THE FUTURE OF MOUNTAINEERING
Mountaineers and their critics—The early days of the Alpine
Club—The founders of mountaineering—The growth of the
amusement—Novelty and exploration—The formation of
centres—Narrowing of the field of mountaineering—The upward limit
of mountaineering—De Saussure’s experience—Modern development of
climbing—Mr. Whymper’s experience—Mr. Graham’s experience—The
ascent of great heights—Mr. Grove’s views—Messrs. Coxwell and
Glaisher’s balloon experiences—Reasons for dissenting from Mr.
Glaisher’s views—The possibility of ascending Mount
Everest—Physiological aspect of the question—Acclimatisation to
great heights—The direction in which mountaineering should be
developed—The results that may be obtained—Chamouni a century
hence—A Rip van Winkle in the Pennine Alps—The dangers of
mountaineering—Conclusion.
(M138)
From time to time, when some accident has happened in the Alps, the press
and the public have been pleased to take such unfortunate occurrence as a
text, and to preach serious sermons to mountaineers. We have been called
hard names in our time; we have been accused of fostering an amusement of
no earthly-practical good, and one which has led to “miserable” waste of
valuable life. Gentle expressions of animadversion, such as “criminal
folly,” “reckless venture, which has no better purpose than the
gratification of a caprice or the indulgence of a small ambition,” “a
subject of humiliating interest,” and the like, have at times been freely
used. But it is well known to authors and to dramatists that criticisms of
a nature known as “smashing” are not, on the whole, always to be deplored,
and are occasionally the best to enhance the success of the work. The
novel or play, however unreservedly condemned by the reviewer, has got
some chance of living if it be hinted that some of the situations in it
are a little _risquées_; and to a great many the idea seems constantly
present that mountaineering owes its principal attraction to the element
of risk inseparable from its pursuit. As an absolute matter of fact such
is not the case. Apart from this, however, mountaineers may be thankful
that the critics in question have, when they noticed our doings at all,
condemned us very heartily indeed, and thundered forth their own
strictures on our folly in sonorous terms; in fact, attacks of this nature
have by no means impaired the vitality of such associations as Alpine
clubs, but rather, like attacks of distemper in dogs, have increased their
value.
It would be easy enough, from the mountaineer’s point of view, and in a
work which, at the best, can interest only those who have some sympathy
with climbing as a pure pastime, to pass over these hard words, and to
reckon them as merely the vapourings of envious mortals not initiated into
the mysteries of the mountaineering craft; but such criticisms may lead or
perhaps reflect public opinion, and are not, therefore, to be treated
lightly. It might be held that for any notice to be taken at all is
complimentary, and we might seek shelter in the epigrammatic saying that
he who has no enemies has no character; that though hope may spring
eternal in the human breast, jealousy is a trait still more constantly
found. But this line of argument is not one to be adopted. The _tu quoque_
style of defence is not one well calculated to gain a verdict. No doubt
the question has been treated often enough before, and in discussing it
the writer may seem but to be doing what nowadays the climber is forced to
do in the Alps—namely, wander again, perhaps ramble, over ground that has
been well trodden many times before. But the conditions have changed
greatly since mountaineering first became a popular pastime, and since the
first editions of “Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers” were rapidly sold out. It
is, the writer fears, only too true in these latter days that mountaineers
may be classified as Past and Present. Whether a third class may be added
of “the Future” is a question—to be answered, I hope, in the affirmative.
(M139)
The Alpine Club was founded in 1857 by a few ardent devotees to what was
then an entirely new form of pastime. The original members of that club
could never have even dreamed of the wide popularity mountaineering was
destined to acquire, or the influence that the establishment of the Alpine
Club was to have on it; and, like the fish in an aquarium, they can hardly
have known what they were in for. In the present day there are Alpine
clubs in almost every country in Europe, and in some countries there are
several, numbering their members in some cases by thousands. Nor is it
only on the continent of Europe that there are mountaineering clubs. Not
that the writer ventures to assert that every member of this multitude is
devoted to the high Alps, or that it is in the least degree essential to
climb high and difficult mountains in order to learn the fascination of
their natural beauties. It may be pointed out, however, that the
“miserable waste of valuable life” is in the greatest part not on the
great peaks and passes, but on little hills. Every year we read of
accidents on mountains such as the Faulhorn, the Monte Salvatore in the
Alps, or Snowdon, Helvellyn and the like in our own country. Possibly
these disasters might never have taken place had the experience of
mountaineering craft gained in high regions been properly appreciated and
utilised. The good surgeon is he who, utilising all his own and all his
predecessors’ experience, recognises, and makes provision against, all the
risks that may conceivably be involved in the most trifling operation he
may be called upon to perform; and holiday ramblers in our own land and in
sub-Alpine regions might, not without advantage, profit by the example.
