The West Buttress Of Clogwyn Du’r Arddu
By F. S. Smythe.
It was a drowsy day in August, 1921, as I ground up the interminable zig-zags of the Gwynant track. Above, a clack of voices, the popping of bottles, and the pant of a train spoke of Britain’s most vulgar hill-top, Snowdon. I breasted the last rubbish strewn slopes and paused for an instant amid the summit hubbub. The sun warmed; in the west a silver sea streak gleamed over hazed hill masses; on either hand Crib Goch and Lliwedd stretched austere arms embracing the sombre waters of Glaslyn and Llydaw. The clamour triumphed; I bolted down the Llanberis path and turning westwards along the Ranger’s track regained quietude. I followed the track and presently turned right – expectantly. The ground was level for a few yards; suddenly it fell away; the breeze soughed gently over an edge. Five hundred feet beneath Llyn Arddu slept, a pool of purest blue in a maze of glacier borne boulders. I advanced nearer. Now I saw the slice of grey precipice connecting the sunny breast of the mountain with this grim hollow. I was looking down the east buttress of Clogwyn du’r Arddu. I know of no more dramatic view in Britain.
An article in the Rucksack Club Journal by H. R. C. Carr first attracted me to the crags of Clogwyn du’r Arddu. There are four buttresses, the Far East, the East, the West, and the Far West. In 1921 only the last named had been climbed, though Messrs. Abraham had made a short route up the east wall of the West Buttress. The Far East Buttress is broken and indefinite, but the East and West Buttresses present the most formidable rock faces in Wales. The continuity of the East Buttress is broken by a wide grass ledge running across the buttress at about two thirds of its height, but that is the sole break in the vertical sweep of slabs. The West Buttress is even more unrelenting and looks completely unassailable. The Far West Buttress slants back at an amenable angle, and its expanse of rough slabs affords delightful climbing of a quality comparable to the Idwal slabs on Glyder Fawr. There are several distinct routes, but given a dry warm day and rubber shoes, it is possible to wander almost anywhere.
In such wanderings lies the joy of solitary scrambling, and I was soon at the foot of the crags eager to sample the “delectable climbing” described by Mr.Carr.
There was a little wall to start with and a stiff groove; firm slabs followed. Little exertion was required; delicate treading took me up; dry turfy ledges prompted an occasional laze, the sun on the summit a pipe. I finished the day by girdling the buttress.
I visited the crags on two other occasions and girdled the East Buttress by the grass ledge – an expedition of no difficulty, but which served to emphasize the grandeur of the rock architecture on which Clogwyn du’r Arddu is built and the apparent impregnability of the East and West Buttresses.
In September, 1921, E. E. Roberts and I stayed at the Quellyn Arms, Rhydd-du, a cosy little inn between Beddgelert and Carnarvon, where we were hospitably entertained by Mrs. Owen, who is something more than a good cook by virtue of previous hospital experience.
The weather was good and we spent three days on Clogwyn du’r Arddu. The first was devoted to the Far West Buttress and a curious route up the rocks between the West and Far West Terraces. It lies up a sloping shelf, and involves some awkward and sensational climbing in its lower portion where the shelf is narrow and slopes outwards. It is a worthy little scramble and we named it the “Giant’s Trod.”
The following day we attempted the East Buttress in a half-hearted vague fashion by a great chimney that appeared to run up to the grass ledge. We failed, and retired to take our revenge on the crags by ascending Messrs. Abraham’s route. This includes an exhilarating chimney and an exit behind a large wedged stone which we shared with a stream. Roberts enjoyed it – it reminded him of pot-holing – but personally I thought it a detestable place.
Later we made the first ascent of the Far East Buttress. It is a disappointing climb and was rendered unusually unpleasant by hordes of trippers, who collected at the Clogwyn Station of the Snowdon mountain railway and howled at us. The rocks are indeterminate, evil, and untrustworthy, but there was a crack that we named the “Nonsuch” because it contained the only clean rock on the climb. We topped the crags to a shriek of execration from the assembled tourists. I have in mind part of a parody I invented afterwards which hits off the points of the Far East Buttress. It runs:—
“I laugh, for it reminds me so
Of holds that wobbled to and fro,
Our sneak up grass from far below,
The heather tuft I daren’t let go,
Belays that had the vertigo,
On Clogwyn du’r Arddu.”
