Rock-climbing in the English Lake District / Third Edition

by Owen Glynne Jones

We pushed the leader’s boots into his jacket pockets and sent up all our ‘luggage.’ Owing to the half-frozen condition of our fingers, tying the various things on the rope took so long a time, that we called forth an impatient exclamation from above. Eventually we, in turn, landed safely at the top, after swinging ignominiously on the rope, in much the same way as our ‘luggage’ had done. However, the great hitherto unclimbed pitch of Walker’s Gully was below us, and there followed the usual congratulations. Our progress up from the screes had been slow, something like three hours, but much time had been spent in reconnoitring under extremely bad conditions.

The situation was still rather serious, for we were perched on a narrow snow-ledge on the very brink of the upper chock-stone; and the three of us were almost in a state of collapse from cold and the saturated state of our clothes. The forced inaction of the leader, whilst we were finishing the climb, had made him so benumbed as to be almost helpless, and he was sitting with his feet in the wet snow, ineffectually trying to put on his boots. We had carefully kept some stockings and gloves dry in the rücksack; but the opening of the sack with half-frozen fingers proved unfortunate, for its contents escaped, and, with the other relics which had come down through Jordan Gap, now adorned the snow-patch far below. It was then agreed that this narrow, exposed ledge was, under the circumstances, not a suitable dressing room; so we gathered up our belongings, including our leader’s boots, and carefully ascended the snow until we came to a safe resting place. Here we resorted to the usual means of thawing ourselves, and our leader’s boots were restored to their appointed places.

The race up the steep snow seemed to revive our spirits, and, by the time the dry rocks below Great Doup were reached, our sufferings gave way to the glow of success. One little excitement was still in store for us, for Jones told us that he was threatened with frost-bite in both feet. On removing his boots we found that his statement was true, so we rubbed his feet with soft snow, and, before putting on his boots, the troublesome feet were placed as far as possible in the pockets of the warmest member of the party, until circulation was thoroughly restored.

Night was drawing on apace; so we bade farewell to our ‘vanquished foe,’ and were soon scampering along the High Level, bound for the well-earned comforts of Wastdale.

Iron Crag Chimney.—Towards the head of the Shoulthwaite Valley, which is 3½ miles from Keswick, near the road to Ambleside, may be seen high up on the right-hand side, a magnificent couloir. It runs up the south side of one of the steepest faces of rock in the district, and is called, after the rock, Iron Crag Chimney. We had passed in sight of the Crag scores of times, but the chimney is so cunningly hidden away on the far side from the road, that it was not until Mr. J. W. Robinson told us of it, that we dreamt of there being anything worth climbing there. He and my brother went to prospect it in March, 1896, but found it in such a very bad condition, that after climbing the comparatively easy first pitch, they were forced to beat a retreat. They came back, however, with a glowing account of the second pitch, and spoke very excitedly about ‘“a thing” at least 100 feet high, wet, mossy, and with an overhanging stone half-way up, from which the water dropped out four yards into the bed of the gully, 40 feet below.’ They thought, however, that a small ledge, up to which they had climbed, would continue far enough along the left wall of the gully to enable them to traverse well out from under the stone, and so reach the top of it. Of the nature of the climbing above that they knew nothing, but were both anxious to try it and confident of success.

Continued bad weather hindered another attempt until June of the same year, when Mr. F. W. Jackson and I joined the other two and we set out to attack this formidable ‘hundred-footer.’ The day was fine and the rocks in perfect condition, and we succeeded in climbing the chimney throughout. I intend to give more detail of the second ascent; but it may be as well to mention here that the second pitch only yielded after several attempts, by more than one member of the party, and only with the aid of a shoulder, given from the little ledge, was the leader able to climb to the top of the ‘chock-stone.’ After this another thirty feet of chimney brought us to the top of the pitch, and great were the rejoicings that we had, after a very severe struggle, mastered it. I shall never forget how white the face of one member of the party was when it appeared over the top of the pitch, how he yelled to us to ‘haul in the taut,’ how he ‘quoth “nevermore,”’ and how impolitely he spoke to the leader for having climbed it at all. Altogether this second pitch gave us a good deal of trouble, but the top part of the chimney, though very rotten and steep, and liable to come away in small quantities, was climbed with comparative ease.

