TWO CHAMONIX AIGUILLES
North-north-east of, and near to Mont Blanc, is a compact group of bold
buttresses and ridges supporting a multitude of dark rock pinnacles
whose slender spires seem close against the sky. These are the Chamonix
Aiguilles. The conquest of the more important of these bold granite
towers was largely due to the inspiring energy and determination of the
late Mr. A. F. Mummery, one of the greatest of bygone mountaineers. For
devotees of rock-climbing pure and simple, the Aiguilles of Chamonix
are a veritable paradise, for they form one of the few mountain groups
in the Alps where the rock is so firm and reliable that one can
climb for hours on end without encountering a single loose stone or
questionable handhold.
Rock-climbing, particularly on good, sound rock, has never held any
great charm for me. I have always regarded it as but one of the
simplest, most easily learnt and less important branches of a wider
art, and, as it is met with on almost any big snow-and-ice expedition,
I have never felt disposed to go out of my way in search of it for its
own sake. It was not until the close of the summer season of 1910 that
my friend, Ph. Visser, induced me to launch out on an expedition where
rock-climbing was avowedly the main attraction.
THE REQUIN
The Dent du Requin, one of the more popular of the Chamonix Aiguilles,
is a bold, rocky tower rising to a height of over 11,200 feet from
one end of the long ridge which falls away from the Aiguille du Plan
towards the east. Early on the morning of August 29, we left the
Montanvert in two parties, the first consisting of Mr. Lugard and his
guide, Joseph Knubel, a rock-climber of great distinction hailing
from St. Nicholas in the Zermatt Valley, and the second of Visser
and myself. Following the customary route towards the Col du Géant
as far as the great icefall of the Géant Glacier, we made our way up
unpleasantly steep screes to the d’Envers du Plan Glacier, over whose
much crevassed surface we eventually gained the southern slopes of the
ridge connecting the Plan with the Requin, at a point where broken
rocks gave easy access to the crest. Six and a half hours after leaving
the Montanvert, we arrived at the point on the ridge known as the
Shoulder, and the Requin appeared in full view. I must confess to a
feeling of disappointment; it was obvious that there could not be more
than an hour’s difficult climbing. The six and a half hours’ ascent
from the Montanvert had been tiring and utterly devoid of interest in
the mountaineering sense, except for the comparatively short passage
over the d’Envers du Plan Glacier, and I failed to see how one hour’s
rock-climbing could merit such a tedious approach. Knubel, who had
already made several ascents of the peak, now went ahead with Lugard
and, climbing without difficulty, arrived at a gap in the ridge just
below the lower end of the immense and partly overhanging chimney
that cleaves the Requin almost from head to foot. At the foot of the
chimney, a steep slab falls away towards a ledge which Knubel and
Lugard gained by the use of the doubled rope. Visser and I followed,
retrieving the rope after reaching the ledge. Then, mounting a series
of short, very steep chimneys, we arrived on a broad platform.
Henceforward, working spiral-wise, we climbed to the summit. The
climbing was difficult throughout, but it was always perfectly safe.
The holds were everywhere extraordinarily reliable, and it was probably
this selfsame reliability and the fact that a party preceded us all the
time that made the Requin, as a climbing proposition, seem hopelessly
dull and monotonous. Only now and again when one’s eye travelled down
the tremendous precipices to the gloomy, shut-in basin of the d’Envers
du Blaitière Glacier, did one become conscious of one’s airy position
and feel the vivid sense of exhilaration that every real mountain climb
provides almost throughout.