We examined the West Buttress and walked round its overhanging base. At one place only did there appear any possibility of obtaining lodgment on the rocks and that was from a point a short distance from the foot of the Eastern Terrace which runs down to the east of the buttress. A turf ledge ran out to the buttress crest, but so impracticable did the face appear above the recess in which the ledge ended that we did not investigate it. Afterwards I remembered the place, and regretted having made no attempt upon it.
Impressions survive, and at Easter, 1928, when I next visited Wales, it was with the intention of proving beyond all shadow of doubt the practicability or impossibility of the West Buttress.
The East Buttress had fallen to the efforts and ingenuity of Messrs. A. S. Pigott and Morley Wood. They had gained the grass ledge two thirds of the way up the buttress by one of the fearsome cracks cleaving the lower wall, though the upper face above the ledge proved beyond even their splendid powers. The West Buttress remained, therefore, the last great problem in Wales.
A grey sky, a spit of rain, and a roaring gale greeted us as we passed over the Llanberis ridge of Snowdon by the track from Pen-y-pass. We were a large party, but none save myself had previously seen Clogwyn du’r Arddu.
The furies were abroad that day; the cwm beneath the crags provided scope for their rage. Writhing round it they seized the waters of the Llyn, whipped them into angry surf, and hurled upwards sheets of foam, whose spindrift beat the crest of the crags. Several times we were forced to throw ourselves flat, clutching at turf and rock, as the gusts roared by. Only once before have I experienced such a wind – on Ben Nevis during Easter, 1925.
We descended the easy screes to the west of the crags and passing around the foot of the West Buttress gained the Eastern Terrace. Meanwhile , Jack Longland, who had taken a short cut by climbing the steep rock wall at the foot of the Eastern Terrace, had climbed up an easy corner where stands a large block of rock, and continuing round the corner had gained the grassy recess. Returning, he assured me that he thought the rocks possible above the grassy recess, and together we climbed up to look at them.
I found myself gazing up the most impressive slab that I have seen in Britain. Picture a slab 250 ft. high, slanting up to the left in one great sweep and sloping slightly but disagreeably outwards in the same direction. On the right it is bounded by an overhanging wall, and in the angle thus formed springs upwards a tremendous cleft, half chimney, half crack. The left edge of the slab overhangs another and even more formidable slab. The average width of the slab is about 20 ft. and the inclination between 70° and 8o°. Up it the eye wandered fascinatedly while the mind speculated half dreamily awed to passivity. I experienced a feeling that I have not encountered elsewhere in Britain, the feeling that all mountaineers who look for the first time up an unclimbed mountain face know, a gamut of emotion impossible to analyse. But even suppose the slab to be vanquished, what then? It ended in a small ledge crowned by a quartz sprinkled block, and above that the buttress leant out majestically. We scrambled up the Eastern Terrace and scanned it for a connection with the easier rocks above, but our scanning revealed nothing save a traverse that only “went” to the eye of faith, and the eye of faith is not always the servant of cold reason.
The attempt was made two days later by Longland, Graham Brown, C. Wakefield and myself. The weather was not propitious, and by the time we had reached the foot of the crack a drizzling rain was falling.
There is nothing of ease about the climb; it is difficult at the start, and the difficulty is sustained. First was a narrow chimney. Longland made light of this, but, as is usual at the commencement of a climb, I bungled it completely. At the top of the chimney is a slab of remarkable smoothness to which clung decrepit masses of turf. Now all the best works on mountaineering deplore the use of grass and heather as hand or footholds. Be that as it may, I must confess to deriving great satisfaction from the vegetation decorating the slab, and so I believe did the leader.
Another very steep and exposed piece of work brought Longland to a small stance where it was possible to thread the rope behind a small stone wedged in the crack. Graham Brown was now at the foot of the crack and Wakefield out of sight at the corner by the big block. Suddenly – how I do not know – a mass of turf was dislodged and went hurtling down on to Graham Brown. The turf harboured in its bosom a large ugly stone which made straight for Graham Brown’s head. He had barely time to raise his arm to defend himself when it struck him, fortunately upon the forearm, bruising him severely. Apologies crept down in due course; undoubtedly the climb was in need of cleaning.
