Monday, 20 April 2020

In praise of urban walking

If the fit and active amongst us hadn’t already realised, we are all rediscovering the joys of walking. Whether your lockdown is partial or complete, the appeal of our open spaces has never been so great. Luckily, if you live in a place where the world outside your front doorsteps hasn’t been designated out-of-bounds, you can still enjoy the freedom of the outdoors, however confined your social space. Never before have there been so many walkers and so few cars. But paradoxically, whilst we are seeking popular recreational spots - often all at the same time - we are invading each other’s personal spaces, precisely what we should be avoiding. It’s fine if you live in the country, but if not, the higher the population density, the greater the pressure on the parks, beaches and woodlands near our urban dwellings. No wonder the powers that be are stepping in and closing off routes and car parks that provide access to these local beauty spots. Like it or not, if we want to preserve our environment and at the same time stay safe, we are going to have to be more resourceful about how we recreate and instead make do with the commonplaceness of our own neighbourhoods.

Our world might be getting smaller, but even if the bounds of our geographical realm are limited to a radius of one-kilometre (as in France), that’s 3.14 square kilometres to discover, rising to a whopping 78.5 square kilometres for a zone with a five-kilometre radius (Belgium). A more sensible yardstick might be what’s within walking distance of our homes, which is probably somewhere in between the two measures I’ve specified above. That’s still a lot of ground to cover!

But space is only one factor in the distancing equation. Now that our lives are no longer dictated totally by our working hours, we don’t all have to go at the same time. You can enjoy a walk any time of the day: early morning, late evening or even in the middle of the night! As the days in the northern hemisphere get longer, so does the scope for daylight walking. We no longer have to be creatures of habit!

But there is another overriding reason why we should be out walking:
It is undeniably good. It is good for our muscles and posture; it helps to protect and repair organs, and can slow or turn back the ageing of our brains. With our minds in motion we think more creatively, our mood improves and stress levels fall.
These are not my words (though I wish they were), but those of Shane O’Mara, a neuroscientist working at Trinity College Dublin in Ireland who has written about the physical, but above all, the mental benefits of walking. He practices what he preaches and is a passionate walker, but even more so, a passionate urban walker:
Walking is the way to get to know a new city: rambling out, about, on foot, taking in the sights and sounds and smells and sense of the new city. Enjoying getting footsore while noticing the little things making a city different, interesting, and great. Cities possess a vitality, attractions, upsides, and downsides.

In other words, for us townies, there is a world out there waiting to be discovered on our own doorsteps – in terms of fauna and flora, culture, history, architecture and – crucially – sensorially. View your surroundings in a different way, observe the subtle changes in nature over the seasons and the different angles and intensities of light throughout the day. Record it photographically if you wish. Sometimes it can feel like stepping out onto a different planet if we compare a walk we make in summer to the same one we made last winter. In spring, even over the course of week, much can change.

Wherever you live, there is plenty to hold our interest within walking distance of our homes. If you’re interested in wildlife, but never had the time, look for the tell-tale signs of spring in birdlife around you: April and May are the months when migrating birds arrive back in our midst to breed. Listen out for the warbled flute of the blackbird as it sings from its elevated perch, and the sounds of swifts as they screech around the rooftops late in the evening. Try to identify wild flowers (aka weeds) growing between the paving stones. Since your local council has probably decided unsightly wayside plants are no longer a priority, they are now growing in profusion. Less traffic also means less air pollution, so at night lift your eyes and binoculars up to the stars and discover the planets and constellations.

The built environment is often no less inspiring than the natural one. Find an old map (there are plenty online), check out how much your neighbourhood has changed over the years, walk the streets and discover the secrets of their past. It doesn’t have to have been grand architectural schemes or remarkable feats of civil engineering that have transformed your neighbourhood, just subtle, almost imperceptible developments. If we only realised, history is slowly evolving before our very eyes. It’s more than likely that someone famous lived in your area, there may be a special architectural attraction, a commemorative plaque, a deserted railway line, an industrial shell or a canal towpath. There may even be some graffiti that’s worth admiring!

What about kids? Why not create a treasure hunt for them to do in your neighbourhood, using architectural features and street furniture as your guide. That way your kids can uncover the idiosyncracies of your neighbourhood on foot too.

