First steps to climbing (3): "notorious for unpleasant language..."

Boots and Foot-wear.—Sound feet are the climber’s first necessity; these and the knowledge of how to use them are probably the most important of all equipment details. The expert is distinguished by the use of his feet, not his hands. 

Image from First Steps to Climbing.

Good mountain boots, properly nailed with abiding nails, are difficult to obtain. Certainly the best of all are made in England; there is no need to send abroad either for boots or nails. Many of the Swiss guides know this nowadays, and send accordingly to a small town in Lakeland. From Keswick also have come the boots for well-known expeditions to the Caucasus, Spitzbergen, and Mount Everest. The writer is loth to mention names, but to do so here may be the best way to help the beginner. In his earliest mountaineering days the writer was fortunate enough to discover a clever artisan who was anxious to experiment and learn. This was Mr. H. Harden, of St. John’s Street, Keswick, and nowadays his handwork on footwork has touched mountains almost everywhere. Numerous other makers advertise in the various climbing journals, and another well-known mountain boot specialist is Mr. J. Carter, 8. Molton Street, London, W.1.

Rubber shoes are much used nowadays for British rock climbing of exceptional severity. and this is their only justification, though in the Dolomites they may be used as standard foot-wear. In a following chapter this matter will receive full attention. Probably the best kind for average use is the black rubber-soled variety with canvas tops. These are commonly known as ”plimsoles” and only cost three or four shillings the pair. The cheaper kind with unstamped soles are not as good. One pair lasts about a week’s continuous climbing in the Dolomites, the most expensive qualities scarcely survive longer, and ‘‘plimsoles’’ have also the merit of easily fitting into an inside pocket.

Crampons, steigeisen, or climbing irons are a series of metal spikes fixed on a metal frame-work and the whole is attached to the boot somewhat in the manner of the old-fashioned wooden skates. On rocks they have been tried and found useless, but on hard snow and ice-slopes set at easy angles they have distinct advantages. Theoretically they are magnificent, but somehow or other British mountaineers in general have never favoured them. The same may be said of Swiss guides. They save step cutting to a considerable extent, and after some practice quite steep snow-slopes can be walked upon with comparative ease. The point is that each member of the party must have crampons, otherwise steps require cutting. A well-known guide told the writer that even though crampons were worn, he generally would cut steps for his patrons. Crampon parties are notorious for unpleasant language, for it is seldom that some defect does not arise in use—some part of the fitting is forgotten or something breaks. There is more than meets the eye in the use of these aids, and strange disasters have happened whereby whole parties have been swept down.

References

From George D. Abraham, First Steps to Climbing, Mills & Boon, Limited, London, 1923.

First steps to climbing (2): “cheap ropes are an abomination”

"A safe straight pull on a steep buttress ..."
Image and caption from First Steps to Climbing

The equipment of the climber, especially in his early stages, is very often a matter of fads and fancies. The actual necessities are few. Yet they must be of the very best quality and most suitable for the purpose required. Cheap ropes, for instance, are an abomination, and numerous fatal accidents have been caused by their use…

Of equal and even greater importance is the climber himself – his individual equipment, both mental and physical. The writer holds strong views that climbing is only suitable for those who have reached the age of discretion. Boys may be taken out by their experienced elders, but before the age of twenty-one serious work, such as leading, should not be undertaken. The question of over-straining the bodily powers, though this may prove serious, is not in mind here, but rather the youthful lack of responsibility. The sad records of any public school which has bird-nesting crags within convenient reach will accentuate this.

References

From George D. Abraham, First Steps to Climbing, Mills & Boon, Limited, London, 1923.

First steps to climbing (1): “no great danger is likely”

On Milestone Buttress, Tryfan (North Wales)
Image from First Steps to Climbing

How shall I start climbing? This question is constantly asked, and the answer is not easy. Formerly the writer used to advise the beginner who is alone to go to Wastdale and engage Josef Gaspard for a series of expeditions. In his native Dauphiné, the well-known guide has now married a wife and cannot come. In due course a successor may emerge.

Undoubtedly the best plan is to begin on the homeland mountains, and the only place where professional help is at present available is at Sligachan in Skye. At that capital centre, members of the McKenzie family are still available and no great danger is likely under their tutelage. Moreover, the Coolin are probably the best mountains in Britain on which the beginner may learn not only cragmanship, but also real mountaineering ….

