Friday, 21 April 2017

Hard Travelling

A recent trip with an enthusiastic group of Chinese climbers, reminded me of what the sport was like in the UK before ease of travel changed perceptions about the distant hills. On that occasion we travelled first across the huge city of Kunming by local transport to reach the northern bus station. Then by bus for several hours to reach Fuling County where we hitched a lift on a horse and cart to take us up a dirt road into the Fuling Hills of Yunnan. This for a weekend rock climbing in a deep limestone valley in that range. The journey took so long that there was only time to climb Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning before we had to start back for town. We slept out beneath an overhang and to say my companions were boisterous and good company is true.

No one owned a car; all had to work or study and this small group was made up of the only really active climbers in Yunnan, a province with a population as large as England. In recent climbing commentaries the reasons for the ever upward, spiralling standards of performance have been placed on technical and equipment innovation, and the modern trend for enthusiasts to eschew the bar for the climbing gym in search of greater strength and fitness. No commentator seems to appreciate that ease of access provided by modern transport has also helped to bring these developments about. This allied to the change in general affluence and with more leisure time being available to Joe climber. It is now feasible from the north of England via the budget airlines to have long weekends in Fontainebleau or Chamonix.

When I started to climb in 1947 at the age of eleven none of the activists I knew owned transport, petrol was rationed, and the only way we could travel was by train or bus. My first trip to the Peak District in 1948 from Leeds was like an expedition. We arrived by train in Sheffield and although we had heard of Stanage, we did not know where it was. We wandered around the city centre asking if anyone knew how to get there. Eventually a kindly soul (we must have struck it lucky for there is not many of them to be found in south Yorkshire) advised us to catch a bus out to a terminus above the Rivelin valley, and we walked from there. I guess that was a feature of the age, if you were not prepared to walk you did not get to climb. Until 1950 we were mostly confined to West Yorkshire outcrops, but at Whitsuntide that year petrol rationing finished and my companions and I discovered, hitch-hiking!

To the uninitiated this is a relatively simple activity, you stick out your thumb and if you're lucky a vehicle will pick you up. But nothing could be further from the truth! To be a good 'hitcher' requires tactical ability, territorial positioning and cunning to outwit any other would be riders. There were still very few cars on the road, but people were much more willing then to give lifts, and by this method I travelled most weekends to the Lake District, or Wales and for my main holidays visited Scotland. In 1951, aged 15, I hitched on my own to Glen Brittle, a journey which took three days and nights. You could reach parts of the Himalaya now in that time span. However hitch-hiking often proved to be slow and tedious, and soon rising affluence meant that nearly any climber who could raise the deposit, bought a motor-bike on the never-never (HP). For a while the adventures that this mode of transport inevitably provided many narrow escapes, and multiple crashes became centre stage in the climbing-raconteurs repertoire. This was the golden age of the British motor cycle industry with models like AJS, Norton, Ariel, Royal Enfield, BSA and Triumph dominating the market. And like my contemporaries I survived several crashes, including a five-bike pile up in Ennerdale.

Climbers and motorbikes proved to be a lethal combination and by the mid-fifties most had moved on to vans. These proved to be ideal for a weekend climbing, you could sleep in them, carry masses of gear and bodies and some had a surprising turn of speed. My first trip abroad was in 1955. Travelling by train via France I visited the Inn Valley, the Wilde Kaiser and the Dolomites. Such a journey was then a major undertaking, for the French Chemin de Fer was not then the TGV of today. The steam engine broke down at Chalons, and we had to wait 24 hours before a replacement could be found. In 1958 I went to Chamonix (with Joe Brown, his wife Valerie and Joe Smith) again by train. It took so long to get there that today you can reach Tibet in less time.

I bought my first motor car for thirty pounds off a school friend in 1955. A pre-war Y type Ford, and the following year I replaced it with an Austin A40 van. After the 1958 trip most of my continental journeys were by using private transport, but even then sometimes the delays were considerable. The worst being when the right wheel front suspension of my van literally collapsed, and I just made it to a garage north of Paris, limping through its front door, at which the wheel gave up the ghost and fell off! Much to the amusement of the French mechanics working there, who then took three days and hundreds of pounds to get me back out on the road again.

In 1961 I made my first visit to the Greater Ranges (shades of Rum Doodle?) and we travelled to Bombay by a first class passenger liner from Liverpool. A journey which took a month, and which was a revelation to such as myself, a working class lad from Leeds 6. We had to dress for dinner and on the return journey we even made it onto the Captain's table! By the time we reached India I had almost forgotten the purpose of our journey, and I have to confess I could have made a profession out of being a gigolo on such a liner. My second such journey to the Himalaya in 1964 was to be an epic of endurance, driving out from Leeds to Kathmandu, which took six weeks to complete. We needed to drive because of financial stringency. After many days in the mountains, I had to come home alone across Nepal and India to Bombay with our equipment, in heavy shipping crates (in that era you had to take out what you brought in or pay massive customs dues) and from there I sailed back to Liverpool.

The whole trip lasted for me from June 1964 until January of 1965. To greet me at the end of this marathon on the pier at Liverpool was one of our expedition members, Don Whillans. Who greeted me thus, 'Don't think have come to meet thee. Have just come to get me bloody gear!' At least you always knew where you stood with the Villain. In 1966 I made an equally long trip to South and North America. Sailing on a cargo boat from Liverpool to Peru, with the expedition equipment, on which I was a supernumerary, and for which I was paid one shilling (5p) a day. This again took a month and the only entertainment was to watch the same pornographic film every night which was shown in the galley. It was called 'The Witches Brew' and the crew knew what little dialogue there was just as well as the 'porn stars'.

After climbing in the Cordillera Blanca, and visiting Cuzco, Machu Picchu I set forth on my own to journey to Yosemite. I travelled via Ecuador, then on to Mexico City and from there, as my funds had dissipated, I had to hitch hike. It took me ten days to get to The Valley, a journey I will never forget, for once into the USA so many 'characters' picked me up that they are still etched on my consciousness almost forty years on. Such as a member of the John Birch Society who was armed ready to defend himself in case of race riots, and a gentle muscle Mary, a giant body builder from Los Angeles's Venice beach, an early member of the then fledgling Gay Liberation Front!

 I guess the 'sixties were probably the last decade when necessity forced climbers to undertake such lengthy journeys time-wise, but I do not envy modern day expedition members, for they often miss out on a possible wider experience by simply concentrating solely on their climbing objectives. Air travel is now so comparatively cheap and available, that in the time it took for us to drive to Kathmandu in 1964, they have been and come back. My last big journey in that decade was via another expedition to the Indian Himalaya in 1968, after which I set out on my own to travel the subcontinent north to south. I left Delhi in August and ten weeks later fetched up in Sri Lanka.

