Of all the hundreds of folk who yearly spend a few weeks or, if they are excessively fortunate or opulent, more than a few weeks in Alpine resorts during the winter, there are many who devote themselves almost entirely to one sport. Thus you may, as a rule, never meet a man except on:

Weather bad for his particular branch of sport may temporarily drive him to another and slightly despised diversion, but when possible, where his heart is, there will his legs be also. He will be adopting one particular method of sliding (I count curling a method of sliding, because your object is to make your curling-stones slide in a definite manner) to the exclusion of others, and sliding in some form or other, whether on skates or toboggan or skis, lies at the base of all winter sports. That is why we all go to Switzerland in the winter, because there we find frozen water (or hope to) in abundance. We then, having fixed on the particular and hazardous manner in which we wish to slide over frozen water, with steel blades or long wooden shoes, proceed to do so. In all cases the desire to slide instead of walk regulates the choice of our holiday. Exclusive tobogganers we must regard as a comparative rarity, for there are few who practise tobogganing whenever possible and nothing else at all. As a rule, tobogganers do not toboggan for the whole of every day. It entails too much hill-climbing.

But of these three classes, I think the confirmed and inoculated skier is most absolutely wedded to his sport. You will find him a rarer visitor to either form of rink than is the inoculated skater or curler to the ski-ing slopes. It will often happen, also, that the inoculated curler visits the skating-rinks, or the inoculated skater the house and the hog. But the man who comes out to Switzerland in order to ski very seldom visits either. For various and intricate as are the manoeuvres which the expert can perform on skates, and various as are the movements which the expert can cause his curling-stones to perform, there is at the command of the skier a greater expanse of conquerable territory. Not only has he his figures, so to speak, to cut on the snow-fields, his Telemark and Christiania swings, and his stemming turns, which correspond roughly to the threes and rockers and change of edge in the skater’s art, and the outwicks and inwicks of the curler, but he has his travel over the snows for travel’s sake: he is an artist in climbing, and the whole horizon (omitting such mountain peaks as the Matterhorn or the Aiguilles) are part of his rink, which reaches, broadly speaking, wherever there is snow. And some part of his rink, however bad the weather, is pretty certain to be in order. The skater’s rink may be (as has been known within the memory of man to happen) an inglorious series of pools, or have vanished entirely under a covering of snow, and similarly, the curler’s rink is occasionally found to resemble a sort of cold wet toffee. But the skier’s rink is hardly ever altogether impracticable, and he can both travel and in his travelling cut his figures. Hardly ever, though he may have to go far to get it, will he fail, except when a severe fall of snow is actually going on, to find slopes on which he can at any rate “play about.” Consider also the infinite variety of his tumbles. His falls are more complicated, have more pleasing uncertainty about them, than those which any skater can indulge in. Also they hurt far less. There are few skaters who can manage to fall more than about half a dozen times a day, unless they are exceptionally young, or, as the inquests say, very “well nourished,” and yet continue their practice with undiminished vigour. But there are few skiers, old or young, lean or otherwise, who will be the least discouraged by twice that number of tumbles.

Here, too, is another reason for the fidelity of the skier to his sport. It yields him, if he is a novice, a quicker dividend of pleasure than skating yields to the beginner, or curling to the curler. After a week’s practice, starting from the beginning, the skater will scarcely yet have felt himself firmly travelling on an outside edge, which, when he has accomplished it, is after all only the beginning of further trouble, while the curler, after the same lapse of time, will not have begun to deliver his stones with the most distant approach to what could possibly be called accuracy. But the skier will already be cognisant of the rapture of sliding swiftly downhill on the hissing snow, and though the “frequent fall” awaits him, he will have experienced a genuine taste of the authentic joy. He will, too, have climbed high and heavenwards, have seen new horizons spread themselves, have seen further peaks in the magic of the Alpine air and sunshine rear their austere heads. Stumblingly, perhaps, he will have penetrated into new valleys among the “holy hills,” and felt the surprise and sting of exploration. He will also, if he has devoted himself to the tricks—the skating-figures of his art—be appreciably nearer the achievement of stemming turns than the skater will be to the accomplishment of a simple three, or the curler to the hope of coming into the house round a guard. Thus, if anyone who can get three weeks in Switzerland, without solid hope of getting more in subsequent years, were to ask how, being active of body, he could get the maximum of enjoyment out of those three weeks, I should unhesitatingly advise him to practise ski-ing, though, should he have a reasonable prospect of coming out in future years, I should just as unhesitatingly recommend him to persevere for a little while, anyhow, with his skates, or stick to the curling-rink if he desires a less hazardous sport. But if he has a short holiday, without reasonable prospects of coming out again, I think if he is young and active he will get more fun in a short time if he betakes himself to the skis. Moreover, whatever resort he honours with his presence, he is certain to find there fair ski-ing slopes, especially in unfavourable weather, and in the vast majority of cases, excellent ones. Indeed, if he only anticipates one visit to Switzerland, he will find everywhere slopes that will be for him excellent.

