CHAPTER IV

ROCK CLIMBING

Rocks are the framework of mountains. Rock climbing is a joyous

method of getting up attractive mountains by attractive ways. But it

is possible to be a rock climber without becoming a mountaineer. It

is possible to earn a reputation by leading climbs upon some special

type of rock without becoming even a good rock climber. The good rock

climber is the man who moves equably, speedily and safely up or down

sound and unsound rock, of every description and of any degree of

difficulty that is within his physical powers.

A man who knows rocks and their structure and can climb them with

understanding is potentially a good mountaineer. He has opportunities

now of perfecting his craft which did not exist for his predecessors.

Each succeeding climbing generation can enter without effort or loss of

time upon an inheritance of skill and knowledge that its predecessors

won with tentative effort and slow discovery. During the last

twenty-five years the standard of difficulty that can be accomplished

with ease and safety by a rock climber of ability has gone up some

25 per cent. To this rapid advance the literature published on the

subject has contributed. The majority of climbs have now been charted

and described; their difficulties can be allowed for. The mystery and

uncertainty of new discovery affecting the mind, and the novelty of new

adjustments imposed upon the body are alike eliminated as complications

from the fair field of achievement. The climber goes out to meet

purely objective difficulties, with his mind informed and expectant

and his body trained and anticipating. The novice, or the expert in a

district new to him, guided by his reading, can economize his nerve and

muscle for the more difficult passages, and, finding them the easier

for this restraint, can pass on to always more exacting attempts with

pleasurable assurance.

The presence in the hills of an increasing number of men who climb

well and confidently has had even more effect than the publication of

books and periodicals. Directed by advice, and by what is still more

effective, by imitation, the beginner is no longer in danger of getting

into habits of false positions and of false judgment, whether of the

angles or of the character of rock holds. He grows up in an atmosphere

where these matters are common knowledge, and he learns almost

unconsciously.

[Sidenote: The Theory of the Development.]

Rock climbing in our modern sense is a young craft. The early

mountaineers were drawn to the hills primarily by the attraction of

exploration. Their principal interest was to find the best route to

the summits. The snow slopes, to which the peasants and hunters who

led the early ascents had been for generations accustomed, presented

the natural means. Where snow failed and angles grew steeper they took

to the ice walls and ice couloirs, since to their developing snow

technique ice presented a more familiar alternative than rock. Steep,

bare rocks were incidentally negotiated, but not from choice. The

steeper, snowless rock peaks which offered no royal snow routes were

thus naturally left to the last, and when the succeeding generation

wished to find new outlet for the satisfaction of its own desire for

discovery, it had to invent a new rock technique to solve the new

problems.

The history has been the same in every form of sport or of adventure

which has had the movements of the body and their perfecting in

skill as basis. The passion for the sport that the many may possess

engenders in the few who are better physically or nervously gifted a

desire to heighten and prolong the sensation and to exercise their

improving skill upon always more difficult variations. To the love of

wandering in the mountains, shared by all mountaineers, is added the

enduring pleasure to any healthy man of finding occasion for a higher

self-realization, a more vital physical consciousness.

The evolution has been continuous; the generations, of course,

overlap, and the different phases of mountain enthusiasm can still

find their several satisfaction. For the explorer there are still the

untrodden ranges. For those with means and time sufficient to indulge

their love of climbing among the great Alps, the old snow ways of the

mountains still remain sufficient in number and in sensation. But for

the ever-increasing number of men whom circumstances limited to the

lesser hills of our own islands or to the lower alpine ranges, the

grass and snow ways began to prove too unexciting as their novelty

became exhausted, and the rock peaks and the sheer rock faces of the

Lake Fells, Skye or the Dolomites offered a new temptation. Rock

surface, unlike snow, proved to be almost infinite in its variety

and inexhaustible in its offer of novel routes. Consequently the

development of difficult rock climbing in snowless regions like our

own proceeded at a pace somewhat out of proportion to the leisurely

progress of the art among the British frequenters of the greater

Alps. Even among the guides it was only the few, fired by emulation

or educated by their employers, who maintained a rate of improvement

at all commensurate with that which was taking place in the average

standard of amateur home rock climbing; I am speaking here purely

of _difficulty_ and primarily of ascents. In the art of continuous

climbing, and of climbing down, the comparison, as will appear later,

was not equally to the home climber’s advantage.

The principal agent in the change has been the study of the

possibilities of balance in motion, and the training successively of

the foot, the hand and the eye to secure a complete rhythmic movement

of the body while climbing. The primitive belief, if we may make a

deduction from the practice and recitals of early mountaineers, was

that the body could not be balanced with safety unless the width of the

foot had firm standing. Snow was found to satisfy this condition once

the study of snow craft had taught guides and amateurs how to fashion

a level tread, no matter what the angle of the snow slope. When the

period of the great ice climbs followed, in the historical order of

exploration, it became merely a question of discovering how to fashion

a corresponding security of step in ice. When the new impulse developed

for the undertaking of routes upon the rock peaks, a similar breadth

and comfort of tread were at first looked for. Consequently the rock

ascents of former days were limited in number and character by this

condition. Of the hands little account was taken. A walking balance

was the only rhythm recognized. We might almost call this the ‘walking

epoch.’ But the new generation, inheriting an always improving mountain

craft, with a new goal in view, could not long remain at this point.

The problem of finding sound routes up the rock angles of unexplored

peaks and faces had to be faced.

The great gullies or rifts in the rock walls offered the first natural

lines of temptation. The shelter of their enclosing walls promised a

comfortable reassurance to nerve, and even more to the eye, as yet

unaccustomed, as I have shown elsewhere, to the direct view into

empty space, above, below and on either side, without its customary

rest-point for the assurance of balance. So began what may be called

the ‘gully epoch,’ a cul-de-sac which for a decade shut in, with a

few exceptions, all the efforts of our rock climbers. Since the level

tread could rarely be obtained in these gullies, body, shoulders

and arms were all brought into the service, in order that the feet

might still be able to jam against the requisite breadth of foothold,

even though in such places tilted at an angle. At angles where these

sloping footholds failed, the stemming of the shoulders and knees

between the vertical rock walls on either side was discovered to be

a means of bridging gaps on the climb that would before have passed

for insurmountable. The substitute of this rough friction and purely

muscular effort for the walking balance of the exploring age exercised

for a time a restricting influence, although the freer use it made

of the body in general prepared the way for a better tradition.

Climbers got up steeper cliffs by their new methods at the sacrifice

of their education as mountaineers. By specializing on a convenient

accident of mountain architecture, one which cramped their outlook

and left them little opportunity for achieving rhythm or perfecting

balance, they even unlearned something of the general mountaineering

knowledge which had been acquired by the wider, milder practice of

their predecessors. It was this departure, with its somewhat clamorous

record, that introduced the period of widest separation between the

old school of classical alpine mountaineers and the commencing school

of island rock climbers, and which brought upon the latter the blast

of, not unmerited, ‘grease-polarized’ criticism, that still whispers

spasmodically and archaically. It deepened the rift that during this

epoch the greater number of first ascents of the cliffs in England and

Wales were made by means of those enticing gullies. For the classical

mountaineers, trained in the Alps, when they took an occasional holiday

in the Lakes or Skye, looked chiefly for the class of climbing which

most closely recalled the varied types of ridges to whose structure

they had been accustomed in Switzerland. Their successors, the Fell

climbers, lacking their alpine training, yielded to the temptation

of unexplored gullies, and for years enclosed our home climbing in

these uncomfortable channels. Wales, with less potent climbers,

followed the example. But Wales, with fewer gullies wherein to win

fame, would appear to have been the quarter where the first bid was

made for freedom. Almost simultaneously a similar change of view was

taking place among the rock peaks of the Eastern Alps. Gullies are the

natural lines for the descent of stones, water and snow rather than

for the ascent of human beings. Of their nature ‘faults’ in the sound

structure of the cliffs, intrusions of softer rock whose weakness water

has discovered, their surviving walls present an undue proportion of

unsound rock. These objections, combined with the gradual exhaustion

of their temptation as new ascents, eventually forced our climbers to

escape from their sunless recesses and to adjust their methods to less

restricting requirements.