Travelling by bus and train I had of course adventures and I think damaged my digestive system irrevocably. In Madras having eaten curry every night for weeks, I decided on the ultimate—a Madrasi. The Indian curries you eat in the UK are nothing like the real thing, and so I wandered into a famous such restaurant in that city. When I ordered the waiter looked at me as if I was mad, 'Oh very very hot, Sahib!' he advised. Nonchalantly I passed this off with a `Jaldi!' and so the steaming concoction eventually arrived. It proved to be the atomic bomb of curries, but I could not lose face as the whole of the staff gathered to watch me eat it.

Somehow I managed to get most of it down but I have never really liked hot curries ever since. Like many other climbers before me, lack of funds forced me to undertake what were in retrospect very educational journeys. They opened my eyes to other cultures, other languages and to some of the problems facing us all as the citizens of a fast shrinking world, dogged by over population, poverty, disease, famines and a universal lack of access to education and health services, allied to long term environmental destruction and degradation.

Such journeys were also an adventure. And before anyone declares doubt about such a statement I can assure them that when I was hitching, on my own late one night at Fresno, California a huge gorilla of a guy ambled over out of the darkness and aggressively demanded I give him some 'chocolate', I was more frightened than I have ever been whilst actually climbing! 

Dennis Gray 2006: First Published in Loose Scree July 06 

Friday, 14 April 2017

Little Brown Jug

My first brush with Little Brown Jug was the worst. It happened on December 26th., 1962, the first day of the great freeze-up in that terrible winter that helped kill Sylvia Plath. In an excess of Christmas enthusiasm, Peter Biven and I decided to attempt the second ascent of Peter's high-level girdle of Bosigran, Diamond Tiara. In those days. Diamond Tiara seemed particularly well named; it was considered to be one of the hardest climbs on the cliff, and it was certainly the longest -nine hundred feet of Hard Very Severe. We took three days to complete it, but, for me, the first day was the nastiest since it entailed reversing part of the top slab of Little Brown Jug.

A blizzard was blowing across the top of the crag - so hard, mercifully, that none of the snow was sticking to the face. Even so, teetering with frozen fingers down the small, widely-spaced holds, with nothing but air between the lip of the slab and the wild sea below, was not quite what I had had in mind as a cure for turkey, Christmas pud and booze. 

Since then, I have climbed LBJ four times - with Peter again, with Mike Thompson, and twice with my then teenage son, Luke - and the slab has always given me a bad moment before I started up it, although each time it has seemed easier, despite the fact that, at my last ascent, I was unfit, overweight and fifty-five.  Knowing the route helps, of course, but pleasure helps even more. The top pitch of LBJ is one of the finest on Bosigran and, for me, Bosigran is the best of all possible places to climb. The granite is steep and faultless, the approach is short and horizontal, and the views are sensational: waves thundering in around Porthmoina Island, seabirds wheeling and crying, and, off to the west, headland succeeding headland, with Pendeen lighthouse sticking up like a white thumb against the horizon of the Atlantic.

Although I know, rationally, that I must have climbed on Bosigran on dull days or in the rain, all my recollections of the place, apart from that winter blizzard years ago, are of warm rock, blue sea and sunshine. LBJ combines all of Bosigran's best qualities: it is delicate, technical and strenuous by turns, and the rock is always steep and faultless. It begins at a smooth, pale wall that, at first glance, appears to be almost blank. But the line of little nicks that cross the wall diagonally to the left feel positive, even comfortable, to the fingers, and the angle is not as fierce as it looks from below. The upward traverse ends at a shallow, blackish corner below a vertical crack. The top of the crack overhangs slightly and is often damp, but it leads to a large ledge with a piton belay at its left end.

This belay is shared with three other climbs - Doorpost, Bow Wall and
Thin Wall Special - so, on a sunny holiday weekend, it can be as busy as Victoria Station at rush hour. The second pitch is the mixture as before: an ascending diagonal traverse - to the right this time - across a slabby wall that is sometimes wet. It is shorter than the first traverse, a little harder to start, but far easier to finish. It leads to a jumble of large blocks which are crossed by Doorway and Ledge climbs - another rush-hour tangle of ropes, but at least you have the belay to yourself.

The rock above overhangs and is as strenuous as it looks, as well as technical -hard for a short man to start, hard for a tall man to finish. A difficult layback up the blunt edge of the overhang brings your face level with a sloping shelf beneath an impending wall. At the back of the shelf, low down, is the little brown jug itself - a slot, like a miniature letter-box, to sink your fingertips in. The problem is to step up delicately onto the shelf while preventing the wall above from pushing you out of balance. In the wall at the upper end of the shelf, there is a piton for protection. Off to the left, and level with piton, a little lump of rock protrudes from the base of the slab above.

The lump is oddly shaped - like a stone gargoyle on a cathedral, with all its features smoothed away by the weather - and the move you have to make to reach it with your left foot is also odd - at once balancy, strenuous and committing. There are only little nicks on the slab above to help pull yourself across, while your right foot bridges out onto nothing in particular. Another nick, another pull, and you are standing on the stone head at the bottom of a steep slab. You move up the slab delicately, cautiously, on very small finger flakes. Halfway up, the footholds run out, but there is a vertical slot for the right hand which brings you to within a move or two of a large ledge and a belay. 

Above the ledge is another overhang, big and brutal and split by a rough crack. It is intimidating to start and far too steep to allow you to pause and insert pro-tection. But the edge of the crack is perfect for laybacking - up to the overhang, around it, and on up - laybacking all the way until you are standing upright in the sunshine among the mossy boulders on the top of the cliff. For myself, I can guarantee the sunshine. Ever since that first Christmas descent of the pitch, I would never again go near the route in bad weather. 

Al Alvarez 

Friday, 7 April 2017

The Huge Music

Dropping down from the craggy heights of Dyniewyd into the pastoral valley of Nantmor.
The car park near Gelli Iago was surprisingly full for the middle of the week. I had never considered this quiet land of modest whale backed hills and ewe sprinkled moors to be anything other than the haunt of the occasional iconoclastic rambler. After all, the nearby mountains of Yr Wyddfa, Moel Hebog and Moel Siabod would, I might have thought, offered themselves as more tempting targets for the typical Welsh peak bagger. I suppose the Gelli Iago track up Cnicht is a common approach to this popular wee peak so I reassured myself that most of the cars almost certainly belonged to walkers who at that very moment, were trudging up the rutted tracks and shifting scree which zig zagged up to Cnicht's crenellated ridge.

Nantmor ribbons through the quilted tapestry of Snowdonia like a gilded thread. A slumbering hint of wilderness which generally retains its character and tranquillity by virtue of its modest range of vertically challenged hills. Moel Meirch..Yr Arddu..Moel Dyniewyd and Mynydd Llyndy; minor stations of the cross when compared to the brooding massif to the north. Liam a son of fifteen years and a remarkably tolerant, accommodating and good humoured soul that you could wish to meet- considering the places I had dragged him up to!-accompanied me to this quiet backwater. Both encouraged by a rare window of good weather which had opened up within the generally dreary summer we had experienced so far. Leaving the old quarry we sheep tracked through the cropped pastures twixt Mynydd Llyndy and the shattered grey spoil heaps. Our destination hidden within the folding hummocks of bog cotton grasslands and the rusted outcrops where Nantmor's invasive rhododendrons wore their brightest colours.

