SKI-ING
Of all the hundreds of folk who yearly spend a few weeks or, if they are
excessively fortunate or opulent, more than a few weeks in Alpine
resorts during the winter, there are many who devote themselves almost
entirely to one sport. Thus you may, as a rule, never meet a man except
on:
(i) The skating rink,
(ii) The curling rink,
(iii) The ski-ing slopes, or
(iv) The toboggan runs.
Weather bad for his particular branch of sport may temporarily drive him
to another and slightly despised diversion, but when possible, where his
heart is, there will his legs be also. He will be adopting one
particular method of sliding (I count curling a method of sliding,
because your object is to make your curling-stones slide in a definite
manner) to the exclusion of others, and sliding in some form or other,
whether on skates or toboggan or skis, lies at the base of all winter
sports. That is why we all go to Switzerland in the winter, because
there we find frozen water (or hope to) in abundance. We then, having
fixed on the particular and hazardous manner in which we wish to slide
over frozen water, with steel blades or long wooden shoes, proceed to
do so. In all cases the desire to slide instead of walk regulates the
choice of our holiday. Exclusive tobogganers we must regard as a
comparative rarity, for there are few who practise tobogganing whenever
possible and nothing else at all. As a rule, tobogganers do not toboggan
for the whole of every day. It entails too much hill-climbing.
But of these three classes, I think the confirmed and inoculated skier
is most absolutely wedded to his sport. You will find him a rarer
visitor to either form of rink than is the inoculated skater or curler
to the ski-ing slopes. It will often happen, also, that the inoculated
curler visits the skating-rinks, or the inoculated skater the house and
the hog. But the man who comes out to Switzerland in order to ski very
seldom visits either. For various and intricate as are the manœuvres
which the expert can perform on skates, and various as are the movements
which the expert can cause his curling-stones to perform, there is at
the command of the skier a greater expanse of conquerable territory. Not
only has he his figures, so to speak, to cut on the snow-fields, his
Telemark and Christiania swings, and his stemming turns, which
correspond roughly to the threes and rockers and change of edge in the
skater’s art, and the outwicks and inwicks of the curler, but he has his
travel over the snows for travel’s sake: he is an artist in climbing,
and the whole horizon (omitting such mountain peaks as the Matterhorn or
the Aiguilles) are part of his rink, which reaches, broadly speaking,
wherever there is snow. And some part of his rink, however bad the
weather, is pretty certain to be in order. The skater’s rink may be (as
has been known within the memory of man to happen) an inglorious series
of pools, or have vanished entirely under a covering of snow, and
similarly, the curler’s rink is occasionally found to resemble a sort of
cold wet toffee. But the skier’s rink is hardly ever altogether
impracticable, and he can both travel and in his travelling cut his
figures. Hardly ever, though he may have to go far to get it, will he
fail, except when a severe fall of snow is actually going on, to find
slopes on which he can at any rate “play about.” Consider also the
infinite variety of his tumbles. His falls are more complicated, have
more pleasing uncertainty about them, than those which any skater can
indulge in. Also they hurt far less. There are few skaters who can
manage to fall more than about half a dozen times a day, unless they are
exceptionally young, or, as the inquests say, very “well nourished,” and
yet continue their practice with undiminished vigour. But there are few
skiers, old or young, lean or otherwise, who will be the least
discouraged by twice that number of tumbles.
Here, too, is another reason for the fidelity of the skier to his sport.
It yields him, if he is a novice, a quicker dividend of pleasure than
skating yields to the beginner, or curling to the curler. After a week’s
practice, starting from the beginning, the skater will scarcely yet have
felt himself firmly travelling on an outside edge, which, when he has
accomplished it, is after all only the beginning of further trouble,
while the curler, after the same lapse of time, will not have begun to
deliver his stones with the most distant approach to what could possibly
be called accuracy. But the skier will already be cognisant of the
rapture of sliding swiftly downhill on the hissing snow, and though the
“frequent fall” awaits him, he will have experienced a genuine taste of
the authentic joy. He will, too, have climbed high and heavenwards, have
seen new horizons spread themselves, have seen further peaks in the
magic of the Alpine air and sunshine rear their austere heads.
Stumblingly, perhaps, he will have penetrated into new valleys among the
“holy hills,” and felt the surprise and sting of exploration. He will
also, if he has devoted himself to the tricks--the skating-figures of
his art--be appreciably nearer the achievement of stemming turns than
the skater will be to the accomplishment of a simple three, or the
curler to the hope of coming into the house round a guard. Thus, if
anyone who can get three weeks in Switzerland, without solid hope of
getting more in subsequent years, were to ask how, being active of body,
he could get the maximum of enjoyment out of those three weeks, I should
unhesitatingly advise him to practise ski-ing, though, should he have a
reasonable prospect of coming out in future years, I should just as
unhesitatingly recommend him to persevere for a little while, anyhow,
with his skates, or stick to the curling-rink if he desires a less
hazardous sport. But if he has a short holiday, without reasonable
prospects of coming out again, I think if he is young and active he will
get more fun in a short time if he betakes himself to the skis.