The first impulse came from a few individuals whose exceptional

physical advantages led to their discovery that they could trust to

their fingers as securely as to the full tread of their feet or the jam

of their bodies. The discovery enabled them to attempt places where

there were no containing walls to be relied upon as support for the

body if the feet failed--problems such as wide-angled corners and even

what would now be called slab climbs. Finger and hand holds in their

turn became everything; footwork was neglected. To some exponents the

feet were useful only as auxiliaries, scraped downward indiscriminately

upon the rocks to give some extra propulsion. It was the epoch of

‘grip’-climbing. Its merit, apart from fine individual achievements,

was that, in its turn, it set the succeeding generation free to trust

itself more confidently on to the open ribs and exposed rock faces.

Bare slabs which had hardly been looked at were then found to be

covered with firm holds, upon which the toe or the side of the boot

could stand as firmly and advance far more rapidly; while hands and

eyes were free to assist them to an extent unknown before. The balance

of the body in continuous motion above the feet was, as it were,

rediscovered, and an upright position became again possible. The hands

returned to their proper function of aids to the balance, and the feet,

climbing in natural positions, became again of principal importance.

With the discovery that the underlying principle of all climbing

movement is rhythm,--a rhythm of the whole body and not only of the

legs, as in walking,--and that the basis of such rhythm is balance, and

not grip or stride or struggle, rock craft moved into its proper place

in the forefront of mountaineering qualifications.

Such in rough outline is the history of the last eighty years of

climbing technique. We must allow for much overlapping of the epochs in

so short a period, and for many notable individual exceptions; but in

the main this summary represents where we were and where we are, and

what happened on the way.

In classifying the stages of our climbing progress into epochs or

compartments, I am doing no injustice to the achievements of the past.

A chronicler must always face the dilemma whether to say that the great

man by his example produces the general change of practice in the next

generation, or whether to class him as the conspicuous anticipatory

ripple of a general current of coming change. Very young climbers

may be often only human in their criticisms of their contemporaries

and in their faint patronage of the collective past; for no really

enthusiastic mountain-lover ever in his heart believes that anyone

else has ever owned the hills and discovered climbing quite in the

sense that he has. But every climber who is on the way to becoming a

permanent mountaineer is a keen student of mountain history, and the

services rendered to the world’s mountaineering by the conservation of

a body of central alpine tradition are never likely to be underrated.

A good house rises higher than its foundations, but it rests upon

them. The men who first ventured on the discouraging angles of buttress

and gully and cleared the grass and earth from small holds performed

greater feats technical and moral than the most outside variations

which may remain to be done on the same rocks by their present-day

successors. They had everything against them, even the atmosphere of

their generation. They not only led the way to the steep rocks; they

started the assault upon degrees and varieties of difficulty that

forced upon their successors the cultivation of the superior technique

which they now enjoy. The mountaineering world has a tenacious memory;

we cherish the names and exploits of the heroic age; the feet of our

gods were solidly shod, and we will admit no clay to be visible about

them but that which was honourably collected in their stout tramping.

[Sidenote: Balance Climbing.]

The change in style from epoch to epoch was a considerable one, and it

has not been brought to perfection in several climbing generations.

To acquire a balance rhythm in motion the whole body has to learn a

habit of continuous simultaneous adjustments. Both feet and hands must

develop a very fine sensitiveness of touch, so as to inform us not only

of the exact amount of security each is contributing at the moment, but

also--a different matter--of the value of their leverage for initiating

a fresh movement upwards. According to these messages the balance is

continuously adjusted, so as to relieve or compensate any extremity

that may require it. The feet need only a sufficiency of hold to carry

the weight of the body at whatever angle it is being held in balance by

the hands. The hands need only that amount of hold which will enable

them to keep the body balanced while the weight is being thrust upward

by the feet. The feet learn to move inevitably on to holds no longer

seen, but previously selected by the eye. Simultaneously, the eyes are

already occupied in choosing the next holds for hand and feet, guided

in their choice not only by the compensating quality of the hold which

the balance at the instant may demand for one or other of the four

extremities, but also by the direction in which the next movement can

most securely be made. A system of continuous compensations, partly

drawn from the rhythmic balance of the moving body, partly from a

corrective choice of succeeding holds, means a great saving of effort

for the feet and hands.

The walking rhythm, of the first period, called for large, flat holds,

and therefore for long strides between them. Between each hold the

centre of gravity was thus forced out insecurely. The hands, when used,

had the extra labour of dragging the weight inward against the outward

thrust of the legs. The effort and the insecurity set a low limit to

the angle of rock which could be conveniently ascended. The grip habit,

of the middle period, demanded for its assurance sharp-edged cling

holds, such as would enable the whole lifting movement to be executed

by the hands alone. The body in suspension was thus wrenched inwards

continuously, and sight and balance were interrupted. Rhythm on either

method became impossible. On the other hand, a foot climber who climbs

by balance or compensation appears to creep easily and continuously up

the most severe slabs on an even line. His moving foot rarely lifts

above the knee of his stationary leg, for he has his balance first

to consider, and as he only needs small footholds at any angle to

sustain it, he can find them at shorter intervals in greater abundance.

His hands feel the almost imperceptible rugosities of surface with

sensitive fingers, that press as often as they cling. His body moves

upward, swinging out or in on a curve of balance with astonishing

freedom, as the messages from hand, eye and feet are collated and

complied with.

A man in sound condition, with his nerves and muscles trained, can

acquire this mastery of balance in motion far more easily than would

appear when it is thus set out. His body, at rest, instinctively

assumes the right balance for a given position. He has only to train

his eye to select holds ahead which will allow of a sequence of

harmonic positions; to train his instinct to imagine beforehand what

these positions will be; and to train his body to move from each one

of these positions to the next, in balance and with an ordered and

unbroken rhythm.

In this ladder of modern technique the first rungs of easier progress

have been the relief to the hands and feet. A further step has been

the relief to the knee, and incidentally to the clothes that cover

it. It is now rare to see a good climber return even from a week of

conflict with that most destructive of all rock, the Chamonix granite,

in the tatters of tradition. In Wales, succeeding Mrs. Owens need no

longer “mend them with stuff of various colours”: the dark returns for

decency’s sake to Zermatt or Wasdale are adventures of the past. Even

the style of clothes has something altered with the style of climbing.

Practised climbers wear in all lighter materials, chosen for wind and

water purposes more than for an armadillo-like power of resisting

friction. The change in the knee is most significant. The armour

plating of thicknesses has tended to disappear. The knee is usually

innocent of patches and often left, in Tyrolese fashion, uncovered. The

change is due to our change in style. While the foot still demanded

broad holds, necessarily found at longer intervals, for its balance,

the knee was constantly in requisition for an intermediate push up.

While grip climbing obtained, the knee was more useful than the foot

to jam with or to scrape downward against the rocks. It was also

recommended for use in mountaineering manuals as a relief to those long

strides and arm-pulls! Now the foot works for both. The knee is kept in

reserve for cracks and rococo mantelpieces, in interrupted climbing, or

for a friction hold on spaces of smooth slab to raise the body the few

inches necessary to reach new handhold. Since the knee is useless even

on such occasions unless it adheres firmly, the breeches should not get

dragged or torn. In continuous climbing it only serves us for light

balancing touches, when the hands are needed elsewhere.

Yet another step has been the setting free of the eyes to perform

their proper functions of balancing and of selecting. This release has

been the main factor in confirming the rapid improvement in modern

technique. During the walking era, and still more during the gully and

grip eras, the climber had generally to take what his hands, unaided

by his eyes, found for him. A climber by balance or compensation keeps

his head well away from the rock, at the maximum distance permitted by

the necessity of keeping his body in balance above his moving feet.