My own personal realm spans the entire urban field from bustling town centre to serene woodland on the urban fringe. It’s a treasure-trove waiting to reveal itself, with a history that dates back to Roman times, but which also has a landscape more latterly scarred by coalmining. The industrial age brought to the region much expertise, innovation and prosperity and this is reflected in its diverse and modern architecture. The area was also traumatised by war, as the seventy or so Stolpersteine dotted around town bear witness: these are small brass plates embedded in the pavement and inscribed with the name and life dates of victims of Nazi persecution. More recently, my adopted home town has seen a burgeoning of street art, with gable ends and building facades all over town being adorned with massive murals.

A Stolperstein in Turin

If you choose to go outdoors, do so sensibly and in compliance with the guidelines that apply in your own country. Choose a route that minimises your social contact. Be more flexible with the times you go out, it doesn’t have to be in the afternoon or at weekends. But most of all, discover and enjoy the delights of walking!

Friday, 28 February 2020

Blank on the map

Spender's map of the 1937 Karakoram expedition

After 4 months of tramping in the wilderness, they arrived back in civilisation dirty, ragged and unwashed. Their unkempt hair and matted beards managed to arouse much consternation amongst the local populace, themselves not unaccustomed to a sparse existence on the edges of the habitable world. As dishevelled as they may have come across, the two figures who arrived in Shimsal - a back-of-beyond cluster of settlements in Baltistan - had actually spent the summer of 1937 scouring a huge tract of uncharted territory, assiduously filling in blanks on an empty map. This was no ordinary terrain however, containing some of the most awe-inspiring peaks and glaciers on the face of the earth.

On his way back from an Everest expedition in 1936, Eric Shipton hatched a plan to reconnoitre an uncharted part of the Karakoram in the Himalayas. Already an accomplished mountaineer at the age of 29, Shipton had several successful Himalayan expeditions under his belt, as well as a number of intrepid treks in the Mount Kenya, Kilimanjaro and Ruwenzori ranges of East Africa. Exploration was written into his DNA and he was drawn to the Karakoram simply because there was a void that hadn’t yet been mapped.

The Karakoram range is a tangled knot of mountains that forms part of the watershed between Central Asia and the Indian sub-continent. Hitherto, there had been little inclination to map the Karakoram: it is a desolate region, devoid of human habitation, bristling with mountain tops of truly awesome dimensions which rise up from yawning valleys gouged out by the most extensive glaciers outside the polar regions. It could quite justifiably lay claim to the title ‘roof of the world’, since four of its summits, K2, Gasherbrum I, Gasherbrum II and Broad Peak, surpass a height of 8,000 metres. K2, just 238 metres shy of Everest and the second highest peak in the world, never had a local name because, quite simply, there were no locals to give it one.

Yet its remoteness did not mean this mountain fortress had been untrodden or unmapped, at least in part. Ancient caravans had used crossing points along this formidable barrier between Turkestan and Kashmir to trade goods between north and south, before shifting glaciers had eventually made it impassable. 

Godwin-Austen's 1864 map of the southern Karakoram. The empty top right-hand corner is Shipton's 'blank on the map'

As part of the Trigonometrical Survey of India, Lieutenant-Colonel Godwin-Austen had explored the mountains in the Himalayas in the early 1860s and surveyed the glaciers to the south of K2, one of which was later named after him.
The first European known to have traversed this mountain range from north to south was Francis Younghusband in 1887. In a venture that was the anachronism for the age of exploration and empire, Younghusband – a British army officer - undertook a journey of epic proportions from Peking, across the Gobi desert and eventually traversing the Karakoram via the Mustagh Pass (5422 m), the descent of which – without proper mountaineering equipment – had been a heart-stopping, do-or-die enterprise. Younghusband would later become the president of the Royal Geographical Society and the first chairman of the Mount Everest Committee which oversaw the first attempts on the peak in the 1920s.
Other notable visitors to the Karakorum included the formidable Fanny Bullock Workman. Born into a wealthy American family in 1859, Fanny Bullock married William Workman, a medical doctor 10 years her senior, when she was just 22. They spent the best part of the next 30 years travelling the world in search of adventure and were eventually introduced to high-altitude climbing in the Himalayas. In 1906 they made the first ascent of Pinnacle Peak (6930 m) in 1906, a women's altitude record at the time and later in 1911 and 1912, along with a team of surveyors, they embarked on an expedition to map the 76-kilometre-long Siachen glacier in the Eastern Karakoram.
For those of us with no first-hand experience of the Karakoram, we can only imagine the sheer grandeur of the landscape. Few can have surely come as close to capturing its magnificence than Vittorio Sella, possibly the finest and most accomplished mountain photographer of all time, who accompanied an Italian expedition making a (subsequently unsuccessful) attempt on K2 in 1909. The expedition was led by Prince Luigi Amadeo, better known as the Duke of the Abruzzi, whose enviable portfolio of explorations, amongst others, included first ascents in Alaska and British East Africa.