[Illustration: _Chamonix Aiguilles and Mont Blanc._]
[Illustration: _Descending the Grépon._]
[Illustration: _A stiff chimney._
_Facing page 250._
]
If the ascent, however, had been weary, stale and unprofitable, the
descent was to provide me with at least one compensating thrill. With
the aid of the doubled rope, the great chimney before mentioned can be
descended, and the dreariness of going home by the same road, as it
were, avoided. Knubel and Lugard led off down the chimney, the upper
half of which is barren of outstanding difficulty. We fixed a doubled
rope, but there was no need to use it. In the middle of the chimney,
however, there is a sloping platform which was plastered with ice;
and below the platform the chimney falls away in a great overhang. We
discovered a rusty _piton_ driven into a narrow fissure in one side of
the crack, but it was very loose. So Knubel hammered away some of the
ice from the platform and laid bare a projecting stone over which he
passed the spare rope. Together we let Lugard down to the bottom of
the chimney. Then came Visser’s turn, and Knubel went next, preferring
to rely entirely on the doubled rope. Having nothing else to do for
the moment, I relaxed, and was absorbing the view when, by the merest
chance, I happened to glance down at my feet. To my horror, I saw the
rope on which Knubel was now hanging in free air slowly but surely
rolling itself off the belay. Just in time to prevent its slipping off
altogether, I trod heavily on it with my foot. Knubel, all unconscious
of how near he had been to destruction, swung gaily downwards to
the others. Then came my turn. After what I had witnessed, I felt
disinclined to trust myself to the treacherous belay. After some little
delay, during which I was much chaffed by the others, who were unaware
of the cause of my hesitation, I succeeded in jamming the rusty old
_piton_ firmly enough into its fissure to satisfy even my now somewhat
critical ideas of safety; and, passing the doubled rope through the
ring, I shinned down. The climb was over. There remained nothing but
the dreary return to the Montanvert; there had been one thrill, and
that an undesirable one and unshared by my companions. The impression
that survived was one of monotony, and I longed for all the wonderful
variety and wide appeal which makes the real mountain adventure such a
thing of joy.
THE GRÉPON
A gigantic saw set up on edge and crowned by an array of irregular
teeth--such, as seen broadside on from either the Mer de Glace or
the Nantillons Glacier, is the great serrated ridge formed by the
Charmoz and the Grépon. The deep col, or depression, which divides
the ridge approximately in half, bears the composite name of the Col
Charmoz-Grépon. Both of these peaks were climbed for the first time
by a party consisting of Mummery, Alexander Burgener, that Viking of
guides, and B. Venetz, a young fellow who must have been a very active
climber; and all three declared the ascent of the Grépon to be “the
most difficult climb in the world.” The advance which has taken place
since Mummery’s time in modern rock-climbing has robbed the Grépon of
its right to this proud title; but its ascent is still held to rank
amongst the most difficult rock-climbing problems which the climber is
able to find in the Alps or, indeed, in any other part of the world.
The ascent of the Grépon formed the last item upon our programme for
the summer of 1911. Like the Requin, the Grépon is built up of huge
blocks of marvellously firm granite, and, after my experience of the
former, I hoped for little mountaineering enjoyment from the latter.
As far as we could gather, there would be real mountaineering only on
the ascent to the Col Charmoz-Grépon, whence the actual climb starts,
and on the descent from the Col des Nantillons. Several mountaineers,
however, had assured us that rock-climbing was not only more attractive
than snow and ice work but also more difficult. So, desirous of
testing fairly the truth of this statement so far as we ourselves were
concerned, Max and I left the Montanvert at 2 a.m. on September 5,
bound for the _ne plus ultra_ of rock ascents.
If care is taken never to lose sight of it, a path, at first
well-marked but dwindling away to a diminutive track, may be followed
almost on to the Nantillons Glacier, whence the broad couloir running
down from the Col Charmoz-Grépon is reached. The head of this glacier
is enclosed in a cirque of horseshoe shape formed by the cliffs of the
Charmoz, Grépon and Blaitière. In line with the ends of the horseshoe,
the glacier tumbles over a cliff, and the icefall thus formed divides
it into an upper and lower half. We succeeded in keeping to the
Montanvert track all the way to the glacier and, while walking up the
gently inclined snow-free surface of the lower half, had ample time
to study the icefall. It was easy to recognise in a steep island of
rocks lying close under the cliffs of the Blaitière the best line of
ascent to the upper half of the glacier. Below these rocks the ice
steepened somewhat, and a few steps had to be cut before the island
was gained. Once on the rocks the traces of previous climbers were
everywhere in evidence, and we followed a trail of empty tins, bottles
and other leavings of humanity to the farther end of the island, where,
just after daybreak, we roped and embarked upon the glacier. We had
proceeded only a few yards, when we were suddenly brought up short on
the edge of an enormous crevasse which stretched away, unbridged, on
either hand to the bounding cliffs of the cirque. To cross would have
involved hours of hard work and step-cutting, but for the fact that
two ladders tied together and laid across the chasm at its narrowest
point were still in a sufficiently serviceable condition to enable us
to gain the farther edge without trouble. Thence, hastening through a
short zone endangered by the séracs of an ice wall at the foot of the
Blaitière, we gained the middle of the upper basin of the Nantillons
Glacier and proceeded leisurely up the hard-frozen snow to the foot of
the couloir which gives access to the Col Charmoz-Grépon.