(M140)
Five-and-twenty years ago in Switzerland there were numberless heights
untrodden, passes uncrossed, and regions unexplored. Then, moreover, there
were comparatively but few to cross the passes or climb the mountains; but
those few did mighty deeds. Peak after peak fell before them, while slowly
but surely they opened up new regions and brought unexpected beauties to
light. In those days climbing as an art was but in its infancy, restricted
to a few amateurs specially qualified to pursue it, and to a very limited
number of guides—merely those, in fact (not such a numerous class as
people seem generally to imagine), who had made chamois-hunting one of the
principal objects of their lives. Gradually the art became more developed,
and with the increase of power thus acquired came increase of confidence.
From the fact that the training in the mountaineering art was gradual, it
was necessarily thorough—a fact that a good many climbers would do well to
bear in mind in these latter days. Then, of course, the charm of novelty,
so dear to the mountaineer, was seldom absent; he could strike out right
or left and find virgin soil; but in quest of novelty search had to be
made before long in remote regions. It followed that exploration was not
limited, and the early pioneers of mountaineering could, and did learn
more of the geography and varied beauties of the Alps in a single season
than their followers do, in the present day, in five or six.
After a while the fashion of mountaineering altered sensibly, and a strong
conservatism sprang up. Certain districts became more and more frequented;
certain peaks acquired special popularity, either because they were
conveniently placed and ready of access; or because there was a certain
touch of romance about them, as in the case of the Matterhorn; or because
they had acquired the reputation of being difficult, and it was thought
that a successful ascent would stamp the climber at once as a skilful
person and a very daring creature. Thus places like Zermatt, Grindelwald,
Chamouni, and the Æggischhorn became the great centres of mountaineering,
and have remained so ever since. Independent exploration gradually gave
way to the charm of meeting others bent on the same pursuit of climbing;
but this feeling was not without its drawbacks, and tended to check what
has been called cosmopolitanism in mountaineering. How few, even among
those who visit the Alps regularly, know anything whatever of such large,
important, and interesting districts as the Silvretta group, the Rheinwald
group, or the Lepontine Alps! while districts like Zermatt are thronged
and crowded, and the mountains absolutely done to death. Not that it is
hard to understand how this narrowing of the field of mountaineering has
been brought about. There comes a time of life to most men when they find
more pleasure in meeting old friends than in making new acquaintances; and
the same feeling would appear to extend to the mountains.
It must be confessed here that the writer is disposed to look upon
mountaineering in the Alps, in the sense in which it has hitherto been
known, as a pastime that will before long become extinct. In some soils
trees grow with extraordinary rapidity and vigour, but do not strike their
roots very deep, and so are prone to early decay. Still, it does not
follow that, even should these pessimist forebodings prove true, and
climbing be relegated to the limbo of archaic pursuits, the Alps will not
attract their thousands as they have done for many years. The dearth of
novelty is sometimes held to be the principal cause that will eventually
lead to the decay of mountaineering. There is a reasonable probability,
however, to judge from the Registrar-General’s reports, that the world
will still be peopled some time hence, and possibly a generation will then
arise of mountaineering revivalists who, never having tasted the flavour
of novelty in Alpine climbing, will not perceive that its absence is any
loss. Yet in the Alps alone many seem to forget that, while they are
exhausting in every detail a few spots, there are numerous and varied
expeditions of similar nature still to be accomplished, the scenes of
which lie within a few hours of London. It is of course only to
mountaineering as a semi-fashionable craze that these remarks apply. The
knowledge of the art, acquired primarily in the Alps, which has led to the
development of mountaineering as a science will not be wasted, and the
training acquired in holiday expeditions, when amusement or the regaining
of health was the principal object, can be turned to valuable practical
account elsewhere. So shall there be a future for mountaineering. No doubt
but few may be able to find the opportunity, unless indeed they make it
somewhat of a profession, of exploring the great mountainous districts
still almost untouched—such, for instance, as the Himalayas. But it is in
some such direction as this that the force of the stream, somewhat tending
to dry up in its original channel, will, it may be hoped, spread in the
future.
(M141)
It has already been shown, by the results of many modern expeditions, that
the old views that obtained with respect to the upward limit of
mountaineering must, to say the least, be considerably modified. From
early times the question of the effects of rarefied air in high regions on
mountaineers has attracted attention. As a matter of fact the subject is
still barely in its infancy. A few remarks on this point may not perhaps
be thought too technical, for they bear, I hope, on the mountaineering of
the future.
