Friday, 15 March 2019

Margins of the Mind - Cobalt and Vermillion

Margins of the Mind:
A jovial and intense Alastair Lee of Posing Productions had been texting me for a while now. I knew that soon I would have to answer and be proactive to his proposal. It wasn’t that I was apathetic, just knowing of the time, effort and commitment needed to ‘extra’ in his new film ‘On Sight’. Okay, to be honest, perhaps it was more than that. At my most cynical I was the errant, historical guest, holding the life of the young contender, the trad-lad who would succeed, fail or die attached to me via knots and colours of choice. But I guess there’s more than that. As the first ascensionist, I had been there, in a four-hour negotiation with the rock, virtually on-sight after a quick clean and the curious placing of a sawn-off peg. My musings were not at all a physical response to my experience, my torn fingers told that pain, hell no, but more esoteric and a passionate rage against sport as a betrayal of all I consider to be of sanctity in the landscape. However, Margins was not ‘trad’ or any other label to me but an ingredient of doubt that opened doors to more abundant life and informed my work as an image maker. Hit or miss. Al Hinks guest appeared on his own journey via Pinnacle Arete and took the photo in Welsh Rock, “getting a bit dark youth”.
The concept ‘on sight’ was, in essence, to be applauded in this world of colour coordinated workouts in synthetic prisons, but the reality would surely be a prosaic, commercial enterprise no different to any other that sells style and designer fashion and brave ‘extreme’ sporty stuff to consumers. The deeper, more visionary, alternative consciousness stands by and distills in a much darker place. Beware, it is in danger. It must never be lost to the Oscars! However, I knew of Al’s unequivocal talents, behind, within and beyond the camera, and in a moment of my own, nebulous, daily routine of ‘blackening’ canvas, acquiesce with the man’s movie chi.
It had been twenty-four years ago since my ascent of Margins of the Mind. I had forgotten the moves but my psyche still remembered the reverie of the green world - the bilberry and fern beneath me, breathing with the slimes of grubs, worms and entities unknown and the very real prospect of joining them as a tapestry of skin, vein and bones, torn apart and leaching unguents over the horned-bed-rock that mocked my questioning.

Pause. A soliloquy –

I couldn’t find the tiny slot that I remembered from the abseil. It evaded my frantic searching. Surely to the right, shoulder height? Had I passed it? The sawn-off was well below my feet – in fact I couldn’t even see that. What is it with these routes that drift you into unexpected germinations? Is the elusive RP1 placement symbolic of some other, more major loss? It often seems that way, that, in situations like this, there is indeed more to the moment than there appears to be. An allegorical door opens…and the vital vision is not one of RP1 placements…it is of two ropes as two accusing lines, tempting me off onto the gully rocks. Why does the gully beckon? Surely the finishing holds are better placed to aspire to! But no, the moment waits to linger…the gully, its green world just ‘so’, just there…just so…alien to all this…this that I have invented…this warped struggle’. and one for the crow

Neil Dickson was to attempt an on-sight and I was to hold his ropes. In all those years the route had only seen a top-roped, practiced ascent by cool adventurer Nick Dixon. He thought it ‘nails’. Fine effort but bad move. A route not top-roped on the first ascent should never suffer the defeat of practice. The modern, politic, egalitarian ethics of sports climbing, the physicality of movement on rock and the search for beta and a move to be made is addictive and infectious. I think it exhausts a raw vitality and at most warps our bond with the planet. Welcome to mass-culture, adventure, Red Bull, trophies and souvenirs? Practice makes perfect eh, is my glib response in a perfect world? The Olympics are popular… Hell, accept it. Errrr no.

The day before my ascent of Margins I climbed the second ascent of Master’s Wall (funny enough Jerry, meandering right well below my errant bolt hole) in the new sticky boots without stopping. Dave did the same. Not so in pre-sticky, non-top-rope 1980 on a different project, in a different lifetime, The Tormented Ejaculation.

Neil Dickson...footloose and fancy free on 'Margins'.

the mental preparation was becoming harder and harder. The so-called psyching-up, a pain beyond reason. Out of the acquaintance grew more and more fear. Gone the initial naiveté that had sparked off this now terrifying enterprise. I knew the score and was unnerved by it… I was sliding from the very start in ‘Canyon boots’. Friction was minimal. I felt insecure. The rubbed-in resin was wearing off. I placed an RP1 whilst dangerously pumped. I clipped in and was about to place a No 2 when I was off. The RP ripped and I fell a long way down the wall (Cartwheeling 70 feet by all accounts). A tiny stopper held! Keith was momentarily stunned then calmly stated, “Oh, you’re still alive… well, you’d better climb back up.” His amazing insouciance was contagious. I climbed back up…’ and one for the crow

I had never envied anyone holding ropes. I preferred the sharp deal…thrusting the weapon in the right direction, and closing the gap…to an unknown dialogue of doubt, knowing how absurd is the effort of order and routine. Focus was never my strong point but the sharp deal enforced it.

I met Neil, a smiling, nonchalant, gangly youth and an enthusiastic Al in the sulphurous-hell of Snowdon Mountain Railway station in ‘Beris. Neil looked like a normal lad in his final year of a degree in economics, or a scout leader applying for his first mortgage… and I accepted that the looks and demeanour of a respected, ‘top trad climber’ of the day may be deceiving to me. I caught myself thinking, here is a nice lad, why is that so odd? Why shouldn’t he be? Indeed, something had shifted. Al is psyched like a hungry vulture for his new outdoor extremextravaganzadventure.

The wild and the innocent

“Will we fuck take the tourist train”, was my regrettable exclamation as we burdened ourselves upwards with Al’s trade tools. Twenty-four years ago, as I desperately clung on in search of an RP1 placement, Neil had not yet been born. As if from a surreal sketch I asked him where he had been born. Llandudno he answered. I rambled on about what a great scene Llandudno had been in the eighties, how Williams and Pollitt et al had unleashed a pagan sexuality toll upon the Marine Drive toll and the Parisella ice cream family in particular nailed hard, and how bars and pubs and bouldering caves became sites of Dionysian worship.

“Yeah”, he surprisingly remarked, “My Mum, Anne, used to hang around The Bearded Clam bar in Llandudno.”

