Avalanche by moonlight

The ordinary experience on the UK's mountains can be a predictable one. The weather is either middling, with low cloud, blustery wind and a splutter of rain, or it's downright terrible--but you lace up your boots anyway, telling yourself you need the exercise. You reach the summit cocooned in your own world of damp Goretex and zero visibility. It's definitely a hill (look, there's the cairn so it must be the top!) but the experience is lacking somehow, and deep down you know there have been better days than this.

The goal of the mountaineer is to seek the extraordinary experiences. They are not always comfortable or safe, but they reaffirm what it is to be alive, and they are never forgotten.

Moonlight and avalanche

In January 2010 I was living at the Clachaig Inn, Glencoe, and regularly getting out into the mountains. We called that season the "Winter of Legends" afterwards, because it kept on giving and never seemed to end: seven months of snow, deep cold, clear days, and the ice encroaching ever deeper into the glens. The river Coe froze to its bed and the Upper Falls of Coire Bheith became a pillar of pure water ice.

It was an extraordinary time, and I was immersed in the romance of it all. I was no longer satisfied by ordinary days on the hill.

Late in that month I began to wander the mountains at night. A landscape is transformed by the onset of darkness, and it becomes a magical realm where space and time distort and the senses are unleashed to roam at will over the land. If the sky is cloudy, the universe narrows to a cone of light projected from the headtorch strapped to your forehead. Navigation becomes a challenge and the most intimate knowledge of a mountain is tested.

It's when the full moon comes out to play that the fun really begins.

Ascending Coire Bheith by moonlight

The Cathedral of Glencoe

On the 29th of January I found myself rapidly climbing the corrie leading up into the Bidean nam Bian range. I had no specific goal beyond the urge to wander, to immerse myself in the mountain. Eyes adjusted to the light and my crampons crunched on hard snow as I climbed, almost in a dreamlike state that mirrored the watchful silence of the hills. Conditions were so well-frozen and the avalanche forecast so favourable that I expected good conditions wherever I went.

Without knowing why I had come that way, I found myself in the grand corrie beneath Bidean's northern cliffs. This place had always attracted me; quite why I do not know, but the dark and sinister cliffs seemed to emit a magnetic force that pulled me ever nearer on each visit, fascinated by the vertical grooves that rose, rimmed with ice, to the battlements far above. I would wander the base of the cliffs seeking some feasible route of ascent, each time repelled and yet attracted all the more. In my mind I likened the architecture of that silent place to a cathedral: built by forces beyond comprehension over vast spans of time, yet now crumbling and deserted.

Bidean nam Bian

In my awestruck, dreamlike state, I once again prowled the snowslopes, seeking a line of weakness. I found myself cowering in a crevasse beneath the shattered tower of Collie's Pinnacle which guards the lower entrances of Central Gully. I had not completely abandoned myself to the forces of fate and entropy; a little while ago I had dug an avalanche test pit and concluded that the slope was completely safe, well-frozen, and unlikely to fail.

Central Gully

Now I ventured into the lower left branch of the gully: a cavernous slot of the deepest possible shadow, yet filled with a glittering bed of snow that reflected the radiance of the moon. I seemed to tread on pure light as I swung my axes and heard the smash and echo of my intrusion into the mountain's silence. Gradually, the angle increased and I felt uncomfortable soloing such ground without a rope.

With the greatest of care I crept back down to my crevasse where I paused for a little while to think about my position. Well, I thought, why not climb something a little easier? The lower right branch of the gully was more straightforward and ought to be safe enough, even in the dark.

I traversed the slope towards the second gully entrance. A step of water ice reared up in front of me, short but sharp, a groove of perhaps five metres that had to be overcome. On with it, then! I swung an axe and the blade gouged a huge dinnerplate of ice out of the slope in front of me. Fragments rained down on my boots and for a moment I thought I would fall off. Just a dodgy placement, I thought, and swung again.

Once more the ice shattered. The moon blazed down, hard and cruel, and as I felt the chill through my woollen gloves I realised that the temperature must be so low that the ice had turned brittle. Was it -10? -15? I had no idea, but if it was cold enough for the river to freeze, all the way down there in the glen, then it must be cold indeed on the cliffs high above. It was time to make a retreat.

