CHAPTER I

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[Illustration: Owen Glynne Jones]

ROCK-CLIMBING IN THE ENGLISH LAKE DISTRICT

by

OWEN GLYNNE JONES, B.Sc. (LOND.)

Member of the Alpine Club

With a Memoir and Portrait of the Author, Thirty-one Full-page

Illustrations in Collotype, Ten Outline Plates of

the Chief Routes, and Two Appendices by

George and Ashley Abraham

THIRD EDITION

G. P. Abraham and Sons

Keswick, Cumberland

1911

All rights reserved

Price 21s. net]

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE.

The rapid exhaustion of the first edition of Mr. OWEN GLYNNE JONES’

book on ‘Rock-climbing in the English Lake District,’ and further

numerous enquiries for copies of this unique and invaluable work,

induced us to make arrangements for the publication of another issue. A

third edition has now become necessary.

Since the first edition appeared in 1897, several important new climbs

have been made, most of which have been written about by the author,

and are here found just as they left his pen. Of some of the other

climbs nothing had been written, so, in response to the request of

several climbing friends, two appendices, bringing the book up to date,

have been added. The memoir by Mr. W. M. Crook, which is accompanied by

an excellent portrait of Mr. Jones, will, we are sure, be welcomed by

all as a valuable addition to the work.

We are glad to avail ourselves of this opportunity of acknowledging the

kindness of several friends for much valuable advice and assistance

given.

G. P. ABRAHAM & SONS,

KESWICK.

PREFACE.

I feel I owe a word of apology to the readers of this brief and

inadequate memoir of a dead friend. At the request of Jones’ most

intimate friends I have compiled it in the scanty leisure moments of

a few weeks of a busy life, too few to do justice to my theme. I wish

to return my heartiest thanks to those of his friends who have so

quickly and generously aided me with the materials at their disposal,

especially to Mr. F. W. Hill, Dr. W. E. Sumpner, the brothers Abraham,

of Keswick; Mr. W. J. Williams, Mr. Harold Spender, and M. Spahr, of

Evolena. I hope if any inaccuracies are detected by these or other

friends, they will communicate with me. It has been difficult to

avoid them, for all the written documents do not agree in facts and

dates. I trust, however, that this brief record of great effort, great

achievement, and great tragedy will be more acceptable than no record

at all.

W. M. CROOK.

_National Liberal Club,

Whitehall Place, London, S. W.

Feb. 26th, 1900._

Region separate, sacred, of mere, and of ghyll, and of mountain,

Garrulous, petulant beck, sinister laughterless tarn;

Haunt of the vagabond feet of my fancy for ever reverting,

Haunt and home of my heart, Cumbrian valleys and fells;

Yours of old was the beauty that rounded my hours with a nimbus,

Touched my youth with bloom, tender and magical light;

You were my earliest passion, and when shall my fealty falter?

Ah, when Helvellyn is low! Ah, when Winander is dry!

_William Watson._

OWEN GLYNNE JONES.

CHAPTER I

_EARLY LIFE AND FIRST CLIMBS_

Owen Glynne Jones was born on November 2nd, 1867. A Welshman by

blood, he was a Londoner by birth, for he first saw the light of day

in Clarendon Street, Paddington. His father, Mr. David Jones, was a

carpenter and builder, and the son commenced his education at a local

school. Of his early life there is little to tell. He seems to have

spent his holidays in Wales, and there to have developed, among what

may without inaccuracy be called his native mountains, that passion for

climbing which made him famous, and which led to his early and much

lamented death.

In 1881, when not yet fourteen years of age, Owen Jones was sent to the

Central Foundation School in Cowper Street, City Road, of which Dr.

Wormell was head master. Those who knew him there speak of him as ‘a

bright, promising schoolboy.’

He remained at Dr. Wormell’s for three years (1881-1884). He

distinguished himself in science and won several prizes while at the

school. On leaving he was awarded the Holl scholarship, and passed to

the Technical College at Finsbury, under the City and Guilds of London

Institute.

Jones spent two years (1884-1886) at Finsbury. During that time he

passed through the complete course of instruction in the Mechanical

department there. He worked with conspicuous ability and success

at mechanical engineering, mechanical drawing, mathematics, and

chemistry, as well as in the mechanical laboratory and in the wood

and iron workshops. When he left, his teachers spoke of him in the

highest terms. ‘Mr. O. G. Jones,’ said Professor Perry, ‘was as able,

as earnest, as promising as any other whom I can now remember.’ Mr.

John Castell-Evans speaks of his ‘eager enthusiasm and scrupulous

conscientiousness;’ and Professor Silvanus Thompson wrote of him:

‘He is imbued with modern methods, ... and is possessed of a healthy

enthusiasm for his work that is infectious.’ At the close of his course

he passed with a Clothworkers’ Scholarship to the Central Institution

in Exhibition Road, South Kensington, where he passed the next three

years of his life.

The three years (1886-1889) he spent in the Engineering Department,

and at the end of his course he had attained the highest position in

the class-list of any student of his year, and he received the diploma

of Associate of the Institute. On the completion of his course he was

appointed assistant in the Mathematical Department. During his life at

South Kensington he made the same impression as heretofore on all with

whom he came in contact. Intellectually alert, diligent, energetic,

enthusiastic, he seemed bound to make some mark in the world.

In the year following the completion of his course, and while he was an

assistant at South Kensington, I first met him.

It was during the Easter holidays of 1890. Having broken away from the

party with whom I had been spending most of my holiday in Borrowdale,

I made my way to Wastdale Head Inn. I picked up a chance acquaintance

with two young fellows in the inn, and we agreed to go together to

climb the Pillar Rock--with the aid of a ‘Prior’s Guide’ which I had in

my pocket.

When we commenced the ascent, which proved very easy--I believe we

went up the easiest way--the dark, slim young fellow somehow naturally

assumed the lead. Before we started he had discovered that I had

been to Switzerland and had done some climbs there, so he was very

modest about his own powers. A few seconds on the rocks dissipated all

doubt. With great confidence and speed, climbing cleanly and safely,

he soon showed he was no ordinary climber. I had been out with some

very tolerable Swiss guides, but never before with a man to whom

rock-climbing seemed so natural and easy. My curiosity was excited. He

could not be one of the great climbers, for he had never been out of

the British Islands, but he could climb.

On the top we found a small, rusty tin box, in which were a number of

visiting cards. One of these belonged to Mr. A. Evans, of Liverpool,

and a subsequent visitor had written on it the date of his death in the

central gully of Llewedd. One of us produced a card, on which the other

two wrote their names. The dark young fellow signed his name ‘O. G.

Jones.’ I wonder if that card is there still.

That afternoon and the following day he plied me with questions about

Switzerland. How did the climbing there compare with these rocks?

Had I climbed the Matterhorn? Did I think he could do it?--absurd

question--and so on. Restless, eagerly active, very strong,

good-tempered, enthusiastic, he was a man one could not forget. We

parted after a day’s acquaintance. I never dreamed I should see him

again.

His companion on that occasion was another South Kensington man, Dr.

Sumpner, now of Birmingham. The next time we met was at Jones’s grave

in Evolena. During our conversations at that first brief meeting I

learned that Jones was at South Kensington; he told me he first learned

serious climbing on Cader Idris; I marvelled at his wonderful grip

of the rocks, his steady head, his extraordinary power of balancing

himself on one foot in what seemed to me then almost impossible

positions, and I felt that his enthusiasm would soon lead him to the

Alps, if any opportunity offered. His heart was already there. Yet he

was so ignorant of the ‘lingo’ of the climbing world that my use of the

words ‘handholds’ and ‘footholds’ considerably amused him.

The following Easter he was again among the Lake Mountains, having

devoted the Whitsuntide and Christmas holidays of the preceding year

to his favourite pursuit, the last mentioned period being spent in

North Wales. I hurry over his climbing in the Lake District for the

very sufficient reason that in this volume, so characteristic of its

author, his work there is described by himself with all the accuracy

of a trained scientist, and with all the enthusiasm of an ardent

mountaineer. Descriptions of all these climbs were kept by him in

numerous small notebooks, full of neat shorthand with dates, proper

names, &c., written in, and with occasional pen and ink sketches of his

routes up crags and gullies to illustrate the shorthand notes. Full of

mournful interest are these touches of a vanished hand, these silent

echoes of a voice that is still.

It was, I believe, during this Easter of 1891 that he met Mr. Monro, to

whose enthusiasm he was subsequently wont to attribute his first visit

to the Alps, which took place in the autumn of that year. The result of

that meeting and the wonderful amount of climbing in ‘the playground

of Europe’ that Jones managed to cram into eight short years must be

reserved for another chapter.

CHAPTER II

_CONQUERING THE ALPS_

In the autumn of 1891 Owen Jones was an unsuccessful candidate for the

Professorship of Physics at University College, Aberystwyth, and almost

immediately afterwards he was the successful candidate for the post of

Physics Master in the City of London School, which he was occupying at

the time of his death. In the previous year, 1890, he had taken his

B.Sc. degree in London University, coming out third in the list of

First Class Honours in Experimental Physics. These facts are mentioned

here now, somewhat out of their proper chronological order, because,

with the exception of a few papers he contributed to magazines (the

_Alpine Journal_, the _Climber’s Journal_, and _Cassell’s Magazine_)

and sundry newspaper articles, they are the only facts that need be

mentioned in his otherwise uneventful, though busy, life.

Jones’ real life was lived among his beloved mountains. His devotion to

them was unsurpassable, his zeal was consuming, his enthusiasm knew no

bounds. In the summer holidays of 1891 he had his first introduction

to the Alps. His most original work was undoubtedly done among the

rocks of his native Wales and in the English Lake country, but he flung

himself into Alpine work with all the ardour and energy of which his

peculiarly ardent and energetic nature was capable. He spared neither

time, money, nor comfort in his devotion to the noblest and most

exacting of all sports--that of mountaineering.

The following table--very imperfect, I fear--compiled by his own hand

up to the close of 1897, and for 1898 and 1899, from letters kindly

sent to me by his friends, will give some idea of his marvellous

physical endurance and the extent of his knowledge of the Alps. His

own portion of the list was found in his handwriting in his copy of

Cunningham and Abney’s ‘Pioneers of the Alps’:--

1891 Dent des Bosses

Grande Dent de Veisivi

Pas de Chèvres

Col de Seilon

Col de Fénètre

M. Capucin

Tête de Cordon

Tête d’Ariondet

Grand Combin

Grivola

1892 Thälihorn

Rossbodenjoch

Matterhorn

[1]Mittaghorn and Egginerhorn

Punta di Fontanella

2 cols to Prerayen

Col d’Olen

Combin de Corbassière

Col de Boveire

Fénètre de Saleinaz

Col de Chardonnet

Pic du Tacul

M. Redessan

1893 Dent Blanche

(This was in April, 36

hours.) No summer

season in Alps.

