tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58528704298061542292024-02-07T17:43:56.944-08:00Swiss OpsUncertain essays in the AlpsProject Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-78104022770085835522017-04-24T10:06:00.002-07:002017-04-24T11:21:29.249-07:00The first foreign ascent of Hakusan?<b>How William Eliott Griffis made a pioneer climb of Hokuriku’s pre-eminent Meizan </b><br />
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<i>Sunday Afternoon, Aug. 20th 1871</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">W E Griffis in 1877</td></tr>
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I leave at 5 o’clock tomorrow morning to reach Hakusan. I hope by Tuesday afternoon. Hakusan means White Mountain – Mont Blanc. I hope to put the first foreign foot on its crest, to measure its height and settle the question whether Fusiyama (sic), the queenliest mountain in Japan, perhaps in the world, is also the tallest in the Sea Empire.
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<i>Fukuwi, Aug. 28th 1871</i><br />
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Dear Maggie.<br />
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How swiftly flies time after all, in spite of its seeming detailed slowness. I am vividly reminded by the above date that tells me that only two days more of summer remains. I have just returned from my expedition to Hakusan. I set off at 5 A.M. last Monday, travelled 10 Ri, 23 and a third miles on foot, and rested and staid all night at Katzu Yama ( mountain of victory) in the large temple of the city, being finely entertained (by Gov. order) by a jolly old Buddhist priest. I being the·first foreigner ever seen there, of course created a sensation of the first class. The streets were jammed and packed with people eager to scan the to-jin from crown to sole. In fact, as I passed through all the towns on my route, the excitement was tremendous. The town people turned out en masse, and lined the streets by thousands. All the side streets leading to the main avenue were crowded with running people determined to see the to-jin by all means. Their patience was marvelous.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">W E Griffis and students of the Kaisei Gakko in Tokyo</td></tr>
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Waiting at the doors and back of the house, they would stand for hours to catch a glimpse of him by any means. Yet, in all my trip, even after six months acquaintance with this polite people, I am still freshly pleased with their innate politeness. From Katzu Yama, our pathway was very mountainous, and we were most wholesomely tired, when we arrived at the hotel-village at the foot of Hakusan. Here we found two good hotels, and ate like bears and slept like rocks. There was also a natural hotspring and bath-house, which I enjoyed very much. Iwaboochi and Amori (attendant officer & paymaster - government paying all the expense) were too tired, next morning to attempt the ascent. So I, and Sahei my servant, Amori's servant, a guide and a porter, ascended together. The distance to the top, is 10 English miles, and fearfully rugged, up steep precipices, over narrow ridges a foot wide with precipices on each side, thousands of feet deep, over round and sharp stones, past beds of snow, through miles of timber, finally over bare stones and volcanic rubbish.
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We left the hotel at 8.30 A.M. and reached the shelter-house half a mile near the top at 3.30 P.M. having halted an hour for dinner. All the party being very tired desired me to wait till morning before ascending to the top, to measure the height, but I could not trust the weather, and after resting a half-hour began the final ascent. It taxed my muscle and nerve to the full, but the reward was grand. On the topmost peak, was a shrine of Amida, protected from the terrific wind blowing there, by heaps and walls of stone. Near by, lay the ruins of a small temple blown down 27 years ago. I secured a sheltered place among the rock, and by the aid of a blanket, boiled water and tested its boiling point; it boiled at 195, which makes the height of Hakusan about 9,230 feet, a little more than two-thirds the height of Fusiyama. The sight from the peak of Hakusan was sublime. It is an extinct volcano, and the crater is several hundred feet deep, full of volcanic debris, banks of snow, and a small lake frozen over ten months in a year. There are three points or jagged peaks to the crater, and I stood on the highest point. All round, leagues on leagues rose ranges of mountains and solitary peaks in proud solitudes. All the vallies (sic) lay filled with the drifted curling masses of white-mist clouds. Three glittering rainbows spanned the eastern sky, and their bases seemed buttressed on the peaks, as if disdaining a lower resting place. The setting sun departing through massive jagged clouds of a fiery red and dun seemed the awful beginning of a judgment day of doom; while between the rainbows on one side and the hideous gloom on the other the level sun-rays shot through hosts of luminous silvery clouds that moved like victors hosts toward the rainbow-gate of heaven. With the wind blowing with grant force, the everlasting hills rising in eternal stillness, and this ancient volcano sleeping in repose, with its bald ruins on its top, and its centre and base tufted with forests, added the wondrous scenery of the sky. I shall never forget the sight, and felt well repaid for the toil of travel and ascent, and the weariness and sorrows that succeeded. These let me relate.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr and Mrs Griffis revisit Fukui in 1927</td></tr>
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Hakusan is a holy mountain. It was first ascended, and a path on it made by a priest in the 3rd (sic) century. To this day, pilgrims ascend it during June, July & August, sometimes as many as 100 together, though generally 5 or 6. Of course where pilgrims are, these fleas will congregate. About 1000 feet below and a mile or so distant from the top is a rude but sheltering house, in the best room of which our party slept. My servant Sahei, is a jewel, and proved himself worth more than gold, on the journey, anticipating my every want. After making me a splendid supper, and then kneading my tired limbs (a Japanese and excellent remedy for weariness) I lay down to sleep, but sleep came not. I had drunk coffee, and supposed that kept me awake, but did not suspect the cause until next day revealed about 200 red bites. I slept about an hour only all that night, which in spite of last night’s rainbows blew a tempest and poured a flood all night. I descended the mountain in an almost blinding flood of rain having no umbrella, but a wide conical Japanese hat. The descent taxed my tired limbs terribly, but at the hotel, hot baths, rest, good bed and food were doubly enjoyed, and to know I had gained the result proposed was very pleasant. We travelled 15 miles only next day, resting again at Katsuyama. Thence, being tired, we took norimons and were carried to Ono, a city of 8,000 people. We were met as in all our journey by an officer sent out to greet and conduct us, and preceded by servants &c who kept back the crowd, &c. We rested and slept, not in a hotel, but by gov. invitation, in the house of the richest man in town, a gorgeous house in all respects. Thence we took norimons and arrived in Fukuwi after an absence of seven days. We walked about 120 miles, and rode norimons about 30 or 40. I feel stronger in health and better every way physically. School opens next Friday, Sept. 1st, and I am glad of it. At present, the Gov. pays all my travelling expenses, even to food &c, but when the Doctor & Cap't. Brinckley (sic) come, they will let me pay my own; an arrangement which is perfectly fair.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgP2oxAlzfSQNA1Wrk0Vl50QW4RxC9jGlkQhZqw4aP-muY79YW6rDKbadPDmXZ1_VQO73PNZIT9Jysaks_qqdkzW_ORggr_0QhCgsr2LLCJZD7MG20mBs0867g7LTh6_Xb5xpubNZU_GHd/s1600/DSCN6577-book-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgP2oxAlzfSQNA1Wrk0Vl50QW4RxC9jGlkQhZqw4aP-muY79YW6rDKbadPDmXZ1_VQO73PNZIT9Jysaks_qqdkzW_ORggr_0QhCgsr2LLCJZD7MG20mBs0867g7LTh6_Xb5xpubNZU_GHd/s200/DSCN6577-book-cover.jpg" width="132" /></a>My new house is nearly finished and is really a splendid affair. I feel quite proud of it. For the sake of having all the paint paper &c healthfully dry, I shall not enter it until about Oct. 1st. I forgot to tell you that during my trip to Hakusan, I saw enormous quantities of raw silk, tobacco, cotton, indigo, and tasted the new corn and potatoes at many places.<br />
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<b>References</b><br />
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Excerpted from <i>Griffis' Fukui letters : William Elliot Griffis pioneer educator, author of The Mikado's Empire</i> / Gurifisu fukui shokan, edited by Eiichi Yamashita, 1934, reprinted 2009.Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-33545248528705968262016-09-08T10:32:00.000-07:002016-09-08T10:43:54.607-07:00Summit "crescent" stirs up hikers<b>A crescent instead of a summit cross is currently adorning the summit of the “Freiheit” in Switzerland’s Alpstein mountains. Mountaineers and the authorities are outraged. Translation of an article in the Swiss free newspaper © 20 Minuten, 8 September 2016 edition.</b><br />
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"Ecch!" or "Is that the Muslim version of a summit cross, or is it some kind of art installation?” hikers are asking on the website Hikr.org. They are not alone in their concerns. "This is the height of impudence. A complete scandal," says a mountain cafe owner to the FM1Today radio station. The cause of all this excitement is the two and a half meters high luminous crescent that currently stands atop the Freiheit peak (2140m) in the Alpstein range.<br />
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The person responsible is Christian Meier (38), a native of the Appenzell region who now lives in Shanghai. He had long wanted to do something in-your-face, something that would polarise people, the artist told FM1Today. "Whenever I come back to Switzerland, I go hiking and see all these absurd summit crosses – so I had to do something," says the self-confessed atheist. <br />
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<b>Mountain rescue teams might be irked</b><br />
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The reactions to Meier’s work have been divided. The artist says he’s heard comments ranging from "absolutely presumptuous" to "that's pleasantly thought-provoking". But the feedback has been largely positive from people who have seen the two-and-a-half-metre-high crescent with their own eyes. That’s because, according to Meier, "There’s an impressive contrast between nature and art."<br />
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The installation hasn’t met with much appreciation from the authorities in Appenzell. The police fear that the illuminated crescent could confuse mountain rescue teams at night, or that curious spectators could be lured off the path. In fact, the sculpture is sited in a place that only experienced climbers should attempt to reach.<br />
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<b>A week to remove it</b><br />
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For Landamman Roland Inauen, the top cantonal official of Appenzell Innerrhoden, the matter is clear: "We will not tolerate such actions," he says. According FM1Today, the local authorities have spoken with the artist and given him a week to remove the crescent.<br />
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Meier does not know where the sculpture could be relocated. But, he says, "There has already been an offer from the Appenzell region.” Meanwhile, he’s not planning a repeat performance. "I wanted to provoke people, and I’ve done just that"<br />
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Read the <a href="http://www.20min.ch/schweiz/ostschweiz/story/12001394" target="_blank">original German version</a> of this article<br />
<br />Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-88050314461513914782016-09-07T08:32:00.003-07:002016-09-07T12:26:37.229-07:00Reinhold Messner: “Crosses have no place at the top”<b>The extreme alpinist is no big fan of Christian symbols in the mountains. But he would not chop them down, as some mystery axeman is currently doing in the Bavarian Alps. </b><br />
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<b>Translation of <a href="http://www.sueddeutsche.de/bayern/alpinismus-reinhold-messner-kreuze-haben-am-gipfel-nichts-verloren-1.3144068" target="_blank">an interview by Titus Arnu</a>, originally published on August 31, 2016, in the © Süddeutsche Zeitung</b><br />
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<i>A hacker of summit crosses is currently haunting the Bavarian Alps: three times this summer, mountaintop crucifixes have been so badly damaged with an axe that they have had to be taken down, most recently on the Schafreuter (2102) in the Karwendel range. A case of religious hatred? And what value do summit crosses actually have from an alpinistic and philosophical point of view? We asked Reinhold Messner, 71, the most famous climber in the world.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reinhold Messner (c) Süddeutsche Zeitung </td></tr>
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<i>SZ: You have climbed all the eight thousanders - and have probably visited almost all the summit crosses on the famous four-thousanders in the Alps. How do you relate to these things?</i><br />
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Messner: Choosing my words carefully here, they are not necessarily to my taste. But I would never take one down, and if somebody damages one, this is an act of vandalism. But I could personally do without any more summit crosses.<br />
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<i>Why?</i><br />
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The cross is the ultimate Christian symbol, but it doesn’t belong on a summit, in my opinion. I’m not saying it’s an abuse, I'm just saying you shouldn’t hijack the mountains for religious ends. The mountains belong to everybody and shouldn’t be connected with or monopolised by a particular point of view. The mountains themselves have a certain sublimity – they don’t need a symbol of the supernatural. But there’s a solid cultural explanation for why summit crosses exist.<br />
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<i>And what is that?</i><br />
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Summit crosses are a relatively recent phenomenon, dating back just over 200 years. At first, in this part of the world too, they were symbols of resistance to the Enlightenment: When the pious Tyroleans rose up against foreign rule of the Bavarians and French, they advanced their crosses as a protest against the French, who had been campaigning against the Catholic Church. After that, the matter took on a life of its own and crosses proliferated all over the Alps. You can revisit this history in my alpine museum in Bolzano, where we have an exhibit on summit symbology. In short, though, our mountains are well enough stocked-up with crosses already.<br />
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<i>Don’t summit crosses make sense as a way of marking the highest point?</i><br />
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Many crosses don’t actually stand on the top of the mountain, but rather on subsidiary summits and and the like, where they can be easily seen from the valley. Before there were crosses, people marked summits by stacking up piles of stones, just to show that somebody had been there. And there were “weather crosses” to protect mountain dwellers against lightning and severe weather - I see this as part of alpine culture. Also summit books have a certain purpose: they tell one who has reached a summit and when. But it was only with the Enlightenment that summit crosses came. As symbols of the modern era, we now have mobile phone masts and TV antennas on mountaintops, which, admittedly, are even uglier, more invasive and obtrusive than crosses.<br />
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<i>People have always projected fears, yearnings and religious feelings onto mountain peaks. Why is this?</i><br />
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It is striking that the great monotheistic religions all have strong connections to the mountains. Moses came down from Mount Sinai, after he received the Ten Commandments from God. Mohammed meditated in a cave on Mount Hira near Mecca, according to tradition, where he received his first revelation. Buddhism has its roots in northern India, at the foot of the Himalayas. And long before that, the summits were seen as the place of gods and demons. This is part of our cultural history, but still, in my view, one shouldn’t clutter the mountains with religious, political and other ideological symbols. These are mostly demonstrations of authority. They’re all about domination.<br />
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<i>What do you mean?</i><br />
