice facing towards us under an upper cornice curving away. A band of markedly higher light, below a band of shadow or obvious concavity, means an upper cornice facing towards us above a lower cornice facing away.

For all such observations on snow, which find their opportunity in the relative positions of light and shadow, it is apparent that a time must be chosen when the sun shines from the right quarter. Their accuracy depends upon their being continued over a time sufficient for the sun to travel past, and so indicate to us dimension, by the change in, or the disappearance of, the shadows cast.

[Sidenote: Wind and Snow Signs.]

Wind is not ‘seen,’ but its immediate effects upon snow are, more especially on high ridges, corniced or otherwise. The quality and quantity of the surface snow on a ridge, which it is important to know beforehand, can be discovered in times of wind from the amount and direction of the snow particles, which are seen to be blowing off the ridge, and appear as a film or puff of vapour upon the sky just above. The absence of any halo to the ridge, in spite of the manifest action of wind upon adjacent clouds, is equally valuable evidence of the stable quality of the snow.

The direction and force of the wind will often suggest the side of the ridge to which we shall prefer to limit our passage on the morrow. On the windy side, if the ridge be snow-covered, according to the quarter and character of the wind, the snow will be crusted or hard, or we may have to encounter a bare sheet of ice. If it be rock, again according to the wind, we shall find the holds either cleared or ice glazed in the morning. On the side sheltered from the wind, on a high exposed ridge the snow should be just of good quality. But even on such ridges it may be spongy and cantankerous if the wind has had Föhn in it.

In a bad season, or after a storm of ‘dry’ snow, it is worth while examining high ridges that have been exposed to the wind, on the chance that they may not have been closed by snow for the usual three days, like other peaks. A friend and I owed our own last great climb to having observed that the Zmutt ridge of the Matterhorn had been blown black and bravely snow-clear by the same storm that sheeted all the other ridges and summits of Zermatt in white, untimely mourning.

Apart from the indirect evidences it brings, wind, keen or warm, gusty or continuous, has its direct bearing upon the comfort, the safety and even the possibility of our climbing. Of its effects on snow surface, on rock falls and upon _morale_ I have written elsewhere.

[Sidenote: Ice.]

Ice sheets on snow peaks are located from a distance by their reflected light; but it is well to memorize or sketch their position and extent beforehand, especially if we expect to have to cross them upon our descent, since they will be usually invisible from above. If there is prospect of our glissading, the exact positions of interruptions, ice shields, bosses, etc., must be known in advance.

Ice upon rock is apparent, either as a grey-blue, bottle-glass bordering to the stippling and nestling of old snow, or in the refrozen festoons of new ice, exquisite and evil, that complete the Gothic character of granite pinnacles.

Lazy, main glaciers reveal themselves frankly. The solution of their complexity is the business of ice craft; but distant inspection is concerned to discover the easiest line of ascent or descent, if the glacier is to form part of the expedition.

The most difficult hanging glaciers--that is, those with the largest systems of crevasses--will be as a rule the most steeply inclined. They will be therefore the easiest to prospect, even in detail, as seen in face from far off. Very few hanging glaciers descend evenly or straight. Either side or the centre will be moving the faster, and receiving the fuller reinforcement. The line of the great crevasses will slant upward or across, from one side to the other, or from both sides to the centre. And along the edges where the lines of varying pace and pressure adjoin and descend in conflict will be found, if there are no abrupt ice falls due to uneven bedding, the least interrupted route. Contrary pressures often tend to squeeze up the ends of successive cross-lines of crevasses, creating a tortuous but consecutive eddy of passage. Though the crevasses may still exist, as walls, _séracs_, etc., they will be more compressed and negotiable on this line. Frequently the cleavages will here survive only as partial splits, and across and down the edges of the unsevered splinters or flakes a continuous descent will be possible. But climbers may skirt round the mazes of glacier causation, if they have but eyes for the visible surface clues. It is enough for them to note from afar and remember by marginal marks where the best line of traverse from side to side, or from side to centre, should be started, in order to keep or recover the mobile thoroughfare. On large glaciers this is often very difficult to rediscover once we are on the ice, when our view is restricted by its irregularities of surface.

Similarly, to enable us to get on or off any glacier, we should note beforehand the position of convenient side-bays, where the ice runs out on to the rock in smoother, spent waves.

