The jammed stone offered a fair grip underneath, but the ledges were now on the right wall, and the turn towards them was difficult under the circumstances. If we had known that the stone would hold we could have pulled straight up over it; but, out of desire to play the scientific game, I swung round by the hands so that the left leg was in the crack and the upper handholds visible just above my head. Next a pull-up enabled me to get the left knee well on to the stone, and finally to ensconce myself safely in the recess above it. Then our Nestor came up in splendid form, but with some anxious thought for the upper part of the climb. He asked me to mount up to the bridge above and see whether the remainder were feasible, for if not the best plan would be to descend at once. We disagreed over this, but being grateful for the introduction to ‘Tom Blue,’ and not knowing that it was Kern Knotts, I clambered up to please him while he was negotiating the engineer’s rope, and committed myself to the opinion that it was ‘all plain sailing from there.’

From the jammed stone which Nestor was now testing, the route was out over the right face of the chimney, and round again to the left where the top figure is shown in the photograph. A big block forms a bridge, beneath which meet the two chimneys from the opposite faces of the buttress.

We all reached the top of the bridge, and examined the final ridge that springs up for another hundred feet. The angle is not an easy one at first, and there is a scarcity of holds. The stylist who works only with fingers and toes would have much difficulty in getting up, even in dry weather. We one by one surmounted it by offering as many points of contact as possible to the rocks. They were streaming with water, and in a much more slippery condition than we should have preferred for a first ascent. The leader accepted a shoulder at the start, but he felt rather insecure till he was about twelve feet up, when a fine hold was found on the right. From that point the ground is more broken, and easy scrambling led to the top of the crags.

I have been told since then that it is easier to work round to the left from the bridge, and then up to the right; but a recent visit convinces me that both ways have their difficulties when the rocks are wet. Both are safe in dry weather. The direct route up from the bridge has lately been simplified by an artificial step, evidently cut with a chisel. It is a pity the timid mason did not go round another way.

To reach the main shoulder of Gable from here we may keep on towards Raven Crag and strike up a short chimney in its centre. It is not difficult, but its exit from the top takes time if the climber attacks the problem incautiously. Thence to the summit of Gable is a glorious walk.

From the ledge at the foot of the Upper Kern Knotts there rises another buttress a little nearer the Styhead. Between the two buttresses a short gully is found which offers a satisfactory route of descent from the crest of these crags. The entrance to the gully is difficult if tried from the foot of the buttress, but easy and suitable for beginners if taken on the left. It was from this spot that our party had the first view of the ‘crack’ that was to offer such sport a year or two later. Nestor with his characteristic caution vetoed the whole affair, and vowed he would never speak to me again if I attempted to climb it. The engineer, on the other hand, thought that it could not be much worse than the chimney which we had just climbed in safety, and that it might be a good thing to keep in mind for settled weather.

In December, 1895, I went up the chimney with Mr. and Mrs. F. W. Hill. The rocks were slightly damp, the weather misty and unpleasant. On the natural bridge I halted, and looked down the smooth wall of rock facing the Styhead. The crack was straight beneath, and Hill nerved me to the sudden resolve to descend by the rope and prospect the middle portion of the climb. We had only sixty feet of rope, but I was let down carefully and at full distance found myself in a splayed-out portion above the first pitch. The bit beneath looked very awkward, so awkward indeed that it seemed impossible to effect a descent on to the boulders below. There was only one course available, that of climbing up again. This was not so hard as I had fancied it would be, for with the sense of the perfect security in the rope that Hill carefully manipulated, came freedom of movement and a bolder style. This is the reason why many Alpine climbers who know not the joys of leading are entirely ignorant of their own powers; they as often err in underestimating as in overrating their skill; they can gauge their strength only by practice without rope from above. Emerging from the crack I joined up on the rope again and finished the rest of the climb, wondering the while whether a chance would ever come of penetrating the crack from below.

Before leaving the ordinary chimney, let it be added that the climb may have an initial variation by pulling up the vertical rocks to the west of the foot of the nose; the distance to the first big platform is increased about fifteen feet, but the way is pleasanter thus.

Kern Knotts Crack.—One fine morning in April I started off for Keswick, grieved to leave Wastdale and feeling strong after a fortnight’s scrambling. Surely if the crack could be done at all now would be the time, with weather and physical fitness corresponding. Our party was small; two men were coming with me to look at Kern Knotts, and subsequently to exploit the Oblique Chimney, the where-abouts of which had puzzled them the previous day. It was a bargain between us that they should help me in the crack and I should lead up the Oblique Chimney afterwards. The advantage was thus all my own, and their brotherly kindness drew me to them. It was in the preceding winter that Hill had let me down from the top of the crack for a distance of fifty feet to a small loose platform of rock, and I had with extreme effort managed to return without tugging the rope. Since that time there had been opportunity to reflect and decide that if I could get up to the platform from below and then help another to the same level, we could jointly manage the ascent of the crack without further aid. If the platform could not hold two, it would be a case of ascending the worst part of the crack, the splayed-out portion some twelve feet high, without assistance.

On reaching the spot things looked cheerful enough. The rocks were dry, and I found that imagination had somewhat magnified my early impressions of the wall. But the reality is bad enough. The wall is one side of a buttress about one hundred feet in height, and marvellously smooth to look at. It is out down from top to bottom by a clean-edged slit passing right through the buttress and forming on the other side, as I have already explained, the now familiar Kern Knotts Chimney. At a height of thirty feet or so from the foot is the little platform, the niche at the back of which looks as though carved out for the reception of a piece of statuary. The portion of the crack that leads up this first part has a slightly different outlook; it is more open, and is provided with holds of a shaky description. Getting a companion to hold himself in this, I mounted his shoulder and felt about with the hands. There was nothing at all that seemed firm. So I called for the axe, and, remembering certain tactics in an awful rock climb in Northern Italy some years before, I rammed the axe longitudinally into the crack and endeavoured to use it as a hold. The plan is sometimes effective; it is not sufficiently often adopted in extremis; but on this occasion it would not act; the loose stones in the cleft were simply levered out of place, and I had to pass the axe down again. Then ensued a few moments’ fatiguing suspension from one arm with but poor foothold to ease the strain. It was no go this time; I had to let myself down and rest awhile. Next we sat on a boulder opposite the wall, and stared at it silently for a space. Surely that must be a foothold ten feet up on the edge of the crack. If, while I mounted his shoulder, the second man could hold the ice-pick in a minute fissure in the face, I might manage to step on to the axe-head and reach the edge of the platform. It would at any rate prove safer than the crack route. The plan commended itself to all, and we placed ourselves in position. It turned out that the axe was scarcely necessary, for with a little delicate balancing I reached the top hold with both hands and dragged up to the lower step in the ledge. Thence to the platform was an easy matter, and we all began to breathe freely.