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Let me give two examples. In 1975, the Chinese allegedly dragged a bust of Chairman Mao all the way up Mount Everest, although I can’t confirm that from my visit to the summit in 1978. If the thing is there at all, it was buried under snow and ice long ago. As for Stalin, he allegedly had his likeness set up on Pik Communism (7495m) in Tajikistan, the highest peak in the former Soviet Union. Isn’t this totally absurd? Laying claim to mountains in this way has only one purpose: demonstrating the supposed authority of one person, or one nation, or one faith. It’s about conquest, misusing places that can be seen from afar, or making statements that have nothing to do with the mountains themselves.<br />
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<i>But can’t you accept that people just like to have the summit crosses around - whether for religious reasons, or out of tradition, or just for a beautiful summit photo?</i><br />
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Yes, I can understand this but I don’t feel like joining in. I remember how the young folk in my home town of Villnöss used to drag wooden crosses up to the summit, at huge cost, and set them up there with all ceremony. I was never part of that, as I would rather be climbing – demonstrations of authority or faith have never been my thing.<br />
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<i>In recent years, we’ve been seeing more and more Tibetan prayer flags on Alpine peaks, often with political messages such as "Free Tibet". What do you think?</i><br />
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Not much. I don’t mind if people hang out prayer flags in their own home. In fact, I have some at Schloss Juval, as I feel that I have a close connection to Buddhism. I have several times worked with the Dalai Lama on independence issues. But prayer flags don’t belong on alpine peaks any more than would crosses in the Himalaya.<br />
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<i>Would you want to take down the summit crosses?</i><br />
<br />
Of course not - the summit crosses we already have should stay where they are for historical reasons. And I would never excuse anybody who chopped a cross down, that's almost an act of terrorism. I prefer words as my weapons. But one is at liberty to ask whether summit crosses are as inseparable a part of our Christian culture as churches, cemeteries and weather crosses.Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-75554143116582543612012-11-12T10:46:00.000-08:002012-12-10T10:08:58.943-08:00An expotition<b>On a tangent to the Watkins Mountains, East Greenland, May/June 2002</b><br><br>
<i>"That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody." (Winnie-the-Pooh, Expotition to the North Pole</i>)<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhcowERx-v5OJWuPPrYRgLkgCjbcm5lf8oFAJXofVzte8FIy45lvkP6mqP-gEorb8R2pGBfBhiubaVCEYb0tMg0GuJx9rPvXk_UKCISfdvCpUZ1d9kujghfEnm5qdsWuQ5ruawGCWAORE/s1600/twin-otter-iceland2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhcowERx-v5OJWuPPrYRgLkgCjbcm5lf8oFAJXofVzte8FIy45lvkP6mqP-gEorb8R2pGBfBhiubaVCEYb0tMg0GuJx9rPvXk_UKCISfdvCpUZ1d9kujghfEnm5qdsWuQ5ruawGCWAORE/s400/twin-otter-iceland2.jpg" /></a></div>27 May: Actually, the line waiting to board the Twin Otter is rather short. It consists of Paul, a British Antarctic Survey veteran and his son Scot, Julian, formerly of the British Council, and Kate, the expotition doctor, and myself, a former <a href="http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.ch/2009/06/beating-about-buttress.html">Workman Alpinist</a>.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiKby5KdDO1HElyxHaMD9gEno3yORRbZIswXcMZ7jR8HM097tCt-v24X8Juebpo5RlXFA6zLvHSDZiodvTffPKFKEawASk_bFd5YAMc1MdSRwrqeY5j2yLPD2z_x2IVRpCKbtSnm67pLHN/s1600/swearingen2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiKby5KdDO1HElyxHaMD9gEno3yORRbZIswXcMZ7jR8HM097tCt-v24X8Juebpo5RlXFA6zLvHSDZiodvTffPKFKEawASk_bFd5YAMc1MdSRwrqeY5j2yLPD2z_x2IVRpCKbtSnm67pLHN/s400/swearingen2.jpg" /></a></div>A whiff of dislocation can be sensed. Yesterday, we'd boarded planes in London and Zurich. Today we are at Akureyri airport in northern Iceland, emplaning for Greenland.<br><br>
Thirty years after the Vikings got to Iceland, a certain Gunnbjörn sighted Greenland after getting blown off course. This was in in 900 AD. Now, to climb the mountain named for that unwilling pioneer, we are repeating his voyage in a single day.<br><br>
The Twin Otter makes a curving approach to Isafjördur, to take on extra fuel. It rocks in the stiff breeze while arctic terns and oyster-catchers gambol in the reed flats at the end of the runway. In an hour, we’re airborne again and soon Europe's westernmost cliffs are slipping astern.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGqJHVjENEF8dc3JbLSXrBLxisXPSrDAeVheQ4G6tFB_6GQh9BTxkXSQIUgFXZWAh02yCXoLATL_gfYJs2AByNgxxSMgCiBxfByemckOXWMiTbEAUQC-S5ORbRsy5SXsKPA13hfl6qc-B/s1600/three-minute-sea2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGqJHVjENEF8dc3JbLSXrBLxisXPSrDAeVheQ4G6tFB_6GQh9BTxkXSQIUgFXZWAh02yCXoLATL_gfYJs2AByNgxxSMgCiBxfByemckOXWMiTbEAUQC-S5ORbRsy5SXsKPA13hfl6qc-B/s400/three-minute-sea2.jpg" /></a></div>Less than an hour later, a limitless line of snowy peaks heaves into view. We coast in over unbroken pack ice and follow the line of a giant glacier into the interior. Cameras start clicking noiselessly, drowned out by the rasp of the props.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQKeTBJYbFmu_cilCwq0E9U0iplEDFxzdNT2R_RtnTY9FMcsnZStrdhU_joJK6KUP0Ed2x-4tHixWpfHRQCrRFRIrwGYW9n7pXqSBusWkI-BopOASIyxEYpAwFWkeVE_4EjbBwG3Sl58Z/s1600/greenland-fjord2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQKeTBJYbFmu_cilCwq0E9U0iplEDFxzdNT2R_RtnTY9FMcsnZStrdhU_joJK6KUP0Ed2x-4tHixWpfHRQCrRFRIrwGYW9n7pXqSBusWkI-BopOASIyxEYpAwFWkeVE_4EjbBwG3Sl58Z/s400/greenland-fjord2.jpg" /></a></div>Basalt cliffs, buttressed by serrated ridges, drift by the wingtip. Bouncing a little in the afternoon thermals, the plane crests the Mangesprekker icefall and noses down the glacier below Gunnbjörn Fjeld. The pilots make a single turn - the fuel budget doesn't allow for sightseeing - and set up a flat approach so that the snow rises gently to meet the skis.<br><br>
Then the engines open up to drag the aircraft another kilometre or so to the planned camp site. You don't stop immediately because the skis heat up on landing and you need to taxi until they've cooled off. Or they freeze to the snow, as happened to <i>Que Sera Sera</i> (below), the first plane to land at the South Pole. Unlike <i>Que Sera Sera</i>, Twin Otter pilots don’t have <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/JATO">RATO</a> to fall back on, so they can’t let that happen.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuYH-s0aJTuAP5i0ydhOCOMjUZRAg0ZNLfdEjtQSc1Dl8cqpRar5O2mr_NBjplXMQDuNdtbPmtqKsBhgQqkThtCWJZthhZMiLuQBLvIjYMHfCMTdf1-vVKX2Udb-1U9eJwYbKb9wQzmAEM/s1600/que-sera-sera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="287" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuYH-s0aJTuAP5i0ydhOCOMjUZRAg0ZNLfdEjtQSc1Dl8cqpRar5O2mr_NBjplXMQDuNdtbPmtqKsBhgQqkThtCWJZthhZMiLuQBLvIjYMHfCMTdf1-vVKX2Udb-1U9eJwYbKb9wQzmAEM/s400/que-sera-sera.jpg" /></a></div>We unload in a haze of Jet-A fumes. The pilots keep the starboard engine running, on the other side from the doors. As soon as the last rucksack is off, the port engine restarts, and the plane takes off downhill. "This is the moment when you savour the silence," says Paul as the Twin Otter dwindled to a speck.<br><br>
Soon we’re beating the snow flat for our tents and sorting through the pile of cardboard ration boxes and gear. Now we’ll find out if our organiser has once again lived up to his formidable reputation for logistics. (He has.)<br><br>
An hour later, three tents have mushroomed in the middle of the glacier and three MSR stoves are roaring for the honour of boiling the first brew of the 2002 arctic mountaineering season. We’re well sorted. I even find my temporarily mislaid Swiss Army penknife with can-opener. This is good, as the ration packs seemed to include quite a few tins of tuna, sweetcorn salad, and stuff of that ilk.<br><br>
Even in the late afternoon, the sun beats down on the glacier so that we can work in shirtsleeves. It’s completely calm and the snow is soft. So as not to waste the good weather, we'll wait till late evening, suggests Paul, and take some sled-loads of gear towards an advanced camp site. By that time, the snow surfaces will be firming up.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivY4uSi1RtEhfM04i-EnyaOKXNGOF4siWNyUlK-S6CP47E1V5nBNph24vd7lLAVDRX8mEWvbnUAa5dk5ajHc9GCnqo8VY19i5fhqdMngaDJVq7QSByWaSbrJuJqvfz9d-lCamY-694gyAR/s1600/pulks-start-out2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivY4uSi1RtEhfM04i-EnyaOKXNGOF4siWNyUlK-S6CP47E1V5nBNph24vd7lLAVDRX8mEWvbnUAa5dk5ajHc9GCnqo8VY19i5fhqdMngaDJVq7QSByWaSbrJuJqvfz9d-lCamY-694gyAR/s400/pulks-start-out2.jpg" /></a></div>They do. By 10.00pm, when we snap on skis and struggle into the unfamiliar harnesses of the pulks, the sun is dipping below the neighbouring ridge and a distinct chill has come down. We set off towards the glacier that leads up to the north ridge of Gunnbjörns Fjeld. Paul is out in front, angling left to avoid the crevasses that our aerial photos showed as barring the direct line. The rest of us follow, with the three pulks. Yes, a short line straggles across the shadowy expanse. Our expotition is under way.<br><br>
28 May: Some time in the wee hours, we decide we've had enough of pulk-hauling and the chilly breeze. (No disrespect for the pulks implied, though. These are incredible pulks.)<br><br>
So we cache the gear, mainly food, fuel, and climbing kit, mark its position with both bamboo wands and fixes on two GPS sets, and ski back down to camp. Sack out at 3.00am. The sun is still below the ridge from our viewpoint, but nearby peaks stay aglow in the ethereal late-afternoon-like light. No sunset or sunrise tinge, because the air is too clear to redden the rays of the sun even when he sits right on the horizon.<br><br>
Wake late to grey skies and flat light. Poor conditions for glacier travel, so, gratefully, we catch on sleep. We catch up on quite a lot, because nobody remembers much about that day.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5A4S-8zkwgCYBAtj09aO8Z-DRxQm5xAqTyXpQf2hYnHxTsW2c5a4_GVrO5SSQeCBKelnH4uCAQmmljblXMpLvDAgbJBqLiv91PMAtWpiaTooI9wd6ZJ1LVySqCFHJAbcwjpkKhD10cXw/s1600/twin-otter-tracks2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5A4S-8zkwgCYBAtj09aO8Z-DRxQm5xAqTyXpQf2hYnHxTsW2c5a4_GVrO5SSQeCBKelnH4uCAQmmljblXMpLvDAgbJBqLiv91PMAtWpiaTooI9wd6ZJ1LVySqCFHJAbcwjpkKhD10cXw/s400/twin-otter-tracks2.jpg" /></a></div>29 May: pack up camp, leaving a depot of food, fuel, the rifle, and the sat-phone on the glacier. My tent also stays, in the interest of keeping the pulks light. We move back up to the depot at 2,300m, pick up the contents, and continue up to a flattening of the high glacier at about 2,400m. Repitch the two tents in light snowfall, tiny dry pellets, not flakes.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYCF-AsFVDqFdwxCbX7xR9QjAB9YHI3Y3sqG1dHJZVLdXSH5HjpgJQ3iwl0M36KaBj1AAj6ImTtOgAPRmTAUL6XC3mR-RdtMAH3iy_nkTHg4KpujacHNxbR9l9L47RdP7oFpq0ism2xi0O/s1600/pulk-hauling2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYCF-AsFVDqFdwxCbX7xR9QjAB9YHI3Y3sqG1dHJZVLdXSH5HjpgJQ3iwl0M36KaBj1AAj6ImTtOgAPRmTAUL6XC3mR-RdtMAH3iy_nkTHg4KpujacHNxbR9l9L47RdP7oFpq0ism2xi0O/s400/pulk-hauling2.jpg" /></a></div><i>Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen. (Winnie-the-Pooh)</i><br><br>
30 May: we sat at our tent doors, pulling on our Big Ski-Touring Boots. Or, in most cases, struggling to force the inners into the outers. Only I favoured the Whole Boot At Once approach. Which way is better? Perhaps this is one of those questions to which no man will ever know the answer.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskTnE3eL-FPte06QSqAp4HI3ZUlf5BGKicSLV4bm-PLMDwalFeVbG2LtlzCHlqocd-n0dUoVve3JV2H3kVoL5Qz3vodY2tpUwdV296mgP9jECaKrEE5OGLf2HdG7kg5tqpk7YOHGGFjrB/s1600/ski-pair-stormlight2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskTnE3eL-FPte06QSqAp4HI3ZUlf5BGKicSLV4bm-PLMDwalFeVbG2LtlzCHlqocd-n0dUoVve3JV2H3kVoL5Qz3vodY2tpUwdV296mgP9jECaKrEE5OGLf2HdG7kg5tqpk7YOHGGFjrB/s400/ski-pair-stormlight2.jpg" /></a></div>Overhead, the sky is blue again, but lenticular clouds hover over the range of peaks opposite. We set off uphill, but "GBF" soon starts to don a cap cloud. "We're not in the business of climbing into lenticulars," says Paul. In thickening conditions, we decide to round the end of GBF's north ridge to see if the mountain offers easier climbing round the back.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpmw431OXEp3PU9eqafLq60qp865bCDF-0CZj9gCzJBf6llyvWlqy8Aja8NdBjR6Jax9PXE-esbyw28Jw1ZTZQmiWMC_pc2ZUz2slNzY4Q8JADXkCzqa8uEykhtiO7RfVwBzNLh_BnT6v/s1600/Greenland-halo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpmw431OXEp3PU9eqafLq60qp865bCDF-0CZj9gCzJBf6llyvWlqy8Aja8NdBjR6Jax9PXE-esbyw28Jw1ZTZQmiWMC_pc2ZUz2slNzY4Q8JADXkCzqa8uEykhtiO7RfVwBzNLh_BnT6v/s400/Greenland-halo2.jpg" /></a></div>A viable route does loom through the mist, but turns out to lead to a satellite peak, not the main summit. So we content ourselves with that and the view out to the sunnier reaches of the coastal range. Heavy snow conditions on the way down, but Scot traces out the way in elegant curves. Let's admit it: he's the only elegant skier in our group. After all, we're British.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdTuutkq50Ovd_OfRXS-xfAhdrHBULB4_qVDEQH_aevNlORNENZ8BLf-wqVXQalmtbbr9DXLpNRBE_lZwuNk3XmaHxdvavfXSZamB827gtZGl4fpJ76MlNQ_3lOG1rW4-QsClU8lLaHcB5/s1600/scot-ski-descent2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="273" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdTuutkq50Ovd_OfRXS-xfAhdrHBULB4_qVDEQH_aevNlORNENZ8BLf-wqVXQalmtbbr9DXLpNRBE_lZwuNk3XmaHxdvavfXSZamB827gtZGl4fpJ76MlNQ_3lOG1rW4-QsClU8lLaHcB5/s400/scot-ski-descent2.jpg" /></a></div>31 May: Paul, Scot, Julian, and I ski down to base camp to fetch a couple of pulks-worth of additional food and fuel, plus my tent. We'd discovered over the previous two nights that the three-man tent is ideally sized for two men. (Paul’s Law: a tent will comfortably sleep n-1, where n is the number of persons the manufacturer says it will accommodate.)<br><br>
Paul calls the organiser on the sat-phone, having repaired a faulty charging connection. Weather bright, cold, the snow still firm at noon, but GBF clouds up later.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitu54OHBUY8TEiUudMpL5vzybbeETER1ZUc0ho2UBcxn_1tAiizIkjNyE1_4ZTL6jriXYdmMSHqnRQ7KbF3Kre1OA0sEXHkhokOuZ1NSPoq-uPFR-I9t8w0EmnNEM1Po2KUZCzgPlaZd4C/s1600/stormy-evening2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="180" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitu54OHBUY8TEiUudMpL5vzybbeETER1ZUc0ho2UBcxn_1tAiizIkjNyE1_4ZTL6jriXYdmMSHqnRQ7KbF3Kre1OA0sEXHkhokOuZ1NSPoq-uPFR-I9t8w0EmnNEM1Po2KUZCzgPlaZd4C/s400/stormy-evening2.jpg" /></a></div>1 June: breezy morning. Reveille at 5.00am for a 6.00am departure. Well, 6.40am. Blame the Big Boots. As we climb higher, the lenticulars are breeding like real "Föhn fish" over the neighbouring range. It's minus 10 (as measured by the freezing sensation in our nostrils) and blowing. Expedition mitts are donned. We take turns to break trail through the wind-crusted snow.<br><br>
We get as far as the glacis below the main summit before GBF performs a vanishing trick into a cap cloud of its own making. We call it a day and ski back to camp as the shoal of lenticulars starts to invade the blue hole over the ice-cap to the west. In the evening, the weather clears again.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY85tgmZRKbmyz_hPJPKUjkNsdO3giYMLtFtykyx3pAbTi6CXbkzYFsMa85XmLnn253NKJQpaZe-nDtWvS7d_3goEmYxO368RNXiW-3YSwA04AChgPRSgH66d0GUtls-jHI6VDvfYcDYAH/s1600/ascent-roses2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY85tgmZRKbmyz_hPJPKUjkNsdO3giYMLtFtykyx3pAbTi6CXbkzYFsMa85XmLnn253NKJQpaZe-nDtWvS7d_3goEmYxO368RNXiW-3YSwA04AChgPRSgH66d0GUtls-jHI6VDvfYcDYAH/s400/ascent-roses2.jpg" /></a></div>
2 June: "Dingle weather," in Paul's phrase. That's what they'd say Down South. Crisp, cold, clear. Leave camp at 7.40am, fork left on the glacier, as on the previous day, but today ski through to intercept GBF's north ridge about halfway along its length. This has to be the most elegant way up the mountain, using the skis to gain as much height as possible.<br><br>
We convene on a basalt outcrop to exchange the skis for crampons. Then on up the ridge on crisp sastrugi, except for one small steep section of blue but pliable ice. Above that, the ridge broadens again so that, at Paul's suggestion, we can stroll up to the summit in line abreast so we all get there at once.<br><br>
To the west, a row of blunted summits hems in the ice-sheet. Glaciers pour down through gaps in the range, their motion freeze-framed by our mayfly perspective on time. The higher peaks are sculpted from alternating bands of snow and basalt, white and black, like the striped stonework of Tuscan cathedrals. Beyond the mountains, the the inland ice rolls outwards for ever.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQL_kv_wYFgglPoWgWWFU2Fq5kDhZxdmMJQMnVPSNOmfGI5UdACyNanTSJccPyvAnAf49Mr4QbOc77Ori5w4Ctf46rde9X0WanCu_scB15n4-UOTNBm4WkfaFPfdss4pqDHWUwcB_X_SI/s1600/gunnbjorn-ridge2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQL_kv_wYFgglPoWgWWFU2Fq5kDhZxdmMJQMnVPSNOmfGI5UdACyNanTSJccPyvAnAf49Mr4QbOc77Ori5w4Ctf46rde9X0WanCu_scB15n4-UOTNBm4WkfaFPfdss4pqDHWUwcB_X_SI/s400/gunnbjorn-ridge2.jpg" /></a></div>The horizon is limited only by the curvature of the earth. The curvature of the earth? Surely, at this modest altitude of 3,700m, that can’t explain the almost imperceptible arc of the horizon that I think I can see. But, without my saying anything, Julian has noticed it too.<br><br>