The summer having been exceptionally dry and fine, the mountain was
practically free from snow and ice, so we left one of our axes and a
knapsack containing all superfluous baggage at the foot of the couloir,
to be recovered on the descent. In the remaining knapsack we carried
spare clothing, a spare one-hundred-and-fifty-foot rope and a few
provisions, including a can of peaches and a tin of condensed milk
reserved for the summit feast. Camera and spare films were stowed away,
as usual, in my coat pocket. Some little difficulty was experienced
in effecting a lodgment in the rocky bed of the couloir, the glacier
having shrunk away from the rock to such an extent that a rather deep
cleft had been formed. The descent into the cleft was easy enough, but
it was only after a sharp, if short, struggle up a very steep chimney
with unreliable holds on the upper side of the cleft that the broken
rocks of the couloir were gained. Here the climbing was perfectly easy,
though the rock was far from firm, and care was necessary. We climbed
close together on a short rope on account of the many loose rocks,
some of which needed only a touch to start them crashing down to the
glacier. Without meeting with any real obstacle, we mounted rapidly,
keeping for the most part well to the left of the couloir which bore
unmistakable signs of stone-falls. At the point where the couloir
bifurcates, we took the branch to the right. It was much steeper and
narrower than the lower part of the couloir and was partially filled
with ice, but the remains of steps were still fairly well preserved and
needed but little re-cutting. Shortly before 7 a.m. we gained the Col
Charmoz-Grépon. On a little level ledge overlooking the immense and
tremendously steep precipice falling away towards the Mer de Glace,
we found shelter from the icy morning breeze and, warmed by the rays
of the sun, settled down to our first rest and meal since leaving
the Montanvert. Progress had been on the whole leisurely. The climb
had provided mountaineering of the ordinary, everyday kind without
notable difficulty, though, had it not been for the ladders, the large
crevasse would undoubtedly have provided hard work. But it had been
real mountaineering with all its essential variety, now rock, now ice,
now snow; everything had been taken as it came, and, in addition, we
had been almost throughout in, to us, an unknown region of wild and
beautiful scenery. But now from the col onwards, if the information of
others could be relied upon, we should for hours on end be indulging
in nothing more than a strenuous form of gymnastics.
[Illustration: _A sérac._]
[Illustration: “_Two ladders tied together and laid across the
chasm...._”
_Facing page 254._
]
For one whole delightful hour we dallied, basking in the warm sun;
then, deeming it time to begin acrobatic operations, we returned to
the col to have a good look at the famous Mummery crack with which the
climb commences, and which is held to be the most difficult portion
of the ascent. The crack lies on the Nantillons side of the ridge and
is formed by a huge flake of rock which has become partially detached
from the main mass of the mountain. It is about seventy feet high
and almost vertical; indeed, in its lower part it appears even to
overhang slightly. A spacious enough platform at the bottom provides
a good jumping-off place. Leaving my camera and all other impedimenta
behind in the col, I gained the platform and immediately set to work,
while Max, perched on a slender, leaning spire jutting out of the
col, belayed the rope. The crack was sufficiently deep to permit me
to get my right arm into it beyond the elbow, and, though narrow, it
was sufficiently wide to admit my right foot. Left arm and foot sought
and found hold, though minute, on the rough crystalline texture of the
outside surface of the flake. By twisting my right arm or turning my
right boot, either could be wedged firmly into the fissure at will,
and an absolutely reliable hold obtained. By adopting a method of
progression similar to that of a caterpillar, that is, alternately
bending and straightening myself, I rose quickly, passed beyond the
lower overhanging portion, and about half-way up gained a small ledge
on the flake which provided good standing room for the left foot. Thus
far the climbing had been more a question of knack than a trial of
strength, and I looked up at the second half of the crack expecting to
see some hitherto hidden feature that would give serious trouble. If
anything, however, it seemed easier than the part already overcome.