Longland, having secured himself by the threaded rope, invited me to pass him and try the next section. It was a formidable bit of work, how formidable those who follow will have no conception. One advanced a foot or so at a time, digging for holds and removing turf piecemeal; yet the rock beneath was sound and we were only experiencing what all the early pioneers of British rock climbing experienced. In a year or so ladies will climb the West Buttress of Clogwyn du’r Arddu and marvel at the difficulties we encountered.
Higher up, the overhanging wall on the right bulged out repulsively. An awkward movement to the left was necessary and an upward pull on the arms to a small stance. A pebble was wedged in the crack at this point, and after many laborious efforts I managed to thread the rope behind it and thus protect my ascent. The pull was a strenuous one; the overhanging bulge gripped the back lovingly. A haul, a heave, a gasp, a sinuous straining, and it was done. I found myself accommodated in a little corner where dwelt a friendly rock leaf which would obviously serve both as an excellent belay and a means of descending on a doubled rope.
We became alive to the fact that rain was falling steadily; malicious trickles began to come down the slab and crack; the holds were becoming slimy, and wet holds have a curious knack of dwindling to half the size they appear when dry. There were murmurs from beneath, the tail of the rope, hitherto patient and stoically silent, began to voice its grievances. Longland and I were sheltered and comparatively dry, Graham Brown and Wakefield were wet and cold through inactivity. Retreat was unanimously decided upon, but before retiring Longland climbed up and past me where he could see something of the route ahead. He returned with the glad news that it would undoubtedly “go” but that it was a question of rubber shoes and dry rocks.
As last man down I had no intention of climbing the wet and slippery rocks. I cut off a length of rope, looped it around the rock leaf, threaded the rope through, and after the usual contortions managed to get into the correct double roping position and slide off my perch down the airy reaches of the great slab.
Normally there is a certain pleasure to be derived from descending a doubled rope over a steep rock face, but on this occasion the rope was possessed of seven harsh devils, and instead of a dignified progression I proceeded in a series of profane jerks. The wet hemp clung to my breeches and cut cruelly into my thighs, and when I arrived eventually on the grassy recess it was with a feeling of thankfulness that I was still homogeneous flesh and bone and not sawn into two portions.
Thus ended the first round with the West Buttress; but if it had defeated us, it had only done so with the assistance of a perfidious ally – the weather.
Two days later C. A. Elliott, Graham Brown, and I returned to the attack with the intention of exploring from above. The weather was bad; a chill mist enveloped the crags; a biting wind numbed both ambition and fingers, but we gained some valuable knowledge.
The upper portion of the buttress is easy, and we descended with but little trouble to a point some twenty feet above the quartz crowned ledge at the top of the great slab. From a rocky platform above we gazed down an overhang, fifteen feet high, to the ledge. The rocks are rough and firm but there seemed small chance of climbing the overhang, even if the great slab succumbed and the quartz crowned ledge was attained. The alternative lay in a traverse to the west from the latter round a corner and thence across a steep slab, but it looked a most sensational and tricky piece of work. Yet another alternative was to swing the leader from the end of the ledge down to a shallow grove which appeared feasible. He could thus ascend and hold the remainder of the party over the traverse from directly above.
Easter passed and Whitsun came, but the genius of bad weather presided over Clogwyn du’r Arddu. Once more a fierce wind goaded the Llyn to fury and rain slashed the crags. R.Ogier Ward, Graham Brown, and I, setting out from Beddgelert, explored downwards once more, but got no further.
On Whit Monday Graham Brown and Ward unfortunately had to leave. That evening there were rumours of three men having been seen on the West Buttress. On Tuesday a party of us left Pen-y-pass in two motor cars and after sundry adventures, in which a climbing rope was called upon to haul one car out of a ditch, reached the last cottages of Hafotty Newydd above Llanberis.
G. W. Young accompanied us. The previous day he had ascended the East peak of Lliwedd by Route II., a great feat, and one indicative of his extraordinary arm power and skill. We would have given much to have had him with us on Clogwyn du’r Arddu. In addition to Longland were P. Bicknell and Waller, but they were present as spectators and not to accompany us on the climb.
For once the weather was perfect; the papers were ridden with headlines on the ” Heat Wave,” and photographs of ” bathing belles ” predominated in the pictorial pages.