It never occurred to me that I had made no mental note, in my previous ascent of the crack, of the method of getting up the next part. It was certainly a stiff struggle that Christmas, but I was then out of form, and might reasonably hope to succeed more easily now. Nevertheless, when it came to the test I found it impossible, three times in succession, to get my head above a certain projecting block at the top of the niche. Each time it caught me by the back of the neck, and would not release me till in desperate extremity I let myself down again—no easy matter with exhausted arms. After the first try my two friends went round to the other side of the buttress, and hastily climbed the chimney so as to be ready to help me. I could hear their every word through the fissure, and rather surprised them by making a quiet remark. On a small scale we were having the Funffingerspitze incident repeated. Neruda was climbing that famous Dolomite, the scene of his tragic death in 1898, by a new route and heard another party ascending by the older way on the other side of the mountain.

My pockets had been emptied out before the start. After these failures I flung away my coat and tied on to the rope that had been let down from above. With renewed confidence the fourth attempt was successful. When the first twelve feet were passed I found two wedged stones a short distance above my head. These forced my body out of the crack altogether, but they offered respectable holds during the process. Above these the next pitch involved a process of backing up, though the chimney was much too narrow to brace firmly across from side to side.

I joined the other men at the top after a few more struggles, breathless and exhausted. Resting a few moments we descended the Kern Knotts Chimney and went down to lunch near the spring. Later on, when I effected the ascent without a rope, a rapid passage of the worst bit left me with enough reserve strength to climb up the rest of the way comfortably. The eighty feet and the descent by the chimney on the other side were then disposed of in seven minutes.

The remaining passage upwards from the cave is by the mauvais pas of the ordinary route.

The account of this crack has been given in much detail. It is the sort of thing for a strong party to climb on their way out of Wastdale, or some afternoon after a wet morning’s imprisonment in the hotel. The danger of the first pitch can be minimised for the leader by holding him with the rope from the right-hand recess of the wall. In fact there is a pinnacle in this recess at about the level of the niche, which could be utilized as a holding-place. A shoulder to start from and an ice-axe support in continuation are certain to be appreciated. Messrs. Reade and McCulloch have lately shown that the niche can be reached by the crack. On the worst bit which immediately follows I expect a steadying hand from below will be generally necessary.

When a man can go up this without assistance from above he may well be regarded as fit for the Grépon crack. This latter is of the same length and general character. It is easier, but harder to enter, and it comes after more climbing; moreover, there may be ice in it to create trouble.

Kern Knotts, West Chimney.—A note may here be added concerning the only remaining chimney on these crags that can claim to be a distinctive feature visible at a distance. It is about sixty feet to the north-west (or Wastdale side) of the ordinary route, and is plainly discernible from the lower part of the Styhead path. A diminutive cairn now marks the foot of the chimney; another stands on a flat ledge a couple of yards above the narrowest and hardest portion of the climb.

There are two or three ways of reaching the foot of the main difficulty in the ascent, all converging to a point about twenty-five feet above the lower cairn. Here a vertical crack rises abruptly, varying from ten inches to nothing in width, and terminating ten feet higher in a right-angled corner of the rocks that will on no account permit any ‘backing-up.’ For some distance the recess looks as difficult to tackle as the corner of a room, and it is only when the climber gets to a height of fifty feet that his troubles appear to moderate. One wet day some twelve months ago our party could make nothing of the ascent, but shortly after last Easter (1897) I made another attempt on it. To help me on the difficult pitch a second man was persuaded to scramble up to the foot of the crack, as I anticipated the need of a sturdy shoulder. But the platform on which I was waiting proved to be much too small for two, and when, by elevating myself a few feet, it was safe for him to follow, I was too high to use his shoulder and had to manage with his encouraging suggestions and the little excrescences on the right wall. The first pull up the crack was by an excellent hold for both hands on the left, using a narrow ledge with the inner side of the left foot, and the crack itself for the right thigh. It then became desirable to turn round so that the outer edge of the left foot should grip it without losing its support during the process of turning. This accomplished, the method of ascent became obvious. Small holds for hands and feet were distributed regularly up the right wall, perhaps three ledges for a rise of ten feet. During the latter part the left hand sought support in the grassy corner of the chimney, which here began to open up again. Then a long pull with the arms brought me up to the flat ledge that marks the finish of the difficulty. There a cairn was built with the loose stones that needed shifting, the second man coming up like a lamplighter to help in the operation.

Thence our route was partly up the buttress, by rather exposed ledges, and partly in the chimney. The rocks were excellent and the open mountain side was reached in another fifty feet. The climb is worthy of Kern Knotts. It is more risky than either the chimney or the ‘crack,’ but with a steady party and dry rocks it will go perfectly well. Nevertheless, I am far from willing to give it an unqualified recommendation. A slip of the leader on the awkward part would almost certainly cause the second to be pulled away from his hold, and the two would have an objectionable fall over twenty-five feet of steep rock. But the striking appearance of the difficult pitch is enough to keep away all weaklings.

