CHAPTER III

_THE LAST SEASON IN THE ALPS_

I come now to the last season in the Alps, the season of 1899. The first part of his holiday was spent at Zermatt, and then he and Hill met by arrangement at the Kurhaus at Arolla. They soon got to work, beginning with the two Dents de Veisivi (the scene of the accident to the Hopkinsons the previous year) and the Dent Perroc, in twelve hours from the Kurhaus and back. Then followed the Aiguille de la Za by the face, a traverse of all the peaks of the Aiguilles Rouges, Mont Blanc de Seilon and the Pigne d’Arolla in one day, the Dent des Bouquetins, and the traverse of Mont Collon. A slight accident to one of the party of which I was a member, necessitated an unexpected descent on the evening of August 26th to Arolla, in the hope of finding a doctor. There was none there, but we found many friends and acquaintances, among them being Owen Jones. On the morning of Sunday 27th, our party left for Evolena just after breakfast, as we heard there was a German doctor there, and we wanted our wounded member attended to without delay. Just as we were starting we found Jones and Hill leaving also, intending to traverse the Dent Blanche, climbing it by the west arête, which had only been done twice before, and we all hoped shortly to meet again in Zermatt.

It was a bright sunny morning, hot and dusty. For a good part of the way from Arolla to Haudères I chatted to Jones. We did not go very fast on account of the damaged member of our party, about whom Jones was very solicitous. He himself seemed very fit, and was full of life and enthusiasm for his favourite passion. He chatted freely of all his climbs, of our first meeting nine years before, of all that had happened since, of frostbite on the Dom, and the remedy--sticking his fingers into boiling glue--worse than the disease. His traverse of the ice arête between the two peaks of the Lyskamm and his Easter ascent of the Dent Blanche seemed to me to have made the deepest impression on him of all his achievements in the mountains. He was rather inclined to underrate his wonderful rock-work in North Wales and in the Lake District, a department in which, in my opinion, he was really greatest, though his feats of endurance in the Alps were something off the common. He told me that his ambitions inclined towards a tour in the Himalayas, if circumstances allowed of his realising that dream.

At Haudères we parted company. Hill and Jones, with their guides, who met them at Haudères, turned up to Ferpècle; we went on to Evolena. If my friend’s health permitted, I had arranged to see Jones in Zermatt on Tuesday afternoon. Difficult as was the expedition he was undertaking, the awful reality of the morrow never crossed my mind even as a possibility. A stronger or more well-equipped party I had never seen start on an expedition. It was about 12-30 when we all said good-bye.

At Evolena the doctor ordered our invalid a day or two of complete rest. So on Monday morning the third member of our party, with his guide, started for the Col de la Meina to return to his wife, whom he had left in the Val des Bagnes, from which we had come. For the sake of the walk I accompanied them to the top of the Col. About 9-15, just before we lost sight of the west arête of the Dent Blanche, I searched the arête with my field glasses to see if any trace of Jones and Hill’s party could be detected. None of us could see anything, so we concluded, as the mountain was in very good condition, that they had probably already got to the top, and were then descending by the south arête. But they were still on the arête, though we failed to see them on the dark rocks. Had it been three-quarters of an hour later we might actually have been witnesses of the accident.

On the top of the Col de la Meina we were caught by a storm of mist and rain, blowing up from the west. I bade adieu to my friends and hastened back to Evolena. That was the mist which caught Mr. Hill on the gendarme in his descent after the accident and detained him 22 hours alone on the great mountain.

But of the accident no one dreamed. No premonition, no presentiment, troubled our thoughts. Monday and Tuesday passed quietly and uneventfully for us.

On Wednesday morning my friend got permission from his doctor to walk up to Arolla for lunch. We gladly availed ourselves of the new freedom.

At Arolla we found many of Jones’s friends hoping to meet him shortly in the Zermatt Valley. On our way back to Evolena we passed the body of the Tiroler guide, Reinstadler, of Sulden, which was being carried down the valley. He had been killed on Monday, August 28th--that black and fatal day in the Evolena Valley--by falling into a crevasse on the Pigne d’Arolla.

As we re-entered the garden of our hotel, M. Spahr met us looking very grave. ‘Had we heard of the great accident on the Dent Blanche?’ For the first time the thought of danger to Jones and Hill crossed my mind. I quickly asked him for details, telling him why I was apprehensive.

He had had a telegram from Dr. Seiler from Zermatt, which he showed me. It was in French and ran something like this: ‘A tourist and three guides have fallen from the Dent Blanche. A caravan of guides is starting from Zermatt to look for the bodies, which will reach Haudères about six o’clock to-morrow evening. Have four coffins ready at Haudères. I am coming round myself.--SEILER.’

Four bodies! This could not be Jones and Hill’s party, there would be five or three, for they had intended to make the ascent on two ropes, three and two respectively on each. If all five had been roped together, one could not have been saved. My mind grew easier. So we reason when we do not know.

But I could not avoid thinking of the awful accident, and as I thought my fears returned. No other party had left the Evolena Valley for the Dent Blanche that week. The bodies had fallen on the Evolena side. It was improbable they had climbed from the Zermatt side. Could it be that the fifth body had not been seen? One climber and three guides was a most unusual party? I grew uneasy again, and finally telegraphed to Dr. Seiler: ‘Have Messrs. Jones and Hill arrived?’

