Part 4

and herein is the unfailing charm of such otherwise formless masses as Saddleback and Helvellyn. Who, for instance, would ascend Helvellyn by that ponderous bank above Wythburn, when he might have Striding Edge for his upward path and Swirrel Edge for his return? And why should any one climb Saddleback by its toilsome grassy slopes, when an ideal course is offered him in Sharp Edge, overlooking Scales Tarn, and in Narrow Edge, which falls away with scarcely less sharpness from the highest summit? I have named the most famous of these edges, but many others not greatly inferior will suggest themselves; thus Fairfield may be delightfully taken by the narrow ridges of Cofa Pike and Hartsop Dodd, and even the bulky Grasmoor assumes an air of refinement, if scaled by the slim reef of Whiteside, or by the slender arm that it holds out to the promontory of Causey Pike. In old days these knife-edges were reputed difficult and perilous. “The awful curtain of rock named Striding Edge,” is De Quincey’s description of the chief ornament of Helvellyn; and Green, in describing his adventurous crossing of Sharp Edge on Saddleback, speaks of the necessity “either of bestriding the ridge, or of moving on one of its sides with hands lying over the top, as a security against falling into the tarn on the left or into a frightful gully on the right.” What was once a terror has now become a joy to the climber of ordinary powers, but to this day one may hear expressions of the old misgivings. A friend who had come over the edges of Saddleback told me afterwards that he had felt “sick with fear,” and I have heard a tourist on Snowdon, fresh from the passage of the Beddgelert “Saddle,” exclaim in solemn accents, “It is a thing to be done once in a lifetime, and no more.” In winter, however, all is changed, and these ridges are then made really formidable by the frozen snow-drifts, which can often transform a steep bank into a dangerous ice-slope, with a veritable razor-edge for its summit.

And here, though it is to the shrine of Scafell that we are on pilgrimage, a few words must be said in praise of Borrowdale’s other guardian height. “What was the great Parnassus’ self to thee?” wrote Wordsworth, addressing Skiddaw; and the rock-climber smiles at the question, for Skiddaw, having no rocks, is more attractive to the tripper than to the cragsman. Yet no true lover of mountains will fail to delight in Skiddaw, though it must be confessed that the ordinary way of ascent, leading along the dullest part of the range, which overlooks the treeless “forest,” does its utmost to make the mountain seem uninteresting. It is significant of the local apathy and lack of initiative, in dealing with mountain scenery, that a route which was originally chosen in the days when such ascents were made on horseback should still be the only recognized one for pedestrians, and that the tourist, after following the path up dreary slopes to the summit, should still retrace his steps by the same way--unless he is so fortunate as to be lost in the mist, and to gain a new experience of Skiddaw by some irregular and more exciting descent.

For the real charm of Skiddaw lies in its southern and western portions, facing Derwentwater and Bassenthwaite, and the descent, at least, should be made in this direction, over the great shoulder known as Carlside, from which one may turn right or left, along the narrow ridge of Longside, or down the lovely glen of Millbeck. It is from this point that one can best appreciate, at close quarters, the beauty as well as the bulk of Skiddaw. Every one who has been in Borrowdale is familiar with the clear-cut outline of the mountain, standing out so simple and shapely against the northern sky, and flanked on either hand by the wooded promontories of Latrigg and the Dodd--a picture which is in marked contrast to the notched and jagged battlements of Scafell--and there is certainly a wonderful symmetry in the massive buttresses, alternating with the deep-grooved glens, rounded off, like a piece of sculpture, in flawless lines. But, seen closer, the mountain reveals itself as a vast slope of varied colour and composition, smooth everywhere, but patched and streaked with long strips of shale, or grass, or heather, which hang down the great breast of the hill for many hundreds of feet with surprising steepness. At the top is a wilderness of stone, below it a green tract of turf or bilberry, merging into purple heather or wide fields of fern, and all so subtly woven and blended as to produce, especially in late summer and autumn, a rich combination of tints. The Millbeck Valley, in particular, divided by a pyramid-shaped buttress which juts out from Carlside, is then most gorgeously clad in a vestment of many textures and hues.

Not less delightful, though for the most part unknown, is the descent by Longside, a sharp spur, quite unlike the general character of the mountain, which runs out north-westward from Carlside and culminates in Ullock Pike; from which point, looking across a wild glen, one has the most impressive of all near views of Skiddaw, sinking from cope to base in a colossal steep of bare screes, which by its very monotony baffles the eye of the spectator and cheats calculation as to its height.

I will say, then, that Skiddaw, albeit despised of climbers, is as well worth knowing, in its own distinctive character, as Scafell itself; but those who would know it must seek it not by the beaten track but by the pathless solitudes where the raven still flies undisturbed. Approach it in the right spirit, and Skiddaw will open its heart to you, and you will learn that it is none the less a great mountain because you cannot break your neck upon its slopes.