“Anne?” I said. “I briefly went out with an Anne and regularly went into Pigeon Hole Cave with her at low tide, looking for holes in pebbles that would become indented into her buttocks like a mold”.

Al gasped, “fucking hell JR, too much info man.”

I asked if she had blond hair and had been about twenty-five? We all stopped on the track, sweating under heavy loads like donkey’s awaiting a good kicking.

“Fuck, yeah”, he exclaimed!

“Fuck, Neil, I could be your Dad”! At this point, Al dropped his baggage and collapsed on all fours in hysterics, “What the fuck, fuck the film, I’ve forgotten the bit on the way up where we stopped and took acid! Low fucking tide dudes!” I gave Neil a knowing Fatherly look, checked out his eyes and embraced him, “I am your father and will hold your ropes.”

“Not too sure I can do this”, sighed Neil smiling.

Deep down I knew I was failing to conjure an eighties feel. I was the joker in the subtle shift in ethos that meant this was not my era. I was spanning. They had jobs, sponsorship, and plans. Al was the best in his bunch and I just hoped Neil was the same. They had come to Cloggy as professionals to produce a clean sell-able product and Neil was the token celebratory of the day. He was cool and modest with that and couldn’t wait for rock action, the main menu, possibly indifferent to companions. We passed by the circle of ritual stones before the track snaked down into the cauldron of dense, black cliff, where Dave and I would ‘collect the shapes’ before a climb…not today though and perhaps never again. As donkeys, the rational carrot of E8 on-sight kept us on the rocky track to East Gully, leaving the stones as ornaments atop the TV of a new age. We exit steeply left up the gully of clues and with damp earth under my fingernails arrange myself into position. I remembered this belay, it was Dave’s making and it was choss. I secured and embraced my perch as best a creature could do. Action had started. Colours arranged. 
Hello again old friend. This time tied-in, wrapped tight-close to the fecund energies with which I had dialogue with on my ascent… like bowing before the trap, that which questioned what the hell I was doing there.

“…I am angry, green fucks, I need to know”

You know that beauty would take your ribs for nest material, and these raw granite hills would take your eye sockets to sprout future growth…”

I am here because there is no place left”

Dying must your species be” and one for the crow

Neil was a stranger to me but the two-stranded umbilical bond of cobalt and vermilion that connected us across the span of granite, the mythical Final Judgement Wall, was as ancient as the love between Paleolithic hunters, spanning eras, closing the gap on the prey. The climb is serious immediately and Neil was slow and methodical in approach. He worked his way up strongly to a psychological impasse, climbing up and down to his own meaningful dialogue. He almost came unstuck with a snappy, but like a cat bouncing off an invisible wall, found himself back on the rock. I offered helpful advice like, ‘yeah, just keep going up, don’t look down, somewhere there’s a reach then keep going to the belay’. After about four hours his fingers were bleeding and enough was enough. The wall, as the great stone tool, was laid down to rest. I was relieved to be back with slack ropes, playing with the colours like Jackson Pollock, but without being filmed. Belaying on this terrain was intense. Every inch, in and out of the sticht-plate was crucial. The slack, the tension, the breathing between bodies, the colour coordination, the reading and timing of moves and the preparedness for a slip, all in sync to Neil’s specific character of movement. It’s a rap for the day.

I was persuaded to return after a month. Al wanted his film. Neil wanted his on-sight. I wanted to paint - from the sounds I had recorded at Montsegur, the last stronghold of the Cathari, the heretics, who were persecuted by the Catholics during the Albigensian crusade; where the last remaining initiates walked silently into the flames…letting go of their ‘book of love’ into a book of lore…

Neil succeeded after another four hours of negotiation. Al succeeded in producing his film. I succeeded in holding my ‘seed’. (sic)


Six years later, again on-sight, the extremely bold and reticent Caff, thrusting his own weapon, met with the same shapes, in the same place and was lucky not to fall, as the wall, again, laid down its great, stone tool. He returned in trainers to check it out but his prey had been wounded. Only Caff himself knows what his subsequent ascent means…with the earth, the stones, his breath. For certain, these super-technical ‘heads’ have more to battle with than just the rock. Their focus and commitment is incomprehensible to me. In the anti-institutional spirit of Edward Abbey, I feel like indulging in a graffiti campaign, just to push some dirt back into the outdoor environment.

For me, adventure starts in a dark seedy studio… surely having a laugh!

John Redhead: 2019
Photos: Alastair Lee

November 2016

St Laurent de Cerdans, Catalunya Nord.

Friday, 1 March 2019

Edmund Hillary- A Biography...extracts

The following extracts are from the forthcoming Vertebrate biography of Sir Edmund Hillary. Authored by Michael Gill.Publication date is 7th March 2019.