1894 Piz Languard

Piz Morteratsch

Zwei Schwestern

Piz Bernina

Croda da Lago

Kleine Zinne

Grosse Zinne

M. Pelmo

M. Cristallo

Sorapis

Cinque Torri (3 ways)

1895 Rothhorn from Zermatt

Rothhorn from Zinal

Traverse Zinal to Zermatt

Riffelhorn from Glacier

Dom from Randa

Täschhorn and Dom (traversed from the Mischabeljoch to

Randa--first time by this route--in one day)

Monte Rosa

Rimpfischhorn (from Adler Pass)

Matterhorn (traverse)

Weisshorn

Obergabelhorn

Grand Cornier

Triftjoch

Furggenjoch

Lysjoch

Süd-Lenzspitze (traverse)

Nadelhorn

Hohberghorn

Steck-Nadelhorn (?)

1896 Little Dru

Blaitière

Col du Géant (twice)

Charmoz (traverse)

Aig. du Plan

Aig. du Midi

N. peak Périades (by the Arête du Capucin)

1897 Schreckhorn (in January)

Finsteraarhorn

Jungfrau

Aletschorn (traverse)

Beichgrat

Bietschhorn

1897 Lötschenlücke

Mönch

Mönchjoch

Eiger

Aig. d’Argentière

Aig. Moine (traverse)

Aig. Tacul (traverse)

Col du Midi

Portiengrat } In one day

Weissmies }

Fletschhorn } In one day

Laquinhorn }

1898 In winter: From Grindelwald to Rosenlaui by the

Wetterhorn-Sattel, Finsteraarjoch, and Strahlegg

Two Drus (attempted traverse)

Big Dru

Grèpon (traverse)

Dent de Requin

Aiguille du Chardonnet

Aiguille du Midi

Mont Maudit

Mont Blanc (traverse)

Aiguille du Géant

Two Drus (traverse)

Riffelhorn

Wellenkuppe and Gabelhorn

Lyskamm and Castor

Alphubel, Rimpfischhorn, and Strahlhorn

Allalinhorn

Dent Blanche by South Arête

Täschhorn by Teufelsgrat

Dom, Täschhorn, and Kienhorn, descending by Teufelsgrat

1899 Riffelhorn } In his

Pollux } first five days

Breithorn (traversed from Schwarzthor) } at Zermatt

Six chief points of Monte Rosa }

Matterhorn

Cols d’Hérens and Bertol

Petite Dent de Veisivi } In 12 hours

Grande ” } from Kurhaus

Dent Perroc } Hotel and back

Aig. de la Za (by face)

Aig. Rouges (traverse of all peaks)

Mt. Blanc de Seilon in one day

Dent des Bouquetins

Mt. Collon

Pigne d’Arolla

Dent Blanche (West Arête attempt)

I cannot pretend that this list is perfect, and the brief notes I

append are intended rather to give in a small space some of the

points of human interest in the above bald list of names than for his

mountaineering friends, to whom anything that could be printed here

could convey little or nothing that was new.

It is a coincidence that he commenced his acquaintance with the Alps

in the very valleys--Ferpècle and Arolla--in which he spent the last

days of his life, and down which his friends mournfully escorted his

body eight years later. It was on one of the Dents de Veisivi (the

Petite Dent) that, in 1898, Professor Hopkinson, one of Jones’ numerous

climbing friends, met his death with his two daughters and his son.

As we walked down the Arolla valley the day before he fell from the

Dent Blanche, Owen Jones was chatting, with a wonderful freshness of

recollection of detail, of his climb up the Grand Combin during his

first season in the Alps, and I believe the guide who led him up then

was one of the search party from Evolena who found his body on the

rocks of the Dent Blanche.

The earlier climbs of 1892 were described by him in a paper entitled

‘The Dom Grat and the Fletschhorn Ridge,’ which appeared in the _Alpine

Journal_ in 1898. A brief quotation from his own account will give some

idea of the easy vivacity of his style.

Speaking of the Saas peaks which ‘were designed in pairs,’ he writes:--

‘It is, perhaps, to our credit that we took an easy pair first--the

Mittaghorn and the Egginer--but our stay at Saas that year was to be

short, and we could not afford to fail at higher work. A couple of

Saas loafers undertook to guide us, but proved to be lamentably weak.

They shed tears and ice-axes, and required much help from us dismayed

amateurs. Then we left the district, and before my next visit my

comrades were scattered over the globe, beyond the seductive influence

of axe and rope.’

How characteristic of poor Jones the whole of that passage is! The

unconcealed evidence of his own great physical strength, the playful

sense of humour--his friends will remember how he used to explain his

own initials, O.G., as standing for the ‘Only Genuine Jones’--in the

words ‘they shed tears and ice-axes,’ and the touch of pathos, in the

light of after events, of the phrase ‘beyond the seductive influence of

axe and rope.’

The omission of the names of the Mittaghorn and Egginerhorn from

Jones’s own list in 1892 shows that even his own record cannot be

regarded as complete, a thing not to be wondered at considering the

enormous amount of work he did.

It will be noticed that in this year, as in the year before and in

1894, Jones has entered the names of peaks and passes that in the

succeeding years he would have considered quite unworthy of serious

notice.

But next year he ventured on a feat that, so far as I know, was not

only extraordinary for one with comparatively so little experience

of the higher Alps, magnificent climber though he was, but it has

remained, I believe, unique in the annals of the great mountain on

which it was performed. At Easter, 1893, Jones climbed the Dent

Blanche, the mountain with which his name will be for ever associated

in the climbing world. The ascent was made on the 25th and 26th April,

and the expedition took thirty-six hours, a wonderful feat of strength

and endurance. M. Adrien Spahr, the landlord of the Hotel de la Dent

Blanche at Evolena, and of the new Kurhaus at Arolla (from which Jones

started the day before his last, fatal climb), has kindly favoured me

with the following brief note in reference to that expedition:--

‘C’est bien le 25 Avril, 1893, que Monsieur Jones a fait

l’ascension de la Dent Blanche avec les guides Pierre Gaspoz et

Antoine Bovier père d’Evolène. Je suis redescendu moi-même avec lui

depuis Evolène à Sion.’

In an interview which appeared in the press in 1894 Jones said of this

climb, one of the most difficult things he ever did:--‘The longest

day I ever had afoot was at Easter, ’93, doing the Dent Blanche. We

took two guides and a porter, and had great difficulty in getting

them to attempt the last two hundred feet. We were out in the open

for thirty-six hours, with very short rests, no sleep, and excessive

labour, but we revelled in every minute of it. The mountain was in a

dangerous condition, and the last five hours on the way home we spent

in wading, waist-deep, through soft snow. It was rather painful, of

course, but there was a certain pleasure even in our pain, for it

helped to make philosophers of us. We agreed to think of other things

in the midst of our sufferings, and we succeeded creditably well. I

believe now that I could stand almost anything in the way of pain or

exposure.’

In 1894 he commenced in the Engadine and then went on to the Dolomites,

where his great skill as a cragsman and his familiarity with all

sorts of rock-work made him much more at home than he yet was among

the snow-peaks, as his list shows. On rocks I think it is not using

the exaggerated language of friendship to say that he probably had

no superior among his countrymen at the time of his death, and

comparatively few equals. Among the great snow-peaks he had not

attained so high a level. Had he lived he would, I believe, have ranked

with the greatest, for he had not done all he was capable of; and when

he met his death he was still in his prime, and he was a man of great

courage, immense resourcefulness, and phenomenal physical endurance.

In 1895 he devoted himself largely to the reduction of the great peaks

in the Zermatt district, some of which he already knew. In that year

also he returned to the Dom Grat and the Fletschhorn Ridge, whose

acquaintance he had made in 1892. The following passage from the

_Alpine Journal_ derives an added interest from the fact that Elias

Furrer was his guide then, as he was his guide on the last, fatal

climb:--

‘In August, 1895, Elias Furrer took me from the Täsch Alp to the

Mischabeljoch, and thence over the Täschhorn and Dom to Randa, a course

of seventeen and a half hours, including halts. Shortly afterwards

Mr. W. E. Davidson followed our route from the Mischabeljoch. During

the same week Furrer showed me a third pair of the Saas peaks. We

bivouacked on the Eggfluh rocks one bitterly cold night, and next day

traversed the Südlenspitze and Nadelhorn. The usual _grande course_

is to include the Ulrichshorn, and descend to Saas again; but Furrer

had business and I fresh raiment at Zermatt, and we hastened over the

Stecknadelhorn (or was it the Hohberghorn?), and thence by the Hohberg

Pass and Festi glacier down to Randa in fourteen hours from the start.’

His energy in climbing this year was remarkable, I had almost said

stupendous. In addition to the long climbs referred to in the

above extract, it will be seen from the list given above that he

twice ascended the Zinal Rothhorn, traversed the Obergabelhorn and

Matterhorn, and did two important climbs without guides. The ascent

of the Rothhorn from Zinal was the first that Mr. Hill and he made

together in Switzerland. The traverse of the Rothhorn and the ascent of

the Weisshorn he did without guides, in company with the Hopkinsons,

who perished in 1898 on the Petite Dent de Veisivi. Mr. W. J. Williams,

who climbed much with Jones in the Alps, has kindly placed in my hands

a very characteristic post-card of Jones’s, giving, in his own brief,

vivacious way, a clearer idea of his boundless enthusiasm and energy

in his favourite sport than anything that anyone else could write.

It is dated ‘Bellevue, Zermatt, Monday, Sept. 2, 1895,’ and reads as

follows:--‘The Hopkinsons and I traversed the Rothhorn without guides

in grand style. Reached the summit from the Mountet in 4¼ hours,

including ¾ hour halt. Had a shock of earthquake on the top. Next day

we went up to the Weisshorn, bivouac in open air, and the day after

managed the Weisshorn. It was delightful. Then they went off to their

people at the Bel Alp, and I stayed on at Zermatt ever since. The

weather was bad at the end of the week (Weisshorn on Friday), but on

Monday I crossed the Furggenjoch with Elias Furrer, whom I took on for

14 days at 20 francs, and Tuesday traversed the Matterhorn; Wednesday,

the Monte Rosa hut; Thursday, Monte Rosa from the Lysjoch, a lengthy

expedition, but magnificent; I carried my camera the whole time;

Friday, the Fluh Alp; Saturday, the traverse of Rimpfischhorn from the

Adler pass, dangerous by falling stones, but very jolly; Sunday, I

rested and photographed down here. To-day I go to the Täsch Alp, and

to-morrow shall attempt the traverse of Täschhorn and Dom in one day.

If the weather still holds I shall then traverse the Dent Blanche,

which is now in fine condition, like ourselves. Love to all.--Owen.’

Lived there ever a keener mountaineer? On the day before he was killed,

as we were walking down the Arolla Valley together, I expressed

surprise at the vast amount of eager work he was crushing into every

week. He replied, ‘You see there are only a few years in which I can do

this sort of thing, and I want to get as much into them as possible.’

Alas! Owen Jones had not twenty-four hours more; the years were ended.