A Sudden Fracture

I climbed back down to the snowslopes beneath. On a whim I decided to head round to the other side of the hill to walk up the north ridge. I walked past the crevasse at the foot of Collie's Pinnacle, and selected a descending traverse line on steep snow with my axe in my right hand, biting into the slope to give me security. I walked with care, every crampon point connecting with the slope.

That was when I heard the sound, deep in the pack beneath my feet. It sounded like this: WHUMP.

I froze. Suddenly the foolishness of my situation was appallingly obvious to me. I was a thousand metres up the highest mountain in Glencoe, in the middle of the night and with no headtorch. Nobody knew where I was. If I was avalanched right now, nobody would find me for a very long time. Besides, it was an awful long way down 35 degree snow to the boulders at the bottom of the cliff.

I took another step. WHUMP. This time a huge crack shot across the surface of the snow from my footprint, and I felt the ground move under me. I was walking on what amounted to a bomb on a hair trigger.

What do I do?

Before I could move another step, the slope fractured. A huge slab of snow, with me on it, sank a short distance downhill and I overbalanced, falling to my knees. Instinctively I brought my axe up and threw myself into the self-arrest position. The pick dragged through the snow and anchored fast. Fortunately the slide stopped almost as quickly as it had begun and I found myself looking into what seemed to be a bottomless crevasse where a slab of unstable snow had broken free.

It was all over so quickly that I hardly knew what just happened, but then it hit me: that was only a warning. Next time the entire slope could detach and that would be the end of my moonlit adventure.

I abandoned my plans to traverse the cliffs and instead made tracks straight down to the boulderfield at the bottom. When I reached safety I took a few minutes to sit on a rock and reflect on how close I had come to disaster once again.

Why had I taken such a foolish risk? Had I been lulled into a false sense of security by the Cat.1 avalanche forecast, or tricked by my own familiarity with this hill, thinking it would not hurt me? Did I not take sufficient care in conducting my own tests for avalanche risk? In truth I think a combination of these factors, plus the distorting effect of night on the mountain, conspired to blind me to the awesome dangers mountains can wield in the winter months when trod by the unwary.

Climbing with an Alpenstock

"It is a fact that everything which can be done with the alpenstock can be done also and better with the axe. No proper step can be quickly made with an alpenstock."
~
"[The alpenstock] has a long tang running into the wood ... and its termination is extremely sharp. With a point of this description steps can be made in ice almost as readily as with an axe."

The first quote is from Mountaineering by C.T. Dent, published in 1892. The second is from Edward Whymper's Scrambles Amongst the Alps (1871). By the closing years of the 19th century the alpenstock was rapidly fading from use: a relic of older times when mountaineering was a heroic business and specialist equipment did not exist.

In this article I'd like to discuss this humble item of climbing gear and hopefully go some way towards demonstrating its importance to the development of mountaineering as a sport.

What is an alpenstock?

Firstly, definitions! Nowadays the word "alpenstock" is used interchangeably with old-fashioned ice axes of the sort popular until the 1960s. Any ice axe with a shaft in excess of 75cm (especially one with a wooden shaft) is commonly called an alpenstock in the 21st century. However, this is factually incorrect.

An alpenstock is a simple wooden staff, an inch or less in diameter, capped at one end with a steel spike. The length varies between 4'6" and around 7', depending on personal preference. That's all there is to it!

Its function is primarily as a support or third leg to aid balance while climbing steep snow or crossing a glacier. The spike anchors the climber firmly to the mountain and can even be used to chip out steps in ice or hard snow.

"Alpenstock" is a German word; the French is baton, and English explorers often simply used "stick" or "fell pole" (although the German and French terms were also commonly used by Englishmen). "Alpenstock" was sometimes mistakenly pronounced "helping stick" by English tourists.

Some words from Edward Whymper on the subject of the alpenstock:

"When a man who is not a born mountaineer gets upon the side of a mountain ... he ultimately procures an alpenstock and turns himself into a tripod. This simple implement is invaluable to the mountaineer, and when he is parted from it involuntarily (and who has not been?) he is inclined to say, just as one may remark of other friends, “You were only a stick—a poor stick—but you were a true friend, and I should like to be in your company again.”