Here and there a stone jammed tightly into the fissure promised perfect
handhold. I rested for a few seconds, then resumed the attack. A little
way above the ledge, both surfaces of the flake became very smooth, and
for the first time I had to struggle really hard; but soon my right
hand gripped the first of the chock-stones, and the remainder of the
crack to within six feet of its top was easily negotiated. The final
wall to the right was studded with plentiful handholds and soon I was
standing on the crowning platform. The ascent of Mummery’s crack had
taken me just over two and three-quarter minutes. While I held his
rope, Max, with ice-axe and knapsack, now climbed over to the ledge at
the foot of the crack. There he unroped and tied on the baggage, which
I then hauled up to my perch. As soon as it was safely stowed away,
I flung the end of the rope back to Max, whose turn had now come. He
clambered up at an amazing pace without even pausing to rest at the
half-way ledge, and was soon beside me on the broad platform, panting
out a scathing criticism on those who dared to compare gymnastics on
rock with the varied difficulties of snow and ice work.
From here onwards the climbing, though almost throughout difficult,
never came up to the standard of that of the crack. Sometimes we
climbed on one side of the ridge, sometimes on the other, and at
times on the crest itself. Belays were in evidence everywhere, and
the rock was uniformly good. Never did we meet with a single loose or
unreliable hand- or foothold. After passing the bold pinnacle which is
the northern summit of the aiguille, we arrived on the great platform
which breaks away in the precipitous, unclimbable wall, called the
Grand Diable, leading down to a deep gap in the ridge. Thanks to
our plentiful supply of rope, this obstacle was easily overcome by
resorting to the time-honoured dodge of roping down. From the gap, a
level ledge known as the Route des Bicyclettes winds along the Mer
de Glace face and enables one to circumvent the ensuing be-pinnacled
portion of the ridge. After some further scrambling we stood at the
foot of the final summit pinnacle. This, a great square-cut tower,
capped by a huge, flat stone and seamed by a formidable-looking cleft,
had been in full view before us ever since passing the northern summit,
and we had already jumped to the conclusion that the way to the top led
up this cleft. As the description of the summit crack given to us, a
few days before, tallied more or less with the fearsome-looking thing
to our left, we decided to disregard an obviously easy ledge running
round to the Nantillons face. It is true that we had been told that
the summit crack was much easier than Mummery’s, and we failed to see
anything easy in the crack before us; also, as it hung right out over
the terrific precipices running down to the Mer de Glace, one would be
in a frightfully exposed position while climbing it. But appearances
are never so deceptive as in the mountains, so I buttoned up my coat,
made sure that the knot fastening the rope about my waist was well
tied and started off. Max had good standing ground and could belay my
rope securely. Once in the crack, the work began in earnest; a very
real earnest indeed, as subsequent events proved. It was wider than
Mummery’s crack, but not wide enough to allow me to get right inside
it; with my left arm and shoulder and leg inside whilst right hand and
boot scraped outside in search of hold, I slowly struggled and fought
my way up. It was most exhausting work. Just below the summit I had to
turn round and get my right shoulder and leg into the crack, and left
leg and arm out; a change of position that was accomplished only after
an almost desperate struggle which robbed me of breath and sapped my
strength to such an extent that, when it came to swinging myself up
over the flat, overhanging summit stone, I found myself unequal to the
effort. I was powerless alike to retreat or advance. Max, however, who
had never for a moment relaxed his attention to my movements, had noted
my dilemma and, with a warning shout that he was coming, hastened to my
assistance, armed with knapsack and ice-axe. With my left hand and my
teeth I took in his rope as he climbed upwards. When his head was just
below my feet, he stopped and jammed himself firmly into the fissure.
