Footless Crow

An ascent of the NE Face of the Piz Badile-1962

2012-02-09T20:11:00.000Z

Arriving at the village of Promontogno, in the Bregaglia area of Switzerland, Paul Nunn and I were immediately taken by the unspoilt beauty of the steep, wooded side valley leading up to the jagged peaks of the Badile, Cengalo and Sciora. The main Val Bregaglia which leads to the Maloja Pass is home to the medieval villages of Bondo, Promontogno and Vicosoprano and is a special place even to the Swiss. Being mainly owned by farming families who have refused all efforts to get them to sell their land, it has remained picturesque and unspoilt.

Stopping the bike we looked up at the N.E. Face of the Piz Badile. We were disappointed to see that there was a lot of ice glistening on the north ridge in the late afternoon sun. This meant that our objective, the Cassin route on the NE face, was probably out of condition. Driving through the narrow streets of Bondo the noise of the exhaust reverberated off the walls as though announcing our arrival. On up the rough and winding forest track, passing through a couple of rough hewn tunnels, we eventually crossed a wooden bridge over the torrent which had its source several thousands of feet higher amongst the glaciers and snowfields.

Driving slowly trying to avoid hitting the largest rocks, we came to a small parking area at the end of the track. This was where the footpaths to the Sciora and Sass Fioura huts started. Not able to go any further on the bike, we parked it and crossed a wooden footbridge over the rushing glacier river to pitch our tent on the far bank. After our evening meal, lying in the tent discussing what to do the next day, Paul produced from his rucksack, descriptions of routes in that area. These he had copied on to note paper from an Italian guidebook, all in Italian; Guidebooks to this area being unavailable in English at that time. The usefulness of these descriptions was called into question when it was found that neither of us could read more than a dozen or so words.

In those days the Cassin Route on the N.E. Face of the Badile had a big reputation and although there had been a number of ascents by continental climbers there had been very few by British climbers. We were hoping to make what we thought would be the third British ascent.
This face had first been climbed by the great Italian mountaineer Ricardo Cassin with friends Esposito and Ratti. They were joined by two other Italian climbers and achieved success in storm conditions taking three bivouacs but at the expense of the lives of two of his companions who died of exhaustion and hyperthermia.
The second ascent by the French guide Gaston Rebuffat and Bernard Pierre was also an epic, taking three whole days. The dramatic history of the climb and our lack of a detailed English description, gave it an air of great seriousness. We were aware that Herman Buhl had climbed it solo in four and a half hours but he was in a class of his own!!

Ricardo Cassin

Waking to a dull and cloudy day, we decided to pack our sacks with food and climbing gear and go up to the Sciora Hut, where we could decide what route to do when viewing the mountains from close quarters. With our heavy loads the steep walk up through the forest was very tiring and seemingly never ending. Taking our time and many rests, drinking in the majestic scenery, we eventually reached a bend on the path above the tree-line where a large slab of rock faced us. Knowing Oliver Woolcock, a good friend of ours, was coming here to attempt the Cassin route in two weeks time, we decided to leave a message for him scratched on the slab, it said, “Tired Youth?” We walked on, chuckling, hoping that he would see it just as he reached this most tiring section of the walk. Knowing that we had been there before him, he would realise who had written it and curse us all the way to the hut.

The mountains were cloaked in clouds, the Badile NE face in particular was hidden from our view from about half height. Arriving at the Sciora Hut, we found that there was plenty of room, a guide and his client being the only paying guests. Paul and I claimed a place each in the dormitory then returned to the eating area for a coffee and a bought meal. The hut guardian was an old lady who came up in the spring to spend all the summer there. Her grand-daughter, who was around 19 or 20, helped with the cooking and other chores. She was a typical dark haired Italian girl very attractive and from all accounts an experienced climber.

The guide asked us which climb we were planning to do; we told him the Cassin route on the Badile. He shook his head and said the face wasn’t in condition. We said we would have a look anyway as we could always come back if we didn’t like the look of it. After the meal we made our preparations for the following day then retired early to bed. As is usual for me before any big event, I didn’t get much sleep and in the warmth of the hut I drifted in and out of consciousness. Too soon it was time to get up. Creeping down stairs we were surprised to find the young woman had risen before us and was busy making our breakfast.

The time was 3am when we put on our boots, shouldered our sacks and stepped out into a dark, cold morning. Waving goodbye to the girl, we set off, our head torches lighting our way down the path towards the moraine. The going was very tiring. After crossing the river swollen with melt –water and negotiating some wet boiler-plate slabs, we arrived at the first of three steep dune like and extremely loose moraines where large boulders supported by rock dust and rubble waited to pounce on the unwary. These were followed by a long narrow glacier leading up below the N.E. Face to the start of our route. Kicking steps and regretting only having brought one ice axe between us and no crampons, we made slow progress up the steep hard snow.

At the foot of the face, we stopped for a snack and a quick brew which went down very well. At this point, I would like to describe our equipment, which was quite basic even by the standards of the day. We had two full-weight Nylon ropes both 150 ft long and quite heavy, an assortment of pegs, two hammers, some slings and about 20 heavy karabiners. Divided between our two sacks, we had a stove, food and water, a Billy- can and warm clothing in case of bad weather or bivouac. This consisted of a duvet jacket each and in the absence of thermals, pyjama trousers. We climbed in boots, corduroy trousers, thick shirts, sweater and gabardine smock style anoraks.

It was just about light when we roped up. Above us a vast sweep of overlapping slabs rose up to meet a canopy of dark cloud halfway up the face from which large snowflakes were beginning to gently fall. What should we do? Our discussion went something like this; “he who always watches the weather gets nothing done but he who ignores the warnings courts disaster!” The decision was made to press on for a while to see how the day would develop. A steep corner and a few diagonal pitches up slabs led to the site of the first Cassin bivouac. The face had steepened again and we had an impressive view down to the snowfield some hundreds of feet below.

By that time the snow had stopped falling and the cloud appeared to be lifting, we decided to go for it. The view across to the north ridge of the Cengalo put these mountains in perspective and made us realise the size of our undertaking.
Leading through, making good progress, we soon arrived at the snow patch which at approximately half height on this face used to be a permanent feature.
Stopping here for a bite to eat we were impressed by the wall above which reared up into the cloud. Time to move on, a steep crack led directly upward then out right, Paul tackled it confidently, it was bristling with pitons. Climbing swiftly, clipping the occasional peg he was soon out of sight. A tug on the rope told me it was my turn. The rock was steep but superbly rough in texture. The exposure was impressive. I joined Paul at the foot of a steep corner capped by an overhang.

I led 70 feet to the roof, which caused me to stop and ponder the best way round it, turning it on the left, feeling grateful for the abundance of pitons in situ, I arrived at a stance. The angle eased off again and a few more pitches led to the foot of the long chimney system which leads towards the summit ridge. The climbing here got quite serious, the cracks being filled with snow and ice. At first, we were puzzled by the absence of pitons, then realised they were there, but unreachable under a thick covering of ice. Feeling unprotected, fighting our way upward, the strenuous climbing helped to keep us warm. At the top of the chimney, our progress was barred by a bulging icy wall. The obvious way was out to the left, and according to our description led to a long traverse to the central couloir.

Due to our lack of crampons and guessing that the couloir would be iced up we decided to take a more direct line up delicate slabs. From the stance, Paul cautiously moved out on verglassed rock, round the left arête of the chimney, then climbed direct up slabs right of the couloir. Out of sight round the corner he was obviously experiencing some difficulty as the rope snaked out very slowly. I shouted up to let him know that he was nearly out of rope, “How much is there?” he asked “ about 20ft “ I replied. “There’s a stance 40ft above me, take the belay off we’ll have to move together.” I did as he asked and climbed very carefully on the iced rock hoping that he had clipped some pegs on the way up. After what seemed an eternity, I was relieved to hear a peg going in. At the stance, we agreed that this pitch must have been HVS. Paul had sunk the belay peg in up to the hilt. I led through towards the summit ridge. When Woolcock passed that way a couple of weeks later, suspecting it was our peg, he tried to remove it but soon gave up.

He knew Paul didn’t give away gear easily and that if it had been removable, it wouldn’t have stayed there. At the ridge we turned left and climbed the last few feet to the summit. We had done one of the six classic north faces of the Alps; 3000ft graded TD Superior it had taken us 8 hours. We had been the only ones on the face so were not held up at all, in fact we didn’t see anyone else all day on the whole of the mountain.

At the summit ridge we were hit by a strong wind so deciding to forego the brew that we had promised ourselves began to descend as quickly as possible by the North Ridge. Somehow, we got onto the SW face on very loose rock, enormous loose flakes but nothing solid enough to belay on. Deciding that it was too dangerous we retraced our steps to the summit and went down the Italian side reaching the glacier at dusk. We could see the lights of the Gianetti Hut and following these arrived there after dark feeling very tired.

The guide and his client from the Sciora Hut the night before were there and seemed pleased to see us. He asked if we had climbed the Cassin Route, we told him we had. Both he and the hut guardian said,” bravo, bravo, bad conditions much ice. ” We agreed about the ice, but thought conditions could have been worse. They asked us our ages, I told them,”22 for me 19 for Paul,” Ah Bambino!” they said pointing to Paul. We all laughed and they poured us some Red wine. As the night wore on they kept on pouring it. We thought this is great, until at the end of the evening they gave us the bill.

We had been convinced that they were so impressed by our ascent in what they had said were bad conditions, that they were treating us to free wine. No such luck! We paid up reluctantly and went to bed. A little later we were awakened by a group of around a dozen Italian youths shouting and wrestling on the dormitory floor. Ignoring them at first we tried to get back to sleep. Suddenly there was a loud bellow, “shut up or I’ll flatten the lot of you.” There in the middle of the floor stood Paul fist clenched and raised. Silence descended.

Al Parker

Alpha Males-The story of the Alpha Club: Reviewed by Steve Dean with purchase details.

Later this week: Al Parker and Paul Nunn on Piz Badile in 1962.

2012-02-07T09:50:00.000Z

" From the stance, Paul cautiously moved out on verglassed rock, round the left arête of the chimney, then climbed direct up slabs right of the couloir. Out of sight round the corner he was obviously experiencing some difficulty as the rope snaked out very slowly. I shouted up to let him know that he was nearly out of rope, “How much is there?” he asked “ about 20ft “ I replied. “There’s a stance 40ft above me, take the belay off we’ll have to move together.” I did as he asked and climbed very carefully on the iced rock hoping that he had clipped some pegs on the way up. After what seemed an eternity, I was relieved to hear a peg going in. At the stance, we agreed that this pitch must have been HVS. Paul had sunk the belay peg in up to the hilt. I led through towards the summit ridge. When Woolcock passed that way a couple of weeks later, suspecting it was our peg, he tried to remove it but soon gave up. He knew Paul didn’t give away gear easily and that if it had been removable, it wouldn’t have stayed there. At the ridge we turned left and climbed the last few feet to the summit. We had done one of the six classic north faces of the Alps; 3000ft graded TD Superior it had taken us 8 hours. We had been the only ones on the face so were not held up at all, in fact we didn’t see anyone else all day on the whole of the mountain.
At the summit ridge we were hit by a strong wind so deciding to forego the brew that we had promised ourselves began to descend as quickly as possible by the North Ridge. Somehow, we got onto the SW face on very loose rock, enormous loose flakes but nothing solid enough to belay on. Deciding that it was too dangerous we retraced our steps to the summit'.....'

Later this week,Al Parker, author of the acclaimed history of the UK's Alpha Mountaineering Club, describes a memorable week in 1962 when with mountaineering legend-the late Paul Nunn-he tackled the classic Cassin route on Piz Badile in less than perfect conditions to make an early English repeat of the route. 

Just give me enough rope !

2012-02-01T19:47:00.000Z

I just got a new rope, 60 metres of Singing Rock. It led me down the thinking path of handling ropes - if you will indulge me for just a moment. I really did not like my last rope at all, it was a dull gun metal grey colour but that was not really the problem. I just didn’t like the way it handled, there was something wrong with the way it felt, knotted and smelt. I won’t reveal the brand, they might try to make me feel better by giving me another one – and I don’t want another one like that.

Actually, I am not that keen on my present rope because it is a 9.8mm rope. I just like the way that you can beautify a rock climb and make it so much safer using a couple of oddly coloured 9 mm ropes. But where I live they don’t do double ropes very often, it’s the influence of all of these sports climbs and bolts.

My nephew recently came over to the UK and got a couple of 8.7’s but I have yet to become really friendly with them. They are nice and long, 60 metres of lead, abseil or retreat, nice. But they are just a little thin on the hand, there is a strange, omnipresent feeling of danger in that mean thinness. The 9.8 is cool, it could double as a double if you know where I am coming from, but yet it is still just a little too thick for a double.

The last time I was ‘home’ my friend Martyn from Lowe Alpine met me in The Pass and we had a great day out on his double nines. I felt good on them. Nice knots, double ropes, double safety, long abseils off Dinas Mot. There was even fixed gear to rap off, with shackles and everything. Wasn’t like that in the distant past, more like a climb down.

The next day we did a wet Victorian classic on Tryfan up in the clouds and as there were three of us we used the doubles ‘guide’ style. Seconding the easy pitches with two people climbing at the same time on the two nines. And then my new rope took me back to thinking about my very first rope ever, 120 feet of gleaming white three ply hawser laid rope, sort of a proper rope. It quickly got dirty brown, then it went black and very furry very quickly. It was not very long, a 60’ retreat is not much of a retreat. But then I hate abseiling actually, probably because some of my best friends ended their lives in yellow Westland helicopters from stupid, dumb, unlucky or bad abseils. And yet these days everyone ‘raps’ with impunity. Must be these advanced Stitcht plates and modern ‘sit’ harnesses that don’t instantly emasculate males unless they carefully reorganise before descending.