CHAPTER XIII
THE WASTWATER SCREES

Wastwater, the deepest lake in the district, occupies a flat-bottomed depression in Wastdale. It is just three miles long, and its very regular shores somewhat detract from the prettiness of its scenery. But the wild character of the hills that inclose it gives it a grandeur that is not possessed to an equal extent by any of the other lakes in the country. Its direction is north-east and south-west; Upper Wastdale is at its northern end. The road up the valley from Strands runs close to the lake along its north-western side, and is good enough for driving or bicycling as far as Wastdale Head. There it terminates as a driving-road, but paths lead to the north over the Black Sail Pass and eastwards over the Styhead. As we walk up the road, Buckbarrow towers in steep crags a mile away to the left; then on the same side we skirt the gentler slopes of Middle Fell, and after crossing Nether Beck, Yewbarrow exhibits a singular change of outline, from that of a steep and narrow pyramid to a long level-topped grassy ridge with no architectural pretensions whatever. On the other side of the lake is the ridge of the Screes, one of the most singular mountains in Britain. Its highest point is by no means striking to look at, a matter of 2,000 feet above the sea. For a length of three miles the ridge is broken away in a line of cliff of almost uniform height, towering 1,500 feet over the lake. The character of the rock, and perhaps also an unusually great exposure to weathering influences, has caused an enormous wear and tear of the face of the cliff. Thus it is that huge screes have been formed that flow straight down into the lake. The action is still going on. If we take a walk along the edge of the cliff, and this way of enjoying the round of Wastwater may be strongly recommended to tourists, we cannot help noticing that at the heads of the big gullies which indicate the regions of maximum erosion, slight preliminary landslips have already occurred. The grassy ridge is marked in many places by curved terraces, showing definite subsidence and taking the general shape of the gully head. A few years ago a great mass of rock detached itself from the top of the cliff near its highest point, and thundered down towards the lake. It happened at night and nobody was there to see, but the terrific noise gave serious alarm to the inhabitants of the valley. It has been estimated that the volume of rock that broke away was as great as the Manchester Town Hall, but the comparison is perhaps worth little, for to many a north-countryman there is nothing greater than the Manchester Town Hall, and the expression may have been used merely to denote that the rock-fall was very big. The scar may still be seen on the face, if one knows where to look for it; the scree below it appeared fresh for many months. The rich colouring of red and yellow in the rocks has caused the scree itself to assume an astonishing variety of tints, and when viewed in sunlight the effects are most remarkable.

From the climbing point of view this continual weathering is altogether unsatisfactory. The rocks are too uncertain, and in most cases the gullies are too much occupied by scree. But towards the lower end of the lake we find that certain different conditions obtain. The rocks are firmer, there is less scree at their base, and it shows plainly by its grass covering that the fresh supply is strictly limited.

The last great bastion of the high ridge rises opposite Wastdale Hall. It is cut off from the crags on the left by the Great Gully, which runs up to the sky-line through a height of a thousand feet. On the right a slighter gully practically indicates the end of the precipitous portion of the face. Cutting deeply into the centre of the bastion itself is a third gully that is continued straight on to the sky-line; if anything it is a few feet shorter than the Great Gully, though much more difficult to climb. I propose to describe these two only. From all accounts it would appear that they represent fully the satisfactory routes up the Screes. The sketch in Haskett Smith’s book shows them as B and C (the reader can let B stand for ‘big’ and C for ‘central’). That which is marked A in his sketch is no climb at all. It is just a gully and nothing more, but it was not quite so worthy of being labelled as the next great one to the left.

The B gully was first climbed in the winter of 1891-2 by Messrs. Collie, Hastings, and Robinson, and an interesting account of the ascent, contributed by Dr. Collie, appeared in the ‘Scottish Mountaineering Journal’ for January, 1894. A year later Mr. Mummery made the second ascent. Not so long afterwards Robinson showed me the way up with a large party of enthusiasts, whose strength and nerve were pretty well exhausted by the time we dragged ourselves over the last pitch.

Concerning the early history of the attempts on the C gully I have not been able to gather much information. Many parties have started up it with the impression that they were undertaking the Great Gully, but they never succeeded in finishing it. On April 19, 1895, Messrs. Lawrence, Simpson, and Patchell, made a magnificent assault on it, and by the merest accident they had to give in almost at the moment of success. They climbed seven pitches, the gully getting harder at each successive pitch. Then, when worn out with fatigue and exposure to wet and cold, they misjudged the difficulty of the ninth pitch. It is certainly most formidable to look at from below the eighth, but on closer examination its difficulties vanish. That is to say, they become insignificant for a party that can get over the seventh pitch. They saw two more huge obstacles looming above the ninth, and were completely disheartened. There happened to be an easy exit on the left, and they took to it. Once or twice since that date others have tried the gully again, but without effecting any further advance. In April, 1897, Mr. H. C. Bowen accompanied me from Wastdale in an attempt. Circumstances favoured us throughout, and the gully yielded to our attack. I believe it is one of the hardest climbs that either of us has yet effected in Cumberland, but that may be because it is one of the most recent. Before attempting it visitors to the district should see first if they can comfortably manage the B gully.

The Great Gully of the Screes (B).—The usual way of reaching it from Wastdale Head is by the road as far as the second field beyond Wastdale Hall. There a path across the bridge can be found, and the course of the stream followed up to the lake side. The foot of the gully is reached in fifteen minutes by bearing obliquely upwards across ancient scree. Its aspect is such as to directly face the small peninsula across the water a trifle to the left of the Hall. The right edge of the gully extends further downwards than the left, and a small stream of water is usually finding its way down the rough scree bed.

A few feet up we reach the first obstacle, in the shape of a broken waterfall altogether about thirty feet high. It is usual to take to the steep grass on the left, a route that looks easier than it actually is. When the soil is damp the earth comes away like sand, and there is little reliability in the holds all the way up. We step with relief into the bed of the gully again, and look up to see what the prospect is. An easy slope leads towards a second waterfall, considerably higher than the first. Ordinarily there is no chance of surmounting it directly, but a way of avoiding it discloses itself as we approach. The gully divides into two, the main portion being to the left, and a fine branch passing up to a height of 150 feet on the right. We start by climbing the first pitch in the branch gully—a narrow vertical corner in the wall down which a vigorous spout of water jets like a hydrant. There are a few ledges on the left side which enable us to avoid some of the water, but if there has been much rain before our expedition it is impossible to keep dry during the ascent.