With his head as a foothold and a prod from the axe, I received the
extra ounce of steadying support that enabled me to complete the ascent
and haul myself up to the safety of the flat table-like stone that is
the distinguishing feature of the summit of the Grépon. As fast as my
breathless state would permit, I pulled in the rope until it was taut
between us; and a few minutes later, just before midday, Max was seated
by my side.
We were both rather puzzled and not a little humbled. The fierce
tussle which the last crack had demanded, had provided something of a
shock. If this were the sort of thing that most climbers of the Grépon
called by no means excessively difficult and certainly easier than
Mummery’s crack, then it would have to be admitted that rock-climbing
had, indeed, its points, and that we were sadly in need of practice.
A little later, however, the mystery was solved. Going over to the
Nantillons side of the summit platform, with a view to glancing at
the way down to the Col des Nantillons, I discovered a perfectly
straightforward crack of no great length which ended on the easy ledge
that we had previously neglected to explore. There could be no doubt
that we had taken the wrong way up the final summit pinnacle. Several
months later, I learnt that this formidable crack was the famous Venetz
crack, climbed but once before, and that in 1881, on the occasion of
the first ascent of the mountain. To this day the only other ascent
recorded was made in 1923 by a party led by Mr. G. S. Bower. That no
more than three ascents have been made in the course of thirty-two
years is testimony enough to what this crack offers.
[Illustration: _The summit of the Grépon._
_The Venetz crack is the dark cleft which ends under the flat stone on
the summit._
_Facing page 258._
]
Returning to Max, I imparted the reassuring news, but to heedless ears,
for he proved far more interested in plying the usual inefficient
pocket-knife edition of a tin-opener in an attempt to lay bare the
luscious contents of a two-pound tin of Californian peaches. His
efforts were too vigorous and determined for any tin to withstand for
long, and we were soon enjoying a feast of peaches and Nestlé’s milk.
The only thing lacking was snow which was sorely needed, not only to
dilute the somewhat concentrated ingredients of our meal, but also to
assuage the thirst that assailed us. After lunch, following our usual
custom where time was of no vital importance, we settled down to sleep,
not omitting, however, to secure the rope to the summit stone as a
guard against the dangers of rolling out of bed. We found out later
that these simple actions had been assiduously watched from Chamonix
and gravely misconstrued by the many telescope owners who, while making
petty fortunes, had been explaining to their clientèle of trippers that
we were two mad young Englishmen who would certainly come to grief
because we had with us no stalwart guides to ensure our safety. Now,
on lying down to sleep, we suddenly disappeared from their view, and
the rumour at once went round that we had fallen off the summit! Two
hours passed by without our reappearing, and the rumour had deepened
into conviction; even one of our friends in Chamonix had begun to have
fears for our safety. At 3 p.m. we awoke and began to prepare for the
descent. This sudden resurrection put an end to the supposed tragedy,
but henceforward we were not only _fous_ but _absolument fous_, for no
self-respecting Chamoniard has any use for a mountain-top except to
leave it as soon as is decently possible after gaining it. Personally
I love to dally in such places as long as is compatible with safety.
Memories of hours spent stretched out in half-somnolent ease on the
great sun-kissed slabs of summits, in splendid isolation, with the
blue vault of heaven above and the brown-green earth spread out below,
are treasure beyond price, eternally one’s own and never to be lost,
inviolate to the onslaughts of the getting, grabbing world.
The descent on the Nantillons side of the summit was effected without
difficulty, and landed us out on the previously neglected ledge close
to a collection of rope slings indicative of the beginning of the
next pitch. This proved to be a chimney some eighty feet long and
seemingly quite unclimbable, at all events in its upper portion; the
doubled rope, however, solved the problem as effectively as usual, and
we found ourselves on a little platform at the top of an apparently
almost unbroken series of huge precipitous slabs falling away to the
Nantillons Glacier. To descend without an enormous amount of spare
rope seemed out of the question, but, as the edge of the platform on
which we stood was garnished with the bleached remains of two rope
slings, we concluded that it was the usual way down. So Max held my
rope and let me over the precipice. I descended quite a hundred feet,
but no feasible way out revealed itself, and I had to go back. The
return cost us both a stern effort, Max pulling in the rope while I
lent him as much assistance as possible by making what use I could of
the few available holds. Casting round for a way out of the _impasse_,
we chanced upon a boot nail in the bed of a steep but short chimney
leading up in the direction of the ridge. We immediately followed up
this timely clue and gained the top of the chimney, to find, a few
steps farther on, a simple and straightforward line of descent open out
before us. The way led frequently over steep ground, but everywhere
there was a profusion of holds and belays, and the rock still remained
as firm and reliable as cast iron. At half-past four, the Col des
Nantillons was under foot, and the acrobatic part of the day’s work was
over. One could not help feeling that a baboon would have acquitted
himself throughout with much more distinction than any of his human
brothers.
