Profile of a Contemporary: Thomas McFarland (1984)

Abstract

Stories tend to cluster around Tom McFarland. of them may even be true. One I will vouch for--at least in some measure--is his famous first ascent of Scafell in Lake District. Not that I on mountain with him. Having taken my measure on such less arduous climbs as Helm Crag and Helvellyn, I comfortably back in Grasmere. As day wore on toward dinner hour, weary climbers returned in bands of two and three. Tom, not yet then seasoned climber he is today, still to come. We all knew how much climb meant to Tom, and knew that he would finish, no matter what cost in weariness and discomfort. When he finally appeared down street in Grasmere, walking-staff in hand, footsore and weary, welcoming band of us gathered in front of Moss Grove Hotel broke into cheers of triumphant welcome. Why had he done it? Not, in spirit of famous mountaineer, Sir Edmund Hillary, because mountain was there, but because Coleridge had been there! Many of us who have, over years, spent time with Tom in Lakes during precious weeks of Wordsworth Conference have come to associate him with mountains. Richard Wordsworth expressed his admiration for Tom's first ascent of Helvellyn: a fine summer afternoon and there were perhaps twenty to thirty climbers gathered at summit. Something of Tom's celebrity had been whispered among them. A few moments later his rugged form appeared over final brow of hill, alpine stock in hand and eye focused firmly on summit. There a spontaneous burst of applause and hearty cheering as Tom joined elect. Richard adds, however, that the picture of Tom sitting astride cairn signing autographs perhaps apocryphal. The autographs are out of character, too, one might add; but story itself is sort that tends to cling to Tom's name. There are other mountain reminiscences, too. Barbara Hardy remembers with pleasure her climbs with Tom, breathlessly combining conversation with dangerous leaps and exhausted crawls. Richard Gravil recalls how Tom's huge enjoyment of his various conquests, especially of Bowfell, somehow made event significant for everyone else taking part. And indefatigable Mary Wedd speaks of Tom's special kindness on his first ascent of Scafell Pike. Some years ago, she writes, the great man ambitious to climb Scafell Pike. I already over sixty and a slow if dogged walker, but Tom had not then, either, acquired that turn of speed which he developed later. So I allowed to go and, because were so deep in conversation and also two slow-coaches of party, fell behind others and found a way of our own which, though charming, not right path! It a steep, rough hillside with outcrops of stone, only just not a scree-slope. When gesticulating figures in distance ahead signalled us to leave it, Tom said regretfully, 'Oh Mary, I like our meadow. It's much better than their route.' This had me in helpless laughter, for in England a 'meadow' is a lush piece of low-lying ground, full of tall grasses and wild-flowers, very epitome of fertility and ease, whereas rocky ascent of mountain quite an endurance test. Without Tom, Mary claims, she would never have made it to top. He had me chuckling all way and, whenever came to a mountain stream, would offer me a plastic cup of water, saying, 'It's so good! And it was--only rivalled by pint of Somebody's Peculiar with which he greeted me when at last got down to pub at Langdale. That day shines out in my memory among red-letter days of my life, and I shall never forget Tom's uncondescending kindness and comradship. When they meet now, Mary says, we still reminisce about 'our meadow.' In my mind's eye I always see him shod with walking-boots and, like Pilgrim, with a staff in his hand. One of my favorite Tom McFarland mountain stories, though, is recorded by Peter Larkin. …