The season of 1896 was a terribly bad one and Jones suffered with

less energetic and less daring mortals. In the _Alpine Journal_ he

laments that he only did six peaks, but he crossed the Col du Géant

twice, traversed the Aiguille de Charmoz, and did the North peak of

the Périades by the Arête du Capucin. And the disappointments of

that summer season had the effect of sending him to the Alps in the

following winter--his first winter visit. He deserted his favourite

Christmas hunting grounds, Wastdale Head Inn and Pen-y-gwrwd, for the

Bear Hotel at Grindelwald. It so happened that I was there when he

arrived. On the last day of 1896 I had made an unsuccessful attempt on

the Schreckhorn after being out fourteen and a half hours, and after

an accident to the leading guide, which confined him to bed for three

weeks. I returned to Grindelwald and thence to England. Jones, who had

just come out, determined to climb the Sehreckhorn. The first attempt

failed, as the snow was in very bad condition, and he only got as far

as the hut, where he spent a far from comfortable night. A few days

later, however, he made a second attempt with successful results.

Both in print and in manuscript he has left an account of the two

expeditions. I quote a short passage--it has not too close a relation

to the climbs, but it illustrates the playful humour which made Jones

so charming and vivacious a companion, alike in an alpine hut or in the

smoke room of ‘P.Y.G.’

‘I approach for a moment with some delicacy the threadbare topic of

the insect population of alpine huts, the fauna of the alpine bed. In

summertime the traveller must not assume that the straw on which he

lies is more dead than alive. Carelessness in this respect may cost him

his peak next day; he should bring Keating and use it liberally. But

in winter he is almost safe and unmolested. Some say that the fleas

go down to the valley with the last autumn party, and come up in the

early summer with the first tourists. Others think that they hibernate

in the warmest corners of the hut and make it a rule to emerge only

when it is well worth while. An occasional winter tourist is probably

too tough, his attractions too few. The solution of the problem I must

leave to others. It will probably be offered by some conscientious

German biologist, in an exhaustive illustrated monograph, published in

the Mittheilungen.’

The autumn holidays of this year were again very busy ones. Jones spent

them in the Alps, and, as his list shows, his climbs included the

traverse of the Aletschhorn, Aiguille du Moine, and Pic du Tacul. He

did the Portiengrat and Weissmies in one day, and the Fletschhorn and

Laquinhorn in another. Young Emil Imseng was his guide, and he found

Jones rather too hungry for peaks to be the easiest sort of patron to

travel with. When they had done the Portiengrat he had had enough for

one day, so he suggested that Jones should rest. But he did not know

his ‘Herr;’ the Weissmies was taken that day likewise.

In 1898 Jones again paid a winter visit to the Alps. Grindelwald was

a second time his centre. He crossed from there to Rosenlaui by the

Wetterhorn-Sattel, and crossed the Finsteraarjoch and the Strahlegg.

In the Summer of 1898 he went first to Chamounix, and afterwards

to Zermatt, and got through a portentous amount of work. He began

by attempting the traverse of the two Drus, but failed owing to

bad weather. However, he climbed the Grand Dru, and then in rapid

succession the Grépon, Dent du Requin, Aiguille du Chardonnet, Aiguille

du Midi, Mont Maudit, traversed Mont Blanc, climbed the Aiguille du

Géant, and finished up in that district by accomplishing his formerly

thwarted purpose, and traversing both the Grand and the Petit Dru.

Then he came on to Zermatt. He climbed the Riffelhorn again (by

the Matterhorn Couloir), did the two peaks of the Lyskamm (in

conversation with me the last time I met him he seemed to think this

the most difficult thing he had ever done) and Castor, Strahlhorn and

Rimpfischhorn, Wellen Kuppe and Gabelhorn, Allalinhorn and Alphubel,

Dent Blanche (by the south arête), the Täschhorn by the Teufelsgrat,

and the traverse of the Dom, Täschhorn and Kienhorn.

I was standing outside the Monte Rosa Hotel, in the main street of

Zermatt, one bright sunny day, that summer, when early in the afternoon

Jones, with his two guides, came in from one of these climbs. He had

been frequently doing two peaks in one day (I believe he had once done

three). All the party showed signs of wear and tear, but Jones was the

freshest of the three. His face and hands were as brown as berries,

covered with dust and sweat; his clothes were literally in rags, torn

to pieces on the rocks. Yet in a few minutes he had washed, changed

into the garb of civilization, and reappeared as fresh in body and as

vigorous and vivacious intellectually as if he had undergone no fatigue

at all. Twenty hours’ physical work did not appear to take as much out

of him as five hours does out of humbler mortals.

It was just about this time that his friends the Hopkinsons were killed

in the Arolla Valley. Jones was a good deal upset by the news, and

knocked off climbing for a couple of days, a wonderful thing for him;

but then he resumed as busily as ever. Of the climbing skill both of

Dr. Hopkinson and of his young son, who was killed with him, he spoke

in the highest terms. He had frequently climbed with both.

I have said little of Jones’s British climbs, for the simple reason

that the fullest and best record of his work in Lakeland is contained

in the book to which this brief memoir is prefixed, and his work in

Wales (which he also intended to describe in a volume) is not so easily

accessible or so fully recorded in any published documents as is his

work in the Alps. Apparently there does not exist among his papers any

list of his Welsh climbs, though he kept voluminous shorthand notes of

almost everything he did in the climbing world; but it is not possible,

in the short space and time at my disposal, to attempt to give from

them any complete picture of the work he did in Wales. The Messrs.

Abraham, however, have kindly placed in my hands the following brief

notes of some of the most remarkable experiences they have had in

company with Jones, both in Wales and in the Lake District:

‘Two climbs with Mr. Jones are most strongly impressed on our memories,

and these two would probably rank as the two finest rock climbs made in

our district.

‘These are Scawfell Pinnacle from the second pitch in Deep Ghyll in

1896, and the conquest of the well-known Walker’s Gully on the Pillar

Rock in January, 1899.

‘Both of these were generally considered impossible, and it is probably

no exaggeration to say that no leader excepting Mr. Jones would have

had confidence to advance beyond the ledge where the last _arête_

commenced on the Scawfell Pinnacle climb.

‘The same thing might be still more emphatically said of the last

pitch in Walker’s Gully, and to those who know the place it is almost

incredible that the climb could even be commenced under such conditions

as prevailed during the first ascent.

‘We visited North Wales with Mr. Jones in 1897, and explored the climbs

in the Cader Idris district. The finest climb in this district is the

Great Gully above Llyn-y-Cae on Mynydd Pencoed, and Mr. Jones was the

first explorer and climber of this and most of the Cader Idris climbs.

Some time was also spent at Penygwryd during this visit, but unsuitable

weather prevented any climbs of importance being done.

‘Shortly after Easter, 1899, Mr. Jones paid his next visit to North

Wales, and on this occasion much new and first-class climbing was done

from Ogwen Cottage as centre.

‘The second ascent of Twll Du was made by a party led by Mr. Jones, and

shortly afterwards the two great gullies to the right of Twll Du were

first ascended under Mr. Jones’ leadership. Amongst several minor first

ascents the gully in the Eastern Buttress of Glyder Fach and the first

direct ascent of the Northern Buttress on Tryfaen from Cwm-y-Tryfaen

are most worthy of note.

‘The following Whitsuntide again saw Mr. Jones at Ogwen Cottage,

but the weather conditions were such as to prevent any very notable

climbing being recorded.

‘Of course it is impossible to give in the space at my disposal any

idea of the large amount of climbing done in these various districts by

Mr. Jones.

‘To one with his abnormal physical powers, and true love and enthusiasm

for the mountains the most was generally made of every opportunity to

climb.

‘He was never so happy as when in a really ‘tight’ place, and to

many climbers the spirit and energy shown by him under most trying

circumstances will act as an incentive to worthy imitation.

‘As a climber he was unique, and many years must elapse ere another

can hope to fill his place worthily; but, as a friend under all

circumstances, he was always to be depended upon, for the weakest and

heaviest members in every party were generally his special care, and

many can never forget his true unselfishness and the kindly way in

which personal blunders were criticised.

‘Whether the party was struggling up a waterfall or resting shivering

and wet under a huge chock-stone, or clinging desperately to a

wind-swept ridge or icy couloir, everyone felt happy with Jones as

their comforter and leader.

‘The musical gatherings in the evenings seem now to lack one voice,

and nought but sadness can be left for many of those who remember

companionships which can never be replaced.’

CHAPTER III

_THE LAST SEASON IN THE ALPS_

I come now to the last season in the Alps, the season of 1899. The

first part of his holiday was spent at Zermatt, and then he and Hill

met by arrangement at the Kurhaus at Arolla. They soon got to work,

beginning with the two Dents de Veisivi (the scene of the accident to

the Hopkinsons the previous year) and the Dent Perroc, in twelve hours

from the Kurhaus and back. Then followed the Aiguille de la Za by the

face, a traverse of all the peaks of the Aiguilles Rouges, Mont Blanc

de Seilon and the Pigne d’Arolla in one day, the Dent des Bouquetins,

and the traverse of Mont Collon. A slight accident to one of the party

of which I was a member, necessitated an unexpected descent on the

evening of August 26th to Arolla, in the hope of finding a doctor.

There was none there, but we found many friends and acquaintances,

among them being Owen Jones. On the morning of Sunday 27th, our party

left for Evolena just after breakfast, as we heard there was a German

doctor there, and we wanted our wounded member attended to without

delay. Just as we were starting we found Jones and Hill leaving also,

intending to traverse the Dent Blanche, climbing it by the west arête,

which had only been done twice before, and we all hoped shortly to meet

again in Zermatt.

It was a bright sunny morning, hot and dusty. For a good part of the

way from Arolla to Haudères I chatted to Jones. We did not go very

fast on account of the damaged member of our party, about whom Jones

was very solicitous. He himself seemed very fit, and was full of life

and enthusiasm for his favourite passion. He chatted freely of all

his climbs, of our first meeting nine years before, of all that had

happened since, of frostbite on the Dom, and the remedy--sticking his

fingers into boiling glue--worse than the disease. His traverse of the

ice arête between the two peaks of the Lyskamm and his Easter ascent of

the Dent Blanche seemed to me to have made the deepest impression on

him of all his achievements in the mountains. He was rather inclined

to underrate his wonderful rock-work in North Wales and in the Lake

District, a department in which, in my opinion, he was really greatest,

though his feats of endurance in the Alps were something off the

common. He told me that his ambitions inclined towards a tour in the

Himalayas, if circumstances allowed of his realising that dream.

At Haudères we parted company. Hill and Jones, with their guides, who

met them at Haudères, turned up to Ferpècle; we went on to Evolena. If

my friend’s health permitted, I had arranged to see Jones in Zermatt on

Tuesday afternoon. Difficult as was the expedition he was undertaking,

the awful reality of the morrow never crossed my mind even as a

possibility. A stronger or more well-equipped party I had never seen

start on an expedition. It was about 12-30 when we all said good-bye.

