CHAPTER VI

_GREAT END AND ITS GULLIES_

As we walk up towards the Styhead Pass from Wastdale we may see well in front of us the long ridge of the Pikes monopolizing a goodly portion of the sky-line. The high dependence at the head of the valley we are skirting is Great End, a reasonable enough name for the north-east head of the range. It sends down a buttress towards the Styhead Pass that, at a closer view, is shown to be well separated from the main mass by a deep gully of some architectural merit. This is Skew Ghyll. It twists its way up to the ridge, and offers a pleasant variation route over to Sprinkling Tarn, whence a steep rise brings the tourist to the Esk Hause, the lowest point between Great End and Bowfell. The climber’s interest will be concentrated in the view of the long northern face of Great End, well seen from Sprinkling Tarn, and his experienced eye will notice at once that the face is marked by various gullies that invite approach. The whole ground has been thoroughly well examined from time to time, with the result that several gullies which from below or above appear to promise continuous climbing have proved to be deceptive in this respect. Yet there remain two that are always interesting, and a third that is at any rate popular as a winter course.

Seen from the tarn there are two gullies that cut the full height of the precipice from top to bottom. The lines of fresh scree that trail down from their lower ends show up plainly on the older _débris_ that marks the decay of this mountain wall. They both slope downwards towards the left when seen from this point, and are both obviously provided with variation exits at their upper extremities. That to the left was formerly called Robinson’s Gully, but is now generally known as the South-east Gully. There has always been a lack of originality in the nomenclature of such places, and with several routes on the same mountain the christener’s wits seem driven to all points of the compass. The second gully is a hundred yards to the right of the first, and has long been known as the Great End Central Gully. It divides half way up into two well-marked portions, the right-hand route constituting the main bed of the gully, and terminating at a huge notch in the sky-line. The left-hand branch as seen from below appears to terminate blindly in the face, but actually it leads to a deep and narrow chimney cutting into the top wall within a hundred feet of the main gully.

Far away to the right, where the cliff has shrunk to but one-third of its full height at the Central Gully, a black cleft may be descried that leads from scree to sky-line. This is Cust’s Gully, indifferent as a summer climb, but always beautiful in the richness of its rock scenery, and especially interesting in winter, when drift snow offers a royal road to the top. Every one has a kind word for Cust’s Gully. It is only called the Cussed gully by ignorant novices who inquire whether Skew of Skew Ghyll fame was a member of the Alpine Club. When it is marked out by snow we can from the path just distinguish the great rock bridge or natural arch across the upper part of the cleft.

GREAT END CENTRAL GULLY.--This wonderful ravine offers some special feature every winter. Its individuality changes so completely under the mask of snow, or ice, or rain, that an attempt to describe the gully by an account of any one expedition must of necessity be only partially successful.

One fine winter morning a year or so ago we had a large party at Wastdale, and for once in a way were all of the same mind as to our day’s plans. The walk up towards the Styhead Pass--the Schweinhauskopfjoch of the Swiss travellers among us--would just suit our conversationally-minded fraternity, to whom Brown Tongue or the Pillar Fell or the Gable-end offered gradients too steep for words. We sallied forth from the inn with many axes and great lengths of rope, and lazily worked our way along the valley. The lower path, entirely obliterated by the snow, took us across the stream to the right on to the low slopes of Lingmell. Piers Ghyll stream was crossed without notice, for here the gorge is not at all in evidence and requires closer examination to reveal its magnificence. Then, rising a few feet, we crossed the hollow of Grainy Ghyll and made towards Spout Head and Skew Ghyll. The snow gave us some glorious effects on the hills around. The Mosedale amphitheatre of noble mountains towered above Wastdale, and mutely questioned us as to the accuracy of the surveyors who could give them not even three thousand feet of elevation above us. Nowadays theodolites are taken to the mountains and misused with great effect; why should not the Pillar and Red Pike benefit similarly to the extent of a thousand feet or so? There above us on our left was Great Gable, a White pyramid cutting into a dark sky, at least ten thousand feet of mountain beauty between us and its snowy crest. Who could believe that the summit was only 2,900 feet above sea level? But the engineer among us calmly reminded me of an interesting aneroid observation I had once taken of the top of Moss Ghyll on Scawfell, making it a hundred feet higher than Scawfell itself. Was I to rank myself as a truthful scientist and be contented with the ordnance survey records, or as an artist who should represent heights, shapes, and colours as his imperfect senses make them? We closed the discussion in favour of the artist and then sloped (without slang) up to Skew Ghyll.

