'Near the outer lands of the silent mist,The waves moan wearilie;Yet hidden there lie the Isles of the Blest,The lonely Isles of the Sea.'Olav's Quest.
'Near the outer lands of the silent mist,The waves moan wearilie;Yet hidden there lie the Isles of the Blest,The lonely Isles of the Sea.'Olav's Quest.
Many years ago I remember the first time I read that marvellous description of the Maelström by Edgar Allan Poe, where he tells how a fisherman from the Lofoten Islands, driven by a hurricane, was caught in the Maelström's grip, and descended 'into the mouth of that terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice—half-shriek, half-roar—such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven'; and I remember how I used to picture to myself precipitous, polished cliffs of terrific height and grandeur encircling a writhing pool of dusky waters; above, the rocks glowing red and golden in the light of a stormy sunset; below, stray flakes of foam ever and againflashing back the fiery glories of the angry sky, as they glided with a stealthy, increasing haste for ever nearer and nearer and yet nearer to the awful abyss of the devouring whirlpool. This, like so many tales of one's youth, although told by that consummate artist Poe, must be relegated to the realms of fiction.
But his description of one of the Lofoten Islands—of the 'sheer, unobstructed precipices of black, shining rock,' against which the ocean surf howled and shrieked, and of the endless array of gloomy mountains, 'outstretched like ramparts of the world, hideously craggy and barren'—is far nearer the truth; for in it is much that is characteristic of the outer islands. But after all he has only portrayed the Lofoten Islands when enveloped in storm. Of course, when the south-west gales sweep on to the rock-bound coast of Röst and Moskenesö, even Poe himself could hardly do justice to the scene, for the battle between the great waves coming in from the open ocean and the tremendous tides that surge past the outer islands must be magnificent. Truly the picture would have to be of
'An iron coast and angry waves,You seemed to hear them rise and fallAnd roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,Beneath the windy wall.'
'An iron coast and angry waves,You seemed to hear them rise and fallAnd roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,Beneath the windy wall.'
Lofoten
Lofoten.
But these mere rude phases of Nature's moods do not for ever encircle Lofoten in flying surf and with winds that shriek and howl. In the summer months, at least, the sun shines, and often one may look in vain over the untroubled water, rippled by the warm west wind, for the dreaded Maelström, whose thunderous voice and angry whirlpool for the moment is stilled; whilst in its stead a gentle murmur rises from the clear water which possesses just sufficient motion for the waves to lazily rise and fall against the bare rocky shore, and yet is calm enough for the reflection of the white clouds and craggy hill-sides to repose sleepily on its surface. From their geographical position these islands should have a very different climate from that which they possess; and perhaps it may be due partly to this cause that the mountains are so craggy and barren. For the rainfall during several months is excessive, and is quite capable of washing away any superincumbent earth from the sides of the numerous needle-shaped peaks that are to be found on most of the Lofoten Islands; moreover, in the valleys the whole country has been worn down to the bone in prehistoric times by enormous glaciers, and to-day the abnormal summer rainfall and the frosts of the long Arctic nights are continuing the work of denudation.
Although the Lofoten Islands are south of the North Cape, yet one does not at once appreciate how far north they lie. From London they are more than twelve hundred miles; and they are one hundred miles nearer the North Pole than the northernmost part of Iceland. Moreover, most of Siberia, Bering Straits, and Klondike are all further south than the Lofoten Islands.
If it were not for that warm current which, starting from the Gulf of Mexico, after thousands of miles sweeps past this northern coast of Norway, these islands would during the whole year be covered with ice and snow, and be surrounded by a frozen ocean.
The influence of the Gulf Stream on the temperature of the northern coast of Norway is well illustrated by the fact that every winter the sea round the Lofoten Islands, and even further north at Hammerfest and the North Cape, is always open; yet in Southern Norway, six hundred miles to the southward, the Kristiania Fjord, which the Gulf Stream does not touch, is during the winter months covered with ice. The exact reverse in climate is experienced in Newfoundland, the shores of which are washed by the Labrador current, coming from the frozen north out of Baffin Bay. In the straits of Belle Isle, which are in the same latitudeas London, and which separate Newfoundland from Labrador, may be seen snow-drifts on the seashore even in July, whilst the bare uplands behind are covered with far-stretching fields of snow.
The icebergs, too, which drift south on this Labrador current, are sometimes found in such low latitudes that if on the map the latitude were followed due east it would be found to pass through Cairo, and not many miles north of Lahore in India. The approach to the Lofoten Islands from the south after one has passed the Arctic Circle is particularly grand and beautiful. The mountains, owing to excessive prehistoric glaciation, possess forms at once curious and peculiar, giving an individuality to the view which is lacking further south on the Norwegian coast. Lofoten, however, is not seen till the great West Fjord is reached; then far away across thirty miles of blue waters, which slowly pulsate with the long waves of the open sea, appears a wonderful land of sharp-pointed peaks that with a deep sapphire colour outshines the deeper purple of the restless sea.
The west coast of Scotland can give similar views. Rum, Skye, and the Hebrides, as seen from the mainland at Arisaig or Loch Maree, in some respects resemble these islands, but the Lofoten mountains are far wilder and far morefantastic in shape, and the number of peaks infinitely greater than in the western islands of Scotland.