Harry Ayres teaches Ed the craft of mountaineering
A few days later, Ed had the breakthrough he needed. At short notice a client cancelled and Harry was available to guide Ed for a week, with an attempt on Mt Cook as the final goal. On 30 January, they set off from Haast Hut towards Cook under a starlit sky. In the dark Harry led through the crevasses of the Grand Plateau and the Linda Glacier with its litter of avalanche debris. Not long after dawn they reached the summit rocks. At the foot of the summit ice cap they put on crampons and climbed steadily up hard snow, with bouts of step-cutting on patches of ice. At 11 a.m. they were on the summit. To the north they looked on the ice-bound ridges of Teichelmann which they would climb five days later. Further north was Mt Tasman, New Zealand’s second highest peak, which Ed would climb with Harry three years later. To the south, the mile-long summit ridge ran down to the Middle and Low peaks of Cook, and beyond them on the plains far below stretched the milky turquoise waters of Lake Pūkaki.
Ed was always unstinting in his praise of Harry Ayres:
The technical climbing knowledge I gained in the New Zealand Alps came from Harry. We did some great climbs together and I was constantly amazed at his shrewd appraisal of difficult situations and his superb skill in overcoming them ... Of moderate size but incredibly wiry and strong, he had the toughness and endurance to tackle any problem. His great ice axe cut innumerable safe steps in solid green ice and his arms seemed tireless. As a guide he was patient, encouraging and very secure ... Up on the mountain he was incomparable.
Harry had learned his craft largely from experience. He was born in 1912, almost exactly seven years before Ed. His father was a plasterer and lather in Christchurch; his mother died when he was only 12. He followed the path of many Kiwis born into straitened circumstances during the early twentieth century: he left school at 12, did a milk round and picked up low-paid jobs such as collecting spent hops from the local brewery. At age 16 he left home to look for work on the West Coast. He milked cows, cut scrub, laid railway lines in the Buller Gorge, went panning for gold in the Coast’s brutally inaccessible gorges.
The break into guiding came through working on the farm of Mick Sullivan at Fox, where a hotel was being built. Tourists were taken on to the nearby glacier using steps cut into the ice by the guides – not death-defying climbing but the ideal training ground for Harry, who learned to cut perfectly shaped steps. In 1937 he went east across the Alps from the West Coast to take up guiding serious climbs on the high peaks around The Hermitage. This was the golden age of guiding when few amateurs would attempt high peaks such as Tasman or Cook on their own. Equipment was primitive. Boots had leather soles fitted with metal tricounis and clinkers which gave poor grip on rock and very little grip in small steps badly cut in ice. Crampons were available but required a modest level of experience and were not always used. The job of the guide was to know the route, judge the snow conditions and weather, and cut bucket steps in ice or frozen snow. And he had always to be ready with ice-axe and rope to hold a client who slipped on an icy surface and took off at high speed down an exposed stretch of mountainside. 
For Ed, joining up with Harry was a quantum leap forwards in the development of his mountaineering skills. Country like the Kaikōuras was turning him into the tough all-rounder who could carry a bigload over difficult mountain terrain, but it was Harry who led him into the big central peaks sheathed in dangerous ice. Where an icefall looked impenetrable, Harry could show him a way through. He passed on his knowledge of how to handle the multitudinous varieties and textures of snow and ice and how to use a rope for safety. From being just another Auckland amateur, Ed moved into the ranks of the best climbers of his day.
This is not to say that he, or any other New Zealand climber, had technical skills comparable with those of top Swiss, Austrian, German or Italian climbers who between the wars had been putting up routes on faces that had previously been thought impossible. Climbing in the Southern Alps was still at an exploratory stage of its development and its devotees were for the most part self-taught. The first ascent of Mt Cook in 1894 had been made by three patriotic young employees at The Hermitage who improvised a route up the north ridge when they heard that a British-American climber, Edward Fitzgerald, with his Swiss guide Matthias Zurbriggen, might beat them to it.
By the late 1930s and ’40s Europeans were adopting smaller ice-axes as front-point crampons came into use, but in New Zealand, where step-cutting was still in favour, the long-handled variety of ice- axe was still used. Ed learned to apply his natural strength and stamina to cutting steps tirelessly in frozen snow or hard ice. He thrived on long, hard days in difficult conditions and bad weather. He was not aware of it at the time, but it was excellent training for the Himalayas.
His partnership with Harry Ayres was put to the test the following year when, in February 1948, they set out for the unclimbed South Ridge of Mt Cook with guide Mick Sullivan and client Ruth Adams. This was the outstanding challenge of the time. They began from a high bivouac at the foot of the ridge just north of Nazomi. The early morning light showed a fine, windless day as they ate breakfast and stuffed their sleeping bags into their rucksacks while looking up at the three rock steps guarding the ridge. Previous attempts had reached the top of the first step but no one had climbed further. The second step was steeper than the first, but they were fired up and strong, and by 9.15 had climbed it. The crux was the third step which was steep, smooth rock at the limits of their combined abilities; but Harry, with help from Ed’s upstretched hand, was finally able to climb the last vertical section of rock and step on to the snow ridge leading up to the Low Peak. Back at The Hermitage, a watching crowd used mirrors to flash sun messages applauding their progress. Fourteen hours after leaving their Nazomi bivouac, the climbers were back at their base hut in the Hooker.
Three days later, the same South Ridge quartet started out on the week-long epic that became known as the La Perouse Accident. Before the days of the magical nylon rope, Beale’s hemp rope was the preferred material for climbers, but it was awkward, unpredictable stuff that would invisibly rot from the inside. Older ropes would be cynically appraised as ‘probably all right if you don’t fall’. Ed’s first letter after his 1947 climb of Cook had been to his sister June on her way by boat to England to study psychology: You’ll be through Panama by now. I may as well get down to business straight away and say the only thing I really want is 120 feet of Beale’s Alpine rope.’
The accident happened when Harry, Ed, Mick Sullivan and Ruth Adams were close to the snow summit of La Perouse. Mick was protecting Ruth with a shoulder belay when she slipped on steep snow. Holding such a slip was routine for a guide, but this time the rope snapped and Ruth was gathering speed down a steepening slope. Just short of a fatal plunge over some cliffs, she was brought up short by a rock. Ed and Harry found her bloodied and unconscious and perhaps with spinal injuries. Helicopter rescues were unavailable in those times; instead they divided between them the work of calling in a rescue team: Ed to stay with Ruth; Mick to descend to the hut for bivouac equipment, warm clothes and food; Harry to run to The Hermitage to summon a rescue team of top climbers from Christchurch. 
Over the next week, they dragged, lowered and carried Ruth’s stretcher down icefall, snow, rock, tussock, alpine scrub, thick forest and finally the bluffs of a river gorge to the West Coast. Ruth’s father, who ran a cake- making business, air-dropped in 10 kilograms of his best fruit cake. She made a complete recovery. Ed had climbed another memorable mountain, participated in a vital rescue, and met some top climbers, among them Earle Riddiford who was to play such an important role in the next chapter of his life.