His eye is almost uninterruptedly free to trace out his general line

above, to choose immediate holds and to exercise, even as he moves,

a comfortable and leisurely discretion. He can see what he is doing

all the time. To take one instance. On very steep rock that which has

passed below the level of the knee is often already out of sight. A

man who climbs convulsively, with his nose against the rock, has often

missed the sight of some minute ledge to right or left of his line

which alone offers a foothold from which his hands can reach above the

next bare slab. Even if he afterwards finds it by the grope of his

foot, it is too late for his eyes to estimate its security or shape.

Similarly, he is unable to keep continuous watch ahead, and may often

lose sight of a line of holds already marked from below; or he may

overlook altogether some other easier line of holds which could have

been reached by a timely divergence to right or left. Thus his chances

of accomplishing a difficult climb are incalculably diminished.

And yet another step has been the economy in nervous and physical

output. Rock climbs can now be repeated by the average modern climber

with only about half the effort they cost their first conquerors, who

did them by force of heart and muscle. They can keep, consequently,

more strength in reserve. The interrupted continuity of our earlier

struggle step and grip hold involved a disturbance of the balance and

a break in the continuity of mental concentration. The recovery from

every such movement put an extra strain upon both muscle and nerve. In

the re-start after each ‘jam’ position, with its absolute arrest of

rhythm of all kinds, the disturbance was even greater. Severe climbing

of the modern standard demands controlled, continuous movements, so

that the body’s adjustments may continue automatically, and that there

may be no interruption in the co-operation of nerve and eye and brain.

The beginner must expect to find that balance climbing does not come to

him as a first instinct. Swinging from the hands to every hold which

may be visible, and struggling and jamming with the rest of the body

anyhow, so as to secure safety and impetus, are the primitive movements

proper to self-preservation and common to all muscular animals like men

and monkeys. Much muscular instinct has to be unlearned to overcome

this instinct, which is the reason that athletes who have accustomed

themselves to reliance upon particular groups of muscles are generally

bad climbers. But there is no more cramping fault than to yield to the

muscular temptation, and to cling or jam when it is not absolutely

essential to safety.

The rule holds good for easy or hard rock, sound or unsound. The sense

of balance in motion has to be acquired, or, at the beginning of each

climbing holiday, recovered. The lines of communication between toe and

finger and eye, with the brain as clearing-station, have to be opened

up or reopened. The ability to compensate, by the balance of the body,

between hand and foot hold, and to relate the process to the task of

selecting holds in anticipation with the eyes, has to be acquired or

regained. Movement has to become rhythmic, and not convulsive.

The sense of comfort or ease in performing individual movements is the

test of the degree of balance and rhythm acquired. The consciousness

of comfort in continuous climbing movement is the assurance of a

developed style. Easy rock ridges, of sufficient length, provide the

best commencing practice. On them alone can practice rapid enough or

continuous enough be obtained to convert what in the commencement

must be separate efforts, each executed by a conscious effort of the

will, into unconscious rhythmic movement as the habit of the body. The

adjustment of the poise of the body and the judgment of the adjustment

next required must become instinctive, otherwise an unexpected attitude

forced upon us by the exigencies of the holds may upset the sense of

comfort; and with the comfort goes the style; and with the style goes

the security. The feeling of confidence is our test.

[Sidenote: The Individual Standard.]

If, and this happens to the most expert when out of training, a feeling

of discomfort or mistrust intrudes, even for a flash, we are climbing

beyond our standard. There is no error more fatal than the assumption

that because we have once done a particular climb or perfected our

skill to a particular rhythm, we can always and at once climb up to

that standard again or recover our normal rhythm.

It must be repeated that the standard of difficult rock climbing has

now been forced up to a point that practically represents the limit

of human possibility. If we may assume that there is a minimum of

handhold or foothold to which fingers or toes however powerful or

prehensile can cling, and that there is a maximum angle above which

human strength cannot force its way up rocks by friction alone, that

minimum and maximum have now been attained. Men of abnormal physique,

confidence and endurance have of recent years perfected their

individual rhythm of skill to the point of being able to ascend without

discomfort or violent effort rock climbs that present the maximum angle

with the minimum of holds. Beyond that point lies, not danger, which

for ordinary climbers begins some degrees earlier, but impossibility.

It is folly for beginners or for ordinary climbers, as it would be

folly for these men themselves when they were out of practice, to

attempt such climbs out of mere courage or conscious fitness, or

because they have heard that they are frequently done. What one man has

done in climbing every man cannot do. In many cases the final conquest

of these particular climbs has been due to some accident of abnormal

reach or other development such as no skill could acquire, superimposed

upon a perfection of normal style. If the climbs seem to be repeated

frequently, it is because, though the parties may be numerous and

various, the leaders of those parties remain few and the same--men

drawn from the small group of the super-climbers.

Again, ability to climb rocks of the modern exacting standard is even

as much a matter of mental fitness as of bodily fitness, of continuity

in nervous control as of physique. An instant’s failure of will or

confidence, an instant’s interruption in the nerve communications,

due to fatigue or over-tension, will disturb the delicate adjustments

of balance as fatally as a broken leg. Several of the most serious

accidents of recent years have been undoubtedly due to momentary

suspensions of consciousness, breaks in the nerve communications,

produced by over-exertion of the nerves as much as of the muscles.

Before nerve and sinew are alike fit and in training they can establish

no rhythmic co-operation with one another or with the brain. And in

this condition they are all alike liable to error in estimating the

amount of effort or of compensation they can justly expect from each

other.

The pleasant custom of association among climbers has its drawbacks

in this respect. Climbers are gregarious, if exclusive. They tend to

form eclectic associations in certain centres at certain times. They

re-form into different parties under the same leaders. Consequently

a number of men may begin and climb for years without arriving at an

idea of what they are individually worth, or of what would be their

normal standard if left to themselves. They may do a number of the

severest ascents and discuss them with an equal confidence, and yet

remain ignorant of what progress they have made in their own standard

of performance or in nerve control. A climbing party pools its ability

and its confidence. The longer and closer its association, the less are

its individuals conscious of how much they contribute and how much they

draw from the collective power. A weak climber may climb on some such

rope with satisfaction to himself and no obvious personal inferiority,

while he is drawing all the time on the common stock contributed by his

more capable associates. A leader similarly, well backed up by a good

party, may get into the way of deceiving himself badly as to the extent

to which his secure performance really derives from them. Instances are

not wanting of the trap this may become. A weak or moderate climber

thinks he can lead a moderate party up a climb which he may have done

comfortably several times with his usual strong party of friends.

Alone, he gets into serious difficulties. A good leader, over-confident

from the habit of always feeling a sound party behind him, may attempt

a difficult or familiar climb with too large a proportion of novices on

his rope. The amount of ability pooled by the party behind him will no

longer provide a margin of safety against accidents. The slip of one

will involve others, and his individual contribution of skill cannot be

sufficient to check the disaster.

No man is fit to lead on easy rocks until he knows exactly his own

unaided _normal_ standard. No man is fit to lead on difficult rocks

until he can gauge not only his normal standard, but also, accurately,

his _standard of the day_. The second is as important as the first, but

it is almost universally disregarded in practice.

To lead rock climbs of the modern high standard of difficulty demands

a high degree of initiative, imagination and nervous force, added to

a suitable physique. First-rate leaders are, therefore, in a large

majority men of highly strung nervous temperament; they are ‘built

on wires.’ To have become great leaders they must have learned to

dominate their wires completely. For such men, unusually aware of their

normal standard, it is all the more difficult to consider or allow for

accidental fluctuations in their physical or nervous condition of the

day. But a particular climb may find even them either out of condition

or suffering from an off-day. The off-day feeling, arising from

countless causes, is one from which all mountaineers suffer; the more

frequently, the more nervous their temperament, and therefore the more

frequently in the case of this type of leader. If they disregard its

presence or attempt to overtighten their wires to resist it, they run

serious risks. The good climber must find compensation in the knowledge

that the more he perfects his technique and rhythm of comfort, the less

variation will he find in his normal standard; and the better he knows

his normal standard, the less difficulty will he find in determining

the fluctuations in his standard of the day.

The climber then must, from the first, learn to estimate his own

performance irrespective of the contribution made to it by the rest of

his party.

[Sidenote: Solitary Climbing.]

