RECONNOITRING
Reconnoitring precedes in action the exercise of mountain craft. But
as an art it is the gold cup in the sack mouth of a mountaineer’s
equipment. Its effective mastery must rest upon his previous
accumulations of practical experience. It may therefore, fittingly, be
put in last.
In the Alps and nearer European ranges, maps and guide-books relieve
the mountaineer of almost all occasion to apply his powers of
observation to the interpretation of the Seen or the reconstruction of
the Unseen. The majority of men who climb in the Alps or Britain get
no practice in making even elementary deductions from scenic details
within sight; and a number more, whose experience and observation have
been sufficient to enrich them with what they would call an instinctive
feeling about the meaning of topographical details which they can see,
or about the probabilities of those which are out of their sight, have
never, for lack of opportunity, been forced to resolve this feeling
into precise conclusions.
Nothing but actual necessity, the need of providing for safe progress
or comfort, will induce most men on a holiday to exercise or educate
their observation. The loss is considerable; not only because a
developed faculty of observing, and of reasoning from the observations,
is in itself a valuable permanent possession, but because the neglect
involves the failure to see much that is beautiful. If we are
accustomed to wait until beauty imposes itself upon the eye, as in the
end it will, and almost flauntingly, in large mountain scenery, we
shall have already missed the discovery of the relations of line and
colour and mass to which the beautiful effect is due, and we are fated
to overlook much that is lovely and much that is interesting in regions
where there is grace and interest in the smallest detail, but where
detail escapes unperceived among the broad and salient features of
familiar magnificence.
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN ARCHITECTURE [C. F. MEADE]
On a more material plane, a man who aspires to lead a party must be
able to ‘see,’ in the sense in which an artist or natural scientist
‘sees,’ and he must be able to make the necessary mountaineering
deductions from his sights. A mountaineer who wishes to conduct an
expedition efficiently in unexplored ranges must be able to do more:
he must be practised in the art of confirming conjecture as to what
is beyond his sight from ‘signs’ within view. For an expert of this
sort it is fortunately sufficient to indicate what he can discover and
how to set about it; fortunately, because ‘signs’ in practice are so
modified by place, climate and season that no rules could be laid down
without a page of exceptions to prove each one. One day of practical
demonstration under guidance will reveal more of what we ought to see
and how to see it than much tabulation. We may write of a ‘snow sky’
and an ‘ice sky,’ and a mountaineer who had them pointed out to him
would recognize the difference; but we cannot with truth say “a snow
sky is a whitish-blue, or shows as a white underside on a cloud,” or
“an ice sky is a greyish-blue, and reflects in a shade of grey from a
cloud,” because a different climate or region might anywhere contradict
our colour definitions. But the distinction between the two would
remain as a constant difference of tone under all identical conditions,
and it would be perceptible to a trained eye.
Somewhat the same difficulty interferes with any accurate summary
of more elementary signs to be looked for in reconnoitring,--signs
whose discovery is, or should be, part of our daily alpine routine.
Every mountaineer should know at a glance, in the right conditions of
light, new snow from old snow, ice from crusted snow surface, open
glacier from _firn_ or _névé_. But who could learn to recognize the
differences, under continually changing conditions of light, from his
recollections of a written classification? The suggestions here made
must be understood, therefore, only to affirm that between certain
groups of surface appearances there are certain constant relative
differences, whose presence, or absence, can always be ascertained
in the right weather and light. They are intended to indicate a few
lines of less obvious investigation, which the trained eye can pursue
in examining aspects and details of mountains that are visible to
everybody but not equally intelligible to everybody; and further, to
outline a province of yet more difficult discovery--the collection of
information as to aspects and details which are not even in sight.
It may now be assumed that until a mountaineer knows something of
his craft by actual experience, the choice of a route up a peak need
not be left to his unaided attempts at reconnoitring. Elementary
mountaineering information is far more widely diffused, and practical
climbing ability has become almost an inherited instinct. The method
adopted by the Badminton on Mountaineering, and by various excellent
manuals in imitation of it, first synthesized for us a sample peak or
climb, resolved the attributed features into their simple elements
again, and then directed us, with natural confidence, precisely how
to deal with them. A method advisable for purposes of picturesque
propaganda in earlier, darker days is of less service to a climbing
generation whose acquired craft can be more generally trusted to know
how to attack its peak, if it can once attain to only a small part of
the certainty about the real character and the momentary condition
of distant detail which these illuminating studies could happily
assume. The path so well prepared by our predecessors for the straying
or reluctant feet of the potential climber, and so entertainingly
bordered with composite examples, need not be retrodden. Guidance in
reconnoitring, to be of later use, must now wait for its opportunity
further along the way, and be ready to pester the progressive
competence and self-assurance of zealous mountaineers with the
well-meaning but aggravating importunity of an elder walking companion:
“Can’t you see _that_?” and, “What does it _mean_?” and, finally,
“Well, then, I’ll _tell_ you!”
Snow and rock and ice, as a triune element, alone concern us. What we
need to find out about them is their respective _angles_, to know if
we can get up at all; their several _conditions_, to ascertain if we
can do so with or without danger or difficulty; and the degree of
modification which their _combination_ may be introducing, in order to
decide if we can do so within the appointed time. For instance, our
agreeable opinion of the angle of a rock rib will counterbalance our
unfavourable view of the state of a snow face, which it relieves; or
our optimistic impression of the snow in a couloir will free us from
the gloom created by our sight of the angle and character of a rock
wall, which it bisects. With a peak as such we are only concerned in
so far as it presents to us a greater or lesser mass of favourable
or unfavourable angles and superficial conditions. We take it that
our climbing craft can get us up any mountain by any way visible or
invisible. It is for our reconnoitring craft, first, to reject those
alternatives which are interrupted by the angle of the impossible;
secondly, to condemn the lines where it detects surface conditions or
direct menaces which will introduce too large an element of danger;
thirdly, to except the routes where it decides that harsh angle and
poor condition in unrelenting succession combine to form too great a
volume of difficulty to be humanly vincible in a single expedition;
and lastly, if no agreeable or interesting remainder be left over, to
use its utmost skill to determine whether some _unseen_ aspect may not
reveal sufficient of its character to encourage a hope that it will
offer a more helpful line of attack.