IV

Pleasures of the Heights

“What pleasure lives in height? the shepherd sang.” Only a very lovesick shepherd, who had his own reasons for praising the valley at the expense of the mountain, could have asked a question so foolish; for the pleasures of the heights are manifold and beyond count. Let us consider a few of these pleasures, just those cheap and simple ones which are in the reach of anybody who, without aspiring to be a skilled rock-climber or Alpinist, is drawn by his love for our English or Welsh hills to spend long days among their solitudes, and to cope with the difficulties, such as they are, of weather and season in planning and effecting his ascents--the choice of routes, the fording of streams, the avoidance of precipices, and the keeping of the right course in dense and blinding mists.

Equipped, then, with a modicum of food, with map, compass, and field-glasses, we sally forth emancipated from all that usually deadens us to the direct messages of Nature. For it is one of Nature’s citadels that we are scaling, and we know not in which of her varying moods we shall find her; but we know that in these uplands all her moods are beautiful, and that it is not the fair-weather climber that is privileged to comprehend them best. Here, at least, is a region where in all seasons, and in all weathers, not a sight or sound but brings contentment to the mind.

It has been remarked by Elisée Reclus, in his charming _History of a Mountain_, that of all forms of travel to travel upwards is the most instructive, for by climbing a few thousand feet we enjoy more novel experiences than in a lateral journey of as many miles, and it often happens that the first experience of the climber, as of the aeronaut, is to find himself in the country of the clouds.

As we start up the valley, perhaps, the “white horses” of last night’s rain-storms are still racing down the slopes, and our staircase of mingled grass and rock bears the shadow of the dense cloud overhead--a scene of unrelieved dreariness to those who are unaware of what glories it may be the gateway. Toiling upwards, we reach the swirling fringe of vapour, which closes gradually round us and wraps from us all view of the familiar landscape below. Still on and up we press, till, as we set foot on the higher ridges, the magic of cloud-land begins; for lo! what in the ordinary light of day were mere rocks and buttresses are changed now and magnified into mysterious shadowy forms, looming dimly out upon us from the mist, until we half wonder whether the compass or our own memory has misled us, and we have strayed into some strange unmapped district where the air is thick with phantoms. Often and often have I had such thought, when beclouded on the great rocky plateau of the Glyders or Scafell Pikes, or groping my way along one of the narrow “cribs” of Carnarvonshire or one of the Cumberland “edges”; and I do not think that any one imbued with the love of mountains would exchange these hours of cloudy surmisings for all the crystal skies that give the “views”, so desired of tourists, from the top. Not that I would undervalue the exhilarating sensation--unlike anything else in life--of reaching the summit of a mountain; but to the true mountaineer all other interests are subordinate to the fact of the mountain-presence itself, even if that presence be veiled, as it often is, in remorseless drift of rain-cloud.

For it may be admitted that mountains, like some other objects of human affection, are apt to subject their lovers to a chilling ordeal, days and weeks of repeated denials and disappointments, until at times the most ardent may despond; or if one present himself as a returned prodigal, seeking instant favour after absence, he may but find, as Thoreau expressed it, that there has been killed for him “the fatted cloud.” But to the faithful there will come at last, quite suddenly and unexpectedly perhaps, a moment which makes such gracious amends that all past unkindnesses are forgotten. You are standing, it may be, on some high ridge or summit, drenched with rain, buffeted by winds, and wondering if perchance any sign is to be vouchsafed to you. The mist floats by in thick interminable volume. But see! What is that small dark rift in the grey monotonous curtain? Wider and wider it grows, until it is framed there, like a magic stage among the clouds, and through that gap, where a moment before you saw but twenty paces, you may now see as many miles, a fair expanse of valleys, lakes and rivers, with the sea gleaming in the background. Another moment, and it is gone--to be restored again, and withdrawn again, in quick succession--a shifting scene more glorious than ever eye has witnessed, save in the region of clouds or dreams.

In a thick mist, such as is apt to enfold with extreme suddenness the hills of which I speak, perhaps not to release them for days from its shadowy grip, the careful use of a compass is almost a necessity, except in places where the landmarks are familiar and beyond mistake; for the transformation which the mountains undergo is surprising even to those who know them best; and if once the true sense of direction be lost, it is most difficult to recover it, especially on broad, smooth plateaus or hillsides where there are no sharp-featured rocks. In the ascent there is less likelihood of going astray, for there is but one summit, and by climbing we shall find it; but in descending there is always a greater possibility of error, with the chance, if we get on the wrong side of the watershed, of emerging some twenty miles away from home. The sensation of thus coming down on the reverse side of a mountain range is most perplexing, for at first sight, and until we can readjust our minds to the fact, everything seems confused, the quarters of the horizon have changed places, north is south, and we can hardly believe that our left is not our right. A friend of mine who was lost on Snowdon in a mist, made his way down, as he thought, towards Llanberis, with the intention of thence walking rightward to Pen-y-Gwryd; he reached a road which he took to be the pass of Llanberis, and duly turned to the right. Not until after he had walked some miles did he discover that he was well on the way towards Carnarvon, having descended, without knowing it, on the wrong side of Snowdon and into a different part of Wales.