Vittorio Sella's photograph of the Trango Towers in 1909

By 1937, whilst some parts of the Karakoram had evidently been surveyed, Eric Shipton set himself the task of filling in some of the gaping gaps north of the main crest. Exploration, more so than peak-bagging had become his raison d’être and his plan came at an opportune time: exploration, for exploration’s sake was still de rigueur, and the Government of India, under British colonial control, was keen to establish the true extent of its territory for reasons of national security. To achieve this goal, Shipton would need a support team of climbers, surveyors and porters, and crucially funding. For the latter, he received money from the Royal Geographical Society, the Survey of India and the Royal Society. He budgeted for a total cost of £855 and, in fact, underspent by a just few pounds.

The lead team consisted of Shipton himself; Bill Tilman, another climber with a complete back catalogue of mountaineering feats, frequently in the company of Shipton and in every way his alter ego; Michael Spender, a surveyor who had given invaluable service on an Everest reconnaissance mission led by Shipton in 1935 (and brother of the poet, Stephen Spender). To all intents and purposes, Spender would be responsible for coordinating the surveying work of the expedition; and John Auden, a gifted geologist, who began his career with the Geological Survey of India in 1926: he too had a more famous poet brother in W.H. Auden. The team was completed by seven Sherpas who had given sterling service as mountain guides on previous Everest campaigns.

The logistics of a four-month trek in inhospitable and uncharted mountain terrain were daunting, not least with heavy and valuable surveying equipment. Shipton hated the massive scale of sponsored expeditions: he was very much a free-spirit, lacking the single-mindedness of an expedition climber focused solely on reaching the top. However, for such an odyssey, the Karakoram project required the services of a hundred local porters to carry food, tents and other provisions.

Roughly speaking, Shipton’s plan was as follows:
... to reach the Baltoro glacier by the end of May; to cross the watershed with sufficient food to last the party for one hundred days after reaching its base below the snout of the Sarpo Laggo glacier; to cross the Shaksgam [river] and spend as much time in the Aghil range as possible without being cut off by the summer floods; to return to the Sarpo Laggo about the middle of July and to spend the remaining two months working on our other two objectives, the Crevasse glacier region and the area to the north of K2. 

Once they had left the inhabited world behind in Askole, Baltistan on 26 May, their first major task - the most critical of the whole expedition - was to find a passable crossing over the watershed to the north of the Baltoro glacier, a broad and sweeping glacier hemmed in on all sides by the Himalayan giants. An Italian survey team working in the Baltoro valley in 1929 came to the conclusion that a more permissible, more westerly route across the range to the Sarpo Laggo glacier on the other side should exist than the vertiginous Mustagh Pass taken by Younghusband in 1887. After reconnoitring the Trago glacier that occupied a valley branching off to the north of the Baltoro, Shipton and his party eventually found the saddle that gave them access to the Sarpo Laggo glacier on 2 June. However, this was not without much trial and error, which included mutiny from the porters and fever on the part of Tilman and Auden. Over the course of several days they ferried their supplies to their expedition base at the foot of the glacier.