It was here that I saw a sinful act of revenge that grieved me much at the time. My companions had been with me up the Scawfell Pinnacle by the Deep Ghyll route on the previous day, and one had kept the others in painful attitudes on the cliff while he leisurely proceeded to photograph us. The partner of my woes vowed vengeance, and exacted it here on the Screes. His turn it was to manipulate the camera, and his wicked malice prompted him to insist on taking a photograph when his brother was half-way up the corner. We had given him the right of choosing his subject and could not complain, especially as he was loud in his praise of the view and in his grief at his brother’s cramped and drenched condition. But he was in good humour for the rest of the day, and that was worth paying for.

The position now is that a buttress separates us from the main gully. We have to clamber a few feet up this, next along a shallow, sloping scoop as far as it goes, and then traverse across to the head of the big fall. The leader is not able to derive much help from the rope in case of a slip, but it is as well for the second man to climb thirty feet up the right wall of the branch gully, so as to be higher than the pioneer. The buttress looks much broken from below, but the general slope is to our disadvantage, and the final traverse is along a crumbling ledge of earth and grass. Frost occasionally makes the climbing easier, by binding the earth firmly to the rock.

The view across the lake from the top of the waterfall is very beautiful. The rich dark green of the pines that grow down to the water’s edge on the other side form a striking contrast to the gaunt and barren walls of black rock that close in the view. Buckbarrow fills up the background, the severity of its seamed precipices softened by distance.

The branch gully, it may here be mentioned, has never been climbed throughout. It ends on the bastion at no great height above us, and is probably not very stiff. I tried it one Christmas Day with Messrs. Robinson and Fowler, but we rose no higher than the little notch on the thin curtain of rock that forms its right boundary. We got soaked in the little waterfall, and the bitter cold drove us back unsuccessful. We had difficulties with the awkward chimney above the narrow corner.

Keeping up the main gully, an easy stretch takes us to the third pitch. It is a water-slide, and we must hurry up quickly if dryness is still any consideration. The best way is on the left. There are many holds under the water, and our efforts to prevent its trickling down our arms will be futile if we get flurried by nasty remarks from those behind. Almost before we can gain breath again we are confronted by a similar difficulty. The water-slide here is taken first on the right, until a slanting crack leads across to the other side. The climbing is rather stiff near the top, and careful search should be made for the safest footholds.

The fifth pitch that we now approach is generally regarded as the hardest. It is undoubtedly difficult when taken by the route first discovered. A long wet slope of rock divides the gully into two parts. On the right there seems little likelihood of finding a way up. The great overhanging slabs are fifty feet high, and water is continually pouring down them. On the left the chance of success is greater. A slanting crack lies between the rock slope and the side wall. It leads straight up to a hole underneath a huge overhanging boulder that dominates the pitch. There we can see a choice of route. The way first adopted is to wriggle up the chimney between the boulder and the left wall; but it is preferable to crawl out of the hole to the right and make an exit over rounded boulders to the top of the obstacle. The chimney is extremely stiff, the main difficulty being to make a start from the hole. If the cave had a level bottom the difficulties would be much moderated. There are no holds on the boulder itself and very few on the side wall, but those few make it worth while starting with the face to the wall. Six feet higher, when the climber is in the most exposed situation, he must turn half round and use both sides of the chimney. If the leader cannot get into the crack unassisted, it is a good plan for the second to hitch himself to a jammed boulder at the back of the cave and proffer a shoulder as a take-off. The first explorers had ice to contend against and proceeded in a still more cautious manner, all three combining their strength at the awkward corner. I have three times seen men swing off on the rope when half way up the chimney, and am bound to admit that there is too much touch-and-go for the way to suit any but very strong climbers. The easier way out of the hole—first taken, I think, by Messrs. Whitaker and Thorp—seems to reduce the difficulty considerably, and will probably become a favourite exit.

Above the fifth pitch we step out into a huge amphitheatre of rock. It is difficult to decide which is the main gully, and many men are willing to conclude that there is no more hard work in front, and that a speedy passage out of the hollow will conduce most to their happiness.

The real gully passes up on the left. A branch starts pleasantly enough to the right, but after one or two fairly easy pitches we are confronted by a blank, wet wall. The sides are steep and spiky and rotten; it was a most miserable hour I once spent getting over forty feet of this dreadful cul-de-sac, and ever since I have solemnly warned others from any such attempt to shirk the final part of the Great Gully. If they wish to get out, they should keep still more to the right, over steep grass and occasional slight rock. Traversing in a westerly or south-westerly direction, they pass across the heads of several gullies, above the worst portion of the C gully, and then out on the fell side, whence an easy run takes them down to the bridge.

The three or four pitches that must be overcome in mounting to the head of the true Great Gully are short but difficult. The ghyll is narrow and wet and it is almost impossible towards the finish to avoid a drenching by the slender stream that monopolizes the direct route. The last pitch is ordinarily circumvented by passing up the nasty wall of loose earth and rocky débris on the left. This diversion leads on to an easy broken buttress from which we can walk into the gully again and up its scree finish to the crest of the precipice.

On the occasion of my first ascent we were four and a half hours in the gully. A second expedition to the top of the fifth pitch took three hours; and half that time was spent at photography.

The Central Gully (C).—Bowen and I had been climbing together for some days last Easter (1897), and were reserving an attempt on the C gully for the latter end of our holiday, to give ourselves the chance of getting into good form and the place an opportunity for drying up.

One fine morning we heard that another party were driving down the valley on their way to the Great Gully. They offered us seats in their wagonette. We gladly accepted, and had a pleasant drive along the lakeside as far as Wastdale Hall. The walk round to the foot of our climb occupied us the best part of half an hour, and we then left our friends to continue their journey, arranging to look out for them at the top of the Screes a few hours later.