While we were waiting for dinner and a reply, a voice hailed me by name out of the gathering gloom. It was that of Mr. Harold Spender, who had just driven up the valley with his sister and a younger brother, Mr. Hugh Spender. We exchanged greetings and discussed the accident. I told them what I feared.

We were sitting in the balcony outside the hotel in the summer darkness when a villager put a yellow telegraph envelope in my hand. I hastily tore it open, and this is what I read: ‘M. Hill arrived safely this morning, but Jones and three guides fell an hour and a half from the top on Monday morning.--SEILER.’

Owen Glynne Jones was dead. My mind almost reeled at the fact. Intellectually I knew it must be so, but I was utterly unable to realise it. I could almost hear the sound of his voice and the rattle of the nails of his dusty boots on the stones that last Sunday morning. But his voice was stilled for ever.

And Hill! He had escaped, but how? Where had he been since Monday morning? Out on the mountain alone, without guides, or food, or drink. The thing was incredible, impossible. But the impossible and the incredible was true.

At eleven o’clock fifteen guides and Mr. Harold Spender started as a search party. My injured friend and myself went with them as far as we could. The little village was already in darkness, swathed in sorrow. For the telegram that brought me news of Jones’ death announced the death of a village guide too.

In the chapel only lights burned. It was the vigil round the body of Reinstadler. Silently and sadly we tramped up the valley along the carriage road to Haudères. Then in single file, like an army on a night march, we marched up the steep and narrow path to Ferpècle. Far below us, on our right, the torrent roared. We picked precarious steps by the light of our lanterns and the aid of our axes. We talked little and in muffled tones.

We reached Ferpècle about 1.30 a.m. on Thursday. The hamlet was asleep. The guides broke eight huge poles out of the fences of the fields and from the outbuildings. Grim duty! The poles were to make four rude biers on which to carry the bodies down.

Between 3 and 4 a.m. we gained the Bricolla Alp, where Jones and Hill had slept the night before the fatal climb. The kindly shepherd provided us with milk and a fire--it was now very cold--and we produced provisions from our rücksacks and had a much-needed meal. It was a curious sight--the little stone hut, a big wood fire blazing in a hole in the floor, pails of milk all round the walls on shelves, a circle of rough weather-beaten men, their faces lighted by the flickering flames and by the uncertain light of one or two of our lanterns. Rembrandtesque--and profoundly sad.

A little after four we went out. The grey dawn was just breaking, but a cold, thick, clammy white mist had swept down on the alp and chilled us to the bone. At the top of the moraine my friend and I had to turn back. We should only have been a hindrance had we gone on, as both of us were damaged. Spender and the guides went forward. Let Mr. Spender describe the rest.

‘At four the column resumed its way. Rain had begun to fall and a dense mist was closing down upon us. But it was soon light enough to put out our lanterns, and courage came with the dawn. We rounded the alp, and then began to climb the long, dreary moraines which lead up to the glacier. The guides went at a terrific pace. But it was good to be taken into this noble fraternity--to be accepted as a comrade and not as a “climber”--to be honoured by a share in the generous quest.

‘But the pace soon slackened. We halted on the edge of the glacier, roped in fours, and began to search gingerly for a way through the terrific ice-fall of the glacier. We were mounting by the old approach to the Dent Blanche, up the ice-fall, now long since abandoned. The glacier was, of course, quite changed since any of these guides had last visited it. The ice was split and rent into every conceivable shape. We were surrounded with leaning towers of ice, threatening at any moment to fall on us and crush us.

‘A great pile of seracs on the Northern ice-fall, across the ridge, fell with a mighty crash. Away to the right we could hear the thunder of avalanches. But never for a moment did the guides hesitate. Steadily and unflinchingly they threaded their way between the menacing seracs. Crossing broken fragments of ice, balancing between profound crevasses, not thwarted but ever searching for a way. At last we suddenly struck upon the tracks of Jones’ party away to the North side of the glacier close to the rocks. There we scrambled up, half by the rocks and half by the ice, and then at last, after many hours, found ourselves on the great plateau beneath the long snow couloir running down from the West Ridge. There, if anywhere, they were likely to be. And there, high up among the rocks, we could just see, with the aid of a good telescope, some dark objects which were not rocks.

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

‘Yes, there was no doubt of it. It was now ten o’clock and the sky had cleared. A party was formed, and mounted the rocks to fetch the bodies. As they climbed, suddenly another army of men appeared below us, above the ice-fall, advancing swiftly. They were the party of the Zermatt Guides. They came on unroped, climbing fast. It was a magnificent sight to see this troop of giants in their own element, a troop of equals, masters of peril. They halted below the rocks and sent up another small band to join the Evolena Guides. There was a long pause, and then they all began to descend, bringing the bodies.

‘I will draw a veil over what we found. Men cannot fall many thousands of feet and lie in artistic attitudes.... But it was four o’clock before the Bricolla hut was reached, and darkness had fallen before the bodies came to Haudères. The Zermatt Guides were out for twenty-four hours, and the Evolena Guides over twenty.’

