_GREAT END AND ITS GULLIES_
As we walk up towards the Styhead Pass from Wastdale we may see well in
front of us the long ridge of the Pikes monopolizing a goodly portion
of the sky-line. The high dependence at the head of the valley we are
skirting is Great End, a reasonable enough name for the north-east head
of the range. It sends down a buttress towards the Styhead Pass that,
at a closer view, is shown to be well separated from the main mass by a
deep gully of some architectural merit. This is Skew Ghyll. It twists
its way up to the ridge, and offers a pleasant variation route over
to Sprinkling Tarn, whence a steep rise brings the tourist to the Esk
Hause, the lowest point between Great End and Bowfell. The climber’s
interest will be concentrated in the view of the long northern face of
Great End, well seen from Sprinkling Tarn, and his experienced eye will
notice at once that the face is marked by various gullies that invite
approach. The whole ground has been thoroughly well examined from time
to time, with the result that several gullies which from below or above
appear to promise continuous climbing have proved to be deceptive in
this respect. Yet there remain two that are always interesting, and a
third that is at any rate popular as a winter course.
Seen from the tarn there are two gullies that cut the full height of
the precipice from top to bottom. The lines of fresh scree that trail
down from their lower ends show up plainly on the older _débris_ that
marks the decay of this mountain wall. They both slope downwards
towards the left when seen from this point, and are both obviously
provided with variation exits at their upper extremities. That to the
left was formerly called Robinson’s Gully, but is now generally known
as the South-east Gully. There has always been a lack of originality
in the nomenclature of such places, and with several routes on the
same mountain the christener’s wits seem driven to all points of the
compass. The second gully is a hundred yards to the right of the first,
and has long been known as the Great End Central Gully. It divides half
way up into two well-marked portions, the right-hand route constituting
the main bed of the gully, and terminating at a huge notch in the
sky-line. The left-hand branch as seen from below appears to terminate
blindly in the face, but actually it leads to a deep and narrow chimney
cutting into the top wall within a hundred feet of the main gully.
[Illustration:
G. P. Abraham & Sons, Photos. Keswick
THE GREAT END GULLIES SEEN FROM SPRINKLING TARN
(_Face page 90_)]
Far away to the right, where the cliff has shrunk to but one-third of
its full height at the Central Gully, a black cleft may be descried
that leads from scree to sky-line. This is Cust’s Gully, indifferent
as a summer climb, but always beautiful in the richness of its rock
scenery, and especially interesting in winter, when drift snow offers a
royal road to the top. Every one has a kind word for Cust’s Gully. It
is only called the Cussed gully by ignorant novices who inquire whether
Skew of Skew Ghyll fame was a member of the Alpine Club. When it is
marked out by snow we can from the path just distinguish the great rock
bridge or natural arch across the upper part of the cleft.
GREAT END CENTRAL GULLY.--This wonderful ravine offers some
special feature every winter. Its individuality changes so completely
under the mask of snow, or ice, or rain, that an attempt to describe
the gully by an account of any one expedition must of necessity be only
partially successful.
One fine winter morning a year or so ago we had a large party
at Wastdale, and for once in a way were all of the same mind as
to our day’s plans. The walk up towards the Styhead Pass--the
Schweinhauskopfjoch of the Swiss travellers among us--would just suit
our conversationally-minded fraternity, to whom Brown Tongue or the
Pillar Fell or the Gable-end offered gradients too steep for words. We
sallied forth from the inn with many axes and great lengths of rope,
and lazily worked our way along the valley. The lower path, entirely
obliterated by the snow, took us across the stream to the right on to
the low slopes of Lingmell. Piers Ghyll stream was crossed without
notice, for here the gorge is not at all in evidence and requires
closer examination to reveal its magnificence. Then, rising a few feet,
we crossed the hollow of Grainy Ghyll and made towards Spout Head and
Skew Ghyll. The snow gave us some glorious effects on the hills around.
The Mosedale amphitheatre of noble mountains towered above Wastdale,
and mutely questioned us as to the accuracy of the surveyors who could
give them not even three thousand feet of elevation above us. Nowadays
theodolites are taken to the mountains and misused with great effect;
why should not the Pillar and Red Pike benefit similarly to the extent
of a thousand feet or so? There above us on our left was Great Gable,
a White pyramid cutting into a dark sky, at least ten thousand feet
of mountain beauty between us and its snowy crest. Who could believe
that the summit was only 2,900 feet above sea level? But the engineer
among us calmly reminded me of an interesting aneroid observation I had
once taken of the top of Moss Ghyll on Scawfell, making it a hundred
feet higher than Scawfell itself. Was I to rank myself as a truthful
scientist and be contented with the ordnance survey records, or as
an artist who should represent heights, shapes, and colours as his
imperfect senses make them? We closed the discussion in favour of the
artist and then sloped (without slang) up to Skew Ghyll.