At Evolena the doctor ordered our invalid a day or two of complete

rest. So on Monday morning the third member of our party, with his

guide, started for the Col de la Meina to return to his wife, whom he

had left in the Val des Bagnes, from which we had come. For the sake

of the walk I accompanied them to the top of the Col. About 9-15, just

before we lost sight of the west arête of the Dent Blanche, I searched

the arête with my field glasses to see if any trace of Jones and

Hill’s party could be detected. None of us could see anything, so we

concluded, as the mountain was in very good condition, that they had

probably already got to the top, and were then descending by the south

arête. But they were still on the arête, though we failed to see them

on the dark rocks. Had it been three-quarters of an hour later we might

actually have been witnesses of the accident.

On the top of the Col de la Meina we were caught by a storm of mist and

rain, blowing up from the west. I bade adieu to my friends and hastened

back to Evolena. That was the mist which caught Mr. Hill on the

gendarme in his descent after the accident and detained him 22 hours

alone on the great mountain.

But of the accident no one dreamed. No premonition, no presentiment,

troubled our thoughts. Monday and Tuesday passed quietly and

uneventfully for us.

On Wednesday morning my friend got permission from his doctor to walk

up to Arolla for lunch. We gladly availed ourselves of the new freedom.

At Arolla we found many of Jones’s friends hoping to meet him shortly

in the Zermatt Valley. On our way back to Evolena we passed the body

of the Tiroler guide, Reinstadler, of Sulden, which was being carried

down the valley. He had been killed on Monday, August 28th--that black

and fatal day in the Evolena Valley--by falling into a crevasse on the

Pigne d’Arolla.

As we re-entered the garden of our hotel, M. Spahr met us looking very

grave. ‘Had we heard of the great accident on the Dent Blanche?’ For

the first time the thought of danger to Jones and Hill crossed my mind.

I quickly asked him for details, telling him why I was apprehensive.

He had had a telegram from Dr. Seiler from Zermatt, which he showed

me. It was in French and ran something like this: ‘A tourist and

three guides have fallen from the Dent Blanche. A caravan of guides

is starting from Zermatt to look for the bodies, which will reach

Haudères about six o’clock to-morrow evening. Have four coffins ready

at Haudères. I am coming round myself.--SEILER.’

Four bodies! This could not be Jones and Hill’s party, there would

be five or three, for they had intended to make the ascent on two

ropes, three and two respectively on each. If all five had been roped

together, one could not have been saved. My mind grew easier. So we

reason when we do not know.

But I could not avoid thinking of the awful accident, and as I thought

my fears returned. No other party had left the Evolena Valley for the

Dent Blanche that week. The bodies had fallen on the Evolena side. It

was improbable they had climbed from the Zermatt side. Could it be that

the fifth body had not been seen? One climber and three guides was a

most unusual party? I grew uneasy again, and finally telegraphed to Dr.

Seiler: ‘Have Messrs. Jones and Hill arrived?’

While we were waiting for dinner and a reply, a voice hailed me by name

out of the gathering gloom. It was that of Mr. Harold Spender, who had

just driven up the valley with his sister and a younger brother, Mr.

Hugh Spender. We exchanged greetings and discussed the accident. I told

them what I feared.

We were sitting in the balcony outside the hotel in the summer darkness

when a villager put a yellow telegraph envelope in my hand. I hastily

tore it open, and this is what I read: ‘M. Hill arrived safely this

morning, but Jones and three guides fell an hour and a half from the

top on Monday morning.--SEILER.’

Owen Glynne Jones was dead. My mind almost reeled at the fact.

Intellectually I knew it must be so, but I was utterly unable to

realise it. I could almost hear the sound of his voice and the rattle

of the nails of his dusty boots on the stones that last Sunday morning.

But his voice was stilled for ever.

And Hill! He had escaped, but how? Where had he been since Monday

morning? Out on the mountain alone, without guides, or food, or drink.

The thing was incredible, impossible. But the impossible and the

incredible was true.

At eleven o’clock fifteen guides and Mr. Harold Spender started as a

search party. My injured friend and myself went with them as far as we

could. The little village was already in darkness, swathed in sorrow.

For the telegram that brought me news of Jones’ death announced the

death of a village guide too.

In the chapel only lights burned. It was the vigil round the body of

Reinstadler. Silently and sadly we tramped up the valley along the

carriage road to Haudères. Then in single file, like an army on a night

march, we marched up the steep and narrow path to Ferpècle. Far below

us, on our right, the torrent roared. We picked precarious steps by the

light of our lanterns and the aid of our axes. We talked little and in

muffled tones.

We reached Ferpècle about 1.30 a.m. on Thursday. The hamlet was asleep.

The guides broke eight huge poles out of the fences of the fields and

from the outbuildings. Grim duty! The poles were to make four rude

biers on which to carry the bodies down.

Between 3 and 4 a.m. we gained the Bricolla Alp, where Jones and

Hill had slept the night before the fatal climb. The kindly shepherd

provided us with milk and a fire--it was now very cold--and we produced

provisions from our rücksacks and had a much-needed meal. It was a

curious sight--the little stone hut, a big wood fire blazing in a hole

in the floor, pails of milk all round the walls on shelves, a circle

of rough weather-beaten men, their faces lighted by the flickering

flames and by the uncertain light of one or two of our lanterns.

Rembrandtesque--and profoundly sad.

A little after four we went out. The grey dawn was just breaking, but

a cold, thick, clammy white mist had swept down on the alp and chilled

us to the bone. At the top of the moraine my friend and I had to turn

back. We should only have been a hindrance had we gone on, as both of

us were damaged. Spender and the guides went forward. Let Mr. Spender

describe the rest.

‘At four the column resumed its way. Rain had begun to fall and a dense

mist was closing down upon us. But it was soon light enough to put out

our lanterns, and courage came with the dawn. We rounded the alp, and

then began to climb the long, dreary moraines which lead up to the

glacier. The guides went at a terrific pace. But it was good to be

taken into this noble fraternity--to be accepted as a comrade and not

as a “climber”--to be honoured by a share in the generous quest.

‘But the pace soon slackened. We halted on the edge of the glacier,

roped in fours, and began to search gingerly for a way through the

terrific ice-fall of the glacier. We were mounting by the old approach

to the Dent Blanche, up the ice-fall, now long since abandoned. The

glacier was, of course, quite changed since any of these guides had

last visited it. The ice was split and rent into every conceivable

shape. We were surrounded with leaning towers of ice, threatening at

any moment to fall on us and crush us.

‘A great pile of seracs on the Northern ice-fall, across the ridge,

fell with a mighty crash. Away to the right we could hear the thunder

of avalanches. But never for a moment did the guides hesitate. Steadily

and unflinchingly they threaded their way between the menacing seracs.

Crossing broken fragments of ice, balancing between profound crevasses,

not thwarted but ever searching for a way. At last we suddenly struck

upon the tracks of Jones’ party away to the North side of the glacier

close to the rocks. There we scrambled up, half by the rocks and half

by the ice, and then at last, after many hours, found ourselves on the

great plateau beneath the long snow couloir running down from the West

Ridge. There, if anywhere, they were likely to be. And there, high up

among the rocks, we could just see, with the aid of a good telescope,

some dark objects which were not rocks.

‘“There are our friends,” said the guides.

‘Yes, there was no doubt of it. It was now ten o’clock and the sky had

cleared. A party was formed, and mounted the rocks to fetch the bodies.

As they climbed, suddenly another army of men appeared below us, above

the ice-fall, advancing swiftly. They were the party of the Zermatt

Guides. They came on unroped, climbing fast. It was a magnificent sight

to see this troop of giants in their own element, a troop of equals,

masters of peril. They halted below the rocks and sent up another small

band to join the Evolena Guides. There was a long pause, and then they

all began to descend, bringing the bodies.

‘I will draw a veil over what we found. Men cannot fall many thousands

of feet and lie in artistic attitudes.... But it was four o’clock

before the Bricolla hut was reached, and darkness had fallen before the

bodies came to Haudères. The Zermatt Guides were out for twenty-four

hours, and the Evolena Guides over twenty.’

Mr. W. R. Rickmers, a German resident in England, and a member of the

Alpine Club, sends the following to the _Alpine Journal_:--

‘Mr. Seiler sent out thirty guides under Alois Supersaxo. Dr. R. Leuk,

Mr. K. Mayr, and Mr. W. R. Rickmers joined them. We left the Staffelalp

at 10 p.m. on August 30th, reached the Col d’Hérens at 6 a.m. on the

31st, in fog and snow, which cleared away later on. Descended Ferpècle

Glacier towards termination of W. ridge of Dent Blanche, and ascended

the small glacier which comes down from point 3,912 on the S. _arête_.

At the spot under the “g” in “Rocs rouges” this glacier forms an

icefall (moderately difficult), and besides that a bit of the Glacier

de la Dent Blanche hangs over the narrowest part of the W. ridge. We

then came to the foot of a great gully. On the map it is the first one

from W., and it is very clearly indicated. In the rocks to the right

of the couloir (looking down) and about three hundred feet above the

rim of the glacier, the bodies were found. It was about 10 a.m., and a

party of Evolena guides, accompanied by Mr. Harold Spender, was already

on the spot.

‘The height above sea-level was ca. 3,600-3,700 m. Straight above, on

the ridge, one saw a smooth cliff (ca. 400-500 feet below summit),

and if that was the fatal _mauvais pas_ the fall must have been about

1,500-1,700 feet in a series of clear drops of many hundred feet. The

rope was intact between Furrer and Zurbriggen.

‘The guides did their work well; the icefall, of course, caused a great

deal of trouble.’

While the search party was crossing the glacier and the snow-fields, I

watched them through my glasses. Presently the sun got the better of

the morning mist, and the pure white snow gleamed beautifully. Then

from the Col d’Hérens there swept a tiny, serpentine black line,

moving fast. It was men. I turned my glasses on them. They were the

Zermatt party, some thirty strong, advancing at a rare pace. It was a

beautiful sight, so masterful, so sure was their progress.

As the long, hot hours of mid-day passed, I descended to Ferpècle, and

sent up a boy with food and drink for the certainly wearied searchers

when they returned from their sad duties. At length they came, drawing

the bodies over the grass slopes till they reached a path where they

could be carried on their shoulders. Darkness had fallen when we

reached Haudères.

Late on Friday night Mr. Hill came round for the funeral. His voice

seemed to me strangely altered. Otherwise he had come through his

terrible experience wonderfully, thanks to a splendid constitution and

nerves of steel. Then first I heard the true story of the accident.

I reproduce his own account from the _Alpine Journal_. All had roped

together early in the climb, and the accident took place about ten

o’clock. Mr. Hill says:--

‘When I reached the level of the others, Furrer was attempting to climb

the buttress, but, finding no holds, he called to Zurbriggen to hold an

axe for him to stand on. Apparently he did not feel safe, for he turned

his head and spoke to Jones, who then went to hold the axe steady.