Mr. W. R. Rickmers, a German resident in England, and a member of the Alpine Club, sends the following to the _Alpine Journal_:--

‘Mr. Seiler sent out thirty guides under Alois Supersaxo. Dr. R. Leuk, Mr. K. Mayr, and Mr. W. R. Rickmers joined them. We left the Staffelalp at 10 p.m. on August 30th, reached the Col d’Hérens at 6 a.m. on the 31st, in fog and snow, which cleared away later on. Descended Ferpècle Glacier towards termination of W. ridge of Dent Blanche, and ascended the small glacier which comes down from point 3,912 on the S. _arête_. At the spot under the “g” in “Rocs rouges” this glacier forms an icefall (moderately difficult), and besides that a bit of the Glacier de la Dent Blanche hangs over the narrowest part of the W. ridge. We then came to the foot of a great gully. On the map it is the first one from W., and it is very clearly indicated. In the rocks to the right of the couloir (looking down) and about three hundred feet above the rim of the glacier, the bodies were found. It was about 10 a.m., and a party of Evolena guides, accompanied by Mr. Harold Spender, was already on the spot.

‘The height above sea-level was ca. 3,600-3,700 m. Straight above, on the ridge, one saw a smooth cliff (ca. 400-500 feet below summit), and if that was the fatal _mauvais pas_ the fall must have been about 1,500-1,700 feet in a series of clear drops of many hundred feet. The rope was intact between Furrer and Zurbriggen.

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

While the search party was crossing the glacier and the snow-fields, I watched them through my glasses. Presently the sun got the better of the morning mist, and the pure white snow gleamed beautifully. Then from the Col d’Hérens there swept a tiny, serpentine black line, moving fast. It was men. I turned my glasses on them. They were the Zermatt party, some thirty strong, advancing at a rare pace. It was a beautiful sight, so masterful, so sure was their progress.

As the long, hot hours of mid-day passed, I descended to Ferpècle, and sent up a boy with food and drink for the certainly wearied searchers when they returned from their sad duties. At length they came, drawing the bodies over the grass slopes till they reached a path where they could be carried on their shoulders. Darkness had fallen when we reached Haudères.

Late on Friday night Mr. Hill came round for the funeral. His voice seemed to me strangely altered. Otherwise he had come through his terrible experience wonderfully, thanks to a splendid constitution and nerves of steel. Then first I heard the true story of the accident. I reproduce his own account from the _Alpine Journal_. All had roped together early in the climb, and the accident took place about ten o’clock. Mr. Hill says:--

‘When I reached the level of the others, Furrer was attempting to climb the buttress, but, finding no holds, he called to Zurbriggen to hold an axe for him to stand on. Apparently he did not feel safe, for he turned his head and spoke to Jones, who then went to hold the axe steady. Thus we were all on the same level, Vuignier being some twenty-five or thirty feet distant from them and also from me. Standing on the axe, which was now quite firm, Furrer could reach the top of the buttress, and attempted to pull himself up; but the fingerholds were insufficient, and before his foot had left the axe his hands slipped, and he fell backwards on to Zurbriggen and Jones, knocking them both off, and all three fell together. I turned to the wall to get a better hold, and did not see Vuignier pulled off, but heard him go, and knew that my turn would soon come. And when it did not I looked round, and saw my four companions sliding down the slope at a terrific rate, and thirty feet of rope swinging slowly down below me.

‘It is difficult to analyse my sensations at that moment. My main feeling was one of astonishment that I was still there. I can only suppose that Vuignier had belayed my rope securely to protect himself and me during our long wait on the traverse.

‘It must be admitted that Furrer did not choose the best route; but his choice is easy enough to understand, for the only alternative did not look inviting. At all events, it is certain that he acted on his own initiative. I say this reluctantly, and solely for the purpose of contradicting a statement I have read in an account of the accident--that he was induced by Jones to climb straight over the gendarme instead of going round it. It is a pity that historians, who must of necessity be ignorant of the facts, should go out of their way to make such conjectures.

‘The problem before me was a difficult one. It was quite impossible to climb down alone, and I could not expect to succeed where guides had failed; the only course open was to attempt to turn the gendarme on the right. This I succeeded in doing with great difficulty, owing to the ice on the rocks and the necessity of cutting up an ice slope in order to reach the ridge. In about another hour I gained the summit, and was greeted with a faint cooey, probably from the party we had seen. I could not see them nor make them hear, so made my way down with all reasonable speed, hoping to overtake them. When I reached the lowest gendarme--the one with a deep narrow fissure--a sudden mist hid everything from view. It was impossible to see the way off; and while I was trying various routes a snowstorm and cold wind drove me to seek shelter on the lee-side of the rocks. There, tied on with my rope, and still further secured by an ice-axe wedged firmly in front of me, I was forced to remain until mid-day on Tuesday. Then the mist cleared, and, climbing very carefully down the snow-covered rocks I reached the snow arête, where most of the steps had to be re-cut. The next serious difficulty was the lower part of the Wandfluh; I could not remember the way off, and spent two or three hours in futile efforts before I found a series of chimneys on the extreme right, leading down to the glacier. The sun set when I was on the high bank of moraine on the Zmutt Glacier, and in the growing darkness it was far from easy to keep the path. The light in the Staffel Alp inn was a guide as long as it lasted, but it went out early, and, keeping too low down, I passed the inn without seeing it, and being forced to stop by the nature of the ground, spent the night by the side of the torrent. It was late in the morning when I awoke, and then a scramble of a few minutes brought me to the path, near the sign-post, and I reached Zermatt at half-past eleven.’