After this, except some exploration of the Crags by Mr. H. W. Blunt, it was not visited again by climbers until the New Year of 1899, when Mr. O. G. Jones, with my father, my brother, and myself, found ourselves standing at the bottom of the first pitch. We had expatiated on the difficulty of the second pitch, and Jones was very keen on trying it, having, in fact, come over from Wastdale with us for that purpose. En route to Iron Crag we had climbed a gully on the west side of the massif, which consisted of a series of very interesting chimneys, the pleasures of which were greatly enhanced by magnificent views of Derwentwater. This had made us somewhat later than we anticipated, and an animated discussion was held at the bottom as to whether, considering the lateness of the hour and the bad condition of the gully, which was streaming with water, it would not be advisable for two of the party to stay below or go round and join the others at the top. This was decided against; ‘all or none,’ said Jones, so we roped up with him leading. He soon reached the small ledge under the stone, and then stopped to take breath and prospect. ‘Shall I come up to you?’ shouted my brother. ‘No thanks! I’ll have a try from here alone, and you would get wet through in no time up here,’ returned he. This consideration for my brother was utterly unlike him, for, amongst other similar occasions, I well remember one on which, in a gully—or rather waterfall—in Wales, he got wet through on the first pitch, and insisted on our finishing with him all the eight pitches. His look of glee when we emerged from the top of each pitch with the water running down us was a thing to be remembered. However, to return, he jammed his left foot against the left wall of the gully and pressed his back against the other, and almost before we had time to see what had happened, was smiling down on us from the top of the pitch. It was very disgusting to see him just ‘romp’ up the place we had found so difficult the year before, and when I had climbed up to him he smiled sardonically and said, ‘Is that your pitch? Well, really——!’ A small handhold had weathered away since the time of the first ascent, which somewhat simplified the passing over the ‘chock-stone,’ but even now I think most people would find it difficult. We could only apologise and feel small, but, had we known it, there was a surfeit of excitement and difficulty in store for us higher up.

The pitch we had just climbed was composed of most excellent rock, but up above, where we now were, everything was changed, and the upper rocks, which had been rotten enough before, were now, as a result of the heavy rain, of the worst description imaginable. Great pieces as large as one’s head came away at once, and every step had to be most carefully tested before we could proceed. Now was the time for us to appreciate our leader, for a less careful man would have ‘pounded’ us severely before we had made any progress worth mentioning. As it was, several big pieces had to be removed, and some came whizzing past in much too close proximity to be pleasant.

After the second pitch the chimney continues straight up and is fairly wide for two hundred feet or so; but there is no good anchorage until the level skyline is reached. Towards the top it narrows down to a thin, rotten and very steep crack. By slow and very careful progress we reached this crack, which had been climbed straight up on the first ascent; but after Jones had tried it a few times he evidently thought it hopeless, for he shouted down to us, ‘It won’t go to-day. The rain has made everything too rotten. We shall have to go back.’ It was four o’clock, raining heavily and nearly dark, and to go back meant in all probability sleeping on the top of the second pitch, an idea which none of us relished. So my brother climbed up to Jones and, after consulting for a while, they decided to climb out of the crack on the right-hand side. To do this a shoulder would have to be given, from a small shelving ledge, to enable the leader to reach the firmer and less steep rock up above. This was the most obvious route of ascent, but the ledge looked very unstable and rotten, and vibrated a little on being tested. However, Jones thought it might hold if stepped on in the right way; so my brother climbed up on to it and Jones followed. By utilising the side of the crack, they were able to put very little pressure on the ledge; Jones climbed on to his companion’s shoulders, and, when he had cleared away a few of the loose rocks, was, after an anxious moment or two, able to draw himself up on to the skyline and disappear from our sight. After a few seconds he gave a cheer and called to my brother to follow him. This he had just begun to do and had left the ledge about five feet, when I heard a dull ominous crack, and, on looking up, saw the whole thing coming down. There was no time to do anything but squeeze into the chimney and warn my father. I succeeded in getting far enough inside to escape serious damage, but the heel of my left boot, which projected a little, was torn entirely away. My father’s escape was more marvellous, for it seemed that nothing could save him; but on looking down I saw the great rock strike a projecting piece of the chimney only a few inches above his head, and spread out like a fan into a thousand splinters which shot far out into the air, falling again near the foot of the chimney; and thus we escaped with only a few slight bruises. One shudders to think what would have happened if the ledge had fallen when Jones and my brother were on it. It may be of interest to say here that during the whole of our climbs with Jones, this was the only approach to an accident we had, and under his leadership the possibility of anything going wrong seemed, and always was, very remote indeed.

After this we were not long in joining the other two at the top. By this time it was nearly dark and still raining heavily, and on the crest of the chimney we were faced by a bitterly cold wind. Jones, who had been exposed to this during the time we were ascending, was shaking with cold, and he shouted through the storm—‘Hurry up! Coil the rope and then we’ll do a sprint.’ On looking round we found that he had gone. We finished coiling the rope and hurried up to where he had been, but could not see him anywhere. We shouted again and again, but got no answer. After peering about and shouting several times we came to a standstill. ‘Is he subject to fits?’ inquired my father in a most doleful tone of voice. We had never heard of anything of the sort, so set off down the side of the crags in the hope of finding him awaiting us below. A miserable hour was spent in walking about the bottom of the crags calling his name; but the whistling of the wind in the rocks above, and the swishing of the rain were the only answers we got; so we set off down the fell-side, and, after floundering about in the dark, over the stone-walls and through the river, we found ourselves at last on the main road to Keswick. We were very anxious to know what had become of Jones, so hastened home, where we found him, ‘dressed up in all his best,’ toasting his feet in front of a comfortable fire. ‘Where have you been?’ ‘Dinner has been waiting an hour,’ and so on, were the thanks we got for our weary hunt among the crags for him, and the query of my father’s about his taking ‘fits’ became one of his favourite jokes. After proposing the ‘sprint’ to us he had run round a projecting shoulder of rock to leeward, and started off to Keswick over the moor, by the route we had taken earlier in the day. We had expected him to go down to the Shoulthwaite Valley, and in this way had missed him.