Also there is a greater simplicity about his needs. Nature provides his rink, and it stretches further in every direction (except downwards towards the valleys) than he is able to go. He wants no marking out of house and hog-line, he wants no surface nightly renewed and rendered flawless. He only wants his equipment, as the skater his skates, and the curler his stones and his broom. And if, like the curler, he is, so to speak, “never up” for a day or two, he is never down for long, and cannot hurt his side, and probably will not hurt himself. Also, the minimum of experimentalism will enable him to enjoy himself, and I doubt whether the skater really enjoys himself with so little expenditure of time and trouble, unless his only object is to progress in a straight line. To progress in a straight line, in fact, is no fun for the skater, but it is great fun for the skier.

Without going into any excessive details with regard to his equipment, certain facts about it must be broadly stated. The ski itself, as anyone seeking those altitudes in winter is probably aware, is a long narrow slip of wood turned up at the bows and fastened to his foot. It is smooth on the under-surface, thicker under the place where his foot comes than elsewhere, and should have a shallow groove running up the middle of it. In length it should be a few inches shorter than its owner if he stands with his arms outstretched above his head. In other words, a man 6 feet high will want a ski about 7 feet long. This is only a rough-and-ready rule, and if the skier arrives at his Alpine resort with the intention merely of hiring skis, he should not choose them shorter than this. It is easier to travel on skis that are too long than on those which are too short. But, however long the skis are, they cannot be too narrow. Mr. Caulfield (an adept and authority) lays down that at the narrowest part (i.e. where the foot rests) they should never be more than 2¾ inches in breadth. Instantly the novice will exclaim that his boot at the ball of the foot is broader than that, and that his boot will project beyond the skis. He is perfectly right: it will. But Mr. Caulfield is right too. He should also see that the grain of the ski lies longitudinally, and that the ski itself is slightly arched, the top of the arch lying underneath the wearer’s foot. If the ski is quite flat, it will bend downwards in soft snow under the weight and impede the going. These directions, which sound slightly advanced for him who has never seen a ski at all, are really most elementary. No beginner should attempt to ski on contraptions that do not fulfil all these requirements. He might as well begin learning to walk in boots that are not adapted for ordinary wear.

Next comes the awful, the intricate, the debated question of “bindings,” by which is denoted the system by which the boot of the skier is fastened to the ski. Into the merits of the different schools concerned with this I do not propose to enter, nor (under the breath be it spoken) does the fervour of the disputants seem quite to be warranted by the importance of the subject. Provided that the bindings are easily adjustable, and when adjusted are not easily displaced, and provided they are not so rigid as to render likely, in case of the “frequent fall,” a serious strain on the foot, resulting in a sprain or a broken bone, they must be considered satisfactory enough. Such bindings are:

Many experts will be found to disapprove of each of these: on the other hand, each of them is supported by expert opinions. But the beginner, in choosing his skis, is solemnly warned against selecting unknown and patent bindings unless advised of their excellence by an expert who is familiar with them. He is safe, however (if anything connected with the skis can by any stretch of imagination be considered safe), if he selects either of the two above-mentioned bindings. They differ enormously in principle but are both excellent. A third binding, the Lilienfelt, has also many devotees: its opponents, however, assert that it is dangerously rigid. But it is possible to fall down, quite often, when using any of these bindings, with the most satisfactory results.