The sum of the results of these investigations will of course add
up differently with every peak, and any discussion of it in the
abstract could only be hypothetical. The decision as to whether
this sum in any concrete case represents a feasible or justifiable
mountaineering attempt must take into further account the strength of
the party proposing to make it, and must be therefore, for us, equally
hypothetical. All that the grammar of reconnoitring can usefully define
are the lines which investigation should follow in order to secure
exact information about the elements which are the material for our
calculations, and therefore the chief factors in our decisions. Snow,
rock and ice are these elements; and their state, angle and influence
upon each other in certain combinations form the only matter that need
concern our examination on the spot,--or here.
THINGS SEEN
To discover whether a distant slope is snow or ice, if the character of
the surface is not apparent at once, or deducible from its position,
aspect or angle, we must wait for sun or strong daylight.
[Sidenote: Snow Surface Condition.]
Ice surfaces--that is, the smooth ice surfaces found in the
Alps--reflect light as an even, steely glimmer, like elongated pools
of water. Black ice, not so often found in the Alps, has a different
quality in reflection. Granular ice is distinguishable by its
reflection of light in facets or prisms. It will be noted that these
tend to increase in size as our inspection descends the length of a
glacial slope. The honeycombed ice found in tropical ranges is quite
distinct in character; it can be recognized from a distance, and in a
photograph, by its surface forms.
Snow surfaces show plain white or grey in comparison.
An ice crust upon snow has an appearance much like that of ice, but the
reflected light is ‘pockled’ and uneven.
New snow, which is best left alone, has a brilliant fresh surface.
Seen even from great distances, and especially upon rock, it shows a
filmy, gossamer, veil-like quality. This endures until the aeration has
escaped and the feathery surfaces have subsided into harder contours.
Old powdery snow, as contrasted with new snow, has a greyer tint when
seen from a distance, particularly if not seen in direct sunlight.
Old wet snow, laborious to cross, and deciduous according to its angle,
shows a bluish, luminous surface light, especially in its depressions.
It is often transected by visible lines of strain or cleavage.
A thawing snow surface, seen from near, is dull and drenched looking,
or pitted with small holes.
Surface hard-crusts, or plates, produced alike by wind and sun, which
afford pleasant going but possess the avalanche potentiality if the
angle is steep and their attachment to the surface below is slight,
generally mark themselves off from the surrounding snow slopes by a
lower, duller tone; sometimes they are tinged with a yellow shade. The
plates vary in thickness, deepening towards the middle, and they can
often be recognized by their edges, which run out on the neighbouring
snow in darker wavelets, sometimes with eyebrow-markings round their
curves.
Old hard snow, of deep attachment and sound progress, lies in
alternating wave and hollow of different tones of light and
shade, where the sun has been at work on the surface. It is often
dust-speckled, or shows bluish finger-prints.
Granulated snow, in strong light, may show bright or prismatic
reflections from its facets, similar to, but easily distinguishable
from, granular ice prisms.
As confirmation, or correction, of what distant observation may
have revealed about the character of ice or snow surfaces, general
considerations must also be taken into account: the recency of the
snowfall, the subsequent weather, etc. There is also the final test of
touch, which is made on the spot, before any snow slope is traversed.
The change in the condition of the snow, which may be produced by a day
of sun before we can return down the slope, must not be left out of the
calculation. Many slopes whose surface may be adjudged and found safe
for passage in the early morning cannot be trusted by nightfall.
[Sidenote: Angle on Snow.]
It is essential to be able to judge of the inclination of a slope; for
some harmless conditions may become dangerous if the snow is lying
at above a certain angle. New snow, for instance, has been known to
slide at as low an angle as twenty degrees. Hard old snow, melted and
refrozen, may be supported in small patches, and remain reliable, at as
high an angle as sixty degrees.
The power to estimate the angle of a slope by the eye only comes with
practice. Most slopes look precipitous in face. But a mountaineer who
has trained his eye by first going round to see a number of such slopes
in profile, and by then returning to see them in face, has learned what
he must deduct from an apparent angle. He is then qualified to make
a truer estimate of the real angle of slopes which he may be able to
examine in face alone.
Snow cannot lie at anything like the angle at which it often appears to
lie when seen in face. From the presence of snow, in fact, much can be
argued as to the generally mild angle of the mountain face on which it
lies. Except in narrow couloirs, where it is supported by the walls,
snow does not lie permanently above or even up to an angle of fifty
degrees. Most big snow slopes are considerably less. The broader the
face on which it lies, usually the less the real angle of the snow.
The fact that a big snow peak presents a continuous slope of snow
to its summit is evidence that the mean angle of the ascent is not
great, otherwise the even accumulation could not have proceeded. In
prospecting a new mountain, therefore, however tempting its rock face
or ridge may be to a modern climber, its snow side, if it has one, may
be assumed to offer the inclination of easier ascent. And this more
particularly if the snow slopes face towards the south, where the snow
would naturally adhere least to the face.
Interruptions to climbing on such snow faces, whether as steeper slopes
of snow or as ice walls (such as it is well to note beforehand), are
at once apparent from their different shading if the snow slopes are
inspected when the sun is overhead.
The inclination of a hanging slope of snow always appears still more
exaggerated as seen from in front if it lies on the face of what is
mainly a rock peak. We have in such case to discover if the snow is
lying on ice, or only forms a coating to the rock. If it is on ice, the
lower edge of the slopes, where the snow runs out on to the rock, will
generally betray a rim or broken wall of ice. To judge of the quality
of such a snow surface, and of the strength of its attachment to its
ice or rock sub-surface, the slopes below it must be examined, and
snow, stone or water furrows looked for. By the crumpled or the clean
appearance of the edges of the slope itself, where it touches the rock
walls on either side of its descending fan, much can be learned of its
past transmutations and present condition.
Long or short spits of lighter snow, running up against darker snow or
ice, are the retentions of later falls, and are indications of uneven
angles of surface. They betray the presence of bulges or ribs below,
and, besides their promise of easier progress on slopes where the
general surface may be frozen hard or over-steep, they give us by their
contrast a further basis for our estimate of the actual inclination.