The gully was easy at the outset, but far up above us we could see difficulties in plenty, and we began the scramble with a sense of future bliss that rather detracted from our present enjoyment.

We passed up on the left-hand side of the first pitch at 11-18, over fifteen feet of steep grass and rock. The holds were fairly good beside the waterfall. A few feet further on the gully narrowed at a second pitch—a steep gutter down which the stream endeavoured to smooth a way. We could use ledges on either side, and at the top a tree-stem that has lain there for some years gave us assistance. The pitch is about twenty-five feet high.

Then there followed two easy ten-feet bits before we found ourselves compelled at the fifth pitch to quit the bed of the gully. This obstacle sent us off to the left up a steep grass bank before we could traverse back into the narrow chimney at an assailable spot. We were obliged to use our knees for wedging safely in the V-shaped corner, and thus had our introduction to the water-way. The ledges were few and slippery. Ten feet up the corner a jammed stone and a slippery slab guarded the head of the pitch. We reached the former actually behind the water, and hastened out to the left with but slight steadying holds for the hands.

Then we halted a little and looked about us. We had gone through the preliminaries, and realized that our gully was now getting stiff. The view upwards showed the great seventh pitch, but nothing higher. Far below we could see the end of the lake. The prospect was not nearly so fine as that from the Great Gully; the rocks were not so boldly carved out, nor the outlook so fair.

The next obstacle was formed by a jammed boulder thirty feet high, impossible to climb direct. It would perhaps have been best to take it on the right, but we advanced tentatively up the other side, and then, seeing that it would just go, kept on to the top. Our route lay up the narrow crack between the boulder and the side wall. A shoulder was useful for the leader at the start, but he had a bad six feet just above. The only hold for the right hand was obtained by clenching the fist inside the crack so as to form a wedge. A far-away notch in the wall gave an oblique push-off for the left foot, the struggle being mainly to keep close to the crack.

The difficulties now became almost continuous, and we were unable to define exactly the beginning of the seventh pitch. Some twenty feet of steep climbing up the bed of the ghyll first followed and we reached a little platform whence a branch gully of steep grass led out on the buttress to our left. The main gully was thirty feet across, narrowing a little higher up. An almost vertical rib of rock some six feet thick divided the gully into two parts. That on the right was a wide recess roofed in by a great stone nearly a hundred feet overhead. From our little platform we could see the water streaming over the edge of the roof, and forming a thin veil at the entrance to the cave. The left-hand side of the rib was a narrow crack sloping back at an angle of about 45°, but after the first thirty feet continuing to the top perpendicularly. The route we chose lay first up the crack, then across the rib and into the cave. A second start being made from there, we proposed to climb up the vertical rib, taking to the crack on its left whenever the difficulties became extreme. At the level of the roof of the cavern we were to traverse across on to it and make directly up its smooth slope and round by the left of a higher jammed block that overhung the finishing portion of the pitch. I think the route differs a little from that of the first party, who were somewhat assisted by a jammed stone then in the crack. In fact one member considered the stone essential for a successful ascent, and that its untimely removal closed the upper half for ever. But there can be no doubt that in a dry season the obstacle can be overcome by a moderately strong party, and that in the normal ‘streamy’ state of the gully the climber needs but the knowledge of a route and the nerve to follow it without hesitation and without regard to dryness.

We found the way easy up to the cave. There Bowen braced himself firmly amidst the bright green ferns and endeavoured to reconcile himself to the prospect of a long wait. He could not trace out my route upwards, for the curtain of water was between us, but now and again when troubles were thickest he would inquire feelingly after my condition.

It was straightforward climbing out from the cave and up to the vertical buttress. But the absence of suitable holds in the crack on the left made the next twenty feet very severe, and I was glad to find at last a series of ledges across to the top of the cave. The holds were wet and my fingers benumbed. If the ledges had been anything but satisfactory the traverse would have been highly incorrect, not to say immoral. Then the rope had to be lengthened out and the wait was unpleasant. But the rock slope was a much simpler matter than it had appeared to be from below, and the rest of the pitch was scarcely more than a walk. I drew up over the last block with much relief, and paused to recover warmth and feeling before drawing in the rope for Bowen. He climbed with great rapidity and practically left out the traverse; it was rather vexatious to find that he emerged fresh and comparatively dry. It was now 12-34 P.M., and so far we had advanced rapidly.

A few feet in front was a long thin crack, looking easy but proving awkward at close quarters. We found it best to traverse up the smooth slab on the left and then crawl along a rickety ledge of grass and rock back to the gully again. Were we nevermore to find an easy piece? Almost at once a ninth pitch faced us, looking somewhat like the eighth. The gully suddenly narrows to a V-groove which springs up vertically for twelve feet, then slopes away at 45° for twenty feet, and finally is blocked by a few boulders before widening out again. Just before the constriction occurs, the walls of the ravine slope outwards at an easy angle, and the tangle of thickly-matted grass disguises the treacherous character of the rock underneath. This has been splintered and loosened by frost and sturdy vegetation. Great masses in many steep places are ready to fall at a touch, and scrambling is robbed of its pleasures by the sense of possible insecurity of every available hold. I tried at first to keep up the crack, but just at the corner where it trends obliquely upwards the difficulties of holding on proved too great and a cautious descent had to be effected. Then we looked to the left up a steep little gully fifty feet high. It ended abruptly in the main wall of the ravine, but a great splinter of rock at the highest corner gave us a chance of belaying. Bowen clambered gingerly over the broken ground and tied himself to the rock. Then, slipping my rope round it, he prepared to hold me during the next move. Our plan was to clamber up the loose face on the left of the awkward pitch and traverse into the gully twenty-five feet higher. My rope was dragging along the wall, and would have dislodged a good deal if suddenly called upon to break my fall. The worst bit was the last six feet of traverse, which I very much loosened during the passage. The gully was then bestridden and both sides used for the finishing portion of the pitch. When Bowen came along, the traverse broke away at his touch, and it was rather alarming to see him start falling backwards. But the rope was tight above him and he simply swung round into the gully; it was the most expeditious mode of entering, but he bruised his leg a little at the final bump. We afterwards agreed that the second man ought to take the whole obstacle direct. Trying to repeat the ascent again in April, 1898, by exactly the same manœuvres, the slight remnant of traverse broke away with me and I had a bad fall. I was saved, of course, by the rope. The direct ascent of the watercourse has been proved to be possible, and is now much the better way.