Moreover, whatever resort he honours with his presence, he is certain to
find there fair ski-ing slopes, especially in unfavourable weather, and
in the vast majority of cases, excellent ones. Indeed, if he only
anticipates one visit to Switzerland, he will find everywhere slopes
that will be for him excellent.
Also there is a greater simplicity about his needs. Nature provides his
rink, and it stretches further in every direction (except downwards
towards the valleys) than he is able to go. He wants no marking out of
house and hog-line, he wants no surface nightly renewed and rendered
flawless. He only wants his equipment, as the skater his skates, and the
curler his stones and his broom. And if, like the curler, he is, so to
speak, “never up” for a day or two, he is never down for long, and
cannot hurt his side, and probably will not hurt himself. Also, the
minimum of experimentalism will enable him to enjoy himself, and I doubt
whether the skater really enjoys himself with so little expenditure of
time and trouble, unless his only object is to progress in a straight
line. To progress in a straight line, in fact, is no fun for the skater,
but it is great fun for the skier.
Without going into any excessive details with regard to his equipment,
certain facts about it must be broadly stated. The ski itself, as anyone
seeking those altitudes in winter is probably aware, is a long narrow
slip of wood turned up at the bows and fastened to his foot. It is
smooth on the under-surface, thicker under the place where his foot
comes than elsewhere, and should have a shallow groove running up the
middle of it. In length it should be a few inches shorter than its owner
if he stands with his arms outstretched above his head. In other words,
a man 6 feet high will want a ski about 7 feet long. This is only a
rough-and-ready rule, and if the skier arrives at his Alpine resort
with the intention merely of hiring skis, he should not choose them
shorter than this. It is easier to travel on skis that are too long than
on those which are too short. But, however long the skis are, they
cannot be too narrow. Mr. Caulfield (an adept and authority) lays down
that at the narrowest part (_i.e._ where the foot rests) they should
never be more than 2¾ inches in breadth. Instantly the novice will
exclaim that his boot at the ball of the foot is broader than that, and
that his boot will project beyond the skis. He is perfectly right: it
will. But Mr. Caulfield is right too. He should also see that the grain
of the ski lies longitudinally, and that the ski itself is slightly
arched, the top of the arch lying underneath the wearer’s foot. If the
ski is quite flat, it will bend downwards in soft snow under the weight
and impede the going. These directions, which sound slightly advanced
for him who has never seen a ski at all, are really most elementary. No
beginner should attempt to ski on contraptions that do not fulfil all
these requirements. He might as well begin learning to walk in boots
that are not adapted for ordinary wear.
Next comes the awful, the intricate, the debated question of “bindings,”
by which is denoted the system by which the boot of the skier is
fastened to the ski. Into the merits of the different schools concerned
with this I do not propose to enter, nor (under the breath be it spoken)
does the fervour of the disputants seem quite to be warranted by the
importance of the subject. Provided that the bindings are easily
adjustable, and when adjusted are not easily displaced, and provided
they are not so rigid as to render likely, in case of the “frequent
fall,” a serious strain on the foot, resulting in a sprain or a broken
bone, they must be considered satisfactory enough. Such bindings are:
(i) The Huitfeldt binding;
(ii) The Ellefsen binding.
Many experts will be found to disapprove of each of these: on the other
hand, each of them is supported by expert opinions. But the beginner, in
choosing his skis, is solemnly warned against selecting unknown and
patent bindings unless advised of their excellence by an expert who is
familiar with them. He is safe, however (if anything connected with the
skis can by any stretch of imagination be considered safe), if he
selects either of the two above-mentioned bindings. They differ
enormously in principle but are both excellent. A third binding, the
Lilienfelt, has also many devotees: its opponents, however, assert that
it is dangerously rigid. But it is possible to fall down, quite often,
when using any of these bindings, with the most satisfactory results.
Of the actual equipment (_i.e._ of tools necessary for ski-ing at all)
the next matter is sticks. Of these the skier should always carry two,
by the help of which he makes a supplementary punting movement when
going along the level or up gentle slopes; while on a steeper upward
slope he leans on them to distribute his weight, and thus prevent
back-slipping of his skis. They should therefore be strong and light,
and made of cane. They terminate at their lower end in sharp steel
points, and some few inches above those points they should be fitted
with a light circular disc of wicker-work which prevents them sinking
into the snow. Otherwise the holder, leaning on them, would merely be
plunged up to his shoulders in soft drifts, which would not serve his
purpose. They also help to steady him, in the manner of an ice-axe, when
climbing very steep slopes or when zigzagging, and should be at least
shoulder high. Coming downhill the beginner, when the pace grows too
fast for his liking, is accustomed to lean heavily on them, grasping
them together in both hands and making of them a brake to his headlong
career. This manœuvre is called “stick-riding,” and is unanimously
discouraged by all experts, however divergent may be their views on the
subject of bindings. Later, when the beginner is joining himself to
these austere folk, he will cease to stick-ride, and make
stemming-curves and Telemarks and Christiania-swings instead. But as
long as the world goes round, and the force of gravity continues to
exercise its accelerating force, so long, whatever the experts may
teach, shall we see the beginner descending a slope, bending low, with
eyes starting out of his head in pleasing terror, and leaning heavily on
his conjoined sticks. It is safe also to assert that the austere experts
did exactly the same when, in the dark ages, they were starting on their
glorious careers. Therefore, by all means, let the beginner select
strong sticks. Any anchor, however illegitimate, is better than an
anchor that snaps in half. For the counsels of perfection are only
appreciated when the possibility, not of perfection, but of moderate
skill, begins to dawn on the rosy heights. Till then, O fellow-tyro and
novice, gaily descend slopes that terrify and unnerve you, conscious
that, when the terror becomes unbearable, you can lean heavily on your
sticks and check your mad career. This is profoundly immoral advice,
but the knowledge that you have strong sticks in your hands will enable
you to contemplate and thus imperfectly negotiate these places in a
straight direct line. You will know what it feels like to face straight
down these abominable precipices, and will have gained a sensation. But
without the knowledge that you held in your hands a powerful instrument
of retardation you would, very likely, have never gained the sensation
at all. This is a counsel of imperfection, and if you design to be a
first-rate skier you will not follow it. But if you have, as in our
hypothetical case, only a few weeks in these uplands, without prospect
of more, launch yourself with your strong sticks on a blood-curdling
incline, see what it feels like, and, when your nerves cannot bear it,
lean heavily on both sticks.