Thinking about 3 ply nylon reminds me of the particular smell of a hemp waistline. About 3/8 of an inch of hemp rope, wrapped around your waist about 10 times, knotted on each turn with a neatly tied reef knot and then secured to the rope with a massive steel screw gate finger trap of a Stubai karabiner. I had one for about 6 months before a better waist belt came along. I can’t even remember where the hemp went to, perhaps because we smoked it – would have used a lot of Rizla papers, it would have been a big one!

Then there was the red 11mm Edelrid. Again, about a 120 feet of lead (leading not lead) rope. It was standard issue up to about VS. Once they got a bit furry they were fine, sweet even and again the smell at the end of the day was sort of earthy and moss, evocative even. Grit made them furry real quick, but still good to handle, waist belays and all that. (hip belays to the cool).

Remember that advertisement in Rocksport Magazine? – that girl wrapped up in rope, they unwrapped a bit of rope each month, we couldn’t wait for December…. No you don’t remember. Perhaps you are too young, perhaps you smoked too many hemp waistlines. But eventually 11mm was a drag. Too heavy on harder routes, so along came the double nines. No traverse too long, no diagonal to oblique. They also made the photos come to life and the reward of a nicely laid out bit of pro made that aesthetic climb somehow come to much more life.

I love those nines, I really like Edelrid, I also really like Beal. They both knot really well and are really supple. I’m not sure about this Johnny come lately eastern European jobby that I just bought. But it was the right price, nice and long and my first one was horrid. It looked horrid on the rock, it knotted badly and it felt horrid on my hands.I wasn’t bothered when it snagged and nicked. I was glad to get it retired.

Now, about those dreaded rope bags. In the past when car boots were full of greasy ‘spares’ usually covered in oil there was a place for them. But these days, the boots of cars are so well appointed that deep pile carpet seems to be the order of the day. Modern car boots are much cleaner and better than some of the student digs we used to live in. And if a rope can’t lay on the ground for a few minutes there must be something wrong with it. Rope bags are for somewhere else.

The ritual of coiling and uncoiling (should that be the other way around?) ropes is part of the process of setting up for a climb, sorting the gear, subliminally running safety checks. Handling the rope, making sure it is good all the way along it’s length. It’s the same as the ritual of coiling the rope at the top. Standing there, looking at the view if there is one, reviewing and remembering the climb, having a laugh with a mate about the climb, sorting the gear and so on. Please stand back from the edge though.

Again, I like the process of coiling the rope and doing up the knotted bit at the end. It is completion and closure. The rope ends up neat and contained. Not like those doubled across the shoulders and through the middle businesses. I just like to coil and uncoil the rope at the start and the end of a climb. I like to feel them and check them – and is that such a bad thing really?

Although these days coiling sixty metres of rope makes my arms ache. Is it that 45 metres of nine mill was easier to coil? Nope, 9.8 is that bit heavier, either that or I’m just getting older.

Michael Combley 2012

Lundy Sketches

2012-01-26T19:15:00.001Z

Satan's Slide: Original photo-Ken Latham

Milky sunshine heralded our first morning on Lundy, after we had travelled over the previous day on the Oldenburg. Unusually (for Mick Wrigley and myself) it was an easy and uneventful crossing from Ilfracombe on a virtually flat sea. It was well into October, but it was a warm, sunny morning and the journey was enlivened by the antics of numerous Gannets and Petrels flying close to the boat in the gentle swell. Late that afternoon we abseiled down the Old Light Cliff, and dashed up the old classic Albacore before it got dark.

The top part of the route is pretty grotty and we were glad that the abseil rope was at hand, but the main pitch was every bit as good as I remembered from twenty years ago. We returned to this crag later in the week and Mick led Asafoetida, an absolutely top class Extreme, with a superb 5b pitch on immaculate rock. This first evening we wandered back past the Old Light to the doss, in the dark, the wind coming optimistically firmly from the east. A clear sky seemed to bode well for Sunday and indeed the next few days.

After the usual "boys away from home" breakfast, we sorted the gear and set off for somewhere new. Mick and I had visited Lundy a number of times but had never climbed at the extreme north end on the crags close to the North Light. The walk over the island, across the three walls, is always a pleasure and on this increasingly bright autumn morning it was particularly so. It felt good to be back at this lovely place and there was not another person to be seen all the way to the lonely northern end of the island. The further we went, the more goats we saw, dozens of them, many with impressive sets of horns.

Diamond Solitaire: Ken Latham

The walk to the North Light took about forty five minutes and by the time we got there it had clouded over a little. The sea was relatively benign by Lundy standards and there was just a gentle breeze. The route we had gone to climb was The Pearl, a single pitch Hard VS rumoured to be excellent. Access to the top of the buttress alongside Storm Zawn was simple enough and a straightforward 100ft abseil soon saw us next to a beautiful rock pool just above sea level, at the foot of the route. From where I stood The Pearl looked bloody steep (even for Lundy 5b) but Mick was soon uncoiling the ropes, raring to go for it. He tied on and set off boldly up a very steep little groove above me. The protection was good and despite complaints of dampness in the main corner of the pitch he was soon tied on at the top.

As Mick was climbing I paid the rope out with care, lashed to sound nut belays. I took the opportunity to look out to sea and to watch the numerous large seals that had swum round to take a look at us. (Lundy does a good line in very large seals. These were the largest I've ever seen in Britain.) At one point, I was watching my hands as I paid out the red and yellow ropes through the belay brake, when suddenly the sun came out and bathed the granite wall in golden morning light clearly picking out the complex texture of the ancient Lundy granite. It was a superbly lonely spot, no-one knew where we were and it felt as isolated as anywhere I've been in the south-west (the foot of Carn Gowla in a big sea is perhaps the only contender.)

The pitch was hard but fair, fingery on the crux with some unwelcome dampness just where it mattered and an energetic layback exit to complete an uncompromising little number that quite tired us both. The rest of the day was spent in a more relaxed manner. We had a quick stroll up Albion (surely one of the best VS routes in Britain) and then moved over to the foot of the Cheeses. The afternoon was well on and the day was developing a lovely October feel to it. We abseiled in and rounded the day off with Pete Thexton and Ken Wilson's gem Immaculate Slab. The sea was dead flat and the perfect granite of this superb climb was bathed in a gorgeous autumnal ochre light. As Mick said, you could do that route every weekend and never tire of it. It was growing darker as we sorted the gear at the top of the crag and a hint of drizzle livened up the gentle walk back to the doss and then the pub.

Later in the week the sunny weather deserted us for a while and one morning in particular dawned very dull and dismal, though fortunately without rain. The wind had got round to the south but the sky was brightening slightly so we packed the sacs, threw in the big abseil rope and set off past the Old Light and along the cliff top path. We crossed the Quarter Wall and carried on until we were above Deep Zawn. Here we considered the moot point of the weather (i.e. was it going to piss down or not?) Meadow Pipits scuttled around in the grass near us, while away to the south we could hear the regular crack of rifle shots as the annual goat culling got underway. We decided to take a gamble with the weather and abseil into Deep Zawn and climb The Serpent. I found a bomb-proof pair of thread belays in the boulders above the zawn and Mick abseiled in down the seaward face.

As soon as the rope went slack, I clipped in and followed him down as I slowly descended I took in the surroundings and they were mighty impressive. The zawn itself cuts deeply into the hillside above, the walls are plum vertical for over 200ft and the distance between the South Wall and the North Wall is probably no more than 70ft. On this particular morning, the place was particularly dark and oppressive albeit with a flat sea, but with the sky rapidly darkening out to the west. I am susceptible to the atmosphere of places I admit, but this was something very special. It was my first visit to Deep Zawn and the primeval character of it was only too obvious as I looked across the dark, sinister water to the gob smacking lines of Gracelands (E6) and Underworld (E3). Just around the corner were Stone Tape (E3) Quatermass (E2) and the truly awesome looking Supernova (E5). I marvelled at the strength of mind and sheer courage of Pat Littlejohn and his mates in venturing into this place in its initial development, and there are few locations in the south-west as intimidating as this.

As we sat there the sky continued to darken and the sea started to get rather more lively. The vertical walls of shiny green granite plunged straight into the waves, while as you looked out from the zawn there was nothing but wild ocean for 3,000 miles, to the shores of Nova Scotia. Today the swell on the sea was gentle, but sometimes it must be an utter maelstrom in that dark confined space, a cacophony of rain, waves and gale force wind. I shuddered at the thought of it there on a dark, moonless night when all the malign forces of wind and sea are unleashed from the west. Apart from our blue abseil rope, there was not the slightest indication that mankind even existed in this place.Place yourself there, ten thousand years ago and it would look no different, the only creatures are the birds and the seals, it is truly their place and I almost felt we were intruding.

Just to add to the increasingly oppressive atmosphere, strange sounds were coming from the back of the zawn; howls and almost dog-like yelps echoed off the walls. I realised that this was of course adult seals mating, and sometimes fighting. These strange sounds were juxtaposed with the continuing crack of the rifle shots on the moors above us, as the goat culling continued. The combination of these two sounds, the oppressive character of the zawn itself and the increasingly threatening weather was quite unsettling. For a few moments, I really felt as if we shouldn't be there, that we were not welcome and that we clearly did not belong there. There were no other climbers on the island and no one had a clue that we were here in this deeply impressive place. From Deep Zawn north to the Devil's Slide is perhaps only ten minute walk but a greater contrast with the white, sun-kissed granite of The Slide would be hard to imagine.

I unclipped from the abseil rope, having fixed a secure belay looking into the zawn. Mick and I started to sort the gear out, when suddenly the sky darkened some more and the heavens just opened. It absolutely poured with rain, drenching our route (and everything else!) We waited awhile to see if it would relent but if anything it got worse. I watched Mick prussic out up the abseil rope as mist rolled in off the vastness of The Atlantic. Below us the seals were still howling, while above us they were still busy goat killing. I clipped the prussic clamps onto the blue rope, took a last look around, stepped up, slid the clamps up the rope and started the journey out of the zawn.

Mick plods slowly up the hill with all the gear, while I haul in 200ft of wet (heavy!) abseil rope and the weather sets in for the day. We are both wet through, but the trip into Deep Zawn had been strangely satisfying for me. Neither Bosigran's Great Zawn, or anywhere at Gogarth or Pembroke could compare with the lonely desolation of this place particularly on an atmospheric late autumn day. We sorted the gear, shouldered the sacs and strolled back for a pint in the pub. As I said though, certainly not a wasted day and a glimpse of just how wild some of Lundy's west coast is. Later as the rain hammered on the pub windows, I thought again of the birds and the seals at home in Deep Zawn and wondered if we were the last people to go into that place this year.

Every evening we make the walk down the hill to the warm embrace of The Marisco Tavern, for a few pints of Old Light Bitter. This is a splendid drop brewed at St Austell and a world away from the days of the infamous Puffin Bitter thought by some harsh observers to be brewed from sea water! Most nights the pub is cheerfully busy, with plenty of friendly chat and a guitarist and mandolin player in the corner of the bar giving it a traditional feel. It is very late in the season (third week in October) and we are the only climbers on the island. However, the bird watching lads are out in force, with bird books and laptops on the bar tables. Their often serious and scholarly exterior turns out to be misleading and suitably loosened up by some beer they turn out to be a bunch of good lads. There is great excitement one night, after a particularly rare Pipit has been sighted close to the pub and the birding lads eagerly tell us about it. We also check out the climbing log book that is kept behind the bar and turn the pages of stories of epics, genuine thrills and sometimes real wit and humour.

Someone has written in large letters: "Gary Gibson is the biggest disaster in the history of British climbing." We mull on this awhile and agree that while Gary has his critics, this is somewhat harsh to say the least. Most regular climbers owe Gary considerable gratitude for his extensive efforts over the years.
Once the chat (read bullshitting) gets fully underway, we invariably drink at least two pints more than we should as old geezers in our fifties and soon it is time to leave. We stumble out of the pub and into the (often) pitch black Lundy night to make the walk back over the fields to the doss. If there is no cloud, the stars and the moon are sometimes fantastically clear despite the loom of light on the horizon from Devon and from the Swansea area. Other nights, visibility is nil and the westerlies drive the rain in almost horizontally as you struggle up the hill, over the stile and hurry to the cottage to get a late brew on.

The night sky on Lundy is counter pointed by the often wonderful morning light there. Because the island is so small, the sunlight strikes the sea all around it and the vibrancy of the light is sometimes quite startling. I once discussed with Jim Perrin the respective merits and sense of place of both Snowdonia and the Lake District. We agreed that while the Lakes are truly beautiful, Snowdonia has the extra factor of mystery and to my mind Lundy shares that dark Celtic quality. It is not difficult to imagine pirates and other outlaws there, and despite its now generally peaceful character the island has a violent history. I can easily imagine there to be ghosts there and in the depths of the night (when the electricity goes off) the place can easily seem isolated and primitive. These thoughts though are easily offset by a bright morning and the prospect of some of the finest granite climbing in the British Isles.

And now another Lundy trip is drawing to a close and Mick and I are walking down past Millcombe House and through the trees towards the island's landing stage to board the Oldenburg to sail back to the mainland. We are somewhat apprehensive, as the sailing time has been brought forward two hours due to a force seven gale rushing in from the west. It is thought that if we do not sail this afternoon, we may not get off the island for a couple of days. Neither Mick nor I are remotely good sailors, so a full English breakfast and a couple of pints have been taken on board---at least we'll have had something to chuck up! In fact, the trip back to the dry land of north Devon is considerably worse than we expected, with enormous seas that made it hard to credit that we were in fact within the Bristol Channel.