This was in splendid condition; the snow was deep and hard, and out of sheer pleasure in step-cutting, three or four enthusiasts carved their own staircases up through the ‘narrows’ and away towards the little pass above us. It was to be noticed that the steps gradually converged to one line as the leaders felt their muscles wearying, and they were willing to fall in with the caravan now trailing up in single file like the elements of a kite’s tail. At the top of our little pass we could see straight down Borrowdale. Skiddaw and Blencathara formed the distant background. Derwent-water reflected a dark sky, and by contrast with its snowy shores looked of an inky blackness. Styhead Tarn was not very beautiful; ice had formed on it a week before, but had since been broken up by the wind, and the great flakes of crystal unevenly crusted with drift snow gave a sense of roughness and of incompleteness out of keeping with the finished beauty of the surroundings.

We stayed up here for a few minutes, and then contoured along the side of Great End in the direction of Esk Hause. The ground was rough; here and there the snow required cutting. But no difficulties were met with until the narrow entrance to the Central Gully suddenly disclosed itself in the precipitous wall on our right. The gully points down towards the eastern corner of Sprinkling Tarn. It begins where the cliff stands nearest to the Esk Hause path, and is not to be mistaken for the South-east Gully that points directly towards the sharp bend in the little stream rattling down to Borrowdale.

At the entrance to our climb we stopped to consider the question of roping up. ‘Union is strength’ only within certain narrow limits, when the bond of union is an Alpine rope. It often involves loss of time.

Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne, He travels the fastest who travels alone,

and his speed is inversely proportional to the number of his followers. We decided to split up into three equal parties of four, my men to lead up the main gully, the engineer to convey the second set up the middle course, and the more substantial residue to bear to the left, up a slighter branch that contains a very creditable cave pitch half-way towards the summit ridge.

Our work was easy at the outset. The gully was narrow and steep, but the snow was good, and small ledges on either side were utilized whenever the little icicle-clad pitches were too slippery for direct attack. Where the gully widened a little we could see the first serious obstacle in front of us--a vertical wall with a ragged ice-curtain flung over it in a most artistic way. It would perhaps have been possible to cut directly upwards, but the crowd of eager climbers behind could not be expected to fight against frostbite for an hour or so while the leader amused himself, and the obvious method of circumventing the difficulty had its own merits. The right wall slightly overhung; close below was a glazed rib of rock leading up at an easy angle to the top of the pitch.

Steadying myself against the wall, I started cutting slight steps up the thin ice on the rock, keeping as near to the corner as possible. Now and again the foothold felt insecure, but for the most part the ascent was safe, with slight probability of a slip into the snow below. The second man followed close up, and steadied my feet occasionally with an ice-axe. Then came a more gentle snow-slope, up which we could kick steps without effort; and while the second party were busy with the difficulties that we had just overcome, we reached the second pitch and hastened to leave it behind us. This was rather a harder task than we had yet undertaken. The gully was more open and its ice covering less extensive, but the pitch was higher and involved our climbing up to the centre from the right-hand wall, so as to reach the base of the big boulder that crowns the pitch. All this would have been easy with the rocks clear and dry, but we had to make our footholds on the flimsiest rags of ice, and the traverse to the middle demanded some long stepping with scarcely a hand to steady. On reaching the boulder I was compelled to crawl on all-fours round its front to the slope on the left-hand side of the gully, and then by cutting a dozen steps or so in the hard snow found myself in the wide part of the gully at the foot of the great divide. The others of my party followed on rapidly, and we shouted adieu to our companions beneath.