The remainder of the descent was accomplished without incident.
The crevasses near the head of the Nantillons Glacier were readily
negotiated, thanks to reliable snow bridges that obligingly provided a
crossing at the very places one would have chosen oneself. Passing by
the foot of the couloir leading to the Col Charmoz-Grépon, we picked
up the axe and knapsack left there in the morning and then, swinging
round to the left, hurried across the sérac-swept slopes to the great
crevasse. The ladder was still in position, and soon we were on the
little rock island, where the rope was taken off and stowed away.
We had originally intended to make Chamonix that evening; but to do
that now would entail hurry. It was our last day of a wonderful season
of health and happiness-giving adventure in the Alps, and we were loth
to leave the scene. To hasten from the midst of these great towers of
silence and the white purity of the snows they nurse was impossible.
So we decided to pass the night at the Montanvert. Eager to retard
the flight of our little season of freedom, we strolled downwards
with lagging steps, pausing at whiles to drink in the glories of the
mountains as the shades of night closed in upon them.
That evening, after dinner, we sat together, somewhat heavy-hearted, on
the hôtel terrace overlooking the Mer de Glace. The Grandes Jorasses
and the Rôchefort ridge were dimly outlined against the starry heaven.
The Charmoz and the Dru, dark, ghostly pillars almost piercing the
skies, stood, as if on guard, at the portals of that great world of
snow and ice-bound rock where we had found true happiness, and to which
we were now to bid farewell for a space.
* * * * *
It may be instructive to consider in how far a training in British
rock-climbing will help or hinder the aspirant to high adventure in the
Alps or any of the world’s greater mountain masses. To the uninitiated,
mountaineering is the dangerous, foolhardy, yet withal praiseworthy
sport of the superman, heroic of physique and nerve, who gaily struts
along the brinks of, or nonchalantly hangs over, awesome precipices
and, disregarding all moral obligations, continually and with careless
smile fences with death. In short, the untutored idea superficially
conceives of a mountain as a thing of dark, frowning, rocky glories--a
natural stage on which a superior type of acrobat displays his muscular
agility. And so the term “mountaineer” loses its dignity and becomes
synonymous with that of “rock-climber.” But the “white domes of frozen
air” exist outside the poetic imagination, and mountaineering is not
a simple but a complex science, and the proficient mountaineer is not
only a rock-climber, but a snow-and-ice craftsman, an adept in the
use of rope and axe, a pathfinder, something of a meteorologist, an
organiser and, no less important, must have acquired the knowledge
of how to conserve his energy, build up his powers of endurance
and cultivate the proper mentality. To what extent can the various
attributes of the composite being that is the true mountaineer be
fostered amongst the crags and fells of the British Isles?
From the geological point of view, the rocks of the Alps may be divided
into two classes, namely silicious rock and calcareous rock. The
mountaineer will further subdivide these two classes into good, bad
or indifferent; thus, in all, the climber in the Alps meets with six
different types of rock. These might be multiplied according to degree,
but for our present purpose such meticulous treatment is needless. As
a general rule, the rock-climber in the British Isles encounters only
the good silicious class of rock. Other classes are to be met with,
but a glance at the list of the more popular and outstanding climbs,
such as those on Kern Knotts, the Pillar Rock, and Lliwedd, would seem
to show that they are more or less avoided. In time, this one-sided
training inculcates bad habits of which the climber does not even know
himself guilty. Of the many types of rock met with in the Alps, the
good silicious brand is the most rare; so that there the knowledge of
the one form and the inexperience of the other forms of rock are likely
to prove quite inadequate, indeed even dangerous, assets. A school that
teaches one to master only the safe is no sufficient school for the
would-be mountaineer, and the British-trained climber will soon find
that he has much to learn of rock-climbing in the Alps.