[Sidenote: Couloirs.]

Even as the passage of couloirs might be considered as belonging to snow and ice craft or to rock craft, so also their consideration is transitional to rock reconnoitring.

On large mountains the important thing to know about a couloir beforehand, if we intend to use it, is whether it is filled with ice or with snow, and whether it is subject to stone fall.

To information on the first point, the study of the angle of the couloir is the first help. A steep angle generally implies that the lining will be ice and not snow.

But as snow, supported by retaining rock, may remain at a very high angle, we look to see if there are any furrows in the white surface. If there are furrows and they are in ice, they will show us ice reflections in sunlight. If there are no ice reflections and they are therefore in snow, or if they are only ice-backed and therefore in snow-covered ice, the depth of the furrows will tell us what depth of snow we may expect upon the ice. If there are no furrows, the edges of the supposed snow must be inspected for further information. Where the snow runs out on to the rock at the side in ice webs, the surface tone will appear of different qualities if it be snow on ice, or if it be ice throughout.

And after all our examination, we may be agreeably surprised to be able to ascend on hard snow in the early hours where we had calculated from the angle that we should be hacking in snow-ice; or as disagreeably disappointed to find snow of avalanche quality, on a late return or after warm wind, where we had located snow of the best bearing variety during a morning inspection.

The base of the couloir should be inspected for traces of previous snow avalanches, and for the character of its bergschrund. We see if we can whether the summit of the couloir is commanded by glacier or slope likely to use it for the discharge of snow or stones. If so, we note during what hours the presence of sun will increase the risk, and when shade to diminish it may be looked for.

In a big couloir we mark down islands of rock which, in case we are detained in the recesses until stone fall time, will provide us with screens below which to steer our line.

We study the lie of the strata and the containing walls for possible exits from the couloir. On big peaks the top of a couloir often opens upon an amphitheatre of slabs, too thinly ice coated for steps. It is then important to mark down a line for escape in time.

If the base of the couloir selected can be seen, the presence there of fallen stones is evidence that they have fallen; but their absence there is not conclusive that they have not. They may have been swallowed by the bergschrund, disappeared into some crevasse, or lodged in soft concealing snow. For this end we must examine the edges of the schrund and of any cleavages for traces, and the surface of the lower snow for pockling. If there are channels worn in the snow or ice at the base or back of the couloir, we shall get further evidence that something is accustomed to fall. These channels may have been made by stones, by ice trash or by water. In sunshine the difference is distinguishable. If the runnels are ‘silver-backed’ in sunlight, and there are no stones apparent, they have been made by water and are harmless.

If the couloir to be visited descends on to a visible glacier, but is itself invisible, the presence, absence or scarcity of fallen stones discoverable at the bottom end of the glacier, subject always to the possibility of the consumption by rift or crevasse, will demonstrate the couloir, or couloirs, commanding the visible glacier to be proportionately infected with, free from, or only in some cases liable to, the falling sickness.

[Sidenote: Rock.]

In prospecting rock routes we have more to help us; for rock, unlike snow, does not change its skin, and when it hides itself, under ice or snow or water or glaze, the change from the black Ethiopian is obvious and calculable. We have also preliminary information, if not in books yet in the outlines of the mountains themselves, as to what is the character of the particular rock before us. Every climber, if he can assume the presence of limestone or granite or dolomite, sandstone, trap, chalk, or a few other of the elementary and lay classifications, has a clear picture in his own mind of the kind of climbing and of rock holds that he may expect.

[Sidenote: Faces.]

The slopes of the hills will tell him in general; good glasses will tell him more of his particular route or of local modifications in the characteristics:--such as how the rock is weathering; in which direction the strata are dipping; and what is the fashion of the jointing. Putting this information and his knowledge of the type of rock together, he will know upon which side to attack his peak.

For instance, if the strata dip through the peak, the aspect of the mountain upon which the upper ends of the strata emerge will give him holds sloped upwards to his advantage. This side, with its _retroussé_ ledges, will also hold fresh snow longest after a fall, and at such a time afford him a further chance of locating the lie of traverse and shelf. If the main cleavages, again, are vertical, he will select the most weathered face, where the jointing will give him platform and shelf. If they are in the main horizontal, he has to seek the side that presents the most sequent line of weathering rifts or fractures, in order to connect up the natural horizontal ledges.