The presence, the shape, and the number of cleavages or crevasses in
a slope of ice or snow are a further guide to our estimate. A certain
type of crevasse is only found on slopes lying at an angle of about
forty-five degrees.
We may get additional evidence, in cases of doubt, by waiting for the
sun to throw the shadow of another peak or shoulder upon the slope.
When the sun and the interruption are located, the distortion of the
reflection will allow of an approximate estimate of the angle of the
snow slope.
Faces or ridges of mingled rock and snow, and surfaces interrupted by
the intrusion of any detail, be it only of a shadow or tint, are always
easier for the experienced eye to estimate, in angle and character.
Where we have rock and snow or light and shadow in contrast, practice
in the reading of snow and ice surfaces, and in the rules that govern
their angles of inclination and attachment, and practice in the
interpretation of the details of rock structure, become mutually and
comfortably corrective.
[Sidenote: Snow Cornices.]
Cornices form against the wind, not with it. The contrary is sometimes
stated; but the error is possibly due to the fact that irregularities
in the configuration of a ridge often produce back eddies in a
cross-wind. If the prevailing wind is snow-bearing, and across, a
snow-bearing back swirl may build a small cornice on the sheltered
side of a ridge. Such a small cornice would appear to have been formed
_with_ the prevailing wind: actually it would have grown against its
return eddy. A wind blowing along (not across) a serrated ridge may
similarly produce very small cornices facing _either_ way on the ridge,
and apparently at right angles to the prevailing current, owing to
some tower or curve on one side or the other having created an inward
and upward cross-eddy, and a shelter from the main-current in which
the snow-laden eddy can work. Large cornices facing either way on the
same ridge, and the double cornices, are produced by a shift in a
snow-bearing cross-wind to the directly opposite quarter. If we find
ourselves on a corniced ridge when a strong wind, and especially a
strong wind from a warm quarter or with Föhn in it, is blowing against
the back of big cornices, i.e. from the opposite direction to that from
which the snow-bearing wind was blowing which formed the cornices,
we have to be even more careful, if that be possible, in dealing with
them, as such a wind will loosen their attachment and magnify the
suddenness and the size of their collapse. A cornice will always form
more easily on the summit of a sheer or abrupt wall, which creates
a strong upward eddy in a wind blowing against it, than upon a more
gradual or snow-rounded inclination which offers less resistance to the
current and less ‘catch’ to its snow burden. For this reason, upon a
summit or a ridge which has, as so often is the case, one more gradual
snow side and one rock side inevitably steeper, we must be prepared
to find cornices overhanging the rock face, larger if produced by a
wind-shift, lesser if by a back eddy, even though the prevailing wind
has blown regularly upon the opposite snowy face, and should have
relieved us of the necessity of caution by its failure to develop
cornices on that side.
In general, therefore, the direction of the prevailing wind can give
us no certain guidance as to whether or not to expect the existence of
cornices. If a snow-bearing wind has blown against the visible side of
our ridge or summit, we shall see them. If upon the invisible side, we
must assume their presence until we can disprove it. But a wind-shift
or variable current may always contradict our calculations. A cornice
is very quickly built.
If we have not been following the performances of the prevailing wind,
or if we mistrust its portent in any case, we have to rely upon visual
evidences when we are prospecting the approach to any snow summit
or the traverse of any snow-crowned ridge. In the case of a single
summit it is less trouble to assume the presence of a cornice, until
we fail to find it. In the case of a continuous ridge it may save us
much tribulation to ascertain its condition in this respect before
we start out for a long day upon it. If there are cornices, and they
project _towards_ us, they will at once be recognizable; if _away_, it
is not always easy to make certain, without getting a sight of some
part of the ridge in profile. Their detection at one point of a ridge
will dictate the necessity of precaution along the rest. A telescopic
examination can often discover the thin dark line of junction or
strain, running parallel to the crest in the snow on the near side,
where the projection of a cornice towards the far side starts its
inclination. (In more considerable snow ranges, such as the Andes,
this crack has, I am told, on occasion been proved to be due to a
longitudinal crevasse on the ridge. In the Alps, however, I know of no
case of this having been observed.)
An alternative and rarer indication will be the discovery of a band
of shadow or duller tint, seen in the right light, running along the
snow wall just below some part of the crest. This will be due to a
relative steepening of the snow wall, sometimes even taking the form of
a concavity, where the back of a high, steep cornice, facing towards
the far side, hummocks up off its supporting ridge. The appearance
I believe to be occasioned by a fall or a shift in the prevailing
wind,--a fall permitting the snow to accumulate upon the head of the
cornice and form a sort of bulbous whale-back over it, or a shift of
wind to the near side beginning a projection which may ultimately grow
into a ‘double’ cornice, with the higher of the two facing towards us.
Failing either of these signs, any two projecting points of rock or
snow, near together on the suspected ridge, should be examined. If the
connecting line of snow between them shows sharp and continuous against
the sky, and ascends at its either end in a continuous single curve
to the points selected, the cornice on the far side, if any, will be
slight and local. If, however, the snow rim seems to merge indefinitely
on the skyline, and its curve ascends to the points at either end in
a variable arc of different centres, so that we seem to see, as it
were, round the edge of a fold where the snow-curve hangs to the rock
points, a cornice is indicated. If the breadth of the points or towers
is sufficiently ascertainable to enable us to estimate the average
thickness of the connecting rock ridge hidden below the snow between
them (as it usually is unless the towers are seen absolutely flat in
face), then the look, almost a reflection, in the sky immediately
above the snow curve, and the character of the snow curve where it
wavers over against the sky, will indicate to an expert eye whether the
cornice is large or small.
Where, again, sufficient rock points projecting from a snow ridge are
visible, as we see it in face, to suggest what must be the actual line
of the snow-covered rock connecting them, any wayward sweep away from
us in the visible line of the snow between them is an indication that
the snow rim, where the skyline thus unaccountably retreats from the
eye, is superintending a cornice on the far side.
The presence of a double cornice--the fatal cornices that face two
ways, one built up above the other--is not difficult to establish. A
band of shadow or low light on the near side of a snow crest, below a
band of higher light, means a lower cornice facing towards us under
an upper cornice curving away. A band of markedly higher light, below
a band of shadow or obvious concavity, means an upper cornice facing
towards us above a lower cornice facing away.