To be lost in a fog is of course no uncommon experience among strangers who cross the fells. On one occasion (not strictly to be classed among “pleasures” of the heights), when descending from Scafell Pike to Langdale in furious storm and cloud, I met near Angle Tarn a wandering, one-eyed tramp, who presented about as miserable an appearance as human being could attain. The proverbial “drowned rat” would have scorned to exchange plight with him. He had been discharged, he told me, a few days before, from a hospital in a northern town, where they had taken out one of his eyes without consulting him, and with the remaining eye he was seeking his way to a relative at Keswick by the Stake Pass, from which he had hopelessly wandered. As we descended Rossett Gill together, for I took him back to Langdale, he confided to me that this was his first experience of a mountain, and he thought it would suffice till his death--an event which, but for his happening to meet our party, would probably not have been long delayed.

A strange effect is produced, when one is descending, if the clouds are descending too; for the deepening mist then makes the delay in reaching sunlight seem endless. Down and down we go, and the gloom is still beneath us, until we begin to wonder, like the first voyagers on the Atlantic, whether we are sinking into some bottomless abyss from which it may be impossible to re-arise; it becomes a burden and nightmare to the mind; then at last there is a darkening of the vapour in one spot, and far below we see the jet-black water of a tarn, or a bit of brown mountain-side across the glen.

More inspiriting is the effect of climbing through and above the clouds, as one sometimes can do, until one looks down from an upper land of sunshine on a sea of mist below, from which the rocky peaks and promontories emerge like islands. It occasionally happens, when some high ridge is bathed in cloud on one side and in sun on the other, that a climber, standing on the edge of the gulf, will see a small circular rainbow projected on the mist, with his own head forming the centre of it--a rare and curious experience for the wayworn pilgrim, thus to find his image, like that of a saint, with a halo round his head, emblazoned on the mountain vapours! Who shall say that the modern pilgrim is not blessed, as his forerunners were, with celestial apparitions? The first time I saw this phenomenon was on the ridge of Ben Nevis. I have also seen it from Blaven, in Skye, and from the top of Scafell, looking down into the cloud-filled chasm of Mickledore.

Not less marvellous are the transformations of the clouds themselves, when, after a spell of storm, they break up under triumphant sunshine and drift disbanded along the slopes. I remember how once, descending from Tryfan after a wet and dismal day, and returning across the low grassy moorlands to Capel Curig, I witnessed that strange form of mountain mirage recorded by Wordsworth in “The Excursion.” The corner of the valley above Llyn Ogwen was filled with dense mists, which came seething and boiling out of the hollow like steam from a cauldron, and as they broke up into small wisps and wreaths, under combined wind and sunshine, gave an extraordinary appearance to the northern front of Carnedd Dafydd, which was enveloped in a maze of billowy vapour, until it was impossible to distinguish rock from cloud or cloud from rock, and the illusion was exactly that which the poet has described:

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf, Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed … In fleecy folds voluminous enwrapped.

It is nearly fifty years since I saw that sight, but we do not forget what we see among mountains as what we read in books.

There dwell in the memory too (for I must not give the impression that the mountains are always scourged with storm) the days and sometimes weeks in succession when the weather is without a flaw--trance-like spells when the hills stand calm and pensive in every vicissitude of loveliness, now clear and imminent, with ridges sharply outlined against the sky, now dim and ghostly, half shrouded in a mild and breathless haze. But even the loveliest day is seldom perfected without the ministry of cloud, for clouds are the Genii of the mountains, concealing much, but revealing more, by their presence, and bringing to view the manifold depths and distances that would otherwise be unobserved. You cannot learn the moods and character of a mountain until you have studied its attendant clouds.

Nor must the pleasures of winter be overlooked, for, as Southey wrote of the mountains:

Who sees them only in their summer hour, Sees but their beauties half, and knows not half their power.

It was pointed out by the same writer that snow, instead of making the view of the fells monotonous, has a contrary effect, “it brings out all their recesses, and differentiates all their inequalities.” Even clouds are scarcely more efficacious in revealing the hitherto unnoticed distances; for the snow, when not too deep, is a mask which does not conceal, but takes a delicate impression of the hillside, so that every crack and crinkle, every unsuspected groove, ravine, terrace, or even sheep-path, is made to stand out in clear relief. To rocks, in particular, a thin powdering of snow will give a strange, chequered, almost ethereal look, reminding one of Scott’s lines about Melrose Abbey seen under moonlight:

When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory.