Just as a sunny day is of most help in prospecting an unknown snow climb, so is the day after a snowfall invaluable for the examination of rock routes. I owe several fine new rock climbs to snowfalls. Not only does the lodging snow indicate particular ledges and their intervals in detail, but it discovers to the eye general connecting lines of traverse or slope, which may be too interrupted or too foreshortened to be perceptible upon a distant inspection of the bare and broken rock face. Under snow the main lines of rock structure leap into sight.

By a convenient law of rock formation, the little apes the great. Thus, if we can discover the general inclination of traverses across a face, however large in scale, broken or interrupted their lines may be, it is safe to assume that the small details which make up these lines, the ledges, etc., will be reproducing the same fashion of structure in little. Where there are big terraces, there will be small ledges copying their form and direction. If there are big visible gaps, giant slabs, or terraces interrupted and continuing at a higher level as a result of uneven upheaval, in the same or similar places, although too small to be visible, the climber has to look out for exposed passages on slabs, or he will have to search for cracks to connect up his interrupted ledges.

It is all but impossible to inspect a distant climb with sufficient minuteness to be absolutely certain that a fifteen-foot wall or a broken ledge may not stop all progress at some point. Very rarely we can say, “It is impossible;” occasionally we can say, “It will go for certain;” but generally we have to leave some portion to the ‘round the corner’ chance. In such case we can reason with advantage from the big to the small, interpreting the main features of a face or ridge into terms of detail suitable for our lesser needs, and justifying it by our experience of similar rock.

Fortunately, rocks generally prove us right. They seldom cheat us, by a petty exception, of the fruits of general conclusions which we have based upon observation of their principal tendencies. On the contrary, we are constantly helped by kindly accidents and flaws, where we might expect no mercy. The Grépon traverse is a delightful instance of unreasonable progress just made possible by a series of, apparently, gorgeous accidents. The flukes are so brilliant and so timely that the layman cheerfully assumes them to be a rule in attacking similar Aiguilles; and he is rarely disappointed. When the expected and the unexpected alike fail us, on such rock we can still count upon a kindly roughness of surface and upon homely methods of friction to join up connections which structure and luck would have, for once, denied to us.

In reconnoitring all rock faces, especially for new routes, we are alert about the matter of falling stones. On boldly sculptured faces the edges of the ribs will be the safest line. On faces of shallow relief or much interrupted modelling, we may assume that nothing but the angle or our fortune will secure us against cross-fire. We used to be told that we should avoid stones by selecting aspects where the up-lie of strata emerged in sky-ward and stone-catching ledges. But personally, I have been seldom so badly bombarded as upon the Zermatt face of the Matterhorn, where every schoolboy knows what happens to the strata. If the rock is known to be good rock, or if we can design a route which by reason of its angle or its salience on the face should be safe, we may chance a few exposed connecting links. But if the rock is notoriously bad, or the disconnections in the safe route look to be numerous, and this especially if they occur high up where the sun will have had long time to act before we reach them, we must not risk the attempt. Years ago our party turned back from completing the ascent of the Furggen ridge of the Matterhorn on the ground of risk from stone fall. Later it was climbed; and the story of the success might be read as a commentary on the mountaineering value of the virtue of renunciation.

[Sidenote: Ridges.]

The same reasoning from the big to the little helps us in prospecting ridge climbs. If the succeeding edges, towers and large interruptions on a great ridge show a disposition towards maintaining a steady family connection, each with its neighbour, in spite of their bold skyline accidentation--(I cannot put this more intelligibly, but any student of natural outline will know what is meant)--then there is every reason to hope that the ‘cuts-off’ between them will also prove more relenting than they look. In their smaller detail the same indulgences, of ledge and flake and fluke in favour of the climber, will manifest themselves.

A ridge seen end-on is very deceptive. If it rises steeply, it may appear to be a continuous incline, whereas it consists really of separated, ascending ‘steps.’ If a side view is not obtainable, the look of the walls falling on either side from the ridge crest must be our guide. The depth, extent and number of depressions indicated in these side walls, seen in profile, will tell us that there are couloirs below, and therefore probably syncopations in the seemingly continuous crest-line above.

The projection of bulges or articulated ribs on either side wall may, similarly, be identified as the edges or supporting buttresses of isolated towers, whose depth of separation from each other is concealed from us in the foreshortening of the ridge.