The bitter wind that assailed us on the ridge has dropped away, as if by magic. The sun is warm and we can take our time on the summit, taking photos. Not a cloud in the sky, except for a band of haze on the horizon.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinSMGQkBSxPDeOmIT3e9AOlmnjbBas0w8frBykPjjZ0QUnyZDJUGqe3OsGq-i2Oeoy_XWgHrOIT-7T8uIz8-cGF5gaKJkVpBQz1_gr6rBkviU_T0BG7OPxDtWtXeISfcPAkTfjPGvV2E_h/s1600/icy-ridge-approach2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinSMGQkBSxPDeOmIT3e9AOlmnjbBas0w8frBykPjjZ0QUnyZDJUGqe3OsGq-i2Oeoy_XWgHrOIT-7T8uIz8-cGF5gaKJkVpBQz1_gr6rBkviU_T0BG7OPxDtWtXeISfcPAkTfjPGvV2E_h/s400/icy-ridge-approach2.jpg" /></a></div>3 June: Her Majesty has been on the throne for fifty years. We celebrate with a long day, lasting from 9.20am to 8.00pm. Jetstream clouds may bring a storm later, warns Paul. We ski across the sastrugi'd altiplano between GBF and Lichenbjerg to arrive on the latter mountain's col.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcqtSUCaEcAtYDgU1qMU3rW-lDTXzH2NKMxaA4D-rYIzq_OhWgLqgvCvbjKPv4zDyl2jvBYioDxJthXX4tfCdQ9atQbKth21gyoPIoUcBu5qRZ6U8898kueeJqIsm7FbDrk7BVpl6s2D_/s1600/jubilee-flag-plant2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcqtSUCaEcAtYDgU1qMU3rW-lDTXzH2NKMxaA4D-rYIzq_OhWgLqgvCvbjKPv4zDyl2jvBYioDxJthXX4tfCdQ9atQbKth21gyoPIoUcBu5qRZ6U8898kueeJqIsm7FbDrk7BVpl6s2D_/s400/jubilee-flag-plant2.jpg" /></a></div>Then we turn left towards the unclimbed 3206m peak on that ridge. Julian clambers out on a rope (over, we suspect, a cornice) to plant the Union Jack (well, a small one) on 'Jubilee Peak', the name suggested by Kate. Julian hums God save the Queen.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggXt_XYBZDXzcAlfX2CnsQEvyPKaDnzWVOJiAF6-rXsMJyLbu1MwjQAt9LlE432Eb7G5C1EBedzaizXVQ74XwINIFKDWK2BTWHSBMexblHjOv2OXWvqYetgEsqhpk6q6XDe3AlguTzuror/s1600/icy-ridge-traverse2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggXt_XYBZDXzcAlfX2CnsQEvyPKaDnzWVOJiAF6-rXsMJyLbu1MwjQAt9LlE432Eb7G5C1EBedzaizXVQ74XwINIFKDWK2BTWHSBMexblHjOv2OXWvqYetgEsqhpk6q6XDe3AlguTzuror/s400/icy-ridge-traverse2.jpg" /></a></div>After that, we have a go at Lichenbjerg, which has been climbed only once, back in 1935. We get as far as the steepening in the ridge, about 150 vertical metres below the summit. Unfortunately, the steepening coincides with a change from good cramponing snow to glass-hard blue ice. Paul runs out some rope, cutting steps as he goes, but it’s clear that a second ascent of Lichenbjerg, or at least a safe one, is going to take hours of step-cutting and general faffing about. We’re not in the step-cutting business, we decide, as we turn back. Though the summit, a basalt castle rising out of a curving snow arete, is tantalisingly close.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhugZkRNrRtCpmFD8vAxdU0wrrCQnappqrUYm9q9NqZGsXC5E0AJJ7gyV593_D7PlycLqY0fupGatoHmnGC4okwiKjgipzVMuV1kHz8_I8hijN2iNt0x2VRrLgBzUpPjxuLyPwFxpb3L482/s1600/ridge-descent2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhugZkRNrRtCpmFD8vAxdU0wrrCQnappqrUYm9q9NqZGsXC5E0AJJ7gyV593_D7PlycLqY0fupGatoHmnGC4okwiKjgipzVMuV1kHz8_I8hijN2iNt0x2VRrLgBzUpPjxuLyPwFxpb3L482/s400/ridge-descent2.jpg" /></a></div>Back on the col, Kate suddenly drops thigh-deep into a small crevasse. We were warned back in the UK about the cracks that run along ridges parallel to the crest on arctic mountains. Something to do with the sheer weight of ice, as it drags away from the ridgeline. We ski down to camp in lengthening shadows on the glacier. Above the western ridge hangs an iridescent cloud. The jetstream clouds have dissipated, without bringing on a storm.<br><br>
4 June: Good pulking weather for moving the whole ensemble back to base camp. Using snowstakes and slings, Paul rigs brakes for the pulks but these prove unnecessary – we can snowplough and even slalom our skis a bit with these incredible pulks in tow.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6UmofsI5E6AK-6FjQD5cz1fRmWrWCpUoVoJJRxcBYlHMwiyx5RjNjNPykytppiWLkG_TodVgp9LtjVn49i7ILSyfonK3t2h_JynTOmnz9QTVRT34GKYuYfXr7_f9Oyw5MkbfCWXOsvt0/s1600/kate-keohane2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6UmofsI5E6AK-6FjQD5cz1fRmWrWCpUoVoJJRxcBYlHMwiyx5RjNjNPykytppiWLkG_TodVgp9LtjVn49i7ILSyfonK3t2h_JynTOmnz9QTVRT34GKYuYfXr7_f9Oyw5MkbfCWXOsvt0/s400/kate-keohane2.jpg" /></a></div>It's now the custom of this expotition to greet each other with "Top of the Arctic to you" every morning. Kate says it with such a nice mock-Irish accent. An ancestor of hers was a pony-handler on one of Scot's expeditions.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ehcZ8NIOcmShV0VKxsFLEAqTIvoGu_wrIyEm9ofd5VSf3txP_RF4oYqsoohqKdeMQToMeyY5xShVE45-0l0YweU0QmuQFwr-0v_lf6y0ybRPK7DiqZ9-AoupDWWMdTCCfueVESj1RRR0/s1600/camp-rations-cirrus2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="276" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ehcZ8NIOcmShV0VKxsFLEAqTIvoGu_wrIyEm9ofd5VSf3txP_RF4oYqsoohqKdeMQToMeyY5xShVE45-0l0YweU0QmuQFwr-0v_lf6y0ybRPK7DiqZ9-AoupDWWMdTCCfueVESj1RRR0/s400/camp-rations-cirrus2.jpg" /></a></div>In the afternoon, Paul, Scot, Julian, and Kate sort through their ration bags, picking out the less desirable items. We've found that, except on really strenuous days, our appetite for Mars Bars is quite limited. More in favour is the salty stuff, such as the soups, the salami sticks, the cheese, and the incredible Pringles.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-cin_C_l0go_ZvrXkaORqn8USZg86TfHkPtHSoojfBeEpEF6rT49CTa4bY8C6ezq50HgQpKBweC3p9jyRUlQ38m8Pw_00_io2M19UBUlwhGFUAqrVA6kwh_xpHJVAEE_2bmCxfpGg3lJv/s1600/rations2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="275" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-cin_C_l0go_ZvrXkaORqn8USZg86TfHkPtHSoojfBeEpEF6rT49CTa4bY8C6ezq50HgQpKBweC3p9jyRUlQ38m8Pw_00_io2M19UBUlwhGFUAqrVA6kwh_xpHJVAEE_2bmCxfpGg3lJv/s400/rations2.jpg" /></a></div>I leave my rations as they were packed, fresh from some Lakeland Asda: "The appetite of the barbarians was voracious yet indelicate," as some fusty old historian puts it. Yes, that's me. Indifferent except on one point: inexplicably, some of the bags don't contain coffee sachets. Gallantly, the others offer some of theirs in order to prevent me from slipping into hypo-caffeinia. Dear friends, how can I ever repay you? Perhaps in tea-bags, they suggest. Done!<br><br>
<i>A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference. (Eeyore in Winnie-the-Pooh)</i><br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzFlvBNIF6fBwD-ig96qqjZiXMQanX2_xBpzvj2Kqbne4pQ16CSG49syVPcZ63slosCsU78PByXjMrYRj06OSOZaHK5JvIp3oIghOgI24KPk2I9munpMaKGUc6ELihGkEyxxXw9MFji9v/s1600/tent-interior2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzFlvBNIF6fBwD-ig96qqjZiXMQanX2_xBpzvj2Kqbne4pQ16CSG49syVPcZ63slosCsU78PByXjMrYRj06OSOZaHK5JvIp3oIghOgI24KPk2I9munpMaKGUc6ELihGkEyxxXw9MFji9v/s400/tent-interior2.jpg" /></a></div>In the afternoon, cirrus overspreads the sky. Perhaps because it rides lower than in more southerly climes, the fall streaks are clearly visible as they sift down from the parent clouds.<br><br>
5 June: cloudy, but we plan a rest day anyway. After breakfast, a small bird (snow bunting?) flitters past. Later, Paul and I reconnoitre the route out towards the 'untrodden glacier', our next objective.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAr5TXIy0HaxhMFEZTRj4iBsCsd18bNSQztR_5sxSvdfaH0eBWSDvKlyksKadIUzCu9wRR2N-HwHd-xiNAirGS61NwMDxIRis6M1CmB0a5C873yTIarh9A_HbV4iKpYZD2U9lSAxppl73/s1600/fox-tracks2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="273" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAr5TXIy0HaxhMFEZTRj4iBsCsd18bNSQztR_5sxSvdfaH0eBWSDvKlyksKadIUzCu9wRR2N-HwHd-xiNAirGS61NwMDxIRis6M1CmB0a5C873yTIarh9A_HbV4iKpYZD2U9lSAxppl73/s400/fox-tracks2.jpg" /></a></div>On the way, we came across the tracks of an arctic fox. The paw prints (about husky size, opined Paul) ran straight as a die from one corner of the glacier diagonally towards the other. But what could a fox be doing here, in this vast and chicken-less expanse?<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4eT77F2h2RFIFwOxdNEgR22h2yVQdtYsoxo_LBDWsKCjAyz9CbNmwglFUiTqwr_cXfWPOC0OW2Gf3EasmZX8W7Ab-BEe2PzCPGJVbUehyphenhyphen50EbgGEoxXLLvcZSc73srUkgNxSOW0HJVok/s1600/ladies-glacier2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4eT77F2h2RFIFwOxdNEgR22h2yVQdtYsoxo_LBDWsKCjAyz9CbNmwglFUiTqwr_cXfWPOC0OW2Gf3EasmZX8W7Ab-BEe2PzCPGJVbUehyphenhyphen50EbgGEoxXLLvcZSc73srUkgNxSOW0HJVok/s400/ladies-glacier2.jpg" /></a></div>Soon afterwards in the flat light we meet an unexpected crevasse that bars the way for a considerable distance. Clearly, we'll have to end-run this tomorrow by diverting far to the left. Paul favours a further reconnaissance the next day, but accepts Julian's counterproposal which is to move on with the pulks, but with two people out in front finding the way.<br><br>
Weather clears in the evening, although a backbow (circumzenithal arc) hovers in the lingering cirrus. In other countries, backbows are a reliable precursor of bad weather, but we're getting wary of making predictions. The hobbyhorsical clouds are always one step ahead of our speculations.<br><br>
<i>"I shouldn't be surprised if it hailed a good deal tomorrow," Eeyore was saying. Blizzards and what not. Being fine today doesn't Mean Anything. It has no sig - what's that word? Well, it has none of that. It's just a small piece of weather." (The House at Pooh Corner)</i><br><br>
6 June: Yet it was still bright when we start off next morning, except for a fast-rising line of stratus behind us. Paul and Julian go off ahead to find the route, while Scot, Kate, and I take the pulks in tow. Just as the glacier starts to fall away, we meet Paul and Julian coming back. The light was already too flat for travelling, they say.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7-H56LM4odnbdGu-PpWBSOR0cxjavGikVeJj0NWRi_LzB_sRdm_EE4KlthRKBenhRetMhf5JHXfrvybtesllYXBtCVjX-M4RjiiKP7SXVIeNr2SmAI0QaKXm0kCSRfRVfEoGw9AiLfIU4/s1600/grey-out2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="201" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7-H56LM4odnbdGu-PpWBSOR0cxjavGikVeJj0NWRi_LzB_sRdm_EE4KlthRKBenhRetMhf5JHXfrvybtesllYXBtCVjX-M4RjiiKP7SXVIeNr2SmAI0QaKXm0kCSRfRVfEoGw9AiLfIU4/s400/grey-out2.jpg" /></a></div>So less than two hours after starting, we pitch camp again under the bulk of the mountain at the corner of the glacier. I build high snow walls round my tent in an attempt to invoke sympathetic magic against a storm. Desultory snow showers fall in the afternoon, while Paul and Julian exploit a few gleams of light to extend the route a few more kilometres. Scot goes along too, to represent the Pulk-Pullers' Union, he said. Then the visibility really does fade.<br><br>
We settle in our tents to read and fester while a sheet of stratus pours over the bounding cliffs of the 'untrodden glacier' opposite.<br><br>
7 June: gleams of light across the glacier as we cook breakfast (semolina and hot chocolate), but then snow sets in again. Heavy snow later in the morning, even as shafts of sunlight wander uncertainly about the glacier. In the afternoon, Scot and I make a run back to base camp to fetch more food and fuel. Going up, we ski in and out of cloud banks that are rolling down the glacier. Sometimes, peaks loom forth, once the view is reduced to a sunny gleam of light on snow that divides two featureless swathes of grey.<br><br>
A curious phenomenon, which we notice on other days as well: whenever snow is falling, the tents heats up markedly - to a sauna-like 30 degrees this afternoon. Then the temperature drops back around ten degrees immediately the snow stops. Can't think of a mechanism for this.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxtuX2hfJROhZKOtsh8eB76sxHHg9W848Vj-w67KuZ4kvKY6DbyC-aITkzpxB8EVtzN__LiDQS8XO7_6c6SS9cKEj0eWRbdHsl1LiuvhnTma9g69u74vDB3KcVfr8TEPetXnnLvHzOhUx/s1600/ground-halo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="202" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxtuX2hfJROhZKOtsh8eB76sxHHg9W848Vj-w67KuZ4kvKY6DbyC-aITkzpxB8EVtzN__LiDQS8XO7_6c6SS9cKEj0eWRbdHsl1LiuvhnTma9g69u74vDB3KcVfr8TEPetXnnLvHzOhUx/s400/ground-halo2.jpg" /></a></div>8 June: at 3.00am, a brilliant midnight sun has just emerged from the peaks to the north. On the slope in front of us, an 'icebow' glitters on the snow crystals. With freezing hands, I occult the sun with a ski and take a photo. The icebow phenomenon isn't uncommon. We see it again at the very next camp site, again when the sun was low on the horizon.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZrui89SqdDfUR-GZ1MsfLzyZwI8y9Se3edCYY4m5tyr1wHGVl5fD5R0pMTxP93Uck_36AZdvEJgx4zHVo_rqZT5A3G43jPiH-Gn3InRvSGljHo2B0OJajRKFQrTr82L_tS8QfFfjLDJFK/s1600/pair-clouds2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="193" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZrui89SqdDfUR-GZ1MsfLzyZwI8y9Se3edCYY4m5tyr1wHGVl5fD5R0pMTxP93Uck_36AZdvEJgx4zHVo_rqZT5A3G43jPiH-Gn3InRvSGljHo2B0OJajRKFQrTr82L_tS8QfFfjLDJFK/s400/pair-clouds2.jpg" /></a></div>9.15am: we start a 10km pulk haul to a new camp site near the snow dome at the entrance to the 'untrodden glacier'. On the way, veil clouds ride up from the direction of the coast - the bad weather seems to come mainly from the east here - and it starts to snow as we pitch the tents. The others go to climb the snow dome, but I had to repitch my tent, door well away from the wind. This was a wise precaution because ...<br><br>
9 June: … wet snow falls all of the 'night' hours and most of the day too, melting as soon as it hit the tents. At 5.00am, a brief gleam of light appears and a raven takes the chance to drop by - heard by me and seen by Paul as it inspects the campsite. Apparently it doesn’t find anything to its liking, for it soon flies off again in the direction of the coast.<br><br>
Continuous heavy wet snow from noon. We fester variously. I read Anna Karenina. Paul and Scot play draughts on a board drawn on the back of the map with pieces represented by the (unpopular) chewy sweets.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6VxmvdZHUK_wjyXyM0ytYYmcqaZ0QYKrHPPbwN9BhlssEWip5eRKx1ijzoAgL0LvB_qmDQslFoC2_gJHxr0k7SUEXrSpgRku-cslgbFBv4MleWO9T67HhTO86g85CvlCgqqJrDPreXjE/s1600/vista-pm-clouds2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6VxmvdZHUK_wjyXyM0ytYYmcqaZ0QYKrHPPbwN9BhlssEWip5eRKx1ijzoAgL0LvB_qmDQslFoC2_gJHxr0k7SUEXrSpgRku-cslgbFBv4MleWO9T67HhTO86g85CvlCgqqJrDPreXjE/s400/vista-pm-clouds2.jpg" /></a></div>At 9pm, the stratus suddenly rolls away to reveal the 'untrodden glacier' bathed in a pure evening light under a ragged edge of cloud. Tiered lenticulars hung over the scalloped whorl of the snow dome. To the west, a golden corridor leads between the mountains towards the interior.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgML1iVIPX4tVVgSlfSAI6QhcAgJd6tdfVaspQ0bpqpdu73tTndN848gzncjrmG4q9nDZGkj500GqwUOPtkCUJvgdDzqgG5fFZr-NbF_RJZWPkDI_ZHzWrEtin7O1koWHEcfqaM0xuKzh9C/s1600/sheila-glacier2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="190" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgML1iVIPX4tVVgSlfSAI6QhcAgJd6tdfVaspQ0bpqpdu73tTndN848gzncjrmG4q9nDZGkj500GqwUOPtkCUJvgdDzqgG5fFZr-NbF_RJZWPkDI_ZHzWrEtin7O1koWHEcfqaM0xuKzh9C/s400/sheila-glacier2.jpg" /></a></div>10 June: we set off at 9.15am for the end of the 'untrodden glacier'. As we go, the cloud cover starts to break up so that shadows and stripes of sunlight go racing over us along the snow. This helps the illusion that we, like Alice, are “moving under skies/Never seen by human eyes”.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjK4upyaQxszPzzDCEJnXjEzDbkWq5Sl7SQfH0sNuyfJ6PFJR2c8qjNTtDVneNS3kyHjOAXzFAYlnwYOR3XZZRyGUoyjrJ10oR_eRsSfkTXPZJd5vARe3trX_6i4_oCSZZtaKoEFpS6zJB/s1600/sheila-glacier-pair2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="183" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjK4upyaQxszPzzDCEJnXjEzDbkWq5Sl7SQfH0sNuyfJ6PFJR2c8qjNTtDVneNS3kyHjOAXzFAYlnwYOR3XZZRyGUoyjrJ10oR_eRsSfkTXPZJd5vARe3trX_6i4_oCSZZtaKoEFpS6zJB/s400/sheila-glacier-pair2.jpg" /></a></div>To be sure, the area has been mapped and photographed from the air, but we’re the first to establish ground truth. The snow slopes gently upwards to the sphinx-like mountain guarding the end of the glacier, where we arrive around 2.30pm.<br><br>
There’s an impressive view over an ice-fall under the rump of the sphinx. The drop is more than a thousand metres. Glacier lassitude and a lack of kit (we are travelling light) cause us to abandon the first ascent of the sphinx to some future party. A pity, but, as it is, both Kate and Scot are suffering from ill-fitting boots by the end of the day. A long, hot slog back over the melting snows of the glacier.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH82cm21bQ3IZ4pn0yros6oWYKbVe8EPiNTlbc-7JpuJOEma1o91jsd9piz3axbILsE3o3YCQkepY1VYMCz9Qummw6TsqU9tQkgJ_8iEdpeHAb1yznhNiKDqobYa7gOPBrXvGCsX8VIKcs/s1600/tent-bowl2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="264" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH82cm21bQ3IZ4pn0yros6oWYKbVe8EPiNTlbc-7JpuJOEma1o91jsd9piz3axbILsE3o3YCQkepY1VYMCz9Qummw6TsqU9tQkgJ_8iEdpeHAb1yznhNiKDqobYa7gOPBrXvGCsX8VIKcs/s400/tent-bowl2.jpg" /></a></div><i>"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"
"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"
"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.
Pooh nodded thoughtfully.