It is by far our worst ever Lundy crossing and the scene on the Oldenburg is one of Olympic level puking. I escape this unpleasantness (only just) but poor Mick suffered a grim journey. At one point, the boat is followed for about thirty minutes by an RAF Sea King helicopter and we wonder what they know that we don't! At long last, we make it back to the fleshpots of Bideford and are glad to once again be on dry land. We load the gear into the car and head north up the M5. Four hours later and we're supping pints in a Derby pub and reflecting upon a good trip with the full variety of the Lundy experience. The island is a unique place and in the right weather a rock climber's paradise. It is one of the great climbing adventures in Britain and if you haven't been I urge you to make the trip. Believe me the mystery of Lundy will call you back.

Diamond Solitaire:Original Photo: Ken Latham

Steve Dean 2012

This week: Steve Dean sends a postcard from Lundy.

2012-01-23T11:34:00.000Z

Satan's Slip:Photo Ken Latham

"Apart from our blue abseil rope, there was not the slightest indication that mankind even existed in this place.Place yourself there, ten thousand years ago and it would look no different, the only creatures are the birds and the seals, it is truly their place and I almost felt we were intruding.

Just to add to the increasingly oppressive atmosphere, strange sounds were coming from the back of the zawn; howls and almost dog-like yelps echoed off the walls. I realised that this was of course adult seals mating, and sometimes fighting. These strange sounds were juxtaposed with the continuing crack of the rifle shots on the moors above us, as the goat culling continued. The combination of these two sounds, the oppressive character of the zawn itself and the increasingly threatening weather was quite unsettling.

For a few moments, I really felt as if we shouldn't be there, that we were not welcome and that we clearly did not belong there. There were no other climbers on the island and no one had a clue that we were here in this deeply impressive place. From Deep Zawn north to the Devil's Slide is perhaps only a ten minute walk but a greater contrast with the white, sun-kissed granite of The Slide would be hard to imagine. I unclipped from the abseil rope, having fixed a secure belay looking into the zawn.

Mick and I started to sort the gear out, when suddenly the sky darkened some more and the heavens just opened. It absolutely poured with rain, drenching our route (and everything else!) We waited awhile to see if it would relent but if anything it got worse. I watched Mick prussic out up the abseil rope as mist rolled in off the vastness of The Atlantic. Below us the seals were still howling, while above us they were still busy goat killing. I clipped the prussic clamps onto the blue rope, took a last look around, stepped up, slid the clamps up the rope and started the journey out of the zawn.'

Later this week a new and previously unpublished piece from respected climbing writer Steve Dean. Best known for his acclaimed biography of pre-war legend, Colin Kirkus. In 'Lundy Sketches' Steve paints a beguiling picture of climbing on the magical island of Lundy twixt the coastlines of Devon and South Wales.

On Arran: Millennia Deep

2012-01-17T18:30:00.000Z

Ancient footprints are everywhere

The first day of September and we’ve taken the ferry from Ardrossan to Arran to make our first visit to the island which lies only twelve miles out in the Firth of Firth and is only 10 miles wide but, as we soon discover, is a world unto itself: an place of ancient footprints, where a short walk can lead you to places where you really sense that you are just a murmur in the whispering sands of time.

We’re staying in Lamlash, in the elegant row of green-painted cottages that form Hamilton Terrace, facing the sea and the bulk of Holy Isle out in the bay. The island has had religious significance since the 6th century when the Celtic Saint Molaise lived there as a hermit before it became the site of a Christian monastery. Today it is owned by Tibetan Buddhists who offer retreats and have established a Centre for World Peace and Health.

On the green before the bay stands the Arran Clearances Memorial, consisting of three sandstone slabs, boldly expressive of a desire to stand firm on native ground. The Clearances (Scottish Gaelic: Fuadach nan Gàidheal, the expulsion of the Gael) saw large forced displacements of the rural population as part of a process of agricultural modernisation forced through by brutal landlords. When the crofters in Glen Sannox in the north of Arran had to make way for large scale sheep farming, many of them saw no other option than to emigrate to Canada, and they departed from Lamlash. A plaque on the monument poignantly recalls their departure in these words:

" Erected on behalf of Arran clearance descendants across North America to their brave forefathers who departed from their beloved island home to Canada during the clearance years 1829 to 1840.' Here at Lamlash on April 25th 1829 part of the clearance (86 souls) when embarking on the brig Caledonia (196 ton) the Rev.A.Mackay preached from The Mound formed by the departing his text “Casting all your care upon him: for he careth for you” 1st Peter ch.5 v.7. The Caledonia arrived at Quebec City June 25th 1829. The group was the first of more than 300 Arran colonists of Megantic County, Province of Quebec. The largest group, more than 400, had as their destination the seaport town of Dalhousie, New Brunswick to be pioneer settlers of the Restigouche-Bay Chaleur District. “Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is highland”.

You can drive round the island in little more than an hour, the road hugging the shoreline for most of the way. There is also a coastal path which, like the road, takes advantage of the raised beaches that encircle the island. After the last Ice Age there was a massive release of weight as the ice melted, causing the land to lift and create the raised beaches. In the stretches where the path lies across the raised beach the walking is easy. Kildonan shore on the west side of the island is an example of such a stretch, where wooded cliffs rise beyond the meadows where sheep graze.

Or looking towards Drumadoon Point on the stretch from the King’s Cave, reputedly used by Robert the Bruce on his way to seizing the Scottish crown in 1314, to Blackwaterfoot. Drumadoon headland is composed of basalt columns, the result of the same series of volcanic eruptions 30 or 40 million years ago that also created the similarly-structured columns of Fingal’s Cave on Staffa and the Giant’s Causeway in Antrim.Apart from the coastal road, there are two roads that cross the mountainous interior. The route from Brodick to Blackwaterfoot is known as the String Road and at its highest point there are stunning views towards the northern mountain peaks and the sea to the west and the east.

Arran is often described as ‘Scotland in miniature’ because the landscapes of the island are so varied. One of our walks began in the well-tended parkland of Brodick castle and wound along paths in the woodland of the country park, now owned by the Scottish National Trust. Follow one of these paths and you will reach the peak of Goatfell, the highest mountain; we took a path that followed Merkland Burn as its rushing brown water cascaded down the fellside through a series of waterfalls and rock pools shaded by firs and deciduous trees.

We emerged from the woodland to picnic on an empty beach on Brodick Bay, golden sands stretching away to Merkland Point to the north.Another day we walked out along Kildonan shore towards Bennan Head, through meadows where sheep grazed and the last of the summer flowers bloomed. Scattered among the shingle were drifts of dog daisies. Among the taller grasses were the delicate, green-veined white flowers known as Grass of Parnassus – given that name by the Flemish botanist Mathias de l’Obel who was so inspired by its beauty that he named it after the holy mountain of Apollo and the Muses.

Here, too, clustered among the heather were clumps of Bog Asphodel, that at first sight looks like two different plants, one red, one yellow. But both are the same plant – the red ones being the anthers, while the petals are yellow.

‘Does the song of the sea end at the shore or in the hearts of those who listen?’ reads the inscription on an elegant seat, carved out of sandstone and positioned facing the sea. On the water we could hear the bubbling calls of curlew as oyster catchers swept back and forth over the calm sea. Further out to sea cormorants perched on rocks, characteristically spreading their wings to dry their plumage. On the horizon, rising abruptly from the sea, loomed the distinctive, solitary shape of Ailsa Craig, the uninhabited island that is the granite plug of an extinct volcano.

In the summer of 1818, John Keats and a friend embarked on a walking tour through Scotland. They travelled along the Ayrshire coast from Ballantrae northwards with Ailsa Craig constantly in view. Later, att the King’s Arms Inn in Girvan, Keats wrote his sonnet on Ailsa Craig:

Hearken, thou craggy ocean-pyramid!
Give answer from thy voice-the sea-fowls’ screams!
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?
When from the sun was thy broad forehead hid?
flow long is ‘t since the Mighty Power bid
Thee heave from airy sleep, from fathom dreams?
Sleep in the lap of thunder, or sunbeams,
Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid?
Thou answerest not, for thou art dead asleep!
Thy life is but two dead eternities -
The last in air, the former in the deep -
First with the whales, last in the eagle-skies,
Drowned wert thou till an earthquake made thee steep;
Another cannot wake thy giant size.

We walked towards Brennan Head. Our walking guide suggested that colonies of seals can be seen basking along this stretch. I was sceptical: when I’ve read this sort of thing before, all we have seen, at best, is a bobbing head out to sea. But, as we skirted one of several basalt dykes that cross the beach here, we were met with the pleasing site of a large number of seals basking, each precariously balanced on an outcrop of basalt. We sat and watched them for some time, occasionally shifting and grunting, as the larger beasts sometimes elbowed the younger ones off their lump of rock. As the afternoon wore on, more seals swam into the bay to join the basking group. All in all we counted over 40 seals.

According to an interpretive plaque along the beach, as many as 200 common seals relax on the rocks along Kildonan shore, returning day after day to the same spot, only to disappear with the incoming tide when they return to the sea to feed.

As I write this, on my desk is a barnacle-encrusted pebble of some kind of igneous rock, collected from the shore near Lochranza. There seems to be poetry in this object, combining as it does two contrasting time scales – the biological time of the barnacle that typically lives for between 5 and 10 years, and that of the rock itself, quite possibly a small chunk of the Cambrian schist that outcrops along this shore, laid down some 550 million years ago.

On our last day on the island we walked from Lochranza along the coast path to a place known locally as the Fairy Glen. Along the way the path meant a scramble over an angular rock formation with distinct layers that dipped and rose at different angles. This site has great significance in the history of geology and is known as Hutton’s Unconformity. In 1787 the father of modern geology, James Hutton, visited Arran searching for evidence that would confirm his suspicion that the accepted idea – promoted in 1645 by Archbishop Usher – that the earth was a mere 5000 years old was wrong. Usher had calculated from the Bible that the earth began on 29 October 4004 BC, but Hutton’s encounter with the rock formations at Lochranza helped prove his theory that the earth was far older than anyone had previously imagined.

The rocks at Lochranza are a juxtaposition of layers of very old Cambrian schist's and much younger sandstone. Sedimentary rocks like the sandstone and the original core components of the schist's were deposited on ancient sea beds in horizontal layers and then, over eons, processes such as heat, pressure and folding forced them up at an angle. Between the sandstone and the metamorphosed schist's, Hutton realised, there is a huge time-gap.

A year after the trip to Arran, in the spring of 1788, Hutton set off with John Playfair to the Berwickshire coast and found more examples of unconformities. Playfair later wrote:

" On us who saw these phenomenon for the first time the impression will not easily be forgotten…We felt necessarily carried back to a time when the schistus on which we stood was yet at the bottom of the sea, and when the sandstone before us was only beginning to be deposited, in the shape of sand or mud, from the waters of the super continent ocean… The mind seemed to grow giddy by looking so far back into the abyss of time; and whilst we listened with earnestness and admiration to the philosopher who was now unfolding to us the order and series of these wonderful events, we became sensible how much further reason may sometimes go than imagination may venture to follow.'

But I have never felt a sense of millennial time so intensely as on Machrie Moor: a track leads on through meadows where sheep graze to open moorland where the only sounds are of curlews piping and the wind rustling the bracken and purple moor grass. On Machrie Moor stand a series of Bronze Age stone circles, about 4000 years old and made of red sandstone or granite. In the words of Seamus Heaney, in ‘A Dream of Solstice’, they stand

Millennia deep in their own unmoving
And unmoved alignment

The first people on Arran to leave visible traces of their lives were Neolithic people, who lived on the island in the period between 4,500 BC and 2,000 BC. They were farmers, and traces of their field systems have been found on Arran, as well as other stone structures such as hill forts like the one on Dunadoon Point.

But it is the enigmatic stone circles on Machrie Moor that form the Arran’s finest collection of ancient monuments. The first megalithic monuments here - a series of timber circles – were constructed towards the end of the Neolithic period (around 2000 BC). No remains of these timber circles can be seen today.

What can be seen are the stone monuments that were built to replace them, the six stone circles whose grandeur make this site so atmospheric and which were added for almost two thousand years during the Bronze Age. There is no real certainty about what these monuments were used for, but it is safe to assume that they had some kind of ceremonial function, possibly related to their alignment with the midsummer sunrise at the head of Machrie Glen.

The tallest of the stones stands eighteen feet high and, with the moor stretching towards the distant mountains and the stones towering above you, there is a very real sense that you are standing in a sacred landscape.

This is a Bronze Age landscape of outstanding importance. Though there has been some excavation, most of the site remains unexplored, largely buried in the peat that destroyed the way of life here. About 3800 years ago, climate change brought colder, wetter weather leading to the build up of peat. The peat-bound, infertile moor where these monuments stand would once have been rich farmland supporting a thriving community.

Heedless, unheeded of the years they stand;
The rain drips off their chins and lichens spread
A moist green skin along each stony hand
That gropes among the bones of the grey dead.
They did not see the forests flow and fall -
Junipers blue wave by the fellside shore -
Nor barley batten by the coddling wall,
Nor purple ploughland swipe across the moor.
They hold death in them. Skulls have moulded ears
That deaf remain to curlew, crow and dove.
The human winds blow past them; each one fears
The hoarded ache of malignant love.

- Norman Nicholson, ‘The Megaliths’

John Ormond, friend of Graham Sutherland and Kyffin Williams, wrote this poem, ‘Ancient Monuments’, in which he conjures the men who worked the stone and created the ‘back-breaking/Geometry, the symmetries of solstice’ that we see today. For the rest of that day I pondered where these stones were wrenched, and how those people could have moved them. The next leg of our walk took us down to the shoreline between Machrie and Blackwaterfoot. There lie stretches of sandstone pavement, exposed and scoured by the sea. Was that the source of these stones? And if so, how did they haul them two miles from the shore, to an elevation of five hundred feet or so to the moor?