When were they first used?

Alpenstocks are the oldest mountaineering tools known to mankind, first used by shepherds, travellers, and anyone else venturing into steep terrain. They were probably used by Neolithic people and were certainly used by the Romans. When Mont Blanc was first climbed in 1786, Balmat and Paccard were armed with alpenstocks and short hatchets--a combination that served mountaineers for over sixty years until the ice axe was invented in the 1850s. In the old days, the stick was used for balance and the hatchet was used to make steps where required.

Crampon - 1860s

It's worth highlighting the fact that crampons were commonly used in the Alps between the 1780s and the 1820s, but had fallen out of favour by the early 1840s and were not widely adopted again until the early 20th century. With spiked shoes, less emphasis was placed on cutting steps and therefore the hatchet was less frequently used. After crampons went out of fashion, climbers used hobnailed boots and were obliged to cut steps more often.

An ice axe - not an alpenstock!

The ice axe boasted greater utility in the form of a combined cutting blade and pick used to fashion steps in hard ice. It both enhanced and replaced the alpenstock. Although this process took time, by the early years of the 20th century the transition was almost complete.

A modern alpenstock

In the Alps, most of the glacier passes were first climbed by men wielding alpenstocks. Some surprisingly difficult mountains were also climbed in the pre ice axe era, for example the Jungfrau and Wetterhorn. This simple tool was of vital importance because it was cheap and ubiquitous, and added a modest degree of safety to the business of crossing glaciers and climbing mountains. It therefore helped propel Alpine exploration into a the limelight of popularity, and well into the 1860s it was perfectly normal to see mountaineers climbing major peaks the old-fashioned way, with stick and hatchet. Some climbers, for example Albert Smith, remained staunch opponents of the ice axe, claiming the traditional ways were better.

In Great Britain, the alpenstock enjoyed an extended spell of use. Ice axes were almost unknown in the Scottish mountains until well into the 1880s, although by the 1890s a growing emphasis on climbing (as opposed to mere hillwalking) led to the gradual adoption of the axe by British mountaineers.

In 2013, the ice axe is seen as an essential safety tool for all forms of winter mountaineering, and the alpenstock has been replaced by the telescopic trekking pole: a useful item for approaches and easy walks, but unsuitable for mountaineering.

An accident on the Matterhorn

In 1862 young Edward Whymper was carrying out a determined campaign to be the first man to climb the Matterhorn, Forbes' "impossible monolith" near Zermatt. In his classic work Scrambles Amongst the Alps we read this harrowing account of an accident that befell him while attempting to cross an icefield armed with nothing but an alpenstock and nailed boots:

"So I held to the rock with my right hand, and prodded at the snow with the point of my stick until a good step was made, and then, leaning round the angle, did the same for the other side. So far well, but in attempting to pass the corner (to the present moment I cannot tell how it happened) I slipped and fell. The knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into some rocks about a dozen feet below; they caught something and tumbled me off the edge, head over heels, into the gully; the bâton was dashed from my hands, and I whirled downwards in a series of bounds, each longer than the last; now over ice, now into rocks; striking my head four or five times, each time with increased force. Bâton, hat, and veil skimmed by and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks—which I had started—as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow had been the escape from utter destruction. As it was, I fell nearly 200 feet in seven or eight bounds."


What is it really like to climb with an alpenstock?

The author armed with his alpenstock

I own a short, lightweight alpenstock, constructed from a broom handle and steel spike. It's just over four feet in length and the handle end is wrapped with rubber self-amalgamating tape to provide a sturdy grip (not quite a period detail, but a very practical one!) I also chose to add a tether made from a short length of rope.

Although most of my historical climbing escapades are accompanied by my trusty vintage ice axe, I'm currently writing fiction set in an earlier period so it's only right that I should try out the older technique for myself! I've been on several outings with the alpenstock, although until now I have not found myself on hard snow or ice where stepcutting would normally be required.

Frankly, the idea of trying to chip steps with the point of an alpenstock isn't a very appetising one, and I can appreciate why the pioneers readily turned to ice axes when they became widely available. However, for general hill use the alpenstock is a great bit of kit. It's almost as light as a trekking pole. It doesn't fold shut, of course, but that's actually an advantage: what it loses in compactness it makes up for in rigidity, simplicity, and reliability.