Quest into the Unknown

Exploring Jordan – The lowest adventures on Earth
Returning to the 1990s, Jordan still had numerous challenges waiting for us. I couldn’t wait to try to descend the great chasm of the Mujib Gorge, Jordan’s answer to the Grand Canyon. What had really grabbed my attention in 1984, apart from the immensity of it when you first arrive on its upper rim, was the river in its depths and its mysterious disappearance into distant mountains. Now Di and I were back, once again heading south along the ancient ‘King’s Highway’, a route which reputedly dates back 3,000 years to the kingdoms of Ammon, Moab and Edom.
As the road abruptly reached the upper edge of the gorge, we looked down into the abyss where the sunlit river snaked between tumbled boulders. To the east we could see the forked tongues of its tributaries descending from the high desert plateau. The far southern rim, five kilometres opposite us across the gorge was equally bare and rocky. Even so, the river, 600 metres below, had mustered its waters from unseen springs and was making its way to the Dead Sea concealed beneath blue mountains and a heavy heat haze about thirty kilometres to the west and 400 metres below sea level – the lowest point on earth.
We didn’t know if it would actually be possible to follow the river and as there was – as far as we were aware – no other way out. It seemed that failure to make our way to the Dead Sea and up the coast would mean totally retracing our steps – a rather grim prospect. And our road map, which was all we had, showed no road along the Jordanian side of the Dead Sea. All we knew was that a road was being built, but not how far it reached, so we had to plan for a possible additional forty-kilometre walk all the way out north to the Jordan Valley, making about eighty kilometres in total. We took four days’ food and hoped for the best.
Having arranged a lift down to the point where the King’s Highway crosses the river (now a reservoir) we threw our sacks on our backs with a deter- mined flourish and waved a positive and cheery goodbye to our bemused driver. It was already close to midday and hot, but this was not an occasion for seeking the shade; the unknown twisting canyon disappearing between hazy blue mountains beckoned irresistibly.
Initially, shepherd’s paths wound around fields scattered with poppies and beneath riverside cliffs of white limestone. The barren hillsides rose ever higher above us, inhospitable and forcing the eye back to the sparkling waters of the river that cascaded between boulders and banks of pink- flowering oleanders with the delightfully refreshing sound that running water always has in otherwise parched lands. Occasionally the cliffs closed in, forcing boulder hopping. Once or twice we passed Bedouin shepherds or farm boys at water pumps, their rusting irrigation pipes snaking crazily up to small thirsty fields hidden by the folds of the gorge. They looked at us quizzically:
Salaam alaikum?’ – ‘Where you go?’
‘Walaikum salaam, El Bahr el Moyed’ – The Dead Sea.
‘Inshallah!’ – ‘Not possible!’

... was the usual reply, or ‘Big problem, many snake, maybe hyena, not good to sleep,’ was a more optimistic response. Always we were welcomed to drink ‘shai’ (tea), as is the Bedouin custom, while we wondered what lay ahead. We moved on as quickly as politeness and tradition would permit, pointing at the lowering sun and making our excuses.
We found a perfect campsite some distance above the river behind a huge boulder, yet still in the upper driftwood zone. The weather was settled so hopefully no flash floods to sweep us away in the night. Relaxed and glad to be in unknown country we ate well as the stars of the desert night appeared, far above the black, gaping jaws of the gorge into which we had been swallowed.
We slept late in the shadow of the boulder, but were soon off, walking briskly in the precious cool of the morning. As the hills drew closer, so the cliffs grew steeper, plunging directly into the river and forcing us finally to walk in the water. Hot springs cascaded in from hidden side valleys. Bright green frogs and large freshwater crabs jumped and scurried from under our feet. A mongoose dashed for cover into the reeds at the water’s edge. A porcupine rattled through the scrub on the shore. Eagles flew overhead.
A tent-sized beach under the cliffs offered a home for the night; driftwood was piled five metres above us by the floodwaters, but the weather was still settled so we slept well.
Half an hour’s walk downstream next morning brought us out of the ‘narrows’ into more open terrain, though still with no sign of the Dead Sea. Just beyond, another river entered from the north, a waterfall spouting from the mouth of an extremely narrow canyon. We consulted our woefully inadequate map: it was the Hidan Gorge and it looked every bit as long and impressive as the Mujib – something for the future we thought, but it was going to need a rope to escape from the canyon without being swept over the waterfall.
Walking on downstream, we saw the combined waters of the two rivers disappearing into another narrow and ominous-looking canyon. I took my sack off and waded in, only to find that it was immediately necessary to swim. The fast-flowing water swept round a bend into the unseen chasm beyond: there would be no way back. It would, anyway, be impossible with our sacks. I came back thinking dejectedly that we weren’t going to make it, and unless we could find a way out to the Dead Sea we had a two-day walk to do to retrace our steps.
Di, however, didn’t live on a hill farm without knowing donkey-poo when she saw it. She had commented on it once or twice on the way downstream and there was more, with accompanying human footprints, on the beach.
‘Bedouin come down here for water,’ she said, ‘maybe there’s a way out up that ravine’. 
Climbing up through foliage above the beach, she shouted down excitedly. Sure enough, there was an old trail. It eventually widened to a long- disused and washed-out four-wheel drive track which we followed up over a bizarre moonscape of dried mud hills, topping out to a view of the Dead Sea immediately below us and hardly a kilometre away. We were out! We picked our way down to the salt-crusted coast then along its edge to the downstream end of the canyon. Just to the north, a road construction camp could be seen but, reluctant to leave the mountains, we camped hidden inside the mouth of the gorge. 

Michael Gill: 2019 
Images courtesy of VP

Edmund Hillary-A Biography. Available from Vertebrate Publishing 
this month
Note, that while we are on the subject of Everest legends,Doug Scott has released the remarkable story of his and Chris Bonington's first ascent of Pakistan’s Ogre in audiobook format.

When an accident that resulted in Scott suffering two broken legs and Bonington smashing ribs turned their 1977 climb into a desperate fight for life, the roles played by their team members Mo Anthoine and Clive Rowland in shepherding the pair off the mountain was essentially written out of the story by the national press, which focused on the two already-famous mountaineers. Using newly discovered material, in The Ogre Scott reveals the truth for the first time.

The Ogre is the first book by mountaineering publisher Vertebrate Publishing to be made available as an audiobook. Commenting on its release Scott said, ‘I'm thrilled Vertebrate Publishing chose The Ogre as its first audiobook publication. It's testament to how much readers have engaged with the story. Now the book can be heard read aloud for the first time, the truth of the story behind our ascent can potentially be made available to an entirely new audience'.

Rising to more than 7,000 meters in the centre of the Karakoram, the Ogre – Baintha Brakk – is notorious in mountaineering circles as one of the most difficult mountains to climb. It waited almost twenty-four years for a second ascent, and a further eleven years for a third.
The Ogre audiobook – dubbed as ‘one of the greatest adventure stories of all time’ – makes for a thrilling listen and is available to purchase from Audible, Amazon and iTunes.