But the moment we progress a little further than the hypothetical case
of the man who for one winter has three weeks of Switzerland in front of
him, and then, as far as seems probable, no more Switzerland at all, the
joys of the skier increase in a quickly ascending scale. Just as the
skater in the English style finds that the threes and the rockers and
the counters that he has so painfully learned are not only delightful in
themselves, but help him towards qualifying as a good skater in the
combined figures, and just as the Continental skater finds that those
same figures assist him to produce a first-rate programme in
free-skating, so also does the skier who on easy slopes has made himself
acquainted with the various turns, find that his education there vastly
increases his enjoyment in and proficiency at the glorious excursions
which are all to be made on his immense rink. Slopes and descents that
would be impracticable for him to descend if he had not learned the
tricks, the figures of his sport, are easy and pleasurable if he can
make his Telemark, his Christiania, his stemming turns, and not only do
they become practicable, but his negotiation of these slopes becomes an
artistic performance instead of being a terrified and stick-riding
descent, just as to make a vol-plané from the skies is a beautiful feat,
whereas to slide down a rope merely hurts the hands. In the same way,
the ascents, which were a mere succession of stumblings and misdirected
efforts, and sweatings unspeakable, lose their arduousness when he has
learned how to climb steep slopes with the minimum of exertion. All his
practice with other elementary enthusiasts in the field behind the hotel
(or in front of it)--there is everywhere some such field at a suitably
steep angle--works into what must always be in ski-ing, the main object
of the sport, which is to be able to traverse the snows and make
mid-winter expeditions over the high enchanted country, which is
otherwise inaccessible. For on skis you can with ease climb slopes which
are absolutely impossible to the pedestrian, since the skier goes
unsinking over soft snow and drifts that would engulf the man in boots
as in a frozen quicksand; while in descents over such places the
difference is only emphasised. A ski-runner will in a few minutes
descend, thrilled with the joy of a movement that really resembles
flying, places which at the least take the pedestrian hours of plunging
labour. He is indifferent as to the depths of snow, since he is only
concerned with an inch or two of it, and rapturously descends a
thousand feet, while a walker is cursing at the first hundred of them.
But the ski-runner’s enjoyment and speed, both in the climb and in the
descent, are vastly increased if he has learned the elements of his art.
Thereby he saves effort, saves time, saves tumbles, and saves temper; at
the end of a run his mental bank is rich with pleasure, whereas a man
who has not taken the trouble to learn these tricks of the trade comes
in with a debit balance, so to speak, mis-spent labour, unnecessary
falls, and loss of time and temper. He must learn the elements of
climbing, of turning, and of braking, not by heavily leaning on his
strong poles, but by the far simpler and less tiring methods of using
his skis to do the braking for him.
The first difficulties that beset the beginner must be considered as
concerned with climbing, since he has to get to the top of his hill
before he can experience the pleasing terror of proceeding to slide down
it. As he flounders and falls and back-slips, he will be astonished to
see some more practised performer strolling along up the slight slope
which he finds so baffling, without the slightest effort or exertion.
Looking more closely he will perhaps notice that this expert is stamping
his feet a little as he walks, merely as if to warm them on this cold
morning. Then for a moment perhaps he seems to slip, and the beginner
anticipates the delight of seeing somebody else flounder in the snow
without being able to get up. But he sees nothing of the sort. Hardly
has the slip begun before the expert has put down one ski behind the
heel of and at right angles to the other. The slip is stopped, and the
next moment he moves easily on again.
Higher up the slope becomes steeper, and, still watching, the tyro
observes that the skier has changed his direction, and instead of
mounting in a straight line is crossing the slopes in a direction,
zigzagging across them. He has moved perhaps a hundred yards to the
right, but is then confronted by a wall of rock obviously unscaleable.
But without effort he lifts one foot rather high and turns it, putting
it down again in the direction opposite to that in which he has been
zigzagging. The other foot comes round too, and immediately the climber
begins progressing again in the reversed direction, having executed that
easy and necessary manœuvre called the kick-turn. Then a belt of trees
closes his new zigzag, and here, by way of variety, he bends down and
jumps, revolving in the air as he jumps and lands facing round the other
way. This, of course, the beginner imagines to be a merely acrobatic and
impossible performance; he resents it as we resent a conjuring trick.