It is matter of notoriety that in these days travellers seem less subject
to discomfort in the high Alps than in former times. De Saussure, for
instance, in the account of his famous ascent of Mont Blanc in 1787,
speaks a good deal of the difficulty of respiration. At his bivouac on the
Plateau, at an elevation of 13,300 feet, the effects of the rarefied air
were much commented on; and these remarks are the more valuable, inasmuch
as De Saussure was a man of science and a most acute observer; while his
account, a thing too rare in these days, is characterised by extreme
modesty of description. The frequency of the respirations, he observed,
which ensued on any exertion caused great fatigue. Nowadays, however,
pedestrians, often untrained, may be seen daily ascending at a very much
faster pace than De Saussure seems to have gone, and yet the effects are
scarcely felt. No one now expects much to suffer from this cause, and no
one does. In recent times we hear accounts of ascents of mountains like
Elbruz, 18,526 feet, by Mr. Grove and others; of Cotopaxi, 19,735 feet,
and Chimborazo, 20,517(7) feet, by Mr. Whymper; and the most recent, and
by far the most remarkable, of Kabru in the Himalayas, about 24,000 feet,
by Mr. Graham. In all these expeditions the travellers spent nights in
bivouacs far above the level of the Grand Plateau where De Saussure
encamped. We cannot suppose that in the Caucasus, the Andes, or the
Himalayas the air differs much from that of the Alps with regard to its
rarefaction effects on travellers. In fact, the Alpine traveller would in
this respect probably be much better off, for the general conditions
surrounding him would be more like those to which he was accustomed. He
would not have, for instance, to contend with the effects of changed or
meagre diet or unaccustomed climate.
(M142)
Mr. F. C. Grove, a very high authority on such a point, in his description
of the ascent of Elbruz, in the course of some remarks on the rarity of
the air, states his belief that at some height or another, less than that
of the loftiest mountain, there must be a limit at which no amount of
training and good condition will enable a man to live; and he says, “It
may be taken for granted that no human being could walk to the top of
Mount Everest.”(8) This was written in 1875; but a great deal has happened
since then, though the same opinion is still very generally entertained.
But with this opinion I cannot coincide at all, for reasons that appear to
me logically conclusive. In the first place, a party of three, composed of
Mr. Graham, Herr Emil Boss, and the Swiss guide Kauffman, have ascended
more than 5,000 feet higher than the top of Elbruz, and none of the party
experienced any serious effect, or, indeed, apparently any effect at all
other than those naturally incidental to severe exertion. It must be
admitted that one result of their expedition was to prove, tolerably
conclusively, that Mount Everest is not the highest mountain in the world.
Still, until it is officially deposed, it may be taken, for argument’s
sake, as the ultimate point. Now, it would seem to be beyond doubt that a
man, being transported to a height much greater than Mount Everest, can
still live. In Messrs. Coxwell and Glaisher’s famous balloon ascent from
Wolverhampton on September 5, 1862, described in “Travels in the Air,” it
was computed that the travellers reached a height of nearly 37,000
feet,(9) and this in less than an hour from the time of leaving the earth.
Deduct 5,000 feet from this computation, to allow for possible error, and
we still have a height left of 32,000 feet, an elevation, that is, very
considerably greater than the summit of Mount Everest—possibly a greater
elevation than the summit of any mountain. Life then, it is proved, can be
sustained at such a height, and the point that remains for consideration
is whether the necessary exertion of walking or climbing to the same
height would render the actual ascent impossible.
(M143)
Since the days of De Saussure some 8,000 feet have been added to the
height to which the possibility of ascending has been proved. It seems to
me unreasonable to assume that another 5,000 feet may not yet be added,
and arbitrary to conclude that at some point higher than Kabru but lower
than Mount Everest the limit of human endurance must necessarily be
reached. Mr. Glaisher himself does not appear to think that, from his
experience, any such ascent as that we have been considering would be
possible for an Alpine traveller (_op. cit._ p. 21 and elsewhere). But,
with every deference to so great an authority, a few considerations may be
submitted which tend most seriously to invalidate his conclusions and
opinions, and which may serve to show also that the effects of rarefied
air probably differ more widely in the two cases of the aëronaut and the
mountaineer than is generally supposed. Writing in 1871, Mr. Glaisher
says,(10) “At a height of three miles I never experienced any annoyance or
discomfort; yet there is no ascent I think of Mont Blanc in which great
inconvenience and severe _pain_ have not been felt at a height of 13,000
feet; but then, as before remarked, this is an elevation attained only
after two days of excessive toil.” Mr. Glaisher is here referring chiefly
to Dr. Hamel’s ascent of Mont Blanc, and would seem apparently to be
unaware that, long before he wrote, the ascent of Mont Blanc, from
Chamouni and back to the same place, had been accomplished within
twenty-four hours. In 1873, if my memory serves me right, Mr. Passingham
started from Chamouni, ascended the mountain, and returned to his hotel in
a little less than twenty hours.(11) Compare such an ascent as this—not by
any means an isolated instance—with De Saussure’s experience, and when we
consider how remarkable has been the development of mountaineering in this
direction, we may surely hold that to fix at present any absolute limit is
unduly arbitrary. Further, the ascents of Chimborazo and the other
mountains named above have all been accomplished since Mr. Glaisher wrote.