For all such observations on snow, which find their opportunity in the
relative positions of light and shadow, it is apparent that a time must
be chosen when the sun shines from the right quarter. Their accuracy
depends upon their being continued over a time sufficient for the sun
to travel past, and so indicate to us dimension, by the change in, or
the disappearance of, the shadows cast.
[Sidenote: Wind and Snow Signs.]
Wind is not ‘seen,’ but its immediate effects upon snow are, more
especially on high ridges, corniced or otherwise. The quality and
quantity of the surface snow on a ridge, which it is important to know
beforehand, can be discovered in times of wind from the amount and
direction of the snow particles, which are seen to be blowing off the
ridge, and appear as a film or puff of vapour upon the sky just above.
The absence of any halo to the ridge, in spite of the manifest action
of wind upon adjacent clouds, is equally valuable evidence of the
stable quality of the snow.
The direction and force of the wind will often suggest the side of the
ridge to which we shall prefer to limit our passage on the morrow. On
the windy side, if the ridge be snow-covered, according to the quarter
and character of the wind, the snow will be crusted or hard, or we may
have to encounter a bare sheet of ice. If it be rock, again according
to the wind, we shall find the holds either cleared or ice glazed in
the morning. On the side sheltered from the wind, on a high exposed
ridge the snow should be just of good quality. But even on such ridges
it may be spongy and cantankerous if the wind has had Föhn in it.
In a bad season, or after a storm of ‘dry’ snow, it is worth while
examining high ridges that have been exposed to the wind, on the chance
that they may not have been closed by snow for the usual three days,
like other peaks. A friend and I owed our own last great climb to
having observed that the Zmutt ridge of the Matterhorn had been blown
black and bravely snow-clear by the same storm that sheeted all the
other ridges and summits of Zermatt in white, untimely mourning.
Apart from the indirect evidences it brings, wind, keen or warm, gusty
or continuous, has its direct bearing upon the comfort, the safety and
even the possibility of our climbing. Of its effects on snow surface,
on rock falls and upon _morale_ I have written elsewhere.
[Sidenote: Ice.]
Ice sheets on snow peaks are located from a distance by their reflected
light; but it is well to memorize or sketch their position and extent
beforehand, especially if we expect to have to cross them upon our
descent, since they will be usually invisible from above. If there is
prospect of our glissading, the exact positions of interruptions, ice
shields, bosses, etc., must be known in advance.
Ice upon rock is apparent, either as a grey-blue, bottle-glass
bordering to the stippling and nestling of old snow, or in the refrozen
festoons of new ice, exquisite and evil, that complete the Gothic
character of granite pinnacles.
Lazy, main glaciers reveal themselves frankly. The solution of their
complexity is the business of ice craft; but distant inspection is
concerned to discover the easiest line of ascent or descent, if the
glacier is to form part of the expedition.
The most difficult hanging glaciers--that is, those with the largest
systems of crevasses--will be as a rule the most steeply inclined.
They will be therefore the easiest to prospect, even in detail, as
seen in face from far off. Very few hanging glaciers descend evenly
or straight. Either side or the centre will be moving the faster, and
receiving the fuller reinforcement. The line of the great crevasses
will slant upward or across, from one side to the other, or from both
sides to the centre. And along the edges where the lines of varying
pace and pressure adjoin and descend in conflict will be found,
if there are no abrupt ice falls due to uneven bedding, the least
interrupted route. Contrary pressures often tend to squeeze up the
ends of successive cross-lines of crevasses, creating a tortuous but
consecutive eddy of passage. Though the crevasses may still exist, as
walls, _séracs_, etc., they will be more compressed and negotiable on
this line. Frequently the cleavages will here survive only as partial
splits, and across and down the edges of the unsevered splinters or
flakes a continuous descent will be possible. But climbers may skirt
round the mazes of glacier causation, if they have but eyes for the
visible surface clues. It is enough for them to note from afar and
remember by marginal marks where the best line of traverse from side
to side, or from side to centre, should be started, in order to keep
or recover the mobile thoroughfare. On large glaciers this is often
very difficult to rediscover once we are on the ice, when our view is
restricted by its irregularities of surface.
Similarly, to enable us to get on or off any glacier, we should note
beforehand the position of convenient side-bays, where the ice runs out
on to the rock in smoother, spent waves.
[Sidenote: Couloirs.]
Even as the passage of couloirs might be considered as belonging to
snow and ice craft or to rock craft, so also their consideration is
transitional to rock reconnoitring.
On large mountains the important thing to know about a couloir
beforehand, if we intend to use it, is whether it is filled with ice or
with snow, and whether it is subject to stone fall.
To information on the first point, the study of the angle of the
couloir is the first help. A steep angle generally implies that the
lining will be ice and not snow.
But as snow, supported by retaining rock, may remain at a very high
angle, we look to see if there are any furrows in the white surface.
If there are furrows and they are in ice, they will show us ice
reflections in sunlight. If there are no ice reflections and they are
therefore in snow, or if they are only ice-backed and therefore in
snow-covered ice, the depth of the furrows will tell us what depth of
snow we may expect upon the ice. If there are no furrows, the edges of
the supposed snow must be inspected for further information. Where the
snow runs out on to the rock at the side in ice webs, the surface tone
will appear of different qualities if it be snow on ice, or if it be
ice throughout.
And after all our examination, we may be agreeably surprised to be able
to ascend on hard snow in the early hours where we had calculated from
the angle that we should be hacking in snow-ice; or as disagreeably
disappointed to find snow of avalanche quality, on a late return or
after warm wind, where we had located snow of the best bearing variety
during a morning inspection.
The base of the couloir should be inspected for traces of previous snow
avalanches, and for the character of its bergschrund. We see if we can
whether the summit of the couloir is commanded by glacier or slope
likely to use it for the discharge of snow or stones. If so, we note
during what hours the presence of sun will increase the risk, and when
shade to diminish it may be looked for.
In a big couloir we mark down islands of rock which, in case we are
detained in the recesses until stone fall time, will provide us with
screens below which to steer our line.
We study the lie of the strata and the containing walls for possible
exits from the couloir. On big peaks the top of a couloir often opens
upon an amphitheatre of slabs, too thinly ice coated for steps. It is
then important to mark down a line for escape in time.