Of the actual equipment (i.e. of tools necessary for ski-ing at all) the next matter is sticks. Of these the skier should always carry two, by the help of which he makes a supplementary punting movement when going along the level or up gentle slopes; while on a steeper upward slope he leans on them to distribute his weight, and thus prevent back-slipping of his skis. They should therefore be strong and light, and made of cane. They terminate at their lower end in sharp steel points, and some few inches above those points they should be fitted with a light circular disc of wicker-work which prevents them sinking into the snow. Otherwise the holder, leaning on them, would merely be plunged up to his shoulders in soft drifts, which would not serve his purpose. They also help to steady him, in the manner of an ice-axe, when climbing very steep slopes or when zigzagging, and should be at least shoulder high. Coming downhill the beginner, when the pace grows too fast for his liking, is accustomed to lean heavily on them, grasping them together in both hands and making of them a brake to his headlong career. This manoeuvre is called “stick-riding,” and is unanimously discouraged by all experts, however divergent may be their views on the subject of bindings. Later, when the beginner is joining himself to these austere folk, he will cease to stick-ride, and make stemming-curves and Telemarks and Christiania-swings instead. But as long as the world goes round, and the force of gravity continues to exercise its accelerating force, so long, whatever the experts may teach, shall we see the beginner descending a slope, bending low, with eyes starting out of his head in pleasing terror, and leaning heavily on his conjoined sticks. It is safe also to assert that the austere experts did exactly the same when, in the dark ages, they were starting on their glorious careers. Therefore, by all means, let the beginner select strong sticks. Any anchor, however illegitimate, is better than an anchor that snaps in half. For the counsels of perfection are only appreciated when the possibility, not of perfection, but of moderate skill, begins to dawn on the rosy heights. Till then, O fellow-tyro and novice, gaily descend slopes that terrify and unnerve you, conscious that, when the terror becomes unbearable, you can lean heavily on your sticks and check your mad career. This is profoundly immoral advice, but the knowledge that you have strong sticks in your hands will enable you to contemplate and thus imperfectly negotiate these places in a straight direct line. You will know what it feels like to face straight down these abominable precipices, and will have gained a sensation. But without the knowledge that you held in your hands a powerful instrument of retardation you would, very likely, have never gained the sensation at all. This is a counsel of imperfection, and if you design to be a first-rate skier you will not follow it. But if you have, as in our hypothetical case, only a few weeks in these uplands, without prospect of more, launch yourself with your strong sticks on a blood-curdling incline, see what it feels like, and, when your nerves cannot bear it, lean heavily on both sticks.

But the moment we progress a little further than the hypothetical case of the man who for one winter has three weeks of Switzerland in front of him, and then, as far as seems probable, no more Switzerland at all, the joys of the skier increase in a quickly ascending scale. Just as the skater in the English style finds that the threes and the rockers and the counters that he has so painfully learned are not only delightful in themselves, but help him towards qualifying as a good skater in the combined figures, and just as the Continental skater finds that those same figures assist him to produce a first-rate programme in free-skating, so also does the skier who on easy slopes has made himself acquainted with the various turns, find that his education there vastly increases his enjoyment in and proficiency at the glorious excursions which are all to be made on his immense rink. Slopes and descents that would be impracticable for him to descend if he had not learned the tricks, the figures of his sport, are easy and pleasurable if he can make his Telemark, his Christiania, his stemming turns, and not only do they become practicable, but his negotiation of these slopes becomes an artistic performance instead of being a terrified and stick-riding descent, just as to make a vol-planÉ from the skies is a beautiful feat, whereas to slide down a rope merely hurts the hands. In the same way, the ascents, which were a mere succession of stumblings and misdirected efforts, and sweatings unspeakable, lose their arduousness when he has learned how to climb steep slopes with the minimum of exertion. All his practice with other elementary enthusiasts in the field behind the hotel (or in front of it)—there is everywhere some such field at a suitably steep angle—works into what must always be in ski-ing, the main object of the sport, which is to be able to traverse the snows and make mid-winter expeditions over the high enchanted country, which is otherwise inaccessible. For on skis you can with ease climb slopes which are absolutely impossible to the pedestrian, since the skier goes unsinking over soft snow and drifts that would engulf the man in boots as in a frozen quicksand; while in descents over such places the difference is only emphasised. A ski-runner will in a few minutes descend, thrilled with the joy of a movement that really resembles flying, places which at the least take the pedestrian hours of plunging labour. He is indifferent as to the depths of snow, since he is only concerned with an inch or two of it, and rapturously descends a thousand feet, while a walker is cursing at the first hundred of them. But the ski-runner’s enjoyment and speed, both in the climb and in the descent, are vastly increased if he has learned the elements of his art. Thereby he saves effort, saves time, saves tumbles, and saves temper; at the end of a run his mental bank is rich with pleasure, whereas a man who has not taken the trouble to learn these tricks of the trade comes in with a debit balance, so to speak, mis-spent labour, unnecessary falls, and loss of time and temper. He must learn the elements of climbing, of turning, and of braking, not by heavily leaning on his strong poles, but by the far simpler and less tiring methods of using his skis to do the braking for him.