As one approaches Clogwyn du’r Arddu from Llanberis, the crags rise seductively over the desolate upland valley of Arddu. We laboured over the boulder-strewn slopes, perspiring gladly, and scanning the West Buttress for signs of renewed activity. We gained the well-defined moraine to the north of Llyn Arddu and saw three figures clamber up to the Eastern Terrace to the foot of the climb. There they halted, sat down, and appeared to regard us.
The steep sixty-foot wall at the foot of the Eastern Terrace is a wet, loose, turfy, and unpleasant place. Up it Longland proceeded nonchalantly, but when my turn came I must confess that my general bad climbing condition which had been painfully obvious during the past three days, combined with a heavy rucksack, resulted in ignominious failure. Bicknell and I therefore scrambled round by the ordinary easy way.
Sitting on the terrace we found Eversden, Pigott and Morley Wood. It was they who had attempted the buttress on the previous day, and they had been very surprised to find the rope sling that we had left behind at Easter. They had got some twenty feet higher than we and had spent three and a half hours in intensive “gardening.” They considered the rocks possible above the point they had reached, and had driven in a piton as a belay. But unfortunately the piton had been dislodged and, unwilling to tackle the section above with no support, they had retreated. Now, and most unselfishly, they advised us to try it, but this we were unwilling to do. Lounging on the terrace we expatiated-between mouthfuls of sandwiches-upon the obvious advantages of combining the two parties. It would be happier in every way. They had attempted the buttress and failed; so had we. Clogwyn du’r Arddu could hardly stand the shock from a combined attack by a combination of both defeated armies thirsting for revenge.
We started in the following order-Longland leading, Pigott, myself, Eversden, and Morley Wood as sheet anchor bringing up the rear.
Condtions were very different from those on our last attempt. The day was warm and oppressive and the rocks dry. Longland went ahead in great style and was soon up to the second stance with Pigott ensconced above the first awkward slab. Soon came a pull on the rope and a cheery “Come on!” indicative of advance on my part.
When Pigott, Morley Wood, and Eversden retire from their professions they will always be able to pick up a comfortable living as landscape gardeners of the severe type. The climb was unrecognisable; where previously one had grasped substantial masses of turf there was now smooth and uncompromising rock.
“How on earth do you get up this” I inquired of Pigott as I scrambled about on the lower slab above the initial chimney.
“Well, you’ll have to use that tuft,” he replied, pointing to a sparse and limp beard of grass hanging over the edge of the slab.
“Glad you’ve left something,” I growled to myself, and pulling viciously at the beard sprawled over the edge.
Within twenty minutes Longland passed the stance where our rope loop of Easter still dangled; Pigott joined him, and Longland progressed to a tiny turfy ledge, set some twenty feet higher on the lean face of the slab. Above was the section that had stopped the others on the previous day. There was a long wait; the place would hardly yield softly. I advanced to the rope ring, and Pigott went up to join Longland on his diminutive ledge. Came another long wait. I looked up: two pairs of dissimilar breeches were actively defying gravity above. Eversden, who had joined me, was quietly contemplative, Morley Wood’s appreciative grin illumined the depths. Now and again instructions floated down. “In there; test it ; now stick the rope through, take it gently and if you get tired come back.” What had actually transpired was that Pigott had thoughtfully carried up two stones in his rucksack; one of them had been cunningly inserted into the crack and a loop of rope cut off and tied to it.
Longland had meanwhile changed into rubber shoes, but even with their aid his lead of the section above was a brilliant piece of climbing. To my mind it is the hardest bit of the ascent and consists of an overhanging splayed out chimney whence it is necessary to step far out to the right. It is a long stride; the balance is critical; the handholds mere finger scrapes ; the exposure and the precipice beneath terrific. Only a man at the top of his form with nerve and skill working in perfect unison could safely make it. Above was another slab, and if any particular portions of the climb are to be named I respectfully suggest as a suitable title the “Faith and Friction Slab.” As I vacated the comfortable little hold at its foot I gazed downwards for a moment and marked Bicknell and Waller disporting themselves like two tiny red frogs in the transparent waters of the Ilyn; on the opposite bank two pink patches told of Geoffrey Young and his shirt, though at that distance it was impossible to tell which was which.