"It's the same thing," he said. (Winnie-the-Pooh)</i><br><br>
11 June: Julian starts his MSR even earlier than usual, signalling his intention to tackle Big Bad Peak (pt.2868) above the camp. I knock back an extra cup of coffee in case the day should become more exciting than usual.<br><br>
The wet snow causes somebody's skins to work loose from their skis. This triggers the question which type of skins work better - the ones with end fittings or the ones without? Night-cap debates like this liven up all good expeditions. You can find the prototype in Boswell’s <i>Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson, LLD</i>: 'Sir, I had this custom by chance; and perhaps no man shall ever know whether it is best to sleep with or without a night cap.'<br><br>
Unfortunately, cloud soon rolls up from the east. As we ski higher, disquieting sussurations ran ahead of us through the snow as the top surface settles. While the peaks of the eastern range vanish one by one into the clag, Paul digs snow-pits to gauge the stability of the slopes.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVsge_fBP_4EkaXv5zPSaUmiIaFnmwIBVaSaUsU0Rm4PY24ZHsNWsyZ_vRxc0V_IHnm0TNnT5hTexNbvnGJiM1u0w1-0yOSDTspWF2RmiF0kwCh2XuWr2-H2w48OiiI7SznAsKdqXhGdd/s1600/basalt-mountains2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="271" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVsge_fBP_4EkaXv5zPSaUmiIaFnmwIBVaSaUsU0Rm4PY24ZHsNWsyZ_vRxc0V_IHnm0TNnT5hTexNbvnGJiM1u0w1-0yOSDTspWF2RmiF0kwCh2XuWr2-H2w48OiiI7SznAsKdqXhGdd/s400/basalt-mountains2.jpg" /></a></div>Worryingly, the 40cm or so of new snow hasn't bonded to the older layer. We make it to the col but the final snowpit shows that the Big Bad Peak’s snows overlay two layers of blank ice. That is enough warning for Paul, Scot, and myself, but Julian and Kate opt to try to find a way through the rocks to the ridgeline.<br><br>
As the weather seems to be clearing, we then decide to tackle pt2824, a much easier proposition than The Big Bad One with which it shares a col. Less than an hour of determined postholing bring us to the summit. More 'woomfing' from the snow as Scot leads across to a subsidiary peak. Reassuringly, one of the gendarmes on a nearby ridge bears a curious resemblance to a Madonna and child.<br><br>
Meanwhile, Julian and Kate seem to have treed themselves in a niche between two rock bands. We get back to the col in time to welcome them back from their bold foray. Julian reports that the rock had been "loose but not crumbly". Thank goodness for that then.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsG0vCIZ9VqFLfb2CfSyuRJWVticjGdqKM7ircTR2kR6T_wF7y4DmqhGwe3OoIA0xdt9rStD_ENtYrvB23MHaID5idgQJLlWaEmsWDHlcYypE2AagOIPmyAD_bsFSGim0YQwG89TO-dZk/s1600/lenticular-midnight2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="264" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsG0vCIZ9VqFLfb2CfSyuRJWVticjGdqKM7ircTR2kR6T_wF7y4DmqhGwe3OoIA0xdt9rStD_ENtYrvB23MHaID5idgQJLlWaEmsWDHlcYypE2AagOIPmyAD_bsFSGim0YQwG89TO-dZk/s400/lenticular-midnight2.jpg" /></a></div>12 June: at 1.00am (local midnight), beautiful soft light is filtering through the lenticular clouds. Dead calm, with purple shadows lying athwart the untrodden glacier.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsTxIcyjwu7m5eJ4thSmMn_mdvXl4zmMLQbS8pEJPbxCYxq3m8uiXEik8AcERXi5SxZIMHPH3qJ38p03hkQBx0Ks27TTxK_4H_L1jD7ixEsqGkR4CFcb1LKtXHj4d76dGmznEhBIJkaol/s1600/watkins-mtns-evening2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="189" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsTxIcyjwu7m5eJ4thSmMn_mdvXl4zmMLQbS8pEJPbxCYxq3m8uiXEik8AcERXi5SxZIMHPH3qJ38p03hkQBx0Ks27TTxK_4H_L1jD7ixEsqGkR4CFcb1LKtXHj4d76dGmznEhBIJkaol/s400/watkins-mtns-evening2.jpg" /></a></div>Bright start to the day, but exactly as on the previous day, cloud comes in later and it gets sultry. We try three ways up a nearby peak but are defeated by the slush on all of them. Our last try leads up a dramatically weathered rock ridge. The rock is both crumbly and loose. You can crush some flakes in your hand.<br><br>
A white gull (ivory gull?) circles over the camp once, then makes off hastily. Paul and Scot phone home via Immarsat to get the results of England v. Argentina.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61-aeWKBSiNK1exMneFKv5iioermC-fttJvW4GzBGi5P9vppyJQun2lvQndk6pVr7SaPYfWSHXHYnVTDhi_2BVXIN9FSIR51WBaSRJDSQLrHwxdUfsGiAaOzw_Pxof7ZEBOAwo4wGIrWC/s1600/tent-grey-sky2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="269" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61-aeWKBSiNK1exMneFKv5iioermC-fttJvW4GzBGi5P9vppyJQun2lvQndk6pVr7SaPYfWSHXHYnVTDhi_2BVXIN9FSIR51WBaSRJDSQLrHwxdUfsGiAaOzw_Pxof7ZEBOAwo4wGIrWC/s400/tent-grey-sky2.jpg" /></a></div>13 June: weather fine for our move back to base camp. Unfortunately, this means a long, hot pulk-haul through the noonday sun. Paul and Scot are delayed when a bolt falls off their pulk traces, necessitating a field repair. Later, two ivory gulls circle over us.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvJ267Ydx1IP_GDOc6gCVmokztFeYOrXtvRr94HgA7E9vg0gnbcqfzTyOCXIT_eGwjV8JfUuuxPMuKdG1qgP1VOA1UQfp1gpla0KfH2lmV9m4QIdNgGHpClHUpoeqDhkdIzDewbKSMPRw/s1600/camp-mountains2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="264" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvJ267Ydx1IP_GDOc6gCVmokztFeYOrXtvRr94HgA7E9vg0gnbcqfzTyOCXIT_eGwjV8JfUuuxPMuKdG1qgP1VOA1UQfp1gpla0KfH2lmV9m4QIdNgGHpClHUpoeqDhkdIzDewbKSMPRw/s400/camp-mountains2.jpg" /></a></div>14 June: we move on up the glacier to the head of the valley, placing the new camp within sight of the icefall facing the coast. At first, we seem to be headed for a blank gap between mountains, as if about to ski off the edge of the world. Then, gradually, three nunataks start to pierce the horizon, like stones in a Zen sand garden.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Fx9wxHkQF2N6I-3TK2Z5HfpxeHSL-3f7bN_OyvPZEL-T9KLnDGpcBvFJ4oIA38NWi6ymb7_FLclQiEGf0VOQ4DQoX0JIU88IZM34Q9n2Y-6C3wzlLVtOnaC9dqmbbrc31vSR4cV7W-Fa/s1600/nunataks2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="183" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Fx9wxHkQF2N6I-3TK2Z5HfpxeHSL-3f7bN_OyvPZEL-T9KLnDGpcBvFJ4oIA38NWi6ymb7_FLclQiEGf0VOQ4DQoX0JIU88IZM34Q9n2Y-6C3wzlLVtOnaC9dqmbbrc31vSR4cV7W-Fa/s400/nunataks2.jpg" /></a></div>4.00pm: Paul makes a recce to the other side of the glacier, to scope out new route possibilities. Like Lhotse, the mountain at the edge of the massif is streaming a plume of cloud. Unexpectedly, we come out on a balcony with a view of this ice-draped bastion.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrB8sonF8mCRF7j4LO7A6a1OnFP9BxaYUA3EKBtmIol_4fPCSjYRHgRIjhRTAtn295OXDsSaeJT2YL2vzK_0QhnidphO3_4ENsDOOoRoPpEdHUmPitN6NGT9NfWYtO-eV8exNLsIJPmeP/s1600/mountain-figures2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="264" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrB8sonF8mCRF7j4LO7A6a1OnFP9BxaYUA3EKBtmIol_4fPCSjYRHgRIjhRTAtn295OXDsSaeJT2YL2vzK_0QhnidphO3_4ENsDOOoRoPpEdHUmPitN6NGT9NfWYtO-eV8exNLsIJPmeP/s400/mountain-figures2.jpg" /></a></div>15 June: Julian now has his eye on Pt 2784, a snowy peak on the edge of the big escarpment. We ski for several hours up the easy part of the glacier, then debate whether to go on. The crevassing above does not reassure.<br><br>
But the sun decides matters, by making the snow too slushy for us to tackle the next steep slope. Instead, we ski down the glacier to a vantage point from which we could ogle the huge and serrated ridge across the valley. One day that ridge will become one of Greenland's last great mountaineering problems. It looks magnificently loose. Crumbly too, I shouldn't wonder.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ezzwypYBhHWFjFUzBqmndCxtABuDUqrdFjg4V3rKmQJCqUD7W8RZnCuKuQTUQPkf5EGybiwZMvWa_ZXEw49eFCJaMYqMGfyXm8zl4lGSuP6ow2hp3NXXvebKfwqJOlaa961nSenPGwi7/s1600/watkins-traverse-pair2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="186" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ezzwypYBhHWFjFUzBqmndCxtABuDUqrdFjg4V3rKmQJCqUD7W8RZnCuKuQTUQPkf5EGybiwZMvWa_ZXEw49eFCJaMYqMGfyXm8zl4lGSuP6ow2hp3NXXvebKfwqJOlaa961nSenPGwi7/s400/watkins-traverse-pair2.jpg" /></a></div>16 June: we plan to start early for a last peak-bagging foray up the Cone glacier, but the weather socks in by 4.00am. A brief brightening around noon lures me out, but white-out descends 200 yards after I leave camp.<br><br>
In their tent, Paul and Scot have graduated to chess, though with an added element of Kim's game. The main challenge is to remember which flavour of sweet stood for which piece. Paul is also moved to interview himself for 'Arctic TV' on the MSR Lean Burn Olympics: "You have to become the fuel," he advises would-be challengers.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwcLQvvQYBAdRU4b-Q46vFtW7cBvEWLZ7UkZCrHB7w4-biWJqzf5QzljmoGO-Hu11KDTc-WV5PTHTHqA8LjVXpQ4n_4ULv0e99xffNdV4Q3FPVRlFiB_ZY3JzQZHdd-kfJPM0A8Y7UZ3kx/s1600/chess2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="264" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwcLQvvQYBAdRU4b-Q46vFtW7cBvEWLZ7UkZCrHB7w4-biWJqzf5QzljmoGO-Hu11KDTc-WV5PTHTHqA8LjVXpQ4n_4ULv0e99xffNdV4Q3FPVRlFiB_ZY3JzQZHdd-kfJPM0A8Y7UZ3kx/s400/chess2.jpg" /></a></div>17 June: back to base camp, to prepare for 'uplift day'. A bright morning quickly turns cloudy. The evening chill is relieved by an Xmas pudding, that worthily meets its destiny in a pan of blazing whisky. No fuel economy here - it took more than an hour's simmering on the MSR to heat the thing up. Thanks, Mum.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVzLtmWUe3jRmSxuRc3FCwWg255ag9piOb6_vdmzk2kNN90XdzpjLtX7GVYmsbicXrstPHoDPNFBcMgA-iiB-HO8L1Mz7hJs_D_gxDc7xV7lNvkIPFPPu_V0mPb1EI4kMzhw5ioNeHu-zL/s1600/view-eastwards2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="196" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVzLtmWUe3jRmSxuRc3FCwWg255ag9piOb6_vdmzk2kNN90XdzpjLtX7GVYmsbicXrstPHoDPNFBcMgA-iiB-HO8L1Mz7hJs_D_gxDc7xV7lNvkIPFPPu_V0mPb1EI4kMzhw5ioNeHu-zL/s400/view-eastwards2.jpg" /></a></div>18 June: a lazy morning preparing for uplift by the Twin Otter, which is scheduled to arrive around 3.30pm. Mild panic ensues when the aircraft arrives overhead half an hour early, having failed to drop off its inbound passengers (two Brits) owing to cloud over their intended landing zone. A rush to pack up the last tents and load everything in a blast of propwash and jet fumes behind the idling turbines.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WrqWFet5me8upXjGliNFrfXM7d6JLzD9iCzYwn-UalnFc1xqIGdMn0xBvhJ0O8xzBuMhccr1y5UP_DB0L9B8qHXlPkxKMywm-HlB0PnCMINnB467ZBtjhb9Q9dDo3gBgPCXiYTDU7BIz/s1600/twin-otter-landed2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="268" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WrqWFet5me8upXjGliNFrfXM7d6JLzD9iCzYwn-UalnFc1xqIGdMn0xBvhJ0O8xzBuMhccr1y5UP_DB0L9B8qHXlPkxKMywm-HlB0PnCMINnB467ZBtjhb9Q9dDo3gBgPCXiYTDU7BIz/s400/twin-otter-landed2.jpg" /></a></div>Then out over the mountains and the coast. The pack ice is more broken up than three weeks previously, but the coastal ranges are already far behind when we overfly its eastern edge out to open sea.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1uCvq31Nyc1yi6s7G6j9db2xxRjYyynt7uDxQZE0IfjUX73oD4-oVMXWFU9LSWos3zvnWYQrJ7iLeSOsU1z2OIVJ7SM8CO-KRo6kVvtw9ObGtMmD2AYqdH39ebJ_Ax-aBs4ND5IW5fdf/s1600/window-ice-edge2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="268" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1uCvq31Nyc1yi6s7G6j9db2xxRjYyynt7uDxQZE0IfjUX73oD4-oVMXWFU9LSWos3zvnWYQrJ7iLeSOsU1z2OIVJ7SM8CO-KRo6kVvtw9ObGtMmD2AYqdH39ebJ_Ax-aBs4ND5IW5fdf/s400/window-ice-edge2.jpg" /></a></div>Ahead, Iceland lies hidden in layer on layer of cloud. Heavy turbulence as we let down into Akureyri, but rain and wind don't delay the 7.55pm flight to Reykjavik. This Fokker is chokka: there's not a single empty seat. By ten, we’re sitting down to a foaming tankard in the badlands of Reykjavik. Just one each, mind: foaming tankards come refreshingly expensive in this city.Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-46143037967679607082012-09-11T13:17:00.001-07:002012-09-20T17:44:40.072-07:00The other nine-eleven<b>Chronicle of a man-made disaster that wasn’t foretold
</b><br><br>
This is the true story of how one hundred and fourteen people lost their lives in a nineteenth-century landslide. I raise that semaphore now, in case anyone should feel that a parable for our times is being foisted on them. For we deal here only with what happened to the village of Elm, in central Switzerland, on September 11th, 1881, the day the mountain came down.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho81oyEtdjAUh2oTYmiwe5YUOP57STC63o1aEyJG-D_xTDmoc4Ef7n5rFtQ1rmOdMA6YQC-6nFJd4QNb0HN4AH58Z3_zj2-I-bLIhs4Rb2Tku3ud9OhUPeiR6aZYiYsnbXHtPQ0zbISy2M/s1600/kirche+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="298" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho81oyEtdjAUh2oTYmiwe5YUOP57STC63o1aEyJG-D_xTDmoc4Ef7n5rFtQ1rmOdMA6YQC-6nFJd4QNb0HN4AH58Z3_zj2-I-bLIhs4Rb2Tku3ud9OhUPeiR6aZYiYsnbXHtPQ0zbISy2M/s400/kirche+copy.jpg" /></a></div>The mountain started to move on a wet Sunday afternoon. Boulders had been tumbling down all day, drawing a small group of onlookers to a nearby inn. In the lower village, most were too busy to watch; they were making coffee, milking cows, and going about their evening tasks. Then, at a quarter past five, a larger rock-mass broke away from the Plattenbergkopf. As it fell, its upper slopes bent and broke, folding a stand of trees into itself. The debris cascaded though a stream and came to a halt within a dozen yards of the inn.<br><br>
This slide hurt nobody but it did gain the full attention of people in the upper village. They set about preparing to move the sick and the elderly, and a few of their belongings. Some inhabitants of the lower village came up to help and to gawk at the remains of the rockslide. One or two went back to their houses to shut the windows against the dust; nobody was in much of a hurry.<br><br>
Seventeen minutes after the first collapse, another mass of rock detached, this time from the western side of the cliff. “My God, here comes the whole thing down!” shouted one of the spectators. People started to run. Then the hurtling rocks were upon them. A man called Oswald Kubli saw his brother struck down by flying wreckage from the inn. Choking and gasping, the survivors ran out of a dark cloud of slate dust towards a small hill. Twenty people didn’t make it.<br><br>
Meinrad Rhyner, a cheesemaker, had a head start. A few minutes earlier, he’d refused to join the onlookers at the inn when they waved him over: he wasn’t afraid for himself, he said, but for the heavy round cheese he was carrying. Twenty paces behind, Heinrich Elmer was staggering along under a load of boxes when flying rocks struck him down. Now Rhyner ran past an elderly man and woman who were helping along their eighty year-old brother. An instant later, the three old people were engulfed.<br><br>
After the second fall, everyone seemed to be running around. In this moment of respite, a feeling grew that the worst might be over. The animals weren’t deceived. Far down the valley, a cow bellowed and started running for the hillside, “tail outstraightened”. Cats and chickens skittered or fluttered to safety, and two goats “sought and found salvation” on the steps of the parsonage. (The quoted words are those of Martin Conway, a noted alpinist and aesthete, who wrote up the disaster some decades later.)<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9sUHVaVbEEalysK57KYBK1EOPJ7pZ7xktmrdDe6omK6fr0HlHv46NFN-AWUm5zDHNOQTVoyUoRJJjzJPNVAQpNQv5ma70glgP37rAZr5iLr_lOssHDBEGlng0Hx2ff6LYO7rMgjQ2dRld/s1600/bergsturz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="270" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9sUHVaVbEEalysK57KYBK1EOPJ7pZ7xktmrdDe6omK6fr0HlHv46NFN-AWUm5zDHNOQTVoyUoRJJjzJPNVAQpNQv5ma70glgP37rAZr5iLr_lOssHDBEGlng0Hx2ff6LYO7rMgjQ2dRld/s400/bergsturz.jpg" /></a></div>Four minutes later, the entire buttress – ten million cubic metres of solid rock – started to move, the forest on its crest bending like a field of corn in the wind. The trees seemed to flock together, like sheep, before the plummeting mass swallowed them up. When the falling cliff reached the mountain’s foot, its upper part pitched momentously forward, launching across the meadows a tidal wave of shattering rock.<br><br>
Houses folded in the blast pressure even before the main avalanche reached them. Freakishly, this hurricane-like wind spared or saved a few lives. Among them were the son, daughter and grandchildren of one Huntsman Elmer. This is his tale:<br><br>
<i>“My son Peter was in Müsli (nearly a mile from the mountain) with his wife and child. He sought to escape with them by running. On coming to a wall, he took the child from his wife and leaped over. Turning round, he saw the woman reach out her hand to another child. At that moment, the wind lifted him and he was borne up the hillside. My married daughter, also in Müsli, fled with two children. She held the younger in her arms and led the other. This one was snatched away from her, but she found herself, not knowing how, some distance up the hillside, lying on the ground face downwards, with the baby beneath her, both uninjured.”</i><br><br>
Indeed, few of the survivors were injured. Or, to put that another way, nobody could live who found themselves in the path of the tumbling boulders. When the roiling cloud of shale dust cleared, the rocks had covered a mile-long swathe of valley floor to a depth of ten or twenty yards. The lower village had vanished, leaving on the surface of the debris flow only shattered beams and a few severed limbs.<br><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUe4FnAU6wz1ffYSGcmFruuOgwKdxq2JSYxCX3TtRRDHoH49RLUe1aQQIxuLccSKLSC3oaJg4iOIxfMGDTwzM6Mi6TfomRTLwcEls6_V9GBOovt-KXrJFO6mn6qGnfLzTs2-OSobfyuq5/s1600/model+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUe4FnAU6wz1ffYSGcmFruuOgwKdxq2JSYxCX3TtRRDHoH49RLUe1aQQIxuLccSKLSC3oaJg4iOIxfMGDTwzM6Mi6TfomRTLwcEls6_V9GBOovt-KXrJFO6mn6qGnfLzTs2-OSobfyuq5/s400/model+.jpg" /></a></div>Some time later, a scholarly figure with a patriarchal beard arrived in Elm. This was Albert Heim, Switzerland’s most eminent geologist, whose task it was to compile the official report on the disaster. Nobody needed Heim to explain the landslide's cause, of course. That was obvious: a municipal slate mine had undermined the mountain’s foot, and this on a recklessly broad front. Rather, the question was whether the mountain’s collapse could have been predicted and avoided.<br><br>
In a way, it was ironic that such a disaster should have overtaken Elm. The village had come late to mining. Good-quality slate crops out all along the valley, the relict of a former ocean trench, and the nearby hamlets of Matt and Engi had exploited it for years. Yet the Elmers had long stayed aloof from this dirty and dangerous business. In their sunny coign of meadows at the valley’s head, they were content to make a living by raising cattle and making cheese, as their forebears had.<br><br>
Entering the 1860s, the Elmers must have noticed how well their mining neighbours were doing. All over Europe, growing cohorts of children were scribbling their ABCs onto tablets of Swiss slate; business was booming. In 1868, the village council changed its mind: two concessions were granted and miners immediately started to dig their way into the mountain that loomed above. Blasting charges were set off several times a day to loosen the rock before the workers could prise and shovel it away.<br><br>
To support the weight of the mountain overhead, bulky pillars of rock were left between the various excavations. So, when cracks started to appear in the mountain meadow a thousand feet above the workings, people were mystified. Nobody made the connection with the mining activity below. Anyway, the village councillors had other matters on their minds – they feared that the concession-holders were paying them too little for the privilege of carting away their slate.<br><br>
Thus, in 1879, when the concessions came up for renewal, the village council decided to take over the mine for itself. Unfortunately, the best slate had already been worked out. To get at what was left, the village miners now started to chip and blast away at the pillars and walls that the concession-holders had left in place to hold up the roof. Before long, they’d gouged out a cave twenty yards deep into the mountain with a rocky overhang that ran for almost two hundred yards – completely without support.<br><br>
Events now started to accelerate. The cracks in the alpine meadow widened, and parts of the mine roof collapsed in several places. In the spring of 1881, a stream that had previously tumbled down the cliff now suddenly disappeared into the mountain’s depths. By August, the biggest crack on the alpine meadow had widened to three yards in places, and the ground on its downhill side had sagged three or four yards.<br><br>
On September 7th, large blocks of stone broke away from the cliff, prompting the village council to send a delegation to take a closer look. More boulders came down the next day. The village council put a temporary ban on mining activity and decided to call for expert advice.
<br><br>On Saturday, September 10th, the cantonal forester from Glarus, the district forester and a mountain guide came up to Elm. Together with two councillors from the village, they climbed to the steep wood on the slopes above the mine. The way was difficult: trees had keeled over like spillikins, blocking the path.<br><br>
As a first measure, the little assembly decided, the fallen trees would be cleared. This would save the timber from going to waste and it would relieve the burden on the cliff-edge. The experts also suggested that the mine should be closed by early the following year. <br><br>
This proposal went down badly with the council chairman. What would happen to the hundred or so workers who made their living from the quarry, he objected. The councillors decided to put off further discussions until the following Monday. By then, of course, it was too late. It was during the morning mass of Sunday, September 11th that the rocks started to fall again...<br><br>
In his official report, Albert Heim raised the question that, to this day, has found no answer: “What more warning," he asked, "did they need?”<br><br>
<b>References</b><br><br>
Martin Conway, <i>The Alps from End to End</i><br><br>
François Meienberg, <i>Glarner Überschreitungen</i>Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-76634803006534287912011-08-16T12:16:00.000-07:002011-08-16T12:24:05.221-07:00The use of going up there ....<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/70148269@N00/5102804872/" title="Wanderer above the Sea of Fog"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1200/5102804872_9f7a3f3861.jpg" alt="Wanderer above the Sea of Fog by Alpine Light & Structure" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/70148269@N00/5102804872/">Wanderer above the Sea of Fog</a>, a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/70148269@N00/">Alpine Light & Structure</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p></p>
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<br />"The question 'What is the use of going up there?' has never been better answered than by Tschudi: 'It is the feeling of spiritual power that glows in him, and drives him to overcome the dead horrors of nature; it is the charm of measuring the power peculiar to man, the infinite capacity of an intelligent will, against the rough opposition of dust; it is the holy impulse to seek out, in the service of the everlasting science of the earth's life and framework, for the mysterious connection of all creation; it is perhaps the longing of the lord of the earth to place the seal on his consciousness of a relationship to the infinite, by a bold, free deed, on the last conquered height, looking round on the world lying at his feet.'"