Ages ago the West Fjord must have held an enormous glacier, although it is improbable that the great ice-sheet which then covered the country ever was thick enough to submerge the loftier summits of the Lofoten Islands, the highest of which now stand 4000 feet above sea-level; yet this ice-sheet must have been thousands of feet thick, for from any mountain-top it is easy to see how whole masses of solid rock appear to have been cut away, leaving valleys whose cross-section is a perfect half-circle. To those who are sceptical of what ice will do, a visit to the mainland opposite the Lofoten Islands would prove very instructive.
Even the most gigantic of Himalayan glaciers are feeble in comparison with an Arctic ice-sheet such as that on Greenland or on the Antarctic continent. On Nanga Parbat I have seen a vast glacier turned to one side by its own moraine. Near Elvegaard on the Ofoten Fjord there exist valleys whose sides for miles are perpendicular walls of rock sometimes a couple of thousand feet high, and which undoubtedly have been excavated and then polished by the power of the ice.
For many years I had been anxious to see the Lofoten Islands, for I had heard rumours that they were more beautiful than Skye and the Coolin. But it was not till 1901 that I was able to go there. It was in good company that I went; Woolley, Hastings, and Priestman, all of whom had been there before in 1897, were the other members of the party. They were able to advise where to go, how to best overcome the difficulties of provisioning our camp, and, what was still better, were all able to speak Norsk fluently.
We landed from the steamer at Svolvaer, a curious harbour amongst a maze of ice-polished rocks. Svolvaer is the point where all the large steamers call, although on a rough day as the vessel approaches the harbour it looks as if there was not even a passage for a rowing-boat anywhere along the rock-bound shore. The small town of Svolvaer is built on a series of rocky islands, consequently the only convenient way of getting from one part of the town to another is by boat, and of course there is no such thing as a road in the town.
The finest mountains in the Lofoten Islands congregate round the Raftsund, a narrow waterway which separates the islands of Hindö and Öst Vaagö; but further down the islands are other isolated peaks whose pointed spires of rocklook almost inaccessible. Vaage Kallen is one, whilst several in Moskenesö also would give excellent climbing. As far as I could see, these mountains to the south-west are without glaciers, which is not the case of those round the Raftsund.
The highest peak in Lofoten, Mösadlen by name, had been climbed, but the next three highest, Higraf Tind, 3780 feet; Gjeitgaljar, 3560 feet; and Rulten, 3490 feet, had as yet summits untrodden by the foot of man. Moreover, of all the lesser mountains only about half a dozen had been ascended. Here, then, should the climbing be good, was a mountaineer's paradise.
On August 2, with the help of two men and a couple of boats, Woolley, Hastings, Priestman, and I conveyed our camp-baggage from Svolvaer to a spot marked Austavindnes near the head of the Östnes Fjord. A Norwegian porter, E. Hogrenning, who had been with Hastings before on the mountains for more than one season, also came and helped to pull the heavily laden boats through the waves of the fjord. It was a pleasing sight to me as I sat idle in the stern of the boat in which were the two local fishermen, to watch Hastings and Priestman in their shirt-sleeves pulling the second boat, and trying their best to show that Englishmen were just as capable of rowing asNorwegians. In this they were successful, for we soon parted company, Hastings' boat finally disappearing on the opposite side of the fjord. In time, however, they came back again to us, but what they had been doing was not quite clear—Hastings had probably been trying to borrow something from a house on the shore, a pole or a cooking-stove, or some nails or a spade. All these things and many more were ultimately collected by Hastings, and before we left our camp a fortnight later there were few houses on the Östnes Fjord that had not contributed something towards our wants. Hastings' tent in the meantime had assumed the appearance of a really first-class gipsy encampment.
The place where we had decided to camp was finally reached, and all our provisions, tents, and baggage landed on the beach. One of the boats we kept, and our two fishermen, bidding us farewell, returned to Svolvaer.
The views from our camp, although rather restricted, were occasionally most beautiful, when during the long summer nights the peaks at the head of the Östnes Fjord to the north-west were a dark purple against the evening sky. Opposite to us was the peak Gjeitgaljar, a veritable little Dru in appearance, and in front of it a ridge of pinnacles that looked hopelessly inaccessible.
Every few moments some change in light and shade or in colour would shift over the landscape. As soon as we had got our camp into order, Woolley and I determined to start the attack on the mountains at once. As far as we knew, all the peaks on the east side of the fjord were unclimbed. We were not joined by Hastings and Priestman, they having to return to Svolvaer for some more baggage. Straight behind our camp the hill-side rose sheer; up these precipitous slabs of glacier-worn rock we made our way, using the small ledges on which grew grass and moss. So steep was the mountain-side that when a spot was reached fully a thousand feet above our camp, it looked as if we could almost have thrown a stone on to the white tents below by the water's edge.
After that we came to more easy travelling, still, however, over glaciated rocks, finally reaching a small glacier.
All along the head of the glacier were precipitous rocks, rising here and there to peaks forming the watershed of the island. At the head and towards the right lay a snow col, filling a deep gap in the rock wall in front of us. Towards this we made our way. The ascent of the ridge from this col to the left was by no means easy climbing, and we soon found that ridge-climbing in the Lofoten,even though there was no ice on the rocks, was often difficult and sometimes impossible. Eventually, by a series of traverses on the south-east side and by climbing up some cracks, we succeeded in reaching our first summit. Here a cairn was built, and I photographed an exceedingly tame ptarmigan in the foreground against an excessively savage-looking peak in the background named Rulten. We were at a height of about 3000 feet. Rulten, from where we were, looked hopelessly inaccessible; but Higraf Tind, the second highest peak in Lofoten, when examined through a glass, promised not only a fine climb, but also success.
One of the great charms of climbing in Lofoten is that to hurry is unnecessary, for it is daylight through all the twenty-four hours: a night out on the mountains in darkness is impossible. Moreover, owing to the comparative smallness of the mountains more than one first ascent may be made in a morning or an afternoon.
As Woolley and I saw several more summits on our ridge (the Langstrandtinder) towards the north-east, we started off for them after we had fully exhausted the view, and smoked as many pipes as were necessary to produce a sensation of rest. In fact, to me one of the chief reasons for moving on to the next peak was that again I mighthave the excuse for being lazy, again look at the sky, the far-off mountains, and the endless expanse of the sea beyond. The climbing along the ridge was easy, and two more summits were ascended; a small cairn was left on each of their tops.
Further progress along the ridge was, however, impossible, for a deep gap of about five hundred feet cut us off from the next peak. We therefore descended on the north side of the mountain to a steep snow slope, which led down for several hundreds of feet to the glacier below. Thence following our route of the morning we descended the steep rock face above our camp, and got home in time for dinner.
During the next two days we paid a part of our penalty for being on the shores of the Gulf Stream. Clouds hid the mountains, and rain and dull weather kept us at sea-level. But magnificent weather followed on August 7, and we were all impatient to start for the virgin peak, Higraf Tind, 3780 feet, the second highest mountain in Lofoten.
In order to get to the base of the mountain we rowed in our boat across the small arm of the Östnes Fjord, by whose shores we were camped, and beached our boat at Liland. Thence makingour way through the thickets of dwarf birch up the lower stretches of the small valley of Lilandsdal, we arrived at the foot of the great precipice which constitutes the upper part of the mountain.
Rimming the head of the valley was the rocky ridge which connects Higraf Tind with Gjeitgaljar. To follow this ridge to the summit of our mountain would have necessitated climbing over various pinnacles and notches, and as we were very sceptical as to whether we should be able to surmount these difficulties, we turned to our left along a small ledge which appeared to run in and out of the gullies that seamed this southern face of Higraf Tind.
On more than one occasion we found ourselves in places where great care was necessary, and our spirits rose and fell as we either found a narrow ledge which would safely lead us into one of the many rock gullies and out again on the far side, or were forced back to try higher up or lower down on the face of the mountain.
Eventually we emerged on the arête which led up to the topmost peak. The summit of the mountain consisted of huge monoliths of what I should call granite (it may, however, be gabbro), similar in appearance to those on the top of the Charmoz, and also similar to the Charmoz in being very narrow with tremendous precipices on each side.
A short distance below the top a small promontory on the ridge afforded a splendid point from which a photograph could be taken. Woolley was sent on so that he might be photographed, proudly planting his ice-axe on the topmost pinnacle. In due time he appeared clear cut against the sky; but immediately afterwards from his gesticulations I could see that something was wrong. The reason was obvious when after a few moments I joined him. Twenty feet away was another summit a few feet higher, and between the two a gulf was fixed.
Below us the rock fell sheer for over thirty feet with never a crack in it, whilst on the opposite side of the chasm the great blocks overhung, so that even had we descended hand over hand on the rope into the gap, direct ascent on the other side was hopeless.
But remembering our tactics lower down we tried further back for a traverse, and soon found that by climbing down a crack between two huge blocks on the eastern side we could get round into the gap. So far so good, but how to surmount the difficulties on the further side! An attempt to traverse on the western side was seen to be hopeless, but an obliging ledge on the other face ran round a corner. Where would it lead to? Cautiouslywe edged along it, passing under the summit of the mountain. Another crack between great slabs was found; up this we clambered, and once at its top all difficulty disappeared. We had conquered Higraf Tind, and all that remained for us to do was to crown the vanquished mountain with a cairn.
Then we returned to the lower summit, where the cameras and baggage had been left. After toil came repose. The afternoon was perfect, only a few clouds floated in the clear sky. Far away to the south-west could be seen the outer Lofoten Islands, a mass of tangled mountain forms, in colour every conceivable shade of atmospheric blue and purple, whilst beyond lay the calm glittering ocean, and far, far away the last and loneliest of the Lofoten, the island of Röst. Nearer and beneath us were numberless peaks, the majority of them unclimbed; of them, next in height to Higraf Tind were Gjeitgaljar and Rulten. In the distance across the Raftsund in the island of Hindö we could see Mösadlen and its two attendant pinnacles of rock. These pinnacles, from their appearance, should be excessively difficult to climb.
At our feet lay the Blaaskovl glacier with the Troldfjordvatn beyond, a solitary iceberg floating on its waters, and further the Trold Fjord andglimpses of the Raftsund. All these combined to give an effect of space and depth to the view far in excess of what one would expect from mountains not 4000 feet above their base.
We lingered for a long time on the summit; but in a land where, at that time of year, night never comes, what need was there to hurry? The extraordinary atmospheric colours, the ever-changing forms of the clouds, and the slowly slanting rays of the sun, flashing first on one peak and then on another, produced a wonderful picture. Also it was the first time that I had been able to master the complicated geography of the district, and the peaks Store Trold Tind, Svartsund Tind, Isvand Tind, and others that my friends had climbed when they were last camped by the Raftsund, were pointed out to me. No icy wind shrilled across the mountains, darkness would not visit this land for many days yet; to hasten would have been as foolish as it was unnecessary.
After our victory over Higraf Tind came the deluge; for three nights and days the heavens were opened and the rains descended. Had it not been for strenuous efforts on our part in trench digging, our camp would have been bodily washed into the fjord. On one morning an aluminium pan out in the open served as an amateur rain-gauge; inthree hours about three inches of water were registered, proving that Lofoten can easily compete with our Atlantic coast as regards rainfall.
On the return of fine weather we determined to attack Rulten. In our boat we rowed to his base, landing in a small bay named Flaeskvik. The lower slopes of the mountain were very steep, and the usual climbing from ledge to ledge and up gullies had to be resorted to.
After a toilsome climb, for the day was moist and warm, we finally emerged on to the true south-west arête, having discovered on our way up a most remarkable window in one of the ridges.
The difficulties now began, for the ridge at once steepened; moreover, in slimness it almost resembled the Grépon. I tried to climb straight up the ridge, but perpendicular slabs, with only small cracks in them, barred the way. To be entirely outside the mountain, when in a peculiarly difficult place, is by no means pleasant. The imagination is far less troubled with ideas of what might happen should one fall, when the extreme steepness is partially hidden from one's view in the privacy of a rock chimney.
Baffled in my attempt to make a direct ascent, I looked to the left for some convenient traverse. There was none; vertical slabs, many hundreds offeet high, entirely stopped the way. To the right hand a ledge was found which led for a short distance along the side of the mountain, but smooth rocks, bending over into space, brought my investigations there also to an abrupt conclusion. It might have been possible from the end of this traverse to climb upwards on to the ridge, but later we saw, on our return journey, that should we have surmounted this difficulty, further along the sky-line more than one gap would almost certainly have prevented our reaching the top. The point where we stopped was below 3000 feet, therefore there was at least 800 feet more of the mountain to climb.
Rulten is undeniably a difficult peak; at present I have seen no likely way up it, but no doubt by a systematic attack, by trying first one side and then another, a weak spot would be discovered.
During the day we had seen the Östnes Fjord dotted over with thousands of boats, and as we descended on to the beach, we found many of the fisherfolk on shore drying their herring-nets on the rocks, for it was the herring fishery that had brought them into the fjord.
These nets are often as much as 800 feet long by 100 to 130 feet deep, and a really fortunate haul will bring in often many hundreds of pounds worth of fish; enough, in fact, to fill more than one small steamer.
It is, of course, in the early spring, from January to April, that the great cod fishery is carried on, for it is then that the cod migrate to the coast. The fish are caught with hooks and lines, and it is the cod fishery which forms the chief trade of the Lofoten Islands.
There are two usual methods of preparing the fish for the market, either by drying (Törfisk) or salting (Klipfisk). The former is the old-fashioned method, and is carried out by drying the cod on wooden scaffolds, after they have been cleaned and the heads removed. And an ancient rule forbade fish being hung up after April 12th, or taken down before June 12th. By far the greater portion of the cod, however, are exported as Klipfisk, Spain being the chief customer, taking about three-fifths of the whole amount exported. Of the remainder of the cod, the liver produces cod-liver oil, the roe is exported to France for sardine bait, and the heads and other parts are turned into manure.
The next day was gloriously fine, so we stretched our Alpine ropes to their fullest extent, between the birch trees, and hung everything in the camp on them to dry. Then we bathed in the clear water of the fjord, taking headers into the deep water from the smoothly polished rocks on the shore.
Ever since we had pitched our tents by the side of the fjord, Gjeitgaljar Tind had waited patiently. Day by day we had seen the mists play hide-and-seek behind his jagged pinnacles of rock; now we thought the time had arrived for us to attack this formidable looking aiguille. In appearance by far the most difficult peak we had seen, it turned out the most easy to climb; in fact, there was no difficulty experienced anywhere on the ascent.
Our route lay up a deep gully partly filled with snow, on the left of the peak, which led us on to a small snow-field behind the summit. On the way up this gully a splendid view of the pinnacle ridge, in front of the top of the mountain, was obtained. A more formidable series of rock towers I have never seen. From the snow-field to the highest point is easy climbing. The top consists of some flat slabs of rock, but the eastern edge is most sensational, and is best investigated by lying on one's stomach before looking over, for it drops sheer for many hundreds of feet. A small stone let fall from the outstretched hand is almost out of sight before it hits the vertical side of the mountain.
A more ideal summit for a cairn could hardly be imagined; moreover, there were plenty of loose stones, so Hogrenning was set to build one worthy of the mountain. He produced one seven feet high, and big enough to proclaim to all interested the fact that somebody at least had scaled that impossible looking rock pinnacle Gjeitgaljar.
On the next day we broke up our camp, putting on board the steamerRöstall our baggage; but it was not till late on the day following that we arrived back again at Svolvaer, for theRösthad to call at all the small hamlets on the outer islands, almost as far down as the end of Moskenesö. We stopped just short of the historic Maelström, but had we gone further the Maelström would not have been seen, for we voyaged through summer seas.
Hastings now left us in order to go to the Lyngen peninsula, whilst Woolley, Priestman, and I went to Digermulen on the Raftsund.
From there, that most extraordinary fjord, the Trold Fjord was visited, and we also walked up to the Troldfjordvatn. This mountain tarn, hidden away amongst the mountains and flanked with dark and forbidding precipices, has a beauty all its own, and in some respects reminds one of Loch Coruisk.
At its head is a small glacier, whose snout, occasionally breaking off, produces icebergs. The precipices along its shore fall sheer into its dark waters, and the surrounding peaks are wild and savage, but its sides lack the wonderful soft-coloured clothing of the heather, and the rocks are not of such rich hues as the gabbro of Skye. Perhaps I may be wrong, yet it seemed to me that the mountains themselves are not so graceful, neither are the long curving lines so fine as those that can be seen amongst the Coolin from the shores of Coruisk.
From Digermulen we attempted the ascent of another of the unclimbed peaks of Öst Vaagö. It is an unnamed peak north of Rörhop Vand. But the weather was bad, and clouds prevented us ever seeing the summit of our peak. We had, however, a most delightful climb, first up a small glacier, marked Dijerna on the map, thence up some steep rocks to the ridge, which joined our mountain with the Troldtinder. Following this ridge, we ultimately got into a gap, but beyond this we could see no possible way; traversing for a short distance on the western face only showed us that there was little likelihood of our ever getting back again on to the arête, so reluctantly we returned, and got back to Digermulen in the rain.
The weather then went from bad to worse. So we boarded the steamerRöstonce more, and went for a trip in mist, rain, and storm round Langö, one of the outer islands of Vesteraalen. All that we saw were the grey seas, the clouds lying low on the mountains, and most extraordinary places bristling with rocks, into which our captain took the smallRöst, tossed to and fro by the great rolling waves of the Arctic ocean. The voyage in fine weather must be superb.
On our return to Svolvaer, Woolley and I travelled south with Priestman, as far as Trondhjem, and from there went home to England.
It is a very curious fact that so few mountaineers go to Lofoten. As far back as 1867 the Rev. St. John Tyrwhitt read a paper before the Alpine Club, in which he says, 'An exploration of the Loffodens would be a work worthy of the Club in every sense of the words.' Again, in 1869, Professor Bonney, who visited these islands with E. Walton, speaks 'strongly of the wonderful grandeur and beauty of some parts of the Lofotens,' and then the next paper in theAlpine Club Journalis that of Priestman in 1898 nearly thirty years later.
It is true that the peaks are only 4000 feet high, and therefore cannot compete with those of 14,000 feet; also, they possess no large glaciers,neither are the valleys filled with pine forests, and the foregrounds, as a rule, are desolate and the rocks without much colour: but the rock climbing is as good as any one could wish to get, the rock resembling in many respects that of the Chamonix Aiguilles.
Moreover, and herein lies the strong charm of this mountain-land, it is a land of exquisite atmospheric effects. For those who care to climb where great expanses of sky and clouds arch slowly down to the far-off horizon, and where lonely islands are set in open spaces of blue water, these remote Lofoten mountain fastnesses beyond the Arctic Circle are difficult to equal. The low circling sun making it for ever afternoon, flooding sky and mountain-land in warm, luminous colour, which deepens the distances, and adds perspective to ridge after ridge of serrated and barren peaks, all these purely æsthetic qualifications are possessed in a high degree by the Lofoten Islands. Also for those who are willing to spend a lazy, delightful summer holiday in camp by the side of the many-voiced sea, far from busy crowds and the worries of civilisation, there are few spots more peaceful, more fascinating, or more beautiful than these Lofoten Islands, where the wondrous summer skies slowly change their exquisitely rich colouringof long-drawn-out evening for the more delicate tints of the early dawn, and where the restless waves of the great Arctic Ocean are for ever washing against the precipitous sides of the bare, rock-girt mountains.
'But in the prime of the summer-timeGive me the Isle of Skye.'A. Nicolson.
'But in the prime of the summer-timeGive me the Isle of Skye.'A. Nicolson.
Once upon a time, as the story-books say, Dr. Samuel Johnson was bold enough to forsake his beloved Fleet Street, and, at the age of sixty-four, journey northwards in company with Boswell to the Hebrides, the Ultima Thule of those days. He finally arrived in the Island of Skye, 'without any memorable accident,' about the beginning of September 1773, where he experienced all the severities of ordinary Skye weather—much rain and many gales—and this state of things continuing throughout the month, the Doctor found some difficulty in getting back again to the mainland. He writes, 'Having been detained by storms many days in Skie, we left, as we thought with a fair wind; but a violent gust which Bos had a great mind to call a tempest, forced us into Col, an obscure island.'
The wild and beautiful scenery of the Island of Skye does not seem to have made any impression on Johnson, and he leaves with no regret, merelyadmitting, that he has 'many pictures in his mind which he could not have had without his journey,' and that these pictures 'will serve later for pleasing topics of conversation.' What these pictures were he does not say, but they probably had little to do with what we now call the beauties of the Highlands; for he mentions that he found little entertainment in the wildernesses of the Hebrides, the universal barrenness oppressed him, and he points out that 'in those countries you are not to suppose that you shall find villages or enclosures. The traveller wanders through a naked desert, gratified sometimes but rarely with sight of cows, and now and then finds heaps of loose stones and turf in a cavity between the rocks, where a being, born with all those powers which education expands, and all those sensations which culture refines, is condemned to shelter itself from the wind and the rain.' Also, that 'a walk upon ploughed fields in England is a dance upon carpets, compared to the toilsome drudgery of wandering in Skie.' But it is not surprising that Johnson at the age of sixty-four looked upon hilly country with aversion—the mountains interfered with his convenience. He only mentions the hills in Skye once. 'Here are mountains that I should once have climbed,' he writes to his friend Mrs. Thale; 'but to climb steeps is now very laborious, and to descend them dangerous.' No doubt at the Doctor's age he was right; still we feel somewhat disappointed that during his stay at Talisker, he was apparently unconscious of the Coolin, and we receive but small consolation from his elegant epistolary communications, when they tell us instead, that he was gratified sometimes but rarely with sight of cows, and that Mr. Boswell was affected almost to tears by the illustrious ruins at Iona.
The Coolin
The Coolin.
All this shows us, how the attitude of people towards the wilds of the Highlands has become completely changed in one century, for Johnson was not in any way peculiar in his ideas. Look where we will in the literature of that time, we find the same sentiments. Pennant, who visited Skye the year before Dr. Johnson, describes the Coolin as 'a savage series of rude mountains,' whilst Blaven, 'affects him with astonishment.' Thirty years later the only natural objects in the island that interested Forsyth, at least so far as one can judge from what he writes inThe Beauties of Scotland, were 'an obelisk of uncommon magnitude' in the parish of Snizort, (probably the Storr Rock,) and a waterfall and sea cave near Portree.
But a new school was growing up, and Sir Walter Scott was one of the first to insist, that a visit to the Highlands would reveal objects more interesting than cows, waterfalls, and sea caves. People were beginning to find in the torrents, mountains, lochs, and pine woods, beauties they had not seen before. No longer were the hills chaotic masses of rock, ready at any moment to fall and overwhelm the valleys, nor were the moors and glens expanses of uniform barrenness or gloomy mountain fastnesses. Robson, at the beginning of last century (1815), writing of one of the most remote and wild regions of the Highlands, namely the head of Glen Tilt, says: 'Of all the romantic scenes which are presented to those who explore the recesses of the Grampians, none will be found to possess a more picturesque combination of wild and characteristic beauty than this'; and in the preface to his accurate and delightful volume on the scenery of the Grampian mountains, he writes: 'With the man of taste few districts in this kingdom have equal claim to admiration.'
Robson was not a Scotchman, but a London artist; yet one has only to look at his sketches, and read the letterpress of his book to see how well he appreciated mountain form, and how he understood, in no uncertain manner, that which now delights us nearly a century later in the Highlands.His water-colour picture of Loch Coruisk[M]is an honest attempt to accurately reproduce the wonderful colour and savage beauty of the grandest of all Scotch lochs, and one is only sorry that he has introduced into the foreground a fully dressed Highlander—a legacy, no doubt, of that old feeling that made Dr. Johnson crave for cows, and that even now survives at the present time in the pretty sketches of Scotch hills, where the foreground is animated by Highland cattle.
Since Robson's time, many people have been to the Highlands and to Skye and the Coolin. Turner visited them, and the impression produced may be seen from his drawing of Loch Coriskin. This drawing is described by Ruskin inModern Paintersas 'a perfect expression of the Inferior Mountains,' yet any one who had really seen the Coolin would hardly be justified in asserting that Turner's drawing (Fig. 69, vol. iv.,Modern Painters) was the perfect expression of the hills round Sgurr Dubh, even though it may be the perfect expression of an inferior mountain.
Fortunately the Coolin are never inferior mountains, unless we measure them by the number of feet they rise above the sea. 'Comparative bulk and height,' says the late Sheriff Nicolson, 'are ofcourse important elements in mountain grandeur, but outline and features are, as with human beings, even more important.' Clachlet at Easter, covered with snow and seen across the moor of Rannoch at a distance of a few miles, towers up into the heavens just as grandly as a peak five times its altitude does in the Himalaya, when that peak is seen from a point thirty miles away.
It is the atmosphere that adds both dignity and charm to these Scotch hills, making them appear far bigger than they would in the clearer air of the larger mountain ranges, and giving them all the softened colour and perspective so necessary to emphasise the real beauty of true mountains. Their form also helps them in no small degree. The long-flowing lines of the lower slopes gradually rising from the moorland below, and the beautifully carved corries that nestle into their sides, all tend to strengthen and serve as a fit substructure for their more wild and broken summits.
At their feet lie no valleys with dirty-white glacier streams tearing down between mud banks, and never a proper pool in them; their sides are not disfigured with monotonous pine forests of a uniform light green colour, but the heather and the grey rocks, lichen-covered, mingle together on their slopes, lighting up with every flash ofsunshine, or deepening into every shade of brown and purple gloom, as the storm clouds sweep over their summits; whilst, below, brown trout streams wander between wild birches and Scotch firs, staying here in some dark pool hidden away under the rocks covered with ferns and heather, flashing out again there into the sunshine over the pebbles, and across the low-lying moor.
Those who have seen the Coolin from the moors above Talisker in the twilight, or who have watched them on a summer's evening from Kyle Akin, apparently clothed in deep purple velvet broidered with gold, and rising out of the 'wandering fields of barren foam,' whilst
'The charmed sunset linger'd low adownIn the red west';
'The charmed sunset linger'd low adownIn the red west';
or lazily spent a whole day on the sand beaches of Arisaig point, gazing, towards Rum and Skye lying light blue on the horizon, and across a sea brilliant in colour as the Mediterranean amongst the Ionian islands; or lingered at the head of Loch Coruisk till the last pale light has faded out of the heavens behind Sgurr Alasdair, and only the murmur of the streams breaks the stillness of the night air—those who have thus seen the Coolin will know that they are beautiful. But the fascination that these mountains exercise over those that know themwell is manifold; there are more pleasures that the Coolin can offer than those of being merely very beautiful. For the mountaineer who wanders in the heart of this marvellous mountain land there are rock climbs without end. He can spend hour after hour exploring the corries, or threading the intricacies of the narrow rock edges that form so large a part of the sky-line. From the summits he can watch the mists sweeping up from below, and hurrying over the bealachs in tumbled masses of vapour, or he can dreamily follow the white sails of the boats, far out to sea, as they slowly make for the outer islands; then clambering down the precipitous faces he can repose in some sheltered nook and listen to the sound of a burn, perhaps a thousand feet below, echoed across from the sheer walls of rock on the other side of the corrie; there is always something new to interest him—it may be a gully that requires the utmost of his skill as a mountaineer, or it may be a view of hill, moor, and loch backed by the Atlantic and the far-off isles of the western sea. Nowhere in the British Islands are there any rock climbs to be compared with those in Skye, measure them by what standard you will—length, variety, or difficulty. Should any one doubt this, let him some fine morning walk up from the head of Coruisk to the rocky slabs atthe foot of Sgurr a'Ghreadaidh. There he will see the bare grey rocks rising out from the heather not 500 feet above the level of the loch, and there walls, ridges, and towers of weather-worn gabbro stretch with hardly a break to the summit of the mountain, 2800 feet above him. Measured on the map, it is but half a mile, but that half mile will tax his muscles; he must climb up gullies that the mountain torrents have worn out of the precipices, and over slabs of rock sloping down into space at an angle that makes handhold necessary as well as foothold; he must creep out round edges on to the faces of perpendicular cliffs, only to find that after all the perpendicular cliff itself must be scaled before he can win back again to the ridge that is to lead him to the topmost peak. There are many such climbs in the Coolin. The pinnacles of Sgurr nan Gillean, the four tops of Sgurr a'Mhadaidh, and the ridge from Sgurr Dearg to Sgurr Dubh, are well known, but the face climbs have been neglected. The face of Sgurr a'Mhadaidh from Tairneilear, the face of Sgurr Alasdair from Coire Labain, are both excellent examples of what these mountains can offer to any one who wants a first-rate scramble on perfect rock. Sgurr a'Coir' an Lochain on the northern face gives a climb as good as one could anywhere wish to get, yet it is onlya preliminary one to those on the giants Sgurr Alasdair and Sgurr Dearg that lie behind.
But splendid though the climbing on the Coolin may be, it is only one of the attractions, possibly a minor attraction, to these hills, and there are many other mountain ranges where rock-climbing can be found. It is the individuality of the Coolin that makes the lover of the hills come back again and again to Skye, and this is true also of other mountain districts on the mainland of Scotland. To those who can appreciate the beauty of true hill form, the ever-changing colour and wonderful power and character of the sea-girt islands of the west, the lonely grandeur of Rannoch moor, the spacious wooded valley of the Spey at Aviemore, backed by the Cairngorm mountains, wild Glen Affric prodigal of gnarled pines abounding in strange curves of strength, or the savage gloom of Glencoe—all these scenes tell the same tale, and proclaim in no doubtful manner, that the Scotch mountain land in its own way is able to offer some of the most beautiful mountain scenery in the world.
The Highlands of Scotland contain mountain form of the very finest and most subtle kind—form not so much architectural, of which Ruskin writes, 'These great cathedrals of the earth, with their gates of rock, pavements of clouds, choirs of streamsand stone, altars of snow, and vaults of purple traversed by the continual stars,' but form where the savage grandeur, the strength, and the vastness of the mountains is subordinate to simpler, yet in a way more complicated, structures. Scotch mountains have something finer to give than architectural form. In their modelling may be seen the same beauties that in perfection exist in Greek statuary. The curving lines of the human figure are more subtle than those of any cathedral ever built. The Aiguilles round Mont Blanc are architectural in the highest degree, but the mighty summit rising up far above them into the blue sky, draped in wonderful and sweeping lines of snow and ice, marvellously strong, yet full of moderation, is far more mysterious, far more beautiful, than all the serrated ridges and peaks that cluster round its base.
It is in the gentleness of ascent in many of the Highland hills, in the restraint and repose of the slopes 'full of slumber,' that we can trace all the finer and more delicate human lines; and it is due to the strength of these lines that the bigger mountains seem to rise without an effort from the moors and smaller hills that surround them. To many people the Cairngorm range is composed of shapeless, flat-topped mountains devoid almost ofany character. They do not rise like the Matterhorn in savage grandeur, yet the sculptured sides of Braeriach, seen from Sgoran Dubh Mhor, are in reality far more full of rich and intricate mountain sculpture, than the whole face of the Matterhorn as seen from the Riffel Alp.
The individuality of the Coolin is not seen in their summits, which are often almost ugly, but in the colour of the rocks, the atmospheric effects, the relative largeness and harmony of the details compared with the actual size of the mountains, and most of all in the mountain mystery that wraps them round: not the mystery of clearness such as is seen in the Alps and Himalaya, where range after range recedes into the infinite distance, till the white snow peaks cannot be distinguished from the clouds, but in the secret beauty born of the mists, the rain, and the sunshine, in a quiet and untroubled land, no longer vexed by the more rude and violent manifestations of the active powers of Nature. Once there was a time when these peaks were the centre of a great cataclysm; they are the shattered remains of a vast volcano that ages since poured its lavas in mighty flood far and wide over the land; since then the glaciers in prehistoric times have polished and worn down the corries and the valley floors, leaving scars and woundseverywhere as a testimony of this power; but the fire age and the ice age are past; now the still, clear waters of Coruisk ripple in the breeze, by the lochside lie the fallen masses of the hills, and the shattered debris left by the glaciers of bygone days; these harbour the dwarf hazel, the purple heather, and the wildflowers, whilst corrie, glen, and mountain-side bask in the summer sunlight.
But when the wild Atlantic storms sweep across the mountains; when the streams gather in volume, and the bare rock faces are streaked with the foam of a thousand waterfalls; when the wind shrieks amongst the rock pinnacles, and sky, loch, and hillside all are one dull grey, the Coolin can be savage and dreary indeed. Perhaps, though, the clouds towards evening may break; then the torn masses of vapour tearing in mad hunt along the ridges will be lit up by the rays of the sun slowly descending into the western sea, 'robing the gloom with a vesture of divers colours, of which the threads are purple and scarlet, and the embroideries flame'; and as the light flashes from the black rocks, and the shadows deepen in the corries, the superb beauty, the melancholy, the mystery of these mountains of the Isle of Mist will be revealed. But the golden glory of the sunset will melt from off the mountains, the light that silvered the great slabs will slowlyfail; from out the corries darkness heralding the black night will creep with stealthy tread, hiding all in gloom; then, last of all, beyond the darkly luminous, jagged, and fantastic outline of the Coolin the glittering stars will flash from the clear sky, no wind will stir the great quiet, and only the far-off sound, born of the rhythmic murmur of the sea-waves beating on the rock-bound shore of lonely Scavaig, remains as a memory of the storm.
'In conclusion, let us sum up the lessons that the mountains of the British Isles can teach us. They can give healthy exercise, and cultivate in us the power of appreciating the beauties and grandeur of nature.... Amongst them we may learn the proper uses of our legs.... We may learn to climb difficult rocks, to avoid dislodging loose stones, and to guard against those dangers that are peculiar to grassy mountains.... We can cultivate perseverance, courage, the quiet, uncomplaining endurance of hardships, and last, but not least important, those habits of constant care and prudence without which mountaineering ceases to be one of the finest sports in the world, and may degenerate into a gambling transaction with the forces of nature, with human life for the stake.'
Charles Pilkington.
Turning over the pages one day of the index of theAlpine Club Journal, I looked for information on the mountains of Ireland. Greece, Greenland, Patagonia, the Peepsa fly, and mountain midgets were all mentioned, but Ireland and its many ranges of hills I sought for in vain. This obviously was a most monstrous injustice, and it almost seemed, at first sight, as if a tour of exploration into this apparently unknown land might be undertaken for the purpose of climbing the numerous and neglected heights. Years ago, however, I had visited several parts of Ireland, the Mourne mountains, the north of Antrim, and a greatpart of Donegal, and I knew that there were cairns at least on the summits of most of the mountains; presumably, therefore, they had been visited by man before my arrival.
Still it is strange that Ireland, with so many groups of hills, and some of them so wonderfully beautiful, should not attract more notice in the mountaineering world. Why should not an Irish club, like the Climbers' Club, the Cairngorm Club, or the Scottish Mountaineering Club, be formed? Mr. H. C. Hart, in his introduction to Ireland inClimbing in the British Isles, has very ably given both the possibilities and the limits of Irish climbing, and I cannot do better than quote his words: 'But there are ample opportunities for acquiring the art of mountain craft, the instinct which enables the pedestrian to guide himself alone from crest to crest, from ridge to ridge, with the least labour. He will learn how to plan out his course from the base of cliff or gully, marking each foot and hand grip with calm attention; and knowing when to cease to attempt impossibilities, he will learn to trust in himself, and acquire that most necessary of all climbers' acquirements, a philosophic, contemplative calm in the presence of danger or difficult dilemmas. If the beginner is desirous of rock practice, or the practised hand requires to test his condition or improve his form, there is many a rocky coast where the muscles and nerves and stamina can be trained to perfection. Kerry and Donegal are competent to form a skilled mountaineer out of any capable aspirant. Ice and snow craft is an accomplishment which must of course be learnt elsewhere.'