To secure this self-knowledge he need not climb alone. Solitary

climbing has its own delights: of independence of movement and of

remoteness from the whims of others; of a more intimate appreciation

of beauties of sight and sound and incident, and of a sense of almost

personal identification with the forces of nature, in their visible

activity of movement and growth as in their passive compliance of line,

colour and form with laws of slower change. The mystical moments in

mountaineering, which are the source of its fascination for men of

intellect and imagination, are found more easily in solitude. But these

moments are to be experienced almost equally in solitary rambling or

walking, and although their intensity is increased by the rhythm of

climbing, the rhythm of mind and nerve and muscle working at the same

high tension to the same deep tune, yet this superlative indulgence

is only excusable for the supremely expert. To climb alone a man must

know his own measure; he must be confident that he can allow for his

standard of the day; he must restrict his ambition to climbing of a

class well below the utmost he could manage with a good rope behind

him; he must allow something more for the nervous effect of solitude;

and he must remember that all rock climbing is subject to a large

number of pure accidents,--a strained sinew, a falling stone, or a

breaking hold,--whose effects can be corrected or at least minimized

by a united party, but any one of which may prove fatal to a solitary

climber. If he is confident that he can make all these allowances, he

may go alone on rock if he so desires. The question of what further

limits he ought to observe out of regard for the apprehensions of

others, his own circumstances or his relatively greater value in some

other sphere, is a matter for private or domestic decision, and is not

for the consideration of mountaineering opinion.

As concrete instances of the degree of difference that should be made,

I take a few examples from rock climbs familiar to British climbers.

A man who could lead the Grépon or the Dru (so far as their rocks

are concerned) would be justified on his skill, if he kept all the

conditions, in attempting all but the most severe Lake or Welsh climbs

single-handed. A man whose limit in leading a rope was the rocks of

the Géant or the Moine, or who found the Réquin fatiguing, could only

safely undertake alone easy rock climbs, the orthodox ridges in Skye,

the moderate Napes ridges, the buttresses of Tryfan and so on. Any

man who found comfort in the presence of the rope, even behind him,

on such ridges and buttresses as these last, should never attempt,

when he is alone, more than the scrambling incidental to mountain

walking. Finished experts must discover their own personal code of

differentiation. They have only to keep in mind the distinction between

difficulty and danger, as climbers know it, and to remember that to the

solitary climber _every_ difficulty may be dangerous in result. I say

nothing here about solitary climbing on snow or ice.

Beginners do not come under any of the categories which permit of

solitary effort.

[Sidenote: Initial Practice.]

The introduction to climbing customarily inflicted upon novices is

practice upon single rocks, low cliffs, quarries and erratic boulders,

with or without the aid of a rope held from above. This ‘bouldering,’

or problem climbing, may serve to discover a talent or encourage

an inclination, but it is of little use as commencing practice. The

scrambles are short. They give no opportunity for a groundwork in

rhythm or for balance in motion. If they are easy, they are done at

once on the head or the heels, and no one the better. If they are more

difficult, muscle can either manage them,--a bad error to commence

with,--or, if muscle fails, the ground close below or the rope close

above deprives failure and success alike of any training for the nerve

or moral for the memory. Their real value is only for the expert,

who has learned to treat every rock with the same respect, be it of

five feet or of five hundred feet. They make fine riders upon special

propositions, of toe or finger joint, once we have mastered the general

principles; but beginners get more benefit from easy, continuous

exercises on the simple rules--and ridges.

This practice is best begun as a member of a roped party of about equal

capacity, and under the direction of a leader who will only allow the

rope to be used as a protection, and not as a method of traction. The

climber is then to a large extent insured against the consequences of

his early blunders, which will give him some necessary confidence; he

will get some profit from watching other methods, and he can devote

himself to working out his own style. Imitation, conscious or not, will

give him right position, and the collective movement will infect him

with the beginnings of rhythm.

[Sidenote: The Use of the Foot.]

[Sidenote: Hard Soles.]

In balance climbing, footwork must be placed first. For footwork on

rock the right footgear with the right sole is all-important. If

we wear a nailed boot, it should be as light as is consistent with

strength and the weight of the climber--that is, of the lightest alpine

pattern.[10] Large men often like the heavy iron-clad boot for the

impetus it gives to a longer swing on levels or downhill. But this is

no recommendation in ascending rocks, where the weight of the boot

alone, since it has to be lifted and swung an indefinite number of

thousand times a day, is a wasteful drain upon the leg muscles. At the

same time the boot must be strong enough to protect the foot against

bruise or jar on all kinds of rugged surface, and the soles thick

enough to be firm, otherwise in climbing with the toe or the side of

the boot there is unfair strain upon the finer fabric of the foot.

The welt, for rock work more especially, should not project, as this

increases the strain upon foot and leg in toe and side-foot climbing. A

heavy welted boot or one with stiff leather uppers crushes the foot and

interferes with its delicate sense of touch.

The method of nailing the boots is important.[11] Rock climbers pursue

different fancies of their own: some prefer a double line of small

nails close to the edge, for a better stance on small ledges; some

dislike the edge or wing nails, and prefer a single row of small sharp

heads; and so on; but the chief thing for rock is to make sure that

the edge-nails, whatever they be, are set well apart, so as to give a

rough catching edge between each nail against a pull either way. On the

toe this separation is not so imperative, and they can be set closer

together for mutual protection and for a division of the strain, which,

in their case, will chiefly be on the back of the nail and not on its

sides. To edge the boot with overlapping nails, which may become a

smooth bar, is ineffective, and even more likely to produce a slip on

rock than if the sole were left altogether unprotected. One good rough

nail rightly driven in and rightly placed is quite enough to ensure a

perfectly safe stance under a well-balanced body; and on much modern

slab climbing one nail-hold is all that is sought or obtained. The

neater the action the fewer the nails needed.

[Sidenote: Soft Soles.]

For a number of rock surfaces a soft sole serves better than a nailed

boot. It permits of a sharper flex of the ankle, and restores to the

foot much of the sensitive and prehensile quality of the hand. Its more

flexible surface will cling to or over excrescences and flat planes

upon which a boot could find little or no support. It enables the foot

to be thrust toe-forward into narrower horizontal cracks or pockets,

and toe-downward, for leverage, behind flakes split vertically. It is

more secure upon steep, smooth slabs, in back-and-toe chimney climbing

and upon delicate traverses. Its lightness and close fit give greater

elasticity to the movements of the leg and greater exactitude to the

placing of the foot. On the other hand, it has not the grip in the

smooth angle of a vertical crack or corner that a hard sole has; in

side-foot or toe climbing on narrow ledges of sheer rock it strains the

foot unduly; it is treacherous on greasy or glazed rock, and absolutely

useless on snow, ice, sharp rubble or in greater mountaineering. From

my own experience I should say that there are few steep places that the

_ordinary_ rock climber meets where a nailed boot cannot be used as

securely as a soft sole, but that there are many where the soft sole

is more comfortable and reassuring. We have, of recent years, imitated

Dolomite climbers more generally in their use upon abrupt crags, and

when we have finally got over our prejudice against carrying extra

footgear with us and bothering to put it on, there will be as wide a

popularity for the soft sole, discreetly used, upon rock as the claw

has at last begun to enjoy upon ice.

According to the texture and condition of the rock, soft soles of raw

hide, thin leather, woollen cloth, canvas, flat or ribbed rubber, rope,

and even the soles of bare feet of a naturally leathery quality, are

all and each declared to be the best possible wear. It is impossible

to assign them geographically and geologically in detail, and I doubt

if anyone will carry with him all the types on the chance of using one

quite correctly. The average rock climber, even though he knows the

truth that on some rock boots with hard nails, and on others boots with

soft nails, give the better grip, shows himself still discouragingly

reluctant to carry even these two pairs with him in our own islands. I

myself preferred a light rubber sole on dry difficult rock, and a rope

or cloth sole on wet rough rock (not greasy), whenever the difficulty

made it distinctly safer than a nailed boot. Rubber is less durable

than rope, but it remains more evenly prehensile. The rope sole,

recently used with great effect even in the greater Alps, gets hard

and, still worse, hardens in patches that give a fickle tread.