The first difficulties that beset the beginner must be considered as concerned with climbing, since he has to get to the top of his hill before he can experience the pleasing terror of proceeding to slide down it. As he flounders and falls and back-slips, he will be astonished to see some more practised performer strolling along up the slight slope which he finds so baffling, without the slightest effort or exertion. Looking more closely he will perhaps notice that this expert is stamping his feet a little as he walks, merely as if to warm them on this cold morning. Then for a moment perhaps he seems to slip, and the beginner anticipates the delight of seeing somebody else flounder in the snow without being able to get up. But he sees nothing of the sort. Hardly has the slip begun before the expert has put down one ski behind the heel of and at right angles to the other. The slip is stopped, and the next moment he moves easily on again.

Higher up the slope becomes steeper, and, still watching, the tyro observes that the skier has changed his direction, and instead of mounting in a straight line is crossing the slopes in a direction, zigzagging across them. He has moved perhaps a hundred yards to the right, but is then confronted by a wall of rock obviously unscaleable. But without effort he lifts one foot rather high and turns it, putting it down again in the direction opposite to that in which he has been zigzagging. The other foot comes round too, and immediately the climber begins progressing again in the reversed direction, having executed that easy and necessary manoeuvre called the kick-turn. Then a belt of trees closes his new zigzag, and here, by way of variety, he bends down and jumps, revolving in the air as he jumps and lands facing round the other way. This, of course, the beginner imagines to be a merely acrobatic and impossible performance; he resents it as we resent a conjuring trick.

Then it seems that the climber has got tired of his zigzags, and facing the hill directly again he proceeds, this time with some slight appearance of effort to walk straight up it with his feet and skis turned outwards in something of the attitude of the frog-footman in Alice in Wonderland. Each ski just avoids treading on the heel of the other, and clears it by an inch or two, so that the track left resembles the outline of a piece of herring-bone brickwork. There is the same resemblance in the name of this manoeuvre, since it is called herring-boning. Then once more the climber varies his style of progress, for here the slope is exceedingly steep, and he has come to a narrow gully, where his zig-zags would have to be very short, and instead of interspersing every few steps with a kick-turn he stands sideways to the slope and puts down one foot horizontally across it and brings the other close up to and parallel with it. Then he steps sideways again with the first foot, and repeats the manoeuvre. Twenty or thirty paces of this sort bring him to the top of his gully, and he stops a moment looking over the view which his climb has opened out to him. (That also is a frequently-practised ski-ing manoeuvre and quite easy. The view-trick is indulged in after a steep bit of climbing, and is dictated by a love of scenery combined with the need of getting your breath again.)

Now all these devices, the stamping of the skis, the stopping of the slip, the kick-turn, the jump even, the herring-boning and the side-stepping are all quite easily learned, and, if we except the jump round, which is never necessary, since the kick-turn produces the same result (i.e. change of direction), the beginner will in a few days have so far mastered the elements of them that he will be able, without undue fatigue, to climb slopes on which at first he helplessly floundered. But he is advised to make practical acquaintance with all of these conjuring tricks, for they each have their special uses. On certain slopes there may not be sufficient room to zigzag without continually turning, while again the surface of the snow may be so hard and icy that herring-boning, which is quite easy if there is soft snow on the top, may be practically impossible, in which case the side-stepping must be employed. But any slope negotiable at all on skis is negotiable by one of these methods, which are none of them at all hard to acquire.