Friday, 15 February 2019

The North West Circuit

Stuart Island is remote. Situated twenty miles off the Antarctic end of New Zealand, it is home to about four hundred Kiwis of both the human and the bird variety. It stands in the way of the winds that circulate the southern oceans and has a reputation for weather - lots of it. A friend told me he'd experienced twenty eight inches of rain in two days so I'd purchased a brand new Gore-tex anorak as insurance in the half price sale at the outdoor shop in Nelson before heading south. There are nine so-called 'Great Walks' in New Zealand of which the well groomed, duck boarded, Milford Track is the most famous. The North West Circuit, some-times referred to as 'The Muddiest Walk in the World', is not one of them. It follows a mountainous coastline and has a reputation for length and toughness. The Lonely Planet Trampers guide says 'Hard - one hundred and twenty five kilometres', and suggests ten to twelve days - twice the time needed for anything else in the book. A quick calculation and you realise that this means an average of eight miles per day. What, I wondered, do you do after lunch? Getting first hand information was difficult. Everybody knew someone who had done it but nobody had actually done it themselves.

When I disembarked from the ferry from Bluff to Half Moon Bay, I had already walked the Keplar Track, hiked the Routeburn, the Greenstone back to back and `tramped', as the Kiwis say, the Milford Track. I was not only fit, but had got my food requirements and cooking routines sorted out and my gear honed down to a comfortable minimum, except, that is, for my Voigtiander and lenses and my Leica, which formed an awkward weight beneath the lid of my pack. I had also rented a special radio beacon that would alert the authorities to my whereabouts if I hit the panic button. So on the morning of the 25th January I set off down the metalled road which soon gave way to a good grassy path shared with the Rakiura Great Walk. I had lunch at Port William Hut which marks the end of the first day of that much shorter and easier route. Thereafter, a less well made, and increasingly difficult path took me along the coast to Big Bungaree Beach where I arrived shortly before five pm. It had taken me six and a half hours for what the guide book reckoned twelve to fourteen hours. I was cruising. I had the hut all to myself and so was somewhat annoyed when a couple of hours later I saw a lone figure heading along the rocky beach towards the hut. I like to think I hid my irritation at having to share the simple accommodation with Anna, a very fit, bronzed, nineteen year old from Australia.

The next morning I was just a tiny bit miffed to find, on waking up, that Anna was ready to leave - but I'd soon catch her up. When I arrived at Christmas Village Hut, five hours later, (the book said nine hours), Anna was finishing lunch. I had confided to her the previous evening, that I hoped to climb Mount Anglem, at 3180 feet the highest point on the island, and best approached from Christmas Village. Had I been by myself I would have left Mount Anglem for the next day, or possibly even for ever, but it was quite clear that Anna was intent on the summit and after cup-a-soup, salami, black bread and coffee I found myself climbing a very steep path which involved root pulling and tree climbing. The way was difficult to follow and the only mitigating factor was a very light pack with minimal gear. It was a tough climb and even after emerging from the trees the path, if you could call it that, was intermittent and difficult to follow. It was agreed that, come what may, we would turn back by 5.00pm. At 5.40 we reached the summit and spent twenty minutes admiring a view of the whole island and had to chase the daylight back to the hut which we reached just before dark. 

It had been a particularly hard day and when I look my boots off I was dismayed to discover blisters on my toes, something I'd not had for years. They were big and messy and I couldn't believe I hadn't felt them developing. I spent a couple of hours next morning trying to protect my toes and didn't get off till ten thirty. It took me four hours to get to Lucky Bay, a real misnomer, where I had the utmost difficulty leaving the beach by way of a very steep sand slope, and a fight with an aggressive tree which had fallen across the path. I couldn't climb over or round it. There was not enough room to get under it and climbing through it just seemed to bring out the worst in it. I considered hitting my panic button, but there is a hefty fine for anything less than a broken leg. I reached Yankee River at five thirty with my blisters in shreds and flu like symptoms. There was no sign of Anna. 

I slept well and felt much better the next day which started with a big climb followed by a lot of scrambling on tree roots leading to Smokey Beach, which was defended by sand dunes amongst which I succeeded in loosing the path. The beach itself was about a mile and a half long. The sand was too soft for easy walking, and at the end a river-crossing led to an interminable section of steep and densely wooded ridges and gullies. The day ended with another long descent which reduced my blisters to a bloody mess. Long Harry is the smallest but on the route with just three double bunks and is famous for its colony of Yellow Eyed Penguins which showed up at sunset. Perhaps there is a God because the next day was short - the guide book said four hours whilst I took five, but my feet now had a chance to recover. The powerful healing qualities of the juices of the tea tree plant were working their magic and the walking itself was becoming easier with good views out to sea and to offshore islands.

I shared the hut at East Ruggardy Bay with two DOC (Department of Conservation) workers. Throughout the walk the weather had been warm and summery, and at this but I had to go in search of water - normally unheard of on Stuart Island, but the rain water tanks contained only a few inches of brown, brackish water.

The next two days were perhaps the best. My feet felt better, my pack was lighter, the walking, whilst hilly was more straightforward, the views were great and the isolation and remoteness were very real. West Ruggardy Beach was the first place I'd been able to walk, uninterrupted by vegetation, mud pockets or boulders for five days. On West Ruggardy Beach I met a fit looking Australian travelling very fast and light and who, I later learned over a welcome pint, completed the walk in four days. Before leaving the beach a small plane circled overhead. It then flew down the length of the beach at about twenty feet before finally, to my amazement, landing and deposited a family of campers on the far end of the beach. My route took me up the long ridge line of the Ruggardy Mountains and eventually to Hell Fire Hut, high above the sea with views across to Codfish Island where the rare Kakapo flightless bird receives special protection and where I was treated to a great sunset.

The Port William Hut: Image-Tramping.Net NZ
An early start was rewarded by a fine dawn and temperature inversion across the wide expanse of the Freshwater valley. The hilly ridge continued to Mason Bay where ropes provided hand holds down the steep descent to the beach. A thunder storm was brewing out to sea and rain drops chased me down the three miles of boulders to the accompaniment of raging surf and thunder claps. At Duck Creek I turned my back on the sea and soon arrived at the well equipped Mason Bay but where suddenly the world became a different place. The hut was full of people - tourists who had arrived by air and walkers who had hiked the easy track from Freshwater Bay, where they had been delivered by water taxi. Because I'd arrived the hard way, I was treated with a degree of deference. One couple insisted that I share their two litre wine box, something I felt obliged to do, rather than have them carry it back the next day. A party of hikers quizzed me about the route that now lay behind me, but ahead of them. Perhaps it was the wine, but I was persuaded that the best way to finish was to take the boat from Freshwater rather than join day three of the Rakiura Track.