Mr. Glaisher states that the aëronaut may acclimatise himself to great
heights by repeated ascents; but how much more may the mountaineer then
hope to do so! The aëronaut necessarily makes ascents rapidly(12) and at
rare intervals. The mountaineer can acclimatise himself to high regions by
a constant and gradual process, a method obviously better calculated to
extend the limits of his endurance.
Of course I am only discussing the actual possibility, not entering into
the question for a moment of whether it is worth while to do it. It may be
that to attempt an ascent of Mount Everest would prove almost as rash an
undertaking as an endeavour to swim through the Niagara rapids—that is, if
the mountaineering difficulties are so great as to make the two instances
parallel. Two points have to be considered: one, that, granted the
desirability of making such an ascent, we do not yet fully know the best
manner of undertaking it; and another, that we are still very ignorant as
to the physiological effects of rarefied air on the human frame.(13)
(M144)
With regard to the first point, we know indeed this much—that, granted
good condition, a man can “acclimatise” himself to great heights, and when
so acclimatised he can undergo much more exertion in very high regions
with much less effect. The experience of Mr. Whymper in the Andes, and of
Mr. Graham and others in the Himalayas, has shown this conclusively
enough. Let a man sleep at a height, say, of 18,000 feet, and then ascend
from that point another 3,000 or 4,000 feet; he may possibly feel the
effects to be so great that an attempt to sleep again at the latter height
would render him incapable of exertion the next day, as far as an ascent
is concerned. Let him descend till he can bivouac, say at 20,000 feet, and
then again try, starting afresh. After a while he would be able to
accomplish still more than at his first attempt; and so on, until he
reached the summit. But even supposing that no amount of acclimatisation
enables him to accomplish his end, he has other weapons in his armoury.
(M145)
The second point mentioned above is that the physiological effects of
rarefied air on the human economy are but little known; were these
understood the resources of science might be called in to obviate them. It
may be said that no amount of science will obviate the very simple fact
that exertion causes fatigue, but the answer is that we have no real idea
of all the causes which lead to this fatigue. This is not the place to
speculate on a somewhat abstruse and unquestionably complicated
physiological problem, but the direction in which the question may be
approached from the scientific side is worthy of being pointed out. This
much may be said, however, that when we talk of strong heart and strong
lungs in connection with the question of the possibility of ascending on
foot to the greatest altitudes, we are only, from the physiological point
of view, taking into account one or two factors, and perhaps not the most
important ones. The cavillers may be reminded that physiology is not and
never will become a finite science. To my mind at least, as far as human
endurance is concerned, it would be no more surprising to me to hear that
a man had succeeded in walking up Mount Everest than to know that a man
can succeed in standing an arctic climate while on a sledging expedition.
Objections like the difficulty of arranging for a supply of food, of
expense, of risk, and so forth, are not taken into account—they are really
beside the question: they have not proved insuperable obstacles in the
case of arctic exploration; they will not prove insurmountable to the
ambitious mountaineer we are contemplating. I do not for a moment say that
it would be wise to ascend Mount Everest, but I believe most firmly that
it is humanly possible to do so; and, further, I feel sure that, even in
our own time, perhaps, the truth of these views will receive material
corroboration. Mount Everest itself may offer insuperable mountaineering
obstacles, but in the unknown, unseen district to the north there may be
peaks of equal height presenting no more technical difficulties than Mont
Blanc or Elbruz.
(M146)
From the purely athletic point of view, then, the mountaineering
experience which has been gained almost exclusively in the Alps may, by a
still further development in the future, enable the climber so to develop
the art that he may reach the highest elevation on this world’s crust; and
he may do this without running undue risk. _Cui bono?_ it may be asked;
and it is nearly as hard to answer the question as it is to explain to the
supine and unaspiring person the good that may be expected to accrue to
humanity by reaching the North Pole; yet the latter project, albeit to
some it seems like a struggle of man against physical forces which make or
mar worlds, is one that is held to be right and proper to be followed. At
the least an observer, even of limited powers, may reasonably be expected,
supposing he accomplished such a feat as the ascent of Mount Everest, to
bring back results of equal scientific value with the arctic traveller,
while the purely geographical information he should gain would have
fiftyfold greater practical value. The art and science of mountaineering
has been learned and developed in the Alps, and the acquirement of this
learning has been a pleasure to many. If the holiday nature of
mountaineering should in the future be somewhat dropped, and if a few of
those who follow should take up the more serious side, and make what has
been a pastime into a profession (and why should not some do so? That
which is worth doing at all is worth developing to the utmost possible
limit), good will come, unless it be argued that there is no gain in
extending geographical knowledge; and no advantage in rectifying surveys
and rendering them as accurate as possible. As has been remarked by Mr.