If the base of the couloir selected can be seen, the presence there
of fallen stones is evidence that they have fallen; but their absence
there is not conclusive that they have not. They may have been
swallowed by the bergschrund, disappeared into some crevasse, or lodged
in soft concealing snow. For this end we must examine the edges of the
schrund and of any cleavages for traces, and the surface of the lower
snow for pockling. If there are channels worn in the snow or ice at
the base or back of the couloir, we shall get further evidence that
something is accustomed to fall. These channels may have been made
by stones, by ice trash or by water. In sunshine the difference is
distinguishable. If the runnels are ‘silver-backed’ in sunlight, and
there are no stones apparent, they have been made by water and are
harmless.
If the couloir to be visited descends on to a visible glacier, but is
itself invisible, the presence, absence or scarcity of fallen stones
discoverable at the bottom end of the glacier, subject always to the
possibility of the consumption by rift or crevasse, will demonstrate
the couloir, or couloirs, commanding the visible glacier to be
proportionately infected with, free from, or only in some cases liable
to, the falling sickness.
[Sidenote: Rock.]
In prospecting rock routes we have more to help us; for rock, unlike
snow, does not change its skin, and when it hides itself, under ice or
snow or water or glaze, the change from the black Ethiopian is obvious
and calculable. We have also preliminary information, if not in books
yet in the outlines of the mountains themselves, as to what is the
character of the particular rock before us. Every climber, if he can
assume the presence of limestone or granite or dolomite, sandstone,
trap, chalk, or a few other of the elementary and lay classifications,
has a clear picture in his own mind of the kind of climbing and of rock
holds that he may expect.
[Sidenote: Faces.]
The slopes of the hills will tell him in general; good glasses will
tell him more of his particular route or of local modifications in
the characteristics:--such as how the rock is weathering; in which
direction the strata are dipping; and what is the fashion of the
jointing. Putting this information and his knowledge of the type of
rock together, he will know upon which side to attack his peak.
For instance, if the strata dip through the peak, the aspect of the
mountain upon which the upper ends of the strata emerge will give him
holds sloped upwards to his advantage. This side, with its _retroussé_
ledges, will also hold fresh snow longest after a fall, and at such a
time afford him a further chance of locating the lie of traverse and
shelf. If the main cleavages, again, are vertical, he will select the
most weathered face, where the jointing will give him platform and
shelf. If they are in the main horizontal, he has to seek the side that
presents the most sequent line of weathering rifts or fractures, in
order to connect up the natural horizontal ledges.
Just as a sunny day is of most help in prospecting an unknown snow
climb, so is the day after a snowfall invaluable for the examination of
rock routes. I owe several fine new rock climbs to snowfalls. Not only
does the lodging snow indicate particular ledges and their intervals
in detail, but it discovers to the eye general connecting lines of
traverse or slope, which may be too interrupted or too foreshortened to
be perceptible upon a distant inspection of the bare and broken rock
face. Under snow the main lines of rock structure leap into sight.
By a convenient law of rock formation, the little apes the great. Thus,
if we can discover the general inclination of traverses across a face,
however large in scale, broken or interrupted their lines may be, it
is safe to assume that the small details which make up these lines,
the ledges, etc., will be reproducing the same fashion of structure
in little. Where there are big terraces, there will be small ledges
copying their form and direction. If there are big visible gaps, giant
slabs, or terraces interrupted and continuing at a higher level as a
result of uneven upheaval, in the same or similar places, although too
small to be visible, the climber has to look out for exposed passages
on slabs, or he will have to search for cracks to connect up his
interrupted ledges.
It is all but impossible to inspect a distant climb with sufficient
minuteness to be absolutely certain that a fifteen-foot wall or a
broken ledge may not stop all progress at some point. Very rarely we
can say, “It is impossible;” occasionally we can say, “It will go for
certain;” but generally we have to leave some portion to the ‘round the
corner’ chance. In such case we can reason with advantage from the big
to the small, interpreting the main features of a face or ridge into
terms of detail suitable for our lesser needs, and justifying it by our
experience of similar rock.
Fortunately, rocks generally prove us right. They seldom cheat us, by
a petty exception, of the fruits of general conclusions which we have
based upon observation of their principal tendencies. On the contrary,
we are constantly helped by kindly accidents and flaws, where we might
expect no mercy. The Grépon traverse is a delightful instance of
unreasonable progress just made possible by a series of, apparently,
gorgeous accidents. The flukes are so brilliant and so timely that
the layman cheerfully assumes them to be a rule in attacking similar
Aiguilles; and he is rarely disappointed. When the expected and the
unexpected alike fail us, on such rock we can still count upon a kindly
roughness of surface and upon homely methods of friction to join up
connections which structure and luck would have, for once, denied to us.
In reconnoitring all rock faces, especially for new routes, we are
alert about the matter of falling stones. On boldly sculptured faces
the edges of the ribs will be the safest line. On faces of shallow
relief or much interrupted modelling, we may assume that nothing but
the angle or our fortune will secure us against cross-fire. We used
to be told that we should avoid stones by selecting aspects where the
up-lie of strata emerged in sky-ward and stone-catching ledges. But
personally, I have been seldom so badly bombarded as upon the Zermatt
face of the Matterhorn, where every schoolboy knows what happens to the
strata. If the rock is known to be good rock, or if we can design a
route which by reason of its angle or its salience on the face should
be safe, we may chance a few exposed connecting links. But if the rock
is notoriously bad, or the disconnections in the safe route look to be
numerous, and this especially if they occur high up where the sun will
have had long time to act before we reach them, we must not risk the
attempt. Years ago our party turned back from completing the ascent
of the Furggen ridge of the Matterhorn on the ground of risk from
stone fall. Later it was climbed; and the story of the success might
be read as a commentary on the mountaineering value of the virtue of
renunciation.
[Sidenote: Ridges.]
The same reasoning from the big to the little helps us in prospecting
ridge climbs. If the succeeding edges, towers and large interruptions
on a great ridge show a disposition towards maintaining a steady family
connection, each with its neighbour, in spite of their bold skyline
accidentation--(I cannot put this more intelligibly, but any student of
natural outline will know what is meant)--then there is every reason to
hope that the ‘cuts-off’ between them will also prove more relenting
than they look. In their smaller detail the same indulgences, of ledge
and flake and fluke in favour of the climber, will manifest themselves.
