The pilgrim of the Middle Ages had many shrines which he might choose
to visit. To this shrine ran a good road when once the mountains were
crossed; to another there was the drawback of a sea voyage; at a
third shrine the good saint was a potent healer, and the distance to
be covered would afford a good penance for the pilgrim’s ill-deeds;
moreover, he would find free entertainment at most places on the way.
Thus there was food for absorbing reflection before setting out, and
much thought needed for the details of the way. I fancy the Lord of
Anglure-sur-Aube must have taken an astonishing interest in organising
the long journey for his large troop of pilgrims. Yet the pious pilgrim
may have regarded this interest with suspicion, as enticing the mind
from thoughts of the true object of the pilgrimage--too much thought
for the morrow.
Likewise the modern mountaineer is free to ponder and make his choice,
having before him a district of many thousand square miles from which
to select. He enjoys, therefore, all the pilgrim’s freedom of choice;
and from this freedom a demon of restlessness arises which the pilgrim
would not encourage in himself.
The truth is that the mountaineer does encourage this restless feeling
in himself, notwithstanding the pilgrim’s protests. He welcomes the
arrival of this fatal gad-fly which drives him yearly southward. And
whereas the pilgrim, being no faddist, accepts what comes in a spirit
of cheerfulness, and looks askance at anything that may vex his peace
of mind, the mountaineer knows that only after diligent search can
he secure the best which the mountains have to offer. He is indeed
a genuine faddist in planning. He chooses his route with as much
care as he chooses a companion. He will sit for hours or even days
of his spare time before a heap of maps and guide-books; for every
expedition chosen he will have rejected twenty, forming his imaginary
tour by a process of elimination rather than of selection. Only when
he is thoroughly familiar with every corner of a district does he
consent to choose his peak or pass. Three things are necessary for the
ideal expedition: a great variety in the ascent, a fine view (I would
instance the Aletschhorn or the Tour St. Pierre), and an easy descent,
preferably over snow. This combination is not found on every mountain;
it is therefore all the more fascinating to seek for such by map and
guide-book; and when this ideal expedition is at length discovered the
climber will anticipate it with pleasure for months beforehand--thus
forestalling the joys of summer, and with far less searching of heart
than in the event. In this discontent with his own planning he gains
an interest and occupation, without any of the pilgrim’s prickings of
conscience.
The latter, however, has also certain advantages. He retains his peace
of mind far more easily than does the mountaineer. He is free to rest
when he may choose, to lie throughout the noon-day heat--‘patulae
recubans sub tegmine fagi’; nor does he care one rap about ‘times.’ To
the mountaineer, on the contrary, a long halt is not often permitted;
for he must always keep some spare time before him, lest some sudden
obstacle leave him for the night on the mountain-side. So long as the
rope is still round his waist he is not often entirely free from some
anxiety, and he remains somewhat restless in spirit until the path
leading valleywards is reached. It is therefore not surprising to find
the most calm of men turn quick-tempered upon the mountains, a state of
mind which agrees ill with their enthusiasm. It is difficult to explain
away this fault as superficial; for the serene pilgrim can point to a
hundred instances where the climber was in such a bad temper that he
would allow no one else their share in the hard work. But if a slight
matter can upset him, his good temper returns also as quickly as it
departs; and if you keep out of his way while busy and meet him jogging
peacefully down through the thickening pine woods towards evening, you
will find him as cheerful a companion as the wanton and merry Friar.
Again, both in the pilgrim and the mountaineer there is a delight in
the unexpected; which is a remarkable thing, since the mountaineer,
unlike the pilgrim, has chosen what he is to expect in detail. The
pilgrim sets out to bear cheerfully such adventures as may lie in
Fortune’s lap; the mountaineer has been planning for months, and a
cherished scheme may fail owing to bad weather or other mischance.