The robust seed of these distant interlopers carried on the hard winds which came in from the Irish sea beyond the tapering mane of the Moelwynions and rooted within the poor earth in a display of tenacious colonisation. The land hereabouts is studded with old sheepfolds and the occasional crumbling hafod...a summer agrarian dwelling....which meld into the land like stone nests.Roofless and lifeless save the odd crow who preaches from the stone lintels and the world weary ewe who crawls in to die. One hafod we passed nestled impressively within the maw of a beetling cliff—both human and natural facades wrapped in the deep viridian cloak of rampant ivy. Tiny lizards exploded like rip-raps on the warm rocks as our passing shadows startled them into life. Striking west towards the sea, we fell under Llyndy's lower cliff..Craig Mwyner Crag of the miner..and continued up the purple slopes to reach the impressive upper cliff, now re-named Dyniewyd East by the Climbers' Club guide book team. 
Dyniewyd East: Paul Work's Llyndy Arete takes the obvious rib on the right 
The cliffs hereabouts were not known to me as a traditional climbing venue although I was aware that new router extrordinaire, Pat Littlejohn, who lived locally, had put up some new routes in the past five years. A new routes report in High had suggested that another team had put up the first new lines in nearly 50 years on Christmas Buttress. I vaguely recalled that an old Climbers' Club guide to South Snowdonia had mentioned something about Mynydd Llyndy but regardless of ancient and recent history, I was sure that Liam and I would get something new chalked up before the day was out. A bright sun set in and the clearest blue sky was not enough to overcome the westerly wind blowing in off the sea which cooled us to a degree where each was glad to have brought some warm togs. Pulling on an old baggy top and blowing on cold hands I weighed up the most obvious line, a short clean cracked arete which bookmarked the right edge of the cliff. It looked as if it must have been climbed before and turned out to be a little gem. I wrote this up as Spare Rib and felt it worthy of Mild VS before discovering that it was in fact a 1947 Paul Work route, Llyndy Arete which area guidebook compiler Dave Ferguson had graded at a more modest Severe. 

Paul Work was a minor figure in the Welsh climbing scene in the years around the second world war. A Merseysider who had the unique honour of being proposed and seconded for membership of The Climbers' Club by none other than Menlove Edwards and Colin Kirkus, fellow Merseysiders who dominated the pre-war climbing scene in North Wales. Paul Work lived with his wife Ruth Janette Ruck on an 83 acre smallholding in the shadow of Moel Dyniewyd. The harsh realities of wringing a life out of the poor earth of Dyniewyd's western fringes were recorded by Janette and published to popular acclaim in the 1960's. Place of Stones and Hill Farm Story chronicle lives of struggle yes, but also detail the ample rewards of living far from the urban sprawl. 

Time consuming as running a smallholding was, Ruth and Paul still found time to leave their agrarian responsibilities behind occasionally and climb amongst the red rocks of their enchanted valley. Paul Work's most popular climb - a relative term considering Nantmor's status as a climbing backwater - remains Christmas Climb, an excellent severe on Craig Dyniewyd, less than half a mile from their home at Carneddi. 

With Liam, I had the pleasure of putting up a direct VS version 12 months previously. This came fifty years after Paul Work had established the original. Culturally and philosophically, I felt a great empathy with Paul Work.The chronological dovetailing of our two routes gave me great satisfaction. Christmas Climb and Llyndy Arete were both put up in 1947, a time of ration books, bomb sites and the developing cold war. Political and social upheavals come and go but the stone remains. The climbers' words written indelibly upon a cold page. Apart from exploring Nantmor's lonely outcrops, Paul Work developed a serious - some would say perverse - interest in the equally unfashionable cliffs of Moel Hebog and Aberglaslyn Pass where he established the majority of his routes.

The empathy I felt with Paul Work extended beyond his enthusiasm for lonely, eternally neglected cliffs and outcrops to his rejection of the market orientated rat race where most of his contemporaries remained after the war. His rejection of the dominant social mores and lifestyle choices of that bleak era chimes with anyone who has ever been seduced by the lure of what we describe today as the alternative society. He may have been a minor figure in the climbing firmament but nevertheless, his life was an inspiration to anyone who values creativity and a quiet contented mind over material acquisitiveness and climbing the career ladder.

Liam Appleby leads Orbita watched by Henry Hobson
After completing the arete we tackled the capped left slab which gave another entertaining climb through the overhangs at 4c. An unusually clean edge which should have held a clump of vegetation alerted me to the fact that someone else had passed this way before? Later it transpired that guidebook contributor, Dave Ferguson had climbed this line although our lines had deviated above the overhangs. Finally we really did nail a new route. Tao of Stone was another VS which climbed a slab and shattered groove before finishing up a fine, airy arete. Two more new routes on the lower cliff were dispatched before we set off for home. Vasco VS and Orbita VD, were named after two ships my late father had served on. Both within site of Bryn Castell - Menlove's knoll -where I had scattered the old man's ashes and those of his trusty hound Gypsy, seven months previously.

The following week, Harold Drasdo was dragged along. My enthusiasm overcoming his well founded reservations based on previous experiences of my 'fantastic discoveries'! After completing Llyndy Arete I tried another couple of unclimbed lines but not without almost killing Harold when a ledge I was standing on suddenly departed from the cliff and just missed him by an arm's length! Giving up on the upper cliff we picked our way back down to the lower cliff to try out an obvious line which I noticed on the way up. This perfect, sharp edged arete was striking in its purity. It stood proud of the main body of the cliff like a serrated knife. Taking care with some more loose rock within the V groove at the base I bridged up and pulled out onto the arete. Easier climbing led to a half way ledge above which the arete narrowed to a razor's edge before gaining some girth near the top.

Unavoidable loose blocks prevented a direct ascent this time so I tackled a shallow groove on the left. Although short it was quite thin in places and demanded a long, committing reach to settle upon what appeared to be a good jug. When tired fingers finally grasped the thank-God hold it turned out to be a Jesus Christ! hold instead. That rattled alarmingly and threatened to cut short my pioneering activities in the blink of an eye. Affixed to the rock by faith and friction I managed to fiddle in a trusty moac and, breathing more easily, managed to swing up to reach better holds above. This line turned out to be Stonecrop El 5a.

It was clear that the line needed to be completed as first conceived. One week later I returned with Liam and his young friend Henry Hobson to straighten out Stonecrop. The fine line between life and death occasionally emerges from its cliché ridden lair to confront us with the chilling reality of its meaning. June 7th was just another summers day like any other—it could have been Liam's last on earth. I had decided to abseil down the arete to prise off the loose blocks which barred passage to the knife edge arete. Abseiling down a sharp arete is a tricky business. One slip and you find yourself hurtling into the confines of one of the retaining gullies. After struggling to find a sound anchor point I eventually set off and crept down towards the halfway ledge and began to prise loose the most prominent of the rotten flakes which stood like a fang at the base of the arete.