Mr. Hill’s escape is one of the most wonderful in the history of mountaineering. His endurance and courage are not less remarkable. To have been out alone, in bad weather, without anything to eat save five raisins, and with nothing to drink but ice and snow, on a difficult and dangerous mountain, and to have returned safely is, I believe, a record in climbing annals. I may add a few details, given me by Mr. Hill when I first met him after the accident, which he has not reproduced in the above narrative.

He thinks his companions were killed instantaneously. They uttered no sound; they made no apparent attempt to save themselves. With arms outspread they rolled helplessly down the awful face of the mountain. He watched them for a few seconds, powerless to help, if help would indeed have availed, and then turned from the sickening sight.

During the last part of his descent, even his great strength began to fail. Once, on the Wandfluh, he lost his axe and had to spend an hour in climbing down to recover it, as it was absolutely essential to his safety. After he left the Zmutt glacier in darkness, he appears to have become delirious. He was constantly talking to imaginary companions. He fell into holes in the ground and went to sleep without strength to rise. He wakened from cold, called to his companions to go on as it was time to be leaving, stumbled, and fell asleep again.

On Saturday morning Dr. Sumpner arrived, having travelled straight through from Birmingham to Evolena. Friends tramped down from Arolla, others had come from Zermatt, the secretary of Jones’s section of the Swiss Alpine Club came from near Neuchâtel. A carriage bore Jones’s plain black coffin, with a gilt cross on it, down from Haudères. We buried him and the Evolena guide, Vuignier, in the little graveyard of the Roman Catholic church, almost in sight of the glorious, but terrible, mountain on which they met their fate. The scene in the village almost baffles description. All the villagers, men and women, attended the funeral, clad in coarse white robes. The grief of the women, especially of Vuignier’s poor old mother, was heart-rending to witness. The little Roman Catholic chapel was crowded, the congregation all in white, save the acolytes, two village boys, who served the altar in their coarse brown, everyday clothes, and the choir, whose strong voices rang through the whitewashed, humble building. A little knot of Englishmen, sunbrowned, of another faith or of no faith at all, joined in the impressive and solemn service. It was a sight that no one present can ever forget.

After the service, we bore the two coffins to the graveyard. Rev. Mr. Scott, the Anglican chaplain, read the English burial service over Owen Jones’s grave. Mr. Hill sent a beautiful wreath of edelweiss and the foliage of the Alpine rose. A rude wooden cross marked the spot till Jones’s friends erected a suitable gravestone. The lovely warm sunshine and the bright blue sky, and the gleaming snows on the slopes of the Dent Blanche, formed a curious contrast to the mourning of the village in that Alpine valley.

Thus perished, as he would, I doubt not, like to have died, Owen Glynne Jones, a brave and dashing mountaineer, a cheery and kindly friend, whose presence will be long missed by all who had the privilege of knowing him. His death was due to a pure accident, occurring when he was in the plenitude of his powers, and when he seemed just about to reap the reward of long years of patient, ardent toil.

W. M. CROOK.

CONTENTS

PAGE

MEMOIR OF OWEN GLYNNE JONES vii

CHAP.

I. PIKE’S CRAG 1

II. DEEP GHYLL, GREAT CHIMNEY AND PROFESSOR’S CHIMNEY 12

III. THE RAKE’S PROGRESS AND CERTAIN SHORT CLIMBS NEAR IT 29

IV. MOSS GHYLL, COLLIER’S CLIMB, AND KESWICK BROTHERS’ CLIMB 43

V. SCAWFELL PINNACLE 69

VI. GREAT END AND ITS GULLIES 89

VII. GREAT GABLE, THE ENNERDALE FACE, AND THE OBLIQUE CHIMNEY 114

VIII. THE ENNERDALE CENTRAL GULLY AND TWO LITTLE CHIMNEYS 134

IX. THE GREAT NAPES AND ITS GULLIES 146

X. THE RIDGES OF THE GREAT NAPES 153

XI. THE GABLE NEEDLE 168

XII. KERN KNOTTS 175

XIII. THE WASTWATER SCREES 190

XIV. PAVEY ARK 208

XV. DOE CRAG, CONISTON 219

XVI. COMBE GHYLL 237

XVII. THE PILLAR ROCK 254

XVIII. NOTES ON REMAINING CLIMBS 285

APPENDIX I. 295

APPENDIX II.--

CHAP.

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

II. NEW CLIMBS ON GREAT GABLE, SCAWFELL, AND AROUND WASTDALE HEAD 332

III. THE BUTTERMERE CLIMBS, AND THOSE IN OUTLYING DISTRICTS 344

IV. RECENT CLIMBS AROUND LANGDALE, AND DOE CRAG 358

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PORTRAIT OF OWEN GLYNNE JONES _Frontispiece_