Here we had the finest view of the climb. Below, the beauties of the two pitches were greatly increased by our own elevation. They looked very difficult, and the picture offered its living element in the cautiously advancing parties now just in the interesting part of the climb. Above us rose the huge buttress that divides the gully, and on either side the most fantastic drapery of ice well-nigh frightened us with its appearance of impregnability. We advanced carefully up to the right, congratulating ourselves on having taken the lead, for our friends were not pleased with the battery of hard chips of snow that our step-cutting gave them. The buttress was rounded, and we gained a full view of the troubles in store for us. Immediately on our left a smooth rock-shoot led straight up to the top of the buttress. Between the vertical pillar on the right of this shoot and the opposite side of the gully rose a sheer wall of ice, like a frozen waterfall twenty-five feet in height. So far as we could see at first, there was no chance of forcing a quick way up this obstacle, and it was obvious that slowness would introduce the risk of frostbite. During the previous summer my fingers had been rather badly frostbitten in the Alps, and there was some chance of their still manifesting a susceptibility to cold. We almost turned back to follow our friends up another way; we could trust each other to exaggerate the terrors of this bit, which honestly enough was a trifle too stiff for a cold winter day. But while mentally framing an excuse for the return, I had advanced up to the left-hand edge of the ‘ice fall,’ and started the ascent of its spiky edging of rock. From below the spikes had appeared fragile and untrustworthy. Actually they were too well frozen into place to become detached with one’s cautious drag. This discovery altered the prospect for us all, and the chilly watchers below warmed up with the returning enthusiasm. In fact they needed reminding that I might yet come down suddenly to their level and sweep them off their feet unless they were prepared to receive me. When ten feet up, the axe was called into requisition to cut a few steps in the fall itself. These were useful just so long as the left hand could utilise the rocks, but they tended to carry me away from my comparatively safe corner, and I soon decided to keep away from the fall as far as possible. The corner where the gully sloped back was very exciting, for implicit trust was reposed in the benumbed left hand that had been thrust, well gloved, into a thin and icy crack in the wall, and held there by frost and friction. It offered no sensation either of security or of danger, but it could not very well slip out, and we hoped for the best. A few moments’ struggling landed me safely on the steep slope above the pitch, and a vigorous handling of the ice-axe on the bed of the gully fully restored circulation to my hands. Then followed my cold companions, who had been shivering spectators for a long twenty minutes. They were thus handicapped from the outset, and found the pitch very severe, notwithstanding the gentle suggestion of safety that the rope offered.

We had some careful work still before us. The bed of the gully led steeply up to another large and slightly overhanging boulder that blocked the direct route, and our only possible method of getting above it was to cut steps away on the right, trusting to sundry very insecure grass holds. But these were much better than usual by reason of the frost. In fact the whole climb is perfectly sound in winter, though rendered very difficult. In summer it is often easy but dangerous.

From the steep right-hand side of the gully we could traverse with care to the main bed again, just above the boulder; whence to the top of the gully, looking from here like an Alpine pass, was a broad stretch of unspotted snow. There we joined the second party, who had come by the steep grass ledges of the central route. Their labours had been great--or else, indeed, they would easily have managed to get ahead of us--but not so much from the intrinsic difficulty of their route as from the need of continual caution in the more open portions of the climb. They had reached a ledge that overlooked the right branch, and were proposing to descend to our snow slope and cut steps up with us. We were nothing loth to give them a chance of showing their skill with the axe, and for a while halted to enjoy the grand prospect behind us, looking straight away towards Sprinkling Tarn and Borrowdale. But we found ourselves frequently buffeted by strong gusts of wind that swept furiously down the gully. The whirling snow at the little _col_, now so near, warned us of an approaching _tourmente_ on the ridge. Our section soon decided to start again, and just below a small cornice that crowned the gully we forged ahead, and plunged through the powdery fringe of overhanging snow. We sank in up to our waists, and had to wrestle mightily against the hurricane to find a firm footing on the wind-swept rocks beyond. It was no joke standing about there with the sharp, cold, drift snow from the Pikes blowing into our smarting faces. We could not hear ourselves speak, it was almost impossible to see the correct course; but there were two or three among us well acquainted with this ridge in its bitterest moods, and to these the others trusted. We floundered down to the right towards Esk Hause across the wilderness of blocks strewn over the great plateau, and in a hundred yards came to a boulder large enough to possess a lee side of its own. Here we halted for a chilly half-hour, waiting for the third section to arrive. I possessed their luncheon in my knapsack, a most regrettable circumstance from our point of view, inasmuch as it tied us to Great End so long as it pleased them to amuse themselves down there on the leeside of the mountain. We quickly demolished our own share of the provisions, and with an unselfishness rarely present in the great latterday mountaineering expeditions, decided to leave them a few sandwiches and to cloy the hungry edge of our remaining appetites with tobacco. We were not all smokers, but everybody present assisted in lighting the first pipe, such a labour was it to keep a match burning. We waited there in a close bundle until our feet were half frozen and our faces stiff with icicles. Then we became rather nervous about our missing friends, and debated whether they meant to reach the top that day, or whether they had turned their backs to the lunch and made for Sprinkling Tarn. The latter course seemed at once the most expedient for them and the most convenient for us, and gladly we acted on this assumption. It was just as well we did so, for the frost had sharply nipped some of us, and it was long before my heels gave me any sensation but that of a pair of snowballs in my boots. We slung round the Esk Hause, and had some fine glissading to the hollow of the hill below the crags.

