Above the Snow Line Part 10

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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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 _risques_; and to a great many the idea seems constantly present that mountaineering owes its princ.i.p.al 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 a.s.sociations as Alpine clubs, but rather, like attacks of distemper in dogs, have increased their value.

It would be easy enough, from the mountaineers 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 pa.s.s 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 Alpsnamely, 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, Pa.s.ses, and Glaciers were rapidly sold out. It is, the writer fears, only too true in these latter days that mountaineers may be cla.s.sified as Past and Present. Whether a third cla.s.s may be added of the Future is a questionto be answered, I hope, in the affirmative.

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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 a.s.sert that every member of this mult.i.tude 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 pa.s.ses, 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.

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Five-and-twenty years ago in Switzerland there were numberless heights untrodden, pa.s.ses uncrossed, and regions unexplored. Then, moreover, there were comparatively but few to cross the pa.s.ses 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 guidesmerely those, in fact (not such a numerous cla.s.s as people seem generally to imagine), who had made chamois-hunting one of the princ.i.p.al 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 thorougha 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 ggischhorn 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. .h.i.therto 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 p.r.o.ne 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 princ.i.p.al cause that will eventually lead to the decay of mountaineering. There is a reasonable probability, however, to judge from the Registrar-Generals 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 amus.e.m.e.nt or the regaining of health was the princ.i.p.al 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 untouchedsuch, 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.

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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.

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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 arguments 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. c.o.xwell and Glaishers 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 Everestpossibly 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.

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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 a.s.sume 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 aronaut 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. Hamels 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. Pa.s.singham started from Chamouni, ascended the mountain, and returned to his hotel in a little less than twenty hours.(11) Compare such an ascent as thisnot by any means an isolated instancewith De Saussures 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 aronaut may acclimatise himself to great heights by repeated ascents; but how much more may the mountaineer then hope to do so! The aronaut 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 rapidsthat 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)

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With regard to the first point, we know indeed this muchthat, 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.

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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 alt.i.tudes, 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 accountthey 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.

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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 worlds 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 r.e.t.a.r.ding 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 Dukes 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 pa.s.s 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 normalbetter, 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 Vorwrts, immer vorwrts!

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 pa.s.sage, 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 inst.i.tuted. 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.

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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 Htel 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 offor more probably miss firebouquets are displayed, champagne and compliments are poured out; both the latter expressions of congratulation equally ga.s.sy, 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 mult.i.tudinous 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 agolong 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.

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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.

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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 experiencethat is, by learning gradually the art of mountaineeringthat 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sist 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 pa.s.ses. 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 pastimean amus.e.m.e.nt; 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 amus.e.m.e.nt that the true and deeper pleasure is to be found. A tyro in cricket would make himself an object of ridicule in a high-cla.s.s 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.

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