Such was the ninth pitch, probably the one misjudged by Dr. Lawrence’s party on April 9, 1895. They had taken four hours to climb to the eighth, remarkably good going when one considers the bad condition of the gully during their ascent and the amount of new ground they managed to cover. We had mounted in a little less than an hour and three quarters; but we were only a small party and the circumstances very favourable. They saw a hundred-feet pitch following on a few yards higher and endeavoured to estimate its difficulties. From below the aspect is terrifying, and after a slight survey they decided to work out of the ravine by an easy exit up the left wall. Thence they saw a few more pitches higher up beyond the tenth, and were convinced that they had done right. But they were mistaken, as our experience proved.

A little direct scrambling up the bed of the gully took us to the foot of the great obstacle. A water-shoot splashes on to the left wall eighty feet up, and is deflected into the cavernous depths of a black recess formed in the gully by a long buttress that divides it into two parts. The climb up through the splashing water appears to be almost hopeless, and a view from above of the last twenty feet shows that the risk would be extreme if the pitch were attacked on that side. But the buttress will be found on inspection to close in a sort of chimney on the right, fairly easy to reach and most comfortable to follow up to its finish three feet above the level of the top of the waterfall. This branch chimney is safe and dry. There are no loose stones about, and the occasional glimpses of the furious shoot over the way are very pleasing. They were so to us, at any rate, who had been in fear and trembling lest we should be compelled to attack the pitch through the waterfall. We were surprised at our good fortune, and none the less on seeing that the difficulties above were insignificant. A short scree and an easy twelve-feet obstacle brought us up to the well-known traverse across the face of the mountain.

We could hear occasional shouting of our friends in the Great Gully. It tempted us to work over to them and finish on the final chimneys of their climb. But we felt constrained to keep straight up, lest any further pitches should linger unclimbed. The C gully was to acknowledge itself vanquished from beginning to end, and we set ourselves to finish the task. Little actually remained. A steep climb of thirty feet, using both sides of the gully, with poor holds near the top, virtually brought us to an end of its interesting and extended series of pitches. A scramble up the last water-slide and a muddy slope led to the long scree finish, and we emerged at the summit shortly after two o’clock. The walk home over Ill Fell took an hour and a half.

CHAPTER XIV
PAVEY ARK

The Langdale Pikes form a beautiful group of hills four miles to the east of the Scawfell Pikes. They lie at the head of Langdale, and the highest point, Harrison Stickle, is a prominent object in many a favourite landscape.

Harrison Stickle is splendidly shaped, and manages to give an impression of much greater height than it really possesses (2,401 feet). Half a mile to the west is the Pike of Stickle or the Sugarloaf. It has a little climbing on the west face. Mr. Gwynne writes of it thus: ‘The Sugarloaf itself is a very fine peak, that, viewed from the valley, has very much the appearance of the Mönch. It runs down towards the Stake Pass in a spur, which must be the starting-point of most of the climbs on this mountain. There is a curious gully here, which is worthy of the climber’s attention. It does not run from top to bottom, but suddenly begins about the middle of the crag. The difficulty is to get at this gully, and some pretty climbing can be obtained in the attempt.’

Somewhat south of the mid-point between Harrison Stickle and the Sugarloaf is the summit of Gimmer Crag. It overlooks the old hotel of Dungeon Ghyll, and offers in dry weather a considerable amount of indiscriminate scrambling.

One of the finest little tarns of the district lies 900 feet below the summit of Harrison Stickle, on its north-east side. Stickle Tarn is almost as solitary as Easedale, and its surroundings are decidedly finer. It is about an hour’s walk from Dungeon Ghyll, by a small footpath keeping close to the stream that is fed by the lake waters. The view across the tarn is a delight to climbers’ eyes. The great cliffs of Pavey Ark, rising 700 feet above the lake, are darkly reflected in the still waters. They are deeply cut by two gullies that immediately arrest attention. Each marks a little notch in the sky-line. A third notch further to the left indicates the head of a slighter indentation in the face of the cliff, which, so far as I know, has not yet been explored. The right-hand ‘Great’ Gully was first climbed by Haskett Smith in the summer of 1882. The left, called the ‘Little’ Gully by way of antithesis, the same climber explored in June, 1886. A lady ascended the Great Gully in 1887, and later years have seen a steady succession of visitors to these crags.

Well towards the north end of the cliff is a wide scree gully with a square notch at its crest. Near the foot of this a safe natural path may be followed obliquely across the face. This is the well-known Jack’s Rake. It starts rather steeply, but soon assumes a gentle, uniform gradient. It crosses the Great Gully a hundred feet below the top; there then follows a rather awkward bit for the walker, who will need to scramble up a corner to get on to the last portion of the rake. It crosses the Little Gully within fifty feet of the Summit, and ends on the buttress just beyond. Two chimneys spring from the level of Jack’s Rake to the north of the Great Gully, which both look interesting. Our pleasant scramble is thus described by Gwynne: ‘This ledge [i.e. Jack’s Rake] offers a multitude of good opportunities to the climber. It runs obliquely across the face of the precipice, but it need not necessarily be followed throughout its length by the mountaineer who wishes for something a little more exciting. About half-way up there runs on to the ledge a chimney which—when it is not a small waterfall—forms a pleasant climb to some broken rock above, whence the summit is easily reached. If, however, the water in the chimney makes it uncomfortable and unpleasant for the climber, he may still arrive at the top of it by choosing a long bit of steep, smooth rock on the left. There are two clefts which afford fairly good hand-and-foot holds, and from there the top of the chimney is attained.’