Then it seems that the climber has got tired of his zigzags, and facing
the hill directly again he proceeds, this time with some slight
appearance of effort to walk straight up it with his feet and skis
turned outwards in something of the attitude of the frog-footman in
_Alice in Wonderland_. Each ski just avoids treading on the heel of the
other, and clears it by an inch or two, so that the track left resembles
the outline of a piece of herring-bone brickwork. There is the same
resemblance in the name of this manœuvre, since it is called
herring-boning. Then once more the climber varies his style of progress,
for here the slope is exceedingly steep, and he has come to a narrow
gully, where his zig-zags would have to be very short, and instead of
interspersing every few steps with a kick-turn he stands sideways to the
slope and puts down one foot horizontally across it and brings the other
close up to and parallel with it. Then he steps sideways again with the
first foot, and repeats the manœuvre. Twenty or thirty paces of this
sort bring him to the top of his gully, and he stops a moment looking
over the view which his climb has opened out to him. (That also is a
frequently-practised ski-ing manœuvre and quite easy. The view-trick is
indulged in after a steep bit of climbing, and is dictated by a love of
scenery combined with the need of getting your breath again.)
Now all these devices, the stamping of the skis, the stopping of the
slip, the kick-turn, the jump even, the herring-boning and the
side-stepping are all quite easily learned, and, if we except the jump
round, which is never necessary, since the kick-turn produces the same
result (_i.e._ change of direction), the beginner will in a few days
have so far mastered the elements of them that he will be able, without
undue fatigue, to climb slopes on which at first he helplessly
floundered. But he is advised to make practical acquaintance with all of
these conjuring tricks, for they each have their special uses. On
certain slopes there may not be sufficient room to zigzag without
continually turning, while again the surface of the snow may be so hard
and icy that herring-boning, which is quite easy if there is soft snow
on the top, may be practically impossible, in which case the
side-stepping must be employed. But any slope negotiable at all on skis
is negotiable by one of these methods, which are none of them at all
hard to acquire.
Now, it is no part of any of these treatises to do more than state how
various manœuvres on ice or snow or with the curling-stones are done,
and in ski-ing (even as much as in skating) written instructions would
be of very small use. What is far more to the point is to sally out (in
print) on to a fairly easy slope and attempt to make these phenomena
appear, so that the beginner will understand them when he sees them, and
try to imitate with a knowledge of what he has to imitate. Best of all
is it to get somebody actually on skis to show you what the thing looks
like. Then--for we are all descended from the monkeys--it is part of our
human birthright to attempt to ape what is shown, and a practical
illustration, followed by actual practice, will do more for the beginner
than a host of learned treatises. Still, when dusk has fallen, and he
can no longer even see to fall down, he is strongly recommended to study
some practical manual of ski-ing. Of these I will mention three, all of
which are illustrated by a series of admirable photographs, which make a
visual guide more valuable than any written instruction. These are:
(i) _How to Ski_, by Vivian Caulfield. (Nisbet.)
(ii) _The Ski-runner_, by E. C. Richardson. (Richardson & Wroughton.)
(iii) _Ski-ing_, by W. R. Rickmers. (Fisher Unwin.)
Here he will find careful analyses of ski-ing manœuvres, clearly and at
length explaining them, and elucidating the explanation by photographs.
The curious student will no doubt find certain differences of opinion
expressed by these Masters, but, if he is wise, he will leave academic
disputation alone, and try to put into practice the precepts and
instructions given by any one of them. He may rest assured that, however
disputatious the pundits become over any theories advanced by these
authors, there is a great deal to be said for them. Indeed, their very
disputatiousness shows how much there is to be said!
To return to our forlorn beginner on the slope, who has seen vanish from
his ken the figure of the expert climber, we will suppose that he
occupies himself with his flounderings while others with equal ease and
absence of effort pass him in their ascension. Some of them, it appears,
are not going out for any expedition, for they pause when they have got
to a sufficient height and begin descending again. And here the tyro
should surely find encouragement, for he will observe that they often
stagger, fall, and are smothered in snow. That does not in the slightest
degree deter them, and probably he will begin to realise that falling,
even in the case of experts, is part of the day’s work, and, as a rule,
does not hurt at all. Indeed the skier who does not fall is either so
cautious a performer that he cannot be called a skier in any sense of
the word, or so supreme a master that he is evidently not human but some
form of Alpine ghost. On the skating-rink he will see the same thing,
for even the “plus-players,” so to speak, if they are really practising,
execute the most amazing tumbles, while on the curling-rink, the gods
and demigods make shots of the most putrescent nature.