Towers on a ridge, seen in flat from one side, are equally misleading. They are more often the ends of short ridges which run crosswise to the line of the main ridge than the needles which they appear to the eye. An inspection of the general lie of the strata will often tell us whether we may assume this to be the case.

If we can get both an end-on view and some oblique view of the ridge, or of any tower upon it, we can reason fairly closely what the two unseen sides of any spire will be like, and even whether they can be expected to offer traverses conveniently sloping, or weathered surfaces, such as the dip of the strata and the jointing deny to us upon the visible sides.

Allowance must always be made for the deceptive outlines that are introduced by foreshortening. A view from some second point is often necessary to counteract their false impression.

In prospecting a ridge for purpose of traverse in the early morning, it is well also to note which side gets the sun soonest and keeps it longest. On this side we shall find the holds most clear of snow or morning glazing, and be able to escape the chill to the muscles of shadow on cold rock. The rock on this side also will, for the same reason, be probably the more superficially disintegrated, and so offer a greater choice of holds, though not necessarily holds of such good quality.

[Sidenote: Slabs.]

In reconnoitring slabs, on faces or on the side walls of ridges, we find that their apparent angle as seen in face is as misleading as that of snow slopes. In their case we have not the presumptive knowledge that they cannot be as steep as they seem, since rock may be as perpendicular as it looks. Nor have we the subtle variations in light and shadow which help us, on snow, to correct the eye. Rock faces are so broken that it is seldom possible to get the assistance of sun shadows in estimating the angle of portions of their surface.

On the other hand, acquaintance with the characteristics of the

## particular type of rock, and the visible general inclination of

its strata, give us a groundwork for a preliminary estimate of its slabiferous sections.

New snow can again come to our assistance. Snow will reveal to us an easy angle by lying over our slabs as an even cloak; or it may display a vertical section by missing it altogether. It will also indicate the surface in some detail, by the fashion of its distribution on ledge or pocket.

Otherwise we must try to secure a side view of bare slabs, or at least a second, oblique view. If this is not to be managed, it is of use to inspect any near and more approachable slab of similar formation. By an examination of the profile of a ‘sample’ slab we are often able to revise our estimate of the angle and potential holds of its bigger, remoter neighbours.

But on rock the final judgment of doubtful passages must be left in the end to the practical test of attempt. The only infallible criterion is its tactile value. When we have reduced the ‘impossible’ sections of a route to a few isolated passages, it is always worth while going to see. The accidents of rock, its roughness, its whimsicality and its reticences are nearly always in the end in our favour. If we can only make sure that the rock is sound, and fix a general line of ascent, the overcoming of the ‘impossibles’ or the ‘improbables’ in detail can well be left to the moment. If we could map out a whole climb before we did it, much of the pleasure would be lost.

To the resources of rock technique no rock that is sound, and not obviously absurd, is impossible, either by attack or turning movement. And we may assume this to be so until we have ascertained by ‘rubbing our noses against it’ that we have lighted on the rare and unhappy exception.

[Sidenote: Rocks in Britain.]

In prospecting rock climbs in our own country, reconnoitring is practically confined to scrutinizing familiar faces for alternative routes or to orienting our own climbing in an unfamiliar district.

The first is a simple matter of good glasses, good sense and direct assault. In the second, there is still some room for general discretion.

We have to allow for a great difference in atmosphere as between Britain and the Alps. All alpine measures have to be reduced by about two-thirds.

We can generally assume that the north or northward inclined aspects of British hills will give us the best climbing. This judgment is subject to partial revision, according as we come to know better the local characteristics or the rock formation of the particular hill before us.

If the rock wall faces to the south, our prospect of good continuous climbing is reduced. Rocks facing south will be more disintegrated, as they will have been less protected from the sun and more subject to strong variations in temperature. If broken up or inclined on this side, they will be covered with verdure, which is offensive in itself and hastens the action of water on all the rocks it commands.

We have also to make sure of the lie of the strata, not only for convenience of hold, but also because on the side towards which the stratification dips the moisture fallen on the mountain will drain, and we shall have to look out for our principal enemies--wet rock, rock corrupted by moisture, and, in winter, an icing or glaze.

Our islands provide us with a great variety of rock structure and hill forms, and, according as we get to know the aspects of one hill of any local type, it is interesting to reconstruct the unseen aspects of its neighbours. Several good climbing cliffs were first found in this way.