“Have you got the matches?” inquired Pigott from above. These matches were throughout the climb a constant source of anxiety to Pigott, but on every occasion that we were together we forgot them, only to remember them when we were far apart again. There is in fact no portion of the climb which is not associated to my mind with Pigott’s craving to smoke and his demands for matches.
The air was breathless and hot; a smooth slate-coloured cloud underhung with coppery billows of cumuli slid lazily over Snowdon; a dusky purple swept down the cwm. Undoubtedly a storm was brewing, and rain was the last thing we wanted on the climb.
Above the “Faith and Friction Slab” Pigott had, in the absence of a good belay, driven in a piton. It was certainly the first that had ever gladdened my eye on a British rock climb,indeed I understand that at Wasdale Head the hand which can drive a piton into British rock is regarded as capable of pulling a trigger upon a fox. Be that as it may, I have never seen a place either at home or abroad that called more for a piton, and I must own to a vast feeling of satisfaction on being attached to it.
Why describe the remainder of the great slab in detail? It is a job for the guide-book writers. No doubt every handhold and foothold will be earmarked and catalogued in the future, because this route is the most unique that I know in Britain. The slab fought to the end-there was never a bit that was not difficult-and finished in a defiant overhang of turf clods. Lower down there was a section which was better climbed quickly, for the holds were small, and a man cannot pull indefinitely upon the tips of his fingers. Up it Longland floated with effortless ease and grace. Suddenly there was a shout of joy ; he had reached the quartz crowned ledge ; the great slab was vanquished ! The shout was taken up by each member of the party and echoed joyfully around the cwrn; our friends beneath clapped vigorously.
As I followed there came the ominous rumble of moving boulders, and I more than once rebuked Longland and Pigott for thus rudely disturbing the peace of mind of those yet on the Great Slab.
The final pitch is very difficult, but at the last moment the wandering hand grasps a hold at least as comforting as the “Thank God” hold on Lliwedd. A stout heave, and the body writhes over the top; nothing remains save a few feet of easy work to the quartz crowned ledge.
The ledge is actually a detached pinnacle separated from its parent cliff by a cleft which is choked with boulders. It was the movement of these that had interrupted my philosophical abstractions on the final section of the Great Slab. The ledge is only a few feet wide, but after the inch-wide holds of the last 250 feet it appeared as a veritable ballroom or Brighton Promenade. The situation is amazing; the wall beneath is all but vertical to the base of the cliff; the face above overhangs. It is the ideal eagle’s eyrie of fact or fiction.
Then did Pigott produce his cigarettes and, lo, the matches were forthcoming. A little later we were all united on the ledge struggling to extricate ourselves from the cobweb of rope that ensnared us.
The fates had been generous; it was not until the ledge was attained that the deluge was released. Had we been caught half way up the Great Slab our position would have been distinctly unpleasant, especially in view of the leader’s rubber shoes, and we should have been forced to double rope down again-always a tedious business for a large party. But Clogwyn du’r Arddu had dozed that languorous May afternoon and had awakened too late to preserve its dignity by invoking the aid of the weather. True, we were not yet up, but we were within fifteen feet of the point to which we had descended when exploring from above. Certainly the fifteen feet were overhanging, but more than a fifteen-foot overhang was required to stop Longland at this stage. Personally, I had half hoped that the previously considered and old-fashioned manoeuvre of “swinging the leader” from the end of the ledge into the groove up which we had planned to go might be essential. Longland, however, settled the question in arbitrary fashion by clinging up the overhang-the solitary piece of pure gymnastics on the climb-and gaining the platform above. The rest of us were in no particular hurry to follow, and we crouched down out of the rain contentedly smoking, in the pleasant consciousness that Longland was sitting above and getting wet. Finally, one by one we strained up the overhang to the familiar ground above.
Some twenty minutes later and 4½ hours from the foot of the buttress we were grasping Longland’s hand on the summit of the crags and congratulating him upon his magnificent leadership.
It had been a great, a grand climb, and a very happy party. Now as we stood on the summit the storm was easing. In the east dim hills peered unsubstantially through a mist veil; overhead, the rearguard of dense cumuli shook the last raindrops from their skirts; a steady line of washed blue advanced hard on the cloudy legions of the retreating storm ; in the west a bushel of golden sun sovereigns gleamed on the distant sea. Turning, we plunged down into the shadowed cwm.