On that last day I eventually saw a Kiwi - the bird, that is - in broad daylight. The walking was level and my pack hardly weighed anything. One section provided a photo opportunity through a tunnel formed by tall Manuka plants - like walking through giant heather, twenty feet high. At Freshwater Landing I lay in the sun for a couple of hours, waiting for the water taxi which whisked me back to Half Moon Bay and a hot bath. I ran into Anna and the speeding Australian, who took me to the caravan on the sea front where we had the best fish and chips in the world, washed down with beer from the pub across the street. 
Mark Vallance with his highly acclaimed autobiography-Wild Country. Image-Vertebrate Publishing

On my way back north I tramped the Copland Track, the Inland Pack Track and finally the Heaphy Track, a total of thirty days of hiking. During all that time I only put my anorak on once. All the walks were good. The variety was amazing and I'd recommend them all, but the one I'll remember for ever is the North West Circuit. 

Mark Vallance: 2005. First published in Loose Scree.

Friday, 1 February 2019

Big in the UK........ Royal Robbins, Jeff Lowe and Warren Harding.

L to R- WarrenHarding, Jeff Lowe, Royal and Liz Robbins. Images WH/RR-Glenn Denny- JL-Lowe Alpine

Ah, but I was so much older then’ 
 Bob Dylan

I cannot remember now how it came about, but in the latter part of the summer of 1965, Liz and Royal Robbins arrived in Leeds and stayed at my parent’s house in Cookridge. By that date we knew about Yosemite and its big wall climbs; the Nose route of El Capitan and the Salethe Wall, but in 1965 none of my friends had met any of the climbers involved in pioneering these epic routes: that is until Royal put in an appearance. But when he did it did not disappoint, for earlier that summer partnered by John Harlin he had climbed the American Direttissima on the Aiguille du Dru, and the rumour mill had painted Royal as having a professorial demeanour, tall, spry, quiet and contemplative. This held good at the start of the Robbin’s visit as Royal took on my chess playing friend and Almscliff guru Tom Morrell, sitting in my parent’s living room working out how to checkmate his opponent shortly after settling in.

The next day it had to be Almscliff, and as we toured around the outcrop and I recounted the long history of the Crag and its previous generations of pioneer climbers, Slingsby, Botterill, Frankland, Dolphin etc I realised what grabbed him most were the boulders. I had contacted Tony Barley about our guests visit and with him in the lead we ascended the Green Crack, Demon Wall and the Overhanging Groove. I then led my party piece Great Western and Royal enthused that our climbs ‘were intrinsic miniature masterpieces’ but then he was not to be denied in getting to grips with the boulders. 
Ascending such classic problems as The Crucifix, the Niche, Fisher’s Stride, Pothole Direct, Royal was enjoying these, but then near the Black Wall he asked ‘Where are the no hands problems?’ Tony and I were stumped for we had none of these in our playlist. And so our visitor began to work one of the classic slab problems nearby to show us how it was done, confessing that this was something he practised whenever possible. We quickly realised he was an expert at this, for after a few tries he could balance up and then descend the problem he had selected to illustrate this technique. Neither, Tony or I could match him and gave up trying after many failures. In fact it took us some more visits and lots of attempts before we could emulate the American master.

Both Royal and Liz were easy to be with, for she was also a climber, and to hear from Robbins first-hand about Yosemite and its climbs fired my imagination. I also learnt about his early climbing career, starting out on the outcrops near Los Angeles and at Tahquitz. In 1952 he had pioneered his first major new route as a 17 year old at that cliff, a 5.9 graded climb the first of that difficulty in the USA, ‘The Open Book’ but he had already two years before visited Yosemite as a participant on a rock climbing trip organised by the Scouts. He told me that he had gazed up at El Capitan and was informed that such would never be climbed by their course instructor.

But 1957 was to be Royal’s breakthrough year for with Jerry Galwas, and Mike Sherrick they pioneered the first ascent of the North West Face of Half Dome. This with Warren Harding’s ascent of El Capitan by the Nose Climb the following year ushered in The Golden Age of Yosemite Climbing. For the next two decades Robbins was one of the climbers at the forefront of this, and the list of his first ascents is awe inspiring. To put this into some context however, there was a group of other climbers, some who joined up with Royal who are equally deserving of recognition, and such in 1961 as the first ascent of the Salethe Wall accompanied by Tom Frost and Chuck Pratt was made by a team of equals. 

Another key figure in the Yosemite revolution was Yvon Chouinard, who along with Frost and Robbins pioneered in 1964 The North America Wall Route of El Capitan. Chouinard was a key developer of the hardware that made some of the Yosemite climbs possible.Unfortunately just as I cannot now recall how Liz and Royal fetched up in Leeds I cannot remember where we travelled to next except that we stopped off in the Peak District at Curbar Edge. I wanted to see how Robbins would deal with the Right Eliminate on that outcrop. A type of off width crack that are meat and two veg to Yosemite climbers and he did not disappoint for he ascended it with some ease.

In 1966 when I was hitch hiking from Mexico City to Yosemite solo, I carried with me an invitation to stop off at Royal’s mothers home in Barstow, California. Which I did, and she fed me, washed my clothes and as mother’s do told of her son’s early life battles, with a not too impressive school record, but how he had found his true self in the outdoors. For besides climbing he had been a junior ski champion attested to by the trophies on his mother’s sideboard.

Over the next decade Royal established himself as one of the most outstanding pioneers in the history of our sport. Making the first solo ascent of El Capitan (the 2nd ascent of the Muir Wall in 1968), soloing the North Face of Mount Edith Cavell in the Canadian Rockies, the second ascent of the Dawn Wall in 1971 with Don Lauria and so much more. Early in his climbing career he had been converted to boltless, piton less clean climbing, and using nuts only for protection along with Liz he had pioneered a demonstration route to illustrate his ethics in Yosemite, the ‘Nutcracker’. ‘Robbins exerted a moral leadership in both deeds as well as words’ observed Ken Wilson in his role as editor of Mountain Magazine.
In 1971 he published the first of his instructional books; ‘Basic Rockcraft’ followed in 1973 by a second such, ‘Advanced Rockcraft’. These were best sellers and in that era they were perhaps the finest expositions of where the sport was technically. Liz and Royal also founded a clothing company in Modesto, originally named ‘Mountain Paraphernalia’ which morphed into the ‘Royal Robbins Clothing Company’ and eventually this was bought out by City investors, but which despite the demise of one of its founders is still trading strongly with Liz as an advisor.