In the joy felt by the experienced climber on arriving at his mountain-top the view, perhaps, plays but a subordinate part, though there is always a fascination in a very distant prospect across sea or plain, such as one may get in the early morning, or when the air is clear after a rain shower or a snow squall, as when, from Wales or Cumberland, as the case may be, one sees the Isle of Man resting like a dream on the water, with a pillow of fleecy cloud around it. In this respect the views from the two districts are very similar, for on every side except the east their horizons extend to the sea, and both possess the same great charm, lacking in the Alps and other continental ranges, of overlooking a coast-line broken by shallow estuaries, where at low tide there is an expanse of gleaming red sands, with the plain of dim blue water in the rear. To have seen Snowdon from Scafell, or Scafell from Snowdon, across the hundred miles that lie between them, is a rare privilege which few climbers have enjoyed, and of which, in spite of many visits to either mountain, I cannot personally speak; far more often it is the great northern headland of Carnedd Llewelyn which is discerned from the Cumbrian hills and bars the further view. Apart from such remarkable sights as these, the pleasure of the summit, I think, arises chiefly from that sense of _power_ to which a wide outlook contributes--you feel how vast a territory you “command” from your airy fortress; you are for the moment an overseer of men, a super-man, with all the kingdoms of the world stretched at your feet.

Having spoken of the sights, let me speak of the sounds of the mountain, for the ear is not less fascinated than the eye in these echoing temples, where the upper cloughs and chambers are as huge whispering galleries, and sounds are often carried from immense distances, yet in so modulated and subtle a tone as to leave a haunting impression on the mind. There is a solemnity about these mountain voices which is only comparable, on a larger scale, to the effects produced in the hollow space of a cathedral; hence the perfect appropriateness, as has been pointed out, of Wordsworth’s much criticized reference to the “solemn voice” of the mountain lamb. The singing of the stream below, the deep croak of the raven as he sails on his straight course overhead, the shrill cry of the wheeling buzzard, the bleat of a sheep and even the noise of a detached stone falling from the cliff to the screes, come to us with a significance which would hardly be intelligible elsewhere. The wind, too, has some strange things to tell us, as it tears itself into shreds on the rocks, or lifts the water from the tarns and streams and dashes it in spray to the sky, or startles us with muffled subterranean sobbings as we cross some exposed ridge. Listening among the higher mountains in rough or cloudy weather, we may hear sounds so wild and mysterious that their origin wholly baffles us. There is also felt, at times, a strange apprehension--or should we say premonition?--of the presence of human beings, which may be due to the ear having become unconsciously aware of their approach, if not to some other sense more poignant and occult.

One sometimes sees strange companionships on mountains. Once, when I was on the Glyder Fach with some friends, we heard the steps of a party ascending by the steep northern screes from Cwm Tryfan, and presently two men came into sight, the leader with a cloak thrown over his shoulder in cavalier-like style, the follower in the garb of a serving man. In this manner they crossed the summit-plateau, and when they neared the edge of the southern escarpment, the valet (for that he was valet, not guide, we inferred both from his demeanour and the order of their procession) dropped respectfully to the rear, while his master stood for some time as if wrapped in thought, and gazing out over the wide scene that had Cardigan Bay as its limit. Then, the reverie ended, he turned back towards Cwm Tryfan, and followed by his demure attendant, descended as he had come. Was he a prince or a poet, we wondered; and if a poet, how could his sensitiveness bear the near presence of a servant--a servant!--in that great freedom of the mountain, where one would expect the distinctions of rank to disappear?

The voices of the mountain streams become, of course, less powerful in proportion to the height to which the traveller attains, until from the distant summits he hears them only in fitful intervals, now clear, now hushed, according to the force and direction of the wind; but alike in the valley and on the hillside there is that singular aerial quality in the sound which makes it different to all other voices in Nature. This is the music which De Quincey described as like that “of pealing anthems, as if streaming from the open portals of some illimitable cathedral,” and he adds, with special reference to the river Brathay, in Langdale, that “such a sound does actually arise, in many states of the weather, from the peculiar action of the river upon its rocky bed; and many times I have heard it, of a quiet night, when no stranger could have been persuaded to believe it other than the sound of choral chanting, distant, solemn, saintly.” The same illusion, if it be an illusion, may be felt by one who rests with closed eyes on the bank of any of the small steep becks, which go purling down the slopes, to feed the larger rivers below.

And now for the joys of the descent. The regret with which the mountain lover turns his back on the summits and leaves

The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,