But ‘tis a far cry to Skye, and the writer usually recommends Wastdale Head in Cumberland as the best starting-ground. At all holiday seasons, the world-famous hotel is well filled wilh enthusiasts, and by making himself mildly agreeable, the would-be climber will find his friendliness requited. There are usually plenty of men who will take an interest in a keen beginner, and he will soon be invited to join some party or other. … Moreover the landlord at Wastdale Head has a fine knowledge of climbs and climbers, and if asked to do so can usually place the inexperienced in good hands …

For a party of beginners the most effective plan, and that which really produces the best climbers, is to tackle the rocks unaided and rely on their own initiative. Perhaps most enjoyment and satisfaction may be thus attained, and in this way many of the leading experts have developed.

References

From George D. Abraham, First Steps to Climbing, Mills & Boon, Limited, London, 1923.

Time to rewild Mt Fuji?

Japan's top Meizan would be less crowded if everyone started their climbs from the mountain's foot.

On March 17, the Shizuoka prefectural assembly voted to make everyone climbing Mt Fuji from the south pay a ¥4,000 fee. Starting next summer, the fee will apply to all climbers using the three trails starting on the Shizuoka side of the mountain – the Gotemba, Subashiri and Fujinomiya routes.

This brings Shizuoka into line with Yamanashi Prefecture, on the mountain’s eastern side. Yamanashi’s officials had already decided to double their existing climbing fee to ¥4,000 from the summer of 2025.

However, Shizuoka will not attempt to limit the number of climbers using its trails at any one time. By contrast, Yamanashi Prefecture seeks to limit the number of climbers on its popular Yoshida route to 4,000 climbers a day, although it’s not clear if it has yet applied this restriction in practice.

Both prefectures will attempt to deter “bullet climbers”- those who try to climb the mountain in one all-night push – by requiring climbers to have booked a hut if they start up the mountain between 2pm and 3am. Again, it’s unclear how this policy will be enforced.

If 90,000 people climb Mount Fuji from the Shizuoka side, as expected in the coming summer, the increased fee could raise just under ¥400 million, the Nikkei has reported. The money will fund staff to collect and manage the fees at each trailhead, provide multilingual guidance for tourists, and provide safety and environmental measures. But will it solve the problem of overcrowding on the mountain trails?

When Yamanashi introduced its climbing fee and other measures last year, the prefecture’s governor, Nagasaki Kotarō, said they were intended to curb “overtourism”. In the past, Nagasaki has also flirted with the idea of converting the Subaru Line road to the mountain’s fifth station into a light railway. This, he thought, would allow the authorities to better control visitor numbers.

Governor Nagasaki is probably thinking along the right lines – as a climbing fee alone is unlikely to curb visitor numbers, it might be more effective to restrict access to the mountain. But would a light railway make enough of a difference? Perhaps a more effective solution is to abolish all forms of transport – whether road or rail – to the mountain’s various fifth stations?

The aim would be to “rewild” Mt Fuji – or, at least, restore the mountain to its status before the first access road was built in 1964. Would-be climbers would then start low down the mountain – for example, at Fuji-Yoshida’s railway station (809 metres) rather than the terminus of the Subaru Line road at 2,300 metres. Or at the JR station at Fujinomiya (121 metres) rather than the Fujisan Skyline’s carpark at 2,400 metres.

You’d keep the roads, of course, but reserve them for rescue vehicles and supply trucks to the mountain huts and teahouses. A longer climb for would-be summiteers would thin the crowds, and generate new business for restored huts and teahouses further down the mountain. Meanwhile, Mt Fuji’s famous forests would get some relief from diesel fumes.

Rewilding should also solve the problem of “bullet climbing”. After all, few have the stamina to do an all-night push through more than two or even three vertical kilometres…

It would be the climbers themselves who would stand to gain most. Instead of experiencing Mt Fuji as an overcrowded, clapped-out Instagram destination, they’d start off through those dignified old-growth forests at the mountain’s base and come out above the clouds through their own efforts. Along the way, they'd rediscover the rewilded Mt Fuji as a real mountain. 

References

Asahi Shimbun (English edition), “Shizuoka joins Yamanashi to charge 4,000 yen for Mt. Fuji climb”, 18 March 2025.

Nikkei Shimbun, 静岡県、富士山入山料は4000円軸来夏から初導入, 13 December 2024.

New glaciers found in the Japan Alps

A survey by Niigata University and others has confirmed that two more snowfields in the region around Shirouma (2,932m) qualify as "glaciers." The new ice streams bring the total of relic glaciers discovered in the Northern Japan Alps to seven or so – joining the three discovered on Tsurugi and Tateyama in 2012 and two more subsequently found on or around Shirouma.