This fang, or perhaps tombstone, would have been more appropriate, rattled alarmingly in its socket. Some cursory pushing and pulling suggested that a good sharp shove should remove it from its root and send it spinning down towards the gully's scree fan 50' below. With Henry stationed across the gully taking photos, I instructed Liam at the base of the arete to take in the slack which trailed beneath me and tuck himself in around the corner at the foot of the arete. I gently rocked the flake back and forth until its unstoppable momentum gathered pace. Increasing the rocking action the fang finally was torn from its socket and, totally unexpectedly, took off on a gravity defying trajectory which was a full ninety degrees out of my calculations. Instead of exploding harmlessly in the gully below, the flake twisted and exploded into space, hurtling down the arete with the accuracy and intensity of a heat seeking missile. At the last nanosecond it glanced off the rock and exploded 'n a thousand sharp fragments through the branches of the holly tree at the base of the arete. 
Stonecrop Direct
Liam felt the screaming rush of air as the rock practically parted his hair. Despite being a fraction from certain death, Liam just brushed himself down and calmly stated ..that was a bit close! From my vantage point high above my heart pounded like a drum as the sulphurous smell of exploded rock drifted across the void between us. As calm descended I carried on and finished the line which turned out to be a fine little route...Stonecrop Direct VS-4b. The rest of the afternoon wound down as a series of repeat climbs and gentle rambling twixt crags. After repeating Paul Work's original Christmas Climb we followed the sheep tracks and streams to the old footpath which meanders through the oak woods beyond Carneddi, each lost in our own thoughts but gathered in the solidarity of our labours. Despite the scare I still love Nantmor as much as I ever did. Its texture woven from ancient skeins..its huge music filling an empty sky.

Through tumbled walls

Is accompanied
By lost jawbones of men
And lost fingernails of women
In the chapel of cloud
And the walled, horizon-woven choir
Of old cares
Darkening back to heather
The huge music of sightlines
Every step of the slopes
The messiah of opened rock  
Ted Hughes: Remains of Elmet- Faber & Faber

John Appleby: First published in Loose Scree. November 2005.

Friday, 31 March 2017

Shooting ghosts at midnight

THE last link with the splendid early days of British rock-climbing is still living quietly, surrounded by his mountain photographs, in a Keswick house that looks out over one of the finest views in England. He is Mr George D. Abraham, pioneer climber, photographs and writer and, at 93 years of age, perhaps the oldest living mountaineer.

Thousands of climbers must have been brought up on his British Mountain Climbs or The Complete Mountaineer and his other writings of half a century ago. And generations of mountaineers were first attracted to the sport by his thrilling photographs, still displayed in the windows of the family business at Keswick. But how many of the thousands of climbers who pass through Keswick each year on their way to the crags realise that the man who almost started it all is still alive, and that he still lifts his eyes every day to the hills that have been his whole life? When Mr George Abraham discovered his first new climb in 1890 — Sandbed Gill in St. John's-in-the-Vale near Keswick — there were only about 20 rock climbs in Lakeland. Today there must be nearly 2,000. He climbed with the legendary Owen Glynne Jones and knew all the great men who laid the foundations of our sport —W. P. Haskett Smith, Geoffrey Hastings, W. C. Slingsby, J. W. Robinson and many, many more. But all are long since dead and Mr Abraham is left alone with his memories of great adventures 50, 60, 70 and nearly 80 years ago. And Mr Abraham is not only the very last of the deerstalker and Norfolk jacket pioneers, but the first man to popularise the sport with his photographs and his writings.

With his younger brother, Ashley, now dead, he lugged heavy plate cameras into desperate places to picture — for the first time — determined looking men hanging on to rocks by their eyebrows. And the two — the Keswick Brothers as they were called — found new ways up crags in Scotland and Wales as well as in their native Lakeland.

When he was in his 70th year Mr Abraham decided to take his wife up one of his most famous discoveries — the Crowberry Ridge on Buchaille Etive above Glencoe. and she told me the other week: "When we were about half way up George said he knew of a good place where we could have our sandwiches, but it turned out to be a ledge about nine inches wide overlooking a vertical drop". This was one of his last climbs in this country but he was climbing and walking in Switzerland up to five years ago. Flying over there every summer and visiting old friends in Interlaken, Grindelwald and Zermatt. And there is a jagged aiguille high above Chamonix that still bears his name. Remarkably, his memories of adventurous days 50 or 60 years ago are almost as sharp today as the wonderful photographs that line the walls of his home.

He even remembers his very first climb nearly 80 years ago — Pillar Rock by the old Slab and Notch with the help of his mother's clothes line. "There were some Alpine Club men on the Rock that day" he told me "but instead of frightening us away or laughing at us they offered to lend us a proper rope and gave us all the help they could. I remember thinking at the time 'What wonderful men!' and I made up my mind there and then to become a climber". How well George Abraham succeeded in his aim may be seen from a study of the guide books for most of the climbing areas in Britain, for they show him as the leader of many first ascents and the companion of O. G. Jones in many of his more desperate adventures. One of these was the first ascent of Walker's Gully on Pillar Rock — "the last big unclimbed gully in Lakeland". They left Wasdale Head one January morning and walked to Pillar through a storm of rain and sleet — Jones, George Abraham and A. E. Field. The climb was iced with a waterfall splashing down between the icicles and the party was wet through and frozen before they reached the limit of previous exploration. Jones led with George Abraham as his second and to climb the crux took off his boots and his Norfolk jacket and used a rope loop to help him up the worst corner. And thus, with the gully era at an end, was the way opened for a start on the great face climbs of Lakeland and elsewhere.

This combination of Jones and Abraham was perhaps the most formidable in British mountaineering at that time and between them they privately laid plans for an attempt on Kangchenjunga in the Himalaya. But before they had finalised their plans Jones fell to his death on the Dent Blanche, and the development of British climbing was held back for years as a result. George Abraham tells me that Owen Glynne Jones was the finest climber he had ever known, either amateur or professional and he was including the great Siegfried Herford, leader of the first ascent of Central Buttress on Scafell. "Jones was immensely strong in the arms and fingers", he said, "but he was also extremely neat in his footwork. The young climbers of today still don't use their feet enough and rely too much on their arms". 

George Abraham was involved in a great deal of exploration in Skye and in the English North Wales his favourite climb remains The New West on Pillar in his beloved Lakeland. Discovered by him and his brother in 1901. And it is still a classic route — not a hard climb but the easiest way up difficult rock and a wonderfully natural route. It was the last climb the two brothers did together in the Lake District in 1936.

The very first new climb discovered in Lakeland by the Keswick Brothers was Sandbed Gill in the hills to the east of Keswick. They climbed it in 1890 when George was 19 and Ashley only 14 and Mr Abraham still clearly remembers the day. "But I can't remember what we called the climb except that it wasn't Sandbed Gill" he told me. "People often altered the names of our climbs and sometimes put our own name on them — those two buttresses on Dow Crag, for instance. We never called them Abraham's Routes".