Unfortunately as the 1970’s decade progressed Royal was diagnosed with psoriatic arthritis which as it developed prevented him from serious climbing, so he took up adventure kayaking instead. Within a short period of doing this he had gained a reputation as an outstanding performer in that sport, making descents of some of the most challenging rivers in the Americas. In 1992 Pat Ament wrote a biography of Robbins according him, in spiritual terms ‘The Spirit of the Age’.
In his last years Royal also wrote a three volume biography of his life, published in 2009 (To be brave. My life), in 2010 (Fail falling) and 2012 (The Golden Years). For some reviewers these were seen to be too matter of fact, too straight laced but they are an important historical record I believe by someone who wrote honestly about his life and how it was to be at the sharp end, a leader in the development of climbing in one of its most creative periods. Royal died in March 2017 and in an obituary published in the New York Times written by John Branch, he was accorded as ‘Royal Robbins, the conscience of rock climbers’. And I feel that more or less sums him up as the person I was lucky to have shared a rope with.
In the winter of 1974/5 I learnt Jeff Lowe was paying a visit to climb in Scotland, and via friends I managed to get a message to him with an invitation to travel to Manchester to give a public lecture before returning back to the USA. I also suggested if he had the time available we could arrange a visit for him to do some outcrop climbing on gritstone. I think it was the latter which appealed and by return I received a message to agree to take this on. At that date Jeff was already one of the most accomplished climbers in the USA, pioneering rock routes at the highest standards of the day but also by 1974 specialising in ice climbing, and the pictures then circulating of his first ascent with Mike Weiss of the Bridal Veil Falls at Telluride were truly inspiring.

Jeff eventually arrived in Manchester and his lecture enjoyed a full house and a rousing reception, post which I started out to drive him to my home in Yorkshire. All went well until we were nearly at our destination, but just as we started up the Hollins Hill out of Shipley my terrible Russian car started to splutter, choked out and stopped. ‘Oh my God’ I had run out of petrol. And as to be expected in a grim up north story it was a terrible night of weather, cold with driving rain. What to do, what to do? There were no garages nearby or open in those days at midnight. I explained to my passenger the problems we faced, but as a commentator was to write in tribute to Jeff at his demise, he was a ‘pathological optimist’. ‘How far is it to your house, could we push the car there?’ he enquired ‘It will take about 30 minutes on foot’ I gasped out. ‘Ok let’s go’ and after kitting ourselves out we set forth and walked to my home, by which time we were like wet rags. But Jeff never complained and once arrived and sitting in our kitchen grasping a mug of tea he laughed at my stories of the trials and tribulations of driving a Russian made car.
Early next morning Jeff and I retrieved my car and despite it being a very windy and cold day he still wanted to go climbing. At least it was not raining, but on arriving at Almscliff it was so wild I thought we could not snatch a route. But once again, his optimism was infectious and after battling against the wind whilst tramping around the different faces of the outcrop, we found that down in the rift by Square Chimney and below the Whisky Crack the wind was not so strong, and so we roped up. I decided to ascend via the Pigott’s Stride (4c) to reach the Crack and when I explained this had been pioneered by C D Frankland in the 1920’s Jeff was also keen to climb this. Looking at my partner he was every Yorkshireman’s idea of a USA climber, tall, blond and athletic. I wondered if he would like to lead the Whisky Crack if I managed the Stride. To do this you first climb the sheer side of the Matterhorn Boulder then from near the top of that bridge spectacularly across onto the main rock face. Having climbed this many times I managed this despite the conditions and then belayed below the Crack.
 Almsciffe: Image The Climbers Club

Jeff enjoying the gymnastics came swarming up to me; ‘Would you like to lead the Crack’ ‘Sure sure!’ and up he went. Pulling over the top the wind was so strong it nearly blew him back down the face. Once I joined Jeff we ran down and around into the rift from where we had started to get out of the gale, and then after packing raced back to my car. A retreat to a cafe in Otley was followed by a trip to the Cow and Calf above Ilkley, but the wind was even worse there than at Almscliff and after some attempts to boulder on the Calf we headed back to my home in Guiseley. To spend a pleasant evening, dining and over a few brews talking about climbing and mutual friends. Jeff had heard of ‘The Legend of Joe Brown’ and I had to play and sing it for him. The next day he was heading south to London and I bid him good bye at a drop off at the Leeds City Station. I never saw Jeff again but followed his subsequent incredible climbing career with keen interest.
I use the word incredible to describe Jeff’s record of ascents over the next decades correctly, Will Gadd no slouch himself wrote about these as follows; ‘There is not one sector of climbing that Jeff has not excelled in or helped to create!’ I will highlight here just a few, for he made more than 1000 first ascents. To do that you had to start young and he did with his father Ralph and brothers Mike and Greg. With them he climbed the Exum Ridge of the Grand Teton at 7 years of age. By his teens he was pioneering 5.10 and 5.11 routes such as ‘Air Time’ and ‘Pass or Fail’ in Ogden Canyon, Wasatch Mountains Utah and later he visited Yosemite to make early ascents of the Salethe Wall (7th), North America Wall (5th) and ‘The Triple Direct’. Born in 1950 he revelled as a young climber in his home state environment, tackling the high sandstone cliffs of Zion and southern Utah, his most famous route being the ‘Moonlight Buttress’.