A ridge seen end-on is very deceptive. If it rises steeply, it may
appear to be a continuous incline, whereas it consists really of
separated, ascending ‘steps.’ If a side view is not obtainable, the
look of the walls falling on either side from the ridge crest must be
our guide. The depth, extent and number of depressions indicated in
these side walls, seen in profile, will tell us that there are couloirs
below, and therefore probably syncopations in the seemingly continuous
crest-line above.
The projection of bulges or articulated ribs on either side wall may,
similarly, be identified as the edges or supporting buttresses of
isolated towers, whose depth of separation from each other is concealed
from us in the foreshortening of the ridge.
Towers on a ridge, seen in flat from one side, are equally misleading.
They are more often the ends of short ridges which run crosswise to
the line of the main ridge than the needles which they appear to the
eye. An inspection of the general lie of the strata will often tell us
whether we may assume this to be the case.
If we can get both an end-on view and some oblique view of the ridge,
or of any tower upon it, we can reason fairly closely what the two
unseen sides of any spire will be like, and even whether they can
be expected to offer traverses conveniently sloping, or weathered
surfaces, such as the dip of the strata and the jointing deny to us
upon the visible sides.
Allowance must always be made for the deceptive outlines that are
introduced by foreshortening. A view from some second point is often
necessary to counteract their false impression.
In prospecting a ridge for purpose of traverse in the early morning,
it is well also to note which side gets the sun soonest and keeps it
longest. On this side we shall find the holds most clear of snow or
morning glazing, and be able to escape the chill to the muscles of
shadow on cold rock. The rock on this side also will, for the same
reason, be probably the more superficially disintegrated, and so offer
a greater choice of holds, though not necessarily holds of such good
quality.
[Sidenote: Slabs.]
In reconnoitring slabs, on faces or on the side walls of ridges, we
find that their apparent angle as seen in face is as misleading as that
of snow slopes. In their case we have not the presumptive knowledge
that they cannot be as steep as they seem, since rock may be as
perpendicular as it looks. Nor have we the subtle variations in light
and shadow which help us, on snow, to correct the eye. Rock faces are
so broken that it is seldom possible to get the assistance of sun
shadows in estimating the angle of portions of their surface.
On the other hand, acquaintance with the characteristics of the
particular type of rock, and the visible general inclination of
its strata, give us a groundwork for a preliminary estimate of its
slabiferous sections.
New snow can again come to our assistance. Snow will reveal to us an
easy angle by lying over our slabs as an even cloak; or it may display
a vertical section by missing it altogether. It will also indicate the
surface in some detail, by the fashion of its distribution on ledge or
pocket.
Otherwise we must try to secure a side view of bare slabs, or at least
a second, oblique view. If this is not to be managed, it is of use to
inspect any near and more approachable slab of similar formation. By
an examination of the profile of a ‘sample’ slab we are often able to
revise our estimate of the angle and potential holds of its bigger,
remoter neighbours.
But on rock the final judgment of doubtful passages must be left in the
end to the practical test of attempt. The only infallible criterion is
its tactile value. When we have reduced the ‘impossible’ sections of
a route to a few isolated passages, it is always worth while going to
see. The accidents of rock, its roughness, its whimsicality and its
reticences are nearly always in the end in our favour. If we can only
make sure that the rock is sound, and fix a general line of ascent, the
overcoming of the ‘impossibles’ or the ‘improbables’ in detail can well
be left to the moment. If we could map out a whole climb before we did
it, much of the pleasure would be lost.
To the resources of rock technique no rock that is sound, and not
obviously absurd, is impossible, either by attack or turning movement.
And we may assume this to be so until we have ascertained by ‘rubbing
our noses against it’ that we have lighted on the rare and unhappy
exception.
[Sidenote: Rocks in Britain.]
In prospecting rock climbs in our own country, reconnoitring is
practically confined to scrutinizing familiar faces for alternative
routes or to orienting our own climbing in an unfamiliar district.
The first is a simple matter of good glasses, good sense and direct
assault. In the second, there is still some room for general discretion.
We have to allow for a great difference in atmosphere as between
Britain and the Alps. All alpine measures have to be reduced by about
two-thirds.
We can generally assume that the north or northward inclined aspects of
British hills will give us the best climbing. This judgment is subject
to partial revision, according as we come to know better the local
characteristics or the rock formation of the particular hill before us.
If the rock wall faces to the south, our prospect of good continuous
climbing is reduced. Rocks facing south will be more disintegrated,
as they will have been less protected from the sun and more subject
to strong variations in temperature. If broken up or inclined on this
side, they will be covered with verdure, which is offensive in itself
and hastens the action of water on all the rocks it commands.
We have also to make sure of the lie of the strata, not only for
convenience of hold, but also because on the side towards which the
stratification dips the moisture fallen on the mountain will drain, and
we shall have to look out for our principal enemies--wet rock, rock
corrupted by moisture, and, in winter, an icing or glaze.
Our islands provide us with a great variety of rock structure and hill
forms, and, according as we get to know the aspects of one hill of any
local type, it is interesting to reconstruct the unseen aspects of its
neighbours. Several good climbing cliffs were first found in this way.
The look of the outline will suggest the sort of climbing we shall find
on the faces. We get further information from the nature and size of
any scree slopes below a cliff. The presence or absence of verdure, and
the sight of the belts, knots and surface _minutiæ_, tell us the rest.
All the local rock of the same aspect and in the same structural line
will be similar, and may be bad; but if we can get at another aspect of
it, on an opposite hillside, it may be of good holding character. For
which reason rickety ridgelets may be faced across the valley by sober
and admirable slabs.
Mist and cloud in Britain are our frequent companions. Mist may do us
good service by throwing an unsuspected ridge or pinnacle into relief.
But as a rule the alterations which cloud and fog effect in mountain
details falsify rather than reveal. Their use is to place a greater
value upon the fidelity with which previous reconnoitring has been
conducted, and its result remembered, if we wish, in mist, to arrive
at an intended climb at all, or to make descent into the right valley
on our return. Not impossibly they are sent by nature to complicate
what is otherwise the over-easy mountaineering training of our hills;
to handicap the specializing gymnast, and to enforce the practices of
observing detail, using the compass and map, and exercising judgment,
memory, and the precious sense of direction.