THE PIKE’S CRAG GULLIES _To face page_ 6

DEEP GHYLL, FIRST PITCH ” 12

SCAWFELL PINNACLE AND THE PROFESSOR’S CHIMNEY ” 20

SCAWFELL CRAGS FROM THE PULPIT ROCK ” 26

THE ASCENT OF THE BROAD STAND ” 30

THE PENRITH CLIMB FROM MICKLEDORE ” 40

COLLIER’S CHIMNEY, MOSS GHYLL ” 51

KESWICK BROTHERS’ CLIMB ” 66

ATTITUDES ON SCAWFELL PINNACLE ” 69

SCAWFELL PINNACLE AND DEEP GHYLL ” 73

THE LAST HUNDRED FEET ON THE SCAWFELL PINNACLE ” 76

ASCENT OF SCAWFELL PINNACLE FROM DEEP GHYLL ” 83

THE GREAT END GULLIES, SEEN FROM SPRINKLING TARN ” 90

TOP OF THE CENTRAL GULLY IN WINTER, GREAT END ” 99

WASTDALE AND GREAT GABLE ” 114

ENNERDALE FACE OF GREAT GABLE ” 127

GREAT GABLE FROM LINGMELL ” 146

THE RIDGES OF THE GREAT NAPES ” 153

THE UPPER PART OF THE NEEDLE RIDGE ” 156

THE GABLE NEEDLE ” 168

KERN KNOTTS CHIMNEY ” 178

KERN KNOTTS CRACK ” 184

THE SCREES AND WASTWATER ” 191

THE PAVEY ARK GULLIES FROM STICKLE TARN ” 208

DOE CRAG AND GOATSWATER ” 220

FIRST PITCH IN DOE CRAG, GREAT GULLY ” 225

THE EAST FACE OF THE PILLAR ROCK (viewed from the Shamrock) ” 257

ROUND THE NOTCH, PILLAR ROCK, EAST SIDE ” 267

THE NORTH FACE OF THE PILLAR ROCK ” 271

OVER THE NOSE--THE PILLAR ROCK ” 325

THE BROADRICK’S AND HOPKINSON’S CRACKS, DOE CRAG ” 376

OUTLINE DRAWINGS OF THE CHIEF ROUTES

PLATE

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

II. SCAWFELL FROM THE PULPIT ROCK ” 46 _From the photograph facing p. 26_

III. THE GREAT END GULLIES ” 94 _From the photograph facing p. 90_

IV. THE ENNERDALE FACE OF GREAT GABLE ” 135 _From the photograph facing p. 127_

V. THE GREAT NAPES RIDGES ” 161 _Diagrammatic_

VI. i. THE WASTWATER SCREES ” 203 _From the photograph facing p. 191_

ii. THE PAVEY ARK GULLIES ” 203 _From the photograph facing p. 208_

VII. DOE CRAG, CONISTON ” 370 _Diagrammatic_

VIII. PILLAR ROCK, EAST SIDE ” 242 _From the photograph facing p. 257_

IX. PILLAR ROCK, NORTH SIDE ” 254 _From the photograph facing p. 271_

X. PILLAR ROCK, WEST SIDE ” 318

INTRODUCTION

Some eight years ago chance led me to the Lake District for the first time, and a kindly acquaintance whom I then met at Wastdale taught me something of the joys of rock-climbing. Since that occasion every holiday has been spent on the mountains, either in Cumberland or North Wales or Switzerland, and they have taught me much that is worth knowing and that when once learnt can never be forgotten. Men with the highest literary qualifications have written of the charm of mountaineering, and every aspect of the subject has been touched upon with fullest justice and with a grace of style that has captivated many a non-climber in spite of his prejudices. Yet I cannot refrain from adding my own humble tribute of praise to the sport that has done so much for me and my best friends.

It satisfies many needs; the love of the beautiful in nature; the desire to exert oneself physically, which with strong men is a passionate craving that must find satisfaction somehow or other; the joy of conquest without any woe to the conquered; the prospect of continual increase in one’s skill, and the hope that this skill may partially neutralize the failing in strength that comes with advancing age or ill-health.

Hunting and fishing enthral many men, but mountaineering does not claim the sacrifice of beasts and fishes. Cricket and football are magnificent sports, and it is a perpetual satisfaction that the British races are becoming enthusiastic in their appreciation of keen contests in these games. Yet there is something repulsive in the spectacle of five thousand inactive spectators of a struggling twenty-two, and the knowledge that the main interest of many players and observers is of a monetary character does not tend to convince one of the moral benefits that these sports can offer. On the other hand, it is scarcely fair to judge a sport by those who degrade it in this manner, and we all know that genuine cricketers and footballers play for love and honour.

The mountaineer does not reap any golden harvest by his exertions--even if he writes a book on his subject. He does not exhibit his skill to applauding thousands; and his vanity is rarely tickled by the praise of many. He must be content with the sport itself and what it offers him directly.

Probably the scientific mountaineer gains most. He is certain to acquire rare and valuable knowledge of facts in zoology, botany, or geology, if he starts with the necessary intellectual equipment. The physicist’s mind is perpetually exercised by the natural phenomena he witnesses; mist bows, Brocken spectres, frost haloes, electrical discharges of the queerest description, mirages, all these offer him problems of the most interesting kind. But the fact is, there is so much to do that is directly connected with the climbing itself that the natural sciences are usually left to themselves, and their consideration reserved for special expeditions.

On the other hand, science can often assist the climbing. The engineer can triumph with applications of the rope. He can tell us some facts worth knowing on the value of friction as an aid to stability, on the use of an axe as a support or as a lever, or on the safe methods of negotiating loose stones. The man who knows something of geology is a useful member of an exploring party; he is often able to guess correctly where available passages occur in a wilderness of rock, and can judge at a distance what quality of climbing the party may expect. The expert in mountain weather does not exist; perhaps he does not dare to, or perhaps the subject is too complicated for a nineteenth-century scientist. However this may be, it is worth while paying a little attention to meteorology and noting the quality of weather that follows any definite condition of the wind, the barometer, or the atmospheric temperature.