The look of the outline will suggest the sort of climbing we shall find on the faces. We get further information from the nature and size of any scree slopes below a cliff. The presence or absence of verdure, and the sight of the belts, knots and surface _minutiæ_, tell us the rest.

All the local rock of the same aspect and in the same structural line will be similar, and may be bad; but if we can get at another aspect of it, on an opposite hillside, it may be of good holding character. For which reason rickety ridgelets may be faced across the valley by sober and admirable slabs.

Mist and cloud in Britain are our frequent companions. Mist may do us good service by throwing an unsuspected ridge or pinnacle into relief. But as a rule the alterations which cloud and fog effect in mountain details falsify rather than reveal. Their use is to place a greater value upon the fidelity with which previous reconnoitring has been conducted, and its result remembered, if we wish, in mist, to arrive at an intended climb at all, or to make descent into the right valley on our return. Not impossibly they are sent by nature to complicate what is otherwise the over-easy mountaineering training of our hills; to handicap the specializing gymnast, and to enforce the practices of observing detail, using the compass and map, and exercising judgment, memory, and the precious sense of direction.

THE HALF-SEEN

In the Alps or unfamiliar regions, to discover the truth about what may be termed the half-seen,--that is, about formation or detail which should be visible but for foreshortening, distance, angle or light,--new snow is again our best auxiliary. Its presence suggests, even emphasizes, much that is unsuspected. Seemingly straight ridges are shown to be crooked, and plain faces rough. It helps us with light in hidden corners, and annihilates distance.

Otherwise we have to use days of driving cloud, or wait for the morning or evening moments of thin mist, when the drift lies across the face or through the ridge, and picks out its angles, features and perspective. Mists will often reveal the existence of ridges and pinnacles, whose separation from the face behind is undiscoverable as seen in front or in clear light.

Of more frequent service are the hours when the sunlight falls across the face from the side, and the protuberances and hollows jump into stereoscopic clearness in shadow and the modifications of light. Invisible snow depressions, bosses and foreshortened angles of rock slab or ledge are cheerfully betrayed by the veracity of cross-shadows; and points and lines of obstinate sunlight, which remain salient and surprising after the sun has deserted all the rest of the seemingly even surface of snow or rock, proclaim to us unexpected inequalities and therefore possibilities of passage.

In cases of outside difficulty upon rock, where we are reconnoitring some great rock wall, of a granite or dolomitic type, we can generally make sure of the vertical rifts and clefts from below; but the presence or size of transverse fractures or belts is hidden from us. In this case assurance as to what has been only half-seen can be completed if a downward view of the rock, or of its local type, is also obtainable. The information is best secured from the summit of the peak itself, reached by another route, and many great first ascents have owed their discovery and safe accomplishment to such complementary inspection. Only a short section need be in sight from above in order to indicate the general character of the cross belts, and the last section on such peaks is always the more important to examine, as it will generally be the severest in its details. But even without this local visitation a downward or oblique view of any section of the face, or of an allied or neighbouring wall of similar structure, will give adequate information, and convert the half-seen into the two-thirds made certain.

A familiar instance of the use of such inspection would be almost any great Welsh cliff or Irish sea cliff. Seen from below, it appears to be continuous steep slabs, with only vertical cracks for the climber; seen from above, it looks a jumble of vague cross-terraces of grass, snow or rock, hardly offering a chance of good articulated climbs. Both estimates would be false. Only by collating the two points of view can a fair judgment of the character of the climbing be formed. A number of delightful climbs, of late discovery, have owed their neglect to the fact that they were only easily visible from a single aspect, and that this produced an abiding false estimate of their quality. The importance of securing corrective views, from different angles, be it only of a section of a proposed route, or of a passage of similar character more conveniently situated, attaches also to our inspection of the half-seen on big ridges. With points to remember in such inspection I have already dealt.

It does, in fact, belong not a little to the reasoning from the seen to the unseen; to which more metaphysical division of reconnoitring it leads over.

THE UNSEEN

The investigation of the unseen is a chief concern of mountaineers in new regions. But it can also be of service to the expert, in examining even a peak he knows well, to ascertain for him the condition of its invisible side on a particular day.

As I have said before, it is possible only to indicate _where_ signs may be sought, and what _relative_ differences the expert eye may discover and convert into information.