Again, stone avalanches are unknown in Britain. The only stones that
fall there do so through human agency--the clumsy placing of a foot or
hand, the careless use of the rope--and not through the working of
the natural forces of sun and frost. When and where stone-falls may be
expected to occur is part of the mountain lore that a mountaineer must
acquire, and it will not be acquired, at first-hand at least, on the
Cumbrian or Welsh hills.
It is often reiterated that Great Britain provides climbs of a higher
standard than do the Alps. Disregarding the obvious limitations of the
former (not least of these being that in Great Britain almost all the
difficult climbs are ascents, and difficult descents are neglected),
and the fact that they are, as it were, at the back door of one’s
hotel, whereas the latter are approached only after hours of hard and
fatiguing preliminary work which robs one’s strength of its edge, I
should like to make a few simple comparisons from my own experiences.
One morning in July, 1913, I climbed Kern Knotts crack twice, first
without the rope and alone, then roped and as leader. The niche was
gained by the crack below; the useful chock-stone above the niche was
missing. No shoulder was used. During the afternoon I climbed the
Eagle’s Nest ridge which still ranks, I believe, as one of the most
difficult of British rock ascents. On this climb I trailed behind me a
hundred-foot length of half-inch diameter rope, one end of which was
tied round my waist. Nailed boots were worn on all three climbs. I
came to the conclusion that Kern Knotts crack is shorter, less steep,
requires less skill and knack, and is altogether considerably less
difficult than the famous Mummery crack on the Grépon. It will not for
one moment bear comparison with the Venetz crack on the same peak. The
Eagle’s Nest ridge, though very difficult, is undoubtedly less trying
than the first buttress on the west ridge of the Bifertenstock.
[Illustration:
_Photo A. I. I. Finch._
_Good, sound rock._
_Facing page 264._
]
What are the opportunities in Great Britain for training in snow
and ice-craft? I have met with only five different kinds of snow in
the hills of these islands; and all were good from the mountaineer’s
point of view. The snow was either cohesive or could be made to cohere.
In the Alps I have taken notes of some of the characteristic features
and properties of very many distinct types of snow, the majority of
which called for the exercise of special caution in venturing upon the
slopes on which they lay. Ice is rarely met with in Great Britain,
and then never in sufficient quantity to necessitate the cutting, at
the outside, of more than a few steps--poor practice indeed for the
pitiless ice slopes of the east face of Monte Rosa. Avalanches and
snow-shields are unknown here; in the Alps, especially in winter, and
in the Himalayas at all times, one must be on one’s guard against such
dangers. Ignorance in this respect has been the cause of some of the
most deplorable of mountaineering accidents. Glaciers and crevasses are
non-existent in Britain. In fine, as a training ground for snow and
ice-craft, our homeland hills are useless. To assert what one does not
know is a fairly universal human failing; and there are some British
rock-climbers who contend that snow and ice-craft is no more difficult
than rock-climbing. In reality there is not one of the big snow and
ice expeditions of the Alps that does not represent a far more serious
undertaking, physically and mentally, than the Grépon, Requin or any
other of the better known “crack” rock-climbs. Not only does British
rock-climbing fail to provide the beginner with practice in the use of
the axe for sounding, step-cutting and belaying, but it also fails to
teach him what is almost equally important--how to handle and carry
the axe when it is not actually required. On ninety-nine out of every
hundred scrambles at home the axe is left behind altogether.