Douglas Freshfield, the advantage of including in survey parties, such as
are still engaged on our Indian frontier, the services of some who have
made mountaineering a branch to be learnt in their profession, would be
very distinct. Work done in the Alps would, in this direction, perhaps,
bear the best fruit and reap the highest practical value which it might be
hoped to attain. The value would be real. The search after truth, whether
it be in the fields of natural science, of geography, or its to-be-adopted
sister orography, can never fail to be right and good and beneficial.
Enthusiasm all this! you say. Granted freely. Without some enthusiasm and
energy the world would cease to turn, and the retarding section of mankind
would be triumphant, save that they would be too languid to realise the
victory of their principles.
But still, if properly qualified men are to be forthcoming to meet such a
want, which undoubtedly seems to exist, the old training-ground must not
be deserted; the playground of Europe must be regarded in relation to
serious work in the same light that the playing-fields of Eton were
regarded by one who was somewhat of an authority. The Great Duke’s remark
is too well known to need quotation. English folk may find it hard to hold
their own against their near relations in athletic pursuits, such as
cricket and sculling, but in mountaineering they undoubtedly lead, and
will continue to do so. In one phase indeed of the pursuit their supremacy
is menaced. In the matter of recognising the practical value to be
obtained from mountaineering in surveying and the like, they are already
behind other countries. The roll of honorary members of the Alpine Club
comprises a list of men, most of whom have utilised their mountaineering
experience to good purpose in advancing scientific exploration. In this
department it is to be hoped that we shall not suffer ourselves to be
outstripped, nor allow a store of valuable and laboriously acquired
experience to remain wasted. The threatening cloud may pass off; the
future of Alpine mountaineering may not prove to be so gloomy as it
sometimes seems to the writer in danger of gradually becoming. The
depression is, possibly, only temporary, and a natural consequence of
reaction; and the zigzagging line on the chart, though it may never
perhaps rise again to the point it once marked, yet may keep well at the
normal—better, perhaps, at such a level than at fever heat. The old cry
that we know so well on the mountains, that meets always with a ready
thrill of response, may acquire a wider significance, and men will be
found to answer to the familiar call of “Vorwärts, immer vorwärts!”
After all, a century hence the mountaineering centres of to-day will
perhaps still attract as they do now. It may be possible to get to
Chamouni without submitting to the elaborately devised discomfort of the
present Channel passage, and without the terrors of asphyxiation in the
carriages of the Chemin de Fer du Nord. Surely the charm of the mountains
must always draw men to the Alps, even though the glaciers may have shrunk
up and sunk down, though places like Arolla and the Grimsel may have
become thriving towns, or radical changes such as a drainage system at
Chamouni have been instituted. If the glaciers do shrink, there will be
all the more scope for the rock climber and the more opportunity of
perfecting an art which has already been so much developed.
(M147)
A Rip van Winkle of our day, waking up in that epoch of the future, would
for certain find much that was unaltered. The same types of humanity would
be around him. Conceive this somnolent hero of fiction, clad in a felt
wideawake that had once been white, in knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket,
of which the seams had at one time held together, supporting his bent
frame and creaking joints on a staff with rusted spike and pick. He
descends laboriously from a vehicle that had jolted impartially
generations before him (for the carriages of the valley are as little
liable to wear out, in the eyes of their proprietors, as the “wonderful
one-hoss shay”). He finds himself on a summer evening by the Hôtel de
Ville at Chamouni, and facing the newly erected Opera-house. He looks with
wondering eyes around. A youth (great-great-great-great-grandson of
Jacques Balmat) approaches and waits respectfully by his side, ready to
furnish information.
“Why these flags and these rejoicings?” the old man asks.
“To celebrate the tercentenary of the first ascent of Mont Blanc,” the boy
answers.
The veteran gazes around, shading his eyes with his shrivelled hand. The
travellers come in. First a triumphal procession of successful and
intrepid mountaineers. Banners wave, cannon go off—or more probably miss
fire—bouquets are displayed, champagne and compliments are poured out;
both the latter expressions of congratulation equally gassy, and both
about equally genuine.
“Who are these?” the old man inquires.
“Do you not see the number on their banner?” answers the youth; “they are
the heroes of the forty-fifth section of the tenth branch of the northern
division of the Savoy Alpine Club.”