The mountaineer, after inspection of the near side of a ridge or summit in a big range, wishes to supplement this knowledge by the discovery of the character or general formation of the unseen side. He wishes to know whether it will give him snow of easier progress, or a subordinate ridge for better assault or descent; also whether he can look for clear rock on the far side, to assist his ascent of a ridge unfavourable in its visible aspects, or whether he must be prepared for ice slopes.

The first conditions for the inspection are experience, good glasses, clear sunlight and no recent snowfall. Also, if he wishes to confirm or increase the detail of his observations, he must be prepared to spend a whole day of good light, with the sun aiding him from different points in the sky.

As he looks over and across his high ridges from some distant view-point, in good sunlight, the mountaineer is able to distinguish several different kinds of sky, according to the different character of the unseen surfaces from which the sunlight is being reflected upward on to clear atmosphere or on to low clouds.

_The Snow Sky._--This he will find has a distinguishable tint, identifiable by the practised eye, as different on a given day from the normal coloration of the sky above as is the light reflected from different qualities of steel, or from silver as compared with electroplate.

If the sky seen over his ridge is purely a snow sky, of uniform appearance, it is just to assume that the unseen side of the ridge consists of large snow slopes, and rises at a comparatively gentle angle, since we know already that upon broad surfaces, at a steep angle, snow can only rest while it remains new and adhesive.

If, again, the sky above is purely a snow sky, but is traversed by a band of slightly modified quality or tone, leading away from the eye, there will exist on the far side a correspondingly inclined great snow ridge, from one side of which the sun, in a given position, will be reflecting high light, but from the other, lower. By repeating the observation at different times of day, so that the light will have fallen and been reflected from different directions, we can confirm the existence of such a ridge, and may be able to locate its position and determine its magnitude with some accuracy.

A second and characteristic appearance is visible on the sky above the unseen side, if this far side consists of two large snow fields divided by a long rocky ridge extending away from us. We then have a snow sky divided by a band of sky which is not catching any reflected higher light, and which we may assume to be a ‘rock’ sky.

_The Rock Sky._--If the whole expanse of the sky above is seen to have a uniform and normal tone with no local alterations, such as would be produced by partial snow reflection, then the unseen side will consist of a large wall of rock--probably, in such case, steep rock.

Under favourable conditions, a very practised observer may detect in a uniform rock sky a band of slightly modified tone going away from the eye on the far side. This will be produced by another great rock ridge extending in the corresponding direction. By watching the sky above this ridge, and observing the differences produced by the reflections of light at different hours from its different aspects, we may even be able to discover to our satisfaction whether the invisible ridge is all rock or has one side covered with snow.

_The Ice Sky._--Dry glacier or large fields of ice betray themselves upon the sky in a slightly greyer tinge, distinguishable more by contrast than by an absolute tone from a snow sky under the same conditions.

There is also a ‘water’ sky--the unmistakable look in a sky which is reflecting great unseen sheets of water; but its identification is more familiar and of more service to arctic or desert travellers than to mountaineers.

Apart from these larger sky signs there are some more local indications that are of particular value to the climber. The appearance of the sky as seen across the ridge will in most cases give us evidence of a mixed character--that the unseen side is partly rock, partly snow. It is thus essential to know, if we propose to use the ridge we are prospecting for our ascent, whether the rock just over or on the ridge is bare or ice glazed, and whether the snow discovered on the far side rises up to the edge of the ridge or leaves a crest of clear rock.

If there are bare rocks close up to the edge on the unseen side, these will be at certain hours heated by the sun, and a hot current of air will be ascending. The skyline above will have a wavering appearance, showing a band of darker tint between the ridge and the normal sky.

If there is snow close up on the far side, the air will not be disturbed, and the skyline will be steady and clean.

If the rocks beyond are free from snow but glazed with ice, the skyline will remain undisturbed, but it will have a brilliant glistening appearance in strong sunlight, like a strip of polished blue steel. This last indication, if the eye can learn its significance, may often be of service on climbs where the unseen mountain structure is already known, but when there is uncertainty as to the actual condition of the rocks on the day. Many fruitless ascents might have been saved if the ice glazing on such unseen sections of a ridge could have been detected in time.