But as he watches he will notice that these ladies and gentlemen who are
ski-ing are busy not with merely descending the slope they have
climbed, but descending it in a particular manner, and interspersing
their descent with certain definite manœuvres. Sometimes, perhaps, one
who has climbed into the gully out of which the first expert has
disappeared, will stand for a moment facing downhill, and then launch
himself on a perfectly straight course. He will be standing upright, but
leaning forward, which is not a contradiction in terms, if this phrase
is considered. In other words, his whole head, body, and legs will be
inclined a little forward, but he will also be upright because there is
no bend in his knees or hips or neck. In other words, he will be
standing at right angles to the slope, though leaning forward. His skis
will be quite close together, so that they make but one track in the
snow, and his right foot probably will be a few inches in front of his
left. His arms will be a little raised, so that his sticks, which swing
pendulum-like from his hands, do not touch the snow, and his descent is
that of a stooping hawk. A spray of fine snow rises round the toes of
his skis, like the feather of water round the bows of some
lightning-speeded boat. A moment ago he was but a speck high up on the
mountain-side, the next he is but a speck at the end of the slope below.
If not so fortunate, he is somewhere in the middle of that
sudden-spouting billow of snow that mars the smooth whiteness of the
hill. But in any case, the beginner has seen a specimen of ordinary
straight-running, the figure upright and inclined forward, the skis
close together, with sinecure for the sticks. And if our beginner’s
courage is high, he will instantly attempt, from the more gradual slope
on which he stands, to do the same. Probably, if he remembers to ape
this flying Mercury in the points mentioned, he will progress quite a
considerable number of yards at his sedater speed without falling. Then
a wild panic will seize him at the thought that his pace is steadily
increasing, and that he has not the slightest idea how to check it. That
thought alone will most likely be sufficient so to unsteady him that he
will instantly fall down and find that he has grasped one method,
anyhow, of stopping. He may then employ the few moments’ pause that
invariably succeed a tumble to observing whether, from the tracks his
skis have left, he has kept his feet together. If he has, he may feel
justifiably pleased with himself, but must not be discouraged if the
tracks resemble the old broad gauge of the Great Western Railway.
Then comes another descender. He is going quite straight also, but he
appears merely to be strolling down the same slope that the other fellow
flew down. Yet he does not use his sticks to lean on, but stands upright
also, but with toes pointed inwards, legs apart, and heels pointing
outwards. Instead of travelling on level skis, it is clear that he leans
on their inside edges; and since they are not pointing straight down the
slope it is obvious that they are side-slipping all the time instead of
sliding straight. That is the case: he is “stemming,” descending
straight, but using the sideways position of his skis to check his
speed. Our beginner, warming to his work, tries this also. He instantly
gets the toe of one ski across the toe of the other, and has discovered
another method of abruptly stopping. This time he will very likely fall
forward in the manner of a breaking wave on to a snowy shore.
This time the question of the technique of getting up obtrudes itself.
Probably his skis are still lovingly entwined together, and, leaving
them in a fond embrace, he will attempt to rise. Nothing happens: at
least he is only conscious of violent and enraged effort, which is
productive of no appreciable alteration in his position. Then it occurs
to him that he had better have his feet free of each other, and this he
strugglingly accomplishes, pointing them both symmetrically downhill.
Again he attempts to rise, digging his sticks in the snow, upon which
his feet slide sweetly and smoothly away from under him, and he is prone
on his back again. But if, after disentangling his feet, he plants them
sideways across the slope he will find they cannot slip away, because
they are edged into the snow and are as firm as everlasting mountains.
But this is instruction.
A third runner comes down the slope, this time running slantways. But
after a little he assumes the stemming position, and then his right ski
crosses in front of the other, and he comes round in a curve to the
left. Then his left foot takes the lead and he swerves again to the
right ... _da capo, da capo_ ... he describes a slow serpentine line,
running with feet together on his zigzags, and widening the distance as
he approaches the turn. First one foot and then the other goes in front
at their appropriate corners, and down this precipitous slope he comes,
but at moderate speed, weaving his dance. Each turn is made in the
stemming-position--for these be stemming-turns.
Thereafter comes a more inexplicable runner. He progresses straight for
a little way, and then advancing his right foot, he proceeds apparently
to kneel down on his left knee, bending the right leg also, but keeping
the knee up. Then it is clear that his weight is almost entirely on the
advanced right leg, the other but trails behind. Then with a visible
effort he leans on the inside of his right ski and turns it round in
front of the other towards his left. As by a conjuring trick he slews
round altogether towards his left, and comes to a dead stop facing
nearly in the direction from which he has run. And if anybody is
standing near our beginner the latter will probably hear for the first
time the mystic word Telemark.
Here, then, is a more comfortable manner of stopping dead than that of
falling down. The latter is nature, the former is art. On the steepest
slope, provided only there is a decent covering of softish snow, the
expert will make this short sharp turn and come to a standstill facing
nearly or quite uphill. Or, if so he please, he will make a
half-Telemark, bring himself sideways to the slope, and then continue
his downward descent, starting from rest again. Should he wish to turn
towards the right he will kneel on his right knee, or nearly kneel, with
heel raised, and, advancing his left ski, put all his weight on to that,
trailing the right one behind, which acts, as Mr. Caulfield points out,
like the rudder of a boat. Probably our beginner will attempt this also.
His first difficulty will be to kneel down at all without upsetting. If
he safely accomplishes this, he will have a crisis of nerves in finding
himself in so abnormal a position, and dig his stick into the snow.
Anything whatever may happen then.