They bide their time of serpentine
Green lanes, in fields, with railings
Round them and black cows; tall, pocked
And pitted stones, grey, ochre-patched
With moss, lodgings for lost spirits.
Sometimes you have to ask their
Whereabouts. A bent figure, in a hamlet
Of three houses and a barn, will point
Towards the moor. You will find them there,
Aloof lean markers, erect in mud.
Long Meg, Five Kings, Nine Maidens,
Twelve Apostles: with such familiar names
We make them part of ordinary lives.
On callow pasture-land
The Shearers and The Hurlers.
Sometimes they keep their privacy
In public places: nameless slender slabs
Disguised as gate-posts in a hedge; and some,
For centuries on duty as scratching posts,
Are screened by ponies on blank uplands.
Search out the furthest ones, slog on
Through bog, bracken, bramble: arrive
At short granite footings in a plan
Vaguely elliptical, alignments sunk
In turf strewn with sheep’s droppings;
And wonder whether it was this shrunk place
The guide-book meant, or whether
Over the next ridge the real chamber,
Accurate by the stars, begins its secret
At once to those who find it.
Turn and look back. You’ll see horizons
Much like the ones they saw,
The tomb-builders, millennium ago;
The channel scratched by rain, the same old
Sediment of dusk, winter returning.
Dolerite, porphyry, gabbro fired
At the earth’s young heart: how those men
Handled them. Set on back-breaking
Geometry, the symmetries of solstice,
What they awaited we, too, still wait.
Looking for something else, I came once
To a cromlech in a field of barley,
Whoever framed that field had real
Priorities. He sowed good grain
To the tombs doorstep. No path
Led to the ancient death. The capstone,
Set like a cauldron on three legs,
Was marooned by the swimming crop.
A gust and the cromlech floated,
Motionless at time’s moorings.
Hissing dry sibilance, chafing
Loquacious thrust of seed
This way and that, in time and out
Of it, would have capsized
The tomb. It stayed becalmed.
The bearded foam, rummaged
By wind from the westerly sea-track,
Broke short not over it. Skirted
By squalls of that year’s harvest,
That tomb belonged in that field.
The racing barley, erratically-bleached
Bronze, cross-hatched with gold
And yellow, did not stop short its tide
In deference. It was the barley’s
World. Some monuments move.

The power of these stones on Machrie Moor is palpable, a testament to the power of art and humankind’s sense of something spiritual beyond the everyday. In ‘Bridestones’ from the collection Remains of Elmet, Ted Hughes, inspired by the Bride Stone boulders on the moor above Todmorden, wrote of the ‘Crowding congregation of skies./Tense congregation of hills’ and of the sense that in such a place, ‘electrified with whispers’, ‘You do nothing casual here’. Which is just about right.

Scorched-looking, unhewn – a hill-top chapel,
Actually a crown of outcrop rock -
Earth’s heart-bone laid bare.

Crowding congregation of skies.
Tense congregation of hills.
You do nothing casual here.

The wedding stones
Are electrified with whispers.

And marriage is nailed down
By this slender-necked, heavy headed
Black exclamation mark
of rock.

And you go
With the wreath of the weather
The wreath of the horizons
The wreath of constellations
Over your shoulders.

And from now on
The sun
Can always touch your ghost
With the shadow of this finger.

From now on
The moon can always lift your skull
On to this perch,
to clean it.

We left Arran after only four days, but vowed that we would return.

Holy Isle-Lamlash Bay

Words and images:Gerry Cordon.

First published on That's how the light gets in

Ron Fawcett-rock Athlete...Review

2012-01-12T18:57:00.000Z

The following review was originally penned for inclusion in one of The Climbers Club publications and left with the then editor, Tim Oliver. Tragically Tim died quite suddenly and the review and other material disappeared. I've managed to unearth the original review and offer it here somewhat belatedly in the hope that it may stimulate some fresh interest in the work of one of our most iconic rock climbers in the post 70's era.

For those who began climbing in the 1970's and 80's, the name Ron Fawcett was never far from the front pages of the climbing press. Alongside Pete Livesey- playing the role of the cynical and slightly arrogant John Lennon to Big Ron's more wholesome McCartney figure- the pair were hugely influential in the new age of rock gymnastics. Those who devoured the climbing media in print or film in this halcyon era could not avoid 'sausage fingers' and ' four eyes' leering out at them. All singlets, sweat and brutal intensity!

However, as Livesey reached his peak and observed a future of decline which presaged an early exit from the game, Ron Fawcett picked up the baton and took young pretenders like Jerry Moffat and Ben Moon head on. Now the story of those golden years has been told with great success (Winner of the 2010 Boardman Tasker Award) in 'Ron Fawcett-Rock Athlete'. Ostensibly this is the Fawcett autobiography although as the whole world and his wife is aware, it was actually pulled together by respected outdoor writer, Ed Douglas. Ghost written autobiographies are always difficult to deal with.Suggesting a Cheryl Cole-esque trip through La La land.Charmless,superficial and in truth,a waste of good trees! It is to Ed and Ron's credit that such a readable work has emerged from this much maligned creative structure.

The book opens with a famous Fawcett article which appeared in High magazine in 1987,detailing a memorable day when he set out...and succeeded..in climbing 100 'extremes' in a day.By using this as a device to set the scene, Ed Douglas has cleverly unveiled his subject as someone who was clearly out of the ordinary. Now the scene is set for those readers who are not that familiar with this Fawcett guy. A household name perhaps for those of a certain age and based in the UK, but for Fred Schelp sitting on his porch in Boulder Colorado or 19 year old Ben Krank in Basingstoke, the name Fawcett stirs just a vague echo from the past.A prince from a lost kingdom which is now impossibly remote from the perspective of a new century.

From his working class Yorkshire roots in the small Yorkshire village of Embsay, Ron emerged from the fag end of sixties hedonism and forged out a career in climbing at a time when earning a living from the activity was a rarity. His professionalism built on a reputation for stirring first ascents of future classics like The Cad, Lord of the Flies and Strawberries. With Pete Livesey carving out his own niche with routes like Right Wall and Footless Crow, Big Ron pushed the envelope even further by using the appliance of science to ratchet up the ante.

Religiously training in the manner of a modern day MacLeod or Pearson. Eschewing the party animal life in order to tweak out that extra one arm pull up or add an extra dozen press ups to the 2000 he usually did before breakfast! This was one lean mean climbing machine! Interestingly,one of the few climbers operating at Fawcett's rarefied level at the time and very much considered a rival was North Wales based John Redhead. In the book Fawcett recalls that the Redhead big ticks such as Margins of the Mind and The Bells-The Bells were considered as rites of passage even to rock gods like the Yorkshire brothers in arms.

This actually leads us into an area where the remarkable Fawcett story could be seen as lacking that extra dimension.. Despite his supreme skill and devotion to the art,Ron is very much the Yin to Redhead's Yang. Whereas as Redhead was the seen in the role as the wild bohemian misfit.Climbing death defying routes through magic and meditation; Antagonising the climbing establishment at every turn. Ron Fawcett was very much the sort of climber who fitted into the mainstream.He was respectable,hard working and even had a moustache.I'm sure even Geoffrey Wynthrop Young would have approved of this quiet self effacing figure!

In autobiographies it is usually found that the darker the character the more interesting their life and hence their work. In Rock Athlete you will not read of Ron soloing a desperate E7 in a heroin induced haze, chasing German climbers around Snell's Field with a fire axe in a drunken rage or participating in wild orgies in dank Welsh caves!. Ron doesn't do the Sex & Drugs & Rock and Roll thing. He was much too concerned with keeping his body as a temple and his mind finely tuned. However he does reveal that in a dark period in his life he was prosecuted for shop lifting. I'm sure that made the front page of the Oswaldthwistle and Heckesslike Bugle..Oh... and did you ever hear of the time Paul Williams slipped a vodka into Ron's half a shandy? Got quite merry he did!. OK...I made that last one up but you catch my drift.

Another thing that comes through is the fact that Ron Fawcett was very much a parochial north country rock climber as opposed to the all round mountaineer. Apart from the odd sortie to Yosemite,Verdon and the odd European venue-often accompanied by friend and fellow rock master, the late Wolfgang Gullich--Fawcett was never much of a winter climber, Alpinist or explorer of the greater ranges. In fact even within the UK, Ron's tale is essentially concentrated in his beloved Peaks or North Wales were he lived with Gill Kent for four years. The Scottish mountains,Lakeland crags and Cornish sea cliffs do not appear to have fallen very often within Big Ron's regular orbit ?.

However,as one of the UK's first climbers to actually earn a sponsored living from the sport,Ron was never far from the visual spotlight with seasoned film makers like Sid Perou and Leo Dickenson putting him through the paces. Leading cutting edge routes such as 'Lord of the Flies' upon which what might be considered his catch phrase emerged..'Come on arms...Do your Stuff'!' as well as soloing...as friends looked away in fear... some of his well reheased routes.

For some readers of this review who have picked up on the lack of variety in his climbing regime and the sheer ordinariness of his personal life,might be led to deduce that Rock Athlete is not for them. A somewhat one dimensional trip down memory lane or rather a lane with the Peak at one end and North Wales at the other.
However,even allowing for the lack of geographical variety and despite lacking the sort of edgy character that stimulates a host of Whillans-esque anecdotes,there is more than enough within these pages to engage the reader and lead on to the quite poignant final chapters.

With middle age approaching and after setting such a high standard for such a long period,Ron inevitably fell off the pace as the new generation of rock athletes nosed in front. In this period he took to the relatively new sport of parascending and like a lot of climbers he embraced fell running with a passion. Quickly gaining experience in both sports, it was in fact to parascending that he turned to develop a new career as an instructor. Working professionally for High editor, Geoff Birtles' outfit. It was while working as an instructor that he suffered a serious injury in a fall to earth which virtually ended his career as a leading rock climber.

Despite this injury,after recovery he continued to climb although with less passion and commitment.As the 90's and the new millennium unfurl, Ron is still very much the athlete.Mixing more modest ascents with parascending and fell running although it is within the latter activity that he finds some success and satisfaction as a competitor in the veteran category. Competing for the famous Dark Peak Runners and winning many events.

In his personal life,his relationship with Zanda brought him two lovely daughters and new responsibilities.As parents and friends gradually departed the stage,Ron's life followed a predictable course until,sadly, by the latter part of this decade his marriage had ended and Ron had to define a new role for himself- as a single parent in straightened financial circumstances. As things stand in 2010/11 Ron appears to have recovered his equilibrium and adjusted his life accordingly. Still to be found at the Climbing Works wall in Sheffield,out sporting himself on some sun dappled boulder on the moors or gliding up hill and down dale on those long spindly legs of his.

The other week I was wandering through the Gwydr Forest in North Wales with one of Ron's few equals on the rock face in that era,the aforementioned John Redhead and I mentioned that I'd been reading Rock Athlete....'Ahhh yes'..mused John R... 'Really nice bloke Ron...really nice'. I guess there are worse things to be called than nice and at the end of the day it goes to show ; even nice guys can do extraordinary things.

John Appleby

The Forty-Niners

2012-01-05T11:56:00.000Z

John Petts' engraving of Craig yr Ysfa 

In August I decided to have a cycling and climbing holiday in the south east. I set off from Derby on a fine cool day and made good progress along the A6 to Bedford. I then went on via Whitwell to Kimpton, where I had arranged to stay with John Williams, one of my old comrades from Royal Signals OCTU, with whom I had kept in touch. We had an evening of reminiscing, and outlining our ambitions. Both he and I planned to visit the Cairngorms, and he added to my already heavy load by insisting that I borrow his Scottish Mountaineering Club guide to the area.

In the morning I continued through Wheathampstead, which I would get to know in the future- to Edgware, Bromley, Sevenoaks (where I found that my favourite surplus shop and official supplier to the Stonnis Club, had gone) To Tonbridge and a welcome at Church Road in Tunbridge Wells by Nea * (Morin) and her children, Denise, Ian, and Evelyn Leech. Evelyn took us in her car to Harrison's Rocks on Friday, Saturday and Sunday and I brushed up my sandstone techniques, mainly solo. During this holiday Nea asked if I would like to Join them skiing at Christmas,and flattered, I agreed.

Before I had been incapacitated by my hitch hiking accident I had been asked by the editor* (Climbers Club) to take on the Cloggy guide. My misfortune prevented me from fulfilling my commitment and Peter* ( Harding) annexed this great cliff for his Llanberis "bumper fun book". Now I had recovered I was not allowed to slip back into lazy obscurity as Wilf Noyce persuaded me to take on a different chore. The Carneddau had the reputation of being a vast and boring area, which had already discouraged one or two would be authors. What finally decided me to take on this task was Wilfrid's comment that there was so much uncharted rock that there must be lots of scope to discover new routes.

No sooner than I had agreed I was lucky to be presented with a volunteer companion. Robin Chapman, on leave from his school teaching post in Natal, had written to Ken Berrill, the club secretary, asking to be introduced to someone who had time to climb.
I started out on the fieldwork for the guidebook with a train journey to Bettws y Coed (which has since lost one "t") and a heavily laden cycle ride to Helyg. Robin met me there and we made Our- debut performance as a double act on Black Ladders, repeating Mare's Nest Climb, which had been discovered by Emlyn Jones about two years earlier. A very wet day came next and as we hunted about in Craig yr Ysfa's mud and vegetation Robin commented how totally different it was from the Drakensberg but at least we were not at risk of being pelted with stones by gibbons. Covent Garden was a route made by Ted Pyatt on the Crag by Llech Du at Christmas 1944 and in his write up he had provocatively stated "The lower slabs of the main crag have not been climbed, the present route traversing from the gully onto the backbone of the ridge above them." This was challenge enough and Robin and I relieved it of its virginity by a deviously seductive route, Low Wall.