THE HALF-SEEN
In the Alps or unfamiliar regions, to discover the truth about what
may be termed the half-seen,--that is, about formation or detail
which should be visible but for foreshortening, distance, angle or
light,--new snow is again our best auxiliary. Its presence suggests,
even emphasizes, much that is unsuspected. Seemingly straight ridges
are shown to be crooked, and plain faces rough. It helps us with light
in hidden corners, and annihilates distance.
Otherwise we have to use days of driving cloud, or wait for the morning
or evening moments of thin mist, when the drift lies across the face or
through the ridge, and picks out its angles, features and perspective.
Mists will often reveal the existence of ridges and pinnacles, whose
separation from the face behind is undiscoverable as seen in front or
in clear light.
Of more frequent service are the hours when the sunlight falls across
the face from the side, and the protuberances and hollows jump into
stereoscopic clearness in shadow and the modifications of light.
Invisible snow depressions, bosses and foreshortened angles of rock
slab or ledge are cheerfully betrayed by the veracity of cross-shadows;
and points and lines of obstinate sunlight, which remain salient and
surprising after the sun has deserted all the rest of the seemingly
even surface of snow or rock, proclaim to us unexpected inequalities
and therefore possibilities of passage.
In cases of outside difficulty upon rock, where we are reconnoitring
some great rock wall, of a granite or dolomitic type, we can generally
make sure of the vertical rifts and clefts from below; but the presence
or size of transverse fractures or belts is hidden from us. In this
case assurance as to what has been only half-seen can be completed if
a downward view of the rock, or of its local type, is also obtainable.
The information is best secured from the summit of the peak itself,
reached by another route, and many great first ascents have owed their
discovery and safe accomplishment to such complementary inspection.
Only a short section need be in sight from above in order to indicate
the general character of the cross belts, and the last section on such
peaks is always the more important to examine, as it will generally be
the severest in its details. But even without this local visitation a
downward or oblique view of any section of the face, or of an allied or
neighbouring wall of similar structure, will give adequate information,
and convert the half-seen into the two-thirds made certain.
A familiar instance of the use of such inspection would be almost any
great Welsh cliff or Irish sea cliff. Seen from below, it appears to
be continuous steep slabs, with only vertical cracks for the climber;
seen from above, it looks a jumble of vague cross-terraces of grass,
snow or rock, hardly offering a chance of good articulated climbs. Both
estimates would be false. Only by collating the two points of view can
a fair judgment of the character of the climbing be formed. A number
of delightful climbs, of late discovery, have owed their neglect to
the fact that they were only easily visible from a single aspect, and
that this produced an abiding false estimate of their quality. The
importance of securing corrective views, from different angles, be
it only of a section of a proposed route, or of a passage of similar
character more conveniently situated, attaches also to our inspection
of the half-seen on big ridges. With points to remember in such
inspection I have already dealt.
It does, in fact, belong not a little to the reasoning from the seen
to the unseen; to which more metaphysical division of reconnoitring it
leads over.
THE UNSEEN
The investigation of the unseen is a chief concern of mountaineers in
new regions. But it can also be of service to the expert, in examining
even a peak he knows well, to ascertain for him the condition of its
invisible side on a particular day.
As I have said before, it is possible only to indicate _where_ signs
may be sought, and what _relative_ differences the expert eye may
discover and convert into information.
The mountaineer, after inspection of the near side of a ridge or summit
in a big range, wishes to supplement this knowledge by the discovery
of the character or general formation of the unseen side. He wishes to
know whether it will give him snow of easier progress, or a subordinate
ridge for better assault or descent; also whether he can look for clear
rock on the far side, to assist his ascent of a ridge unfavourable in
its visible aspects, or whether he must be prepared for ice slopes.
The first conditions for the inspection are experience, good glasses,
clear sunlight and no recent snowfall. Also, if he wishes to confirm or
increase the detail of his observations, he must be prepared to spend a
whole day of good light, with the sun aiding him from different points
in the sky.
As he looks over and across his high ridges from some distant
view-point, in good sunlight, the mountaineer is able to distinguish
several different kinds of sky, according to the different character of
the unseen surfaces from which the sunlight is being reflected upward
on to clear atmosphere or on to low clouds.
_The Snow Sky._--This he will find has a distinguishable tint,
identifiable by the practised eye, as different on a given day from
the normal coloration of the sky above as is the light reflected
from different qualities of steel, or from silver as compared with
electroplate.
If the sky seen over his ridge is purely a snow sky, of uniform
appearance, it is just to assume that the unseen side of the ridge
consists of large snow slopes, and rises at a comparatively gentle
angle, since we know already that upon broad surfaces, at a steep
angle, snow can only rest while it remains new and adhesive.
If, again, the sky above is purely a snow sky, but is traversed by a
band of slightly modified quality or tone, leading away from the eye,
there will exist on the far side a correspondingly inclined great snow
ridge, from one side of which the sun, in a given position, will be
reflecting high light, but from the other, lower. By repeating the
observation at different times of day, so that the light will have
fallen and been reflected from different directions, we can confirm the
existence of such a ridge, and may be able to locate its position and
determine its magnitude with some accuracy.
A second and characteristic appearance is visible on the sky above the
unseen side, if this far side consists of two large snow fields divided
by a long rocky ridge extending away from us. We then have a snow sky
divided by a band of sky which is not catching any reflected higher
light, and which we may assume to be a ‘rock’ sky.
_The Rock Sky._--If the whole expanse of the sky above is seen to have
a uniform and normal tone with no local alterations, such as would be
produced by partial snow reflection, then the unseen side will consist
of a large wall of rock--probably, in such case, steep rock.
Under favourable conditions, a very practised observer may detect in a
uniform rock sky a band of slightly modified tone going away from the
eye on the far side. This will be produced by another great rock ridge
extending in the corresponding direction. By watching the sky above
this ridge, and observing the differences produced by the reflections
of light at different hours from its different aspects, we may even be
able to discover to our satisfaction whether the invisible ridge is all
rock or has one side covered with snow.