A fifth and final runner on this morning of revelation begins his
descent, travelling not quite straight down the slope but on a steepish
zigzag. He does not proceed to pray in the Telemark attitude, but,
standing straight, advances his right foot, leaning his weight on it,
and trailing his left behind. Then he makes a twist of his shoulders and
body towards the right, exactly as if he was cutting a three-turn on
skates, and, lo, he has turned round in exactly the same manner as in
the Telemark. He does not, it is true, continue the back-edge downhill,
but halts on the cusp, as it were, facing uphill, as at the end of the
Telemark swing. But what he has done is to make a Christiania swing,
with the foot towards the direction of his turn advanced instead of the
opposite foot, as in the Telemark. But the effect is the same: he has
stopped in the middle of a swift downward descent without falling down
or braking. Probably, to touch for a moment on _minutiæ_, he has made
his Christiania on a hard and ice-crusted place, whereas the Telemarker
has selected a spot of soft snow for his performance. So, if the
beginner is tempted to try this last manœuvre, he is advised to look out
for an icy patch where the sun has thawed the surface of the snow, which
has subsequently frozen again. On arriving at such a patch, he will
probably conclude (as our American cousins say) to reserve the
Christiania for another day.
Now this gifted series of practisers on the slope have, in imagination,
presented to the would-be skier all that is demanded of him in the
practice of ski-running. When he has learned the more effortless ways of
ascending slopes, as exhibited by the expert whom he first observed, and
when he can make in his descents,
[Illustration: THE TELEMARK TURN
_From the Drawing by Fleming Williams_]
with a fair prospect of success, the stemming-turn, the Telemark, and
the Christiania, he is, for all practical purposes, an accomplished
ski-runner, a master of that delightful art. But for as many years as he
is active of body, he will gain in facility in accomplishing these
things, and probably no skier has ever reached anything approaching
perfection, any more than any skater has attained that undesirable goal.
It is advisedly that I say “undesirable,” since to our limited skill it
seems to me that half the fun of any sport would be subtracted if we
could possibly become perfect in it. But, on the other hand, the skier,
if he is at all master of his limbs, will more easily attain that
moderate degree of excellence which will enable him to join comfortably
and easily in these climbs and expeditions which are the joy of
ski-running, than he would attain the excellence required of a member of
a fair combined figure in skating or of a player in a respectable
curling team. But whereas in skating and curling he can only spoil the
amusement of other people (or perhaps, if they are humorously inclined,
add to it), he incurs grave danger if he attempts to go on arduous
ski-ing expeditions without having got some facility in the easier
ski-ing figures, such as the kick-turn on his ascents and the
stemming-turn on his descents. Odd as it may appear, everyone has not
the nerve to fall down in time, in case a sudden obstacle appears in
front of him, or, which is perhaps worse, a sudden absence of anything
at all, in the guise of a precipice. But a man who can, with the ease of
habit, make a stemming-turn or, better still, both of the other turns,
can stop when he chooses. To attain such moderate skill is not at all a
difficult matter, but without it, only a lunatic would join any long
expedition. If he is incapable of climbing slopes except with an
infinite degree of slipping and stumbling, he is a nuisance to his
companions; while if in the descents he is incapable of any turn, he
may, if he has the nerve to fall down promptly, be only a worse
nuisance; but if he has not, he may become a source of much danger to
himself.
Further, however expert a skier he may eventually become, he should
never dream of making an expedition alone, unless he is always close to
some well-frequented track or road, or unless he is certain that other
skiers will pass that way before nightfall. For the best skiers in the
world are not exempt from falling, and it is always possible that a fall
may result in a very severe sprain, such as will make it impossible for
the injured man to go on, or in a broken bone. It is quite true that
such injuries are rare, but no consolation will be found in the rarity
of your injury if you find yourself on a high and unfrequented snowfield
towards evening in an incapacitated condition. For nobody has skill
enough to eliminate this danger from his own case, just as no climber
will go alone, if he has a grain of sense in his head, on places where
there is any reasonable prospect of his slipping. He makes his party,
whether with guides or without, takes a rope, and puts it on when a slip
might lead to severe injury or worse. It is only the ignorant who take
unreasonable risks, or the foolhardy. It is the same case with the
skier. But with him any steep slope may result in a tumble, and any
tumble may result in an incapacity to move. Therefore, without any
exception, a skier, however skilful, should never go alone on any
expedition that takes him away from frequented paths. Nor, on such an
expedition, should unfrequented places be left behind until all the
members of the party have negotiated them. And in such it is the
unskilful straggler who falls continually, and having fallen does not
know how to get up, and has to ride his stick and go slow over all steep
places, who is so unmitigated a nuisance to his companions.
A word more of warning. Clothing is a most important item in the skier’s
equipment. He perhaps will start from his hotel in a blaze of sun, and
knowing there is a long ascent in front of him will adopt an investiture
which is altogether unsuitable for that which lies before him,
forgetting that though he will certainly get extremely warm during the
course of the day, he may also run the risk of frost-bite. He may
perhaps be no worse than the man who clothes himself scantily for
reasons of the hot upward ascent, and remembering that close-fitting
thick garments are productive of extraordinary warmth, will proceed to
put on thick woollen stockings, which make the donning of his boots over
them a matter of some difficulty. “Thick leather, thick stockings,” says
he to himself, “now I _can’t_ be cold.” But he could not have adopted a
worse procedure, for it is just through this thick, closely-fitting
clothing that frost-bite penetrates. Outside, on the boot, is a frozen
spray of snow, inside is the moisture of the foot asking, positively
demanding, to be frozen also. The tightness of the boot and stocking
further impedes the surface-circulation, and a frost-bitten foot is very
likely the response to this well-meant protection of it. Instead, the
boot should be so large that it can easily accommodate two layers of
woollen stuff loosely. Then the natural heat of the body, unchilled by
surface pressure, is diffused through these woollen coverings, and
makes, instead of a layer of icy moisture, a temperate atmosphere round
itself. Similarly with the hands: loose gloves, instead of thick tight
ones, should be worn, and the finger-receptacles should be made all in
one piece, as is the fashion with babies. Then they warm and comfort
each other, instead of being each enclosed in a solitary prison.
In other respects the clothing should be that of the mountain climber,
warm but as little heavy as possible. For the lower part of the legs
putties are admirable, for it is necessary to protect the chinks between
boot and stocking: otherwise snow collects there and forms into icy
deposits. Coat and knickerbockers should be made of smooth and
wind-proof material, and such a garment as a sweater should not be worn
as an outer covering, for the roughness of it causes the snow to cling
to it. The coat should be capable of being buttoned closely round the
neck, so that in tumbles the snow does not get inside it, and for the
same reason long gloves covering the opening of the sleeves are useful.
A woollen cap, of the type known as “crusader,” which can be brought
over the ears and neck when encountering cold winds, and be rolled up,
when so desired, is as good a head-covering as can be devised. Snow
spectacles of smoked glass, to shield the eyes from the intense glare,
should always be carried, and put on before (not after) the eyes begin
to smart and water from the dazzle of whiteness. Otherwise it is easy
to get a touch of snow-blindness.
Now, when the snow is soft and inclined to thaw, it has an odious habit
of balling on the sole of the ski, so that you walk uphill clogged with
a great lump of snow dependent from each foot, which makes it heavy to
lift, and at the same time makes lifting necessary, since it is
impossible to slide forward on it. But since it is equally impossible to
slip back, the beginner will find a certain consolation if the snow
balls slightly on his ascent, for he will climb severe slopes
laboriously indeed, but without slipping. But no consolation rewards him
when he begins his descent. In vain he encourages his skis to slide, for
the loose mass of soft snow sticking to them effectually prevents their
doing anything of the kind, and unless he has come prepared for such a
contingency he will assuredly have to stamp along all the way home. But
balling can be largely avoided by waxing the bottom of the skis,
preferably before he starts. This wax can be obtained anywhere in tubes,
and when rubbed on to the skis prevents the snow from sticking to them,
and you will see a man whose skis have been well waxed running swiftly
and easily over snow that would entirely prevent his moving if this had
not been done.
On the other hand, the snow on an ascent may, instead of being soft and
balling, be hard and icy, so that it is a difficult matter even for the
expert to prevent back-slipping. To discourage this tendency he
sometimes will tie a cord to the toes of his skis and pass it several
times round them, fastening it to the bindings. Others tie strips of
seal-skin to them, which also counteracts the tendency to slip. These,
of course, are removed when the ascent is over.
JUMPING
Of all spectacular feats compassable upon frozen snow surfaces,
ski-jumping is, to the minds of most people, the most amazing, and
compared with it all performances on ice-rinks and toboggan-runs seem to
the spectator almost tame. Not having the smallest or most elementary
practical experience of it (I should freeze with terror if told that I
had to go over even a very mild ski-jump, and probably be found hiding
in the station waiting-room to take the next train home), I can but give
an impression of it as it strikes the observer.
The glad word is passed round the hotel one evening that some famous
ski-jumper has arrived and will give an exhibition next day; and next
day, accordingly, you trudge out on to the slope where the jump has been
erected. This is a long steep hillside, and the platform for the jump
has been put up some hundred yards from the top of it. It is a champion
jumper who has arrived, and the apparatus is on the big scale. Out from
the slope of the hill is this platform, built in the manner of a dormer
window in a house-roof or a header-board above a pool. It is made of
wooden planks supported on posts, and covered with a layer of
down-trodden snow. It is some 5 yards or so in length, 5 or 6 feet
broad, and the edge of it is some 6 feet perpendicularly above the slope
at its base. At the corners of it, to guide the jumper who approaches
it, are boughs of fir stuck into the snow, or flags. Above it the slope
is of moderate steepness, sufficient, anyhow, for a skier to get up a
considerable speed when running straight down towards it from above;
below the hillside is considerably steeper, and continues at a steep
angle for two or three hundred yards. Both above and below the platform
the snow is being industriously trodden down by those engaged on the
preparations, so as to make a smooth firm run for the jumper before he
gets to his platform, and a smooth firm landing-place after his flight
through the air. The reason of this is that it is absolutely essential
that the jumper should have no check when he touches ground again after
his flight: if he landed in soft or deep snow he would quite certainly
have a bad fall. But with hard smooth snow to land on there is no such
check, and on landing he continues his course at high speed straight
down the hill. It is also extremely important for him to land on a steep
slope; for if the slope was but gentle, the shock of coming in contact
with it from such a height would clearly be extremely severe, and broken
bones would undoubtedly result. But the steep slope lends itself to the
pace he is going and the height from which he comes, and, as it were,
continues his flight on the ground. Also, the steeper the slope is, the
longer obviously will the jump be, as measured from the platform to the
point where he first lands.