Thus we were all on the same level, Vuignier being some twenty-five

or thirty feet distant from them and also from me. Standing on the

axe, which was now quite firm, Furrer could reach the top of the

buttress, and attempted to pull himself up; but the fingerholds were

insufficient, and before his foot had left the axe his hands slipped,

and he fell backwards on to Zurbriggen and Jones, knocking them both

off, and all three fell together. I turned to the wall to get a better

hold, and did not see Vuignier pulled off, but heard him go, and knew

that my turn would soon come. And when it did not I looked round, and

saw my four companions sliding down the slope at a terrific rate, and

thirty feet of rope swinging slowly down below me.

‘It is difficult to analyse my sensations at that moment. My main

feeling was one of astonishment that I was still there. I can only

suppose that Vuignier had belayed my rope securely to protect himself

and me during our long wait on the traverse.

‘It must be admitted that Furrer did not choose the best route; but

his choice is easy enough to understand, for the only alternative

did not look inviting. At all events, it is certain that he acted

on his own initiative. I say this reluctantly, and solely for the

purpose of contradicting a statement I have read in an account of the

accident--that he was induced by Jones to climb straight over the

gendarme instead of going round it. It is a pity that historians, who

must of necessity be ignorant of the facts, should go out of their way

to make such conjectures.

‘The problem before me was a difficult one. It was quite impossible to

climb down alone, and I could not expect to succeed where guides had

failed; the only course open was to attempt to turn the gendarme on

the right. This I succeeded in doing with great difficulty, owing to

the ice on the rocks and the necessity of cutting up an ice slope in

order to reach the ridge. In about another hour I gained the summit,

and was greeted with a faint cooey, probably from the party we had

seen. I could not see them nor make them hear, so made my way down

with all reasonable speed, hoping to overtake them. When I reached the

lowest gendarme--the one with a deep narrow fissure--a sudden mist

hid everything from view. It was impossible to see the way off; and

while I was trying various routes a snowstorm and cold wind drove me

to seek shelter on the lee-side of the rocks. There, tied on with my

rope, and still further secured by an ice-axe wedged firmly in front

of me, I was forced to remain until mid-day on Tuesday. Then the mist

cleared, and, climbing very carefully down the snow-covered rocks I

reached the snow arête, where most of the steps had to be re-cut. The

next serious difficulty was the lower part of the Wandfluh; I could not

remember the way off, and spent two or three hours in futile efforts

before I found a series of chimneys on the extreme right, leading down

to the glacier. The sun set when I was on the high bank of moraine on

the Zmutt Glacier, and in the growing darkness it was far from easy to

keep the path. The light in the Staffel Alp inn was a guide as long as

it lasted, but it went out early, and, keeping too low down, I passed

the inn without seeing it, and being forced to stop by the nature of

the ground, spent the night by the side of the torrent. It was late in

the morning when I awoke, and then a scramble of a few minutes brought

me to the path, near the sign-post, and I reached Zermatt at half-past

eleven.’

Mr. Hill’s escape is one of the most wonderful in the history of

mountaineering. His endurance and courage are not less remarkable. To

have been out alone, in bad weather, without anything to eat save five

raisins, and with nothing to drink but ice and snow, on a difficult and

dangerous mountain, and to have returned safely is, I believe, a record

in climbing annals. I may add a few details, given me by Mr. Hill when

I first met him after the accident, which he has not reproduced in the

above narrative.

He thinks his companions were killed instantaneously. They uttered no

sound; they made no apparent attempt to save themselves. With arms

outspread they rolled helplessly down the awful face of the mountain.

He watched them for a few seconds, powerless to help, if help would

indeed have availed, and then turned from the sickening sight.

During the last part of his descent, even his great strength began to

fail. Once, on the Wandfluh, he lost his axe and had to spend an hour

in climbing down to recover it, as it was absolutely essential to his

safety. After he left the Zmutt glacier in darkness, he appears to have

become delirious. He was constantly talking to imaginary companions.

He fell into holes in the ground and went to sleep without strength to

rise. He wakened from cold, called to his companions to go on as it was

time to be leaving, stumbled, and fell asleep again.

On Saturday morning Dr. Sumpner arrived, having travelled straight

through from Birmingham to Evolena. Friends tramped down from Arolla,

others had come from Zermatt, the secretary of Jones’s section of the

Swiss Alpine Club came from near Neuchâtel. A carriage bore Jones’s

plain black coffin, with a gilt cross on it, down from Haudères. We

buried him and the Evolena guide, Vuignier, in the little graveyard

of the Roman Catholic church, almost in sight of the glorious, but

terrible, mountain on which they met their fate. The scene in the

village almost baffles description. All the villagers, men and women,

attended the funeral, clad in coarse white robes. The grief of the

women, especially of Vuignier’s poor old mother, was heart-rending to

witness. The little Roman Catholic chapel was crowded, the congregation

all in white, save the acolytes, two village boys, who served the altar

in their coarse brown, everyday clothes, and the choir, whose strong

voices rang through the whitewashed, humble building. A little knot

of Englishmen, sunbrowned, of another faith or of no faith at all,

joined in the impressive and solemn service. It was a sight that no one

present can ever forget.

After the service, we bore the two coffins to the graveyard. Rev. Mr.

Scott, the Anglican chaplain, read the English burial service over

Owen Jones’s grave. Mr. Hill sent a beautiful wreath of edelweiss and

the foliage of the Alpine rose. A rude wooden cross marked the spot

till Jones’s friends erected a suitable gravestone. The lovely warm

sunshine and the bright blue sky, and the gleaming snows on the slopes

of the Dent Blanche, formed a curious contrast to the mourning of the

village in that Alpine valley.

Thus perished, as he would, I doubt not, like to have died, Owen Glynne

Jones, a brave and dashing mountaineer, a cheery and kindly friend,

whose presence will be long missed by all who had the privilege of

knowing him. His death was due to a pure accident, occurring when he

was in the plenitude of his powers, and when he seemed just about to

reap the reward of long years of patient, ardent toil.

W. M. CROOK.

CONTENTS

PAGE

MEMOIR OF OWEN GLYNNE JONES vii

CHAP.

I. PIKE’S CRAG 1

II. DEEP GHYLL, GREAT CHIMNEY AND PROFESSOR’S

CHIMNEY 12

III. THE RAKE’S PROGRESS AND CERTAIN SHORT CLIMBS

NEAR IT 29

IV. MOSS GHYLL, COLLIER’S CLIMB, AND KESWICK

BROTHERS’ CLIMB 43

V. SCAWFELL PINNACLE 69

VI. GREAT END AND ITS GULLIES 89

VII. GREAT GABLE, THE ENNERDALE FACE, AND THE

OBLIQUE CHIMNEY 114

VIII. THE ENNERDALE CENTRAL GULLY AND TWO LITTLE

CHIMNEYS 134

IX. THE GREAT NAPES AND ITS GULLIES 146

X. THE RIDGES OF THE GREAT NAPES 153

XI. THE GABLE NEEDLE 168

XII. KERN KNOTTS 175

XIII. THE WASTWATER SCREES 190

XIV. PAVEY ARK 208

XV. DOE CRAG, CONISTON 219

XVI. COMBE GHYLL 237

XVII. THE PILLAR ROCK 254

XVIII. NOTES ON REMAINING CLIMBS 285

APPENDIX I. 295

APPENDIX II.--

CHAP.

I. THE PILLAR ROCK AND ITS PURLIEUS UP TO DATE 317

II. NEW CLIMBS ON GREAT GABLE, SCAWFELL, AND

AROUND WASTDALE HEAD 332

III. THE BUTTERMERE CLIMBS, AND THOSE IN OUTLYING

DISTRICTS 344

IV. RECENT CLIMBS AROUND LANGDALE, AND DOE

CRAG 358

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PORTRAIT OF OWEN GLYNNE JONES _Frontispiece_

THE PIKE’S CRAG GULLIES _To face page_ 6

DEEP GHYLL, FIRST PITCH ” 12

SCAWFELL PINNACLE AND THE PROFESSOR’S

CHIMNEY ” 20

SCAWFELL CRAGS FROM THE PULPIT ROCK ” 26

THE ASCENT OF THE BROAD STAND ” 30

THE PENRITH CLIMB FROM MICKLEDORE ” 40

COLLIER’S CHIMNEY, MOSS GHYLL ” 51

KESWICK BROTHERS’ CLIMB ” 66

ATTITUDES ON SCAWFELL PINNACLE ” 69

SCAWFELL PINNACLE AND DEEP GHYLL ” 73

THE LAST HUNDRED FEET ON THE SCAWFELL

PINNACLE ” 76

ASCENT OF SCAWFELL PINNACLE FROM DEEP GHYLL ” 83

THE GREAT END GULLIES, SEEN FROM SPRINKLING

TARN ” 90

TOP OF THE CENTRAL GULLY IN WINTER, GREAT

END ” 99

WASTDALE AND GREAT GABLE ” 114

ENNERDALE FACE OF GREAT GABLE ” 127

GREAT GABLE FROM LINGMELL ” 146

THE RIDGES OF THE GREAT NAPES ” 153

THE UPPER PART OF THE NEEDLE RIDGE ” 156

THE GABLE NEEDLE ” 168

KERN KNOTTS CHIMNEY ” 178

KERN KNOTTS CRACK ” 184

THE SCREES AND WASTWATER ” 191

THE PAVEY ARK GULLIES FROM STICKLE TARN ” 208

DOE CRAG AND GOATSWATER ” 220

FIRST PITCH IN DOE CRAG, GREAT GULLY ” 225

THE EAST FACE OF THE PILLAR ROCK (viewed

from the Shamrock) ” 257

ROUND THE NOTCH, PILLAR ROCK, EAST SIDE ” 267

THE NORTH FACE OF THE PILLAR ROCK ” 271

OVER THE NOSE--THE PILLAR ROCK ” 325

THE BROADRICK’S AND HOPKINSON’S CRACKS, DOE

CRAG ” 376

OUTLINE DRAWINGS OF THE CHIEF ROUTES

PLATE

I. THE PIKE’S CRAG GULLIES _To face page_ 2

_Diagrammatic_

II. SCAWFELL FROM THE PULPIT ROCK ” 46

_From the photograph facing p. 26_

III. THE GREAT END GULLIES ” 94

_From the photograph facing p. 90_

IV. THE ENNERDALE FACE OF GREAT GABLE ” 135

_From the photograph facing p. 127_

V. THE GREAT NAPES RIDGES ” 161

_Diagrammatic_

VI. i. THE WASTWATER SCREES ” 203

_From the photograph facing p. 191_

ii. THE PAVEY ARK GULLIES ” 203

_From the photograph facing p. 208_

VII. DOE CRAG, CONISTON ” 370

_Diagrammatic_

VIII. PILLAR ROCK, EAST SIDE ” 242

_From the photograph facing p. 257_

IX. PILLAR ROCK, NORTH SIDE ” 254

_From the photograph facing p. 271_

X. PILLAR ROCK, WEST SIDE ” 318

INTRODUCTION

Some eight years ago chance led me to the Lake District for the first

time, and a kindly acquaintance whom I then met at Wastdale taught

me something of the joys of rock-climbing. Since that occasion every

holiday has been spent on the mountains, either in Cumberland or

North Wales or Switzerland, and they have taught me much that is

worth knowing and that when once learnt can never be forgotten. Men

with the highest literary qualifications have written of the charm of

mountaineering, and every aspect of the subject has been touched upon

with fullest justice and with a grace of style that has captivated many

a non-climber in spite of his prejudices. Yet I cannot refrain from

adding my own humble tribute of praise to the sport that has done so

much for me and my best friends.