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<br />From Chapter XXIV Alpine Summits of <span style="font-style:italic;">The Alps; or, Sketches of Life and Nature in the Mountains</span>, by Hermann Alexander von Berlepsch, translated by Leslie Stephen (London 1861) Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-17645351158711814972010-07-16T23:52:00.001-07:002010-07-16T23:52:53.346-07:00Climate change indicator16 April: on our way into the Gauli glacier area, on a ski-mountaineering trip, we had to cross the Bächlilücke, a rocky col between two glaciers. This involves climbing three sets of ladders on the east side (see photo) and downclimbing an even greater distance to the glacier on the western side. In 1980, the guidebook says, you could still walk over this col on snow, without taking your skis off....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEg8DkS2Kr7VX8SDDPz_aa5GrVk9DMtscevTaQ8mNXS3KR4_2YsJGA7Yi6yGsNgM4Qg8OyP0oOT-dvxTzP-q3P_-XHAuDcVNhLILRHyLDcOgp-5OR9BK6eFjHuXv7UPtwJtN6oO_9sZBcN/s1600/DSC_0167-ladder.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEg8DkS2Kr7VX8SDDPz_aa5GrVk9DMtscevTaQ8mNXS3KR4_2YsJGA7Yi6yGsNgM4Qg8OyP0oOT-dvxTzP-q3P_-XHAuDcVNhLILRHyLDcOgp-5OR9BK6eFjHuXv7UPtwJtN6oO_9sZBcN/s400/DSC_0167-ladder.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472690431718841490" /></a>Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-16976828268015014442010-05-13T00:29:00.000-07:002010-05-15T04:58:11.698-07:00Ash Saturday<span style="font-weight:bold;">First photos of the Eyjafjallajökull volcanic ash in Swiss airspace? Maybe...</span><br /><br />Saturday, 17 April: solo ski-tour to the Wildhorn (3248 m), the highest peak of the Wildhorn group in the Bernese Alps, topping out early afternoon. (OK, so we were slow.) This was the day that the volcanic ash from Eyjafjallajökull was predicted to reach Swiss airspace. Indeed, to the southwest of the peak, faint cloud bands were visible in the sky (above the low-level cumulus). Was that the ash? I sent these images to MeteoSuisse for their opinion but, so far, unfortunately, no reply ....<br /><br />View from Wildhorn summit<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4PMHYrFsODLlYcQQFav0iIaqsZyQMSwzbWFJem6s0xKeP3koqomsCPyodPDXIIVch15vyYl0SAeYE9FjlE4kb91KA7FpNvGirZWBQV84AI5VPSredqKSzu7nXzGB49rTzN_YvzmW1NP6g/s1600/pano-wildhorn-summit2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4PMHYrFsODLlYcQQFav0iIaqsZyQMSwzbWFJem6s0xKeP3koqomsCPyodPDXIIVch15vyYl0SAeYE9FjlE4kb91KA7FpNvGirZWBQV84AI5VPSredqKSzu7nXzGB49rTzN_YvzmW1NP6g/s400/pano-wildhorn-summit2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470654693905535602" /></a><br /><br />Detail with enhanced contrast<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKTffIEAEH1-XfnmUOHcdKgolRJAGNTzwGswIm-Knvk1B8SkFPfa5EGbmkdV5Tb1ALTAGn53OZNIShKpNke5EUA9xcYgJlYExAK1xUPa_wWTLDIxCw1F628R8xhVpV2f56XCcmOtqcw7u0/s1600/DSC_0132-ash-bands.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKTffIEAEH1-XfnmUOHcdKgolRJAGNTzwGswIm-Knvk1B8SkFPfa5EGbmkdV5Tb1ALTAGn53OZNIShKpNke5EUA9xcYgJlYExAK1xUPa_wWTLDIxCw1F628R8xhVpV2f56XCcmOtqcw7u0/s400/DSC_0132-ash-bands.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470654879649180722" /></a><br /><br />On Monday and Tuesday the following week, Zurich was treated to smoky skies and moderately spectacular sunrises:-<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdISWGbNd2Cx0CCKzQXIJm-4Alu0r7sZlLziX4C2dpAmjxYYyAwntqBbMRB3CLtVlPB8NGFmKfhaZTT4fQWS5xAm_ZtvMZ4KaC2NQXthr_pHb__TjWFlX7jNznXJ6ezWXAMHdhEPsr8Ll/s1600/pano-sunrise2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdISWGbNd2Cx0CCKzQXIJm-4Alu0r7sZlLziX4C2dpAmjxYYyAwntqBbMRB3CLtVlPB8NGFmKfhaZTT4fQWS5xAm_ZtvMZ4KaC2NQXthr_pHb__TjWFlX7jNznXJ6ezWXAMHdhEPsr8Ll/s400/pano-sunrise2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471464069028222562" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHcolqZhoKklNzYvNb9qv2xMfQ_JZDLWDP-NlGm7NAkdIa-i7jtnogh0n9XTB5sx2z_8LFsdnSpyOaMTzTOdVhyphenhyphenMx7NyeGnygDs3VZptRmPqJDRqQGOgo-gVlfGbBCKL_bx4BP6RBFYFK/s1600/pb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 338px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHcolqZhoKklNzYvNb9qv2xMfQ_JZDLWDP-NlGm7NAkdIa-i7jtnogh0n9XTB5sx2z_8LFsdnSpyOaMTzTOdVhyphenhyphenMx7NyeGnygDs3VZptRmPqJDRqQGOgo-gVlfGbBCKL_bx4BP6RBFYFK/s400/pb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471464711048396050" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">References</span><br /><br />Report on MeteoSuisse website about the <a href="http://www.meteoschweiz.admin.ch/web/de/wetter/wetterereignisse/vulkanausbruch_island_2010.html">ash cloud's arrival in Swiss airspace</a> (German only)Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-76853711736918345312010-05-12T22:37:00.000-07:002010-05-13T00:03:46.094-07:00Like a great ringFrom alpinist/physicist John Tyndall's "Expedition of 1856" to the Bernese Oberland:-<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">We descended to the glacier and proceeded towards its source. As we advanced an unusual light fell upon the mountains, and looking upwards we saw a series of coloured rings, drawn like a vivid circular rainbow quite round the sun. Between the orb and us spread a thin veil of cloud on which the circles were painted; the western side of the veil soon melted away, and with it the colours, but the eastern half remained a quarter of an hour longer, and then in its turn disappeared."</span><br /><br />Sun haloes and sun dogs can be seen anywhere in the world, but they seem to be especially frequent in the Bernese Oberland. Often they are associated with the veil clouds that come in ahead of a warm front. Here are two from this spring.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Bächlital, April, with circumzenithal arc at the top of the picture<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWFKBzpkMxs2U8nfkOmoIPm0WHXttVgnU2VF8enS1IVhUT5f9TN9t1ki-2HUWITOK2ddAQxXR4sohKvzaaphPAy76gx8Hmo-GXMey5oJt3ZYOAsyGxfItO_uipZHfAAE4lYlsbwq3l2hn/s1600/DSC_0008-halo-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWFKBzpkMxs2U8nfkOmoIPm0WHXttVgnU2VF8enS1IVhUT5f9TN9t1ki-2HUWITOK2ddAQxXR4sohKvzaaphPAy76gx8Hmo-GXMey5oJt3ZYOAsyGxfItO_uipZHfAAE4lYlsbwq3l2hn/s400/DSC_0008-halo-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470628107305287922" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Wildgärst, February</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG6Zk7YlS_j55ZbnZRtnnQfbY6dajk4GZTJyR5yPTXna5FMlJe7DJF9xSceTUBb3-bLmApYvYnEnPTCAiU4osFk5AbqO_619YSNr1xDAVDn07eSfBgHqEhKUruG-_P0yASR1MtVu_kaTVz/s1600/DSCN3673-halo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 323px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG6Zk7YlS_j55ZbnZRtnnQfbY6dajk4GZTJyR5yPTXna5FMlJe7DJF9xSceTUBb3-bLmApYvYnEnPTCAiU4osFk5AbqO_619YSNr1xDAVDn07eSfBgHqEhKUruG-_P0yASR1MtVu_kaTVz/s400/DSCN3673-halo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470627837151493730" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9U-lJWNDQC-Zpsco-Uhzh9pnbZdpV5o4vk6P-faDMjKSorHfRMeTkqdfuTZdrRVjDl1LqatXCt-Wy6FXgbrerkHx9AfeyaAyGVp1U_KusE68Z3L1yF37U-2pxdcb5y8m5-xmVyF3qTZkK/s1600/DSCN3667-halo-contrail.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9U-lJWNDQC-Zpsco-Uhzh9pnbZdpV5o4vk6P-faDMjKSorHfRMeTkqdfuTZdrRVjDl1LqatXCt-Wy6FXgbrerkHx9AfeyaAyGVp1U_KusE68Z3L1yF37U-2pxdcb5y8m5-xmVyF3qTZkK/s400/DSCN3667-halo-contrail.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470629623083219058" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">References</span><br /><br />Tyndall quotation from John Tyndall, The Glaciers of the Alps & Mountaineering in 1861, published by Everyman, 1906, reprinted 1911<br /><br />Related post: <a href="http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.com/2008/02/light-and-color-in-outdoors.html">Marcel Minnaert's Light and Colour in the Outdoors</a>Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-4984249613175302802010-05-12T10:08:00.000-07:002010-05-13T04:24:53.125-07:00Blüemberg revisited<span style="font-weight:bold;">Rediscovery of a ski-touring classic in central Switzerland</span><br /><br />February 13: Ho hum, it's Blüemberg again. You decide to tag along because your friends suggested it, but you've been there before and you couldn't remember much that was interesting about it. You got up at 5am in the grey city and you dragged your ski-touring kit down to the station to get the 6-something train. Then a little cable-car takes you above the fog deck - and what is this place? That has to be the Lidernen hut, but never did it look like this before...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx31mLM8Sm2PzpU7GTefdlE8PKBp66UrGNsU768hL6QZeaJEo9ziGQScFGl8EcNT0N59_-l52z_-ZrlAhh-Z93buINHE1sOEgpyd1dcK15OsEFRxwuZF6gRnmGiL868U9rVMyawMuWbP32/s1600/pano-lidernen2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx31mLM8Sm2PzpU7GTefdlE8PKBp66UrGNsU768hL6QZeaJEo9ziGQScFGl8EcNT0N59_-l52z_-ZrlAhh-Z93buINHE1sOEgpyd1dcK15OsEFRxwuZF6gRnmGiL868U9rVMyawMuWbP32/s400/pano-lidernen2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470434042289819554" /></a><br />Lucky you accepted the invitation, or you would have missed out on the drumlin terrain ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga8WzS9t5Jk01aR0jBiw9Yr3Zq0PuA2SPdAp0jAOiuE9WsG9_I8oSmMCPraaKC5Wh6f7KZU1f-bPG0E3ke_dhzWqZ6PfyilBNOtQ6yav-DtVCyUPTPQ4g7qzbHF5tUycutgSsU6d_cgFBZ/s1600/DSCN0001_09-hummocks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga8WzS9t5Jk01aR0jBiw9Yr3Zq0PuA2SPdAp0jAOiuE9WsG9_I8oSmMCPraaKC5Wh6f7KZU1f-bPG0E3ke_dhzWqZ6PfyilBNOtQ6yav-DtVCyUPTPQ4g7qzbHF5tUycutgSsU6d_cgFBZ/s400/DSCN0001_09-hummocks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470435442284903314" /></a><br />... the sleeping hummocks (what's under that snow?)....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXEhOMZUYhktiAm19tcC9642WsZgx97rQ4PF0Tymc0urmJQEaWtkLyBy_HqPbVzqxu3TeTCiSuQxu9J7RW5wp88p3sdGH9dGyq35bRVmrMk0SVop9ws_3WZm7TXTL4fYS8Uso1RF8jw7u/s1600/pano-hummocks2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXEhOMZUYhktiAm19tcC9642WsZgx97rQ4PF0Tymc0urmJQEaWtkLyBy_HqPbVzqxu3TeTCiSuQxu9J7RW5wp88p3sdGH9dGyq35bRVmrMk0SVop9ws_3WZm7TXTL4fYS8Uso1RF8jw7u/s400/pano-hummocks2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470436546530125442" /></a><br />... the view opening out as you climb higher...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJ4vA9OZnxOjpIVQn9_b6HJOkZnHTlZRJnyf-oZ4VWCZgNDBqCEe-hc9-WVdUMn6OmuzndL12PZvIgSF989RcjA7KAcmTGrOyX_6qKdTWcm_dg3XIgTqDSFsoLEfAiIbGx4H0JmWQdRIo/s1600/DSCN0001_16-team.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJ4vA9OZnxOjpIVQn9_b6HJOkZnHTlZRJnyf-oZ4VWCZgNDBqCEe-hc9-WVdUMn6OmuzndL12PZvIgSF989RcjA7KAcmTGrOyX_6qKdTWcm_dg3XIgTqDSFsoLEfAiIbGx4H0JmWQdRIo/s400/DSCN0001_16-team.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470436126769437362" /></a><br />... that noonday climb towards the cirrus...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTli_sKfNgC9YRkdIZKnPJlScBgcpl4PKKrle238lWzSSpjIkLIJexUQpr9mOQCpexCbRiY31TgedB2cMdl7hkdfMXZGWllSENl52IEZ61_ZozExGsTsHn4icbIsdQTKhaaVogUI0UekFV/s1600/DSCN3532-cirrus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTli_sKfNgC9YRkdIZKnPJlScBgcpl4PKKrle238lWzSSpjIkLIJexUQpr9mOQCpexCbRiY31TgedB2cMdl7hkdfMXZGWllSENl52IEZ61_ZozExGsTsHn4icbIsdQTKhaaVogUI0UekFV/s400/DSCN3532-cirrus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470436807113526850" /></a><br />... the view out over forever ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-wUe6KhJGZNhLd-RCcSIX68ZA_LFrz_odHE4LV7RK4J3sFzhAi8wi3VKrCey3gUjlcWfI2GtN8Ws9HTNx90WAwCGyGlA4D3hswmapQ1pd_V2j_lG0MMq3s9g5nk6Fwvt_d4IohwJRLyOE/s1600/DSCN3550-couloir.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-wUe6KhJGZNhLd-RCcSIX68ZA_LFrz_odHE4LV7RK4J3sFzhAi8wi3VKrCey3gUjlcWfI2GtN8Ws9HTNx90WAwCGyGlA4D3hswmapQ1pd_V2j_lG0MMq3s9g5nk6Fwvt_d4IohwJRLyOE/s400/DSCN3550-couloir.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470437121031059346" /></a><br />... somewhere there was a summit ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjby7hyF5iv_v-4GiE9R_nynlVe_earwM6Z-6rqWJKH_Qb54TdmgenEejyoVuYLmFYY1e3bpsNwcFh1rQuJWFCkzDzQs1jBpz5WD54tJP6sVEuG4-C6fb7s-TEHMHHczXn1HHEwKn3HC59a/s1600/DSCN3555-summit.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 366px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjby7hyF5iv_v-4GiE9R_nynlVe_earwM6Z-6rqWJKH_Qb54TdmgenEejyoVuYLmFYY1e3bpsNwcFh1rQuJWFCkzDzQs1jBpz5WD54tJP6sVEuG4-C6fb7s-TEHMHHczXn1HHEwKn3HC59a/s400/DSCN3555-summit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470437470083475506" /></a><br />... then skiing down past this misplaced mesa ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz1csW5aPlcfoY1oB_6GADDQ_O1Zdm_lJ6ujrSKzv3_BAOnixTnOZ1yUI9JaTECo7kZ3OxjDCw0zhJpriaNo8guZ5F_w5UrKC4Si_eVQglmsOxXjnQxaboEao5HnmisVCKBKLdjy-4IA3E/s1600/DSCN3563-ski.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 328px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz1csW5aPlcfoY1oB_6GADDQ_O1Zdm_lJ6ujrSKzv3_BAOnixTnOZ1yUI9JaTECo7kZ3OxjDCw0zhJpriaNo8guZ5F_w5UrKC4Si_eVQglmsOxXjnQxaboEao5HnmisVCKBKLdjy-4IA3E/s400/DSCN3563-ski.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470450086300397730" /></a><br />... but, no, we must still be in Switzerland. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafc61Z0ARU5Oa3ophyphenhyphen5SeryivIFz9pjeg9t-YBmJmyDWbYnPfFrUW-uPjAe8FNx3jGlktqHsD4xm36Hxs8LElgncc6_nv-txZpwG_lFSRGXn0og-OWVw5Zrvo2JXp3JA3ps1LZVZK9d0w/s1600/DSCN3565-cross.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafc61Z0ARU5Oa3ophyphenhyphen5SeryivIFz9pjeg9t-YBmJmyDWbYnPfFrUW-uPjAe8FNx3jGlktqHsD4xm36Hxs8LElgncc6_nv-txZpwG_lFSRGXn0og-OWVw5Zrvo2JXp3JA3ps1LZVZK9d0w/s400/DSCN3565-cross.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470450332236628194" /></a><br />Turning down that invitation would have been a mistake. Thanks, Andreas...Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-12453413742505793462009-02-13T11:32:00.000-08:002009-02-14T02:55:26.455-08:00The perfect mountain day<span style="font-weight:bold;">Recipe for a congenial late-season ascent of the Gross Spannort</span><br /><br />Set out from the Swiss Alpine Club's Kroenten hut before dawn ....<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicA9kcMpO6nd-UebNCdRK5Qq6OwJuKtAZ-cGGSCuV4peEOXETl5lCTpPmmeBCQ2Z-B2mUu1zHfM4JoI8TRBSQCUZajARgoyvmNh5v6BoTe0zA-bOKbK91BBukkKIXulncvlI-tGFtLaMmZ/s1600-h/group-dawn-k2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicA9kcMpO6nd-UebNCdRK5Qq6OwJuKtAZ-cGGSCuV4peEOXETl5lCTpPmmeBCQ2Z-B2mUu1zHfM4JoI8TRBSQCUZajARgoyvmNh5v6BoTe0zA-bOKbK91BBukkKIXulncvlI-tGFtLaMmZ/s400/group-dawn-k2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302367487282156098" /></a><br /><br />... be well on your way to the col before the sun comes up ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuQtyOvpdrfZLOdgaUzeZ67SRLTZgOS3mV46BNDKx0Vyu-EGg31Yzg4RHbKpNQDlObZFi51GzbzBXKWf0_F1AOdNoj8OvL1j_0E1NDcV5E8_xC4hWWZgW5lw-DxpsZ-2MFv7yn9OfPjF3/s1600-h/pool-dawn2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuQtyOvpdrfZLOdgaUzeZ67SRLTZgOS3mV46BNDKx0Vyu-EGg31Yzg4RHbKpNQDlObZFi51GzbzBXKWf0_F1AOdNoj8OvL1j_0E1NDcV5E8_xC4hWWZgW5lw-DxpsZ-2MFv7yn9OfPjF3/s400/pool-dawn2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302370381064289730" /></a><br /><br />... so that you get your first view of the mountain at sunrise.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6wEmGOFzFn3jM5ujVvPrpl9smK3k_DXkX9e5J0fFGwZyK5ZyZ4S9VBFMczxhwY2HdCMXgBK_biGn0tCCbsKKQhd-KpWoFv-hS0OKn7Y1YMXvMeeRVO8Egmsdy1bI62iWmj_d84MPr_Dj0/s1600-h/kieran-spannort2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6wEmGOFzFn3jM5ujVvPrpl9smK3k_DXkX9e5J0fFGwZyK5ZyZ4S9VBFMczxhwY2HdCMXgBK_biGn0tCCbsKKQhd-KpWoFv-hS0OKn7Y1YMXvMeeRVO8Egmsdy1bI62iWmj_d84MPr_Dj0/s400/kieran-spannort2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302373702596364802" /></a><br /><br /><br />On the way across the glacier ....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZUzrxmW76-MbjU_-iQMo49YqUh_YfimJh1iBEc8EoKsNPZ8lriBUy9q7GjuiZqkYom4j0W7o10uxKsJL7REZbw220aLQJ29NrbWwcZfr9SLcgrrq4z7nVpF3fP9w0-Jklbmk-4y-hsnRn/s1600-h/glacier2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZUzrxmW76-MbjU_-iQMo49YqUh_YfimJh1iBEc8EoKsNPZ8lriBUy9q7GjuiZqkYom4j0W7o10uxKsJL7REZbw220aLQJ29NrbWwcZfr9SLcgrrq4z7nVpF3fP9w0-Jklbmk-4y-hsnRn/s400/glacier2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302377048678688002" /></a><br /><br /><br />... to the start of the first pitch.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDRITySc9q8lPsjAzKRqA71QsOOtwGISDYYtMvpBviLoKpOxaYDWcMBCim4Ur9Dr_4Xt47k9QdJiA3aVVIBZZ6NVqp-AX4qPE6F0nbsfNVYt2cHR3Xjb7CJQ-pj0fwk97wEwbbRrAy0bQB/s1600-h/first-pitch2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 324px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDRITySc9q8lPsjAzKRqA71QsOOtwGISDYYtMvpBviLoKpOxaYDWcMBCim4Ur9Dr_4Xt47k9QdJiA3aVVIBZZ6NVqp-AX4qPE6F0nbsfNVYt2cHR3Xjb7CJQ-pj0fwk97wEwbbRrAy0bQB/s400/first-pitch2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302381862408566370" /></a><br /><br /><br />Like Everest, the Spannort has three rock steps ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQ7GWeGLlEtXxz18l0wig4KoKFkJynUBNUtpAN3f-BR6Eh9WwEi7VBH27l00EGUobq6g4Ghe-0MmhcbFAS3riQxXMAdl_d921nAYUzs9Mx30lBDnUCzV5YNP0W26q9QxMnJwvTLtg_MIq/s1600-h/third-pitch-wait2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQ7GWeGLlEtXxz18l0wig4KoKFkJynUBNUtpAN3f-BR6Eh9WwEi7VBH27l00EGUobq6g4Ghe-0MmhcbFAS3riQxXMAdl_d921nAYUzs9Mx30lBDnUCzV5YNP0W26q9QxMnJwvTLtg_MIq/s400/third-pitch-wait2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302389138375995314" /></a><br /><br /><br />... but it's customary to climb without oxygen masks.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfq7EKrmD3clHgf9Eon00GNECzwU93tcWCfW_PyRzFeKURWgJWhpzK0G7hHt2GKpuve1cHjJvqpQv8AqTQe71tlK1yLcT0zq35E3gfB1AGfYPNgmRkwtYE0BpvbVD-G1OSs2r_YAL4Wdq/s1600-h/kieran2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfq7EKrmD3clHgf9Eon00GNECzwU93tcWCfW_PyRzFeKURWgJWhpzK0G7hHt2GKpuve1cHjJvqpQv8AqTQe71tlK1yLcT0zq35E3gfB1AGfYPNgmRkwtYE0BpvbVD-G1OSs2r_YAL4Wdq/s400/kieran2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302382678377669842" /></a><br /><br /><br />Summit rocks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0hDp3n54U4eTeEfObSIslT218TpGWVfAeot6midPP5pqfsYUcy1eBEJrukB1A9kqOmohWiCXmO3_KVauBdLxUxfBE4joUSg-ahFf6Xm0nz0Xzlr_Y-odOFCef8MdweZBNrE93b75Y93Xd/s1600-h/summit-rocks2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0hDp3n54U4eTeEfObSIslT218TpGWVfAeot6midPP5pqfsYUcy1eBEJrukB1A9kqOmohWiCXmO3_KVauBdLxUxfBE4joUSg-ahFf6Xm0nz0Xzlr_Y-odOFCef8MdweZBNrE93b75Y93Xd/s400/summit-rocks2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302384764679490818" /></a><br /><br /><br />Summit cross<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYYZENsM2XlfuOprr1u6OwnaBj22DOojKQaUzCkW9q0sNy72vOQ5UH0RWMqGQeV-f90Kwj6iPBj8HMnvab6ubAQ2NWtPTgaMMal-Nifw92tEzelC0XXQuoCGcNilbyWWS_nevjUjs0bAs/s1600-h/summit-cross2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYYZENsM2XlfuOprr1u6OwnaBj22DOojKQaUzCkW9q0sNy72vOQ5UH0RWMqGQeV-f90Kwj6iPBj8HMnvab6ubAQ2NWtPTgaMMal-Nifw92tEzelC0XXQuoCGcNilbyWWS_nevjUjs0bAs/s400/summit-cross2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302383337588156946" /></a><br /><br /><br />Encountering the Roeti Dolomite on the way to Engelberg<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwtohu8AG6WdlYnHlM7SbCJnNQMpm7iTJ794ChjUIK9y49P_6R_csnXTmNeZOSjy8Rse99BIIatBmaLA0FIHOBvFtzJXOHH2fROQTgv1ShWzXktcDEOcKiK1ORIvPuTpw06jsFedqh01Pr/s1600-h/roeti-dolomit2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwtohu8AG6WdlYnHlM7SbCJnNQMpm7iTJ794ChjUIK9y49P_6R_csnXTmNeZOSjy8Rse99BIIatBmaLA0FIHOBvFtzJXOHH2fROQTgv1ShWzXktcDEOcKiK1ORIvPuTpw06jsFedqh01Pr/s400/roeti-dolomit2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302386704998192194" /></a><br /><br /><br />Stopping for refreshment at the SAC Spannort hut<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0F9Vp11lozBmT7eZOc2Mv7OpxNSTMqQFN3vcVZuH0IiRebxHK_V3higosR8fVEHJiHNiGVsKYDoxPrkoiVi7et97UInWKCKBZGb0BPUKP46UbDV9Q_jE6U-8CuP1IWVxBK5LbgspM73Xy/s1600-h/hut-a2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0F9Vp11lozBmT7eZOc2Mv7OpxNSTMqQFN3vcVZuH0IiRebxHK_V3higosR8fVEHJiHNiGVsKYDoxPrkoiVi7et97UInWKCKBZGb0BPUKP46UbDV9Q_jE6U-8CuP1IWVxBK5LbgspM73Xy/s400/hut-a2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302392875717380802" /></a><br /><br />Prayer flags give a Himalayan ambience without the bother of actually going there<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQ-Zry1zcqdyHM2wLBewJmru19ZqiOVqzOLZanuyLk6IFwhOV8Qrk0WgMUmPxsvHed2HiDuXho6GbInkxnsawod3_VPShGzQyP_oh7EeCyhcc5m04iHkiL19fb3lYqESVSv1K-aZSBGHX/s1600-h/prayer-flags2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQ-Zry1zcqdyHM2wLBewJmru19ZqiOVqzOLZanuyLk6IFwhOV8Qrk0WgMUmPxsvHed2HiDuXho6GbInkxnsawod3_VPShGzQyP_oh7EeCyhcc5m04iHkiL19fb3lYqESVSv1K-aZSBGHX/s400/prayer-flags2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302391705810259202" /></a><br /><br /><br />We overtook an elderly couple coming back from the hut - bless thee, ancient chronicles. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHwnW18jyKwD6eNzspL9_3nCpCoPIEE89GVu5TjTDGH0CTREw7o18S0LPLXQV5C0xLzYgFMDUSGcecSedJChUckpLQO5YVPqCelY3ZhgYDeiYTza6PfFopOPrqXBwSiMdMGwggHUngDElX/s1600-h/chronicles-a2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHwnW18jyKwD6eNzspL9_3nCpCoPIEE89GVu5TjTDGH0CTREw7o18S0LPLXQV5C0xLzYgFMDUSGcecSedJChUckpLQO5YVPqCelY3ZhgYDeiYTza6PfFopOPrqXBwSiMdMGwggHUngDElX/s400/chronicles-a2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302390496149736290" /></a>Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-78653529780506538572009-02-09T12:41:00.000-08:002011-06-16T12:34:14.335-07:00Fujisan-ki (富士山記)<span style="font-weight:bold;">Translation from a modern Japanese version of the full original kanbun text by Miyako no Yoshika</span><br /><br />Mt Fuji is in the province of Suruga. The peak is sculpted as if by a sword-blade and soars up until it touches the sky. Its height is immeasurable. There is no higher mountain, as you will see if look through this or that written record. This soaring peak rises out of thick forests and seems to touch the edge of heaven, towering over the ocean. <br /><br />The base of this extraordinary mountain extends for thousands of leagues, so that travellers must journey for several days until they have passed it by. Even then, when they look back, they are still at the mountain’s foot. <br /><br />This must be a place where hermits disport themselves. As I’ve heard, during the Shōwa era (834-848), pearls and jewels rolled down from the mountain, each jewel with a little hole through it. These were probably beautiful gems that once adorned the reed screen of a hermit’s cell. <br /><br />On November 5th, in the 17th year of Jōgan (876), the officials and people were celebrating a festival in accordance with an ancient rite when, as the day wore on towards noon, the sky cleared wonderfully. Looking up towards the mountain, they saw how two beautiful maidens robed in white danced above the summit, seemingly a foot or more above it. Several local people saw it; a very old man passed on the tale.<br /><br />Mt Fuji takes its name from that of the district. Its deity is the Great God Asama. As for its height, it rises so far above the clouds that nobody knows how high it is. The summit is flat and about a league across. It is sunken in the middle, in shape like a rice-steaming pot (koshiki). At the bottom of this pot, there is a mysterious lake and in the middle of the lake, a large rock. The rock is strangely shaped, just like a crouching tiger. Vapour rises incessantly from the crater. The lake’s colour is a pure and deep blue. If one looks into the crater, it’s as if the water is seething. Looking from afar, one often sees smoke and flames too. <br /><br />That summit pond is ringed with bamboo, which is a lush green and pliable. The snow never melts in spring or summer. Below the middle of the mountain grow small pine trees, but there are no trees above that level, only white ash. People can climb the mountain to its middle level, but it’s impossible to go further because of the ash which is always slipping downwards. It is said that En-no-gyōja once climbed the mountain but, after that, everybody has stopped at the middle level. <br /><br />A great spring issues from the lower part of the mountain, which feeds a large river. The flow of water never varies, in hot season or in cold or in drought. At the eastern foot of Mt Fuji is a small mountain, which the local people call the new mountain. Originally this was flat ground, but in March of the 21st year of Enryaku (803) black smoke and steam came churning up and, after 10 days, the new mountain was formed. Probably a god created it.<br /><br />Back to main article: <a href="http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.com/2011/06/journey-to-centre-of-mt-fuji_03.html">Journey to the centre of Mt Fuji</a>Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-68992308422894642632009-01-20T12:20:00.000-08:002009-01-20T13:05:40.120-08:00Foehn call18 January, Pizol: up on the summit, the foehn was blowing and you could see forever. Bernina, Palü, Roseg .. the old man pointed out the summits on the horizon, his arm sweeping through the four points of the compass … Falknis, Alvier, Gonzen … he didn’t say so, but he’d probably climbed all of them. Then he ambled off down the snow. No crampons, no ice-axe, just perfect balance, honed over a lifetime.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABqoOm9aiwU8p_MTzuW-m49Y38tLKpqDNF19SK5qCGrX9s0Ihc5M3kA_9qn4JAbMn_4jBXGcwzp3Lnf__-QMmnI_9dJ9KwGKqO-HUCuVb4zm7v04hpnxuDZBJK9T6m5jmNRWlINs0KUxm/s1600-h/pano-pizol-descent3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABqoOm9aiwU8p_MTzuW-m49Y38tLKpqDNF19SK5qCGrX9s0Ihc5M3kA_9qn4JAbMn_4jBXGcwzp3Lnf__-QMmnI_9dJ9KwGKqO-HUCuVb4zm7v04hpnxuDZBJK9T6m5jmNRWlINs0KUxm/s400/pano-pizol-descent3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293476364097119314" /></a><br />The foehn is a manic depressive of a wind. He blows up from the southwest ahead of an incoming front – that’s the depressive part. When he’s in a bad mood, he uproots trees and blows you off your feet. Mostly, though, he’s an artist manqué. Roll clouds, cirrus, foehn walls, these are his stock-in-trade. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vTdFPgPBPDLDhHD0DHlsnvWBto1wlfIk6Y8-aE438B58F5aOueGIpg_srIymtZquVlfsGljBQVL5PcuU0JCf4t3ypHsGB68FdXq21QCYq1KvJ0ZegJDiHDJq5JfQq7HQyM_ipVBE-KkB/s1600-h/DSCN0901-pizol-jet.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vTdFPgPBPDLDhHD0DHlsnvWBto1wlfIk6Y8-aE438B58F5aOueGIpg_srIymtZquVlfsGljBQVL5PcuU0JCf4t3ypHsGB68FdXq21QCYq1KvJ0ZegJDiHDJq5JfQq7HQyM_ipVBE-KkB/s400/DSCN0901-pizol-jet.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293475526380381554" /></a><br />Today he puts on a virtuoso performance. Like a prestigitator whipping cloths from fully laden tables, he drives the clouds across the peaks in fretwork patterns of ripples, waves, bars, vortices.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFv9P5J5QLTDbUWaOsFslzN9-lA469ROffoUoynor63RblcVCzXYpgoBCywVtNPtJWYYG0MDiBZOhfHNBFC5dUH-CXAxJBqhvpyve-cp3Hvmuqjj2KuOCnrkyndRXEbBh9lXFavWKUfiC6/s1600-h/DSCN0905-iridescent.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFv9P5J5QLTDbUWaOsFslzN9-lA469ROffoUoynor63RblcVCzXYpgoBCywVtNPtJWYYG0MDiBZOhfHNBFC5dUH-CXAxJBqhvpyve-cp3Hvmuqjj2KuOCnrkyndRXEbBh9lXFavWKUfiC6/s400/DSCN0905-iridescent.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293475336565797522" /></a>Towards evening, there’s a brief display of iridescent clouds, fragile and evanescent as memories. Tomorrow the depression will set in. <br /><br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjW3dDQTqk6JUchK2w5b4TmeNgRYHdfPz_tpTZbCFQoI6hiBfKsCMfZn26TXN7m6JKuCJWLR5X1ZelfrbxPgdv_V1YGf29QCryh_fr6O2eMcbkBaPvPUBPX3mWyChQZjUF0UWbOPMWAtPc/s1600-h/pano-pizol-cloud3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjW3dDQTqk6JUchK2w5b4TmeNgRYHdfPz_tpTZbCFQoI6hiBfKsCMfZn26TXN7m6JKuCJWLR5X1ZelfrbxPgdv_V1YGf29QCryh_fr6O2eMcbkBaPvPUBPX3mWyChQZjUF0UWbOPMWAtPc/s400/pano-pizol-cloud3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293477589488090770" /></a>Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-31152748223309423622009-01-18T02:34:00.000-08:002017-07-05T12:00:27.467-07:00On solo mountaineering (単独行について)<span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpted translation of the essay by Katō Buntarō in Solo Climbs (単独行)</span><br />
As these thoughts on solo mountaineering are my own, and make no reference to those of other soloists, they are inevitably a personal view. But I don’t doubt that common ground will be found in places with the experience of other mountaineers. <br />
<br />
A good number of people go to the mountains solo in our country, but most of them could be described as hikers. There’s all the difference in the world between these and the hardy solo ascensionist (I take the term from Mr Mizuno’s book on rock climbing), who, like one of those alpine “Alleingänger”, favours the avalanche-and stonefall-raked routes shunned by others, scorns to follow in other people’s dust and boldly tackles one impossible line after another. <br />
<br />
Yet this kind of soloist starts out in much the same way as a solo hiker. He has a liking for nature, a disposition towards a sport that gets him out into it, and also a kind of self-willed yet timid streak in his character. Too timid, that is, to want to pester an expert to show him the way, and too self-willed to put up with a slower, less expert companion. In this way, he finds himself increasingly inclined to set off into the mountains alone. So that’s how he gets into soloing, but his timidity won’t let him admit there’s the slightest danger in it and keeps him prudent to a fault. There’s no saying how many humdrum hikes he’ll make or passes he’ll walk over. Then, after wandering all over the place to burn himself in, he’ll finally start climbing to summits. In other words, he’s followed the typical path of the hiker. Thus the soloist proceeds from summer to spring and autumn and finally winter mountains, making sure of every step, and never trusting himself to a flying leap. And, as long as he takes no flying leaps, you can’t say that his solitary mountaineering is in the least dangerous. <br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Why climb mountains? I climb because I want to climb; surely it’s a good enough reason to climb if one is moved to do so by some irrepressible instinct of the spirit. And if it’s objected that this is just like drinking, even though you know it’s bad for you, because you can’t help it, then so be it. For we climb mountains because we believe climbing mountains is good. Mountain climbers may from time to time compare climbing to a boozer’s drink or a smoker’s cigarettes but this is, in reality, quite absurd. If mountaineering is about gaining knowledge and hence solace from nature, then surely the most knowledge and the highest degree of solace is gained from solo mountaineering. This is because, if you have a companion with you, you sometimes forget to look at the mountains whereas, when you wander through the hills and valleys alone, no stick or stone can fail to captivate your heart. Or, if mountaineering is about doing battle with nature and prevailing, and gaining solace that way, then surely the battle and the solace thereafter are that much more intense when you are alone, counting on nobody but yourself. Rock-climbing is entirely different when climbing alone than it is when somebody else is looking on. <br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
So who is he to make a judgment on soloing, whether it’s dangerous or what kind of skill level it needs? People who want to solo should solo; only people who want to are qualified to solo. <br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Abroad, there are said to be “Alleingänger” who learned their trade climbing on terrific cliffs where nobody could possibly have stopped a falling companion on the rope. Yet, even so, there are people who’ll lecture these excellent “Alleingänger” on the dangers of solo climbing. So, I advise all soloists, pay no attention to the nay-sayers. If you do start listening to them, then you’ll have to give up soloing. That’s because you’ll already have started to have doubts about solo climbing. To solo in a state of self-doubt is a crime: you’ll just be tortured by guilt, whether it’s mountains or soloing or booze or smoking that’s bothering you. But if you solo because you know it’s the right thing to do, then you can make progress without agonizing about it. The weak will be tormented, crushed; the strong will become stronger and flourish.<br />
<br />
So, soloists, be strong!<br />
<br />
December 1934<br />
<br />
Back to <a href="http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.com/2011/06/manifesto-of-solo-mountaineer.html">main article</a>Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-63903151732104002962009-01-15T11:57:00.001-08:002009-01-15T12:14:29.958-08:00Risk assessment<br><b>Swiss researchers put some numbers on the hazards of ski-touring and off-piste skiing. Sorry, but ski-touring is more dangerous than driving</b><br /><br />Every year in Switzerland for the last two decades, avalanches have claimed the lives of about 14 ski-mountaineers and 7 off-piste skiers – the latter being folk who use the lifts of ski-resorts but find their way downhill outside the prepared ski-pistes. But these numbers don’t actually reveal the likelihood of an avalanche accident on any given ski-tour or ski-run. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-6GtoHR9HI5MY4-8m2Q_PRVpeFVqaaGLAl5J8wUbzSgGrkvd8WFDew_1GXVeotagSt8Zn3-KTqrpUJimqbHxpEoSWUAIEUA2wsqSr_pTD7HfA0rVLqlXZB7n5arl04AQfXiDQSOp66Y/s1600-h/calderas-paul.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-6GtoHR9HI5MY4-8m2Q_PRVpeFVqaaGLAl5J8wUbzSgGrkvd8WFDew_1GXVeotagSt8Zn3-KTqrpUJimqbHxpEoSWUAIEUA2wsqSr_pTD7HfA0rVLqlXZB7n5arl04AQfXiDQSOp66Y/s400/calderas-paul.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169901332342411602" /></a><br />Now two Swiss researchers have attempted to answer that question. The findings of Philippe Wäger of the University of Bern and Benjamin Zweifel of the Swiss Federal Institute for Snow and Avalanche Research at Davos are published in the 2.2008 edition of “Die Alpen”, the official magazine of the Swiss Alpine Club. <br /><br />Based on a limited sampling of routes near Davos, Wäger and Zweifel estimate that fatal avalanche accidents occur on about three ski-mountaineering tours out of every 100,000. For off-piste skiers, the risk is rather higher, at 10 fatal accidents per 100,000. This reflects the fact that ski-mountaineers tend to limit themselves to one mountain route per outing, while off-piste skiers use the lifts to make many different runs every day. <br /><br />There is also a difference in behaviour, note the researchers. Ski-mountaineers are less likely to undertake a tour when the avalanche risk level moves up from “moderate” (Level 2) to “considerable (Level 3). But off-piste skiers are more likely to go out when conditions are dangerous. <br /><br />Extrapolating from their limited sample to probabilities for the whole of Switzerland, the authors estimate that some 9 fatal avalanche accidents occur every year per 100,000 ski-mountaineering tours and 12 per off-piste run. Of course, avalanches are not the only source of danger for skiers, who can also fall victim to crevasses, cornice collapses, and icy slopes. Including these other dangers and annoyances, the accident quota rises to 17 per 100,000 ski-mountaineering tours and 20 per off-piste run. <br /><br />In sum, ski-touring and off-piste skiing appear to be less dangerous than summer alpine climbing but more dangerous than rock-climbing or hiking. Another bit of news to ponder. If you thought that driving to the mountain was the most dangerous part of the trip, think again. “The figures don’t support that conclusion,” say the researchers. <br /><br /><b>References</b><br /><br /><i>Das tödliche Risiko Lawinen </i>by Philippe Wäger of the University of Bern and Benjamin Zweifel of the Swiss Federal Institute for Snow and Avalanche Research at Davos, in the 2.2008 edition of “Die Alpen”, the official magazine of the Swiss Alpine Club.Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-76479544120682817992009-01-15T11:53:00.001-08:002009-01-15T11:55:30.141-08:00Do you feel lucky ...<br><b>... well, do you? Strange noises on a snowslope lead to Schopenhauerian reflections </b><br /><br />"I don't like this," said Wolfie as he started up the face of a small snowbowl. But we liked what followed even less. The snow beneath my own skis trembled and settled with a soft but emphatic "Whoomph". Fortunately, the mountain left it that. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQjsu4b7luXi3P4zDjo15NS4a1H8CmZSo_2K3DlaDFNLKzgtQiKeoH8g15RkjkyvBpupfO9e70CRRL8CQ9T4jeTDDytwfykUe2GmKmuhTvD8n3GYzgIHDQOqhTQrRI3KKRC1CSKa_MPk/s1600-h/surgonda.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQjsu4b7luXi3P4zDjo15NS4a1H8CmZSo_2K3DlaDFNLKzgtQiKeoH8g15RkjkyvBpupfO9e70CRRL8CQ9T4jeTDDytwfykUe2GmKmuhTvD8n3GYzgIHDQOqhTQrRI3KKRC1CSKa_MPk/s400/surgonda.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182107103445449650" /></a><br />When decision-making at times like this, it can be helpful to imagine how a putative accident report will read. Like this, maybe. "On Easter Saturday, the four-person party, all foreigners, were avalanched at 2,900 metres on the Swiss side of Il Capuchin, a small peak in the Bernina massif. The two survivors admit that, twenty minutes before the accident, they heard signs of instability in the snowpack. But they decided to continue the ski-tour, putting their trust in the official avalanche forecast for the area, which stood at Grade II 'Moderate'…"<br /><br />We turned back, after digging a pit to look for weak layers in the snow (inconclusive). But even before we reached the hut, we saw other people starting up our mountain, following the tracks we'd made. So far from worrying about avalanches, the members of one group were bunched tightly together. After reaching the summit unscathed, they were able to yee-haw their way down 800 metres of untracked powder snow, and all this under a flawless blue sky. Later, one of their guides reassured us that our "whoomph" just meant that the new snow was settling.<br /><br />"The mountain will always be there tomorrow," said the hut warden, consoling us. True, although next morning these wise words were difficult to verify through the low cloud and snow showers. Cutting our losses, we went home. Back in town, with gear hanging up to dry over the radiators, I consulted Werner Munter about our suspect snowslope. Not in person, of course, but via his book, Avalanches 3x3: Decision-making in critical situations. An alpine guide based in Davos, Munter is an avalanche expert whose patriarchal beard reinforces his already immense authority in this part of the world. His remarks on "whoomph" noises are found in a section of his book entitled "Thirteen Deadly Errors":<br /><br /><i>Error #10: Wumm-noises are favourable signs that the snow is settling<br /><br />One might just as well say that the storm is over after the first thunderclap. Wumm-noises (accompanied by a simultaneous backward settling of the snow) and cracks running through the snow when it is loaded are the most reliable indicators for a weak snowpack. In fact, they are warning signs. Wumm-noises are almost always heard immediately before a windslab avalanche is triggered. They accompany the factors that lead to the rupture within the snowpack. Each noise testifies to a further weakening of an already weakened snowpack. So these sounds should send a chill down our spines; there could not be a clearer warning!