I'm sufficiently comfortable using my alpenstock that I would be very happy using it on mountaineering ascents throughout the year in Scotland, but only on easy terrain and only if I have crampons with me. Of one thing I can be completely certain: for as long as mankind feels the need or inclination to climb mountains, some form of spiked staff will exist as an aid to balance.

Related posts

Oscar Eckenstein: the first true innovator of climbing equipment?

More webcams in the hills: an answer to the mountain safety question?

It seems that the bad news keeps coming this winter. Thirteen mountaineers have so far lost their lives during the course of the season, and many (if not most) of these incidents have attracted national press coverage. The most recent fatality occurred on Saturday when a 57 year old walker perished near Streap.

A lot of conflicting opinions have been voiced about this issue. Generally speaking, opinion is divided into two camps: those who know little about mountaineering and want to see it regulated or restricted, and those who actually know what they're talking about. The latter group, which includes the majority or walkers and climbers (not to mention our national organisations, namely the BMC and MCofS) have been energetically putting forward the view that we do not need regulation and never will; what we need is better education.

For my own views on the matter, please see my popular article: The freedom of the hills is under threat.

The latest hair-brained scheme to reduce mountaineering accidents has been put forward by Scottish Conservative politician Liz Smith, as explained in this article by Sky News: Call for more webcams on Scottish mountains.

The role of webcams in mountaineering

Webcams have played a role in mountaineering and climbing for many years. There are quite a few of them up and down the country. Some of them are modern and high-resolution, while others are old, transmit grainy images, and sometimes go down for weeks or months on end. Back in 2004 I used to study the Great Gable webcam in Wasdale every day to watch the weather and the seasons.

LakelandWeb used to run a brilliant network of webcams, covering Langdale, Wasdale, and other areas. Sadly it is no longer maintained.

Webcams can be a valuable tool to the experienced eye. At a glance, it's possible to get an impression of prevailing weather from a well-sited webcam, and combined with other information sources they can help build up an idea of what conditions might be like on the ground.

What about an inexperienced walker looking at that same webcam?

Webcams are no substitute for experience and education

An experienced mountaineer will use a wide variety of information sources and tools. When planning a mountain trip, I will make use of the following resources to judge conditions:

1. Personal experience of the terrain
2. Maps
3. Guidebooks
4. Weather forecasts - both national and hill-specific (Met Office or MWIS)
5. Avalanche forecasts from SAIS
6. Recent blog posts from hill-goers
7. Reports on Twitter and Facebook
8. Reports on UKC

... And that's all before I set foot on the hill in question! Judging conditions is a process that continues from the very first moment of planning until the last step of the descent. I will use my experience and judgement, combined with the education I have received from a number of sources, to make the necessary decisions. Avalanche awareness only begins with a forecast; the real work of judging slope safety is done on the ground, and it's a learning process that never ends.

The point I am making is that it isn't enough to know the weather forecast and to have looked at a grainy online image. Inexperienced mountaineers suffer from a dangerous combination of enthusiasm and a lack of appreciation for the dangers of the hills, particularly in winter conditions. While enthusiasm is to be applauded and lack of experience is no crime, it would be wrong for an inexperienced party to place their trust in webcam images that may not even be up to date. Webcams are a tool, but the bottom line is that they can be downright misleading and can induce a false sense of security.

After all, could you accurately judge avalanche conditions from this picture? You can't even see into Coire na Ciste where avalanches frequently occur.

Image from http://goo.gl/nw08L

So what is the solution?

The solution, as many others have been saying recently, is an improvement in education and engagement. We should discourage inexperienced mountaineers from placing their faith in online tools that promise much but deliver little when it really matters. Emphasis should be placed on building up skills and experience gradually, learning from more experienced climbers, and developing a well-rounded appreciation for mountain hazards and how to cope with them. The solution does not lie in knee-jerk regulation or schemes such as ubiquitous webcams--schemes which will do more harm than good in the long run.

Resources

MyOutdoors mountain webcam directory

Another list of mountain webcams

Debunking the mountain safety myths

Glencoe: The Mountain Rescue Frontline