It satisfies many needs; the love of the beautiful in nature; the

desire to exert oneself physically, which with strong men is a

passionate craving that must find satisfaction somehow or other; the

joy of conquest without any woe to the conquered; the prospect of

continual increase in one’s skill, and the hope that this skill may

partially neutralize the failing in strength that comes with advancing

age or ill-health.

Hunting and fishing enthral many men, but mountaineering does not

claim the sacrifice of beasts and fishes. Cricket and football are

magnificent sports, and it is a perpetual satisfaction that the British

races are becoming enthusiastic in their appreciation of keen contests

in these games. Yet there is something repulsive in the spectacle of

five thousand inactive spectators of a struggling twenty-two, and the

knowledge that the main interest of many players and observers is of a

monetary character does not tend to convince one of the moral benefits

that these sports can offer. On the other hand, it is scarcely fair to

judge a sport by those who degrade it in this manner, and we all know

that genuine cricketers and footballers play for love and honour.

The mountaineer does not reap any golden harvest by his exertions--even

if he writes a book on his subject. He does not exhibit his skill to

applauding thousands; and his vanity is rarely tickled by the praise of

many. He must be content with the sport itself and what it offers him

directly.

Probably the scientific mountaineer gains most. He is certain to

acquire rare and valuable knowledge of facts in zoology, botany, or

geology, if he starts with the necessary intellectual equipment. The

physicist’s mind is perpetually exercised by the natural phenomena

he witnesses; mist bows, Brocken spectres, frost haloes, electrical

discharges of the queerest description, mirages, all these offer him

problems of the most interesting kind. But the fact is, there is

so much to do that is directly connected with the climbing itself

that the natural sciences are usually left to themselves, and their

consideration reserved for special expeditions.

On the other hand, science can often assist the climbing. The engineer

can triumph with applications of the rope. He can tell us some facts

worth knowing on the value of friction as an aid to stability, on

the use of an axe as a support or as a lever, or on the safe methods

of negotiating loose stones. The man who knows something of geology

is a useful member of an exploring party; he is often able to guess

correctly where available passages occur in a wilderness of rock, and

can judge at a distance what quality of climbing the party may expect.

The expert in mountain weather does not exist; perhaps he does not dare

to, or perhaps the subject is too complicated for a nineteenth-century

scientist. However this may be, it is worth while paying a little

attention to meteorology and noting the quality of weather that follows

any definite condition of the wind, the barometer, or the atmospheric

temperature.

The causes that have resulted in the publication of this little book

are as difficult to define as those that produce a rainy day in the

Alps; and, now that the book is written and nothing remains but an

introduction, I wish that the reverse order of proceeding had been

adopted, and that the introduction had been written as a peg on which

succeeding chapters might have been definitely hung.

From the outset the illustrations have been regarded as the chief

feature of the book, and it was my good fortune early to obtain

the co-operation of Messrs. G. P. Abraham & Sons in the production

of good photographs of the most interesting pieces of rock scenery

that the Lake District affords. Messrs. George and Ashley Abraham

have accompanied me on several climbing excursions with the express

purpose of obtaining artistic and yet accurate photographs of the main

difficulties that beset the cragsman’s course, and I am bound to add

that they are as skilful in tackling severe pitches as they are in

taking successful pictures. The practical troubles in manipulating

heavy photographic apparatus where most people find work enough in

looking solely to their own safety, the frequent impossibility of

finding a sufficient contrast in light and shade among the crag

recesses, and the subsequent difficulties in development of such

awkward subjects, will convince the reader that theirs has been

no light task, and at the same time will offer sufficient excuse

for certain small defects that we have been unable to eliminate

from the photo-mechanical reproductions. These are in collotype

on platino-surface paper which shows the fine texture of the rock

structures.

For the benefit more particularly of climbers several outline diagrams

have been introduced to explain the outlines of those more important

crags up each of which many different routes have been found, lines of

ascent that cannot be readily recognised in the photographs themselves,

and that cannot be briefly described in words. Some of these are purely

diagrammatic, where it has been found impossible to base them on good

general views. The others are outlined from photographs, and can in

most cases be compared directly with the corresponding views from which

they are derived.

With the knowledge that I was getting substantial aid in the

illustrative portion of the book, the management of the rest has been

much simplified. There are very many people who come regularly to the

English Lake District to ramble about on the fells and to make the

ordinary ascents. Of these, by far the greater number steer clear of

the precipices and other steep parts, wisely recognising the danger

that attends the inexperienced in such places. Nevertheless, they enjoy

the mountains and are charmed with the scenery. They do not know much

about the innermost recesses of even their favourite peaks. To many

of them Mr. Haskett Smith’s little book on ‘Climbing in England’ must

have been a revelation; for it indicates with sufficient clearness

that every crag in the country of any considerable dimensions has been

explored with wonderful thoroughness by Alpine climbers, and that these

abrupt walls and gloomy gullies are the happy hunting-ground of many

an enterprising athlete. If my accounts of the different ascents were

briefly stated in the orthodox climbing-guide form, the book could

appeal to none but the elect; only an athlete in excellent training

could digest such solid diet. If, on the other hand, they were recorded

in narrative form, with a little expansion of detail where serious

difficulties occurred during the expeditions, the book might at the

same time appeal to many a tourist who loves the country and who likes

to learn more about it. The latter course has been adopted, and it is

sincerely to be hoped that the succeeding chapters will interest such

tourists.

There was another and more important consideration which helped to

decide on the form actually taken. Our Alpine climbers of the highest

rank are born, not made. But most of the others, taking with them

some natural aptitude and plenty of money, are made abroad. Why do

they not take their preliminary training for a year or two in Wales,

or Cumberland, or on the Scottish hills? It would be much wiser and

cheaper to support the ‘home industry’ so far as it goes, before

making their _débuts_ on the high Alps. Our British hills can give

them no glacier practice, but they can learn a vast deal concerning

rock-climbing before they leave the country. To such as these the book

is primarily dedicated. There are no professional guides in Cumberland

who know anything about the rocks. The amateur must come out and manage

for himself. But it is here intended to show that the Cumberland school

is a well-graded one; that the novice can start with the easiest and

safest of expeditions, and can work his way up to a standard of skill

comparing favourably with that of the average Swiss guide. There is

nothing so instructive as guideless climbing, be it ever so humble in

character. It makes the man wonderfully critical when taken in hand by

guides later on, and renders him also much more able to profit by their

practical instruction.

For such beginners, the mere statement of the position of a gully

and the number and character of its chief obstacles would be quite

useless. He requires something more; a suggestion here and there of

the manner in which the troubles can be avoided or overcome, and a

comparison of these difficulties with others. It is natural that every

man has his own way of employing the limbs; my way of dealing with a

pitch might not at all suit another climber, who perhaps relies less

upon balance and more on strength of arm than myself, or _vice versâ_.

It is therefore unwise to appear dogmatic in describing methods, and

I hasten to assure those knowing critics that I have never meant to

appear so. And yet it is none the less a definite object throughout

to render the accounts in sufficient detail for those who want

assistance in repeating the ascents. I have not hesitated to draw on

old experiences, gained when the ground was comparatively new to me;

for there is a tendency to depreciate, or indeed to overlook entirely,

the difficulties in any familiar route after constant practice has

removed those elements that introduce risk or uncertainty of success,

and a novice can often explain to a novice far more effectively than an

expert.

The Lake District is becoming more popular every year as a centre of

operations for cragsmen. Yet there is no corresponding development of

a set of professional guides out there, though I believe they would

thrive exceedingly, and all stock information about the mountains is

confined to a few manuscript books, and to Mr. Haskett Smith’s little

publication already referred to. The new comer is continually at a

loss for details; he has no means of learning what is difficult or

easy, how to circumvent dangerous obstacles or to discover the safe

points of attacking them; he is dependent for such facts on chance

acquaintances made in the country or on correspondence more or less

painfully elicited from authorities. When unsuccessful in these ways

he is sometimes tempted to launch out on his own account and wrest

the information from the mountains themselves. This heroic method is

undoubtedly the most effective, but it involves too much risk for the

unpractised hand, and the wonder is that so few serious casualties

occur in its application. Such accidents do occur through ignorance of

the district, and always will so long as the necessary knowledge that

gives safety to the explorer is confined to the few.

Mr. Haskett Smith’s book serves in the fullest manner to indicate where

good scrambling can be obtained, to define the few technical terms

in the cragsman’s vocabulary, and to give general advice concerning

the best centres. It has been of the greatest use to the climbing

fraternity, who owe their thanks to him. But he gives no detail of the

scrambling itself. He has appealed more particularly to the expert, who

can manage all his pioneering for himself. Notably is this the case

with the Pillar Rock--practically his own particular preserve--where

most of the routes have long since been made out by him. For years

he knew the Rock as no one else knew it; every chimney and ridge and

wall was within his ken. Yet in his little handbook there is scarcely

an indication of the possession of all this unique knowledge. Most

climbers expected some expansion in the description of his early

explorations; but he has kept rigidly to his scheme of treatment, and

dealt but scant justice to himself throughout the work. This book,

then, is to be regarded in some sense as supplementary in character,

the cordial witness of the good sport obtainable by following his

advice and general directions.

There are many men who think well of the sport, but speak slightingly

of the narrow field offered for it by the Lake District. No doubt the

Alps offer far more scope both in range and quality. But we cannot

very conveniently reach Switzerland at every season of the year. At

Christmas and Easter it is entirely barred to most people. The expense

of foreign travel is a consideration, and the question of length of

holiday is rarely negligible. Cumberland can be reached in a night

from London; the district is an inexpensive one for tourists. The fact

that there are hundreds of climbs at our disposal in the Alps is no

great inducement in itself; we can never climb more than one or two at

a time, and for most of us there will always remain scores of ascents

that we shall never have the opportunity of accomplishing. One can

learn how to swim as effectively in a swimming-bath six feet deep as

in an ocean; and one can gain an extensive and practical acquaintance

with rock-climbing in a district where the whole set of climbs can be

accomplished by the expert in a few short holidays, as in a country

where the choice is unlimited. Personally I should always go to the

high Alps when the chance offered itself, but Cumberland serves

remarkably well to allay the desire for mountain air and vigorous

exercise when Switzerland is out of the question.

What does it matter that a climb has been done before? Climatic

conditions and the members of one’s party introduce sufficient variety.