The causes that have resulted in the publication of this little book are as difficult to define as those that produce a rainy day in the Alps; and, now that the book is written and nothing remains but an introduction, I wish that the reverse order of proceeding had been adopted, and that the introduction had been written as a peg on which succeeding chapters might have been definitely hung.

From the outset the illustrations have been regarded as the chief feature of the book, and it was my good fortune early to obtain the co-operation of Messrs. G. P. Abraham & Sons in the production of good photographs of the most interesting pieces of rock scenery that the Lake District affords. Messrs. George and Ashley Abraham have accompanied me on several climbing excursions with the express purpose of obtaining artistic and yet accurate photographs of the main difficulties that beset the cragsman’s course, and I am bound to add that they are as skilful in tackling severe pitches as they are in taking successful pictures. The practical troubles in manipulating heavy photographic apparatus where most people find work enough in looking solely to their own safety, the frequent impossibility of finding a sufficient contrast in light and shade among the crag recesses, and the subsequent difficulties in development of such awkward subjects, will convince the reader that theirs has been no light task, and at the same time will offer sufficient excuse for certain small defects that we have been unable to eliminate from the photo-mechanical reproductions. These are in collotype on platino-surface paper which shows the fine texture of the rock structures.

For the benefit more particularly of climbers several outline diagrams have been introduced to explain the outlines of those more important crags up each of which many different routes have been found, lines of ascent that cannot be readily recognised in the photographs themselves, and that cannot be briefly described in words. Some of these are purely diagrammatic, where it has been found impossible to base them on good general views. The others are outlined from photographs, and can in most cases be compared directly with the corresponding views from which they are derived.

With the knowledge that I was getting substantial aid in the illustrative portion of the book, the management of the rest has been much simplified. There are very many people who come regularly to the English Lake District to ramble about on the fells and to make the ordinary ascents. Of these, by far the greater number steer clear of the precipices and other steep parts, wisely recognising the danger that attends the inexperienced in such places. Nevertheless, they enjoy the mountains and are charmed with the scenery. They do not know much about the innermost recesses of even their favourite peaks. To many of them Mr. Haskett Smith’s little book on ‘Climbing in England’ must have been a revelation; for it indicates with sufficient clearness that every crag in the country of any considerable dimensions has been explored with wonderful thoroughness by Alpine climbers, and that these abrupt walls and gloomy gullies are the happy hunting-ground of many an enterprising athlete. If my accounts of the different ascents were briefly stated in the orthodox climbing-guide form, the book could appeal to none but the elect; only an athlete in excellent training could digest such solid diet. If, on the other hand, they were recorded in narrative form, with a little expansion of detail where serious difficulties occurred during the expeditions, the book might at the same time appeal to many a tourist who loves the country and who likes to learn more about it. The latter course has been adopted, and it is sincerely to be hoped that the succeeding chapters will interest such tourists.

There was another and more important consideration which helped to decide on the form actually taken. Our Alpine climbers of the highest rank are born, not made. But most of the others, taking with them some natural aptitude and plenty of money, are made abroad. Why do they not take their preliminary training for a year or two in Wales, or Cumberland, or on the Scottish hills? It would be much wiser and cheaper to support the ‘home industry’ so far as it goes, before making their _débuts_ on the high Alps. Our British hills can give them no glacier practice, but they can learn a vast deal concerning rock-climbing before they leave the country. To such as these the book is primarily dedicated. There are no professional guides in Cumberland who know anything about the rocks. The amateur must come out and manage for himself. But it is here intended to show that the Cumberland school is a well-graded one; that the novice can start with the easiest and safest of expeditions, and can work his way up to a standard of skill comparing favourably with that of the average Swiss guide. There is nothing so instructive as guideless climbing, be it ever so humble in character. It makes the man wonderfully critical when taken in hand by guides later on, and renders him also much more able to profit by their practical instruction.

For such beginners, the mere statement of the position of a gully and the number and character of its chief obstacles would be quite useless. He requires something more; a suggestion here and there of the manner in which the troubles can be avoided or overcome, and a comparison of these difficulties with others. It is natural that every man has his own way of employing the limbs; my way of dealing with a pitch might not at all suit another climber, who perhaps relies less upon balance and more on strength of arm than myself, or _vice versâ_. It is therefore unwise to appear dogmatic in describing methods, and I hasten to assure those knowing critics that I have never meant to appear so. And yet it is none the less a definite object throughout to render the accounts in sufficient detail for those who want assistance in repeating the ascents. I have not hesitated to draw on old experiences, gained when the ground was comparatively new to me; for there is a tendency to depreciate, or indeed to overlook entirely, the difficulties in any familiar route after constant practice has removed those elements that introduce risk or uncertainty of success, and a novice can often explain to a novice far more effectively than an expert.

The Lake District is becoming more popular every year as a centre of operations for cragsmen. Yet there is no corresponding development of a set of professional guides out there, though I believe they would thrive exceedingly, and all stock information about the mountains is confined to a few manuscript books, and to Mr. Haskett Smith’s little publication already referred to. The new comer is continually at a loss for details; he has no means of learning what is difficult or easy, how to circumvent dangerous obstacles or to discover the safe points of attacking them; he is dependent for such facts on chance acquaintances made in the country or on correspondence more or less painfully elicited from authorities. When unsuccessful in these ways he is sometimes tempted to launch out on his own account and wrest the information from the mountains themselves. This heroic method is undoubtedly the most effective, but it involves too much risk for the unpractised hand, and the wonder is that so few serious casualties occur in its application. Such accidents do occur through ignorance of the district, and always will so long as the necessary knowledge that gives safety to the explorer is confined to the few.