The Little Gully.—Some six years ago I paid my first visit to Pavey Ark. The accounts of the Great Gully were very enticing. One visitor spoke of it as having only one pitch, ‘but that was severe.’ Another, commenting on the first, remarked: ‘Yes! it has only one pitch, but that one lasts all the way up!’ Then a celebrated climber had estimated its height at double the actual amount, which was a testimonial to its good qualities all the more acceptable because it was given unconsciously.

There were tales of a leader pawing about for half an hour on the second man’s head and shoulders, in search of holds. Gloves and sticks and other impedimenta were understood to lie in profusion at the foot of the stiffest bit, left there by those who could climb no higher, or those who sadly expected that after their despairing attempts had failed they would have no further need for such articles. In short, there was a good deal of pernicious exaggeration concerning the Great Gully, and I went for it expecting great things. It was rather a long walk from Wastdale, over Great End and Bowfell. The descent to Dungeon Ghyll was taken for the sake of a look-in at the waterfall, and for the next half-hour hurrying up to Stickle Tarn, I felt to the full the futility of having run down from Bowfell to Langdale to save time. Arrived at the small dam that holds in the waters of the lake, I saw the two gullies on the other side, and concluding that the left-hand one looked harder, skirted the lake, and made for its foot. It was a foolish mistake, thus to confuse the two routes. The Little Gully was ascended that day, and until Haskett Smith’s book came out three years later, describing the locality in some detail, I fondly imagined that I knew the best thing on Pavey Ark.

The gully is narrow at first. Its walls are red in colour, and a film of water generally covers them. The holds are not particularly good, and the steepness of the gully renders extreme caution necessary. Both walls are used, and our advance is after the fashion of a man on a ladder. Then the gully widens, and the difficulties come in successive steps till a great overhanging boulder blocks the direct ascent. Here the right wall is sufficiently broken to offer a method of circumventing the pitch, but in wet weather the place is bad. Just above this I found a stick, conclusive evidence to the simple mind that the hard bit of the Great Gully was now being approached. It looked as though it had been there for years. The view backwards was most impressive, the tarn appearing almost beneath my feet. The second obstacle was now to be considered. The gully narrowed to a thin vertical corner plastered over with wet green moss. The take-off was earthy and disagreeably loose. The only holds were on the right wall near the corner, and were few and far between. I hesitated below for a long time, scarcely knowing how best to start operations. A big jammed stone came away in my hands as I made a first attempt, and crashed down the gully from side to side. At last I rammed the left knee tentatively into the wet corner, and edged up a few feet with the aid of sundry slight supports for the right foot. Ten feet higher an excellent hold was reached with the hand, and the chief trouble was over. Huge boulders were piled overhead confusedly, but they gave plenty of opportunities, and no longer had the smooth, almost shiny surface that characterized the rocks further down. The top of the gully was reached three quarters of an hour after starting. It was half-past five, and snow was beginning to fall; I thought it desirable to hurry, and a steady trot westwards round the head of Langdale Combe and the further side of Black Crags brought me in three miles to the path at the Angle Tarn and the foot of the up-grade towards Esk Hause. Thence a steady two hours’ walk in the dark brought me safely to Wastdale, in happy ignorance of the fact that I had only visited the Little Gully. But to this day I think it as hard as its neighbour.

The Great Gully.—Shortly after Easter, 1896, I begged some friends to come over and climb the Great Gully with me. It was my last day at Wastdale; I was due at Coniston the same evening, and the Langdale Pikes offered a pleasanter walk to the Old Man district than is given by the Eskdale and Cockley Beck route. My friends stipulated that we should call a halt at Kern Knotts on the way out and attempt the ‘crack.’ This we managed with expedition, and continued the journey betimes over the Styhead and Esk Hause.

The three miles from Angle Tarn to Pavey Ark are rather tedious, though the view of Bowfell and of Pike of Stickle relieves the monotony. It is a wild open moor that we have to cross, and its gentle slope is very deceptive. For a long time the sky-line in front of us, after rounding Langdale Combe at the top of the Stake Pass, recedes as we advance, and it is not till the grassy ridge of Thunacar Knott is gained that we begin to see the upper crags of Pavey Ark. Nevertheless it is much better to approach the crags in this way from the Wastdale direction than to descend first towards Dungeon Ghyll. The great rocks strewn about the crest of the cliff are most singular in character. Their surface is as rough as that of the magnesian limestone in the Dolomites. If only the whole face of Pavey Ark were of this formation we should have a fine opportunity for practice with the scarpetti or rope-soled shoes used by the Tyrolese rock-climbers.

We descended towards the tarn by an easy slope between the cliff and the north-east ridge of Harrison Stickle. Then at the level of the base of the crags we crossed a water-course, and traversed over the scree to the foot of the Great Gully, passing the entrance to the other on our way. The remarks already made, and reference to the diagram on page 203, will perhaps give sufficient indication of the place at which we now found ourselves. In misty weather the locality can be identified by the branch gully to the left, that starts at once and loses itself 200 feet higher up.

The lower part of the climb very much resembles the corresponding portion in the other gully. The side walls are close together, the rock is steep, and hand-and-foot scrambling fairly continuous for about 150 feet. When the rocks are wet some special care is necessary at a place thirty feet from the starting-point. Then comes the first pitch, a remarkably fine piece of rock scenery. An enormous boulder completely blocks the way, projecting at least fifteen feet at its upper part. The left wall is practically hopeless, but the other side shows a series of small ledges that enable the climber to work up to the flat corner between the boulder and the right wall. Formerly this bit was grassy. Only a few small tufts now remain, and the holds are therefore more obvious. A pleasanter way lies through the cave and out by a narrow tunnel in the roof to the same flat corner, which is just discernible from below. That way our party followed. The dripping water from the roof was a trifle unpleasant sometimes, but there was a great sense of security in adopting the through route. The tunnel required careful going until one’s eyes got accustomed to the darkness. Then the handholds could be distinguished and the platform reached in safety.