Years ago an expert reporter was trying to teach me shorthand. His

method was to induce me to copy out the same report again and again;

it was an excellent idea, and the system was well vindicated with

apter pupils. Likewise in climbing, an apt pupil will learn rapidly by

repetition of the same ascents.

This introduces a point on which I am scarcely qualified to speak,

that of physical aptitude on the part of the would-be climber. Mr.

Clinton Dent in the Badminton volume bestows a chapter on the subject

of ‘Mountaineering and Health.’ Here we have an authoritative summary

of the physical qualifications required by the mountaineer, and of the

bodily ailments he may possibly incur. A perusal of the chapter will

convince the reader of the suitability of a mountainous region such

as our own country can offer for preliminary training before the high

Alps are approached. There is much less likelihood of over-strain;

snow-blindness, frost-bite, and mountain sickness are rarely met with

here.

Climbers are absolutely incapable of any sustained effort when they

reach certain altitudes, and the limit depends on the individual. It

is the misfortune of some to feel an uncomfortable perturbation of the

heart when once a definite level is passed. They are well enough able

to exert themselves below that level, but can hope for no pleasurable

exercise above it. With every desire to climb, with muscle and mind

enough to excel in the sport, they are nevertheless debarred from

enjoying the high Alps. Let them therefore make the best of our British

hills for a while, and then perhaps proceed to the Dolomites in the

Austrian Tyrol for fuller applications at a safe low level of what they

have here learnt.

Solitary scrambling is universally condemned. Most climbers of

experience have learnt something about it, and are unanimous in their

unfavourable judgment. Nothing teaches the scrambler so quickly, if

his nerve is sufficiently strong; but the penalty paid for slight

mistakes is often extreme, and the risk is too great for him to be

justified in deliberately choosing the single-handed venture. A party

of two makes the strongest combination for most of the ordinary

Cumberland climbs; three are generally better for the severest courses.

Any beyond that number will to a greater or less extent increase the

difficulty of the ascent and the time spent in effecting it.

A rough classification is here appended of over a hundred well-known

courses judged under good conditions. They are divided into four

sets. The first are easy and adapted for beginners, the second set

are moderately stiff, those of the third set rank as the difficult

climbs of the district, and the last are of exceptional severity. Some

attempt has been made to arrange them in their order of difficulty,

the hardest ones coming last; but the variations of condition of each

due to wind, temperature, rain, snow, or ice are so extensive that

no particular value should be attached to the sequence. But even if

only approximately correct, the lists may help men in deciding for

themselves where to draw the line that shall limit their own unaided

performances. As for the items in the fourth class, they are best left

alone. Mark the well-known words of an expert (Mr. C. Pilkington): ‘The

novice must on no account attempt them. He may console himself with

the reflection that most of these fancy bits of rock-work are not

mountaineering proper, and by remembering that those who first explored

these routes, or rather created them, were not only brilliant rock

gymnasts but experienced and capable cragsmen.’

_Easy Courses._

Deep Ghyll, by the west wall traverse.

Cust’s Gully, Great End.

Traverse across Gable Crag.

‘Sheep Walk,’ Gable Crag.

D Gully, Pike’s Crag.

Broad Stand.

Needle Gully.

‘Slab and Notch’ Route, Pillar Rock.

Great End Central Gully (ordinary ways).

South-east Gully, Great End.

_Moderate Courses._

West Climb, Pillar Rock.

C Gully, Pike’s Crag.

A Gully, Pike’s Crag.

Bottle-nosed Pinnacle Ridge.

Westmorland Crag, Great Gable.

Penrith Climb, Scawfell.

Scawfell Chimney.

Old Wall Route. Pillar Rock, East Side.

Deep Ghyll (ordinary route).

Scawfell Pinnacle (short way up).

Dolly Waggon Pike Gully.

Raven Crag Chimney, Great Gable.

Crag Fell Pinnacles, Ennerdale.

Gable Crag Central Gully (ordinary way).

Black Chimney (High Stile).

Pendlebury Traverse Route, Pillar Rock.

Combe Ghyll.

Fleetwith Gully (easy way).

Arrowhead Branch Gully

Smoking Rock, Great Doup, Pillar Fell.

Professor’s Chimney.

Needle Ridge, Great Gable.

Pillar Rock, the Arête.

Arrowhead Ridge, by Traverse from East Side.

Eagle’s Nest Ridge (ordinary way).

_Difficult Courses._

Deep Ghyll West Wall Climb.

Great End Central Gully (chimney finish).

Pillar Rock by Central Jordan.

The Doctor’s Chimney.

Shamrock Buttress.

Pillar Rock by West Jordan.

Kern Knotts Chimney.

Little Gully, Pavey Ark.

Great Gully, Pavey Ark.

Gable Crag Central Gully (direct finish).

Oblique Chimney Gable Crag.

Gable Needle.

Arrowhead Ridge (direct climb).

Pillar Rock Far West Jordan.

Gimmer Crag Chimney.

Doe Crag, Great Gully.

Pillar Rock by the Great Chimney.

The B Chimney, Pike’s Crag.

Scawfell Pinnacle, by Steep Ghyll.

Pavey Ark, Crescent Climb, and Gwynne’s Chimney.

Keswick Brothers’ Climb.

Pillar Rock, West Jordan Crack.

Doe Crag Buttresses (ordinary routes).

Sergeant Crag Gully (ordinary way).

Mouse Ghyll.

Pillar Rock (by north face).

Smuggler’s Chimney, Gable Crag.

Rake End Chimney, Pavey Ark.

Moss Ghyll (by branch exit).

Bowfell Buttress.

New West Climb (Pillar Rock).

The Brothers’ Crack, Great End.

Sergeant Crag Gully (direct).

Keswick Brothers’ Climb (variation finish).

Stack Ghyll, Buttermere.

Bleaberry Chimney, Buttermere.

Deep Ghyll (by various routes).

Collier’s Climb, Scawfell.

Raven Crag Gully, Glaramara.

Moss Ghyll (by direct finish).

West Jordan Gully, Pillar Rock.

Shamrock Chimneys.

Fleetwith Gully (direct).

Shamrock Gully (left-hand route).

Kern Knotts West Chimney.

Shamrock Buttress (Route II).

Shamrock Gully (ordinary route).

Pisgah Ridge, by the Tennis Court Ledge.

Iron Crag Chimney.

Engineer’s Chimney, Gable Crag.

Eagle’s Nest Ridge by Ling Chimney.

_Exceptionally Severe Courses._

Doe Crag, Intermediate Gully.

Scawfell Pinnacle, High Man (direct from Deep Ghyll).

Gimmer Crag, B route.

The Abbey Buttress, Great Gable.

Screes Great Gully (direct).

Doe Crag, North Gully.

Gimmer Crag, A Route.

Toreador Gully, Buttermere.

Birkness Chimney, Buttermere.

Warn Gill, Buttermere.

Haskett Gully, Scoat Fell.

Doe Crag, Easter Gully, O. G. Jones’ Route.

Scawfell Pinnacle _viâ_ Low Man by Deep Ghyll, Gibson’s Chimney.

Scawfell Pinnacle by Deep Ghyll, O. G. Jones’ Route.

Kern Knotts Crack.

North Face Pillar Rock, by Hand Traverse.

Doe Crag, Easter Gully, by Hopkinson’s Crack.

Doe Crag, Central Chimney.

Eagle’s Nest Ridge, Great Gable.

Doe Crag, Easter Gully, by Broadrick’s Crack.

Walker’s Gully.

C Gully, the Screes.

North West Climb, Pillar Rock.

Scawfell Pinnacle (direct from Lord’s Rake), O. G. Jones’ Route.

In every expedition the party should be provided with a sufficient

length of rope--varying from twenty to fifty feet for two men, thirty

to eighty feet for three--according to the character of the climb and

the lengths of its individual pitches. It is very unwise to dispense

with the rope, even on simple courses; the fact is patent in the Alps

that amateurs take a long time to learn how to look after their portion

of the rope when busily engaged on rocks; they are apt to leave all

such details to the guides in front or behind them, and would do well

to practise regular independence in that respect.

Ice-axes are generally necessary during the colder months of the year.

They are inconvenient to manipulate on very difficult rocks, whether

the climber is going up or down. But in the rapid descent of easy

crags, face outwards, they are invaluable as aids to balancing; and

steep grass or scree can undoubtedly be descended better with their

assistance. The Cumberland crags are too smooth to make _scarpetti_

(_Kletterschuhe_) worth trying. These are rope-soled shoes that grip

better than nailed boots when the texture of the rock-surface is

sufficiently rough, but our expeditions are best made without them.

ROCK-CLIMBING

CHAPTER I

_PIKE’S CRAG_

The Pikes of Scawfell are bold and picturesque, but their precipices

are slight and climbers can find but little on them that needs the use

of a rope. One genuine exception must be made in favour of Pike’s Crag,

the rock that guards the Pikes end of Mickledore. Here a good deal of

practice may be obtained, and although in comparison with Scawfell

Crag over the way we may feel that everything is in miniature, yet the

quality of the work is good and some of the pitches really severe. Few

people seem to have troubled to examine the detail of the cliff until

September, 1894, when Messrs. Fowler and Wilberforce spent a few days

on it, and prepared the effective diagram of the lines of route that

they subsequently transferred to the Wastdale book.

The crag is visible from the road near the head of Wastwater, and its

three chimneys show up as black recesses of inviting steepness and

difficulty. These retain their interesting appearance all along the

walk up Brown Tongue, and it is surprising that at Hollow Stones

everybody turns off to the right towards Deep Ghyll, when straight

ahead they cannot but observe the opportunity for novelty that Pike’s

Crag can offer them.

Between the Pulpit rock that overlooks the Mickledore screes and the

main mass of the Pikes is a little _col_ or neck that can be reached

with ease from either side. A gully runs up to it behind the Pulpit

from the Mickledore screes, with no difficulties whatever to obstruct

the walker. Another (D) leads to the same spot from the Lingmell side,

starting near the foot of the great buttress of the Horse and Man rock,

and boasting of two pitches. Between D and a scree gully well away to

the left lie the three chimneys, A, B, and C, and the best climbing of

these crags is here concentrated.

It is true that we can get some pleasant scrambling up the outside of

the Pulpit. A grass gully shows well in the illustration, close to

the right-hand edge of the picture. The square tower of rock to which

its left branch leads overlooks the D gully and offers fair sport.

There are probably a few interesting problems in the short gullies

leading from D towards the Horse and Man ridge. But to cover the best

ground in a single expedition I can recommend the ascent of A and

descent by C, then the direct climb up the right branch of B and a

return down the two pitches in the D gully. Such was an afternoon’s

work that I was advised to undertake when inquiring of those who

knew best how to gain a general knowledge of Pike’s Crag. My companion

was unacquainted with Lake District climbing; it was his first day in

Wastdale, and during our walk homewards, after following as rigidly as

we could the directions given us, he was reluctantly compelled to admit

that Cumberland climbing had good points that he had never hitherto

attributed to it.