"I remember having a drink in the gully above St. John's in the Vale when we came to a steep bit about half way up with a waterfall coming down it, and when we got up the pitch we found a dead sheep lying in the water. That night I was very sick". And he clearly remembers their first ascent of Walla Crag Gully in Borrowdale in 1892. On this climb the brothers made use for foothold of the withered root of an old holly tree projecting out of the vertical rock, and as their weight came on the twist of dying fibre it sagged but did not snap and they were able to reach the holds above. Perhaps 60 years later, after I had repeated the climb, I happened to be chatting to Mr Abraham about it. And his first question was: "Is the old root still there?" It was very pleasant to be able to tell him that it was, that it still creaked ominously, but that it seemed likely to remain there for ever. 

Sandbed Gill

Mr Abraham was born in Keswick and went to school in Manchester where he also studied art. His father, Mr George Perry Abraham, had established a photographic business in Keswick but George's first ambition was to paint Lakeland scenery rather than photograph it. In his study today hangs a splendid oil painting of Skiddaw as seen from Ashness Bridge done by young George when he was only 14. But eventually the young painter went into the family business where he was able to use his gift for colour in other ways. For example, another remarkable picture in his Keswick home is a magnificent photograph of the Matterhorn, taken by Mr Abraham and coloured by him — one of the best mountain pictures I have ever seen. His photographs mostly fall into three categories; exciting pictures of climbers balanced on tiny holds above tremendous drops or jammed in dark gullies or straddling knife edges of rock; studies of the giants of the Alps; and quieter, restful pictures of the Lakeland fells at all seasons of the year.

 But his most successful picture from a commercial point of view and perhaps his own favourite is a photograph of Crummock Water, titled 'Solitude', taken on a quiet November day 60 years ago. Copies have gone all over the world. To take their pictures on the Lakeland crags the Abraham brothers had to manhandle heavy equipment up the rocks and sometimes had to do their own developing and printing in shaded tents close to running water. Some pictures show the only photographs in existence of pioneers like Owen Glynne Jones and J. W. Robinson, the Cumberland climber, whose memorial is the Robinson Cairn near Pillar.

Now and Then: The Abraham Studios in Keswick now George Fishers.

Very many people have been attracted to the hills and crags by the Abraham pictures displayed outside their Keswick shop and the photograph that first drew me to the crags as a boy was one of a climber on Eagle's Nest Ridge on Great Gable. And Mr Abraham still remembers taking that picture and has told me the name of the climber and most of the details of that day generations ago. He and his brother began their climbing on Castle Head near Keswick in the days when rock climbing was a sport practised by only a handful of people.

Mostly university men. They first began exploring the smaller crags in and around Borrowdale and then, as they became more expert turned their attention to the biggest crags and then to Scotland and Wales. And all the time they were pioneering, photographing and writing. The crags looked much different in Mr Abraham's day. "There wasn't a scratch or a mark on them" he told me "and you could climb almost anywhere and be on rock where nobody had ever been before. But there was a lot more grass and lichen about and sometimes we had to do a lot of gardening to find the holds". Mr Abraham has held office in many of the big climbing clubs but he is chiefly proud of the fact that he is an honorary member of the Alpine Club. But he was also the founder president of the little Keswick Mountaineering Club and walked up to the club hut high in the hills for the opening ceremony when he was over 80.

The old man is also proud of a 'signed photograph of the late Prince Consort of the Netherlands. Many years ago he was asked to take the Prince for a walk over Scafell Pike, he and his wife, the former Queen Wilhelmina were holiday-making in the Lake District at the time. They went up from Seathwaite and came down into Langdale, the cars having been driven round. And as they came down Rossett Gill they found the Queen sitting sketching "in a tatty old woollen dress" not far from the sheepfold in Mickleden. Today Mr George D. Abraham can no longer climb the rocks and roam the fells but his memory and that of his brother will always be kept green among climbers by the well known Keswick Brothers climb on Scafell; two climbs on Dow Crag near Coniston that bear their name; many fine routes in Lakeland, Wales and Scotland and their photographs and writings. But Mr Abraham can still look out on the Lakeland he has helped so many people to enjoy and still look back with pleasure on many, many wonderful days of high adventure and mountain beauty. 

A Harry Griffin: First published in Climber: January 1965 

An exhibition of Abraham Brothers photographs is currently running at the Keswick Museum until May 12th. 

'This exhibition celebrates their work with a range of their iconic climbing photographs and some of the well loved views they popularised and which are still admired today. It accompanies Henry Iddon’s exhibition of photographs taken in 2016 with the same Instanto camera, and featuring contemporary celebrated climbers.' KM

Friday, 24 March 2017

Blind Date at Orco

Ed Drummond on Itaca Nel Sole: 'Possibly the most beautiful route at Orco':  Original Photo Dave Cook
'I 've broken my ankle bouldering at Hobson Moor Quarry," Pat Devine said apologetically over the phone. "So you won't be coming to Orco?" was my unnecessary and selfish reply. After a wet fortnight at Verdon and nine arm wrenching days at Finale on my cycle journey to the East, I was rather keen on some Alpine granite and my impatience showed. "No, but Ken's got a replacement from Tuesday night with whom you'll be delighted. I'm sworn to secrecy about the name. Just be at the sports fishing campsite as arranged." I feared the worst. Having closely observed the mischief making potential of the various climbing "hubs" with which Wilson has been associated, whether as axle or spoke, a link that extends back through Altrincham, the Crown at Highgate, Wolverhampton to Shirley in South Birmingham in the '50's, and now looks set to homogenise both sides of the Pennines via the "Tuesday Team". The idea of Ken Wilson playing Cilla Black filled me with foreboding.

In the days when records had flip sides, "Blind Date" was coupled with "Stood Up-Broken Hearted". My own experience had been a bit like that. On the other hand, who could it be? My imagination ran riot as images of some of the climbing characters I knew flicked through my mind. The telephone's warning clicks brought me back to reality. "OK, I'll be there," I said, none too sure. Some days, several hundred kilometres and thousands of feet of steep pedalling later, it seemed my worst fears were about to be realised. I had shared the brutally steep ascent from Noasca to Ceresole with a fair share of Turin's Sunday drivers, most of whom seemed to imagine themselves at Monza. The normally tranquil campsite rendezvous was adjacent to a major road widening scheme along which JCB's thundered. What's more, at 9pm there was still no sign of my "delightful partner". With a start I remembered it was Tuesday. Would the Tuesday Team be chuckling at this very moment over their beer?

Suddenly powerful headlights flooded the field and a lorry coughed to a halt.Vast amounts of gear thudded to the ground  from the cab followed by a tall figure anxiously scanning the darkness for a red bike. It was Ed Drummond. You could have knocked me down with a proverbial feather. Although I had met Ed briefly I knew him more by reputation — major new route pioneer, poet and politic who combined his sport with "climbs for causes." Pat was right in his judgement. I was delighted. Ed's name had not featured in my wildest fantasies.