When well opposite our climb at the point whence we had started some five hours earlier, our united shouting brought back an answering call from the gully. Soon we could see the burly form of their greatest member slowly descending the crags at about the same spot where we had long before left him. Having distinguished him as a preliminary landmark easy of recognition, the three others were one by one made out. We were relieved to observe that they were all coming down in a normal condition; no broken limb or sprained ankle had occurred to spoil their pleasure and stop their climbing. After a few minutes’ waiting we learnt their story. The left-hand route had begun in a vertical ice-sheet twenty feet high that took them two hours to surmount. Then, when with sighs of relief, or hyperbolic language, or eloquent silence, that marked each individual’s satisfaction at the happy completion of a difficult pitch, they had cut their way over the edge of this wall and rounded the traverse that dominated it, they were aghast to meet a wall of ice in every respect similar to the first, but magnified! This was heart-breaking, but they made a bold bid for success, and started afresh on the new task. But the daylight was already within an hour of vanishing, and a night on those rocks would have been too much for even the sturdiest of them.

So with a wisdom not often met with in such cases where an element of competition enters into the day’s work, they resolved to retire and join us below. There we met again, and they received their lunch. I was censured to a slight extent, but blame is pretty sure to be the portion of him who carries the provisions. He that shoulders the bag is a responsible individual, and the condition of good training that it induces is moral as well as physical.

Then let me insist on the value of such physical training. The photographer who takes his camera to the High Alps is often too fond of his apparatus to give it up to a guide or porter; he frequently decides hurriedly to take a shot, and soon learns that it is best to carry all for himself. Economy may often preach the same precept. Now to lift his own weight is a labour he at first fancies will tax all his strength, but a little practice in carrying a well constructed and well packed rücksack on small expeditions will teach him something different. The weight of the whole equipment for half-plate photography--camera, three lenses, tripod, and other accessories--is so small a fraction of his own weight that its mere lift is a negligible consideration. His pace will be diminished and his back often uncomfortably heated. But supposing the burden well arranged, many a climber could habituate himself to it. One of our greatest Alpine climbers is said to train in Cumberland by carrying a rücksack filled with stones. Without attempting to persuade any one but a geologist so to burden himself on principle, I strongly advise the man who hopes ultimately to climb without guides to get early into the habit of carrying loads on smaller ascents. It will always be a joy to travel free when occasional opportunity offers, and then he will assuredly improve his pace. On a really stiff pitch the sack may have to be raised independently by the rope, a cause of serious delay when the rope is rigid with frost and the party inexperienced in tying knots or reliable loops. It should be remembered that the sack has more than once protected the climber from serious injury by falling stones, and that a pound or two of extra luggage carried up to an Alpine hut may mean all the difference between a night of misery and a comfortable rest before an arduous expedition.

