Novel Tactics On The Central Buttress, Scawfell

By C.D. Frankland.

Many years ago there was kept at Wastdale, in the hotel, a large manuscript book, in which new climbs could be entered. This valuable collection of information was freely used, and the volume has long since been filled from cover to cover. Its popularity has occasioned its undoing. Whole pages have mysteriously vanished, the most valuable being the first to go. The depredations of collectors only ceased when the proprietor wisely put away the battered, time-stained remains in his office. There is still a book, but it is only available to members of a kindred club. Should the suggested aff1iation of clubs be brought about, one of its advantages might be in the pooling of records in a book open to all. Then there would be less excuse for not keeping up to date with the latest developments of our art, even for such as myself and others, who are not members of the club-with-the-book. And such a question as – “What is this Central Buttress?” would not be asked. I felt some indignation at the lack of interest in recent exploration revealed by the question, until I remembered that a very few months ago I was ignorant that the crag east of Moss Ghyll had been so named.

The first reference to the Central Buttress in the private book is brief. It runs – “Attempt on C.B. (’nuff said)” and occurs between two very fine achievements – Scawfell Pinnacle from Lord’s Rake, by Hopkinson’s Gully to Hopkinson’s Cairn (first ascent G.S.S.), and Girdle Traverse of Scawfell (second time). In order to explain the middle, cryptic entry it may be expanded into “An attempt on the Central Buttress, Scawfell, was frustrated by the unspeakable difficulties encountered.” Then its true relation to the other notes will be appreciated, and it will be a fair inference that something unusual in the way of severity is to be expected on the Central Buttress. The next reference, verbose in comparison, is dated 20th April, 1914. It reads-“Scawfell Central Buttress, First Ascent, S. W. Herford, G. S. Sansom, H. B. Gibson, C. F. Holland.” The Journal of the Fell and Rock Climbing Club (Vol. 3, No. 2) contains the thrilling story. Three strenuous days were needed to work out the details of the route, but the whole, direct ascent in one expedition was not accomplished as had been hoped. War broke out in the summer.

There are some things that even the War did not change, and one is the crag of Scawfell, where, in 1921, the great buttress still challenged the climbers to repeat the ascent of 1914. The new school of experts has concentrated its accumulated skill upon rock faces. Many startling routes have been forced up various astoundingly holdless walls. Meanwhile our old guide books are rapidly receding into “back numbers.” The muscular methods of Owen Glynne Jones are discussed with a tolerant smile. The human ladder of his time finds no place in the tactics of to-day. Like Jones, our experts climb without boots, but out of respect for present day social amenities, they hide their socks inside rubber shoes. Perhaps the tendency is to specialise too much on smooth faces to maintain the old skill of attack in what have been called “the less important things of modern rock climbing,” such as chimneys and cracks. For the particular difficulty, which has defied the assaults of the new school, is one of these “less important things,” a comparatively small crack. It is gratifying to be able to say that our modern experts have resisted the temptation to follow the precedent established under similar conditions in Moss Ghyll.

At Wastdale in the summer, an after-supper stroll down by the lake is a popular feature of the daily programme, and, arrived at the head of Wastwater, we find an antidote for the unfortunate effect of the discordant concrete bridge in the purple and gold harmony of the distant Scawfell Crag, where any harshness is veiled in the blue atmospheric depth. A similar, soft effect is to be observed when returning after a day on the fells in the late afternoon, especially on one of those showery days which produce the rich colours peculiar to our climate. By this time the sun is well round in the west. The rocks are freshly wet with rain, and, if one turns on Brown Tongue to look back at the familiar face of the crags, the sunlight will be seen to be reflected brightly from the sheer, smooth wall about the middle. One gleaming patch shines with all the radiance of -a silver hatchment. This is the Flake of the Central Buttress. When approached in the morning all the effects assume a grimness in perfect keeping with the notorious defences which this buttress presents against attack.

These towering crags have been the stage whereon have been played a little tragedy, much comedy and a farce. The side entrances are by Mickledore and Lord’s Rake. But for the initiated the great rock face between responds to the “open sesame” of their skill. The ridges leap out into bold relief; the hollows sink back into ever more gloomy recesses. These buttresses and bays resolve themselves into a dozen hidden staircases, all different and all delightful. But, when the last has yielded up its secrets, a sense of loss drives the curious climber to seek out a new way, which shall be worth all the rest. Such is the Central Buttress, towards which I set out about 9 o’clock one August morning (1921), accompanied by Mr. Bentley Beetham, of the Fell and Rock Climbing Club.