Some of these appearances may even be recognized in photographs, if they have been taken under the right conditions and left untouched. By watching a given section of ridge, while the sun is moving across the sky, all a sunny day, and by using a map at first to discover what the different sky signs as they become visible actually mean, and also how much they reveal of the unseen topography as displayed in the map, it is possible for some men to train their sight to discriminate fairly closely between a number of even more complex signs, and to ascertain actual details as to the character and direction of unseen walls and crests, the location of unseen snow summits, and the length of far ridges.

The process, in practical application, is of course throughout assisted, corrected, and its lines of observation suggested by the nearer features which the expert reconnoitrer already has in sight. For an observer who knows the forms usual in the type of mountain before him, and who has the local features, on the side visible to him, to indicate still more closely what he may look out for, the interpretation of the meaning of sky signs presents fewer alternatives, and the conclusions drawn from them can be far more detailed than would seem possible were his reasoning about the unseen based only upon one group of evidences.

Final success in reconnoitring depends upon our ability to put together, in order of their relative importance, all our assembly of large and small evidences. Experience is able to deduce the small from the large and to reconstruct the large from the small; and confirmation of the truth of our deductions, from the seen or the unseen, comes when two such lines of evidence meet: when the detail which we discover in a single quarter confirms the speculations that we have based upon our experience or on our interpretation of larger evidences, or when our induction from a number of small visible indications is proved correct by some revelation in a greater sky sign.

For a mountaineer who has to convert his observation of distant objects and signs, of a size altogether incommensurate with his own, into terms of a possible advance for his eight-foot reach or four-foot stride, no evidence is too big or too small;--and this especially because the big, in mountains, repeats itself in the small with timely consistency. A good mountaineer might almost claim to be able to construe a single favourable sky sign, under certain conditions, into the assurance of his atom-like advance up the infinite invisible detail of an unpromising-looking mountain giant.

Sunny days, patience and good glasses are first conditions for his task. The same glasses should always be used. A type should be selected that gives enhanced stereoscopic effect. Above all, the sight of the eyes must be equal, or corrective glasses should be worn. Many men never discover even what they ought to be able to see, until they learn that their eyesight is, if only slightly, astigmatic, and use spectacles for their reconnoitring.

Reconnoitring is not merely the preparation for a single day or for a

## particular climb. A mountaineer has to learn to see and to record all

day and every day, not only distant signs for future use, but each and every detail of his surroundings. The detail may be forgotten, but its accumulation will gradually form in his mind a mass of general precedents and of knowledge of the characteristics of particular shapes and structures. This will remain with him, and will return instinctively to aid his judgment when some cognate detail presents itself to be interpreted as a piece of solitary evidence. As a last personal illustration, I may recall that one of the pleasantest new ascents in my recollection was the outcome of a simple reasoning from a detail in the seen to the memory of the unseen: the sight of a layer of excellent snow, covering for the time the usually bare slabs of one wall of a peak from which we were descending, revived the recollection that on a famous peak in another valley was a similar wall of identical aspect and character, as yet unascended on account of its normal impracticability. Without further examination we made the attempt upon it, and the speculation was confirmed in the cheeriest manner.

If care so constant that it dominates alike the exhaustion of failure and the more dangerous enervation of triumph is essential for our safe climbing, observation so continuous that it becomes unconscious is as necessary for our fortunate designing. Its habit may profit us by more even than by momentary success. For a mountaineer may read a sky sign only for the promise that it brings him of the morrow’s exercise; but he has learned to see it, and with the power of sight he has opened a new world of pleasure. It was the first scientific student of the form and reflection of clouds, of the structure and relation of hills, who was the first understanding prophet of their significance for art and imagination. The more we can learn to see or to reconstruct of the mountain forms visible or invisible about us as we climb, the more vividly will memory interpret their meaning for our lives when we are no longer among them. If we are of a mood to use both sight and its interpretation as servants of our spirit as much as of our performance, we may discover a reflection from the mountains that will permanently colour our thought. There is a reassurance no less for our journey through the years than for our march of a day in the perception that oncoming shadow, by its very quality of darker relief, can reveal to us some unsuspected and relenting aspect in the daunting precipice across our path; and a twofold message, for our mind even more than for our mountaineering, in “the light of the unseen snow-field, lying level behind the visible peaks, sent up with strange reflections upon the clouds; an everlasting light of calm aurora in the north.”

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