[Illustration:

PLATE I.

THE PIKE’S CRAG GULLIES.

AA is about 300 feet high.

_a_ Initial Variation in the A Chimney.

_b_ Left Branch of the B Chimney.

_c_ Great Pitch in the C Chimney.

D Easy Gully between E and F.

E Horse and Man Rock.

F Pulpit Rock.

G Easy Grass Gully.]

We bore up from Hollow Stones directly towards the A chimney, over

a good deal of rough ground and an occasional snowslope. It is the

longest climb of the three, and the hand-and-foot work commenced at

once. A block at the bottom, some fifteen feet in height, was turned

by a vertical crack on the left, with excellent holds on the side

wall. An easier way is by the right, up a series of steep, wet, and

mossy ledges. This block was crowned by long tufted grass, and more

moss in the bed of the gully indicated clearly that we were not on a

much frequented route to Scawfell Pikes. A few feet higher we noticed

a grass terrace stretching across the face of the crags to the right.

There proved to be several such terraces on the same buttress between

us and the B chimney, and we concluded that it would be possible to

climb up from one to the other and so avoid the chimneys altogether.

Soon our route became steeper and careful clambering was necessary.

The gully was narrow and its walls smooth, and no chance of further

side-exit was open to us. Then came the first genuine pitch, in three

portions of increasing severity, though the hardest is not in any way

difficult or dangerous. We worked first over a small boulder, then

a bigger one followed, and we were brought to a standstill at the

entrance of a narrow cave. We decided in favour of the right wall,

which showed good holds up near the level of the roof. It looked a

bad bit to surmount, but when once the right leg of the climber had

been swung on to a sloping ledge on the wall, it was only needful to

edge along towards the jammed boulder and step off into the bed of

the gully again. The whole pitch is about thirty feet high. Walking

up the scree that now presented itself, we were rather disagreeably

impressed by the appearance of the second pitch that confronted us.

It was a mossy wall about ten feet high, and water streaming down it

gave us but little hope of continuing the climbing beyond it with dry

garments. Nevertheless the reality was not so objectionable. The wall

stretched from side to side of the gully and offered many routes up.

Taking a course to the right of the middle, we found small footholds

beneath the moss that gave the chance of using the fingers and toes

only. Clammy embracing we avoided, and our satisfaction on reaching the

top was altogether disproportionate to the actual difficulty we had

overcome, and will be unappreciated by those who tackle the gully in

drier weather. It seems to be still better to work up the left corner.

Forty feet higher we could see the third and last pitch. The gully is

now very much more open. We made a digression on the right again, and

peered inquisitively down the hole at the top of the B chimney--the

hole that was said to discriminate nicely between a thin man and a

thick. The buttress was considerably broken about here, and offered

admirable scrambling of a heterogeneous description; but we had yet one

more stage in our own direct course, and returned to finish it. Several

boulders had combined to form another cave, whose interior appeared

to be rather complicated--judging by the number of times I knocked my

head in exploring its upper regions. We tried hard to force a route

up the right wall, but after twenty minutes had been wasted in futile

attempts we decided to take the regulation route to the left, and leave

the variation for another day that might find us there with an ice-axe.

The left wall is sufficiently provided with holds to make the climb

easy; but at the top there were several stones to be passed that report

said were in a shaky condition. We were not troubled by them, and after

passing over, a glance at the screes that remained above gave assurance

that the presence or absence of a few loose stones at the head of the

pitch would be quite fortuitous.

After a short halt called for photographic purposes we made for the

head of the C gully, the next to the west that actually reaches

the sky-line when viewed from below. It was nearly all scree at a

steep angle, and we had good reason to be thankful that no exploring

parties were further down. There were two or three places passed in

our descent where the craggy bed of the gully jutted out through the

layer of loose stones, and at such spots, though no actual climbing was

necessary, the danger of one man bombarding the other with projectiles

made us both proceed with an excess of caution. The one difficulty in

the gully, which we were now preparing to descend, is by far the finest

looking pitch on Pike’s Crag. A large boulder with square edges roofs

in a cavern thirty feet high; a stream of water pouring down the gully

spreads over the boulder, and forms a thin curtain of spray stretching

from side to side of the cave entrance. The two walls of the gully are

black and glistening, the floor of the cave is slippery, and slopes

steeply down to the foot of the ghyll. The only safe way up or down the

pitch is by a series of ledges in a square recess on the left, well

marked in the opposite illustration.

We were ignorant of the character of the climbing here, but there was

no resisting the conclusion forced upon us by a peep over the edge of

the pitch, that the recess on our right offered us the only chance of

descent. The ledges were tufted with thick grass that now and again

threatened to give way. But on the whole we felt very safe, and when

the actual corner of the recess was reached, the difficulties vanished

and we had a simple traverse back towards the waterfall. The descent

of six or eight feet to the foot of the fall was partially under the

spray, but haste on such slippery ground was out of the question, and

we moved one at a time with a solemn indifference to the damping

influences around us, that might have argued a whole day’s previous

exposure and the absence of a vestige of dry clothing. We had a steep

slide down the snow banked up at the foot of the gully, and then picked

a way across to the B chimney, the centre of the series and the most

attractive.

[Illustration:

G. P. Abraham & Sons, Photos. Keswick

THE PIKE’S CRAG GULLIES]

A and C may be reasonably called easy. They are not too hard for

muscular novices, and are comparatively safe. But the central chimney

is decidedly stiff, and should not be indiscriminately recommended with

the others. It is very narrow all the way to the jammed stone at the

top; it is about as difficult to get out, when half-way up, as it is to

continue the direct ascent, and suitable belaying for the leader or his

followers cannot be found at the hardest parts of the climb. I tried

the chimney once when there was a considerable quantity of water coming

down, and was compelled to give it up: it is probable that even with a

second man to help me I could not have managed it.

We found our way safely to the entrance of our chimney and started up.

Almost immediately we passed the branch gully on the left. It looks

very formidable, and indeed its first pitch is undoubtedly hard. It

consists of a two-storied cave, the first floor composed of three

jammed stones, which are passed by backing up the crack and traversing

outwards. The second pitch is of a simpler character, consisting

of a cave that can be passed on either side. We had no designs on

this variation, and were contented to throw a casual glance towards

the lower obstacle as we proceeded up the rocky bed of our central

chimney. Our field of view soon became very limited, for the clean-cut

parallel walls on either side were scarcely five feet apart, and the

average slope of the gully exceeded forty-five degrees. During the

first hundred feet the work was distinctly safe and easy, but a glance

backward at the point whence we had started, seemingly the first

stop in the event of our falling, made us both inclined to imagine

dangers in our way. The side walls in intense gloom formed a fitting

frame to the narrow picture of the distant sunlit fells. The general

aspect of the situation closely resembled that of the upper half of

Collier’s climb on Scawfell, and of the Oblique Chimney on Gable Crag,

though in each of those cases the chimney is at a considerable angle

to the vertical, whereas here the fissure in the rocks is almost

perpendicular. We were a little perplexed by some ice that had frozen

in large rounded knobs to a thickness of eight or ten inches over a

steep six feet of the gully. An axe would have summarily disposed of

any icicles of doubtful security, but we had not expected any such

evidences of cold and were unprovided. The ice was not absolutely

continuous; here and there we could kick out levels for our feet, and

to our relief the trouble was passed in a few minutes. Then came the

worst bit of the ascent--the scene of my discomfiture eighteen months

before. First came a vertical wall stretching across the gully, and

rising twenty feet above our somewhat insecure standing. Beyond that

the gully sloped evenly to the dark recesses of a cave, the jammed

boulder of which almost appeared vertically above our heads. We mounted

an upright block at the foot of the wall, and prospected for holds.

None were visible. I peered at the sides in search of scratches, which

would show whether the earlier party or parties had backed up the

chimney. No! they had not availed themselves of that process. Then,

with the conviction that an indirect way must exist, we examined

the walls a few feet below the pitch, and at last hit upon a way of

mounting higher. I was belayed by a rope passing round the upright

block already referred to, and proceeded to walk along the horizontal

edge of a thin crack on the right wall, leaning across to the other

side of the gully for general support on the hands. I had implicit

trust in the rope and the man at the other end of it, or the manœuvre

would have given me agonies of apprehension. Just as the second step

was being made along the crack, its thin edge broke away under my foot

and I slipped a few feet down the gully, till the rope tightened and

brought me to a stop. A second attempt was more successful. The edge

was followed till it expanded into a respectable foothold, and then,

holding myself straight, I was able to reach good ledges for the hands.

It was now easy to stride across to the left wall and climb directly

upwards along its crest to a platform large enough for both of us;

hither my companion followed me, adopting almost the same tactics and

taking but half the time. We were now virtually out of the gully, and

found the sunshine pleasant after so much darkness. But the joy that

might have attended our remaining efforts in working up to the head of

the chimney was marred by the reflection that we had not conquered the

chief difficulty; we had only avoided it. This is right and proper for

snow-climbers, but distinctly unorthodox for cragsmen. Our doubts grew

as we advanced, and at last I proposed to descend again and settle them

finally. This suggestion was met with a very prompt approval, and ten

minutes later found me at the foot of the vertical wall again. It did

not look any easier, and I am not prepared to say how narrowly I missed

a second failure. After leaving the upright block the scanty holds soon

disappeared, and with some desperate struggling I found myself backing

up the chimney with the feet thrust hard against the left wall. Both

sides seemed dangerously smooth, but cautious wriggling for a distance

of two or three feet brought a handhold within reach, and the top of

the wall was gained. The only other ascent known to me was by a man

with a singularly long reach, and in some marvellous way he managed to

climb the wall without any backing up.

Thence to the cave was fairly easy after a few mossy loose stones

had been flung down, and the finish was effected by a neat little

ledge along the left wall, passing out just at the edge of the pitch.

The hole through the cave is not so small as the first investigators

imagined; the trouble in passing through is due to its crookedness,

but the name of the chimney is generally supposed to indicate with

proper remoteness the garment that is here threatened with a complete

inversion.

We hurried across the top of C gully and round the Horse and Man to

the Pulpit rock. The D gully had a great deal of snow in it, and we

indulged in sundry glissades. The snow was not too hard nor the angle

too great, otherwise ice-axes would have been necessary. The upper

pitch was passed on our left with perfect ease. Then further snow

led to the lower pitch, a much more imposing sight. Two sharp-edged

boulders of immense size formed a cave. On the side of the Pulpit rock

there seemed to be no chance of passing it. The other side, though

mossy, might easily be made to go. In our descent we kept a little

further away, and came down ledge after ledge with excellent holds to

the foot of the pitch. Then more glissading brought us down to the open

fell again. We spent a quarter of an hour watching with much interest

a party coming down Scawfell Pinnacle by Steep Ghyll, and having seen

them safely into the lower part of the ghyll, where the steady click

of the leader’s axe intimated slow progress over ice-covered rocks, we

turned our backs to the fell and moved leisurely homewards.