Moreover, in the use of the rope, non-Alpine and Alpine practices
vary greatly. Owing to the shortness of climbs in Great Britain, time
is immaterial. Parties move one man at a time. The leader climbs on
ahead, free from the encumbrances of axe and knapsack, until he finds
a suitable belay. The second man follows, likewise unencumbered, as
the leader takes in the rope. The last man sometimes carries a light
knapsack, though I myself have never seen it done, nor do the numerous
pictures of British rock-climbing now before me show any trace of
such impedimenta. Time is too valuable in the Alps to permit of such
tactics except where the difficulties are considerable. In the case of
almost any Alpine expedition, for more than half the time the members
of a party are moving all together; and to be proficient in the use
of the rope means that one must be able not only to move without its
continually getting in the way, but also to look after it and keep
it taut, so as to check a slip immediately, while actually climbing.
Practice in this is necessarily limited in Great Britain. Hence it is
no uncommon sight to see a party of British-trained rock-climbers on an
easy Swiss rock peak, with the rope in loose, untidy coils, catching in
jutting out rocks, dragging about loose stones and generally acting as
a menace to safety. This abuse of the rope is, paradoxically enough,
the outcome of the undeniable virtues of sure-footedness and steadiness
that have been learned on the British crags. The fault does not lie in
the climbers’ incapacity to keep the rope taut, but merely in that,
trusting to their steadiness, they do not bother to do so. I have
observed that many of those who err in the handling of the rope are as
sure-footed as cats.
Route-finding in the Alps, and still more so in the other great
mountain groups of the world, is a matter of prime importance.
Before embarking on an expedition in the Alps, the climber first
makes his choice of mountain, and then, according to the degree of
difficulty desired, chooses the face or ridge by which to gain the
summit. This done, he brings all his knowledge of route-finding to
bear upon the selection of the easiest and safest way up that face
or ridge. Difficulties are avoided as much as possible. The adoption
of bull-at-a-gate methods will lead to much loss of time; and time,
of little consequence in England, is a factor to be reckoned with
seriously in the Alps. Owing to the limited nature of climbs at
home, the reverse practice is adopted. One is taught to look for
difficulties, instead of avoiding them and seeking the line of least
resistance; and the habit thus engrained is apt to persist when
the British-trained rock-climber looks for adventure abroad. The
corollaries are numerous. Those that most concern our purpose are
that he learns on British crags only to a very limited degree how to
conserve his energy, build up his powers of endurance or cultivate the
proper mentality. All these things are acquired only in a school of
hardships under physical and climatic conditions that are foreign to
our islands.
Once one accepts the fact that the difference between a mountain and
a crag is not only one of scale, it will be readily acknowledged
that he who disports himself on the latter has much to learn and,
possibly, something to unlearn before he can become a mountaineer in
the full sense of the word. How many of those who have begun their
climbing in Great Britain have accomplished anything of note in real
mountaineering? Rock-climbing is too liable to strangle any innate
aptitude for mountaineering proper, and to restrict achievement in the
wider craft to a level of dull mediocrity.
For those whose ambitions do not soar beyond home, the crags and fells
are a pleasurable playing ground where they may scramble to their
hearts’ content; to those who have well served their apprenticeship in
the wider and loftier playground of the Alps, the homeland hills will
provide useful muscular exercise and plenty of healthy fun; but for
the beginner who aims at being a true mountaineer, the only safe place
within easy reach to learn the craft is the Alps.
* * * * *
On the morning after our ascent of the Grépon, while waiting for the
Chamonix train, Max and I were comparing with the reality M. Vallot’s
well-known, panoramic sketch on the stone in front of the Montanvert.
The first batch of the day’s sightseers had arrived, among them a tall,
faultlessly garbed young lady, who approached and addressed us.
“Say, are you mountaineers?”--evidently having come to the conclusion
at the sight of our heavy hobnailed boots and rather tattered clothes.
“Well--yes,” replied my brother. “At least, we have been doing some
climbing.”
Pointing to the Géant, she inquired:
“Have you climbed that mountain?”
“Yes!”
“And those?” indicating in turn each of the summits of the Rôchefort
ridge.
“Yes.”
Finally, with outstretched finger towards the Dru and a note of
challenge in her voice: “And that one?”
“Yes,” answered Max; adding, “we climbed it a few days ago.”
Stepping a pace or two backwards, the tall, young lady very slowly, but
distinctly, closed the conversation.
“Well, I guess I always knew you English were some story-tellers!”