It was here that Spender laid a surveying base in order to get K2 and a number of local points plotted on to his plane-table sheet. K2 would be the fixed point from which measurements would be made during the trip. After several days exploring the terrain in the vicinity of the base camp, the party set off in a northerly direction, retracing the route taken by Younghusband to the Aghil Pass, named after the mountain range to the north of the central massif of the Karakoram. They eventually arrived at the pass on 20 June, its summit identifiable from the description made by Younghusband 50 years previously. From here, they made several sorties into smaller side valleys and also followed the main valley down to its confluence with the Yarkand, a 1,000 km long river that flows into the Tarim river which eventually dries out in the Taklamakan Desert in the Xinjiang province of China.

Hardly having time to rest at their base at Suget Jangal back in the Sarpo Laggo valley on their return from the Aghil, Shipton, Tilman and Auden spent a week in the web of valleys to the north of K2. The main purpose of this exercise was to link up their mapping work with the Duke of the Abruzzi's 1929 survey of K2 and the Baltoro glacier on the southern flanks of the mountain. They eventually reached the base of its north wall. Shipton was overawed: 
The cliffs and the ridges of K2 rose out of the glacier in one stupendous sweep to the summit of the mountain 12,000 feet above. The sight was beyond my comprehension ... Sitting alone gazing at it at the cirque forming the head of the K2 glacier was an experience I shall never forget; no mountain scene has impressed me more.

Duke of Abruzzi's map of K2, 1909

The group then spent the next three weeks exploring the Crevasse Glacier. No one quite knew what lay beyond the unprobed limits of this glacier, but it was conjectured that it would lead to the fabled ‘Snow Lake’, an extensive basin of snow and ice that had been described by the Workmans and which supposedly formed part of a much vaster ice cap feeding glaciers which radiated outwards from here. The Workmans had also claimed they had observed a glacier, which they dubbed the Crevice glacier, that had no outlet, a contentious assertion on their part to say the least, given the laws of physics. Tilman and a number of Sherpas were sent over the passes at the top of the Crevasse glacier to settle the issue before making their trek out of the Karakoram and back to civilisation.

When after crossing various passes, Tilman eventually reached the Snow Lake he was underwhelmed. Of this he said, ‘ ... this nearly flat basin I should put at about six miles by three; at the most 20 square miles instead of 300. It is a disappointingly small area for such a grandiose name.’ He was more hopeful the Crevice glacier would defy all the scientific experts however, but inevitably, he was similarly let down. He wrote of his experience: ‘In a drab world it would be refreshing to report the discovery of a glacier flowing uphill, or even of one that did not flow at all. It gives me no pleasure, therefore, to have to affirm that this glacier behaved as others do. ... I ought to have rejoiced, because I can honestly say that to tramp down the Cornice glacier, hoping at every moment to find an impasse and find none, was as sorry a business as any that has fallen my lot.’

By the time Tilman had returned to Askole by way of the Snow Lake and the Crevice glacier, Shipton and Spender were returning by a different route, making their way northwards along the Braldu glacier and valley to map that uncharted section of country and its river systems, recrossing the continental divide by way of the Shimsal Pass (4,735 m). When they got there Spender found it ‘hard to believe that we were crossing the main continental watershed, so great was the contrast with the other sections of it which we had visited. It was a wide-open grassy valley near which enormous herds of yaks and sheep were grazing.’ Eventually, after 3 and a half months of filling in chunks of emptiness on the map, they arrived back in civilisation, a sight for sore eyes.

In all, they had surveyed no less than 4,661 square kilometres of terrain. In an autobiography Shipton later wrote:
No experience of mine has been fuller, no undertaking more richly rewarded than those few months among the unknown mountains beyond the crest of the Karakoram. The vast scale of the country, its complete isolation from any source of help or supply demanded all our ingenuity and a wide range of our mountaineering technique. Striving to traverse and understand such a world, and thus to absorb something of its peace and strength was at once our task and our reward.

Further reading: 

Shipton, Eric: Blank on the Map: Pioneering exploration in the Shaksgam valley and Karakoram mountains, Vertebrate Publishing (2019). First published in London by Hodder & Stoughton in 1938 
Shipton, Eric: The Shaksgam Expedition 1937, The Alpine Journal Vol L, May 1938
Spender, Michael: The Shaksgam Expedition 1937, The Himalayan Journal Vol. 10, 1938
Baker, Deborah: The Last Englishmen: Love, War, and the End of Empire, Vintage Books, 2019

This article was written as part of the Mapping the Mountains exhibition, organised under the auspices of the Dutch Mountain Film Festival #9, which takes place in Heerlen (NL) from 31 October 2019 to 29 February 2020.