Evelyn Leech at The Roaches:Tony Moulam

We continued up the gully and descended Pyatt's route to check his description for the guide. Pegasus was another of Emlyn's climbs, on the same area of cliff as the Mare's Nest. It proved rather disappointing but these two routes had given me the idea to look for others in a similar situation on the Central Buttress. Having scrambled to the top of the cliff we descended the easy upper reaches of Central Gully and ventured out onto its western wall. The rock proved to be pretty loose but the difficulty was not great and we quickly completed Juno. In those long past innocent days we had left our rucksacks on top of the crag, not even bothering to hide them. We were appalled to find that they had disappeared and walked disconsolately back to Helyg.

This was Robin's last day and we went round to Pen y Gwryd for him to buy me dinner. Chris telephoned the local police and we were delighted to hear that some public spirited person had thought we had forgotten our sacks and so had taken them and handed them in to the police house. Chris took us there to collect our property, I said my farewells to Robin and set off on my bike into the night and on to Tyn y Weirglodd, where I was to have an interlude, again instructing scouts. We had a good week, attaining quite a high standard, with the best routes achieved being Angel Pavement and Adam Rib, besides Deep Chimney on the Far West Buttress of Cloggy.

I returned to Pen y Gwryd, intending to continue with the field work for my guide. However at dinner that night Chris Briggs introduced me to a Mrs Fearon, whose 17 year old daughter had been bitten by the climbing bug. Chris had recommended me as a careful and conscientious climber to whom she could safely be entrusted. Jane was tall, slim and very eager to start. Even the boring walk over to Craig yr Ysfa didn't deter her and on our first day, whilst ensuring she got the easier pitches, we led through on Amphitheatre Buttress. Amphitheatre Rib and Beaumont's Chimney followed, whilst the sun shone benignly down. For the rest of her holiday we were joined by Peter Snell and Keith Ingold, and thus reinforced, we did a new route on Black Ladders. Jane's red setter pup had accompanied us to the top of the cliff, and obediently stayed there as vie scrambled off down the gully. When we returned from the depths he greeted his mistress ecstatically and we named the climb after him, in tribute to his patience.

Jane had to go home with her mother after this but the weather continued fine so that the guidebook work did too. Various gap filling new routes were made with Peter Snell, Brian Blake and Adrian Horridge and then, for a sort of holiday, I teamed up with Arthur Dolphin for the Milestone Superdirect, including the Final Block. This fine top pitch had had very few ascents since Menlove Edwards first led it in 1941. The intimidating crack actually proved to be quite easy, it was the approach diagonally up the slightly leaning wall on very small and flaky holds that proved to be the crux.

Meantime Jane had persuaded her mother to let her return to Snowdonia to continue her initiation into the mysteries of mountaineering. She had booked into the Capel Curig youth Hostel and I met her train at Betws y Coed. Dusk fell as she cycled off up the hill whilst I loaded her rucksack onto my cycle's panniers. As I struggled up the slope out of Betws I was stopped by a young policeman who asked if I knew the girl who had just passed him. I said "Yes. She's staying at the youth hostel", whereupon he replied that as she had no lights, which was an offence, he would have to go up and interview her next day.

Naturally I saw her first when I delivered her sack, and warned her so that she was able to charm the PC into letting her off when he did appear in the morning. To give Jane experience of the classic climbs of North Wales we eschewed the Carneddau and went to Cwm Idwal in search of clean dry rock. Hope and the Holly Tree Wall were our choice, the latter even then being a test piece with the entry into the groove of the first pitch able to repulse most of the aspirant leaders who tried it. The holly tree still existed and so the stance after the crescent slab, although restricted, felt very safe as a base for the next few strenuous feet up the slippery polished walls of the upper chimney. That night we went round to Pen y Gwryd for dinner, and we heard that Dave Thomas and Ian Brooker, who was on a rare visit from his Scottish homeland, were stuck on Longland's Climb on Cloggy.

We cut our celebration short so that we could start at 5.00 am to conduct a rescue if it was needed. It was misty as we left Llanberis and as Chris Briggs drove his car up the rough track towards Halfway House. We abandoned it when we could get no further and toiled on up into Cwm Brwynog. It gradually became lighter and the mist slowly cleared until we could make out two figures, tiny and alone in the vastness of the crag, just as they started to stir. Ian was belayed on the capacious crevassed ledge below the -final overhang, and had probably had a reasonable night. Dave was suspended from several belays, as far as I could make out, at the top of the "faith and friction slab". He was moving slowly and stiffly to join Ian but refused our shouted offer to go round and give him a top rope.

The ropes we carried for our intended rescue became a nuisance as we started to Scramble up the Eastern Terrace.We stopped to re arrange them just as Dave arrived at the crevasse stance and immediately addressed the bulging rib above. He made an impressive sight as he clasped the rock and moved inexorably up and we paused again in our ascent to admire his performance. At the top we traversed over to meet them with food and welcome drinks in thermos flasks and then all of us set off to the summit of Snowdon. We were now above the clouds, in cold clear air and the view in all directions was magnificent. Dave even claimed that he could see Ireland and the Isle of Man, but I think that that was probably a hallucination stemming from his trial the previous night.

Jane and I now moved into Glan Dena, the unlovely but comfortable hut of the Midland Association of Mountaineers at the end of Llyn Ogwen. On what was to be the best day of the week we set off up the Milestone Buttress, continued onto the beginning of the Heather Terrace and soloed Nor' Nor' Buttress. We scrambled down Nor' Nor' Gully and then tackled Grooved Arete, traversing out on the brittle holds of the exhilarating exposed slab and ribs of the Superdirect pitch,to make it more exciting.

Postcript Cracks:Tony Moulam

Pinnacle Route quickly took us to the summit of North Buttress and, as the sinking sun reddened the highest rocks of the mountain's west face, we set off down Notch Arete, which I was later to describe as a good way to descend. The ovoid sun seemed to rest for a moment on the Glyder ridge, preparing for its sleep, and suddenly we were in the dark and fumbling to find holds for foot and hand. Slow now and awkwardly, at last we came to the runnels of scree and flat tilted boulders at the foot of the face. Progress was easier now but the mountain had one last trick. I was ahead, finding the way, when a cry from Jane and a sliding grating noise alerted me to danger. I just managed to pull up onto a rock on my right when a monstrous sled like boulder swept past, and rumbled on into the dark with the typical brimstone smell.

Since being demobbed I had spent a little time studying at Shrewsbury Technical College, nearly three months in hospital, from which I had been discharged with only 30 degrees of movement in my right knee and a long period walking and cycling to re mobilise my knee. When I was able to climb again I had taken every opportunity to be on the rocks, but now my freedom was near its end. My first term at Manchester University started in a few days time and Geoff Pigott and I had another go at Ogof Direct, getting no further than we had before. A last cheerful day was spent in wandering up, down and across most of Carreg Wastad before Leslie Mather gave me a lift to Manchester Central from where I took a train to Derby. I arrived in the early hours so slept on the station ,before walking home by 7.00 am. Next day Jane left Wales for Woodbridge and her other passion, dinghy sailing whilst I gathered my possessions and trained back to Manchester.

On Registration I found that I had been allocated digs in Levenshulme with three other freshers, though we did not think of ourselves as such. We were installed two to a room in a large Victorian terraced house just off the main road. It was about an hour and 20 minutes walk from the University building, a trek. I was to make many times in order to save bus fares and finance my weekends away. I was two or three years older than the other three, as I had been on military service, but more to the point the man with whom I shared a room had actually done some climbing, with the Gritstone Club. He was Ian Gordon MacNaught Davis, hitherto known as "Mac", from Wakefield and even then a sort of professional Yorkshire man.

The author on Eastern Arete: Y Garn

We did not immediately climb together as I already had many friends in the area, particularly in the Rucksack, Club. On my first week end I met Geoff Pigott in Stockport and he drove us out to Alderley Edge in his shining black Citroen Light 15. He was a partner in his father's sugar and spice importing business and also a talented climber. Rucksack Club legend had it that he did not recognise his own father as, in an early safety film made by the Mountain Rescue Committee, he had taken the star role as a surviving climber hitching a lift to the police station. The car he stopped was driven by his famous father Fred, but in his request for help he did not acknowledge the relationship and in the dialogue consistently called his father "sir". Later in a speech at a dinner Fred revealed that his son's ambitions were to be the greatest driver, the greatest climber and the greatest lover in the world. He commented that he would most likely achieve the latter aim first, judging by the quantities of female underwear he found discarded in his car!

In Alderley Edge, a very upmarket commuter settlement for Manchester, we made our way to Wood Mine, hoping for some caving practice. It was full of dense wood smoke, aptly enough, so we went off to West Mine. As a deterrent to adventurous youngsters the council had blocked the entrance with deep mud. This deterred us older adventurers too, but we did a couple of little problem climbs and then completed a stomach traverse along a muddy sill halfway up the face. Disappointed we repaired to the pub, where our muddy clothes caused askance glances. but Geoff 's accent and attitude carried the day.

Now I was actually a member of the Manchester University Mountaineering Club it seemed a good time to legalise my earlier visits and attend a meet at Tyn y Weirglodd. Nine of us spent the last weekend of October there, although the weather was not good. In hail Dick Meyer and I explored the east face of the summit rocks on Moel Hebog and manged to ascend it without identifying our climb. In the evening one of our members was elected cook whilst the rest of us practised opening bottles- of beer. By the time the meal was ready we had just about mastered the art, but there was nothing left for our chef. The meal, mainly of potato and corned beef was reminiscent of some of the worst rations I had endured in the army but it was filling enough to affect adversely our performance in the morning. Or I suppose it might Just possibly have been the beer.

Johnny Churchill moments after he and the author had completed Mur y Niwl: Tony Moulam

Heavy rain vied with the heaviness in our stomachs and hearts as we made a dutiful ascent of Y Garn and blundered in increasing misery, down the Trum y Ddysgl ridge. We got back to Manchester, still damp and newly tired after a drive in Geoff Eglington's car. It was made all the more difficult as the windscreen wipers didn't work and more and more often throughout the journey the front seat passenger had to lean out of the window to operate them. In November I had got a timetable for the bus routes to various places in the peak. With Dick Meyer and Mac I visited Dovestones,Yellowslacks, Shining Clough and Laddow. However unlikely it seems the weather was generally good. Indeed on our return from Yellowslacks to Glossop the sky was intensely clear and we saw Mars and Venus as well as a faint manifestation of the Northern Lights.

At Laddow it was very cold and windy but we managed quite a lot of excercise being almost benighted on Long Chimney and actually soloing Cave Chimney in the dark, to get to the path on top of the cliff and to return home. At last the time for my long awaited introduction to actual Alpine snow arrived. Trains took me to London and on to Paris as the fine day gradually turned to fog. I met the Morin party and was taken to the flat of one of Nea's relatives, where I slept on the floor. This tall narrow house fascinated me with its wooden panels and high rooms, all guarded by an ancient concierge crone.

Our journey south started from the station where crowds milled about in chaos on the platform. Shuffling and squealing the train backed in and we joined the unruly rush for the doors. No seemly queues here, you had to push and shove and fight to get in and retain a place. Eventually we were all settled in, fairly comfortably, in one very crowded compartment. It was Christmas eve morning as we set off, and that night we collected our skis from the station and Nea's fluent french fixed me up in an inexpensive room at l'Hotel des, Alpes. Briancon is a picturesque town with swiftly flowing gutters down the middle of the steep cobbled streets. It is built at 4:350 feet and presents a muddle of narrow lanes within the old fortified walls.

The Champ de Mars is a sort of village green and in winter, deep in snow, was the first accessible place for me to practice before venturing onto the real mountain pistes. Most of
my action was on Serre Chevalier, at the time it had the longest cable lift in Europe, and it operated at a very reasonable price. It must have done as in the three weeks I spent there I went up it no fewer than ten times. The ordinary descent was called the Vallon but I soon found this too tame, and as Nea commented my bravery far outmatched my skill, and I graduated prematurely to the much more difficult Route Bleu. This started with a long, nearly horizontal traverse left from the summit station. The idea was to execute a smart turn at the end and traverse back again at an easy angle. I found that with my still stiff knee I could make this first turn on only about one in four attempts. On my three failures my accomplished slide quickly changed to an ignominous tumble with skis and sticks windmilling around until the slope
eased and I came to a breathless and undignified stop.

I became notorious amongst the elegantly dressed french skiers as M. le Surplus, as I was decked out in ex army camouflage gear. On one of these unplanned but speedy descents I managed to break a ski, one of the edgeless pair I had brought from Vienna. This was a blessing in disguise as I was forced to replace them with a modern pair, with metal edges, better bindings and a proper pair of ski boots. This put my standard up considerably and I enjoyed the rest of my stay much better. On an off day I climbed the Croix de Toulouse (1973m) via a couloir of deep soft snow and on another occasion we visited the Fort des Salettes and the Fort des Fetes, two examples of seven in the neighbourhood. The days I enjoyed most were those we went ski touring and I remember especially going to Le Bez and up to the Col Mea on breakable crust whilst the descent proved to be perfect powder snow. The views were fantastic including the Pelvoux , le Fife, Les Ecrins Les Agneax and Pic Gaspard.

Another excursion we made to the Col Perdu, from Cervieres. On our last day we took the lift to Serre Chevalier again as we had heard that the famed Equipe Francais was to be, there. Sure enough they emerged from their reserved cabin and took the fearsome slope straight down from the top. Later their trainer apparently said that he would not have allowed them to do it if he had realised how steep it was but they all acquitted themselves perfectly. We followed by the ordinary route, and at the foot of the mountain had a great surprise as I met Rene Thomas again, a real co-incidence as he was here by chance with a client from Chamonix.