For prolonged wear a soft-soled canvas boot is more comfortable than

the traditional shoe.

Many rock climbers wear very thick stockings or several pairs of

socks.[12] Their protection to the foot is greater than that of weighty

or rigid boot leather, and, according as feet and boots vary in size

from day to day, they allow of a corresponding addition or subtraction.

But for pure rock work their thickness should never be allowed to

interfere with the sense of touch in the toes. Any constriction round

the ankle, by the boot, or round the knee, by the breeches, is for the

same reason to be avoided. To check the circulation or to cramp a sinew

or muscle is to interrupt the telegraphic messages upon which balance

and safety depend.

[Sidenote: Foothold.]

The feet in all climbing should be placed lightly, and the swing of

the leg kept under control. To aim the foot, as many do, from the

thigh and knee, bang it in, and then leave it to settle itself on the

hold, is to jar the foot and fatigue the leg. The movement should be

precisely directed from start to finish, and no sinew slackened until

the other foot has taken charge. In continuous climbing the position

of the foot on the new foothold should be chosen with a view to its

supporting the balance during the next movement up or down, and the

foot must be placed exactly as the eye designed. If not, the balance

will not rise true on the lift, and there will be a flurried hand cling

and a clumsy foot shuffle until the right foot position is found. Small

inexactitudes mean clumsiness and waste of power.

Good skating calls for the same precise adjustment of the feet in

anticipation of the next movement of the body. But the closest parallel

is to be found in good dancing. The motion of foot and leg in both

dancing and continuous climbing is free yet under control, rhythmical

and balanced to the appearance of ease, but precise; ready for the

new position required for fresh movement, and yet keeping the body

in balance during the momentary transference of weight. In both, the

actual contact of the feet with the surface is always light. In either,

a heavy or loose tread not only breaks the rhythm, so that the balance

has to be recovered by an effort, but it destroys the sensitiveness of

touch, and delays for a perceptible moment the beginning of the next

movement. Dancing is, in fact, an excellent preparation for climbing.

Good climbers are, or can be, nearly always good dancers. The account

often given in joke of a fine climber that he ‘literally danced down

the rocks’ is a truthful picture. A good dancer has to adjust the

continuous motion of his feet and body over an even surface to the

swift and varied rhythm of music. A good climber has only to keep true

to his own rhythm; but he has the more difficult task of adjusting

his continuous movement to the varied angles, checks and impulses of

uneven rock holds. The more difficult the rock, the slower must be his

rhythm; but slow or fast, each motion must remain equally exact and

finished. The more precise he renders each movement, the safer will be

his progress and the more polished will appear to be his style. All

false positions, sudden convulsions or recoveries that will break the

continuity of movement, have therefore to be avoided. In ascending upon

a vertical line it is, for instance, obviously better to take footholds

slightly to the right and left with either foot rather than immediately

below the body. The knee thus turned sideways can be flexed without

thrusting out the centre of gravity and interrupting the continuity.

Again, as between two footholds that may offer, the one large and

reassuring in promise but inconveniently placed, the other less

comforting but at a happier interval, the latter is to be selected. The

first would be sound, but would need two interrupted movements and a

readjustment between them; the second will fit in with our continuous

movement and be secure enough to reach and to leave again. Rock holds

are not required for a permanent residence. The foot, the toe and the

side nail are not looking for snug berths with a pension, but only

for such security of tenure as will permit them to promote the career

easily from one balanced movement to the next.

[Sidenote: Anticipation.]

Upon very steep rock, holds rarely occur in the convenient, ladder-like

sequence that allows of a continuous lifting of the body in the same

position and line. Each succeeding set of hand and foot holds may here

require a new attitude for purposes of balance. For this interrupted

type of climbing, however, it is just as important to remember that it

is too late to begin to twist the body into the new position required

by the new holds when already those holds have been reached. A climber

who makes this mistake gets no help even from his slower rhythm, and

looks to be spasmodic and insecure. All the more here a good climber

should look beforehand what his new attitude will have to be on the

new holds, and, like a skater, he should move his body into the new

position while he is in the act of passing from the one set of holds to

the other. In the case of an awkward step it is even admissible for him

to go up and down to it, tentatively, before committing himself to it,

in order to make certain that he will arrive upon the hold in the right

position. He has then no need to readjust his feet or hands when the

movement is complete and the next begins.

This fine point in style is invaluable to master; anticipation saves

energy and assures safety on long or difficult rock climbs. The sinuous

progress of the expert on an ‘interrupted’ passage is effortless as

compared with the jerks and quick contortions of a less finished

climber on the same place; and on long, easier climbs, where all are

moving together, he is always the sooner ready to meet at any second

the failure in his own case of a single hold, or to give the immediate

check to the rope which shall correct a slip behind him. Even if he is

in mid-movement when the call comes, in an instant of time his feet and

hands can lock his balance into the new position already half attained,

or they will bring him back with nicety to his last firm holds.

[Sidenote: The Ankle.]

In the mastery of balance climbing the ankle plays a very important

part. So that the body may progress smoothly when the feet are

clinging only to small or very inclined holds, the ankle must be

strong enough and supple enough to support the weight at rest or in

motion, no matter at what angle it may be bent, forward or backward

or sideways. The extent to which the ankle can be flexed varies with

the individual. Extreme in babyhood, the flexibility can be preserved

by early and suitable exercise. Once it is lost, and the foot ‘set,’

it is very difficult to recover or increase it in later life. Those

whose ankles will only flex city-wise may only envy the ease with which

mountaineering peasants walk straight up steep inclines, getting their

heels down each step, or coastal fisher-folk hurry safely on flat soles

along slippery sea slabs at impossible angles. If your ankle won’t bend

so far, it won’t. But what can be and has to be acquired is suppleness

and strength in the ankle, whatever its flex, so that it will hold

as securely when bent to the full as when straight, and will relate

through its changing but steely arch the balance movement of the body

above to the unshifting cling of the foot below. Like skating, ski-ing

or crabbing on claws, walking securely with a flexed ankle has to be

learnt by practice; and the first essential is confidence. Balance

boldly on slabs. If you lean inwards, or seek support with the hand,

you will never improve your ankle work. Such practice on ice with claws

and practice on slabs with shoes or nails are mutually helpful. It

is excellent exercise for the ankle and foot to practise doing ridge

or slab climbs of progressive steepness without using the hands at

all. The flex of the ankle, the bow of the leg and balancing power of

the trunk muscles working together, can learn to do a great deal for

which we are ordinarily too ready to use the hands. By educating ankle

and foot to work alone we keep the hands in reserve for increasingly

difficult passages. Often the ‘prop’ of a bent ankle above a side-foot

hold gives us the second point of contact with the rock which is all

that our balance requires. I have known of climbers whose standard

improved markedly owing to a hand injury or arm wound. Compelled to

develop their ankle and foot work, by the time the arm recovered they

had learned a better ‘balanced’ style, and the fresh help of the hand

came in as so much more gain in power. Careful hill walking or rock

climbing in a light shoe is better training for the ankle and balance

than walking in a heavy boot. The heavy boot restricts the flex and

weakens the ankle by always supporting it. On all but rock surface it

compels the surface to its service. On rock its rigidity and good side

nails generally save us the trouble of flexing the ankle at all. In a

light shoe the foot and ankle have to adjust themselves to the surface,

and bend and adhere at any angle the hillside or the sloping rock may

dictate. The ankle gets strengthened and suppled. Be it noted that the

going must be ‘careful’; an unprotected ankle until it gets trained is

easily turned or wrenched.

[Sidenote: The Knee.]

As I have said, the knee is not now so often used in good balanced

climbing. Nine times out of ten when we use a kneehold it is from

pure laziness, and eight times out of ten we immediately repent it,

because it is quite three times as difficult and six times as painful

to start again off a kneehold as off a foothold. Of course on stiff

‘mantelpiece’ work or in cracks we may have to use it, together with

all other convenient projections of our frame. And, on occasion, in

continuous climbing, if the hands are occupied with the management of

the rope, and the foothold is too high to reach with sound balance, the

knee can be used on a suitable hold as a quick half-way thrust between

distant footholds. This avoids breaking our rhythm by an overlong reach

up with the foot, or interrupting the party by dropping the rope in

order to take hold with the hands.