“Ah!” the old man murmurs to himself, with a sigh of recollection, “I can
remember that they were numerous even in my day.”
Then follows a sad-looking, dejected creature, stealing back to his hotel
by byways, but with face bronzed from exposure on rocks, not scorched by
sun-reflecting snow; his boots scored with multitudinous little cuts and
scratches telling of difficult climbing; his hands as brown as his face;
his finger-nails, it must be admitted, seriously impaired in their
symmetry.
“And who is this? Has he been guilty of some crime?” the old man asks.
“Not so,” the answer comes; “he has just completed the thousandth ascent
of the Aiguille...; he comes of a curious race which, history relates, at
one time much frequented these districts; but that was a great while
ago—long before the monarchy was re-established. You do well to look at
him; that is the last of the climbing Englishmen. They always seem
depressed when they have succeeded in achieving their ambition of the
moment; it is a characteristic of their now almost extinct race.”
(M148)
“And what about the perils of the expedition?” the old man asks,
brightening up a little as if some old ideas had suddenly flashed across
his mind. “I would fain know whether the journey is different now from
what it was formerly; yet the heroes would mock me, perchance, if I were
to interrogate them.”
“Not at all,” the youth replies. “There are but few of the first party who
would not vouchsafe to give you a full account, and might even in their
courtesy embellish the narrative with flowers of rhetoric. But it is
unnecessary. They will print a detailed and full description of their
exploits. It has all been said before, but so has everything else, I
think.”
“That is true,” the old man murmurs to himself; “it was even so in my
time, and two hundred years before I lived a French writer commenced his
book with the remark, ‘_Tout est dit._’ But what of the other, the
dejected survivor? does he not too write?”
“Yes, indeed, but not in the same strain; he will but pour out a little
gentle sarcasm and native spleen, in mild criticism of the fulsome periods
he peruses in other tongues.”
“Ah me!” thinks the old man, “in one respect then I need not prove so much
behind the time. If the memory of the Alpine literature of my day were
still fresh, I could hold mine own with those I see around.”
May I be permitted, in conclusion, to come back to our own day, and to say
a very few words on the subject of mountaineering accidents? Most heartily
would I concur with any one who raised the objection that such remarks are
out of place in a chapter on the mountaineering of the future. But perhaps
we have been looking too far ahead, and there may be a period to follow
between this our time and the future to be hoped for.
(M149)
It has sometimes been stated and written that no one desires to remove
from mountaineering all danger. The dangers of mountaineering have been
divided by a well-known authority into real and imaginary. The supposed
existence of the latter is, I grant, desirable, especially to the
inexperienced climber; but I shall always contend that it ought to be the
great object of every votary of the pursuit to minimise the former to the
utmost of his ability. Now, it is only by true experience—that is, by
learning gradually the art of mountaineering—that the climber will achieve
this result. Few of those unacquainted with the subject can have any idea
of the extraordinary difference between the risk run on a difficult
expedition (that is, on one where difficulties occur: the name of the peak
or pass has little to do with the matter) by a practised mountaineer who
has learned something of the art, and an inexperienced climber who has
nothing but the best intentions to assist his steps. The man of experience
bears always in mind the simple axioms and rules of his craft; if he does
not he is a bad mountaineer. If the plain truth be told, accidents in the
Alps have almost invariably, to whomsoever they befell, been due to
breaking one or more of these same well-known rules, or, in other words,
to bad mountaineering. That such is no more than a simple statement of
fact a former president of the Alpine Club, Mr. C. E. Mathews, has
abundantly proved.(14) Numbers of our countrymen, young and old, annually
rush out to the Alps for the first time. Fired with ambition, or led on by
the fascination of the pastime, with scarcely any preliminary training and
no preliminary study of the subject, they at once begin to attack the more
difficult peaks and passes. Success perhaps attends their efforts. Unfit,
they go up a difficult mountain, trusting practically to the ability of
the guides to do their employers’ share of the work as well as their own.
They descend, and think to gauge their skill by the name of the expedition
undertaken. The state of the weather and of the mountain determine whether
such a performance be an act of simple or of culpable folly. For such the
imaginary dangers are the most formidable. If they had taken the trouble
to begin at the beginning, to learn the difference between the stem and
stern of a boat before attempting to navigate an ironclad, they would have
recognised, and profited by, the true risks run. As it is, they are
probably inflated with conceit at overcoming visionary difficulties. They
may make, indeed, in this way what in Alpine slang is called a good
“book;” but by far the greater number fail to perceive that there is
anything to learn. It is a pastime—an amusement; they do not look beyond
this. But these same climbers would admit that in other forms of sport,
such as cricket or rowing, proficiency is not found in beginners. It is in
the study and development of the amusement that the true and deeper
pleasure is to be found. A tyro in cricket would make himself an object of
ridicule in a high-class match; the novice in the art of rowing would be
loth to display his feeble powers if thrust into a racing four with three
tried oarsmen; and yet the embryo climber can see nothing absurd in
attacking mountains of recognised difficulty. Inexperience in the former
instances at least could cause no harm, while ignorance of the elementary
principles of mountaineering renders the climber a serious source of
danger not only to himself but to others. There is no royal road to the
acquirement of mountaineering knowledge. It is just as difficult to use
the axe or alpenstock properly as the oar or the racquet; just as much
patient, persevering practice is needed; but it is not on difficult
expeditions that such inexperience can be best overcome.