Mr. Haskett Smith’s book serves in the fullest manner to indicate where good scrambling can be obtained, to define the few technical terms in the cragsman’s vocabulary, and to give general advice concerning the best centres. It has been of the greatest use to the climbing fraternity, who owe their thanks to him. But he gives no detail of the scrambling itself. He has appealed more particularly to the expert, who can manage all his pioneering for himself. Notably is this the case with the Pillar Rock--practically his own particular preserve--where most of the routes have long since been made out by him. For years he knew the Rock as no one else knew it; every chimney and ridge and wall was within his ken. Yet in his little handbook there is scarcely an indication of the possession of all this unique knowledge. Most climbers expected some expansion in the description of his early explorations; but he has kept rigidly to his scheme of treatment, and dealt but scant justice to himself throughout the work. This book, then, is to be regarded in some sense as supplementary in character, the cordial witness of the good sport obtainable by following his advice and general directions.

There are many men who think well of the sport, but speak slightingly of the narrow field offered for it by the Lake District. No doubt the Alps offer far more scope both in range and quality. But we cannot very conveniently reach Switzerland at every season of the year. At Christmas and Easter it is entirely barred to most people. The expense of foreign travel is a consideration, and the question of length of holiday is rarely negligible. Cumberland can be reached in a night from London; the district is an inexpensive one for tourists. The fact that there are hundreds of climbs at our disposal in the Alps is no great inducement in itself; we can never climb more than one or two at a time, and for most of us there will always remain scores of ascents that we shall never have the opportunity of accomplishing. One can learn how to swim as effectively in a swimming-bath six feet deep as in an ocean; and one can gain an extensive and practical acquaintance with rock-climbing in a district where the whole set of climbs can be accomplished by the expert in a few short holidays, as in a country where the choice is unlimited. Personally I should always go to the high Alps when the chance offered itself, but Cumberland serves remarkably well to allay the desire for mountain air and vigorous exercise when Switzerland is out of the question.

What does it matter that a climb has been done before? Climatic conditions and the members of one’s party introduce sufficient variety. Years ago an expert reporter was trying to teach me shorthand. His method was to induce me to copy out the same report again and again; it was an excellent idea, and the system was well vindicated with apter pupils. Likewise in climbing, an apt pupil will learn rapidly by repetition of the same ascents.

This introduces a point on which I am scarcely qualified to speak, that of physical aptitude on the part of the would-be climber. Mr. Clinton Dent in the Badminton volume bestows a chapter on the subject of ‘Mountaineering and Health.’ Here we have an authoritative summary of the physical qualifications required by the mountaineer, and of the bodily ailments he may possibly incur. A perusal of the chapter will convince the reader of the suitability of a mountainous region such as our own country can offer for preliminary training before the high Alps are approached. There is much less likelihood of over-strain; snow-blindness, frost-bite, and mountain sickness are rarely met with here.

Climbers are absolutely incapable of any sustained effort when they reach certain altitudes, and the limit depends on the individual. It is the misfortune of some to feel an uncomfortable perturbation of the heart when once a definite level is passed. They are well enough able to exert themselves below that level, but can hope for no pleasurable exercise above it. With every desire to climb, with muscle and mind enough to excel in the sport, they are nevertheless debarred from enjoying the high Alps. Let them therefore make the best of our British hills for a while, and then perhaps proceed to the Dolomites in the Austrian Tyrol for fuller applications at a safe low level of what they have here learnt.

Solitary scrambling is universally condemned. Most climbers of experience have learnt something about it, and are unanimous in their unfavourable judgment. Nothing teaches the scrambler so quickly, if his nerve is sufficiently strong; but the penalty paid for slight mistakes is often extreme, and the risk is too great for him to be justified in deliberately choosing the single-handed venture. A party of two makes the strongest combination for most of the ordinary Cumberland climbs; three are generally better for the severest courses. Any beyond that number will to a greater or less extent increase the difficulty of the ascent and the time spent in effecting it.

A rough classification is here appended of over a hundred well-known courses judged under good conditions. They are divided into four sets. The first are easy and adapted for beginners, the second set are moderately stiff, those of the third set rank as the difficult climbs of the district, and the last are of exceptional severity. Some attempt has been made to arrange them in their order of difficulty, the hardest ones coming last; but the variations of condition of each due to wind, temperature, rain, snow, or ice are so extensive that no particular value should be attached to the sequence. But even if only approximately correct, the lists may help men in deciding for themselves where to draw the line that shall limit their own unaided performances. As for the items in the fourth class, they are best left alone. Mark the well-known words of an expert (Mr. C. Pilkington): ‘The novice must on no account attempt them. He may console himself with the reflection that most of these fancy bits of rock-work are not mountaineering proper, and by remembering that those who first explored these routes, or rather created them, were not only brilliant rock gymnasts but experienced and capable cragsmen.’

_Easy Courses._

Deep Ghyll, by the west wall traverse. Cust’s Gully, Great End. Traverse across Gable Crag. ‘Sheep Walk,’ Gable Crag. D Gully, Pike’s Crag. Broad Stand. Needle Gully. ‘Slab and Notch’ Route, Pillar Rock. Great End Central Gully (ordinary ways). South-east Gully, Great End.

_Moderate Courses._

West Climb, Pillar Rock. C Gully, Pike’s Crag. A Gully, Pike’s Crag. Bottle-nosed Pinnacle Ridge. Westmorland Crag, Great Gable. Penrith Climb, Scawfell. Scawfell Chimney. Old Wall Route. Pillar Rock, East Side. Deep Ghyll (ordinary route). Scawfell Pinnacle (short way up). Dolly Waggon Pike Gully. Raven Crag Chimney, Great Gable. Crag Fell Pinnacles, Ennerdale. Gable Crag Central Gully (ordinary way). Black Chimney (High Stile). Pendlebury Traverse Route, Pillar Rock. Combe Ghyll. Fleetwith Gully (easy way). Arrowhead Branch Gully Smoking Rock, Great Doup, Pillar Fell. Professor’s Chimney. Needle Ridge, Great Gable. Pillar Rock, the Arête. Arrowhead Ridge, by Traverse from East Side. Eagle’s Nest Ridge (ordinary way).

_Difficult Courses._

Deep Ghyll West Wall Climb. Great End Central Gully (chimney finish). Pillar Rock by Central Jordan. The Doctor’s Chimney. Shamrock Buttress. Pillar Rock by West Jordan. Kern Knotts Chimney. Little Gully, Pavey Ark. Great Gully, Pavey Ark. Gable Crag Central Gully (direct finish). Oblique Chimney Gable Crag. Gable Needle. Arrowhead Ridge (direct climb). Pillar Rock Far West Jordan. Gimmer Crag Chimney. Doe Crag, Great Gully. Pillar Rock by the Great Chimney. The B Chimney, Pike’s Crag. Scawfell Pinnacle, by Steep Ghyll. Pavey Ark, Crescent Climb, and Gwynne’s Chimney. Keswick Brothers’ Climb. Pillar Rock, West Jordan Crack. Doe Crag Buttresses (ordinary routes). Sergeant Crag Gully (ordinary way). Mouse Ghyll. Pillar Rock (by north face). Smuggler’s Chimney, Gable Crag. Rake End Chimney, Pavey Ark. Moss Ghyll (by branch exit). Bowfell Buttress. New West Climb (Pillar Rock). The Brothers’ Crack, Great End. Sergeant Crag Gully (direct). Keswick Brothers’ Climb (variation finish). Stack Ghyll, Buttermere. Bleaberry Chimney, Buttermere. Deep Ghyll (by various routes). Collier’s Climb, Scawfell. Raven Crag Gully, Glaramara. Moss Ghyll (by direct finish). West Jordan Gully, Pillar Rock. Shamrock Chimneys. Fleetwith Gully (direct). Shamrock Gully (left-hand route). Kern Knotts West Chimney. Shamrock Buttress (Route II). Shamrock Gully (ordinary route). Pisgah Ridge, by the Tennis Court Ledge. Iron Crag Chimney. Engineer’s Chimney, Gable Crag. Eagle’s Nest Ridge by Ling Chimney.

_Exceptionally Severe Courses._

Doe Crag, Intermediate Gully. Scawfell Pinnacle, High Man (direct from Deep Ghyll). Gimmer Crag, B route. The Abbey Buttress, Great Gable. Screes Great Gully (direct). Doe Crag, North Gully. Gimmer Crag, A Route. Toreador Gully, Buttermere. Birkness Chimney, Buttermere. Warn Gill, Buttermere. Haskett Gully, Scoat Fell. Doe Crag, Easter Gully, O. G. Jones’ Route. Scawfell Pinnacle _viâ_ Low Man by Deep Ghyll, Gibson’s Chimney. Scawfell Pinnacle by Deep Ghyll, O. G. Jones’ Route. Kern Knotts Crack. North Face Pillar Rock, by Hand Traverse. Doe Crag, Easter Gully, by Hopkinson’s Crack. Doe Crag, Central Chimney. Eagle’s Nest Ridge, Great Gable. Doe Crag, Easter Gully, by Broadrick’s Crack. Walker’s Gully. C Gully, the Screes. North West Climb, Pillar Rock. Scawfell Pinnacle (direct from Lord’s Rake), O. G. Jones’ Route.

In every expedition the party should be provided with a sufficient length of rope--varying from twenty to fifty feet for two men, thirty to eighty feet for three--according to the character of the climb and the lengths of its individual pitches. It is very unwise to dispense with the rope, even on simple courses; the fact is patent in the Alps that amateurs take a long time to learn how to look after their portion of the rope when busily engaged on rocks; they are apt to leave all such details to the guides in front or behind them, and would do well to practise regular independence in that respect.

Ice-axes are generally necessary during the colder months of the year. They are inconvenient to manipulate on very difficult rocks, whether the climber is going up or down. But in the rapid descent of easy crags, face outwards, they are invaluable as aids to balancing; and steep grass or scree can undoubtedly be descended better with their assistance. The Cumberland crags are too smooth to make _scarpetti_ (_Kletterschuhe_) worth trying. These are rope-soled shoes that grip better than nailed boots when the texture of the rock-surface is sufficiently rough, but our expeditions are best made without them.

ROCK-CLIMBING