Some men, and nearly all women, when they use the knee incline it

inward across the front of the body, so as to place it on a hold with

its point or outside surface in the direct line of ascent. This leads

to a very constricted attitude. The lower foot cannot be brought up

below in support to any hold on the direct line, and, after the lift,

a pull on the rope or a violent effort will be necessary to recover

the balance or get started off the knee again. The knee should be

inclined outward away from the body, and should use a hold with its

inside surface, to the right or left of the direct line of ascent. The

spring off knee and shin from such a hold lifts the weight lightly in

the direct line, with the body continuously close to the rock, and the

lower foot can be brought up easily to a supporting hold in the direct

line below the body, so as to relieve the knee. (Try the positions on

the edge of a table or on a step-ladder, and the difference becomes

clear.)

On very smooth slabs, when foothold fails, the knees and shins can

be used to relieve by their friction a pull-up on the hands. If we

are wearing shoes this is a rare case, as a soft sole can cling

anywhere (and more safely) that a knee can. Such a friction-cling need

necessarily be only for a short distance,--about the stretch of a man’s

reach,--since the boot, as soon as it has reached it, will be able to

use anything that has before been sufficient for the fingers to hold

on by. There is only the one exception--the problem of a vertical or

sharply inclined slab, offering us only a smooth narrow crack or a

smooth sloping outside edge. The crack or edge may be good enough for

the fingers, but too smooth or steep for a sideways boot toehold. In

this case the whole outside surface of thigh, knee and leg come into

play to give friction-holds on the slab, while the hands are shifted

upwards in the crack or up along the edge. (The positions can be tried

on a heavy door or gate, set on one corner and inclined steeply in the

angle of a wall. For the one case the door must be sun-cracked!)

[Sidenote: The Hand.]

The hands and arms have to learn less than the legs. They are less

important for anything but purely gymnastic climbing; they have

more inherited instinct for their work; they are under the constant

direction of the eye, and therefore do not need the same training in

automatic movements to carry out anticipatory judgments.

The hands are always auxiliary to the feet and to the adjustment of the

body. Their power only misleads into a bad style if they are used to

the neglect of other parts of the machine. In continuous climbing they

complement the lifting movement and assist the balance. Their service

is for impulse, adhesion, occasionally for traction, but never, if

avoidable, for suspension at rest. Footwork, not handwork, is the basis

of balance climbing.

[Sidenote: Cling Holds.]

In steep climbing, where they come more into play, instinct directs

them how to cling. But in taking finger-holds, especially for pulls,

it must be remembered the hand is as fine a piece of machinery as

the foot, and less protected. It can be easily cut or bruised, or

the tips rendered callous so that they lose their sense of touch. A

well-used hand after a few days on rough rock gets if anything more

sensitive; the fingers become ‘violin tipped’ with a certain prickle

of sensitiveness. A hold should be grasped like a nettle, firmly and

almost finickingly, so that the skin does not shift afterwards or drag.

It is always a bad sign if the climber finds cuts on the insides of his

hands. They have no business there. The sharpest of holds, if rightly

gripped, can be used for the lift of the weight without puncturing

the skin. Abrasions on back or side of the hand, or on the inside of

the wrist and forearm, are another matter. They almost inevitably

follow upon the action of arm-levering and on the taking of press and

push holds (afterwards described). Incidentally, also, frequent knee

and shin scrapes and bruises are the signals of clumsy footwork and

scrambling methods.

As a complement to the ordinary cling holds, when the fingers cling

over an edge or knob and hold the weight in suspense, balance climbing

based upon footwork enables us to make use of a whole group of

invaluable ‘under’-holds. In these the hand, gripping palm upwards

under a down-turned edge or point, is getting security and propulsion

by pulling the body inwards against the upward thrust of the balance

from the feet. The value of these holds depends upon our practice in

balance climbing, which enables us to ‘compensate’ as between our hand

and foot hold and to maintain a careful counterpoise of the hand-pull

against the foot-thrust. We can use them with effect anywhere between

the level of our eyes and our waist, according to our strength, and our

ability to use them adds immensely to our ease in climbing vertical or

overhanging rock. A cling ‘over’-hold on such rock pulls us inward, and

adds blindness and body friction to the other forces working against

us. A cling ‘under’-hold keeps body and eyes free at the length of our

arms, bent or straight according to our convenience. Granite is rich in

such fashion of hold, and on rough, catchy aiguille climbs many of us

would use them by preference before the more obvious over-holds.

Cognate with the under-holds are ‘side’-holds, where the edge or point

of rock projects and is grasped sideways. The principle of their use

is the same as for the under-hold, except that the hand is turned

sideways. Their commonest occasion is in the ascent of cracks, when

the outward side-pull of the hand against the inside edge of the crack

is set against the upward thrust from our foothold or knee-jam in the

crack below, and our balance technique is occupied in compensating

between them.

In cases both hands may be pulling against opposite sides of such a

crack, and the compensation will then have to be made between the two

arm-pulls instead of between the single arm-pull and the foot-thrust.

To make any upward progress on such holds without any help from

foothold or body friction calls for immense arm and finger power; but

in connection with a foot-thrust or knee-jam the opposing side-pulls

are often of use. A square-cut or rounded edge, without any projection,

is sufficient to give good side-holding.

[Sidenote: Push and Press Holds.]

Instinct will tell us how to hang on to over-holds and pull up at the

length of the arms. Practice in balance and footwork will teach us how

to avail ourselves of the varieties of the more accommodating under

and side cling holds. But the balance climber has to learn, for the

yet greater convenience of his eye, the ease of his balance and the

economy of his arm-power, to take his handholds as low as possible,

and in co-operation with, not in opposition to, his foot-thrusts. He

soon discovers that ‘push’ and ‘press’ holds are more powerful and

accommodate themselves better to continuous upward progress in balance

than any form of cling holds. I use ‘push’ of a direct upward thrust

of the arm from a horizontal or inclined ledge or hold, and ‘press’ of

a lateral or diagonal thrust against a vertical or inclined side-wall.

(The first can be tried on any secure mantelpiece; the second, not so

well, in any narrow passage.) The arm, for push holds, is used after

the fashion of a leg; the hands are pushed, palm downward, on ledges

at a height that will allow of the weight, with often the impulse of

a spring or foot-thrust, being lifted on the straightening arms. The

arms for this movement possess much of the strength and the ease in

balancing usually attributed only to the legs. To lift the weight on

a direct push is easier for many than to raise it by a long-arm pull.

On push holds the weight of the body keeps the hands firmly in place;

and a hold by thrusting friction, even if it be only on a rounded or

sloping ledge, calls for less effort than to keep the same weight in

suspension from the crook of a muscular finger round an ideal hold at

the stretch of the arm. The strongest position for push holds is that

with the fingers turned inward, the palms downwards, in front of the

body, at a level anywhere between the waist and neck, according to the

individual power of spring from the feet. But push holds outside the

body are also useful; the fingers are then turned outwards, palms down.

Either of these positions secures the help of the twisting arms as

levers for retaining the balance during the upward movement.

Upon slabs or on rounded holds at awkward angles a very useful hand

device is the combination of the push and cling holds. The wrist or

forearm rests along or over some protuberance so as to secure a

downward push hold, while the fingers are turned to cling across some

edge of this hold and keep the arm from slipping off it. The arm would

slip off the push hold but for the anchor of the fingers; the fingers

would slip out of their awkward cling hold but for the friction anchor

of the arm. Thus by a delicate compensation between the forearm pushing

and the fingers clinging we obtain one sound combination hold out of

two separately insecure holds. Ledges are more frequently rounded or

inclined against us than square and convenient. The reinforcement of an

arm push hold by a finger cling, or the giving of a right direction to

a finger cling by the friction anchor of wrist or forearm, is therefore

of constant service and deserving of all practice.