Tony Moulam 2012

This week:Tony Moulam on the loneliness of the long distance guidebook writer

2012-01-03T09:49:00.000Z

A youthful Ian McNaught Davies on Castle Rock in the Lake District: Tony Moulam

" I said my farewells to Robin and set off on my bike into the night and on to Tyn y Weirglodd, where I was to have an interlude, again instructing scouts. We had a good week, attaining quite a high standard, with the best routes achieved being Angel Pavement and Adam Rib, besides Deep Chimney on the Far West Buttress of Cloggy.
I returned to Pen y Gwryd, intending to continue with the field work for my guide. However at dinner that night Chris Briggs introduced me to a Mrs Fearon, whose 17 year old daughter had been bitten by the climbing bug. Chris had recommended me as a careful and conscientious climber to whom she could safely be entrusted. Jane was tall, slim and very eager to start. Even the boring walk over to Craig yr Ysfa didn't deter her and on our first day, whilst ensuring she got the easier pitches, we led through on Amphitheatre Buttress. Amphitheatre Rib and Beaumont's Chimney followed, whilst the sun shone benignly down. For the rest of her holiday we were joined by Peter Snell and Keith Ingold, and thus reinforced, we did a new route on Black Ladders. Jane's red setter pup had accompanied us to the top of the cliff, and obediently stayed there as vie scrambled off down the gully. When we returned from the depths he greeted his mistress ecstatically and we named the climb after him, in tribute to his patience. Jane had to go home with her mother after this but the weather continued fine so that the guidebook work did too. Various gap filling new routes were made with Peter Snell, Brian Blake and Adrian Horridge and then, for a sort of holiday, I teamed up with Arthur Dolphin for the Milestone Superdirect, including the Final Block. This fine top pitch had had very few ascents since Menlove Edwards first led it in 1941. The intimidating crack actually proved to be quite easy, it was the approach diagonally up the slightly leaning wall on very small and flaky holds that proved to be the crux.'

Later this week; veteran climber Tony Moulam recalls his experiences after the war when many areas of North Wales remained virgin territory and great routes...such as his own classic, Mur y Niwl..remained as unclimbed lines traced on a photograph. An extensive and fascinating feature illustrated with contemporary photographs taken by the author and previously unpublished.

Careful with that ice axe Eugene: Return of The Angry Corrie!

2011-12-30T12:35:00.000Z

One of the outdoor 'zine' publications which became an influence and inspiration behind the creation of Footless Crow has emerged-phoenix like- from it's two year hibernation with a current edition selling like hot cakes -or possibly stale buns- from various outdoor outlets and through postal subscriptions. The Angry Corrie -the quirky and off beat Scottish hillwalking zine- was launched by Derbyshire born born Dave Hewitt in 1991 as a modest print publication which was sold in Scotland and northern England.

Lacking the glossy commercial style of contemporary outdoor publications,the editor opted instead for a aesthetically spare look which eshewed photographs and advertisements and instead offered lengthy articles on such things as obscure mountaineers,hill stats and remote howths. The publication usually opted for cartoons and drawings over photographic illustrations. TAC relied entirely on the unpaid contributions of it's enthusiastic supporters.

Dave Hewitt who formerly worked as an outdoor writer on the Scotsman before moving on to the Caladonian Mercury, has authored books on hillwalking in Scotland and the legendary hill walker, Alfred Wainwright.With his journalistic demands tied into his commercial work, TAC had fallen into a state of suspended animation until it's recent welcome re-awakening.
Although the journal does not cover pure rock climbing and mountaineering-being essentially a walkers publication-features on Scottish climbers have appeared on occasion and many of it's subscribers are all round mountaineers. If you haven't had the pleasure then The Angry Corrie can be purchased direct from...... TAC

Rainbow's End

2011-12-22T10:19:00.000Z

I first met Mallory under the twisted crown of Mynydd Mawr. For hours I had inelegantly toiled in the October gloom with Big Dave Williams on Craig Cwm Du…The crag of the black hollow, on the mountain’s saturnine north face, attempting to subdue Archer Thomson’s 1911 classic; Adam Rib.

As the clag swirled around the cliffs’ serrated buttresses, I pondered the final moves up what the guidebook described as…’the exposed and narrow rib’. With further advice on ‘wobbly holds’, the author assured me that at least I would ‘enjoy’ the exposed finale in a ‘splendid position’.

To emphasise the description, the Climbers Club guidebook editors had included a tempting Kevin Borman photograph taken on a rare clear summer’s day of blue skies showing Terry Gifford and Norman Elliot - T shirted and sun kissed- in exactly that splendid position.However, today the cliff was painted in a spare palette and days of basking on the rock in light apparel were long gone. On this occasion it was more a day for fleeces, gloves and blind faith.

The guidebook which dangled from my waist that day was the 1989 CC guide to Tremadog and Cwm Silyn. A guidebook of some controversy at the time because of it’s cardboard covered, bumper fun book format. Now known to many as The Pink Trem Guide or more appropriately as 'The Pretty Trem Guide' after joint editor Mark Pretty. The Pretty Guide is the one guidebook I can find instantly on my bookshelves on account of its black duck tape spine. Yes...cardboard covers and the north Wales climate…. I sense a design flaw here somewhere!

But I digress; back to that October day…..
Adam Rib was created by that great Edwardian explorer of wild places- James Merriman Archer Thomson, in a year- 1911- which became a golden year of exploration by the leviathans of north Wales climbing. Nonetheless, even a man of Thomson’s immense standing baulked at what lay before him that day in 1911 - the aforementioned ‘exposed and narrow rib’- and sidled off into the grim confines of the disintegrating Eden Gully with his party, leaving George Leigh Mallory to finally lead the forbidding feature in September 1912 with Ralph Todhunter following on.

Now the pitch is only 4b (US 5.6) technically and I imagine would be a breeze on a pleasant summer’s day but on that cold day in October the atmosphere was decidedly gloomy.
I looked down at my partner ensconced on a tiny saddle of rock twixt the plunging fissures of Eden and East Gullies. In the gloom an occasional Golden Virginia roll up flared between Dave's pursed lips as the clag rolled in leaving the whole cliff with a very Tolkein-esque feel to it. We could have been scaling the very heights of Mordor itself such was the ethereal atmosphere which enveloped us that day.

Needless to say; the murder of crows which wheeled high above the cwm that sombre afternoon did not witness a flashing arc of red screaming into the void. Rather they would have seen a lonely figure who had been fixed to the rock for what seemed an age, finally slithering up the dank rib and hear the faint echo of an oft repeated refrain of mine…'You know Dave…I thought I was off there!'.

At the top we supped coffee and gathered our thoughts amongst the heathery hollows. It was conceded that old Mallory was a bold bastard to be sure considering the era he was climbing. The experience though, had ignited a curiosity to look beyond the Everest myth and seek out Mallory, the Welsh activist. A meandering journey which brings me here.

Now, the life and times of George Leigh Mallory have been pored over and analysed in meticulous detail by far more scholarly climbing writers than I. The greater ranges of Europe and the Himalayas lie over the hill and far away as far as I’m concerned. Instead, the Mallory I seek is to be found in the disintegrating gullies of Cwm Eigeau and the tottering towers of Nantlle. An climbing arena where in the words of Geoffrey Winthrop Young writing in the introduction to Menlove Edwards’ 1939 Climbers Club guide to Lliwedd ; Mallory had displayed… an audacious agility, a love of hardy camping and asceticism less usual in that period, a personal beauty and mountain enthusiasm which have all combined to invest his climbs with a romantic halo.

North Wales 1907-1910…The Romantic Halo

In 1907, Mallory then aged 21, made his first climbing trip to North Wales, in the company of Geoffrey Keynes -brother of the economist Maynard-and Hugh Wilson. The poet Rupert Brooke was originally pencilled in as one of the team but dropped out for reasons unknown at the eleventh hour. Their destination was the increasing popular Ogwen Valley where they stayed at Gwern Gof Isaf . Still a well frequented destination for modern climbers who avail themselves of the adjoining camp site.

Armed with nothing but their enthusiasm and with the Abraham Brothers’ Rock Climbing in North Wales as their guide, they tackled most of the contemporary trade routes on nearby Tryfan with further excursions on Lliwedd and over in remote Cwm Eigeau where they climbed The Great Gully and Amphitheatre Buttress .

During this stay, the first of the Mallory myths was born. As the great explorer, Archer Thomson was working on a new line on Lliwedd’s Heather Shelf area, he and his partner came under fire from a salvo of rocks falling from upon high. According to which account you read, this incident was either a trifling irritant to the great man or it had threatened to wipe out the party. Whichever version is true it appears that it was Mallory and friends who had set off the rock fall from their position high on Terminal Arete. Archer’s route that day as most people will have guessed was the classic Avalanche!

The following year Mallory returned with 16 year old brother Trafford with whom he cycled from the family home in Birkenhead to camp by the Afon Llugwy in Capel Curig. During this stay they once again repeated many of the hardest routes of the day and created the second great Mallory/Lliwedd myth.

Whilst climbing on the east face, Mallory supposedly left his pipe on the mountain’s Bowling Green ledge. Legend has it that he returned the next day and ascended a 230’ line of slabby ribs to recover it. The line has become Mallory’s Slab a hardish V Diff which- relatively speaking given the unfashionable haunts he frequented- became one of his most popular routes.

During this fruitful period in the early years of Welsh exploration, George made his first visit to the English Lake District where he was accompanied once again by Hugh Wilson and Geoffrey Keynes. In addition another outstanding Birkenhead based climber, Hugh Porter joined the party. Porter it was who joined Mallory on one of his great Welsh adventures but more of that later…
Staying at the Wastwater Hotel and this time using Rock Climbing in the English Lake District as their guide, the party led by George tackled The technical test pieces of the day including Kern Knotts Crack, VS and a classic climb created by yet another talented Merseysider-Geoffrey Solly’s remarkable 1892 VS route, Eagle’s Nest Ridge.
It was within this period that Mallory established the first of his spare number of Lakeland creations. Mallory’s Right Hand Route and Mallory’s left Hand Route on Gable Crag. The former still graded Very Severe.

The following Easter, Mallory’s emerging talent was recognised by the great Edwardian ringmaster himself, Geoffrey Winthrop Young who invited the newcomer to one of his celebrated Pen y Pass gatherings at the Gorphwysfa Hotel. It was during this stay that he met Wales’s most celebrated, feted explorer and creative force, Archer Thomson. Since the last Victorian decade Thomson had carved out his own inimitable niche in the climbing world through his assiduous exploration of the great cliffs of North Wales. During this stay, Mallory established three first ascents on the remote cliffs of Craig yr Ysfa with GW Young. Birch Tree Chimney, The Slab Climb and The Low Climb and re-climbed his Slab route on Lliwedd which Young thought was one of the hardest things he had yet done on Welsh rock. The die was cast. Mallory’s reputation as a young tiger began to take shape.

Lliwedd saw a second Mallory creation- albeit it by default. Attempting Thomson’s Great Chimney, Mallory led his partner E Evans up another cleft in the cliff face which became a 750’ HVD, Wrong Chimney. Another first ascent was made on the Gribin face above Nameless Cwm, The East Face of Gribin .with Irving, Murray and Tynedale. Unfortunately or fortunately depending on your perspective, the route has essentially returned to nature.

During this period Mallory and his regular partners were making regular sorties across the channel and seeing some success in repeating the Alpine trade routes. However, it was on a humble Wirral sandstone outcrop that Mallory met his match. Taking flight from a short problem and breaking an ankle in the process. The accident put him out of action for a number of months and saw him miss Winthrop Young’s 1910 Pen y Pass bash. A not unfortunate absence in the circumstances for during this eventful gathering, occasional climbing partner, Donald Robertson was killed in a lead fall on Thomson’s East Gully, on Glyder Fach. It was the first fatality suffered on home soil by Young’s Welsh legion and it struck particularly hard.

1911-15 : Hang out your brightest colours

When George Mallory returned to the fray he entered a period which became his golden age on Welsh and English rock. 1911 was the year in which he established some of his hardest routes. Routes which still have the capacity to intimidate and challenge modern climbers.
Staying with Harold Porter at the Snowdon Ranger in the relatively unfrequented Cwellyn area of Snowdonia. Mallory set his sites on exploring the cliffs of Llechog and the Nantlle Valley. In a glorious September campaign he and Porter looked at the Central Buttress of Y Garn which had defeated the great Thomson himself and saw the outstanding Swiss climber, Anton Stoop die in a subsequent attempt when a flake he was pulling over broke away from the cliff. By this stage, the Central Buttress had developed a fearsome reputation which had repelled even those leading lights of the day. The completed route was subsequently left out of Carr’s 1926 Climber Club guidebook as too dangerous to justify inclusion.

After a very futuristic pre inspection of the crux pitch from above by Mallory, it was in fact Harold Porter who led the crux of the climb which ironically is now known as Mallory’s Ridge rather than perhaps more deservedly Porter’s Ridge ? During their stay at the Snowdon Ranger, the same pair established the equally bold Eastern Gutter and the less demanding Trinity Buttress B on Llechog and opened up Cwm Silyn by establishing the areas’ first ever route. Four Pitch Gully on Clogwyn Cysgod. Finally, in 1911, Mallory climbed a direct 4c finish to Lliwedd’s Far East Cracks. It had been a fine return to form after the accident .

As an example of Mallory’s rather lackadaisical approach to new route recording, Eastern Gutter only received a second ascent in 1980 when it was re discovered by Hugh Banner and Mike Yates. On the same cliff, Trinity Buttress B had been lost until 1938 when Barber, Piggott and Scolari made their own second ascent. In fact, the Banner/Yates team believed that their 1980 ascent of Mallory’s Ridge was a second ascent. However, the true second ascent took place in September 1949 by E Dance, W Gordon and G Eglington.