This was in splendid condition; the snow was deep and hard, and out of
sheer pleasure in step-cutting, three or four enthusiasts carved their
own staircases up through the ‘narrows’ and away towards the little
pass above us. It was to be noticed that the steps gradually converged
to one line as the leaders felt their muscles wearying, and they were
willing to fall in with the caravan now trailing up in single file
like the elements of a kite’s tail. At the top of our little pass we
could see straight down Borrowdale. Skiddaw and Blencathara formed the
distant background. Derwent-water reflected a dark sky, and by contrast
with its snowy shores looked of an inky blackness. Styhead Tarn was not
very beautiful; ice had formed on it a week before, but had since been
broken up by the wind, and the great flakes of crystal unevenly crusted
with drift snow gave a sense of roughness and of incompleteness out of
keeping with the finished beauty of the surroundings.
We stayed up here for a few minutes, and then contoured along the side
of Great End in the direction of Esk Hause. The ground was rough; here
and there the snow required cutting. But no difficulties were met with
until the narrow entrance to the Central Gully suddenly disclosed
itself in the precipitous wall on our right. The gully points down
towards the eastern corner of Sprinkling Tarn. It begins where the
cliff stands nearest to the Esk Hause path, and is not to be mistaken
for the South-east Gully that points directly towards the sharp bend in
the little stream rattling down to Borrowdale.
At the entrance to our climb we stopped to consider the question of
roping up. ‘Union is strength’ only within certain narrow limits, when
the bond of union is an Alpine rope. It often involves loss of time.
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone,
and his speed is inversely proportional to the number of his followers.
We decided to split up into three equal parties of four, my men to
lead up the main gully, the engineer to convey the second set up the
middle course, and the more substantial residue to bear to the left, up
a slighter branch that contains a very creditable cave pitch half-way
towards the summit ridge.
Our work was easy at the outset. The gully was narrow and steep, but
the snow was good, and small ledges on either side were utilized
whenever the little icicle-clad pitches were too slippery for direct
attack. Where the gully widened a little we could see the first
serious obstacle in front of us--a vertical wall with a ragged
ice-curtain flung over it in a most artistic way. It would perhaps
have been possible to cut directly upwards, but the crowd of eager
climbers behind could not be expected to fight against frostbite for
an hour or so while the leader amused himself, and the obvious method
of circumventing the difficulty had its own merits. The right wall
slightly overhung; close below was a glazed rib of rock leading up at
an easy angle to the top of the pitch.
[Illustration:
PLATE III.
THE GREAT END GULLIES (p. 90).
The height of BB is about 450 feet.
A Holmes’s (or Brigg’s) Cave Pitch.
B South-east Gully.
C The Central Gully.
D Cust’s Gully.
E Head of Skew Ghyll.
F Sprinkling Tarn.
c Left Branch of the Central Gully.
d Difficult Chimney.]
Steadying myself against the wall, I started cutting slight steps up
the thin ice on the rock, keeping as near to the corner as possible.
Now and again the foothold felt insecure, but for the most part the
ascent was safe, with slight probability of a slip into the snow below.
The second man followed close up, and steadied my feet occasionally
with an ice-axe. Then came a more gentle snow-slope, up which we could
kick steps without effort; and while the second party were busy with
the difficulties that we had just overcome, we reached the second pitch
and hastened to leave it behind us. This was rather a harder task than
we had yet undertaken. The gully was more open and its ice covering
less extensive, but the pitch was higher and involved our climbing up
to the centre from the right-hand wall, so as to reach the base of
the big boulder that crowns the pitch. All this would have been easy
with the rocks clear and dry, but we had to make our footholds on the
flimsiest rags of ice, and the traverse to the middle demanded some
long stepping with scarcely a hand to steady. On reaching the boulder I
was compelled to crawl on all-fours round its front to the slope on the
left-hand side of the gully, and then by cutting a dozen steps or so in
the hard snow found myself in the wide part of the gully at the foot of
the great divide. The others of my party followed on rapidly, and we
shouted adieu to our companions beneath.