In press holds the flat of the hands is thrust sideways against a

smooth surface of vertical or steep rock, which may be the retaining

wall of a chimney, or a projecting leaf or corner. It is a help if

the outer edge of the hand can rest against any seemingly valueless

excrescence. With the hand so held the elbow has only to be lifted,

and the arm becomes a lever, thrusting the balance inward, secured by,

and itself securing, the friction of the hand. Two hands so pressed

against any sloping surfaces can lift the whole weight. Pressed against

vertical surfaces--the inside walls of cracks, for instance, too narrow

to admit the body--they are sufficient to retain the balance, while

the feet find any slight hold, or even only friction holds, to supply

propulsion. How good the foothold must be to complement such handholds

is a matter of practice in compensations.

Push and press holds with the hands, combined with the twist and

leverage of the arms, in combinations innumerable, are the refinements

of exceptionally difficult climbing. Their merit is the saving of

muscular effort and the substitution for it of the mechanism of

balance. Their use has inevitably grown out of the new fashion of

footwork developed in balance climbing, grounded on the recognition

that the more extended the body and the wider apart feet and hands are

fixed, the less is the power and the greater is the effort of single

movement, and therefore the greater the interruption to continuous

rhythm. To keep the balance steady, the eyesight free and the rhythm

constant, footholds and handholds must be taken at convenient

distances well within the compass of the reach.

[Sidenote: In Cracks.]

In difficult crack climbing the extent to which pressure, the jamming

of a leg, the touch of a calf or knee, or the twisting of a hand or

forearm can be used to ease the muscular strain must be learned by

practice. A fist or finger may be hooked in a smooth rift, or a foot

slanted into a crack, with only friction attachment, and a slight twist

to arm or leg converts either into a secure lever for lifting the

weight. The clenching of the fist or the tightening of the muscles of a

jammed forearm, or even the inflation of the chest, may at need serve

the same purpose. The inexpert eye might see little difference between

such movements and those of gripping or clinging. As a matter of fact,

the difference is maintained even here. Where a grip climber aims at

rest-points of pendent security, and struggles between them by muscular

pulls, the balance climber is primarily concerned to keep freedom and

continuity of movement. He is using the balance of the body, if only

for fractions of a second, to relieve the direct weight on his arms

or the indirect strain on his legs. His arms and legs are levers in

converting proportionately slight muscular efforts into big continuous

movements, making friction and the mere weight of the balancing body

do a large share of the work. Consequently, to the expert eye, his

body is seen to ascend on a line slightly farther out from the rock

than the grip climber in the same place, and in a different sequence

of attitudes. He will be avoiding at all costs the grip climber’s

temptation to be too secure, to fix himself in attitudes or on holds

from which he will have to emerge by direct muscular pulls. In corners

or chimneys he will use a set of slighter and less attractive holds,

if they exist, farther out, so as to keep his body free from friction

against the rock. If such a set of holds is lacking altogether, he will

be employing press holds with the hands, lever holds with arm or leg,

twisted pressure-thrusts from his foot and ankle against one wall to

his knee against the other--any device that will relieve him of direct

pulls and will leave his body free to help him at any second with some

balance adjustment. For, once the body is really jammed up against the

rock or in a crack, arms and legs are usually working only against

one another or against the friction of shoulders or thighs, and the

mechanism can merely struggle and exhaust itself.

[Sidenote: On Slabs.]

Similarly upon slabs he will be selecting holds, not according to their

size and obviousness, but according as they are arranged well within

his comfortable span. He avoids at all costs getting ‘spread-eagled.’

The surest safeguard against getting stuck is to select the holds

beforehand, and then be certain that your feet and hands use them as

you designed. Let nothing tempt you to alter your plan once you are

moving. This is the hardest lesson to learn. If you have any eye at

all, your alteration will never be for the better. Whenever, as must

occur in awkward places, your sight of the holds is interrupted,

keep your head and stick coolly to your recollection. Many climbers

get slightly flurried once they are ‘blind.’ They forget their plan,

even the existence perhaps of the one hold that made the passage seem

possible in anticipation. They revert to struggling and arm-clinging.

Their agitation often takes the form of a combative recklessness. They

feel they will fight it out with the holds they have got rather than

descend and recover the safer line they planned. This liability to

flurry may take years to master. Most of us have suffered from it; and

notably in those attractive holes under chockstones or overhangs--holes

so irresistibly tempting to thrust one’s head and shoulders into, but

from which, blinded and out of balance, it is extremely trying to

emerge. Notably, again, on those steep problem-slabs, where a single

tempting hold has spread-eagled us helplessly and left us wondering how

long the single nail will support us.

The only protection is foresight, a steady adherence to plan, and the

resolution always to climb as far out as possible from the rock.

If the hands are allowed to pull the nose into the rock we are easily

pounded. The protection is footwork and the flexible ankle. It is the

business of the ankle to bend and stay bent at whatever angle may

keep our body in safe balance and away from the rock, and to transmit

our weight to the foot at just the right angle to hold it firm on its

sloping stance. The farther out from the rock we can keep the weight,

the steeper the apparent angle of foothold which it is safe to use.

On steep slabs a very flexible ankle will often let the foot rest

flat, getting an overlapping or friction hold on several rugosities

of surface with its whole sole where a less practised ankle or a

stiff-sided boot must trust to the less secure catch of a side-nail on

one such roughness. Quiet movement is essential; to leave a slight hold

hurriedly is as dangerous as to arrive on it clumsily. If you have to

use a knee or hip or forearm as a friction hold, set it as gently and

relieve it as lightly as if it were a single finger.

[Sidenote: Chimney Climbing.]

Chimney climbing is another occasion for too alluring rest positions

and for tempting but over-close contacts. By a ‘chimney’ we usually

mean a rift that will admit the body, as contrasted with a ‘crack’

which will not. The method of ascending between the vertical or steeply

sloping walls of chimneys, wherein holds for ordinary foot and hand

work are lacking, is usually called ‘back and knee’; more correctly

it should be named ‘back and foot,’ as the knee need rarely be used.

The position is with the back against one wall and the feet against

the other, the legs bent or straight according to the width, and the

thrust of the spine and shoulders providing the security. Here again

the proper object is continuous movement, and such attitudes as may

assist towards it. The temptation for the safety climber is to sit

across the chimney, with the legs straight and almost at right angles

to the body. The body is then wedged; it sinks slightly inside the

clothes, which are fast to the rock by friction, and, while it is quite

secure, presents also the utmost resistance to any upward impulse. The

right position for the feet against the opposite wall is slightly below

the body, as low as will allow of an easy upward impulse being given

to the body without risk of the feet slipping. The hands and arms are

stretched downward, past the body, with the arms bent and the palms

flat against the rock behind. For movement upward, one foot is brought

across from the opposite wall and thrust with the flat sole against

the rock close under the body. The friction of the foot then allows

the bent knee to be partially straightened, and the body raised. While

it rises, and the shoulders thus come clear of the rock, the thrust of

the arms and hands backward against the rock takes the place of the

jam with the shoulders, and so keeps the foot against the opposite

wall in its place. So soon as the lift is completed and the back is at

rest against the rock again, the under foot that has been used is shot

across to a higher position against the opposite wall, the hands move

up, and the other leg comes across, to act as spring in its turn. The

body is thus really ascending, poised, between the shifting pressures

of the arms and feet, and is only taking instants of rest against the

rock to allow them to take new positions. It is entirely wrong, but

very usual, to walk up the opposite wall with the feet, and wriggle the

shoulders up the near rock in accord. This is wasteful of clothes and

of energy, and not so secure in its actual movement. For, on the right

method, if the foot against the opposite wall shows an inclination to

slip as the shoulders rise, the arms can thrust away from their wall

and so apply extra pressure to keep the foot in place, even while they

are still pushing the body upward; whereas, on the wrong method, the

back has no such elastic margin; it cannot push across and downwards

while it is itself moving up. In all such feats the more freedom that

can be kept for movement, even at the cost of adopting more exposed

positions and of bridging ourselves across intimidatingly wider angles,

the greater in reality is the safety.