</i><br /><br />After reading this advice, I think I'll keep turning back whenever I hear "whoomph" noises. And, by the way, that's a telling epigraph that Munter has chosen to head up his "Deadly Errors" chapter. It's not often you find a quotation from Arthur Schopenhauer in a mountaineering text book, so here it is in full: "All ignorance is dangerous, and most errors must be dearly paid for. And you need lots of luck if you plan to carry an unchastised error around in your head until the day you die." <br /><br /><b>References</b><br /><br />Lawinen 3x3: Entscheiden in kritischen Situation by Werner Munter. To my mind, the best book ever written on avalanche avoidance. Available in German and French, but not yet in English. Maybe somebody should translate the rest of it. <br /><br />Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-20256813995801162852009-01-15T11:43:00.001-08:002009-01-15T11:49:38.681-08:00Sunrise on the pines<br><b>A rare optical phenomenon is analysed by a physicist and alpinist. Not that this will sell his book</b><br /><br />As we came up a mountain path in the blast-furnace summer of 2003, the pine trees above us flared into a burst of silver brilliance. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3V1aHd-s-X7s1QC0sC7ifa69v7YHAwyqtYjYZ9hH6lKgOW0p3f8QDnQT08MoQ-OQlOBEEzV_VDn2acwgWwLzBYFmeXVMb9phZfLwCnhtQ8a4ZK0TqTtZJ7a_VlXvXx-LtwUA8UVsTTM8/s1600-h/tyndall-phenom2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3V1aHd-s-X7s1QC0sC7ifa69v7YHAwyqtYjYZ9hH6lKgOW0p3f8QDnQT08MoQ-OQlOBEEzV_VDn2acwgWwLzBYFmeXVMb9phZfLwCnhtQ8a4ZK0TqTtZJ7a_VlXvXx-LtwUA8UVsTTM8/s400/tyndall-phenom2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186537177527680050" /></a><br />The phenomenon did not escape the ever-observant John Tyndall (1820-1893), a physicist now remembered chiefly for his work on atmospheric optics – and also for a glittering alpinistic career that included an inspection of the Matterhorn and the first ascent of the Weisshorn. Here is the account of sunrise on the pines from Chapter IX of his "Mountaineering in 1861":-<br /><br /><i>I must here mention a beautiful effect which I observed from Randa on the morning of the 18th of August. The valley of St. Nicholas runs nearly north and south and the ridge which flanks it to the east is partially covered with pines; the trees on the summit of this ridge as you look at them from the valley being projected against the sky. <br /><br />What I saw was this: as the sun was about to rise I could trace upon the meadows in the valley the outline of the ridge which concealed him, and I could walk along the valley so as to keep myself quite within the shadow of the mountain. Suppose me just immersed in the shadow: as I moved along, successive pine trees on the top of the ridge were projected on that portion of the heavens where the sun was about to appear, and every one of them assumed in this position a perfect silvery brightness. It was most interesting to observe, as I walked up and down the valley, tree after tree losing its opacity and suddenly robing itself in glory … <br /><br />The cause of the phenomenon I take to be this: You have often noticed the bright illumination of the atmosphere immediately surrounding the sun; and how speedily the brightness diminishes as your eye departs from the sun’s edge. This brightness is mainly caused by the sunlight falling on the aqueous particles in the air, aided by whatever dust may be suspended in the atmosphere. <br /><br />If instead of aqueous particles fine solid particles were strewn in the air, the intensity of the light reflected from them would be greater. Now the spiculae of the pine, when the tree is projected against the heavens, close to the sun’s rim, are exactly in this condition; they are flooded by a gush of the intensest light, and reflect it from their smooth surfaces to the spectator. <br /><br /> </i>John Tyndall's pen was as mighty as his alpenstock yet, sadly, his alpine books are more out of print than in. By comparison, Whymper's Scrambles in the Alps continue to sell and sell. The truth is that exquisite nature observations, combined with accounts of safe and cheerful climbs – as practised by Tyndall – don't fly off the shelves. It takes a spectacular accident – Whymper on the Matterhorn, Joe Simpson on Sula Grande – to move a mountaineering book into the mass market. <br /><br /><b>Reference</b><br /><br />The glaciers of the Alps & Mountaineering in 1861, by John Tyndall (Everyman's edition)Project Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5852870429806154229.post-51116126595614213822009-01-15T11:24:00.011-08:002012-04-16T11:40:38.006-07:00Chiyoko’s Fuji<span style="font-weight:bold;">When Nonaka Itaru made plans to spend the winter of 1895 on the summit of Japan's highest mountain, his wife realised she had to save the aspirant meteorologist from sacrificing himself to science ...</span><br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOwkanxOPudpPcAdEE9mr8vcN8q-DHD5F9tZa9Jm9jKYk8SQTOC-bPZTDiEfXYDmBffCAJzWMsxEWJQSdvykkvgL3AsfdgNdK0AZ-oLEs8qgT2DlFS1TGT-Qo-82zDBXeOgbG4BIbIcM/s1600/chiyoko.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOwkanxOPudpPcAdEE9mr8vcN8q-DHD5F9tZa9Jm9jKYk8SQTOC-bPZTDiEfXYDmBffCAJzWMsxEWJQSdvykkvgL3AsfdgNdK0AZ-oLEs8qgT2DlFS1TGT-Qo-82zDBXeOgbG4BIbIcM/s200/chiyoko.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704273823847494082" /></a>To save her husband, she'd have to deceive him. That much was obvious after Itaru came back from Mt Fuji in February. Flushed with the success of his solo climb – the <a href="http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.com/2011/05/another-mountain-4.html">first ever ascent in winter</a> – Nonaka Itaru could no longer see any flaws in his plan. He'd dreamed for years of making an original contribution to meteorology. Now the way was clear for action.<br /> <br />In the coming summer, he’d build a hut on the summit of Mt Fuji, almost four kilometres above sea level. Then he’d climb up there in October, and take weather readings through the winter of 1895. Nobody had ever before made a round-the-year record of atmospheric pressure at such an altitude. Success would give Japan a lead in the nascent science of weather forecasting…<br /> <br />The scheme was already bold. What tipped it into recklessness was Itaru’s resolve to take weather readings every two hours, night and day – even though Wada-san, Itaru’s sponsor at the Tokyo Meteorological Observatory, had told him that six readings a day would be quite enough.<br /> <br />Chiyoko knew her husband. They'd been married a few years and, besides, they had practically grown up together back in Chikuzen. She knew how the famous stubbornness of Kyushu folk can boil over into folly. If Itaru went up that mountain alone and tried to fight its ferocious winter without proper food or sleep, he wouldn't come back alive.<br /> <br />So – with her own streak of Chikuzen obstinacy – Chiyoko made her own plans. After spending the summer in a village at Mt Fuji’s foot, helping Itaru organise the hut’s construction, she’d travel back to her parents’ home, drop off her three-year-old daughter, Sonoko, and make ready to climb Fuji and join Itaru for his winter vigil. All without telling Itaru, of course, or he’d put a stop to her preparations.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrayzvDgrhDdb-vw9W2tpUbEi_TpWJBwWSYzq9g6v2Gy9eWPZzuwwlmWwKoT0yvA3nou_hP4z3-9z2Jy93rWXUpeeBklZXfPLtf3EfJN-fkfpMtKeHwl4fYj71XAJsUahVWibtZsz3jyk/s1600/snowy-fuji2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrayzvDgrhDdb-vw9W2tpUbEi_TpWJBwWSYzq9g6v2Gy9eWPZzuwwlmWwKoT0yvA3nou_hP4z3-9z2Jy93rWXUpeeBklZXfPLtf3EfJN-fkfpMtKeHwl4fYj71XAJsUahVWibtZsz3jyk/s400/snowy-fuji2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605175237329689810" /></a>The hut was finished in late September and Itaru took up his vigil there soon afterwards. As soon as the coast was clear, Chiyoko set out for Kyushu, a three-day journey. When she turned up unannounced, little Sonoko asleep on her back, her parents were first delighted, then concerned. Have you displeased Itaru in some way, her mother asked.<br /> <br />Kneeling on the tatami, Chiyoko explained her plan – if she didn't go up the mountain, she would soon have no husband. The parting with Sonoko brought tears, but she knew where her duty lay. In the first week of October, she was back at the village at the foot of Mt Fuji. The mountain loomed overhead like a colossus, snow-covered to its midriff.<br /> <br />Early on the morning of the 12th, she set out from Nakahata escorted by her brother, Kiyoshi, and two porters. As the light began to fade, they reached the hut and hammered on the door. Itaru slid the door aside and looked out at his visitors - first amazed at them, then aghast: "What on earth are you doing here?" he asked.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The first-ever mid-autumnal marital tiff on Mt Fuji is a short one</span><br /><br />Escorted by her brother Kiyoshi and two porters, Chiyoko reached the summit of Mt Fuji as daylight was fading. Crunching through the first snows of the season, they reached the small hut tucked under the volcano’s highest crag. When Itaru opened the door, he looked first amazed, then aghast. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuRYKtR2xYhaB7U3iIfPpDZBJ7n32CZ-s_hXnpq7My4sDb9fVvBUOD85cic61arixB2vRc5PsZL3Xg_NPtJ2KDj963xnb-ngHghAyouk4pYtrGecAfeq3gPabGr5JXY9XsyKyLEQJ1R4I/s1600/nonaka-observatory2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 357px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuRYKtR2xYhaB7U3iIfPpDZBJ7n32CZ-s_hXnpq7My4sDb9fVvBUOD85cic61arixB2vRc5PsZL3Xg_NPtJ2KDj963xnb-ngHghAyouk4pYtrGecAfeq3gPabGr5JXY9XsyKyLEQJ1R4I/s400/nonaka-observatory2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606506667528083746" /></a>"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked. There’s no need to worry, Chiyoko reassured him, everything is fine at home. "In that case," said her husband, "there's no need for you to stay. You can start down as soon as it's light tomorrow." To which his wife rejoined: "And that I will not, for reasons I'll explain later. And as I've made up my mind, it doesn't matter what you say - I'll not be leaving this mountain for my life."<br /> <br />Without another word, Itaru stepped back into the hut. It wasn't just the biting cold and the wind that had silenced him, or the presence of others. As he'd learned during a few years of marriage, there is in this world one thing more obdurate than the will of a Chikuzen samurai. And that is the will of a Chikuzen samurai's wife.<br /> <br />Nobody slept much that night, as all had to sit up. The hut had been designed to accommodate one man, and now five people were crowded around the red-hot stove, listening to the wind as it buffeted the crags above.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0Bk3g9C-HzTloREJlAl1_ME0eWIvIXHMAJEkEYek3phAPxl21gvfIDyEJtYy4-ecX-lS0IZuljcNwAjAlDE7hYHfqdCbSjIOibiEKkyVBOk_YCE1Xw5O85OJzy-Wyyt3KsxK2zV55j0/s1600/summit-map.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0Bk3g9C-HzTloREJlAl1_ME0eWIvIXHMAJEkEYek3phAPxl21gvfIDyEJtYy4-ecX-lS0IZuljcNwAjAlDE7hYHfqdCbSjIOibiEKkyVBOk_YCE1Xw5O85OJzy-Wyyt3KsxK2zV55j0/s400/summit-map.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706115567910137666" /></a>When morning came, Chiyoko stayed. As her brother Kiyoshi left, his figure vanishing into the enveloping clouds, she briefly felt a pang of loneliness. Then she set about putting things in order. There was some work to do in that department.<br /> <br />The Nonakas were not left in peace for long. Around noon on October 28, there was another knock on the sliding door. Chiyoko tugged at the handle, only to find the door frozen shut. The visitors had to climb in backwards, through the small window. After brushing themselves free of snow, they introduced themselves as Matsui and Mejika, members of the famous Hōkōgikai.<br /> <br />This was the patriotic association that had recently sent an unofficial flotilla to the Chishima islands, to assert Japan's claim over these northern territories. Their attempt to overwinter in the sub-arctic archipelago had ended in fiasco the previous year.<br /> <br />What were the Hōkōgikai men doing up here? In a way, their madcap scheme resembled Nonaka's venture. It had been an attempt by private individuals, desperately short of funds and knowhow, to undertake something that would normally be reserved for the state. The same could be said, by the way, for the Antarctic foray of <a href="http://www.south-pole.com/p0000105.htm">Lieutenant Shirase</a>, another Hōkōgikai man, who would later win both notoriety and fame with his do-it-yourself attempt on the South Pole.<br /><br />The next day, Itaru acknowledged these kindred spirits by penning a waka in their honour:<br /> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I pray to heaven<br />To protect these strong men<br />Defenders of our country's<br />Northern marches</span><br /> <br />As the Hōkōgikai party had brought up letters, Itaru and Chiyoko had sat up the whole night, inkbrush in hand, writing replies for their guests to take down with them. A price was paid for this loss of sleep. Chiyoko was already plagued by high-altitude headaches. Now the dry air caused her throat to swell up so that she was unable to eat or speak. How can I go on like this, she asked herself, seeing that, left alone, everything up here goes to rack and ruin…<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">In the second month of the Nonaka winter vigil atop Mt Fuji, things start to get difficult</span><br /><br />Chiyoko was already plagued by high-altitude headaches. Now the dry air caused her throat to swell up so that she was unable to eat or speak. How can I go on like this, she asked herself. After a week, she could bear the pain no longer. She got Itaru to sharpen up a gimlet and plunge it into the swelling at the back of her throat. The relief was like a blessing from heaven. After that, the pain gradually eased, day by day.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifXvlU9RdNaN2ySxGteT1MjfgaoDlOVeWZL2WY4PxeYp_J3g2fZgYSIGqTQVOuX1RoaptyzzxMIgEhWoi0CUbWZAECBf_5QjtLYxXiq11ZnUnDY439-WKw4cWnyFbfc4Va8NUqmC0DbHA/s1600/wave-cloud-b3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifXvlU9RdNaN2ySxGteT1MjfgaoDlOVeWZL2WY4PxeYp_J3g2fZgYSIGqTQVOuX1RoaptyzzxMIgEhWoi0CUbWZAECBf_5QjtLYxXiq11ZnUnDY439-WKw4cWnyFbfc4Va8NUqmC0DbHA/s400/wave-cloud-b3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707798254362902994" /></a>Meanwhile, winter was stealing up on them. Since late October, frost had coated the hut’s walls and ceiling. Now everything that had moisture in it froze solid. Sugar crumbled and lost its taste, pickled plums shrivelled into rock-hard pellets, rice quickly congealed into a block that you couldn't dent with a pair of fire-tongs.<br /> <br />Yet Chiyoko was enjoying herself. She was amused by the way she had to smash through an icy crust before she could drink her tea. She laughed, and so did Itaru, when he mistakenly touched a writing brush to an iron tool and no amount of pulling would unfreeze its bristles.<br /> <br />One day, she had to go out to collect ice for the pot, but the door was again frozen shut. Pouring hot water over it only sealed the door more firmly shut. Realising there was no other way, she wrenched the window open and crawled out backwards. Whereupon the wind seized the hem of her kimono and blew it about her ears. Fortunately, there was nobody outside to see.<br /> <br />Regaining her composure, she looked about at the extraordinary landscape. Far from being overmastered by her surroundings, she was fascinated by them. Looking carefully at the unearthly scene, she made a mental note for her diary:<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6QZfMQANSEHBMbY4OiRhcyeItZZxUtzrnlU3tUcTrLxpUApk5EPK1xpNzLa7vhrHB-JX-pRTJzIac0PiF-EXj_axt6KND4yjw4RWP44vU7j2lzcYImZ7zpVOFodm9n23EIWXYGtrUII/s1600/frost.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 178px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6QZfMQANSEHBMbY4OiRhcyeItZZxUtzrnlU3tUcTrLxpUApk5EPK1xpNzLa7vhrHB-JX-pRTJzIac0PiF-EXj_axt6KND4yjw4RWP44vU7j2lzcYImZ7zpVOFodm9n23EIWXYGtrUII/s200/frost.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707799864727784818" /></a><span style="font-style:italic;">The icicles at the cliff’s edge did not hang down, as they usually do, but grew at the wind’s behest, some jutting sideways from the rocks, others thrusting skywards in serried ranks. They looked to me like a mountains of swords, an awe-inspiring sight.<br /> </span><br />Itaru had chosen to build his hut on the very edge of Fuji's western rim, in the teeth of the prevailing winds. Rebounding from the cliffs, the spindrift blew through every cranny in the hut. The couple tried hanging blankets down the inside walls, but still the wind pierced through. It seemed to flay the skin rather than freeze it.<br /> <br />With blankets hung all around, the hut’s interior was dark even during the day. Indeed, she thought, the world of darkness will be like this. Yet conditions in the hut were nothing like as harsh as the cave at Kamakura where that medieval Prince Morinaga was imprisoned. (Where did she get that kind of learned allusion? Well, you’d expect no less from a noh-master’s daughter.)<br /> <br />While keeping up her diary, Chiyoko also had to worry about the store-keeping. They were using more charcoal, firewood, sugar, pickled plums – in fact, just about more of everything – than they expected. However, they couldn’t very well survive the ferocious winter of Mt Fuji if they didn’t burn wood and charcoal as they needed to. Now things were starting to get difficult, she reflected...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">In the second month of Itaru and Chiyoko Nonaka's winter vigil on the summit of Mt Fuji, the cold and the monotonous diet start to affect their health ....</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-96BZLpwWxziAAXElj1xQrWT6mYfPrByLJOiUKE-v80Khp_4j4g-bDpsqYGp9VQGpySOBeUgvbrXxnMO2y0sZg-AwGHFiRICLJL_cqPNrR648PvBbD8KpnE8ypRrBRvZnDkaR_Afl2as/s1600/nonaka-hut.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-96BZLpwWxziAAXElj1xQrWT6mYfPrByLJOiUKE-v80Khp_4j4g-bDpsqYGp9VQGpySOBeUgvbrXxnMO2y0sZg-AwGHFiRICLJL_cqPNrR648PvBbD8KpnE8ypRrBRvZnDkaR_Afl2as/s200/nonaka-hut.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715370594871459906" /></a>Soon she had something more to trouble her. Around November 5, her arms and legs started to swell. Two weeks later, her eyes gummed up. Itaru was full of concern. The couple decided on a change of diet. At first, they’d lived mainly on rice, but the low boiling point at this height made it almost impossible to cook properly. From now on, they chose to eat kudzu starch and adzuki bean gruel sprinkled with sugar at every meal.<br /> <br />The change in regime seemed to work. By the end of the month, Chiyoko felt better. But both she and Itaru had lost their appetites – now they were eating only twice a day, living mainly off gruel. They could no longer face the tinned meat.