And nor had Fissura Della Disperazione as a first route. As I had waited in the field below, looking up at the climbers on El Sergent's great southerly face. One thing had become very clear; this six hundred foot crackline, the best looking line on the cliff, had remained deserted. Al Churcher's guide book, "Italian Rock", provided the explanation, "man-eating off-widths and a grade of E 10 5b." (Yes E10!) There did seem to be a certain implication here. It didn't take us long to discover that if the grade was a printer's error, it was definitely a Freudian one. Ed, whose climbing at the time was restricted to soloing gritstone routes he had done many times before, was anxious to get on to the big ones, "the more like Yosemite the better." Disperazione fitted several bills. It was big, butch and very Californian. The so called 5b pitches were cruel, unrelenting, strenuous and poorly protected. We learned later that Galente's first ascent in 1974 had used gigantic bongs for aid. No wonder the Friends wouldn't fit . . .

Fortunately, the guide book described other, easier routes that ascended big cliffs, and next day we hitched down to Noasca and hiked up through glorious beechwoods to Torre Di Aimonin, another magnificent granite bastion further down the valley. Our objective was Pesce D ' Aprile, (April Fool), a six pitch Hard VS with an attractive dierdre as its crux. An old friend, Mike Kosterlitz who, while living in Italy twenty years ago had been an important pioneer of free climbing at Orco, had done the first ascent. The Curbar style crack by the campsite which bears his name is one of the most famous boulder problems in the country, and is highly at risk from the road works. Italy is reported to have been a "jam-free zone" before his arrival, although this is hard to credit. How did they get up all those towering cracklines in the Dolomites more than 50 years ago if this was the case? Pesce d'Aprile also introduced us to another Orco regular, the mid-afternoon thunderstorm. From then on no day, and usually no crux, was complete without the sudden building up of cloud, menacing tension and the sudden release of exploding rain. We saw too our first glimpse of the incredible wildlife for which the Gran Paradiso National park is famous.

A file of Chamois tiptoed across a vast bulge of holdless slab, breathtaking in their beauty and their audacity. It was at least E10! In the course of the next few days we saw Ibex, beaver, martens and several varieties of deer, foxes and goats. The Italians tend to shoot anything that moves, and some of these species would be extinct without the haven the park provides. In complete contrast to National Parks in Britain, there was an absence of regulation notices, waymarking and information points.

The only one we saw stated simply, "These fields belong to the mountain people — Respect please." Usually on a holiday in a new climbing area there is a route you cannot dodge. Guide book recommendations, compelling line and general reputation impel you towards it. In Orco, Itaca Nel Sole, on the SW face of Caporal, is the one. Indeed, Churcher's guide implies that you would be a halfwit not to do it. "A stupendous route . . . the most sought after classic in the whole of Orco . . . there is little on this side of the Atlantic to rival the experience it offers." Well, I suppose that's what guides are for! Itaca is really two routes, and this ideally suited our party. Ed could use the modern name Tempi Moderni and the completely free grade of 6A and I could revel in the old fashioned original E2 5c/A 1 .

Of course all routes have this option, but few have it legitimised in guide book print in quite the same stark way. In the event the rains came early on our first attempt, and we abseiled off after only one pitch. Saturday followed, and this time we were not alone. Indeed every climber in Turin seemed to have joined us. However, we were first. Picture the scene. Two elderly Brits head the queue; one of them determined to free climb every move, the other making less resolute efforts. Behind them a lengthening file of Italians grows, at first respectfully interested in this strange obsession, but later, especially as the afternoon thunderstorms threaten, increasingly impatient. The Brits take a belay in the wrong place. Smiling politely, the Italians begin to climb over them. The younger of the two Brits, wearing a beret, is at grips with the second 6A pitch. His friend, anxious that there should at least be the option of an unoccupied foothold for his partner, begins to speak harshly to the Italians.

To no avail. Clearly the race is on ...Ecco . . . Ecco. Amazingly, Anglo-Italian relations survive the conflict. On the summit Ed was soon negotiating a translation deal for his book, A Dream of White Horses, with those who minutes before had been elbowing him in the ribs. Our two main rivals for handholds insisted in showing us a brilliant descent route and pointing out Diedro Nanchez, another mega classic from the boots of Galente. They waited for us at the road, and soon we were exchanging beer instead of gloves. Nor was Italian kindness over that evening. As we cooked supper on our building site field a lone figure approached us out of the gloom. "Are you Cooki and Drummond, les Inglesis con bicyclette?" At least that was the gist of what he said. Loved ones back home, alarmed at our lack of contact had phoned Ken, who having been portrayed in a somewhat Machiavellian part hitherto, can now adopt a very commendable role in this story. A long series of international calls had followed, involving the Alpine Club, Italian Guides, and eventually our lone messenger who had driven up the valley in search of two Inglesis in a haystack.

We phoned home, heartened by this brilliant example of international climbing fellowship, not to mention detective work. Next day saw us back at El Sergent, to sample some of the shorter climbs. Orco is a conflict zone. An older, adventure climbing tradition rules this fantastic valley, but it is under pressure from modern sports climbing ways. The huge plaques of granite are climbable, but without bolts there will be few takers. With them, they will fall at the rush. Sergent, closest to the road, is where the issue will be decided.

Incastro Mania gave me the 100ft S-shaped 5b jam crack of my dreams, and Nichia Della Torture, E2 5c, another Galente 1970's classic, gave us both whatever a torture chamber gives you. So far no problem. We placed our own (ample) protection. Next came Paperinic Colpisce Ancora, E3 5c, no natural pro, but brilliant slab climbing. The ethical dilemma smote us in the head and below the belt. We clipped. We enjoyed. Fired up by these successes we wanted a big one for our last day. Ed, exultant at the re-discovery of his old "real climbing" form, suggested Casa Degli Specchi (The House of Mirrors) back on Torre di Aimonin. Myself, exultant at the possibility of discovering it, agreed.

Fissura Della Disperazione: Ed Drummond leads the 5c Chimney: Original photo Dave Cook

Although graded no harder than some of the things we had done already, (E4 6a), it obviously was. You just had to look at its first pitch zig zagging up an impending wall to know we were contemplating a different league. Ed led the crux in majestic fashion, and I, thrilled beyond belief at the spacewalking moves, managed to keep my hands away from the oh so tempting quickdraws. The next pitch, a big overhang, was my lead. Fortunately, right on cue, the downpour came .. . We met in Courgne that night, for a bye bye meal, Ed flying back to Derbyshire and myself pedalling East to Valle di Mello. The test of a blind date is if you make another. We already have. 

Dave Cook 

Originally published in Climber and Hillwalker-October 1989 

Friday, 17 March 2017

Norton of Everest.....Review

Mount Everest and its climbing history, still retains a keen interest within the mountaineering community and the general public, none more so than the early attempts in 1921, 1922 and 1924. The members of those expeditions have had many books written about them; Mallory, Irvine, Morshead, Somerville, Finch and Noel but until now no volume has appeared about the part played by Colonel Teddy Norton in the 1922 and 1924 parties.