I have mentioned that the middle route up the Central Gully leads by easy stages to the upper portion of the right-hand branch. Some three years ago a strong party effected an ascent of the chimney that points directly up to the top of the cliff from the high ledge between the two routes. We found the main difficulty was in traversing over an open slab on the right of the foot of the chimney. The slab was split by a narrow fissure, but the handholds were slight and rather insecure. To have trusted to one alone would have been dangerous, and I recall with amusement the spread-eagle attitude of the leader as he endeavoured to distribute his weight equally on four rickety points of support. The position was good enough in itself, but to move involved a dangerous increase in the stress on one of the supports. Fortunately the second on the rope was able to offer an axe-head as additional security, and the passage to the left was effected in safety. The chimney was narrow and its sides smooth, but with the exception of a loose stone near the finish, which rattled down and tended to disturb our wedging, nothing seriously interfered with our advance.

But there was one amongst us who, in expectation of falling stones, had thrust his head and shoulders into the little cave at the foot of the chimney. When the leader shouted to him he did not hear, and the accompanying pull on the rope resulted in the hitching of his shoulders firmly in the cleft and the elevation of his legs only. The previous evening we had been having a heated discussion as to the futility of naming the sides of a gully or cave after the manner of the banks of a river--_i.e._ of calling the ‘true’ right side of a gully its left and _vice-versâ_. Professor M., who was with us now, had been a listener to the discussion. Looking down from the top of the chimney and observing the unusual method of our friend’s ascent, he called out, ‘It’s all right, Jones, he is coming up well enough--the “true up.”’

SOUTH-EAST GULLY.--This in summer time can often be accomplished in half an hour if the climbers are few and in a hurry. Before December, 1896, I had not made a winter ascent; moreover, I had forgotten much of the detail. Thinking of climbing notes, I persuaded a small Christmas party to join me in exploring the gully under these new conditions.

We were only a band of three ultimately, though at Kern Knotts, which we visited _en route_, our number was considerably larger. The other two were both experienced Alpine climbers, one a very tall man, the other very short. I was anxious to determine the advantages and disadvantages of size and weight, and to that end took the lead myself and placed the tall man second on the rope. We had but little wind, and the temperature was slightly above freezing-point.

The climbing began almost at once, for in five minutes from the foot the gully walls were close together and were encrusted with thawing ice. The narrow bed was broken up into easy pitches, but to avoid the stream of water that came down beneath the soft covering of snow it was necessary to use small ledges on either side, and span the gully like diminutive colossi--here I am referring only to myself and the little one. Now and again we would plunge up the gully for a short distance in loose snow. Occasionally the crystals became more compact, and two of us could manage to creep over its surface without slipping through. Rarely was this the case with our middle man--a sixteen-stone Teuton with a scientific training. If snow could be crushed he crushed it. He became so indifferent in the matter after awhile, that he made no attempt to distribute his weight evenly over the surface according to the rules laid down by Badminton. The little one, coming last, naturally suffered by this indifference, and was plaintive over what he called the ‘fallacy of the undistributed middle.’

The first pitch of any size occurred within 200 feet of the foot of the gully, a perfectly vertical rise of twenty feet in the bed level with a slender waterfall interfering with our direct progress. The retaining walls were the least bit too far apart for the utilization of both simultaneously, and the right side commended itself to us as the easier to attack. Our only trouble again was the glaze on the rocks, a black, shiny veneer too thin for axe operations, too thick to be trifled with. Such ice always interferes more with the hands than with the feet, for sharp boot nails can roughen the surface of an ice ledge enough for a foothold, whereas the hands can make no impression. If the ice is very cold, gloves must be worn as a protection against the frost. They have the merit of adhering slightly to the ice when pressed, and often in that way give the climber a safe-enough grip. With wet ice such regelation will not occur, and if the work is hazardous I prefer to climb with free hands, trusting to friction to restore circulation wherever an ‘easy’ may be called.