Now, it is no part of any of these treatises to do more than state how various manoeuvres on ice or snow or with the curling-stones are done, and in ski-ing (even as much as in skating) written instructions would be of very small use. What is far more to the point is to sally out (in print) on to a fairly easy slope and attempt to make these phenomena appear, so that the beginner will understand them when he sees them, and try to imitate with a knowledge of what he has to imitate. Best of all is it to get somebody actually on skis to show you what the thing looks like. Then—for we are all descended from the monkeys—it is part of our human birthright to attempt to ape what is shown, and a practical illustration, followed by actual practice, will do more for the beginner than a host of learned treatises. Still, when dusk has fallen, and he can no longer even see to fall down, he is strongly recommended to study some practical manual of ski-ing. Of these I will mention three, all of which are illustrated by a series of admirable photographs, which make a visual guide more valuable than any written instruction. These are:

Here he will find careful analyses of ski-ing manoeuvres, clearly and at length explaining them, and elucidating the explanation by photographs. The curious student will no doubt find certain differences of opinion expressed by these Masters, but, if he is wise, he will leave academic disputation alone, and try to put into practice the precepts and instructions given by any one of them. He may rest assured that, however disputatious the pundits become over any theories advanced by these authors, there is a great deal to be said for them. Indeed, their very disputatiousness shows how much there is to be said!

To return to our forlorn beginner on the slope, who has seen vanish from his ken the figure of the expert climber, we will suppose that he occupies himself with his flounderings while others with equal ease and absence of effort pass him in their ascension. Some of them, it appears, are not going out for any expedition, for they pause when they have got to a sufficient height and begin descending again. And here the tyro should surely find encouragement, for he will observe that they often stagger, fall, and are smothered in snow. That does not in the slightest degree deter them, and probably he will begin to realise that falling, even in the case of experts, is part of the day’s work, and, as a rule, does not hurt at all. Indeed the skier who does not fall is either so cautious a performer that he cannot be called a skier in any sense of the word, or so supreme a master that he is evidently not human but some form of Alpine ghost. On the skating-rink he will see the same thing, for even the “plus-players,” so to speak, if they are really practising, execute the most amazing tumbles, while on the curling-rink, the gods and demigods make shots of the most putrescent nature.

But as he watches he will notice that these ladies and gentlemen who are ski-ing are busy not with merely descending the slope they have climbed, but descending it in a particular manner, and interspersing their descent with certain definite manoeuvres. Sometimes, perhaps, one who has climbed into the gully out of which the first expert has disappeared, will stand for a moment facing downhill, and then launch himself on a perfectly straight course. He will be standing upright, but leaning forward, which is not a contradiction in terms, if this phrase is considered. In other words, his whole head, body, and legs will be inclined a little forward, but he will also be upright because there is no bend in his knees or hips or neck. In other words, he will be standing at right angles to the slope, though leaning forward. His skis will be quite close together, so that they make but one track in the snow, and his right foot probably will be a few inches in front of his left. His arms will be a little raised, so that his sticks, which swing pendulum-like from his hands, do not touch the snow, and his descent is that of a stooping hawk. A spray of fine snow rises round the toes of his skis, like the feather of water round the bows of some lightning-speeded boat. A moment ago he was but a speck high up on the mountain-side, the next he is but a speck at the end of the slope below. If not so fortunate, he is somewhere in the middle of that sudden-spouting billow of snow that mars the smooth whiteness of the hill. But in any case, the beginner has seen a specimen of ordinary straight-running, the figure upright and inclined forward, the skis close together, with sinecure for the sticks. And if our beginner’s courage is high, he will instantly attempt, from the more gradual slope on which he stands, to do the same. Probably, if he remembers to ape this flying Mercury in the points mentioned, he will progress quite a considerable number of yards at his sedater speed without falling. Then a wild panic will seize him at the thought that his pace is steadily increasing, and that he has not the slightest idea how to check it. That thought alone will most likely be sufficient so to unsteady him that he will instantly fall down and find that he has grasped one method, anyhow, of stopping. He may then employ the few moments’ pause that invariably succeed a tumble to observing whether, from the tracks his skis have left, he has kept his feet together. If he has, he may feel justifiably pleased with himself, but must not be discouraged if the tracks resemble the old broad gauge of the Great Western Railway.

Then comes another descender. He is going quite straight also, but he appears merely to be strolling down the same slope that the other fellow flew down. Yet he does not use his sticks to lean on, but stands upright also, but with toes pointed inwards, legs apart, and heels pointing outwards. Instead of travelling on level skis, it is clear that he leans on their inside edges; and since they are not pointing straight down the slope it is obvious that they are side-slipping all the time instead of sliding straight. That is the case: he is “stemming,” descending straight, but using the sideways position of his skis to check his speed. Our beginner, warming to his work, tries this also. He instantly gets the toe of one ski across the toe of the other, and has discovered another method of abruptly stopping. This time he will very likely fall forward in the manner of a breaking wave on to a snowy shore.