_The Ice Sky._--Dry glacier or large fields of ice betray themselves
upon the sky in a slightly greyer tinge, distinguishable more by
contrast than by an absolute tone from a snow sky under the same
conditions.
There is also a ‘water’ sky--the unmistakable look in a sky which is
reflecting great unseen sheets of water; but its identification is more
familiar and of more service to arctic or desert travellers than to
mountaineers.
Apart from these larger sky signs there are some more local indications
that are of particular value to the climber. The appearance of the sky
as seen across the ridge will in most cases give us evidence of a mixed
character--that the unseen side is partly rock, partly snow. It is thus
essential to know, if we propose to use the ridge we are prospecting
for our ascent, whether the rock just over or on the ridge is bare or
ice glazed, and whether the snow discovered on the far side rises up
to the edge of the ridge or leaves a crest of clear rock.
If there are bare rocks close up to the edge on the unseen side, these
will be at certain hours heated by the sun, and a hot current of air
will be ascending. The skyline above will have a wavering appearance,
showing a band of darker tint between the ridge and the normal sky.
If there is snow close up on the far side, the air will not be
disturbed, and the skyline will be steady and clean.
If the rocks beyond are free from snow but glazed with ice, the skyline
will remain undisturbed, but it will have a brilliant glistening
appearance in strong sunlight, like a strip of polished blue steel.
This last indication, if the eye can learn its significance, may often
be of service on climbs where the unseen mountain structure is already
known, but when there is uncertainty as to the actual condition of the
rocks on the day. Many fruitless ascents might have been saved if the
ice glazing on such unseen sections of a ridge could have been detected
in time.
Some of these appearances may even be recognized in photographs, if
they have been taken under the right conditions and left untouched. By
watching a given section of ridge, while the sun is moving across the
sky, all a sunny day, and by using a map at first to discover what the
different sky signs as they become visible actually mean, and also how
much they reveal of the unseen topography as displayed in the map, it
is possible for some men to train their sight to discriminate fairly
closely between a number of even more complex signs, and to ascertain
actual details as to the character and direction of unseen walls and
crests, the location of unseen snow summits, and the length of far
ridges.
The process, in practical application, is of course throughout
assisted, corrected, and its lines of observation suggested by the
nearer features which the expert reconnoitrer already has in sight.
For an observer who knows the forms usual in the type of mountain
before him, and who has the local features, on the side visible to
him, to indicate still more closely what he may look out for, the
interpretation of the meaning of sky signs presents fewer alternatives,
and the conclusions drawn from them can be far more detailed than would
seem possible were his reasoning about the unseen based only upon one
group of evidences.
Final success in reconnoitring depends upon our ability to put
together, in order of their relative importance, all our assembly of
large and small evidences. Experience is able to deduce the small from
the large and to reconstruct the large from the small; and confirmation
of the truth of our deductions, from the seen or the unseen, comes when
two such lines of evidence meet: when the detail which we discover in
a single quarter confirms the speculations that we have based upon our
experience or on our interpretation of larger evidences, or when our
induction from a number of small visible indications is proved correct
by some revelation in a greater sky sign.
For a mountaineer who has to convert his observation of distant objects
and signs, of a size altogether incommensurate with his own, into terms
of a possible advance for his eight-foot reach or four-foot stride,
no evidence is too big or too small;--and this especially because the
big, in mountains, repeats itself in the small with timely consistency.
A good mountaineer might almost claim to be able to construe a single
favourable sky sign, under certain conditions, into the assurance
of his atom-like advance up the infinite invisible detail of an
unpromising-looking mountain giant.
Sunny days, patience and good glasses are first conditions for his
task. The same glasses should always be used. A type should be selected
that gives enhanced stereoscopic effect. Above all, the sight of the
eyes must be equal, or corrective glasses should be worn. Many men
never discover even what they ought to be able to see, until they
learn that their eyesight is, if only slightly, astigmatic, and use
spectacles for their reconnoitring.
Reconnoitring is not merely the preparation for a single day or for a
particular climb. A mountaineer has to learn to see and to record all
day and every day, not only distant signs for future use, but each and
every detail of his surroundings. The detail may be forgotten, but
its accumulation will gradually form in his mind a mass of general
precedents and of knowledge of the characteristics of particular
shapes and structures. This will remain with him, and will return
instinctively to aid his judgment when some cognate detail presents
itself to be interpreted as a piece of solitary evidence. As a last
personal illustration, I may recall that one of the pleasantest new
ascents in my recollection was the outcome of a simple reasoning from
a detail in the seen to the memory of the unseen: the sight of a layer
of excellent snow, covering for the time the usually bare slabs of one
wall of a peak from which we were descending, revived the recollection
that on a famous peak in another valley was a similar wall of identical
aspect and character, as yet unascended on account of its normal
impracticability. Without further examination we made the attempt upon
it, and the speculation was confirmed in the cheeriest manner.
If care so constant that it dominates alike the exhaustion of failure
and the more dangerous enervation of triumph is essential for our safe
climbing, observation so continuous that it becomes unconscious is as
necessary for our fortunate designing. Its habit may profit us by more
even than by momentary success. For a mountaineer may read a sky sign
only for the promise that it brings him of the morrow’s exercise; but
he has learned to see it, and with the power of sight he has opened a
new world of pleasure. It was the first scientific student of the form
and reflection of clouds, of the structure and relation of hills, who
was the first understanding prophet of their significance for art and
imagination. The more we can learn to see or to reconstruct of the
mountain forms visible or invisible about us as we climb, the more
vividly will memory interpret their meaning for our lives when we are
no longer among them. If we are of a mood to use both sight and its
interpretation as servants of our spirit as much as of our performance,
we may discover a reflection from the mountains that will permanently
colour our thought. There is a reassurance no less for our journey
through the years than for our march of a day in the perception that
oncoming shadow, by its very quality of darker relief, can reveal to us
some unsuspected and relenting aspect in the daunting precipice across
our path; and a twofold message, for our mind even more than for our
mountaineering, in “the light of the unseen snow-field, lying level
behind the visible peaks, sent up with strange reflections upon the
clouds; an everlasting light of calm aurora in the north.”