(M150)
A man of average activity could, probably, actually climb, without any
particular experience, most of, or all, the more difficult rock peaks
under good conditions of weather and the like. But how different from the
really practical mountaineer, who strives to make an art of his pastime.
Watch the latter. First and foremost, he knows when to turn back, and does
not hesitate to act as his judgment directs. He bears in mind that there
is pleasure to be obtained from mountaineering even though the programme
may not be carried out in its entirety as planned, and realises to the
full that
’Tis better to have climbed and failed
Than never to have climbed at all.
His companions are always safe with him, his climbing unselfish; he never
dislodges a loose stone—except purposely—either with hands, feet, or the
loose rope; he is always as firm as circumstances will permit, prepared to
withstand any sudden slip; he never puts forth more strength at each step
than is necessary, thus saving his powers, being always ready in an
emergency, and never degenerating into that most dangerous of
encumbrances, a tired member of a united party: not, of course, that the
vast majority of amateurs can ever hope, with their imperfect practice, to
attain to the level of even a second-rate guide; still, by bringing his
intelligence to bear on this, as he does on any other amusement, the
amateur can render himself something more than a thoroughly reliable
companion on any justifiable expedition.
(M151)
Let the spirit of competition lead young climbers to strive after
excellence in this direction, rather than, as is too commonly the case,
induce them to take “Times” as the criterion of mountaineering
proficiency. There are instructors enough. Even from an inferior guide an
infinite amount may be learnt; at the least such a one can recognise the
real danger of the Alps, and in this respect possesses a faculty which is
one of the chief the mountaineer has to acquire. Let the spirit in which
the Alps are climbed be of some such nature as that I have attempted to
indicate, and accidents such as those recorded in Mr. C. E. Mathews’ grim
list will be of such rare occurrence that they will never be called up to
discredit mountaineering. If, perchance, any words here written shall
prompt in the future the climber to perfect his art more and more while
frequenting the old haunts, and to extend and utilise mountaineering still
more, then at least the writer may feel, like the mountain when it had
brought forth the ridiculous mouse, that his labour has not been wholly in
vain. Yet more: his gloomy forebodings shall be falsified, and with
respect to the future of mountaineering the outlook will be bright enough.
LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
FOOTNOTES
M1 The survival of the unfit
M2 Sybaritic mountaineering
M3 The growth of the climbing craze
M4 A tropical day in the valley
M5 A deserted hostelry
M6 The hut above Fée
M7 How ruin seized a roofless thing
M8 On sleeping out
M9 The Südlenzspitz
M10 A plea for Saas and Fée
M11 We attack the Südlenzspitz
M12 The art of probing snow
M13 Sentiment on a summit
M14 The feast is spread
M15 Fact and romance
M16 The thirst for novelty
M17 Rock v. snow mountains
M18 The amateur and the guide
M19 The guides’ room
1 Franz Andermatten died in August 1883. His name is mentioned
elsewhere in these sketches, but I leave what I have written
untouched: for I do not hold with those who would efface the
recollection of all that was bright and merry in one taken from us.
M20 A false start
M21 Falling stones in the gully
M22 Effects of reaching a summit
M23 A narrow escape
M24 The youthful tourist
M25 Hotel trials
M26 The gushers
M27 The last peaks to surrender
M28 The Aiguille du Dru
M29 The first attempt
2 In the old house, be it noted—not the modern luxurious combination
of a granite fortress and a palace.
M30 First attempt on the peak
M31 Huts and sleeping out
M32 The Chamouni guide system
M33 A word on guides
M34 A landlord’s peculiarities
M35 We see a chamois
_ 3 Travels in the Alps_, p. 119.