It was however in the high mountains that he made his most impressive ascents, in the Canadian Rockies, the European Alps and the Himalaya. In the latter a solo of the South East Spur of Pumori, a solo in winter of the South East Pillar of Nupste, a solo attempt by a new route on the west face of Makalu, climbing with Caterine Destiville a repeat of the Slovene Route on the Nameless Tower of Trango, with Alison Hargreaves the North West Face of Kantega, and a solo new route on the South Face of Ama Dablam. His 1991 direct route on the North Face of the Eiger, ‘Metanoia’ climbed solo in winter over 9 days was more than a stand out climb. It was finally repeated after many failed attempts in December 2016 by Thomas Huber, Roger Shaeli, and Stephan Siegrist. A film was made in 2014 about this route and its history, ‘From mountain top to wheel chair’ for by that date tragedy had struck its pioneer. 
There is so much more to the Jeff Lowe story, his equipment innovations such as Hummingbird Ice tools, Foot Fangs, Snarg ice pitons, his development of winter clothing, originally working with his brothers Greg and Mike at Lowe Alpine, then on his own at a company he founded Latok. In the 1990’s he was responsible for developing ‘Mixed Grade’ climbing, with routes like Octopussy M8, he introduced these M grades for climbs that require both ice climbing and dry tooling. In the same decade he organised one of the earliest Sport Climbing Competitions at Snowbird, Utah and in 1996 he founded the Ouray Colorado Ice Climbing Festival. He also produced three books about ice climbing, its history and techniques, of which ‘The Ice Experience’ is classic. He also produced three instructional videos on this subject.

So far the Jeff Lowe story is one of marvellous success, one of the most influential climbers ever, recognised as a leading proponent of Alpine style climbing, and because of that he was made an honorary member of the Alpine Club and the American Alpine Club. But then personal disaster struck in the early 2000’s, for he developed co-ordination and balance problems, and fell victim to a neuro degenerative process similar to motor neurone disease. This he faced bravely and somehow managed to keep in touch with a wide group of friends around the world at climb fests like Kendal and Ouray, despite being wheel chair bound and by using social media. His death in August 2018 made many of us who had been lucky to have known him to accept the example he exhibited throughout the long fight against his illness to carpe diem, and fill every day with hours well spent! 
In 1980 at a Buxton Conference the celebrity lecture on Saturday; ‘The Reflections of a broken down climber’ was by Warren Harding. I had tried to persuade him to do this for some years, for I had met him in 1966 in Yosemite and felt that he would in theatrical speak, ‘knock ‘em dead’. His approach to climbing was in keeping with the British one at that time, and he was known in the USA for his doggedness, drinking and farcing as reflected in his motto ‘semper farcisimus’, which indicated truly his exuberant and iconoclastic character. His lecture was thankfully well received post which as with Jeff Lowe I persuaded him to travel with me to my home in Guiseley, and to try some gritstone climbing.

The day after our arrival there I took him out to Caley Crags, and post some easy soloing I led him up the Central Route a Very Severe on the Sugar Loaf Boulder, a local 5a classic. This made him think, and he stopped almost half way at a delicate move to observe, ‘You know Dennis I am going to need to do a lot more of this or a lot less’. I realised his problem was a lack of reach, for he was short, squat and powerful, but this was a balance problem. If you are not used to gritstone climbing it takes some time to realise how good in dry conditions the friction is. Warren put a foot high, rocked over and he was up...... and in joining me, was laughing loudly at a new found ability. 
For me to be climbing with the pioneer responsible for the most famous rock climb in the USA, the Nose route of El Capitan was truly memorable, and in talking with him I realised although he was a central figure in the development of multi-day big wall climbing in Yosemite, public recognition of this meant little to him. Harding was born in 1924 and grew up in California near to Lake Tahoe and after meeting a climber in the late 1940’s who persuaded Warren to accompany him to make ascents of Mount Witney, the Palisades, and the Minarets in the Sierra Nevada he started to climb seriously himself. It was he observed the first thing he had found that his brute stupidity made him successful at!

He went on to pioneer 28 first ascents in Yosemite, but the Nose of El Capitan in 1958 and the Dawn Wall in 1970 remain the most recognised; although Harding unlike Robbins was prepared to push his routes by any means he felt necessary, to do which he freely used pitons and bolts despite the strictures of those he dubbed the ‘Valley Christians’. The Nose climb was an impressive feat of endurance, partners came and went, sections were climbed, retreats followed, and in all Harding spent 45 days on the route, but finally accompanied by Wayne Merry, George Whitmore and Rich Calderwood he was successful. The Dawn Wall was different, Warren and Dean Caldwell spent 27 nights on the wall, there was no yo-yoing, and Harding was given the appellation of ‘Batso’ in deference to his remarkable ability of being able to live life on such vertical cliffs. To do this he had developed specialised equipment such as the ‘B.A.T’ tent and the ‘B.A.T’ hook. 

Typical of Warren when he was queried about his use of such naming, he explained that this acronym meant ‘Basically Absurd Technology’. Noting how these climbs were achieved, a modern tyro might think spending so many days and nights on these routes is not impressive, but with the knowledge and equipment then available they were outstanding achievements.

In 1975 Warren was persuaded to write a book ‘Downward Bound’ which spelled out his rebellious and charismatic character. It contains anecdotes and stories from his ascents of the Nose and the Dawn Wall, but also farcial instruction in basic climbing techniques, and humorous accounts of the climbing controversies and life styles in the 1960’s and 1970’s. I thought the title was a tilt at Outward Bound, but no he chose that because it reflected the failure of his career as a responsible wage earner, due to his urge to go rock climbing. Success for Harding in an establishment world was always just out of his reach, beginning with him being rejected by the draft board due to an identified heart murmur, and after working through the World War ll as a propeller mechanic, he formally trained as a land surveyor. He held a Union card all his life, and worked on construction jobs in Vietnam and Alaska, in one such contract he was hit by a truck which resulted in an injured leg and a limp for the rest of his life. 

Warren loved to tell stories against himself, and one he told me as I drove him the next day after climbing at Caley to catch a flight back to the USA, was that once in Yosemite he had teamed up with a visiting British climber who was short in temper. They managed to get their ropes in a tangle and this became worse as Harding tried to untangle them, at which the Brit exploded ‘My God Harding you cannot do anything right!’ Warren’s response was classic, ‘Yes I know, but I can do it forever’. After the 1980’s he did little climbing, retiring to the northern hills of the Sierra Nevada, drinking cheap red wine and hot-air ballooning with friends. He died in 2002, but on the 50th Anniversary of the Nose climb, the US House of Representatives passed a resolution honouring the achievement by Harding and his party. So despite all, he finally was recognised by the establishment! 

Dennis Gray: 2019