NHK Shinshu announces the discovery of the new glaciers.

The two newly confirmed glaciers are located under the Kaerazu-zawa and Shakushi-zawa snowfields. The latter can be seen from Hakuba Village at the foot of the Shirouma (“White Horse”) massif. Shirouma is one of Fukada Kyūya’s One Hundred Mountains of Japan.

The view from Hakuba Village.

A snowfield, says NHK (see references below), is defined as a localised area of snow that remains even in the summer. It qualifies as a glacier when it meets certain criteria, such as the ice masses within it moving at a certain speed.

In a survey conducted by Niigata University and others from 2021 to 2022, it was confirmed that an ice mass with a maximum thickness of 43 meters in the Shakushi-zawa snowfield moved up to 26 centimetres in about one month, and an ice mass with a maximum thickness of 29 meters in the Kaerazu-zawa snowfield moved up to 14 centimetres. A paper summarising the survey results will be published in an international scientific journal.

Locations of the Karamatsu-zawa and Kaerazu-sawa snowfields.

There are now four snowfields in Nagano Prefecture that have been confirmed to be glaciers, including the Kakunesato snowfield on Kashimayari (2,889m), another of Fukada’s One Hundred Mountains, and the Karamatsu-zawa snowfield above Hakuba Village.

Researchers on one of the Shirouma snowfields.

As quoted by NHK, Professor Narama Chiyuki of Niigata University, who conducted the survey, said "The impact of global warming on the Japanese Alps has not been fully understood due to a lack of long-term observation data. We believe that the newly discovered glaciers can be used as an indicator of environmental change, and we would like to continue observing them in the future."

References

NHK Shinshū news web, 白馬村の２つの雪渓 新たに「氷河」と確認 新潟大などの調査, 20 January 2025.

Yama to Keikoku magazine, 北ア白馬の２雪渓新たに’氷河’と確認, March 2025 edition.

A meizanologist's diary (96)

20 January: no need to worry about snowshoes, the Sensei said last night, this is just a day hike up a 400-metre hill. Still, the hill in question looks impressive enough as it rears into the morning mists drifting over from Lake Biwa. 

There must be some good reason that our club’s president has selected it for a mid-week Wanderung in a neighbouring prefecture – I mean, surely we have mountains enough of our own back home.

Walking through a large torii, we start up a steep set of stone steps. These lead up to a rocky platform surmounted by a granite tor and, tucked into a recess beside it, a small pavilion dedicated to the Eleven-Headed Kannon. The fog has started to clear, so that we can look down onto the surrounding rice fields and factories. This part of Shiga Prefecture feels crowded compared with our own inaka.

We continue along a wooded ridge – although the preposition “along” seems to embrace a prodigious amount of “up” and “down” as well. Lunch is taken on a col after surmounting one of these interim peaklets. 

Then, restored by our rice balls, we tackle another set of well-made steps up to a shrine dedicated to the rain god – as depicted in the form of the dragons holding up the peak sanctuary’s shingled roof. 

Exquisitely carved as they may be, these effigies don’t seem to be a Sehenswürdigkeit worthy of our three-hour drive this morning. What could our president be thinking of when he chose this destination?

As we happen to be walking side by side, I think of asking him but we are distracted by the discovery of a cricket’s moulted husk lying on the trail – as if to recall Bashō’s haiku about the cricket chirping from under the fallen warrior’s helmet.

It’s curious to find such a relic of summer on “Daikan”, the Great Cold of January, which happens to fall today. The sun comes out, and jackets come off, as we walk out onto a south-facing terrace. Behind us, surmounting a natural cliff, are the remains of a huge wall, built of irregularly shaped blocks.

A distant rumbling reaches our ears. On the plain below, two bullet trains are passing each other. This must be the Tokaidō Shinkansen: so we have traversed the whole of Kinugasa-yama from north to south. I see that we are strolling through the ruins of what must once have been a puissant castle. Whoever commanded these heights would have controlled the main route between east and west Japan.

Passing through the remains of a postern gate back into the forest, we walk up into a grove of flowering sazanka trees. Admiring how the blooms of this “winter camellia” glow crimson in the warm sunlight, it takes me a moment to appreciate that the trees are hemmed around by the walls of a great hall or courtyard. Whoever built this castle evidently found themselves on the wrong side of history. 