M36 Doubts as to the peak
M37 Telescopic observations
M38 Franz and his mighty axe
M39 A start in the wrong direction
M40 An adjournment
M41 The expedition resumed
M42 A sticking point
M43 Beaten back
M44 Results gained
M45 Autres temps, autres mœurs
M46 The diligence arrives
M47 The Alpine habitue
M48 A family party
M49 A sepulchral bivouac
M50 On early starts
M51 The rocks of the Bietschhorn
M52 Avalanches on the Bietschhorn
M53 A dramatic situation
M54 The united party nearly fall out
M55 A limited panorama
M56 A race for home
M57 Caught out
M58 The water jump
M59 A classical banquet
M60 The old cure
M61 A “pension” in a train
M62 A youthful hero
M63 A scientific gentleman
M64 A dream of the future
M65 A condensed mountain ascent
M66 Wanted, a programme
M67 The Aiguille du Midi
M68 Ephemeral acquaintances
M69 A familiar character
M70 Halting doubts and fears
M71 The storm gathers
M72 “From gay to grave”
M73 The storm breaks
M74 A battle with the elements
M75 Beating the air
M76 Descent down Vallée Blanche
M77 A scanty repast
M78 A projected expedition
M79 Expeditions on the Aig. du Dru
M80 Other climbers attack the peak
M81 We try the northern side
M82 The mountain fever recurs
M83 The campaign opens
M84 A new leader
M85 Our sixteenth attempt
M86 Sports and pastimes
M87 Apparel oft proclaims the man
4 Described in anatomical text-books as forming the swelling of the
calf.
M88 A canine acquaintance
M89 Turning point of the expedition
M90 A difficult descent
M91 A blank in the narrative
M92 A carriage misadventure
M93 A strange guide
M94 Our “jeune premier”
M95 An acrobatic performance
M96 Our nineteenth attempt
M97 The rocks of the Dru
M98 What next?
M99 A narrow escape
5 It has transpired since that our judgment happened to be right in
this matter, and we might probably have saved an hour or more at
this part of the ascent.
M100 The final scramble
M101 Our foe is vanquished
M102 On the summit
M103 The return journey
M104 Benighted
M105 Shifting scenes
M106 The camp breaks up
M107 Mountaineering morality
M108 Chamouni becomes festive
M109 Organising the ball
M110 Chamouni dances
M111 The scene closes in
M112 On well-ordered intellects
M113 The critical tendency
M114 The “High Level Route”
M115 A prescription for ill-humour
M116 A meditation on grass slopes
M117 The agile person’s vagaries
M118 Ascent of the Ruinette
M119 Saas in the olden days
6 Hector Berlioz.
M120 A curious omission
M121 The chef’s masterpiece
M122 An evicted family
M123 A short cut after a knife
M124 The amateur
M125 Mont Buet
M126 We hire carriages
M127 The incomplete moralist
M128 The niece to the moralist
M129 A discourse on gourmets
M130 An artistic interlude
M131 We become thoughtful
M132 A vision on the summit
M133 The mountaineers perform
M134 A banquet at the chalet
M135 The end of the journey
M136 I rise equal to the occasion
M137 A highly coloured account
M138 The critics
M139 Growth of the amusement
M140 Novelty and exploration
M141 The upward limit
7 This is Mr. Edward Whymper’s measurement. Humboldt, as quoted by Mr.
Whymper, gave 21,460 feet as the height. (_Alpine Journal_, vol. x.
p. 442.)
M142 Mr. Grove’s views
_ 8 The Frosty Caucasus_, by F. C. Grove, p. 236.
_ 9 Travels in the Air_, edited by James Glaisher, F.R.S., p. 57 (2nd
ed.).
M143 Mr. Glaisher’s experiences
_ 10 Op. cit._ p. 9.
11 I understand that the expedition has since been accomplished in a
much shorter time.
12 In Messrs. Coxwell and Glaisher’s ascent from Wolverhampton the
balloon when at the height of 29,000 feet was mounting at the rate
of 1,000 feet a minute.
13 I am aware of M. Paul Bert’s researches; but these questions are not
to be settled in the laboratory.
M144 Mountain acclimatisation
M145 Ascent of Mount Everest
M146 The value of mountaineering
M147 An Alpine Rip van Winkle
M148 Mountaineering in the future
M149 Dangers of the Alps
_ 14 Vide_ _Alpine Journal_, vol. xi. p. 78. “The Alpine Obituary,” by
C. E. Mathews.
M150 The real mountaineer
M151 Conclusion
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
The following changes have been made to the text:
page ix, page number “1” added
page xiv, page number “290” changed to “291”
page 31, “gulley” changed to “gully”
page 96, “sepulchra” changed to “sepulchral”
page 113, “complicate” changed to “complicated”
page 151, “thoughful” changed to “thoughtful”
page 216, “menta” changed to “mental”
page 255, “thier” changed to “their”
page 269, “in roduction” changed to “introduction”
page 310, parenthesis added before “2nd”
page 312, “developmen” changed to “development”, “gradua” changed to
“gradual”
Variations in hyphenation (e.g. “bootlace”, “boot-lace”; “doorpost”,
“door-post”) have not been changed.