Here we had the finest view of the climb. Below, the beauties of the
two pitches were greatly increased by our own elevation. They looked
very difficult, and the picture offered its living element in the
cautiously advancing parties now just in the interesting part of the
climb. Above us rose the huge buttress that divides the gully, and on
either side the most fantastic drapery of ice well-nigh frightened us
with its appearance of impregnability. We advanced carefully up to
the right, congratulating ourselves on having taken the lead, for our
friends were not pleased with the battery of hard chips of snow that
our step-cutting gave them. The buttress was rounded, and we gained a
full view of the troubles in store for us. Immediately on our left a
smooth rock-shoot led straight up to the top of the buttress. Between
the vertical pillar on the right of this shoot and the opposite side of
the gully rose a sheer wall of ice, like a frozen waterfall twenty-five
feet in height. So far as we could see at first, there was no chance of
forcing a quick way up this obstacle, and it was obvious that slowness
would introduce the risk of frostbite. During the previous summer my
fingers had been rather badly frostbitten in the Alps, and there was
some chance of their still manifesting a susceptibility to cold. We
almost turned back to follow our friends up another way; we could
trust each other to exaggerate the terrors of this bit, which honestly
enough was a trifle too stiff for a cold winter day. But while mentally
framing an excuse for the return, I had advanced up to the left-hand
edge of the ‘ice fall,’ and started the ascent of its spiky edging of
rock. From below the spikes had appeared fragile and untrustworthy.
Actually they were too well frozen into place to become detached with
one’s cautious drag. This discovery altered the prospect for us all,
and the chilly watchers below warmed up with the returning enthusiasm.
In fact they needed reminding that I might yet come down suddenly to
their level and sweep them off their feet unless they were prepared to
receive me. When ten feet up, the axe was called into requisition to
cut a few steps in the fall itself. These were useful just so long as
the left hand could utilise the rocks, but they tended to carry me away
from my comparatively safe corner, and I soon decided to keep away from
the fall as far as possible. The corner where the gully sloped back
was very exciting, for implicit trust was reposed in the benumbed left
hand that had been thrust, well gloved, into a thin and icy crack in
the wall, and held there by frost and friction. It offered no sensation
either of security or of danger, but it could not very well slip out,
and we hoped for the best. A few moments’ struggling landed me safely
on the steep slope above the pitch, and a vigorous handling of the
ice-axe on the bed of the gully fully restored circulation to my hands.
Then followed my cold companions, who had been shivering spectators for
a long twenty minutes. They were thus handicapped from the outset, and
found the pitch very severe, notwithstanding the gentle suggestion of
safety that the rope offered.
We had some careful work still before us. The bed of the gully led
steeply up to another large and slightly overhanging boulder that
blocked the direct route, and our only possible method of getting above
it was to cut steps away on the right, trusting to sundry very insecure
grass holds. But these were much better than usual by reason of the
frost. In fact the whole climb is perfectly sound in winter, though
rendered very difficult. In summer it is often easy but dangerous.
[Illustration:
G. P. Abraham & Sons, Photos. Keswick
TOP OF THE CENTRAL GULLY, IN WINTER. GREAT END]
From the steep right-hand side of the gully we could traverse with care
to the main bed again, just above the boulder; whence to the top of
the gully, looking from here like an Alpine pass, was a broad stretch
of unspotted snow. There we joined the second party, who had come by
the steep grass ledges of the central route. Their labours had been
great--or else, indeed, they would easily have managed to get ahead of
us--but not so much from the intrinsic difficulty of their route as
from the need of continual caution in the more open portions of the
climb. They had reached a ledge that overlooked the right branch, and
were proposing to descend to our snow slope and cut steps up with us.