However, he takes a certain pleasure in failure, for he has discovered
two benefits to be derived from it. That which is unaccomplished one
year may be carried out at a later date, until which time the hope
of success makes ample amends for the failure; also an unsuccessful
attempt often leaves a greater stamp on the memory, when the
mountain is seen in wrathful mood. The climber may praise himself for
perseverance or prudence, throwing all blame upon the shoulders of
Chance. He goes out, indeed, half prepared to fail; he is extravagantly
thankful for small mercies received; he adopts a somewhat pessimistic
attitude, since
‘Luck’s a chance, but trouble sure,
I’d face it as a wise man should,
And train for ill and not for good.’
Some might see in him the vices of the born grumbler; for with him the
weather is rarely perfect, and when perfect it is too often about to
break. But it is part of the climber’s vanity to be more weather-wise
than Nature herself; and to all appearance he mildly resents even a
change for the good which does not accord with his prophecy.
Further, the unexpected is not always evil; the climber may stumble
upon a new route, and even the most hardened scoffer at such things
will admit a secret delight in reading his name in the pages of _Conway
and Coolidge_. The unexpected is always at hand. I went up one day to
the hut on the south-west ridge of the Matterhorn, in a wind sufficient
to take the horns off the oxen; and that night I lay awake, like
Strepsiades,
ἐν πέντε σισύραις ἐγκεκορδυλημένος
listening to the wind howling and the clatter of stones and ice falling
from the Great Tower upon the roof. Next morning the wind dropped
at sunrise, and a warm, cloudless day followed, of that wonderful
clearness which foretells the advent of bad weather. One more instance
of the unexpected--and in this I have my justification: that day we
were in a sense pilgrims, for we set out to discover a route by which
men might pass direct from the Ober Steinberg to the Concordia. We
started in light, rolling mist, and towards sunrise looked down upon a
cloud-sea hiding the deep-cut valley of Lauterbrunnen. Then crossing
a world of stones we climbed a steep, short glacier, and over a heap
of avalanche-debris reached the lowest rocks of our mountain, the
Mittaghorn. Here we had expected difficulty with a steep band of rock,
but passed rapidly upwards without check to where the angle eased off.
Then came trouble, for the rock became of a loose slaty texture, in
places covered with ice. Higher up matters improved, until we reached
the foot of a great overhanging wall of red rock, which turned us left
along a narrow ledge and round jutting corners, to where a steep ice
gully cut through the wall. I was left standing in a vast ice step,
from which I could see nothing but the leader’s foot searching now and
then for some cranny in the rock. Below me a great ice slope ran down
with alarming steepness and then dipped over, beyond which I saw the
green valley and our hotel; in the far distance I could see the ripples
sparkling on the Lake of Thun, and above the sunlight was playing on a
patch of rocks which had come no nearer after two hours’ hard work. On
such occasions time passes slowly to those who only stand and wait, and
I was right glad when they hoisted me over the rock wall and into the
sunlight once more. To our disgust the summit lay still far off to our
left, and to attain it we had to follow a narrow ridge of sloppy snow;
on the far side of the peak we found crusted snow, to complete our
tribulation. Thus we found both good and evil unexpectedly, and like
Christian fell ‘from running to going, and from going to clambering
upon hands and knees,’ until we wished ourselves trippers once more.
It is, above all, when the climber passes from one valley to another
that the unexpected is liable to occur. He then experiences all the
pilgrim’s joy of wandering, the uncertainty of the night’s lodging,
the pleasure of tracing out the next day’s ascent on the far hillside.
He will follow the line of path through the pine wood, and train his
powers of observation, learning, moreover, to trust his own eyes in
preference to the map. Though he may not see cities, he will see many
men, and will find hospitality as unselfish as in the days when all
travellers and pilgrims were objects of pity. He travels from place to
place with a pilgrim’s desire to find the ideal peak or valley. There
are not many that find it; and this failure in the search is due partly
to the climber’s own natural restlessness, partly to his intense desire
to see if the Happy Valley may not lie just round the corner. He feeds
this discontent with his present circumstances, knowing that in so
doing he gets the greatest joy. He is in no hurry to find this Happy
Valley; nor, if he never find it, will he consider that he has climbed
in vain.