A career soldier, an officer of the Royal Field Artillery, how he became selected for the 1922 expedition remains to this day unclear. He was related by his mother’s family to Sir Alfred Wills, who was a founder of the Alpine Club and who made the first ascent of the Wetterhorn, but more famed for his role as the judge who sentenced Oscar Wilde to two years hard labour for gross indecency than his climbing record, impressive as it was for the part he played in the golden age of Alpine exploration. Wills had a chalet built in the Haute-Savoie in the Vallee des Fonds as a retreat, and it was on family visits to this facility that Norton learned to climb, along with his three brothers. However in 1922 his Alpine record was ‘thin’, and the very few ascents he had made on the higher peaks above the Chamonix Valley, mainly on the Aiguilles were with guides and he was yet to be elected a member of the Alpine Club.

However those who knew him were impressed by his calmness and decisive character, perhaps developed by his experiences in the 1914-1918 war which in surviving he remained a statistical miracle. For He soldiered at the Marne, Aisne, Ypres, Loos, and the Somme, and he was awarded every medal for gallantry and combat save for the Victoria Cross, and he emerged from the war with a certain quality of being, a serenity and a confidence that would stand him in good stead on Everest in 1924 when the ill health of General Bruce, the appointed leader, forced Norton to take over in his place. By 1922 Norton had seen much army service in India, and probably his linguistic abilities and familiarity with some of the dialects of the expedition porters stood him in good stead. Physically he must have stood out against such, for at 6 feet 4 inches, thin and spare he was unusually tall for his generation and at 38 years old; it is again surprising that he was selected to take part. It is interesting to me that the Everest Committee had all the expedition members medically tested before departure. I do not think we even considered doing that in my generation. Another matter that I do find surprising is that although the early Everest expeditions were made up of climbers, used to climbing in the Alps with guides, they never thought of taking some of them to bolster their technical skills on Everest. Yet they did achieve some impressive results, two parties reached 27,000 feet in 1922, Norton, Somervell, and Mallory without oxygen, while Finch and Geoffrey Bruce reached 27,300 feet using oxygen. The 1922 attempt came to a sad end when below the North Col, a party made up of Somervell, Mallory and Crawford, with thirteen Sherpa porters was avalanched, in which seven of the Sherpa’s died.  I have read previous accounts of this event, and it seems that some feel that Mallory was to blame, for although there had been a heavy snowfall, he was determined to make one final summit bid. However surely the other two climbers involved, and the leadership were equally to blame for they were too late on the mountain by that time and into the monsoon season, and yet they had agreed to this going forward?

1924 Everest was Norton’s truly impressive effort, although by then 40 years old, he had to take over the leadership when the leader General Bruce had to turn back during the approach march due to an attack of Malaria. The approach through Tibet during those early expeditions was a challenge in itself, taking four to five weeks and even today travelling in that country can still be demanding. The 1924 party was made up of some of the same climbers as 1922, and Norton climbing with Somervell without oxygen reached solo, after his partner had been forced to give it best due to breathing problems, to within a 1000feet of the summit. A height record that stood for fifty-four years until in 1978 when Messner and Habeler climbed the mountain without oxygen to the summit. The failure of the Norton/Somervell bid led on to a determination by Mallory to have one more go at summiting, for which he decided to use oxygen. He chose as his partner the relatively inexperienced climber, but excellent oxygen practitioner Sandy Irvine.

The story of Mallory and Irvine’s attempt, and how it ended in their tragic disappearance is now one of the most discussed and fantasised events in mountaineering history; plays, books, films have all entered into a guessing game, of ‘did they reach the summit?’ Norton was certain that their deaths had been caused by a climbing accident, and he was vindicated in this view by the discovery of Mallory’s body in 1999, lying low on the slopes of the north face with the rope which was still tied around his waist broken a short distance from his body.

In the face of this tragedy Norton as expedition leader was however praised not only for his high altitude achievement, but in the way he handled events surrounding the accident, and its aftermath in liaising with the lost climber’s families and friends, in dealing with the media and for his overall qualities of leadership. Somervell and a later Everester, Dr Mike Ward (a member of the successful 1953 party) recognised Norton as ‘probably the best of all Everest leaders’. Various things flowed from the Everest Expeditions in his later life, the 1922 party were awarded Olympic Gold medals in the winter of 1923-1924, he was elected to the Alpine Club and he was given the RGS’s gold Founder’s Medal in 1926. He was also considered as leader for two of the later Everest Expeditions in 1933 and 1935, and even Presidency of the Alpine Club in 1946, but he turned all such down for his military career took precedence. A significant outcome of his temporary celebrity as a mountaineer was the naming of a peak in the Canadian Rockies in 1927, Mount Norton 10,200feet, by an American climber Alfred Ostheimer (who named another of his first ascents Mount Somervell) .

I have not noted Norton’s other interests, like Somervell he immersed himself in painting and sketching, but he also was something of a caricaturist and the book contains many examples of his work. These illustrate very much the interests and the gentle humour of his times. He was also a keen naturalist and collected hundreds of botanical specimens whilst taking part in the Everest expeditions. However apart from a few later Alpine ascents, and hill walking in Scotland; Norton did not go on to make any more Himalayan journeys.

He slowly ascended the army promotion ladder finishing as a Lieutenant General, having held many command posts in India. He started his career at the pinnacle of the British Empire; but slowly over his decades of service he witnessed its slow disintegration. He was a man of his times, although interestingly he had been born in Argentina where his father was a shipping line and estancia owner. But grew up in England, and was schooled at Charterhouse (which he disliked) and entered RMA Woolwich which was then the school of artillery, before becoming a commissioned officer. 

In 1940 he acted as the governor of Hong Kong for a short period, appalled on arriving there at the lack of preparations against the possibility of a Japanese invasion, whose troops had already conquered huge swathes of eastern China. He immediately set about preparing air raid shelters to protect the civilian population, organising the drilling of caves into the nearby mountains to do this and trying to alert London to the seriousness of the situation. He did leave the colony before the Japanese occupation, and eventually after a brief period back in Quetta, where he commanded that garrison; he was recalled to England and the War Office.

I found whilst reading this book a growing questioning, why it was that Norton who was obviously an accomplished and kind person, and his fellow rulers of the Empire never seemed to understand, that such as Indians, Chinese, and the other subject people did not wish to be ruled by the British or anyone else for that matter? At least if they did, they never seemed to have declared that this was so.  Knowing China like I do, I am always amazed that after the opium wars and the forced treaties imposed on that country, which is how Britain gained Hong Kong, that we are not pariahs when we travel and work amongst them. Norton, true to his station in life was a monarchist, and a social conservative, and like the rest of us a product of his environment.

I enjoyed reading this book, and to anyone interested in the early Everest expeditions, and in a wider context the tumultuous events of the 20th century which changed all our lives, particularly the two world wars, I believe they will like me be both educated and held by reading this timely Norton biography, by one of his surviving sons. I guess writing about such a distinguished parent must have been difficult, but I think there is a degree of separation helped by the passage of time from the events described, that the book avoids becoming a hagiography.     