This time the question of the technique of getting up obtrudes itself. Probably his skis are still lovingly entwined together, and, leaving them in a fond embrace, he will attempt to rise. Nothing happens: at least he is only conscious of violent and enraged effort, which is productive of no appreciable alteration in his position. Then it occurs to him that he had better have his feet free of each other, and this he strugglingly accomplishes, pointing them both symmetrically downhill. Again he attempts to rise, digging his sticks in the snow, upon which his feet slide sweetly and smoothly away from under him, and he is prone on his back again. But if, after disentangling his feet, he plants them sideways across the slope he will find they cannot slip away, because they are edged into the snow and are as firm as everlasting mountains. But this is instruction.

A third runner comes down the slope, this time running slantways. But after a little he assumes the stemming position, and then his right ski crosses in front of the other, and he comes round in a curve to the left. Then his left foot takes the lead and he swerves again to the right ... da capo, da capo ... he describes a slow serpentine line, running with feet together on his zigzags, and widening the distance as he approaches the turn. First one foot and then the other goes in front at their appropriate corners, and down this precipitous slope he comes, but at moderate speed, weaving his dance. Each turn is made in the stemming-position—for these be stemming-turns.

Thereafter comes a more inexplicable runner. He progresses straight for a little way, and then advancing his right foot, he proceeds apparently to kneel down on his left knee, bending the right leg also, but keeping the knee up. Then it is clear that his weight is almost entirely on the advanced right leg, the other but trails behind. Then with a visible effort he leans on the inside of his right ski and turns it round in front of the other towards his left. As by a conjuring trick he slews round altogether towards his left, and comes to a dead stop facing nearly in the direction from which he has run. And if anybody is standing near our beginner the latter will probably hear for the first time the mystic word Telemark.

Here, then, is a more comfortable manner of stopping dead than that of falling down. The latter is nature, the former is art. On the steepest slope, provided only there is a decent covering of softish snow, the expert will make this short sharp turn and come to a standstill facing nearly or quite uphill. Or, if so he please, he will make a half-Telemark, bring himself sideways to the slope, and then continue his downward descent, starting from rest again. Should he wish to turn towards the right he will kneel on his right knee, or nearly kneel, with heel raised, and, advancing his left ski, put all his weight on to that, trailing the right one behind, which acts, as Mr. Caulfield points out, like the rudder of a boat. Probably our beginner will attempt this also. His first difficulty will be to kneel down at all without upsetting. If he safely accomplishes this, he will have a crisis of nerves in finding himself in so abnormal a position, and dig his stick into the snow. Anything whatever may happen then.

A fifth and final runner on this morning of revelation begins his descent, travelling not quite straight down the slope but on a steepish zigzag. He does not proceed to pray in the Telemark attitude, but, standing straight, advances his right foot, leaning his weight on it, and trailing his left behind. Then he makes a twist of his shoulders and body towards the right, exactly as if he was cutting a three-turn on skates, and, lo, he has turned round in exactly the same manner as in the Telemark. He does not, it is true, continue the back-edge downhill, but halts on the cusp, as it were, facing uphill, as at the end of the Telemark swing. But what he has done is to make a Christiania swing, with the foot towards the direction of his turn advanced instead of the opposite foot, as in the Telemark. But the effect is the same: he has stopped in the middle of a swift downward descent without falling down or braking. Probably, to touch for a moment on minutiÆ, he has made his Christiania on a hard and ice-crusted place, whereas the Telemarker has selected a spot of soft snow for his performance. So, if the beginner is tempted to try this last manoeuvre, he is advised to look out for an icy patch where the sun has thawed the surface of the snow, which has subsequently frozen again. On arriving at such a patch, he will probably conclude (as our American cousins say) to reserve the Christiania for another day.

Now this gifted series of practisers on the slope have, in imagination, presented to the would-be skier all that is demanded of him in the practice of ski-running. When he has learned the more effortless ways of ascending slopes, as exhibited by the expert whom he first observed, and when he can make in his descents,

THE TELEMARK TURN

From the Drawing by Fleming Williams