Making slowly up this wall to a snowy ledge at the top level of the pitch, I called on the others to follow, and then worked back into the gully. Here we found ourselves facing the ‘divide,’ a high and narrow rib of rock that cut down into the gully and gave us a choice of routes. Our way lay up to the right, which a distant view from Sprinkling Tarn had shown us to be really the main line. The other branch ends somewhat abruptly out on the face, and involves a traverse into the main again. A few yards further up, and a very imposing pitch rose before us. It was in three portions, the gap between the second and the third blocked by a huge stone that bridged the gully. As on the lower fall, so here the water kept us off the centre-line of the ravine, and drove us to seek diversion on the right. On the first part we had the difficulty of snow and wet ice. Without comment I noticed the little one carefully wipe out a handhold with his handkerchief when it was his turn to mount. By the same manœuvre he had some three years before shown me how to scramble up a small boulder in the Engelberg valley that I was forced to admit I could not climb. It was interesting to observe how little space he needed for his fingers. On a wall with diminutive ledges that might easily pass unnoticed, he could show us all what ‘walking up’ a face of rock really meant, though his short reach naturally handicapped him now and again very seriously. I believe a short man generally does best on rocks. His hands are as a rule stronger in proportion to his weight. The long climber can reach further but is often unable to utilize the distant grip to which he has stretched, if it is small or badly rounded. Moreover, he often finds himself in the attitude of a looping caterpillar, a pose that demands a firmer handgrip and that rapidly exhausts the muscles.

We all reached the first ledge safely. Then came the passage of the bridge. If we passed under it we should get terribly wet and cold, though there would be no particular difficulty in getting through to the final chimney. Every inch of the boulder was glazed, and it offered very few excrescences to hang upon. But it had the making of an edge at its crest, and I gradually worked up the outside till I could reach this and pull up. There is one advantage of a glaze--possibly its only one--it offers no friction to one’s body in an arm-pull.

Thence it was an easy step over to the final chimney. A small spout of water as thick as one’s wrist was jetting from the top against the right wall, and we were inevitably in for a wetting in spite of the circumvention of the bridge. I essayed to finish the pitch before the others started from their ledge twenty feet below. A fairly good lodgment for the right foot was utilized and passed. The body had to be jammed across the chimney, the fingers seeking for a crevice high up on the right wall. When a slab is streaming with water and handholds can be found within easy reach, it is a good plan to keep ‘thumbs down’ as much as possible; for then the water will drain off by the thumbs, and run clear of the coat-sleeves. The strain is too great to operate in this way with arms at full length above the head. That was manifest in my trouble on the wall. The ice-cold water trickled down my arms and body, making me wet through in a few moments. But the horror of it came with the realization that I was unable to move backwards or forwards. The situation was almost critical, but not an unusual one for winter climbing in Cumberland. I could at any rate give it my cool consideration, and decide whether to call up the big one to help me or to try an independent descent. The men below saw me in trouble and made a move upwards towards the pitch. Then it occurred to me that the big one would not be able to force a way under the bridge, and that he might be a long time working over it, longer than I could manage to hold out. That decided me, and I started wriggling downwards. Luckily the hands were not yet benumbed, and by entire disregard of the main water-supply down the central line of flow, which now included the back of my neck, I managed to reach the platform again. Until my second came up it was useless to make another attempt, and indeed it was now eminently desirable that everybody should get wet. I am not an advocate for monopoly in such cases. With some slight inducement suggested by the rope, the big one pulled himself over the bridge and came up to the platform. Here he was invited to hold himself firmly against the wall, and give me his shoulders and head for elevating purposes. He was immediately drenched before I had effected a start up his mighty back, but there was a sense of perfect security now; it would be impossible to fall past him. As for the effect of cold and wet on him, we could neglect so small a consideration. In any case he would not feel it till the trouble was over. I thought of the old dynamics problem beginning: ‘Let a fly of mass m be crawling up the trunk of an elephant, whose mass may be neglected,’ and realized for the first time that there was some sense in the quaint hypothesis. Once on his shoulders I reached up to a dry ledge, dragged myself on to it, and thence strode across to the top of the pitch.

The third man had managed to reach the platform during these operations, and now nobly offered his little all as a foothold for the giant. My heart sank when I heard it graciously accepted, but it rested with me to share the responsibility and let the rope take up some of the stress. The big one came up grandly with these small aids, and we hurried the little one to send along my camera sack and then himself. This pitch was the hardest part of the day’s work, and showed itself to vary much with existing circumstances. I can just remember enough of a former expedition to add that it needs care in summer time, though it cannot, rightly speaking, be called difficult.