We were nothing loth to give them a chance of showing their skill with
the axe, and for a while halted to enjoy the grand prospect behind
us, looking straight away towards Sprinkling Tarn and Borrowdale. But
we found ourselves frequently buffeted by strong gusts of wind that
swept furiously down the gully. The whirling snow at the little
_col_, now so near, warned us of an approaching _tourmente_ on the
ridge. Our section soon decided to start again, and just below a small
cornice that crowned the gully we forged ahead, and plunged through the
powdery fringe of overhanging snow. We sank in up to our waists, and
had to wrestle mightily against the hurricane to find a firm footing on
the wind-swept rocks beyond. It was no joke standing about there with
the sharp, cold, drift snow from the Pikes blowing into our smarting
faces. We could not hear ourselves speak, it was almost impossible
to see the correct course; but there were two or three among us well
acquainted with this ridge in its bitterest moods, and to these the
others trusted. We floundered down to the right towards Esk Hause
across the wilderness of blocks strewn over the great plateau, and in a
hundred yards came to a boulder large enough to possess a lee side of
its own. Here we halted for a chilly half-hour, waiting for the third
section to arrive. I possessed their luncheon in my knapsack, a most
regrettable circumstance from our point of view, inasmuch as it tied
us to Great End so long as it pleased them to amuse themselves down
there on the leeside of the mountain. We quickly demolished our own
share of the provisions, and with an unselfishness rarely present in
the great latterday mountaineering expeditions, decided to leave them a
few sandwiches and to cloy the hungry edge of our remaining appetites
with tobacco. We were not all smokers, but everybody present assisted
in lighting the first pipe, such a labour was it to keep a match
burning. We waited there in a close bundle until our feet were half
frozen and our faces stiff with icicles. Then we became rather nervous
about our missing friends, and debated whether they meant to reach the
top that day, or whether they had turned their backs to the lunch and
made for Sprinkling Tarn. The latter course seemed at once the most
expedient for them and the most convenient for us, and gladly we acted
on this assumption. It was just as well we did so, for the frost had
sharply nipped some of us, and it was long before my heels gave me any
sensation but that of a pair of snowballs in my boots. We slung round
the Esk Hause, and had some fine glissading to the hollow of the hill
below the crags.
When well opposite our climb at the point whence we had started some
five hours earlier, our united shouting brought back an answering call
from the gully. Soon we could see the burly form of their greatest
member slowly descending the crags at about the same spot where we
had long before left him. Having distinguished him as a preliminary
landmark easy of recognition, the three others were one by one made
out. We were relieved to observe that they were all coming down in a
normal condition; no broken limb or sprained ankle had occurred to
spoil their pleasure and stop their climbing. After a few minutes’
waiting we learnt their story. The left-hand route had begun in
a vertical ice-sheet twenty feet high that took them two hours to
surmount. Then, when with sighs of relief, or hyperbolic language, or
eloquent silence, that marked each individual’s satisfaction at the
happy completion of a difficult pitch, they had cut their way over the
edge of this wall and rounded the traverse that dominated it, they were
aghast to meet a wall of ice in every respect similar to the first,
but magnified! This was heart-breaking, but they made a bold bid for
success, and started afresh on the new task. But the daylight was
already within an hour of vanishing, and a night on those rocks would
have been too much for even the sturdiest of them.
So with a wisdom not often met with in such cases where an element of
competition enters into the day’s work, they resolved to retire and
join us below. There we met again, and they received their lunch. I
was censured to a slight extent, but blame is pretty sure to be the
portion of him who carries the provisions. He that shoulders the bag is
a responsible individual, and the condition of good training that it
induces is moral as well as physical.
Then let me insist on the value of such physical training. The
photographer who takes his camera to the High Alps is often too fond of
his apparatus to give it up to a guide or porter; he frequently decides
hurriedly to take a shot, and soon learns that it is best to carry all
for himself. Economy may often preach the same precept. Now to lift his
own weight is a labour he at first fancies will tax all his strength,
but a little practice in carrying a well constructed and well packed
rücksack on small expeditions will teach him something different. The
weight of the whole equipment for half-plate photography--camera,
three lenses, tripod, and other accessories--is so small a fraction
of his own weight that its mere lift is a negligible consideration.
His pace will be diminished and his back often uncomfortably heated.
But supposing the burden well arranged, many a climber could habituate
himself to it. One of our greatest Alpine climbers is said to train
in Cumberland by carrying a rücksack filled with stones. Without
attempting to persuade any one but a geologist so to burden himself
on principle, I strongly advise the man who hopes ultimately to climb
without guides to get early into the habit of carrying loads on smaller
ascents. It will always be a joy to travel free when occasional
opportunity offers, and then he will assuredly improve his pace. On a
really stiff pitch the sack may have to be raised independently by the
rope, a cause of serious delay when the rope is rigid with frost and
the party inexperienced in tying knots or reliable loops. It should
be remembered that the sack has more than once protected the climber
from serious injury by falling stones, and that a pound or two of extra
luggage carried up to an Alpine hut may mean all the difference between
a night of misery and a comfortable rest before an arduous expedition.
I have mentioned that the middle route up the Central Gully leads by
easy stages to the upper portion of the right-hand branch. Some three
years ago a strong party effected an ascent of the chimney that points
directly up to the top of the cliff from the high ledge between the two
routes. We found the main difficulty was in traversing over an open
slab on the right of the foot of the chimney. The slab was split by a
narrow fissure, but the handholds were slight and rather insecure. To
have trusted to one alone would have been dangerous, and I recall with
amusement the spread-eagle attitude of the leader as he endeavoured to
distribute his weight equally on four rickety points of support. The
position was good enough in itself, but to move involved a dangerous
increase in the stress on one of the supports. Fortunately the second
on the rope was able to offer an axe-head as additional security, and
the passage to the left was effected in safety. The chimney was narrow
and its sides smooth, but with the exception of a loose stone near the
finish, which rattled down and tended to disturb our wedging, nothing
seriously interfered with our advance.
But there was one amongst us who, in expectation of falling stones,
had thrust his head and shoulders into the little cave at the foot of
the chimney. When the leader shouted to him he did not hear, and the
accompanying pull on the rope resulted in the hitching of his shoulders
firmly in the cleft and the elevation of his legs only. The previous
evening we had been having a heated discussion as to the futility of
naming the sides of a gully or cave after the manner of the banks of a
river--_i.e._ of calling the ‘true’ right side of a gully its left and
_vice-versâ_. Professor M., who was with us now, had been a listener to
the discussion. Looking down from the top of the chimney and observing
the unusual method of our friend’s ascent, he called out, ‘It’s all
right, Jones, he is coming up well enough--the “true up.”’
SOUTH-EAST GULLY.--This in summer time can often be accomplished
in half an hour if the climbers are few and in a hurry. Before
December, 1896, I had not made a winter ascent; moreover, I had
forgotten much of the detail. Thinking of climbing notes, I persuaded a
small Christmas party to join me in exploring the gully under these new
conditions.
We were only a band of three ultimately, though at Kern Knotts, which
we visited _en route_, our number was considerably larger. The other
two were both experienced Alpine climbers, one a very tall man, the
other very short. I was anxious to determine the advantages and
disadvantages of size and weight, and to that end took the lead myself
and placed the tall man second on the rope. We had but little wind, and
the temperature was slightly above freezing-point.
The climbing began almost at once, for in five minutes from the foot
the gully walls were close together and were encrusted with thawing
ice. The narrow bed was broken up into easy pitches, but to avoid the
stream of water that came down beneath the soft covering of snow it was
necessary to use small ledges on either side, and span the gully like
diminutive colossi--here I am referring only to myself and the little
one. Now and again we would plunge up the gully for a short distance
in loose snow. Occasionally the crystals became more compact, and two
of us could manage to creep over its surface without slipping through.
Rarely was this the case with our middle man--a sixteen-stone Teuton
with a scientific training. If snow could be crushed he crushed it.
He became so indifferent in the matter after awhile, that he made no
attempt to distribute his weight evenly over the surface according
to the rules laid down by Badminton. The little one, coming last,
naturally suffered by this indifference, and was plaintive over what he
called the ‘fallacy of the undistributed middle.’
The first pitch of any size occurred within 200 feet of the foot of the
gully, a perfectly vertical rise of twenty feet in the bed level with a
slender waterfall interfering with our direct progress. The retaining
walls were the least bit too far apart for the utilization of both
simultaneously, and the right side commended itself to us as the easier
to attack. Our only trouble again was the glaze on the rocks, a black,
shiny veneer too thin for axe operations, too thick to be trifled with.
Such ice always interferes more with the hands than with the feet,
for sharp boot nails can roughen the surface of an ice ledge enough
for a foothold, whereas the hands can make no impression. If the ice
is very cold, gloves must be worn as a protection against the frost.
They have the merit of adhering slightly to the ice when pressed, and
often in that way give the climber a safe-enough grip. With wet ice
such regelation will not occur, and if the work is hazardous I prefer
to climb with free hands, trusting to friction to restore circulation
wherever an ‘easy’ may be called.
Making slowly up this wall to a snowy ledge at the top level of the
pitch, I called on the others to follow, and then worked back into
the gully. Here we found ourselves facing the ‘divide,’ a high and
narrow rib of rock that cut down into the gully and gave us a choice
of routes. Our way lay up to the right, which a distant view from
Sprinkling Tarn had shown us to be really the main line. The other
branch ends somewhat abruptly out on the face, and involves a traverse
into the main again. A few yards further up, and a very imposing pitch
rose before us. It was in three portions, the gap between the second
and the third blocked by a huge stone that bridged the gully. As on
the lower fall, so here the water kept us off the centre-line of the
ravine, and drove us to seek diversion on the right. On the first part
we had the difficulty of snow and wet ice. Without comment I noticed
the little one carefully wipe out a handhold with his handkerchief
when it was his turn to mount. By the same manœuvre he had some
three years before shown me how to scramble up a small boulder in the
Engelberg valley that I was forced to admit I could not climb. It was
interesting to observe how little space he needed for his fingers. On a
wall with diminutive ledges that might easily pass unnoticed, he could
show us all what ‘walking up’ a face of rock really meant, though his
short reach naturally handicapped him now and again very seriously. I
believe a short man generally does best on rocks. His hands are as a
rule stronger in proportion to his weight. The long climber can reach
further but is often unable to utilize the distant grip to which he has
stretched, if it is small or badly rounded. Moreover, he often finds
himself in the attitude of a looping caterpillar, a pose that demands a
firmer handgrip and that rapidly exhausts the muscles.
We all reached the first ledge safely. Then came the passage of the
bridge. If we passed under it we should get terribly wet and cold,
though there would be no particular difficulty in getting through to
the final chimney. Every inch of the boulder was glazed, and it offered
very few excrescences to hang upon. But it had the making of an edge
at its crest, and I gradually worked up the outside till I could reach
this and pull up. There is one advantage of a glaze--possibly its only
one--it offers no friction to one’s body in an arm-pull.
Thence it was an easy step over to the final chimney. A small spout
of water as thick as one’s wrist was jetting from the top against
the right wall, and we were inevitably in for a wetting in spite of
the circumvention of the bridge. I essayed to finish the pitch before
the others started from their ledge twenty feet below. A fairly good
lodgment for the right foot was utilized and passed. The body had to be
jammed across the chimney, the fingers seeking for a crevice high up
on the right wall. When a slab is streaming with water and handholds
can be found within easy reach, it is a good plan to keep ‘thumbs down’
as much as possible; for then the water will drain off by the thumbs,
and run clear of the coat-sleeves. The strain is too great to operate
in this way with arms at full length above the head. That was manifest
in my trouble on the wall. The ice-cold water trickled down my arms
and body, making me wet through in a few moments. But the horror of
it came with the realization that I was unable to move backwards or
forwards. The situation was almost critical, but not an unusual one
for winter climbing in Cumberland. I could at any rate give it my cool
consideration, and decide whether to call up the big one to help me
or to try an independent descent. The men below saw me in trouble and
made a move upwards towards the pitch. Then it occurred to me that the
big one would not be able to force a way under the bridge, and that he
might be a long time working over it, longer than I could manage to
hold out. That decided me, and I started wriggling downwards. Luckily
the hands were not yet benumbed, and by entire disregard of the main
water-supply down the central line of flow, which now included the back
of my neck, I managed to reach the platform again. Until my second
came up it was useless to make another attempt, and indeed it was now
eminently desirable that everybody should get wet. I am not an advocate
for monopoly in such cases. With some slight inducement suggested by
the rope, the big one pulled himself over the bridge and came up to
the platform. Here he was invited to hold himself firmly against the
wall, and give me his shoulders and head for elevating purposes. He was
immediately drenched before I had effected a start up his mighty back,
but there was a sense of perfect security now; it would be impossible
to fall past him. As for the effect of cold and wet on him, we could
neglect so small a consideration. In any case he would not feel it till
the trouble was over. I thought of the old dynamics problem beginning:
‘Let a fly of mass m be crawling up the trunk of an elephant, whose
mass may be neglected,’ and realized for the first time that there was
some sense in the quaint hypothesis. Once on his shoulders I reached up
to a dry ledge, dragged myself on to it, and thence strode across to
the top of the pitch.
The third man had managed to reach the platform during these
operations, and now nobly offered his little all as a foothold for
the giant. My heart sank when I heard it graciously accepted, but it
rested with me to share the responsibility and let the rope take up
some of the stress. The big one came up grandly with these small aids,
and we hurried the little one to send along my camera sack and then
himself. This pitch was the hardest part of the day’s work, and showed
itself to vary much with existing circumstances. I can just remember
enough of a former expedition to add that it needs care in summer time,
though it cannot, rightly speaking, be called difficult.
We then went upwards again over snow at a gentle angle till the third
pitch was reached. This was of a simple design, just a cave formed
by a fallen boulder, and no doubt it could be taken in many ways. We
climbed up a six-feet wall on the right from the entrance to the cave,
and scrambled easily into the snow-bed beyond. Thence to the top was
a matter of only ten minutes, the single hindrance being a pile of
boulders that were climbed by an easy tunnel that led to the crest
of the left-hand wall of the gully. We walked out at the top just as
twilight set in, after some two hours’ gentle excitement. We were
naturally still damp, and felt no inclination to stay about on the
ridge, so hurrying round towards Esk Hause we glissaded rapidly to the
path and walked home.
The left-hand variation in the gully is often taken, but is scarcely
as interesting. Just after passing the divide we find another buttress
of rock cutting the gully into two sections. Here the buttress is not
much thicker than an ordinary brick wall; it is sometimes called the
‘curtain.’ There are pitches on each side of it, that on the right
being more definite and more interesting. It leads up a steep chimney
to the crest of the curtain, which is crossed to the left. The climber
is then in the left-hand branch, and has no difficulty in ascending the
gully till it dwindles down to nothing, and he finds himself looking
into the main south-east gully just above the third pitch. It will be
best, then, to climb down and finish by the usual route.
CUST’S GULLY.--The climbing in this is of the slightest
character in summer time, there being but one short pitch beneath the
natural arch, and very little in that. But with hard snow about there
is scarcely a pleasanter way of playing at Alpine climbing above the
snow-line than by taking Great End viâ Skew Ghyll and Cust’s Gully.
The snow slope will alter in inclination from about 30° at the bottom
to 70° at the top. If the pitch is but thinly covered, there is
the fun of tackling a pitfall, and of bringing to bear on the safe
crossing all the science that glacier crevasses may have taught us in
Switzerland. Nor let any think that it is all make-believe and that
of difficulty there is none. I have had grand times in Cust’s Gully,
where we were actually tired out with the labour of cutting steps.
The snow when fresh is soft and yielding. Give it a week or two to
settle down, and it will bind together so as to offer firm support
on scraped footholds. But let cold rain fall on hard snow and the
temperature then fall below freezing-point, the surface will become icy
and every step will require careful making. Then should the picturesque
attitudes of step-cutting depicted in Badminton be imitated in all
seriousness, and the axe wielded with the scientific swing. It has
happened more than once that a bad axe has proved its worthlessness
when tested on the Cumbrian fells in a winter expedition--a much less
dangerous discovery than if it were taken new to the Alps and there
found wanting. The difficulty in the latter case is that our axes are
so rarely used for hard work, if we are led up the great peaks by
competent guides. They delight in removing every obstacle in our way,
and it may be that long usage of the axe has really been but a test of
the _bâton_, not at all of the pick. Then comes a time when the leading
weapon is broken, or carelessly dropped, or still more carelessly
pitched up to a ledge of only suppositious safety. Do not imagine that
these things never happen, for each has been within my own experience
during the last three years; and woe to the party if the untested axe
is a weakling when emergency calls on it!
The upper part of Cust’s Gully when the snow is at its hardest may
almost be regarded as a test of nerve for the novice. I once was
starting to cut down the gully in such a state, with a young man of
limited Alpine knowledge, who diffidently suggested that step-cutting
was rather slow and that he would prefer a glissade if I did not
mind. I shuddered at the vision his naïve suggestion conjured up, of a
species of chain-shot shooting viciously down the tremendously steep
slope, ricochetting from wall to wall of the gully, and scraped very
bare by the sharp-toothed icy surface. That novice had no nerves, and
my remarks are not intended for him. The contention is that an amateur
party cutting up the steepening slope, and forging a way through an
incipient cornice of overhanging frost crystals at the top, will learn
much of the genuine safety of an ice-slope, and will see how to divest
it of its imaginary dangers. There are many Alpine climbers positively
afraid of harmless slopes, that are not nearly so bad as they appear,
and still less formidable than they show up in photographs. Such men
have never led up steep snow.
Near the foot of Cust’s Gully a branch passes up to the right, of less
altitude and gentler inclination; its rock scenery is not so fine, and
the place is rarely visited.