The view outwards was most brilliant. Sunlight on the distant range of Fairfield and Helvellyn, the serpentine Windermere appearing here and there far away to the south; Langdale in all its loveliness, with the watch-tower of Harrison Stickle at its head; and the gloomy Stickle Tarn 500 feet beneath us. Our own situation was sufficiently striking for the recollection of this pitch to remain impressed on our memories. We stood (one at a time, by the way) on the very edge of the overhanging eaves of the huge cave beneath. The side walls of the gully seemed to cut us off from all communication with the world. We could only realize the solid platform and the enduring rock to which we hung; all the rest might have been a fantasy. Even the bold fisherman down by the shores of the tarn, slowly manipulating his rod as he cautiously waded knee-deep in the water, seemed to belong to another species. It was incredible that I should be crossing London within twenty-four hours; and the thought of it only stirred slightly in my mind, without actually shaping itself until this present time of writing.

The difficulty was not quite passed. To reach the top of the pitch we had to haul ourselves up a tight little corner between the boulder and the side wall. Formerly the headroom was so limited that it was necessary to keep out a little, and effect a rather sensational haul over the front of the boulder. Since the first ascent a piece of rock has fallen away, and the corner is easier. There is no actual danger for the leader, as his rope can be securely held in the interior of the cave. In fact, he may, if he chooses, obtain any desired assistance from the second man properly belayed on the platform. The corner is only ten feet high and the rocks are very good.

Almost immediately after the first pitch the gully undergoes a great change in appearance. It still remains narrow, but the bed has alternately vertical and horizontal stretches of wet and slippery rock. The hardest piece is generally regarded as the second pitch. It consists of a long slab thirty feet high, constituting the true bed of the ghyll and the only available way up. It is set at a steep angle, and appears to be singularly devoid of useful holds. On the occasion of the first ascent it was ‘lubricated by a film of fine mud,’ and our own observations gave strength to the conviction that such was its usual condition. Loose gravel is being continually washed down the incline, lodging in a most annoying manner on the best holds. Small wonder that this ‘brant and slape’ part gives pause to many climbers. Yet it has been climbed even when ice is about, thanks no doubt to good nails and cool judgment. We treated the pitch with the utmost respect, carefully clearing away the grit from each little ledge and working as close to the corner as the holds would permit. Fifteen feet up we passed the worst spot, ugly to look at but not bad enough to turn us back. Then the slope eased off and we could walk up grass and scree on to Jack’s Rake, a hundred feet above the pitch. The rake really terminates the gully. To the left is a small chimney forming a genuine little obstacle to an advance along the rake. That was certainly no suitable finish to our climb. A few yards to the right showed what we wanted, a gully that should lead out to the top of Pavey Ark. We found the rocks there presented the rough surface that characterised the boulders up above. There were several great slabs blocking our way at first, but it was a real delight to get over them. A short and narrow chimney followed, with such gripping powers that our clothes clung to the sides tenaciously. As Haskett Smith remarks, ‘it would be quite difficult to make a slip on them.’ Then we walked out to the top, three-quarters of an hour after entering the gully, and while leisurely coiling up my rope we discussed the question of tea. Should the others accept my invitation to Dungeon Ghyll and then return to Wastdale at dusk, or should they make straight for Wastdale at once? To my sorrow they objected to the suggested extension of their walk and strode off to the west. My own course lay first to the foot of the crags, where my rücksack had been left, and thence to Dungeon Ghyll and Coniston.

The Rake End Chimney.—Besides the third chimney described by Gwynne as running half-way up on to the ledge, there is a short but excellent route up the crags starting near the foot of Jack’s Rake. The following note was supplied by Mr. Claude Barton:—‘The climb is in two pitches, the first being broken up into places where you can play up a second man. The mauvais pas is just at the top of this. A moss-grown wall and two jammed stones must be surmounted, and the leader may need some support. The second pitch is a fine chimney blocked by a large stone that is passed by the interior, and then used as a take-off for the final easy concluding portion. The climb is certainly harder than the Great Gully.’

CHAPTER XV
DOE CRAG, CONISTON

This happy hunting-ground for the rock-climber is within an hour’s walk of Coniston. It forms part of the range of hills that includes Wetherlam and the Old Man, but unlike these great neighbours it has hitherto been left untouched by miners and quarry-men.

From the Old Man we may look westwards across the upper end of Goat’s Water, and see the summit of Doe Crag almost at our level, some 900 feet above the lake. We are facing its grand precipices, and are in an excellent position to prospect the various gullies that cut deeply into the 500-feet wall of rock.

The first of these, as we glance from left to right, causes the greatest impression in the sky-line, but is of the least interest to mountaineers. It is an easy scree gully, possessing a rotten pinnacle that was first climbed by Mr. Slingsby in 1887. The second is generally known as the Great Gully. It is much longer, and includes a fair amount of genuine hard work in its ascent. At a distance it appears to have a Y shape, by reason of the two branches that diverge from a point about half-way up. The Great Gully was first climbed in July, 1888, by Messrs. Hastings, Haskett Smith, and E. Hopkinson, its first pitch being then taken by the ‘shallow scoop’ on the left of the great obstacle. Nearly a year later the brothers Hopkinson effected a direct ascent of the pitch by an ingenious utilization of the rope, to which we shall refer subsequently.

To the immediate north of the Great Gully we see a huge buttress that springs further down the scree towards Goat’s Water than any other part of the crag. The lower 300 feet of this buttress exhibit a nearly vertical gully that may escape detection altogether unless viewed in a favourable light. In the view on the opposite page it is well marked by the deep black shadow of the rocks on its south side. Apparently it joins a sloping gully that leads up to the sky-line; but in reality it finishes abruptly on the face, at a small grass platform that stretches a hundred feet across the buttress. It is now known as the Central Chimney, and was first climbed in April, 1897, by Mr. Godfrey Ellis and myself. In the first edition of this book, the chimney was erroneously identified with one of Messrs. Hopkinson’s ascents of April, 1895. The route cannot be recommended except to experts, by reason equally of the genuine difficulties in the chimney and of the exposed nature of the awkward situations in it.