We then went upwards again over snow at a gentle angle till the third pitch was reached. This was of a simple design, just a cave formed by a fallen boulder, and no doubt it could be taken in many ways. We climbed up a six-feet wall on the right from the entrance to the cave, and scrambled easily into the snow-bed beyond. Thence to the top was a matter of only ten minutes, the single hindrance being a pile of boulders that were climbed by an easy tunnel that led to the crest of the left-hand wall of the gully. We walked out at the top just as twilight set in, after some two hours’ gentle excitement. We were naturally still damp, and felt no inclination to stay about on the ridge, so hurrying round towards Esk Hause we glissaded rapidly to the path and walked home.

The left-hand variation in the gully is often taken, but is scarcely as interesting. Just after passing the divide we find another buttress of rock cutting the gully into two sections. Here the buttress is not much thicker than an ordinary brick wall; it is sometimes called the ‘curtain.’ There are pitches on each side of it, that on the right being more definite and more interesting. It leads up a steep chimney to the crest of the curtain, which is crossed to the left. The climber is then in the left-hand branch, and has no difficulty in ascending the gully till it dwindles down to nothing, and he finds himself looking into the main south-east gully just above the third pitch. It will be best, then, to climb down and finish by the usual route.

CUST’S GULLY.--The climbing in this is of the slightest character in summer time, there being but one short pitch beneath the natural arch, and very little in that. But with hard snow about there is scarcely a pleasanter way of playing at Alpine climbing above the snow-line than by taking Great End viâ Skew Ghyll and Cust’s Gully. The snow slope will alter in inclination from about 30° at the bottom to 70° at the top. If the pitch is but thinly covered, there is the fun of tackling a pitfall, and of bringing to bear on the safe crossing all the science that glacier crevasses may have taught us in Switzerland. Nor let any think that it is all make-believe and that of difficulty there is none. I have had grand times in Cust’s Gully, where we were actually tired out with the labour of cutting steps. The snow when fresh is soft and yielding. Give it a week or two to settle down, and it will bind together so as to offer firm support on scraped footholds. But let cold rain fall on hard snow and the temperature then fall below freezing-point, the surface will become icy and every step will require careful making. Then should the picturesque attitudes of step-cutting depicted in Badminton be imitated in all seriousness, and the axe wielded with the scientific swing. It has happened more than once that a bad axe has proved its worthlessness when tested on the Cumbrian fells in a winter expedition--a much less dangerous discovery than if it were taken new to the Alps and there found wanting. The difficulty in the latter case is that our axes are so rarely used for hard work, if we are led up the great peaks by competent guides. They delight in removing every obstacle in our way, and it may be that long usage of the axe has really been but a test of the _bâton_, not at all of the pick. Then comes a time when the leading weapon is broken, or carelessly dropped, or still more carelessly pitched up to a ledge of only suppositious safety. Do not imagine that these things never happen, for each has been within my own experience during the last three years; and woe to the party if the untested axe is a weakling when emergency calls on it!

The upper part of Cust’s Gully when the snow is at its hardest may almost be regarded as a test of nerve for the novice. I once was starting to cut down the gully in such a state, with a young man of limited Alpine knowledge, who diffidently suggested that step-cutting was rather slow and that he would prefer a glissade if I did not mind. I shuddered at the vision his naïve suggestion conjured up, of a species of chain-shot shooting viciously down the tremendously steep slope, ricochetting from wall to wall of the gully, and scraped very bare by the sharp-toothed icy surface. That novice had no nerves, and my remarks are not intended for him. The contention is that an amateur party cutting up the steepening slope, and forging a way through an incipient cornice of overhanging frost crystals at the top, will learn much of the genuine safety of an ice-slope, and will see how to divest it of its imaginary dangers. There are many Alpine climbers positively afraid of harmless slopes, that are not nearly so bad as they appear, and still less formidable than they show up in photographs. Such men have never led up steep snow.

Near the foot of Cust’s Gully a branch passes up to the right, of less altitude and gentler inclination; its rock scenery is not so fine, and the place is rarely visited.