For more information:

Wednesday, 27 November 2019

Tranchot and the mapping of the Rhineland

Monument to cartographer Jean-Joseph Tranchot on the Lousberg in Aachen

Anyone wishing to win over the affections of their valentine could do worse than to chaperone them to the summit of the Lousberg in Aachen. Admittedly, it doesn't have the same romantic ring about it as the Spanish Steps or Montmartre, but the view from the top of this humpbacked hill just outside the city centre is as enchanting as any in these whereabouts.
Indeed, the unbroken views offered from this lofty vantage point were not lost on early cartographers either, as the prominent obelisk on its summit bears witness.

The story of the obelisk dates back over 200 years, at a time when military aggression was good for mapmaking. After Napoleon invaded and then occupied the Rhineland at the turn of the 19th century, he demanded that detailed maps be made of his newly acquired possessions. The man chosen for the job was Jean Joseph Tranchot (1752–1815), a French army officer who had already carved out a distinguished career as a cartographer.

France and the birth of modern cartography 
Of all the nations in Europe during this period, France had taken the lead in systematised mapping. This was largely due to the Cassinis, a dynasty of accomplished astronomers and cartographers who, over the course of four generations from 1671 to 1793, occupied the position of Directeur général de l'Observatoire in Paris. Between 1750 and 1793, under the aegis of César-François Cassini (known as Cassini III), the first nationwide map of the country was produced in a total of 182 sheets at a scale of 1:86,400. It was achieved using the most advanced scientific principles of the day, namely astronomy and triangulation.

It was against this background that Jean Joseph Tranchot launched his career. His first surveying commission took him to Corsica where he was to help with the triangulation of the island of which France had taken control from the Republic of Genoa in 1768. After two decades serving on this project, Tranchot - who had singled himself for the great accuracy of his work - received a commendation from the French Academy of Sciences. Later he worked as a chief surveyor in the Méchain/Delambre measurement of the meridian arc between Dunkirk and Barcelona (1792-1798), which had the aim of establishing the exact size of the earth on which the new metric system would ultimately be based. 

The triangulation of the Rhineland 
So it was that Tranchot was tasked with mapping the newly conquered Rhineland in 1801. He set up his surveying operations in Aachen, the prefecture of the newly formed Département de la Roër, one of the four Départements réunis de la rive gauche du Rhin (on the left bank of the Rhine) stretching from Kleve (Cleves) in the north to Saarbrücken in the south. His first mission was to establish the exact geodetic coordinates of the highest point of the Lousberg, a prominent hilltop overlooking the town. From here the whole of the surrounding country could be triangulated and mapped. To do this he took meticulous astronomical observations from the summit over a period of 3 and a half weeks in the summer of 1803. The purposes of this was so that the Lousberg (264m) could be connected up to existing triangulation networks in France and the Netherlands and subsequently function as the starting point for the new Rhineland network.

From here, Tranchot created a system of 55 triangulation stations throughout the Rhineland. In the lower-lying areas, measurements would have been taken from church steeples. Those in Sittard and Erkelenz, which were in direct sight of the Lousberg, were amongst the first to be triangulated and they measured a distance of 28.12 and 36.59 kilometres respectively. However in other parts of the countryside, where higher points were covered in dense forest, such as in the Eifel, wooden beacons had to be constructed.

The French instrument of choice to triangulate was Borda’s repeating circle, a contemporary alternative to the theodolite. The instrument consisted of two telescopes mounted on a shared axis which could be rotated through 360 degrees. Using calibrated scales, the angle between the two – fixed on any distant object - could be measured. The telescopes could be swivelled and adjusted many times over so that multiple measurements could be made, so increasing the accuracy of the readings. 