In narrow chimneys, too smooth for foot or hand hold and too narrow

to allow of secure bridging with the back against the one wall, it is

possible to move up with the feet pressed flat against the two walls,

one on each side: one with the toe pointing up in front of us, the

other with the toe down below us; the body is kept upright in the

middle on the spring of the bent knees and supported by the pressure

of the hands, placed like the feet one against each wall. In this

fashion we can ‘rock’ up satisfactorily. But the method is only safe to

practise with soft soles, and it is of course very strenuous.

Wherever possible we prefer to keep outside a chimney, or corner,

altogether, and use our feet up the edges of its retaining walls. If

we are forced inside, we adopt any sets of holds for our feet up the

opposing walls, however wide a split they mean for the legs and however

fearsome the depth may look between our feet, before we resort to the

cramping, waterworn recess and the slower method of ‘back and foot.’

Balance climbers return, as it were, to the gully epoch only under

protest and where footholds fail.

[Sidenote: Rib Riding.]

In clambering up sharp noses, flakes or ribs, where bodily contact with

the rock is enforced, the same principle of keeping far out and aiming

at continuous movement again holds good. To sit close astride, and claw

up the rock by means of the thighs, elbows and hands, is customary,

and seemingly safe; but the really safer method, because it admits of

uninterrupted progress, is to keep the body away, and to grip with the

sole and flexed ankle, or with the knees and sides of the feet, on

either side of the rib, or to lock one leg diagonally across the edge

so that the foot and knee press against its opposing facets. Meanwhile

the hands, holding opposite ways, grip across the edge above. In such

a position the body can sink at any instant, for rest, into contact

with the rock, and can rise again from the feet, knees or shin without

effort. It is useful to remember that when the friction of loosely

clothed parts of the body is solely relied upon for hold (as when we

are clinging close with thighs and body to a rib), the body always

sinks slightly inside the clothes, and has so much the more difficulty

in restarting a fresh movement.

[Sidenote: Wet Rock.]

It must be added that when rocks are wet, friction cannot be relied

upon, and at the same time the security of foot and hand hold is

greatly diminished. Wet rocks may mean slimy rocks, and always mean

cold rocks. Cold soon chills the muscles, lessens the sense of touch,

and notably impairs both the confidence and the power to climb. On a

wet day it is well to carry some spare dry gloves. If, then, we have to

make some particularly awkward balance or lift, and the fingers are wet

and cold, a fresh glove will give us a few holds of better friction,

until it, too, gets wet. In the Alps wet rocks mean glazed rocks, and

we avoid them. In our own hills we accept wet rocks as part of the day,

but we treat them with an extra degree of respect. Men in soft soles,

on dry, hot rock in sunshine, can climb with complete and hilarious

security places that rain and wind make it foolish to attempt. For

most men the standard of possibility varies as much as 40 per cent.

This is never sufficiently allowed for in youth. Fired by emulation,

young climbers arrive in rain where their rivals have passed on sun-dry

holds. “A rock is a rock; and, by George, it must go!” is their motto;

and if their fortune is better than their knowledge, they accomplish a

climb which substitutes a danger happily escaped for every difficulty

reasonably mastered by their predecessors.

On the other hand, to accustom ourselves to find our rock climbs,

and to climb their wet rocks under all conditions of weather, is

necessary training. Provided we allow for the difference in permissible

attempt, we risk little, in our small-scale home climbing, by

persisting against moderately uncomfortable circumstances. We are

the better able to endure them when they surprise us on more serious

alpine expeditions. A little adverse circumstance restores much of

their original difficulty and adventure to many fine mountaineering

climbs too apt to be neglected by modern specialists because of

their straightforwardness under sunny conditions. A man who can work

cheerfully up an old-fashioned British rock climb against rain and wet

holds is a sounder climber than the expert who will only do the supreme

‘inventions,’ and those only in fair weather for fear of spoiling his

record. In this country the finest rock climbs, both scenically and as

mountaineering training, are not the most difficult; rather than that

they should be neglected, we should seek them and climb them on the wet

days.

[Sidenote: Glazed Rock.]

Glazed rock is its own prophet and policeman. In the summer Alps

we need only expect to find it after a snowfall, or where snow

commanding rock may have been melted, run down and refrozen. It makes

an unexpected and more dangerous appearance when a sudden fall of

temperature freezes the mist, fine rain or thawing snow after its fall

or as it falls on to the rocks, while we may be actually on them. I

know of no more treacherous move in the mountain game or one which

calls for more cautious, laborious and ingenious countermoving.

In Britain, as I have said elsewhere, we have to beware of it almost

as much, in the winter and early spring months. It may follow a silver

thaw, a cold fog or a mist on a change of wind. By starting our

climbing early upon hoar-frosted rocks or fresh snow we may create our

own glaze by hand and foot pressure. On really bad film-glaze nothing

is sure for hand or foot hold; but a glove or soft sole (not rubber)

has a better chance of ‘freezing on’ than a boot or cold finger. A

thick sock, pulled over the boot, will help, or we _may_ take off our

boots and climb in the safer stockings.

On steep glazing rock, and upon wet rock if its surface grows greasy

with the moisture, continuous climbing becomes immediately interrupted

climbing. We have to consider the chances of a hold failing or

breaking or of a man slipping as increased some tenfold. We must take

precautions as for unsound rock and protect ourselves with anchors,

belays and the like. However easy the rock may normally be, glaze or

grease introduces a new element of ‘danger,’ and the transparent threat

forces us, if we are wise, to treat any moderate climb with the respect

due to serious difficulty.

[Sidenote: Summary.]

I have only selected for description a few conspicuous features of

ordinary rock surface, which might illustrate the underlying principles

of a good rock climbing style. Their detail is negligible except as

illustration. Climbing situations are infinitely various, and men

vary as whimsically in their personal adjustments. Long before he has

reached the point of leading difficult passages, the climber will have

got his own obstinate idea of how to apply the principles in detail to

particular rock features.

For the benefit of the less instructed I would only repeat that rock

climbing is best learned upon long and varied passages, away from the

staccato allurements of boulders, trick climbs and belays. Style is

the mastery of rhythmic movement, movement continuously secure and

continuously effortless over every modulation of hold during a long

day. When a climber can traverse a long ridge of average difficulties

safely and quickly, stepping the edge by balance or dropping on either

side as he goes and using balance holds with either hand, without check

to his party, he is already a safe climber and on the way to be a sound

mountaineer. If he proceeds to follow the craft into some of its more

ingenious departures, it will only mean a more elaborate application of

the same principles that he has already learned to practise: to trust

to his feet; to make use of his ankles; to tread lightly and precisely;

to keep the hands low; to choose holds in advance and stick to them;

to move well out from the rock; to rely on balance rather than muscle;

to make continuous, supple and eventually graceful movement his ideal;

not to rest satisfied until he has acquired rhythm; and lastly, never

to get flurried.

UNSOUND ROCK

While a climber is still only concerned with perfecting his own

adjustments in relation to rock requirements, he will be unconsciously

collecting a great deal of practical information about different

types of rock. If he is of a curious habit, he will be led on to some

superficial study of petrology or geology. But even if he have no

memory for names or imaginative grasp of æons, he cannot help gradually

amassing a quantity of empirical knowledge as to what kinds of holds

to expect if a rock looks so and so in outline, whether to reckon

upon finding chimneys or traverses or flakes if its main lines of

cleavage or fracture are such and such, and what to allow for in detail

according to his distant observation of the general structure and

weathering. The discovery of the name of a prevalent rock will tell him

what kind of climbing to prepare himself for in a particular district,

or the sight of it when he gets there will guide him in the selection

and management of his climbs. He may never have been able to master the

difference between Tertiary and Secondary, any more than remember the

order of the Popes of Rome, and yet have qualified himself insensibly

for that most fascinating form of speculative discussion, the designing

of new routes in known or unknown districts. On a lower but still more

useful plane he will have learned to judge from its general appearance

whether rock is sound or unsound, and from its closer aspect where to

expect unsound intrusions upon good rock.