Dennis Gray: 2017

Norton of Everest. Hugh Norton. Vertebrate Publishing. £12.99
Available to Pre-order direct from Vertebrate.

Friday, 10 March 2017

Quo Vadis Bergsteigerland

A few years ago a whole edition of the fine German magazine `Alpinismus' posed this ques-tion. Today it is of particular relevance to English and Welsh rock climbing, which seems to be on the way to becoming a football match in reverse -all performers and few spectators. Awakening from an afternoon siesta on a hot June day, the shouts eho round the cwm above Llyn du'r Arddu. They are colourful adaptations of the textbook sterilities taken from the accepted climbing manuals, punctuated by the rattle of stones in the central descent gullies. A kicker usually wears a crash hat and shouts 'Below!' after his stone has made its satisfying clatter down the middle rock. All good textbook stuff. And there is a book to tell you where to go once you know how, and even before, if you wish. The green turf below the East Buttress is swiftly disappearing, leaving loose earth and stones, although the faithful spring continues to refresh an increased clientele; even in drought conditions.

How many climbers are up there on a fine June Sunday? Fifty are apparent on the lower area of the West Buttress. There is someone on most things on the East and no doubt others lurk in the East Gully and on the Far East. No one climb seems of importance. By the lake the sun is hot, and the isolation, once out of the grey shadow of the cliff, is splendid. There are too many up there whatever the count. The cliff has lost its impressiveness and the climbing has lost its point. Perhaps Llech Ddu is quiter, but if there is new stuff to be done and the Holliwells are doing it, that is unlikely! How come there are so many of us? Baden Powell's mild equivalent of the Hitler Youth introduced many to the open air life between the wars and after. Educational entrepreneurship in the new outdoor pursuits centres has augmented the movement, in size though perhaps not in quality. Schoolteachers anxious to escape onto the outcrops are probably even more culpable. It is good to see the young on the crags, though what the climbing community will do to their characters I shudder to anticipate.

The chiselling of holds and names has reached new peaks on Gritstone. Long established problems are destroyed, or rendered impracticable by the shelter building activities of little boys (Roches). We are back to the old problem of freedom and responsibility—Baden Powell did stress that! Knowledge that climbing is possible is not enough. We can afford to do it, to spend on the vehicles or travel; we can afford the energy too, though one does question this on some Monday mornings. The vehicles crowded below popular cliffs are no longer uniformly battered vans and motor-cycles. Once the Hon Rotterslay's weekend excursion to Derbyshire in an E-Type Jaguar caused widespread gossip. It might be less extraordinary now. Basically we still seek the high drama, a contrast to a world where life is entirely conversation, while alternative tasks are obscured by the discipline of fulfilling a (sometimes not so) reasonable objective, and completion gives its own short term satisfaction. Then there is the gear, attractive looking, limited by weight (to some degrees by accepted norms), but increasingly complex and increasingly used.

Most hard climbs can be wholly or partially reduced to boulder problems. Pure practice of free climbing is widely distributed at a high standard, but the numbers of climbs resistant to new methods of protection are growing fewer. Double-think on the climber's part is probably easier now than in the past, when the distinction between. free and artificial was much more clear-cut. Now there is less dependence upon high morale and more upon technology. The degree of uncertainty when entering upon a big new rock climb is im-measurably reduced. It is exceedingly easy to over-estimate ones abilities, particularly in the margin between pretty good and excellent. Probably there are still few of the latter, for while many climb hard routes, there are few who innovate in boldness.

Thus we are many and we are likely to become more. The gear sellers, the magazine producers, the manufacturers and the press, the educators and the interests of the pubs and cafes, all these will contribute to the growth of the numbers in the future. We swarm like flies in the summer months and, at worst, climbing can become a garish cartoon-like pandemonium. Some are able to operate in the week or in winter, but most will continue to depend upon the weekend, even if it becomes an extended period. One can climb in Scotland and avoid the crowd as yet—but for how long? Often it may seem scarcely worth the candle. The aggregation problem in climbing rock will turn many to broader mountaineering or other activities' (canoeing?) which require similar psychology.

A few real misanthropes may give up and take to buttering the final jugs on a Friday evening before taking grandstand seats on the Saturday. Some will get killed, especially if they continue to rain stones on one another on crowded days and if sages gaze into the Black Cleft and pronounce it authoritatively to be Longland's. But this will offer little prospect of reducing the climbing population as more women climb now. Thus the mass is likely to increase for years with replacements outnumbering the wastage. In this situation there will also be more people doing the hard climbs and the innovators who always balance on a knife-edge will be pushed one stage further.' If climbing `extremes' is really easier because of the protection', then the protection must go.

Missing runners while leading endangers the second, so he must go. A rope makes retreat easier, perhaps it should go too. Thus on rock one can avoid aid, avoid the ennervating effects of the possibility of placing a nut every foot and being left with nowhere to put your fingers but in the slings. Thus one can climb genuinely free at the highest level of technique.' To many people this will sound foolish but it is essentially logical. It is dangerous to a greater degree than protected leading at the same grade but this alone does not make it unjustifiable. Justification must depend only upon the climber's assessment of himself, as long as he is not deranged. To solo revives the real relationship between man and rock which the insulation of protection obscures. Those who feel that modern aids are choking the sport are justified in reducing the insulation.

To solo on hard climbs may be near rhetorical, but it is the most valid way of criticising the technology which supports so many of our stuffed shirts. This question seems deeply involved with that of numbers. Crowds would not exist on hard climbs without the technology. It is noticeable that the leading climbers who have taken to soloing do so sometimes for immediate practical reasons, but often they do so because they are both actors in and detestors of the climbing circus. They wish both to differentiate themselves and to excel in an overcrowded atmosphere. Innovators not taken with solo climbing will probably go further afield more often and get involved in mountaineering—even the biggest Scottish rock climbing seems to have slightly more laissez-faire than the English-Welsh system.

 Paul Nunn image:Ian Smith

For those not developing in these ways the traditional rock climbing south of the border looks increasingly sterile. All this links with the third major problem. A few years ago the soloists would have done more new routes instead. They still are among those who do new routes, but all too often their quality is lower than the average of the early sixties. Many are quite banal. For those who cannot be satisfied by the odd holiday away from the stereotyped areas there may well be only one solution—emigration!

Paul Nunn: First Published in Rocksport-Oct/Nov 1969

References : 1. Margins of Safety by H. Drasdo, The Alpine Journal, 1969. Does improved equipment and technique re-duce accidents? by K. I. Meldrum, Accident, Equipment and Miscellaneous Notes, The Alpine Journal, 1969. 2. Games Climbers Play by L. Tejada-Flores, Ascent, May 1967; The Alpine Journal, May 1968; Mountain 2, 1969. The Game We Play by D. D. Gray, Rocksport, April/May 1969. 3. See description of the corner pitch on The Bat; Ben Nevis by J. R. Marshall, 1969.