The cartographic work 
Once primary triangulation in the Rhineland had been completed, topographic surveys could commence to map out the countryside in greater. This was done using plane tables, another piece of surveying equipment, consisting of a drawing board mounted on adjustable legs and used in the field for plotting measurements directly. The results of these measurements were recorded in ‘field maps’ (first at a scale of 1:10,000 and later at 1:20,000). Draughtsmen would depict variations in relief (i.e. slopes) by the use of hachuring where steeper slopes were represented by thicker, shorter ‘hatching’, while gentler slopes were represented by strokes which were thinner, longer and further apart. A very gentle slope or a flat area, like the top of a hill, was usually left blank.

For the Rhineland maps, cartographers were instructed to draw these hachures using the relatively new ‘oblique illumination’ technique, which introduced the principle of hill shading to cartography. In this way the terrain could be depicted in a more realistic fashion by showing how the three-dimensional surface might be illuminated from a point light source, for example, in the top left corner of a map. However, the cartographers of the day were not always properly acquainted with the technique. Others who had to work in haste did not always heed the requirements and there is said to be a lack of uniformity between the Tranchot maps.

The maps also included a cadastral element, so, for example, land was designated by its use: ‘B’ (Bois) indicated woodland; ‘T’ (Terres labourables) arable land; ‘P’(Prés) meadowland;  and so on.

After Napoleon’s abdication and subsequent exile to Elba in 1814, the French withdrew from the Rhineland. The topographic survey of the region continued under Prussian rule supervised by General Karl von Müffling from 1816 to 1828. The cartographic series dating from the whole of this period is therefore known as the Tranchot/von Müffling series. 

In all, 264 maps – each covering an area of 10 x 10 kilometres - were produced at a scale of 1:20,000 (later reduced to 1:25.000).

Part of the Tranchot/v. Müffling map of the Rhineland, sheet 76: Herzogenrath 

Snapshots of a bygone age 
The Tranchot maps paint a picture of the social and economic conditions of the pre-industrialised era in perhaps a more expressive way than any history book. Agricultural reform was still in its infancy, individual settlements had not yet expanded and new roads between major towns and cities had not been built. Through a comparison with modern-day maps it’s possible to understand the far-reaching changes that the landscape has undergone. On the other hand, in some remoter rural areas, it is surprising to see how much time has seemingly stood still for the last 200 years.

As for the Lousberg, the obelisk on the top of the hill tells its own story, one which captures the romance of cartography for map lovers like myself.

The triangulation point on the Lousberg was originally marked by a wooden signal. However, in 1807 a stone pyramid was erected on the spot and inscribed with various commemorative texts, not least proclaiming the accuracy of Tranchot’s geodetic calculations. The square base stood 3.6 metres high and the pyramid which rose above it reached a height of 8.7 metres. Later that year a lead casket was placed in the base containing 55 gold and silver coins and 13 bronze medallions celebrating key moments in the life of the Emperor Napoleon.
On 2 April 1814, after French troops had withdrawn from the Rhineland, the obelisk was torn down by Prussian soldiers hell-bent on looting the valuables contained in the lead casket. In the process, several stones were damaged, some toppling down the steep slope at the top of the hill.
Following this act of vandalism, in an act of generosity towards a fellow surveyor, Major-general von Müffling, the chief of general staff for the Prussian army in Niederrhein, immediately ordered the pyramid to be reconstructed, faithfully reproducing the texts that had been inscribed on the original pyramid, barring a eulogy in praise of the recently deposed Napoleon.

Happily, the monument still stands today to serve as a tangible record of the remarkable feats of cartographers of a bygone age. And if, while taking in the sweeping view from the top of the Lousberg, you were wanting to hold your heart-throb completely spellbound, what better way to do this than by telling them the captivating tale of Tranchot and his maps?

Further reading (in German):
Schmidt, R (1973) Die Kartenaufname der Rheinlande durch Tranchot und v. Müffling 1801 – 1828, Gesellschaft für Rheinische Geschichtskunde XII
Geilen Quirin (1991), Entstehung der Tranchot-Müfflingschen Kartenaufname und des rheinischen Kadasters in ‘Mit Wasser und Dampf’, Fehl, Kaspari-Küffen and Meyer, Meyer & Meyer 

This article was written as part of the Mapping the Mountains exhibition, organised under the auspices of the Dutch Mountain Film Festival #9, which takes place in Heerlen (NL) from 31 October 2019 to 29 February 2020.

For more information: