The Cyfrwy face of Cader Idris. The route takes the left ridge.
Climb the Great Gully.
A casual remark of Mr. Syme's revealed the fact that Mr. Warren was a
rising surgeon on the staff of the London Hospital. Another casual
remark disclosed the name of the small village where Warren and Syme
were staying. I should at this moment be wearing an artificial leg
but for this lucky series of accidents, beginning with the nailed
boots which Syme was wearing and which had effected our introduction.
On the following day Lindsay felt like a rest, so I set off alone and
climbed the east ridge of Cyfrwy, off which I fell two days later. It
is an interesting climb, not very difficult judged by modern
standards, but quite amusing. The steep face looks sensational but is really quite easy. The best
thing on the ridge is a miniature Mummery crack which calls for skill
if one wishes to climb it without disproportionate effort. On August
28th I started for my last climb. Lindsay was not feeling fit, and he
left me near the top of Cader Idris. I decided to descend the east
and to climb the north ridge of Cyfrwy. I was carrying a short rope
which I had brought along on the chance that Lindsay might join me.
The day was perfect.
The burnished silver of the sea melted into a
golden haze. Light shadows cast by scudding clouds drifted across the
blue and distant hills. The sun flooded down on the rocks. I slid
down the crack and reached the top of the steep face of rock above "
The Table." The usual route dodges the top fifteen feet of this
face, and by an easy traverse reaches a lower ledge. But on that
glorious afternoon I longed to spin out the Joys of Cyfrwy, and I
found a direct route from the top to the bottom of this wall, a steep
but not very severe variation. It was one of those days when to be
alive is " very heaven'. The feel of the warm dry rocks and the
easy rhythm of the descending motion gave me an almost sensuous
pleasure. One toyed with the thought of danger, so complete was the
confidence inspired by the firm touch of the wrinkled rocks. In this
short span Between my finger tips and the smooth edge, And these
tense feet cramped to a crystal ledge, I hold the life of man.
Consciously I embrace,
Arched from the mountain rock on which I stand To the firm limit of
my lifted hand, The front of time and space ; For what is there in
all the world for me But what I know and see ? And what remains of
all I see and know If I let go ? I was glad to be alone. I revelled
in the freedom from the restraints of the rope, and from the need to
synchronize my movements with the movements of companions. I have
never enjoyed rock-climbing more. I have never enjoyed rock-climbing
since. But, at least, the hills gave me of their best, full measure
and overflowing, in those last few golden moments before I fell. A
few minutes later Lindsay, who was admiring the view from Cader, was
startled by the thunder of a stone avalanche. He turned to a stray
tourist, urging him to follow, and dashed off in the direction of
Cwfrwy. And this is what had happened. I had just lowered myself off
the edge of 'The Table' There was no suggestion of danger. Suddenly the
mountain seemed to sway, and a quiver ran through the rocks. I clung
for one brief moment of agony to the face of the cliff. And then
suddenly a vast block, which must have been about ten feet high and
several feet thick, separated itself from the face, heeled over on
top of me and carried me with it into space. I turned a somersault,
struck the cliff some distance below, bounded off once again and,
after crashing against the ridge two or three times, landed on a
sloping ledge about seven feet broad.
The thunder of the
rocks falling through the hundred and fifty feet below my
resting-point showed how narrow had been my escape. I had fallen a
distance which Lindsay estimated at a hundred feet. It was not a
sliding fall, for except when I struck and rebounded I was not in
contact with the ridge. The fall was long enough for me to retain a
very vivid memory of the thoughts which chased each other through my
brain during those few crowded seconds. I can still feel the clammy
horror of the moment when the solid mountain face trembled below me,
but the fall, once I was fairly off, blunted the edge of fear. My
emotions were subdued, as if I had been partially anaesthetized. I
remember vividly seeing the mountains upside down after my first
somersault. I remember the disappointment as I realized that I had
not stopped and that I was still falling. I remember making
despairing movements with my hands in a futile attempt to check my
downward progress. The chief impression was a queer feeling that the
stable order of nature had been overturned.
The tranquil and immobile
hills had been startled into a mood of furious and malignant
activity, like a dangerous dog roused from a peaceful nap by some
inattentive passer-by who has trodden on him unawares. And every time
I struck the cliff only to be hurled downwards once again, I felt
like a small boy who is being knocked about by a persistent bully—"
Will he never stop ? . . . surely he can't hit me again . . . surely
he's hurt me enough.-When at last I landed, I tried to sit up, but
fell back hurriedly on seeing my leg. The lower part was bent almost
at right angles. It was not merely broken, it was shattered and
crushed. I shouted and shouted and heard no reply. Had Lindsay
returned home?