As we pounded along past the little school, over the footbridge and the clattering stiles, around the foot of Lingmell and up Brown Tongue, we hoped to be the only party bound for Scawfell. It was a fine, warm morning, and the trudge seemed less tedious than usual. We discussed the many hundreds of feet of very fair climbing, up and down, that had been squeezed into the two days’ practice necessary to put us into condition. At last when the effort of scrambling up the talus ejected from Lord’s Rake put an end to conversation, we stole occasional glimpses at the broad precipice of the Central Buttress, marked off by Moss Ghyll on one side and Botterill’s Slab on the other. By the time we had reached the little level patch of gravel at the foot of the Pinnacle Low Man I was eagerly pointing out the redoubtable Crack. From the lunch place, where we stood, the famous Flake looks very small and distant, whilst the Crack appears hopelessly inaccessible. Seeing that this was our first halt, I felt justified in exercising great deliberation in the act of changing into rubbers, and frequently paused to point out what were, very likely, invisible features of the course. The result was that Beetham was kept waiting while I slowly struggled into a tight jersey. The appearance of a large party topping the mound of Brown Tongue drove us off hurriedly to stake our claim at the foot of the Central Buttress, a few yards east beyond Moss Ghyll.

We were not clear in our minds exactly where the new first pitch began, but familiarity with the regular structure of the rocks forming this precipice convinced us that the subsidiary buttress, which confronted us, could be climbed. Here, as elsewhere on the crag, the divisional joints are roughly at right angles to each other. The altered volcanic ashes weather very conveniently into quadrangular blocks and columnar ribs presenting usually three faces. The two sides are not quite vertical. They tilt slightly to the south and east respectively, and the upper face dips accordingly. On Keswick Brothers’ route this causes the repeated westward traverses to present difficulties in the form of ledges sloping the wrong way, and faces which overhang. When the climber faces east, as on the slabs of the Collie Exit of Moss Ghyll, the climbing is much easier if steeper. Every pitch on the Central Buttress bears out the principle that the holds are good or bad according to whether the climber faces east or west. Especially is this the case throughout the first two pitches.

The fact that we had brought along two ropes showed that we had not entered too lightheartedly upon our ambitious enterprise, though I for one should have been at a loss to answer, had I been asked, how I intended to use them. Perhaps the fact that two ropes are stronger than one indicated a fear of catastrophe on the Flake. Now that we had brought the spare length of 50 feet, Beetham volunteered to carry it with us, and we tied on the 80 feet. Starting up a corner between a rib and the main wall, I realised that another factor enters into the consideration of the going besides the quality of the little ledges. Their quantity is a telling factor. The place reminded one of the big adjacent slab. The holds were small, few and far between, and at 30 feet up they failed altogether. A one-step traverse had to be negotiated with great care. The next corner on the left was now occupied and followed without much difficulty. Ledges increased finally into platforms, and when the rope ran out I was able to settle down comfortably upon a grassy bank to admire Beetham’s remarkably speedy climbing.

This was very fine, but unfortunately it led us too far to the left. The foot of the Flake now lay off to the right some 50 feet higher. The only means of access was a staircase, whose risers averaged I2 feet, and the treads, rather less. The whole system was of course tilted to our disadvantage when attacked from this direction. Moreover, the overflow of the buttress water system maintained a steady supply over the stairway to the obvious satisfaction of succulent lichen, and to the trials due to tilt was added the slipperiness of slime. As usual, the first step was the most trying. To reach it at all, one had to move out and up along dwindling ledges until, when poised over deep space, the sloping top could be reached. Discretion would surely have proved the better part of valour had not a helpful little recess come to hand, which made the squirm upon the jellied surface tolerably safe. Then throwing aside all pretence of style I shuffled on, puttees and breeches to the second step. When safely arrived on the landing, I found to my chagrin that Beetham was coming upstairs in a perfectly sober manner, instead of behaving like an inebriated Gulliver after a wet day in Brobdingnag.

The occurrence of a slimy pitch may be expected beneath such a ledge as the one we had now reached. The absorbent loam seems capable of storing up large quantities of moisture, which slowly sipes over the pitch below even after days of dry weather.

This grassy ledge lies about 150 feet above the Rake’s Progress, and we could walk about and enjoy the airiness of the situation in comfort. The immense sweep of Botterill’s Slab was really impressive. Very fine, too, was Moss Ghyll, teeming with associations dear to climbers. The two pitches, which we had just passed, emphasised the depth and steepness of the downward prospect. Upward, and most impressive of all, soared the vast expanse of the smooth wall of the buttress – and the Flake.

The ledge is called the Oval. It is, as its name implies, bigger than Tennis Court Ledge. It forms part of a terrace which peters out at its extremities, on the east within an exasperatingly short distance of Botterill’s Slab, and on the west about as far from the top of the third pitch of Moss Ghyll. It will be remembered that it was discovered by the party who designed the Girdle Traverse. The feature that claimed our attention was the Flake, which springs up in a vertical sweep of 70 feet, from the neglected turf of the Oval. The Flake is a thin leaf of rock which the frosts are peeling off the great smooth face of the Buttress, leaving more than a crack but less than a chimney, a fissure too wide for wedging, yet too narrow to enter. The right-hand side of a capital K represents the outline of the margin of the Flake seen in profile. This accords with the rule stated above; the first 30 feet are easy, up and to the left, while the chimney, or crack proper, is all but impossible, up to the right. In the second part, 40 feet high, the difficulty is due to the overhang, which becomes pronounced above a chockstone, lodged 12 feet or so from the top. One may search far before one finds a prettier climbing problem than the Flake Crack.

Beetham thought it would go and said so. I did neither. Both ropes were brought into use. The first 30 feet of rock were soon scaled to a ledge 9 inches wide. We took the precaution to thread a rope at once. Looking up we saw that two pronounced bulges precede the overhang. I climbed around and stood upon the first, while Beetham squeezed himself as securely as possible into his awkward corner. When he was firm I attacked the second more interesting bulge. Its mildness was a little disappointing, but the next 15 feet of smooth wall compensated adequately. By the time I had reached two holds, which are destined to be well-known by reason of their rarity, the left one on the edge of the Flake and the right one upon the wall itself, I had begun thoroughly to enjoy myself. The rock was sound and the climbing simple. It is true that it was extremely strenuous going, but it was just us hard work to remain still, and there was always the splendid flat top of the tall, narrow chock to justify any slight “overdraft” on reserves. As soon as I could, I hitched one rope across the top and dropped my arms to rest. While threading the other rope on the Flake side of the jammed block I found a short, blackened fragment of old rope, firmly wedged. It is still there, its suggestion of mythical legend perhaps accentuated by the harsh croaking of ravens, wheeling over Mickledore.

On Beetham’s advice I made loops around my hitch, which could not possibly slip, and sat in them. So comfortable did I feel in this quaint resting place, gripping the chockstone with my knees, that I was tempted to see what I could make of the last 10 feet, and must have annoyed Beetham immensely by various very foolish and utterly useless antics on and around the chock, before I came down upon ropes to which the term “double-double” applied. Then, not being in the least hungry, but greatly nonplussed, we achieved the obvious by adjourning for lunch.

We were not, after all, alone on the crags. Two friends were keenly interested in our doings, because they themselves had designs upon the Flake Crack, and had lugged up a pot-holing life-line, known to many of our members, with the idea of studying the pitch from above. They reached the top of the Flake by way of the summit, and we reported progress, agreeing with their remark that our climbing was yet to begin. They did not accept our suggestion that they should “come through” us, but queued it up above. I, for one, felt somewhat in the way, and we did not keep them waiting long before returning to the ropes left hanging, one threaded and the other from the hitch.

Little did any of us think that within five minutes the pitch would be successfully, even comfortably, climbed. But so it was, and it may be of interest to describe in detail the novel tactics brought into play to avoid defeat, to which the peculiar flagstone shape of the chock was vital. This time Beetham volunteered to lead as far as the chock. He tied himself on the hitched rope, the slack of which I drew in as he walked quickly up the wall, using both sections of the threaded rope for pulling. At the chock he seated himself in loops of his own rope passed over the rock and tied, and with feet firmly planted on either side of the chockstone, found that his hands could be freed without impairing his security. Then my turn came. At the cost of considerable hemp, but of little effort, I hauled myself up in the manner I have seen adopted by steeplejacks on a church spire, lacking only the counterpoise, the pulley and the seat, and soon arrived at the rendezvous. Here we went into committee. Beetham invited me to use him as freely as I would any jammed boulder, and I tried to grace my compunction in grating over his frame by calling attention to my rubber shoes. Without more ado Beetham trussed his near side leg with both hands and made a fine stirrup from which I mounted to his equally firm shoulders. It was fortunate my friend was staunch, as he sat dangling in the loops, or our escapade would have been March madness. Both hands were needed to maintain a very unstable balance as I straightened my knees on each side of a steady head. The grip of the hands upon the tapering edges of the Flake was enough to prevent a backward crash, but the sharp, hollowed crest was still out of reach. Beetham offered his head. This improved matters in one direction. Still I craved support for the left foot, which simply would not grip on the smooth wall, and it was promptly impounded and jammed hard. Agitation immediately gave way to complacency. Very carefully, very confidently, the left hand slid up the outside face of the Flake until the fingers curled over and hooked the sharp crest. Then, with feelings unbecoming of expression to a man who has reached my side , of middle age, I enjoyed the luxury of lusty hauling, which was sheer joy with such a hold and such space below to spur one’s efforts.