A placard enlightens us. It was apparently one Niwa Nagahide (1535–85) who reduced this fortress for the last time, bringing to an end the rule of a local warlord. Local traditions still point out the ravine into which fled the garrison’s women and children. Were the sazanka trees planted as a memorial to them?

I’m still lacking the big picture – who attacked whom, when and why. But January days are short, even if Daikan lacks its traditional bite, and we need to get down before dark. A long flight of steps takes us down to an old temple, whose gate-keeper mulcts us of a few trumpery coins for the privilege of using the stone-flagged path.

The walk to the nearest station takes half an hour, during which a few raindrops spot down from the late-afternoon cumulus build-up. While waiting for the 15.56 local train back to our starting point, I notice we’re on the platform of the JR Azuchi station.

“Is this the same Azuchi that figures in the Azuchi-Momoyama period?” I ask. That’s right, confirms K-san, Azuchi stands for Nobunaga, and Momoyama for Hideyoshi: Niwa Nagahide stormed the castle because it got in Nobunaga’s way on his march to Kyoto. The country could not be unified until Nobunaga could walk in triumph through its gates... 

There’s standing room only on the train, as schoolchildren have occupied all the seats. After all, this is a weekday and the country has been at peace for eight decades.

A meizanologist's diary (95)

19 January: as the proud holder of a Japan Rail Pass, I’m contemplating a little Hyakumeizan foray – change at Kyoto onto the Shinkansen, zoom down to Okayama, take the local train over to Shikoku for a cable car-assisted mountain excursion (yes, a bit soft, I know) – when the Sensei says we’ll be getting up at 4.30am tomorrow.

We, I ask? Well, it seems that Alpinist A, not content with the hours of trail-breaking we did on Gomando-yama, now wants to tackle an even longer ridge in our local mountains. And we will be breaking trail all the way this time. So Alpinist A needs as large a crew as she can get. That means both of us.

We have animadverted before on the art of “rasseru”, or breaking trail on snowshoes. In deep snow, the sensation is like drowning in mochi, those glutinous rice-cakes that every New Year choke some unfortunates to death. Any invitation to rasseru should be viewed with intense suspicion.

Shortly after daybreak, Y-san drives us up to the deserted hamlet of Ohara. Well, not quite deserted: a plume of fragrant woodsmoke winds up from one of the rustic rooftops. We start by attacking a steep wall of snow. Our approaches vary from front-pointing direttissima with snowshoes, to zig-zagging with snowshoes, or taking off the snowshoes altogether.

Then we start on the “rasseru” proper. Down here in the woods, the snow seems to be bottomless. Everyone takes their turn rasseru-ing, even our oldest team member, who is in his eighth decade. Somewhere below the ridgeline, my snowshoe comes off my boot and I cede the lead to S-san (I hope she didn't hear what I said about snowshoe straps). 

At last, we’re up on the ridge. I’d expected the snow to be shallower up there – surely the wind must have carried some away – but, no, it’s as cloying as ever. At least we’re in the sunlight now. We wallow upwards through the beech trees until we find a clearing. It’s time for a break.

Back in the lead, crunching through the sastrugi on an exposed hummock, I wander left and right in search of firmer snow: surely the wind must have tamped it down somewhere? Intriguing that it hasn’t. Aren't you amazed by this, I feel like asking, in that favourite phrase of Terada Torihiko. 

Now we’re at the foot of the final upswing towards Itadani-no-kashira. “Let Alpinist A. lead this bit,” suggests the Sensei. But her words are superfluous. I have already ground to a halt, swamped and defeated by snow that has turned to mochi on this south-facing slope.

Up on the main ridge, we take a break within a stand of frozen trees. Leaning in towards each other, two wizened veterans appear to be conversing with each other. Hakusan, completely unshrouded today, floats ethereally into view over the intervening ridges.

Then we set off along the main ridge towards Toritate-yama, our descent route. No more rasseru-ing, thank goodness: we're now on a popular traverse route with a beaten-out trail. In the clear air, we are kings of infinite space, poised midway between the blue smudge of sea horizon out to the west and the great white mountain behind us.

Writing about a broad upland in Hokkaido, the Hyakumeizan author opined that “This scale, this expansiveness, this liberality is not found in the landscapes of Honshu.” But was he ever up here in his local mountains on a bright January afternoon?

Back in town, we look at the weather forecast. Turns out that it was cloudy all day in those cable car-festooned mountains of Shikoku. Could it be that, one day, I will learn to love the rasseru?