Interestingly, this period in Mallory’s climbing career came under scrutiny by two modern climbing writers, Martin Crook and Duncan Lee and recorded in two very similar articles published in High in 1999 and 2003 respectively. The discovery of Mallory’s body on Everest in 1999 inspired Martin Crook to re-climb many of his hardest routes including Mallory’s Ridge and Eastern Gutter. An experience recountered in an article simply entitled George Mallory. (High Dec 1999)
In 2003 Duncan Lee had been inspired to take on the same task when he was contacted by American climber Andy Politz. Andy had been one of the Eric Simonsen’s Mallory and Irvine Research Team which had made the momentous discovery of Mallory’s mortal remains on Everest that same year. Politz was keen to test himself upon the Everest hero’s hardest routes of the day in an effort to ascertain just how good a climber Mallory was and if he could indeed have climbed Everest’s infamous Second Step ? High published the Lee/Politz article as George Mallory, Master Cragsman ? (High March 2003)

Not surprisingly, both teams’ investigations produced identical responses. Mallory- it was conceded- was truly an outstanding climber who was climbing at the cutting edge of technical expertise in his day. Perhaps more surprising was the fact that both teams found Llechog’s Eastern Gutter, now VS-4c, to be his hardest climb. A climb that Martin Crook believes is worth two stars in a contemporary guidebook

Another late summer stay at The Snowdon Ranger with Ralph Todhunter in 1912 delivered a couple of routes on the aforementioned dark cliffs of Craig Cwm Du. Two mountaineering severes - Pis Aller Rib and Yellow Rib fell on the same day with the direct finish to Adam Rib. Sadly, Mallory’s increasingly infrequent visits to his old Welsh haunts were to be overshadowed by the tragic death of North Wales’s leading creative force, Archer Thomson. Since Mallory was exiled down south since gaining a teaching post at Charterhouse, he had followed Thomson’s lead. Exploring the cliffs that the locally based headmaster had opened up and developed. Certainly areas which had in effect become Thomson’s personal fiefdom offered great potential for further development by activists such as Mallory .

The author on the first pitch of Mallory's Ridge: Al Leary

Before Thomson’s death both he and GW Young had been planning what would have been the third Climbers Club guidebook to include the outlying cliffs in the hinterlands to the west designated The Beddgelert District. Essentially this would have recorded the developments in the new areas such as Llechog and Nantlle and with the addition of those established areas covered in Thomson’s previous guidebooks, given contemporary climbers a much greater perspective of the richness and diversity which Welsh climbing now offered .
After Thomson’s death the baton passed on to Mallory who with Ralph Todhunter planned to complete the work. Sadly, the war years took their toll on both activists and the guidebook they planned was never completed. It would be left to Herbert Carr to take it on and see it through to completion in 1926.

On the eve of the First World War, Mallory’s creative fire on Welsh rock was diminishing although it would periodically flare in the proceeding years. Trinity Buttress C, a severe on Llechog was climbed in 1913 with Todhunter, Percy and Keynes. It would be the last climb for a number of years in this quiet land in the west which unfolds to the sea. This in fact became another of Mallory’s lost routes. Re-discovered by Barber, Piggott and Jenkins in 1938.
However; one remarkable Mallory achievement stands out in this period. A hundred and fifty miles to the north, an excursion to the Lake District produced a route of magnificent mystery which as with so many GLM routes had totally disappeared off the guidebook writers’ radar. An ascent of Pillar Rock in 1913 with Charterhouse schoolboy Alan Goodfellow, had produced a line which Mallory had recorded in the Wasdale Head’s visitors book as North-West by West climb. A later description appeared in The Climber’s Club Bulletin No 9 of October 1913 and the CC’s 1914 Journal (Volume 3).

Ninety years would pass before it would re surface after Mike Cocker of the Fell and Rock Club had re-discovered it in the Wasdale log which,-as it was probably recorded on the day of the ascent- was much more detailed than the later cryptic Climbers’ Club record. Certainly the great Lakeland pioneer Harry Kelly had been aware of the route but had failed to identify it from either description whilst exploring the cliff for the first Pillar guidebook in 1919.

It would be a remarkable 92 years before the second ascent was recorded by Lakeland activist and Fell and Rock guidebook writer Stephen Reid who- while working on the Pillar Rock guidebook- finally re-climbed the route in May 2005 with Chris King. Stephen was armed with both the Wasdale Head and the Climber’s Club descriptions and pin pointed a route now known as North-west by West (Mallory’s Route) and carrying an HVS-5a grading. Certainly one of the hardest routes in the district at the time and with Central Buttress (Mallory’s Ridge) and Eastern Gutter in Wales, one of the hardest routes in the UK at the time.A fine ending to this chapter in Mallory’s career.

Two years would pass before he would make his mark on the cliffs of Wales again. A couple of new routes, Three Pinnacle Face on Lliwedd and the minor classic, Black Gates high above Llanberis Pass on Clogwyn y Ddysgl, were climbed with Conor o Brian and Herbert Reade. It would be another four years before Mallory would carve out another first ascent on the Welsh cliffs.

Farewell to Arms: 1916-1919

During the war years, George had take up a commission as a second lieutenant in the Artillery and had left behind the halcyon years of family life and mountain adventures. On the Western Front his old climbing injury flared up again. The fractured ankle had never been properly diagnosed and he found himself in increasing pain. Eventually he was discharged to the Officer’s Hospital in London for the ankle to be re set and a period of convalescence followed.
With growing confidence in the healing limb, Mallory took a trip to the Isle of Arran and took great pleasure in just wandering amongst the mountains of that fair island. However, the ankle injury meant that his return to the front was continually delayed and he was deployed on home soil until finally he was declared fit for duty in 1917.

The army however decided to keep him in blighty for the time being where he attended a battery commander course at Lydd. As the war wound down inexorably to it’s denouement, he used a period of leave to discover the delights of Skye with wife Ruth and accompanied by David Pye and Leslie Shadbolt. The latter a former Pen y Pass habitué who had climbed on Skye with Archer Thomson. After repeating several classics, George and Shadbolt climbed a 1000’ line on Sron na Ciche now known as Cioch West. The following day they established a new route on the cliff, now known as Mallory’s Slab and Groove and graded severe. Sadly, George and Ruth had come to the end of their sojourn in the north and departed south leaving Pye and Shadbolt to establish the classic Crack of Doom a few days later.
After nearly a year and a half on home soil, Mallory was sent back to the front as the war exploded in its ferocious end game.

Dancing with Ghosts..1919

When Geoffrey Winthrop Young revived the Pen y Pass meet tradition in the Easter of 1919 it was a sombre affair. Of the sixty climbers who had gathered in 1914, twenty three had died on the battlefields of Europe and 11 including Young himself had been injured. Those like Mallory, who had survived the war physically intact but emotionally scarred wandered out of Gorphwysfa to reacquaint themselves with familiar old friends. The raven haunted cliffs of Lliwedd, Llanberis and Ogwen. Once again the hills echoed with the sounds of climbers. However, unlike those carefree pre war years during the birth of the new century, those who now set their face to the cliff looked into its darkest recesses.

The old routes were climbed and the old tales were told but it was to be Mallory’s true swansong on the north Wales cliffs. Two VS routes, Bowling Green Buttress and The Garter Traverse were created on Lliwedd but in effect it was the end of the affair on home soil.
From here on in, Mallory would find himself occupied with loftier affairs. The Alps and Everest beckoned. Apart from the occasional visit to his old haunts, innocent days spent exploring the quiet cliffs of North Wales and Cumbria had come to a natural conclusion.

Under a blood red sky

When this article was first mooted, I immediately fell upon the idea of filling in one of the gaps in my Welsh climbing career. Back to The Pretty Guide.
On days when rain swept Tremadog’s verdant cliffs free of climbers, sodden teams retreated to Eric Jones’s café and jostled for table space. Patched elbows wiping an arc of vision from windows dripping with condensation. No chance of a route today…not even Boo-Boo! Amongst the sugar grains and tobacco ash, The Pretty Guide was idly thumbed. Routes assessed and appraised, suggestions garnered and finally, eyes fell upon -The graded list of climbs in order of difficulty- which the editor advised had been -brought back to entertain and infuriate! Actually; I believe the1989 Climbers Club Guide to Tremadog and Cwm Silyn was the last CC guidebook to include a graded list of difficulty but don’t quote me on that?

* (Since revived in the current crop of CC guidebooks)

As humble punters, our interests mainly lay in those climbs in the sub-extreme category, more especially the VS section. Tracing a rising line up the grimy page….there’s Yogi…. Nice little climb- at the bottom….passing through such classics as Laverado, Shadrach, Merlin…moving on from the lower reaches into the mid table. Oxine…Olympic Slab…Grim Wall…the magnificent Kirkus Route in Cwm Silyn. Ever upwards passing Bonington and Brasher’s brutal Double Criss in the Moelwyns and Joe Brown’s Striptease to arrive at Mallory’s Ridge.
And there you have it ; Top of the pile and officially the hardest VS climb in the district! A route which we were told- had acquired a notorious reputation for difficulty and looseness. The fourth pitch, the author reminded us, had- seen off some notable climbers in less than perfect conditions !

And so it was. For twenty years the route had been simmering on my back burner. Waiting for an unlikely ascent.

As emails bounced across cyberspace between Mike Bailey and myself, I kindly informed Mike who was working on his own piece for this journal, that he was being recruited for a long awaited ascent of Mallory’s Ridge. One problem. The summer of 2008 in North Wales had been…in a word…dire !. Since Mid July, the rain had swept in giving relatively few dry days. As it was now September and with no let up in the monsoon conditions an ascent was looking highly unlikely until-lo and behold- a warm sunny snap arrived right on Q.

Grabbing the opportunity with both hands I arranged to meet Mike at the Rhyd Ddu car park next to the new Welsh Highland Railway track. As the sun beat down and temperatures soared towards the 80’s I liberated the sun tan cream from the glove compartment and pondered the wisdom of carrying a waterproof up to the cliff ?
Finally Mike arrived accompanied by photographer Al Leary who apart from his contributions to previous Welsh guidebooks had actually climbed the route. In fact he was the only person I had ever met who had set foot on Mallory’s Ridge and now a second ascent beckoned. Surely some sort of record !

As we zig-zagged into the long shadows which fell from the mountains gaunt buttresses we passed by Thomson’s Eastern Arete which I had climbed 15 years before. Finally to arrive sweating and panting into the cooling confines of the little amphitheatre which separated Eastern Arete from the intimidating stark edifice of Central Buttress.From the base of the cliff I felt somewhat intimidated by those beetling overhangs and sharply defined ribs and grooves which hung over us like the ramparts of a medieval castle. It looked huge from below and without any obvious easier lines through the steeper sections ?

After a well earned brew and some quiet contemplation, the little cwm finally echoed to the sound of jangling ironmongery, murmured instructions and I was off, leading the first pitch. I moved up the steep but straightforward ribs at the base of the route to meet the arête line proper. A few more moves up the clean arête and I had reached the first stance. Something was wrong though ? Where were the signs of a climbers passage…the trodden turf and heather. A stub of cigarette or a peel of insulation tape. A sprinkling of chalk maybe. Nothing…not even the rusting shaft of an old peg ???

To all intents and purposes, the climb was in a totally virginal state. A classic VS climb which had held so many in awe of its status. Surely it would draw the occasional curious mountaineer or the odd ticker of classic VS routes ? Notwithstanding its lack of traffic, at least we could reprise the conditions that Mallory and Porter would have encountered on that first ascent, exactly 97 years ago to the month .

Mike led off around the corner and was pretty soon causing severe neck strain as I peered up to follow his progress up what turned out to be a superb groove which ran up the left edge of a steep slab before darting under an overhang and delivering him to a decent stance.
From here Al took over and after climbing a scruffy slab moved out onto a clean rib which in keeping with the serpentine line we had followed so far, wound into a steep groove which required some old fashioned bridging and back and footing to subdue. Now came the crux. The pitch- which has seen off some notable climbers. Enough said..Mike…your lead !

Welsh climber and guidebook author Mike Bailey on the crux of Mallory's Ridge

The actual crux line looked nothing like what I imagined. For some reason I had pictured the bold leader traversing across steep ground then fighting up some awful off width crack. In the event it did indeed traverse across a steep slab face. However, the slab was broken up with hanging grooves and ribs and the pitch was more a technically delicate dance upon high than a thug fest. As always, Mike climbed the pitch beautifully followed by Al who after breaching the steep groove at the crux moved left into a subsidiary groove continuing to the top. For myself, I just went straight up after the delicate traverse. Following a suspiciously clean line of edges which looked as if they had been peeled clean of vegetation?

The final two pitches- run together- were led by myself. Pulling around into a steep groove, I had to at one stage pull up and stand on a loose flake which, if I had been so inclined, I could have removed and stuffed it into my rucksack as a souvenir! Above the flake everything I hammered or pulled on either rocked or felt hollow. No point in fixing gear. At least the standard had dropped to no more than V Diff. Remarkably, Mallory’s Ridge finishes slap bang on the 2500’ summit of Y Garn. I could have cleared my throat of heather dust and lichen spores and placed a direct hit on the summit cairn!

It was now after six on this late summer’s day. To the north the Angelsey coast rose to meet the faint smear of Holyhead mountain in the distance. As Al took shots on his Nikon, I drank in the Nantlle Ridge winding and swooping down to the western fringes. Meeting, en-route, the newly designated mountain peak of Mynydd Graig Goch which only that week had graced the national newspapers on account of its promotion from mere hill to mountain. New mountain discovered in Wales!
The vast cwm beneath Trum y Ddysgl melted into shadows and to the north Yr Wyddfa sported it’s latest carbuncle on the face of a much loved friend. The new as yet unfinished multi million pound café which from here looked more like an Aldi supermarket !