Would I have to wait
for hours before help came ? Solitude had lost its charm. I no longer
rejoiced in my freedom from intrusion. On the contrary, I raised my
voice and called upon society to come to my assistance. I set immense
store on my membership of the Human Club, and very urgently did I
summon my fellow members to my assistance. And then suddenly I heard
an answering cry, and my shouts died away in a sob of heartfelt
relief. And while I waited for help, I looked up at the scar on the
cliff where the crag had broken away, and I realized all that I was
in danger of losing. Had I climbed my last mountain? During the war
the cheery dogmatism of some second lieutenant home from the front
was extremely consoling, for the human mind is illogical and the will
to believe very potent. And so when Lindsay arrived and replied with
a hearty affirmative when I asked him whether I should ever climb
again, I was greatly comforted, even though Lindsay knew less of
broken legs than the average subaltern of the chances of peace.
Lindsay was preceded by an ancient man who keeps the hut on Cader. He
examined my leg with a critical eye and informed me that it was
broken. He then remarked that I had been very ill-advised to stray
off the path on to " rough places " where even the natives
did not venture. He grasped my leg, and moved it a little higher on
to the ledge. This hurt. He then uncoiled my rope and secured me to a
buttress which overhung my narrow perch. Then Lindsay staggered on to
the ledge, gave one glance at my leg, turned a curious colour, and
sat down hurriedly. He suggested breaking off a gate and carrying me
down on it. The ancient manor of Cader hazarded a tentative
suggestion in favour of sacks. I demurred, for a sack may be
appropriate to a corpse but is not conducive to the comfort of a
wounded man.
Lindsay, by a lucky
accident, remembered Warren's address, and so I sent him off to find
him. He left me in charge of the tourist who had followed him, and
departed with the man of Cader. Lindsay's chance companion was useful
while he stayed, for I was lying on a sloping ledge, and was glad of
his shoulder as a pillow. Ten minutes passed, and my companion
remarked that he thought he ought to be going. I protested, but could
not move him. His wife, he said, would be getting anxious. I hinted
that his wife's anxiety might be ignored. "Ah, but you don't
know my wife," he replied, and, so saying, left me. He consented
to leave his cap behind as a pillow. A month later he wrote and asked
me why I had not returned it. This struck me as unreasonable, but—as
he justly observed —I did not know his wife. I fell at 4 pm. About
7-30 p.m it became colder, and shivering made the pain worse. About
7.45 p.m. the old man of Cader returned with some warm tea which he
had brewed for me, and for which I was more than grateful.
Half an hour later the local policeman arrived with a search party
and a stretcher. Luckily the ledge ran across on to easy ground, but
it was not until midnight—eight hours after my fall that I reached
the Angel Hotel. My leg was broken, crushed and comminuted. Twice the
preparations were made for amputation. Twice my temperature fell in
the nick of time. At the end of a week I was taken home, and lay on
my back for four months, much consoled by a Christian Scientist who
assured me that my leg was intact. But it was
to the faint hope of the hills that I turned for comfort in the long
nights when pain had banished sleep.
Four months after I
fell I left my bed bed and began to walk again with the help of a
splint My right leg was slightly crooked and was two inches shorter
than the left. An open wound on the shin did not disappear for eleven
years, but in spite of these and other defects, Warren's skill had
left me with a very serviceable leg. I began to ski again fifteen
months after the accident. Unfortunately, I wasted two seasons trying
to ski with ordinary bindings, and it was not until I secured spring
bindings that I began to feel reasonably confident. My toes were very
stiff, and in Huitfeldt bindings it was impossible to fall forward
with any real pleasure. Two years after my fall I climbed the Dent
Blanche. I ought to have chosen an easier and shorter expedition, for
I was very heartily sick with pain and weariness long before I
reached the top. But the moment of arrival on the summit stands
out—unique in my mountain memories. Nothing mattered now that I had
finally routed the fears which had haunted me for two long years. I
could still climb, could still say
I have not lost the
magic of long days, I live them, dream them still . Still am I master
of the starry ways, And freeman of the hill. Shattered my glass ere
half the sands were run,I hold the heights, I hold the heights, I won
.
Arnold Lunn: 1924
First published in ' The Mountains of Youth.'