The Flake Crack was vanquished for the second time, and the pleasure we derived from the successful accomplishment of our scheme was due as much to the safety of the moves as to any originality of the methods. Stirred by impatience and some curiosity, perhaps, one of our friends was crawling at this moment carefully along the knife-edge of the crest of the Flake, and drew near the end, when we met literally face to face. The situation was ludicrously unexpected, and the exclamation “They’re up!” was accepted as an intimation of surprise, and a quaint form of congratulation. It was only it half-truth, however, Beetham was still playing the part of Prometheus on the face of the crag out of sight below. I hauled in my rope and threw the end down to my partner, so that he could tie on properly. After casting off his moorings from the chock, Beetham found no difficulty in joining me astride the knife-edge.

Pictures of the crest of the Flake, wonderful as they are, hardly do justice to the situation. The sense of height is absent in a photographic impression. The 50 feet of jagged edge “so thin as to be perforated in places,” are foreshortened disproportionately, and the smooth, inhospitable wall, sweeping upwards into the blue above, does not appear on the print. With a guides air of appropriation I turned to Beetham “What do you think of this for a traverse, Beetham?” Beetham duly appraised the vertical walls and the undulating margin of the crest between “just the place for a hand-traverse!” ejaculated the epicure.

I crawled along the edge, and scaled the upward sweep of 15 feet to a pillar at the far end, before I could look back to pay attention to the rope. There was Beetham approaching calmly upright upon the edge, and with pointed toes and right shoulder against the rock wall – walking, while calmly coiling the spare rope!

We joined Kelly and Bower, and made up a party of four to finish the climb according to the directions on the printed sheet carried by one of them. Our route was now indicated by a huge rift, the Bayonet-shaped Crack. To reach its foot the smooth wall had to be recrossed at higher level by a course roughly parallel to the top of the Flake. A jutting piece of rock marked the place and served as an anchorage. All agreed that the next traverse was “steep.” For about 15 feet the climber depends entirely upon his footing, and this is hard to find and keep. At the end across a small gap the Overhanging Buttress must be climbed for another 20 feet, with Hollow Stones peeping up through the window of the Flake Crack between the feet. From the top of the buttress I enjoyed acting the part of spectator in a skilful game played by experts, whose well-known skill was “all out” upon a traverse, which had the qualities of an “exceptionally severe,” steepness, absence of holds, and exposure, with the edge of the Flake below like the huge, upturned blade of a bill-hook, the sword of Damocles inverted.

Leaving Beetham to bring up the others I turned to admire at close quarters the so-called Crack. This striking feature of Scawfell Crag was obviously named from its aspect from a distance. It is about as big as Walker’s Gully, and of more interest to botanists than to climbers. Judging from its steepness it is very unlikely that it would detain either enthusiast long enough to do more than collect a few chance specimens, with which he would descend. The floor has been removed. We preferred the buttress, and rounded the notch, crossed the V Ledge, and arrived at a most fascinating corner. Some day I hope to return to this pleasantly secluded eyrie and smoke a pipe in the sunshine there. It is at the very top of the lofty grooves on the east of Moss Ghyll, which have been attempted in the less discreet assaults upon the Central Buttress. The view down these will always stir the imagination of a climber. The most disturbing fact is that one looks down to the third pitch of the Ghyll only to plot out a route up again, where every hold is plainly visible, and – how can I describe it? – it only just goes. The nervous strain drives one to shut out the shuddering exposure, and gaze around at the broader, beautiful landscape, tranquil, soft, and restful.

To-day was all hustle and hurry. Once I should have enjoyed the remaining 200 feet of climbing up the West of the Bayonet-shaped Crack, across it at the crook, then up the east side to the summit, and it would still be interesting under conditions of snow and ice. But just now the feeling of regret that the game was ended was somewhat depressing after the buoyancy that had brought one so far. The slope gradually eased off and four hours from the start we unroped on the summit. The time was not long, and there is every hope that on another occasion we may be able to spin it out even more.

Beetham agrees that we never extracted more enjoyment from scrambling anywhere together than we did from our introductory visit to Herford’s Buttress. “It was great, man!” writes Beetham. I hope it will not be considered out of place to express admiration for the work of the enterprising explorers, whose exceptional skill and daring placed at our disposal a course unrivalled in fantastic rock-scenery, in intricate route-finding, and in scope for skilful climbing.