<br /> <br />Itaru had meanwhile dug out the threshold so that the frozen door could, at last, be opened. This was timely, because on December 12, they heard a great shout from outside: “Oi, Nonaka-san, are you alive in there or are you dead?” The door was pulled open and in came two men from Nakahata, beating the snow from their coats. The village headman and a porter had brought gifts and letters with them.<br /> <br />The visitors were shocked at Nonaka’s appearance – now he too had started to suffer from the swollen legs and arms that mark the onset of scurvy. And Itaru did not deny that he sometimes felt at the end of his tether. “But it’s for the good of our country, and I’m determined to see it out,” he insisted when the villagers suggested that he came down from the mountain to recover his strength. “I don’t think I’m in such a bad state that I’m going to die,” he said, putting an end to the discussion.<br /> <br />The villagers were reluctant to leave the couple in their evidently weakened state, but the wind was blowing more and more wildly, threatening to cut off their retreat. Itaru seized a pencil and jotted down a message for the family in Tokyo: "We were prepared for hardship at the summit, and we're still safe and sound, so please tell everybody not to worry about us." Then he implored the villagers not to reveal that he was ill.<br /> <br />The village headman was moved. “Any man who undertakes a great project needs enormous patience and the wholehearted support of his wife,” he said, turning to Chiyoko. “And now I see all the more clearly how true that is. Please take care of yourselves.” With that, the two men made their way out into the howling spindrift. Chiyoko said nothing, but a glow of happiness suffused her, as if a deep red peony of kind thoughts had burst into flower.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">All Japan is taking an interest in the fate of the couple overwintering on the summit of Mt Fuji - but now Nonaka Itaru's health begins to fail...</span><br /><br />While talking to their guests, the couple had time to look only at the letters from their family. Only after the porters had left could they read the others and now, for the first time, they realised that the whole of Japan was taking an interest in them. The newspapers, it seemed, had stamped a seal of wholehearted approval on Chiyoko's decision to join her husband.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6d76LyFVpljPoOlcQUrNQJAns4Gs17j0B8yuzcoZx_cm10N_rEPVq5nMVcwZWRVX_N-2rroSBQFeQfpjLUWJyq0cW0mf12xWjGzMOzVxQ3Ix6q7d_JLN6oqjp5eZIJvhsmsthixCYHoU/s1600/porters.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6d76LyFVpljPoOlcQUrNQJAns4Gs17j0B8yuzcoZx_cm10N_rEPVq5nMVcwZWRVX_N-2rroSBQFeQfpjLUWJyq0cW0mf12xWjGzMOzVxQ3Ix6q7d_JLN6oqjp5eZIJvhsmsthixCYHoU/s400/porters.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717219467085405634" /></a>Huddled over the table in their hut, Itaru and Chiyoko opened the rest of their letters. Several were poetic tributes - elegantly written waka - from complete strangers. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Gazing at Fuji morn and night<br />And looking up at its lambent snows<br />I cannot help but think of those<br />Secluded on the mountain's height</span><br /><br />Thus trilled the wife of the Asahi Newspaper's editor. Another missive came from the head of a religious sect, and there was even a small packet enclosing a generous sum in gold pieces and a poem from Viscount Mōri Mototoshi, the governor of Shimonoseki. Most welcome of all, Itaru's sister Tsuruko had sent up some quilted jackets that she'd made herself.<br /> <br />Itaru still insisted on taking all the weather readings by himself, twelve times a day. But exhaustion was setting in. By mid-December, he was struggling even to cross the hut's tiny living space without taking a rest. As they'd finished all the adzuki beans, they now had to subsist on kudzu starch gruel. But soon they were down to the last day's ration even of that. <br /><br />Chiyoko wondered what to do - although the new diet had brought down the swellings on Itaru's arms and legs he would have a relapse if the gruel ran out. Wada-sensei of the Meteorological Observatory had said he would make a visit soon, bringing supplies. But would he arrive in time?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">In late November, with food stocks running low at the summit observatory on Mt Fuji, Itaru is weakened by scurvy. Then his sponsor from Tokyo arrives for an inspection…</span><br /> <br />Would Wada-sensei of the Meteorological Observatory in Tokyo bring more supplies in time? Chiyoko didn’t know but she set to work drawing up a list of essentials. They were low on adzuki beans, sugar, umeboshi, dried oranges, noodles and many other things. She exchanged grim jokes with her husband: many a conversation began with the phrase “Even if we starve ourselves to death…”<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOLGWDdkFiWpOz88faF2tA5Yw-u7C6HUP9qiWBoulLe3HUJ7dYNTfcfF5ADS_uvPIP9AqI1eVWECljiEO913m0kwxoHm0JBZfc7erxmjQjePvsQP4StqRone0XMsZw7ic7HScs2jGns8/s1600/porter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDOLGWDdkFiWpOz88faF2tA5Yw-u7C6HUP9qiWBoulLe3HUJ7dYNTfcfF5ADS_uvPIP9AqI1eVWECljiEO913m0kwxoHm0JBZfc7erxmjQjePvsQP4StqRone0XMsZw7ic7HScs2jGns8/s400/porter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719110407934566962" /></a>As November 21st marked the anniversary of the death of Itaru’s grandfather, the couple decided to hold a small ceremony. Itaru wrote his grandfather’s name on a strip of paper and Chiyoko placed an offering of soup and a scrap of bread in front of this makeshift shrine. There wasn’t much else they could give.<br /> <br />Just as they were finishing their prayers, the couple heard voices outside, over the sound of the wind. Was this a dream? No, four of the Nakahata villagers had climbed up to visit them. They’d escorted Wada-sensei as far as a hut at the eighth station of Mt Fuji, where he’d stopped, and they’d return tomorrow, bringing the meteorologist with them.<br /> <br />They were as good as their word. The next morning, Wada-sensei stamped the snow from his boots at the entrance to the hut and made his way into the dark interior. When his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he was shocked at what he saw. It was as the porters had said: Nonaka Itaru was in a bad way; he was a changed man.<br /> <br />Wada was not a man to approach matters obliquely: “If you want to live, you need to get off this mountain now,” he told Itaru. “When we last met, you promised me that, if you felt your life was in danger, you’d do your best to go down before matters got out of hand.”<br /> <br />Itaru admitted that he’d said just that. “But I don’t think I’m so ill that I might die in the next day or two,” he said. “Couldn’t you just bring me some medicine, so that I can get over this illness and carry on my mission?”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Wada-sensei has climbed Mt Fuji to insist that Itaru and Chiyoko cut short their winter vigil. Now the debate becomes heated…</span><br /> <br />Itaru was dismayed at the suggestion that he should end his stay on the summit: “Couldn’t you just bring me some medicine, so that I can get over this illness and carry on my mission?” he asked. <br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uZDudRtrE4A4lqLe3Jw1R26uqYFd5f3l7WPEbnDm2oPlqCdkyZMVIRIICoCfPNMFijNcdc_6rSvorZNzmGo2uWEKfw7s0O82eEA_Xvmcx47Zru90LC025GQSMdijyNtdjTgr0pcP_t0/s1600/droogs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uZDudRtrE4A4lqLe3Jw1R26uqYFd5f3l7WPEbnDm2oPlqCdkyZMVIRIICoCfPNMFijNcdc_6rSvorZNzmGo2uWEKfw7s0O82eEA_Xvmcx47Zru90LC025GQSMdijyNtdjTgr0pcP_t0/s400/droogs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720219262015316738" /></a>Wada seemed to be moved: “I’m impressed by your spirit,” he said, “but, alas, mind can’t always prevail over matter – and I’m far from sure that your health is going to hold up much longer. You have to understand that I’ve climbed up here not as Wada the private person but as Wada with the authority of the Emperor’s commission behind me. So I really must ask you to come down with us.”<br /> <br />Itaru wavered: nobody could defy the Emperor’s command – but where was the proof of that authority? Wada was outraged at the question: “There’s no need for evidence in a situation like this. You have no right to doubt me!” he said.<br /> <br />“I don’t doubt you,” replied Itaru in a conciliatory tone, “but please understand my position. I let people know that I would see out the winter here, and what are they going to say if I give up now because of some trivial illness? It would put me in a very difficult position. My aim is to build a larger observatory up here, and if I can’t succeed, it’s better to stay up here and die – if I give up now, people will think it’s impossible to survive the winter up here…”<br /> <br />But at last Itaru had to accept Wada’s order. He looked so dispirited that tears came to the eyes of the army captain and police officer who’d accompanied Wada-sensei. It was at this moment that Chiyoko spoke up: “Won’t you reconsider?” she asked Wada. “My husband has devoted himself to this work for seven years. It would be a bitter defeat to go down now – couldn’t you let him stay a while longer?”<br /> <br />“Surely even a woman can’t be that unreasonable,” Wada retorted, raising his voice. “Your courage is admirable, but can’t you see how sick your husband is? He’ll die if he stays up here any longer. Surely you’ve made enough weather observations by now…” For a moment, Chiyoko was stunned by the vehemence of Wada’s words. Then she burst into tears.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Wada-sensei of the Central Meteorological Observatory organises the highest and most perilous mountain rescue ever attempted in Japan</span><br /><br />Time was moving on: “We need to hurry before the weather turns,” urged Wada-sensei as he gave out orders. He’d seen at once that Itaru and Chiyoko were too debilitated to descend the mountain themselves; they would have to be carried. Itaru was too weak to demur but, as he was hoisted onto the back of a porter, he found the strength to murmur one last poem:<br /> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">As the catalpa bow<br />Springs back, so will I;<br />Do not believe<br />That for long I go</span><br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6y0h0N_zLgLewVHRc5EqEETmyLF7E6sIq8FcE0H8X6f6U8_8m9BjpTn6VoS6UWdNby6aO9RHWFQA6i42XHs1ALOTJOwDfYeBcTlChCQehWploTO6UHXlSCEjq6HFV9jnVzVDOsRrxp3Q/s1600/porters.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6y0h0N_zLgLewVHRc5EqEETmyLF7E6sIq8FcE0H8X6f6U8_8m9BjpTn6VoS6UWdNby6aO9RHWFQA6i42XHs1ALOTJOwDfYeBcTlChCQehWploTO6UHXlSCEjq6HFV9jnVzVDOsRrxp3Q/s400/porters.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721683463946219890" /></a>Then Chiyoko, in her turn, was hoisted up and the party set out into the whirling maelstrom outside. When gusts of spindrift blew up in their faces from inside the crater yawning at their feet, it seemed to Chiyoko that the two porters Kumakichi and Tsurukichi stood their ground against the raging elements like the pair of Deva kings who guard the gates of a temple.<br /> <br />With the rest of the party helping to steady them against the buffeting wind, the porters made their way along the narrow rim of the crater to the shrine buildings, half-buried in snow, next to the Ginmeisui. In this season, of course, there was no trace of that shallow pool of water and snow-drifts had buried the buildings to their eaves.<br /> <br />Here the party paused. Wada-sensei peered down into the clouds at the gulf beneath. Where was the steep gully that led down to the eighth station? Wada’s party had come up it only this morning, but the wind had already erased their tracks. Should they trust themselves to the soft snow over there – that might be less dangerous than the icy sheen of the snow in the bed of the gully … Or maybe they’d better take to the rocks, somebody suggested.<br /> <br />With infinite care, the porters started downwards, kicking their primitive crampons into the ice, while Wada and his companions did their best to steady them with ropes. The gully channelled the furious wind into their faces, so that they could hardly breathe. Slumped on Kumakichi's back, Itaru felt the cold as a crushing weight on his chest, a weight that he could bear no longer. His eyes frozen shut by the blizzard, he sagged into blackness…<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Wada-sensei carries through his rescue of Chiyoko and Itaru from the summit of Mt Fuji. And what happened then.</span><br /> <br />As Chiyoko was the first to be carried into the stone hut at the eighth station, she didn't know anything was amiss with her husband until the porters gently laid his inert body by the fire. His eyes were frozen shut and he was barely breathing. Helped by the police officer and army captain, Wada-sensei spent several hours trying to revive him.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbg-7t8zXDBPEVjisuV7QfLHHKzUc9DBLsmZFb8svSIjh8HsdjVOS2QDbqmX4ByjM-bdsX3w3zD53fD1U1IWuqe2fUNztYDCvad6f8EZGla9CQVw4jqmQaPNVdd2ucNICFbePFyEBqKzY/s1600/nonaka-fufu.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbg-7t8zXDBPEVjisuV7QfLHHKzUc9DBLsmZFb8svSIjh8HsdjVOS2QDbqmX4ByjM-bdsX3w3zD53fD1U1IWuqe2fUNztYDCvad6f8EZGla9CQVw4jqmQaPNVdd2ucNICFbePFyEBqKzY/s400/nonaka-fufu.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603657338992794226" /></a>Sometime in the middle of the night Itaru opened his eyes and the rescue party were able to relax their efforts. Next day, on December 23rd, the porters rigged up carrying frames for their passengers and, once more, Itaru and Chiyoko were hoisted up. Again, the wind hurled the snow into their faces as they left the hut, but this time they were protected by the mittens and hats provided by Wada-sensei.<br /> <br />After the meteorologist had briskly organised helpers to steady the two porters on the icy slopes, the party continued its descent. Below the eighth station, the angle of the slope would gradually ease but the wind buffeted them as strongly as ever. At the third station, a doctor met them, and a few hundred feet below, the villagers from Takigawara had brought up a cart for them. Late that night, they reached the village. Itaru's face was so frost-bitten that he still couldn't open his eyes.<br /> <br />Over the next few days, they were visited by scores of people from near and far, strangers as well as friends. A large pile of paper charms accumulated beside their beds. In case they didn't work, the University of Tokyo also sent one of its most eminent physicians to attend them. Itaru quickly regained his strength and set to work sketching out an improved observatory. If the summit hut were made of brick, for example, it would better keep out the wind and cold. He was determined to go back up there ...<br /><br />And what happened afterwards?<br /> <br />As the years passed, Itaru refined his plans for an observatory. But he never did go back to Mt Fuji in winter. Nor was he able to join Japan's meteorological service. As for the pressure measurements that he and Chiyoko had so arduously gathered over their eighty-odd days on the summit, nobody ever made much use of them. Chiyoko's application to join the Japan Meteorological Association was turned down.<br /> <br />By contrast, Wada-sensei's career flourished. After Japan consolidated its grip on Korea, he was sent there to head up a new weather station. Unfortunately, this deprived Itaru of his mentor and patron. Instead of pursuing his dream of meteorological research, he eked out a living in Tokyo, supporting his family by renting out a house. More children arrived - there would be six in all - but little Sonoko, the toddler Chiyoko had left with her parents, took ill and died a few years later. She was just seven.<br /> <br />Yet Mr and Mrs Nonaka's feat was not forgotten. Somehow, in the best tradition of the glorious failure, it had captured the nation's imagination. Ten years after their return from Mt Fuji, we catch a glimpse of Chiyoko seeing off the multinational "Fuji Winter Ascent Corps" at Tokyo Station. Apparently, she is a leading light of the Konohana-kai, an association of women who have climbed Mt Fuji. To this day, though, she remains the only woman who has survived the best part of a winter up there.<br /> <br />For his part, Itaru meets the "Fuji Winter Ascent Corps" at Gotenba and leads its members up to their base camp or starting point at Takigawara. It must be quite a cavalcade: Itaru is mounted on a white horse, escorting some forty-three persons - including two foreigners, a Spaniard and a "Miss Sturzenegger" from Switzerland - four rear-guards, five messenger pigeons and a dog. Wisely, Itaru chooses not to accompany this motley group on its summit attempt.<br /> <br />In early 1923, Japan was swept by a flu epidemic. One by one, Itaru and the children fell sick. After Chiyoko had nursed everyone in the family through their illness, she caught the fever herself. It was too much for her: on February 22, she died at the age of fifty-one. The story goes that the Japanese government wanted to honour Itaru. But the would-be meteorologist wasn't interested in accepting an award in his own name - the work on Mt Fuji had been as much Chiyoko's as his own.<br /> <br />In the end, the government did build an observatory on Mt Fuji. The year after it opened, Itaru was invited to make a visit. He was now sixty-six but still quite spry. Accompanied by Kyoko, his third daughter, he reached the windy summit on a summer day in 1933 and called in on the observatory staff.<br /> <br />One of the summit crew who received him was a Fujiwara Hiroto, just turned twenty-one. The young meteorologist was struck by Kyoko's looks - of all the Nonaka children, Kyoko was the one who most took after Chiyoko. Only much later did Fujiwara get the idea of writing a novel about her parent's winter ordeal on Mt Fuji. By that time, some four decades later, he had long been established as a successful writer of mountain literature under the pen-name of Nitta Jirō.<br /> <br /><a href="http://www.amazon.co.jp/芙蓉の人-文春文庫-新田-次郎/dp/416711206X">Fuyo no Hito</a>, Nitta's novel about the Nonaka couple ends with the aged Itaru's return to Mt Fuji in 1933, recreating the old man's return to the crater rim. The final scene might be pure fiction. Leaning on Kyoko's arm, Itaru makes his way from the modern observatory up to the ruins of his old hut. Not much has been left standing by the snows and gales of almost forty winters. The old man's eyes light on a beam that somehow still stands upright. Musingly, he pulls a nail out of the bleached timber, wraps it reverently in a cloth, and shows it to Kyoko. "Look" he says, "This is where she used to hang her Russian parka; she hammered in the nail herself." Then, without another word, he turns to go down ...<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">References</span><br /> <br />Summarised from a (we hope) forthcoming full translation (not Project Hyakumeizan's) of Fuyo Nikki. This is Chiyoko's own account of the Nonaka attempt to overwinter on Mt Fuji. It was first published as a series of magazine articles and then collected together with her husband's <a href="http://www.amazon.co.jp/富士案内-芙蓉日記-平凡社ライブラリー-563-野中/dp/4582765637">Fuji Annai (Guide to Mt Fuji)</a>.<br /><br />Back to <a href="http://onehundredmountains.blogspot.com/2012/02/chiyokos-fuji-1.html">One Hundred Mountains of Japan</a> blogProject Hyakumeizanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04260637418886330553noreply@blogger.com0