A good place to see the jumping from is to the side of the track down
which the jumper will come and a little way below the platform: here let
us suppose ourselves standing. On each side of the course stretch out
lines of spectators, and a hundred yards above the jumper is standing
talking to friends and seeming positively to enjoy what lies in front of
him. Then the word is given, and, steadying himself on his two sticks he
points his skis straight down towards the jump. He shoves off with his
sticks, leaving them standing in the snow (for no jumper uses sticks
when he jumps, which would be highly dangerous), and at swiftly
accelerating speed glides down the slope. As he approaches the
jumping-platform he crouches low, and just as he traverses it he springs
upwards and forwards into the air. High above your head, a veritable
flying man, he soars, with all the impetus that his run and his spring
have given him. For a hundred feet or more he continues this amazing
flight in a superb curve, and you wait breathless, scarcely able to
believe that when he touches the ground again at that pace and from that
height there will be anything but a heap of broken bones there. But he
alights without shock or the least appearance of unsteadiness, and
simultaneously, it appears, he is already another hundred feet down the
slope, going like an arrow. Then comes perhaps the most astounding feat
of all: he suddenly kneels, and in a moment has swung round with a
Telemark, and has come to rest, facing up the hillside over which he has
flown and skimmed. And then this extraordinary young man (he is usually
rather young) will climb his slope again and instantly repeat the
process, in evident enjoyment, or, more remarkable yet, he will get hold
of another like himself, and they will take their jump hand-in-hand, let
go of each other on landing, and Telemark, one to the right the other to
the left!
This jumping is certainly ski-ing _in excelsis_, and jumpers tell
[Illustration: THE JUMP
_From the Drawing by Fleming Williams_]
us that if the beginner starts with small jumps, and is careful to do
everything correctly and in the proper style from the beginning, he will
not find it either a difficult or dangerous pursuit. But he must be
careful to make his movements (his crouch, his spring, his angle in the
air, the levelness of his skis as he alights, &c.) with accuracy and
correct timing; while it is not less important that the jump itself
should be properly constructed and the slopes that lead to and from it
be of suitable steepness. Indeed, what appears to the ignorant onlooker
the most hazardous part of the whole affair, namely, the landing on a
very steep slope, is safe only if the slope is steep, and the real
obstacle that lies in the way of most men taking up jumping as a sport,
is not that it is dangerous so much as that their nerves tell them that
it must be, and refuse to make the crouch and spring (the _säts_, as the
Norwegians call it) with vigour and confidence, even if they can master
their nerves so far as to let themselves run down on to the platform at
all. But having once reached the platform, the spring must be made:
otherwise the would-be jumper will merely flow stickily, so to speak,
over the edge, bury the toes of his skis in the snow, and certainly have
a bad fall. But, indeed, the nerves must be in good condition, for the
platform, approaching it from above, looks exactly like a cliff’s edge,
and, jutting out as it does from the slope, it entirely conceals the
slope below it: your eye tells you that you are merely leaping over the
end of all things. But if, after considering the question, you decide,
as most people do, that you will not begin jumping this season, you have
only to repeat that prudent resolution for a few more seasons, and then
you will be able to tell yourself and everybody else that it is no use
trying to learn to jump unless you begin it quite as a boy. This does
not really happen to be the case; but it is one of those excuses that
are always granted acceptance, and, having firmly established it in your
own mind, your nipped ambition will cease to worry you any more.
A further delightful pastime to be indulged in on skis is that known as
ski-joring. For this it is necessary to secure the co-operation of a
horse, and fit him with long reins or ropes, which you hold one in each
hand, and stand behind the horse out of the way of his heels. He is
lightly harnessed, and from his collar passes a long leather loop of
rein, which passes round the ski-jorer’s body. You then encourage your
horse to proceed, and if he is good enough to do so, he will naturally
pull you along on your skis by this loop of rein from his collar. It is
a fascinating pursuit to watch, and can be practised over a frozen lake
or along the down-trodden snow of roads. Especially in the Engadine you
will hear the sound of bells, and observe a horse trotting or cantering
briskly on the road, followed at a yard or two distance by an upright
figure that glides along after him, a charioteer with only his skis as
chariot. But though it is concerned with skis, it is not exactly
concerned with ski-ing, which enters into it, as an art, less than does
the knowledge of horses and the use of reins.
[Illustration: SKI-JORING
_From the Drawing by Fleming Williams_]
[Illustration:
PLATE XXXIV
AT ST. MORITZ]
[Illustration:
PLATE XXXV
PRACTICE SLOPES, MONTANA, SWITZERLAND]
[Illustration:
PLATE XXXVI
A SLIGHT MISHAP]
[Illustration:
PLATE XXXVII
SKI-JUMPING]
[Illustration:
PLATE XXXVIII
SKI-JUMPING, MONTANA, SWITZERLAND]
[Illustration:
PLATE XXXIX
VETERANS OF THE ST. MORITZ SKI CLUB]