Never mind….it was a beautiful late summers day and I had finally followed in Mallory and Porter’s wake. Ninety seven years down the line, I imagined the first ascentionists stepping out of the shadows and onto Y Garn’s bald summit and wondered if like us, it was late in the day and would the weather have been so kind ?

I imagined their satisfaction and brimming conversation as they wound their way down the pathless flank of the mountain, heading for The Snowdon Ranger and the welcoming whisper of smoke curling from its chimney. Warm baths, warm beer and the sleep of the righteous would be their reward.

Epilogue
In the mid seventies, just after publication of his 1971 Lliwedd guidebook, Harold Drasdo was asked by Chris Briggs, mine host at the Pen y Gwyrd , if he would take a young American who was staying at the inn climbing with him. One of the routes they did that day was Mallory’s Slab. The young American was George Millikan who later offered his thanks and declared that it had been one of the best mountaineering days of his life.
George Millikan, unknown to Harold at the time was Mallory’s grandson. Son of Clare Mallory and Glenn Millikan who sadly like his great father in law also died in a climbing accident Albeit in a Tennessee gorge rather than on a Himalayan peak.

I imagined young George like his grandfather after a day on the hill. Looking into the quiet fire that smoldered in the blackened grate of the Welsh mountain inn and reflecting on his experiences that day. Perhaps finally divining the essential essence of that mythical figure with whom he shared a bloodline and feeling within, an affinity cast in stone which stretched across time and was rooted in those brooding heights across the valley.

So he had been salvaged and washed.
His muscles very white -marble white.
He had been heavily killed.
But we had revived him.

Ted Hughes: Dust as we are

References and further reading

The Wildest Dream….Peter & Leni Gillman
The mystery of Mallory and Irvine…Tom Holzel & Audrey Salkeld
Ghosts on Everest…Jochen Hemmleb, Larry Johnson, Eric Simonson
High 205…High 243
Tremadog & Cwm Silyn…Pretty, Farrant & Milburn (CC)
Lliwedd…H Drasdo (CC)
Climbing in Snowdonia & the Beddgelert District…Herbert Carr (CC)
New Selected poems 1957-1994…Ted Hughes

John Appleby: First published in The Climber's Club Guidebook Centenary Journal.

Later this week..Mallory in Wales: the long day's journey into night

2011-12-20T10:58:00.000Z

Siegried Herford and Mallory outside Gorphwysfa in the shadow of Yr Wyddfa-North Wales: Original photo The Alpine Club

"When George Mallory returned to the fray he entered a period which became his golden age on Welsh and English rock. 1911 was the year in which he established some of his hardest routes. Routes which still have the capacity to intimidate and challenge modern climbers.

Staying with Harold Porter at the Snowdon Ranger in the relatively unfrequented Cwellyn area of Snowdonia. Mallory set his sites on exploring the cliffs of Llechog and the Nantlle Valley. In a glorious September campaign he and Porter looked at the Central Buttress of Y Garn which had defeated the great Thomson himself and saw the outstanding Swiss climber, Anton Stoop die in a subsequent attempt when a flake he was pulling over broke away from the cliff. By this stage, the Central Buttress had developed a fearsome reputation which had repelled even those leading lights of the day. The completed route was subsequently left out of Carr’s 1926 Climber Club guidebook as too dangerous to justify inclusion.

After a very futuristic pre inspection of the crux pitch from above by Mallory, it was in fact Harold Porter who led the crux of the climb which ironically is now known as Mallory’s Ridge rather than perhaps more deservedly Porter’s Ridge ? During their stay at the Snowdon Ranger, the same pair established the equally bold Eastern Gutter and the less demanding Trinity Buttress B on Llechog and opened up Cwm Silyn by establishing the areas’ first ever route. Four Pitch Gully on Clogwyn Cysgod. Finally, in 1911, Mallory climbed a direct 4c finish to Lliwedd’s Far East Cracks.

It had been a fine return to form after the accident .

Later this week,John Appleby's comprehensive profile of George Leigh Mallory's climbing career on Welsh rock. A golden period of exploration when he established his reputation as one of the UK's leading technical climbers. A period which saw him create some of the hardest routes of the era before his attention shifted to the greater ranges and he- in the public eye-was reborn as Galahad of Everest

Russian team attempt first winter ascent of K2

2011-12-16T23:02:00.000Z

A team of Russian mountaineers is attempting to achieve what no other mountaineering party has achieved before. A winter ascent of K2 -the world's second highest peak. If the attempt is successful it will be the first time the pyramidal giant has been climbed outside of the more clement seasons.
The 15 strong team will endure temperatures of more than 50 below zero and wind speeds of up to 40 mph as they attempt to achieve their historic goal. The campaign is expected to take up to 3 months.

"This is only possible for a Russian team," said Victor Kozlov, the leader of the expedition, whose members put up a new route on K2 in 2007. "God willing, we can make it," he said this week in the Pakistani capital, ahead of his journey to the Karakoram range in the far north of the country.

Winter ascents of the world's 14 highest mountains are some of most prized achievements left in climbing. The 14 eight thousand feet peaks have all received their first ascents in the summer months. Amid a crowded field where each year hundreds pay around $80,000 to be guided up Everest, winter ascents can help a climber stand out and get his or her name in the history books.

Winter climbers have been summitting the 14 highest peaks one by one the past decades. However, many peaks within the Karakorum region remained unconquered. The range is further north than the Himalayas, where Everest is located, and thus sees harsher winters. K2 is the northernmost peak of all the major mountains.

Teams attempted winter ascents in the Karakorum 16 times in recent years. The first success came this year, when a three-member team including American Cory Richards summitted Gasherbrum II. That left only four peaks, three of them in the Karakorum and one nearby in the Himalayas.

"If they make it up K2 in winter, it will be huge," said Billi Bierling, a mountaineering journalist with three "eight thousanders" to her name, including Everest.

Elite mountaineers thrive on first ascents, new routes on established peaks and climbing in the "purest style" possible. That typically means no porter assistance high up on the slopes, no oxygen bottles or no reliance on fixed ropes left by other parties.

The Russians, who start their ascent around Christmas, are not using oxygen and will have porters at base camp only. Their gear and food — including three freshly slaughtered yaks and, according to Kozlov, a little vodka — is being flown in by Pakistani army helicopters charging more than $7,000 an hour.

Winter climbing means less daylight and temperatures around twice as cold as summer, making frostbite more of a danger. Living conditions at base camp are more miserable, winds are more vicious, there is more snow, greater avalanche risk and climbers need more food and equipment to stay alive.

The one plus: "The mountains are less crowded," said Bierling.

A Polish team was first up an "eight-thousander" in winter, topping out on Everest in February 1980. The triumph set the stage for a decade of other successful expeditions, mostly by a group Polish climbers nicknamed "The Ice Warriors."

The Russians intend to follow the "Cesen" route up K2 before venturing to the 8,611-meter summit from a face that has never been climbed, hoping it will allow them to avoid the worst of the wind. They plan to fix ropes and establish camps up the mountain. They will then wait for a window of clear weather, at most a few days sometime in February or early March, and make a summit dash.

K2 is renowned for terrible, unpredictable weather and steeper slopes than Everest. In the summer of 2008, 11 climbers died in an avalanche, the deadliest incident on a peak that has the second-highest fatality rate among the "eight-thousanders." More than 300 have reached the top, but at least 80 have died trying.

Andrzej Zawada, the Polish climber who made Everest's first winter ascent, tried K2 in 1987.

In a written account, he said that from the end of December there was so much snow at base camp they had to dig tunnels to get into their tents. In 80 days on the mountain, they had just 10 days of good weather. They retreated after reaching a high point of 7,300 meters, frostbitten, their tents and ropes ripped off the mountain in the wind.

"We did everything that was humanly possible in those inhospitable conditions," he wrote. "We were simply powerless in the face of such dangerous, formidable and life threatening elements which people have to confront in the highest mountains."

Ashraf Aman, the first Pakistani climber to summit K2, said he thought the Russians stood a chance. "They are a strong team, and experienced, but it depends on the weather," he said. He urged them to be fearless: "If you face death in the face, it will run away like a dog." There are two other expeditions elsewhere in the Karakorams this winter.

Pakistan has long welcomed foreign mountaineering expeditions, which bring cash and jobs into one of the country's poorest regions. While climbers are hardy types, the spike in Islamist terrorism in the country over the last five years has led to a sharp drop in arrivals, said Naiknam Karim, from Adventure Tours Pakistan, which is organising the Russian push.

"The biggest hurdle is the law and order situation and the perception outside the country," he said. "Sometimes the climbers want to come, but their families don't allow it."

Alf Bridge....The art of falling and other stories

2011-12-12T12:01:00.000Z

Alf Bridge (front 2nd right) and members of the Rucksack Club at a 1929 meet.

Maurice Linnell (back extreme left) and Colin Kirkus (Back 4th right) included.

There is a photograph of Alf Bridge in Byne and Sutton's book High Peak: it was taken in 1928 when he was at the height of his powers. Even in his climbing gear their is no hiding his stocky, muscular frame and sturdy legs. For those who have not heard of his reputation as an anti-establishment figure, his determined stance and strong jawline in many ways reflect Alf's unyielding approach to mountaineering and life.

Alfred William Bridge was born in Longsight, Manchester in 1902. After attending Grammer school be worked in a drawing office as a trainee draughtsman. Within a few years his father died and Alf took on the mantle of the primary breadwinner — there were three younger siblings to consider He decided to become an apprentice steeplejack, the extra danger money he earned was crucial in the household budget - It was an early and revealing insight into his values and strength of character

Like many Mancunians of his generation be was attracted to the local gritstone edges, both as an escape from the depression and as an outlet for his restless energies. This was a few years before the Kinder Scout Mass Trespass when huge swathes of the Peak were patrolled by keepers and virtually became no go areas.
Confrontations were frequent, although these would have held little fear for Alf who could look after himself. With little money and no transport he accepted that the long approach trek from his home was part of the day To get the most from the short weekends most people worked Saturday mornings- Saturday nights were usually spent bivouacking under the cliffs where Robin Hood's Cave at Stanage was a particular favourite

He was soon to gain a reputation as a strong and forceful climber but he first sprang to prominence as an endurance walker with the Bogtrotters Club. Many of these walks are recorded in High Peak although it is thought his most remarkable effort was a solo 24-hour circuit from Greenfield to Chinley in which he climbed on Laddow (three climbs), Stanage (four climbs), Cratcliffe Tor (two climbs), Robin Hood Stride (one climb) and Castle Naze (two climbs). Shod in gym shoes and carrying a Primus with a minimum amount of food it was a lightweight expedition in the purest sense. Eric Byne wrote, 'Few would have been capable of such a feat'

In the early '30s he joined the Rucksack Club but it proved to be a short-lived union that was to highlight his confrontational personality. The problem occurred after a tiring day in the Lakes when he turned up at the Wayfarers' Robertson Lamb Hut in Langdale, hoping to use the Rucksack Club's reciprocal rights. It is said that Alf was told in no uncertain terms; there was no room for him due to a Wayfarers' Meet. Words were exchanged and, whether or not it was the leader's aggressive manner when he squared up to Alf is uncertain, but his antagonist suddenly found himself spread-eagle on the stone floor, courtesy of Alf's right hook! Alf then left. A complaint was made and he was called to a meeting of the Rucksack Club Committee to explain the incident. No doubt,objecting to being called to account, he promptly resigned his membership.

It was on Stanage FAgr in 1931 that Alf and Maurice Linnell led a couple of promising climbers from Sheffield railed Cliff Moyer and Eric Byne, up Manchester Buttress and along the Black Hawk Girdle — the same pair later went on to produce at least 20 new climbs on Stanage. In the same period Alf pioneered Robin Hood Innominate (VS) and then, at his muscular best he powered up Cave Gully Wall (VS) in the snow, for a first ascent. Forty years later a climbing guide described the route as 'needing care, being hard and dangerous'.
The running belay had yet to be developed and it was about this time Alf started to practise his skill of jumping from heights. He argued that if a leader was in danger of falling he should turn and leap for a suitable landing spot Eric Byne wrote, Visits to Stanage were often enlivened by Alf Bridge who would demonstrate his "Technique of Falling," an art of which he was a master. His deliberate and controlled falls of 30ft and over on such climbs as Black Stab, Christmas Crack and Black Hawk Girdle 'were something once seen could never be forgotten'.

Alf had first met Maurice Linnell in the late '20s at Cratcliffe Tor and it was after this meeting they recorded over 60 consecutive climbing weekends together.. In 1929 they visited Black Rocks where Alf led the direct start to Birch Tree Wall.This thin,curving crack had surprisingly defeated Jack Longland.,and it was there, with Longland and Ivan Waller a couple of years later, that Alf made his incredible, on sight lead of Lean Man's Superdirect.He became totally committed high in the Crack and struggled to reach a thin pocket hold that felt spongy as he pulled up on it, then, to his horror, discovered he had squashed and killed two fledglings in their nest!

His friends followed but persuaded him not to claim the route thinking it was unjustifiable. Peter Harding led the climb 13 years later thinking it was a first ascent. Tony Moulam considers Alf's effort as -'perhaps the greatest single feat teat on these rocks. His visits to the Lakes were no less exciting. Alf and Linnell used to meet on a Wednesday evening in a Manchester cafe to plan their climbing trips. The Girdle Traverse of Pillar Rock (VS) was mooted there in April 1931 and completed the following Whit. Linnell led the route with Alf and A B Hargreaves in support. The climb is 1,300ft in length and took seven hours, spread over three days and contains many of the finest pitches on Pillar.

Then there was a remarkable incident on Central Buttress, Scafell when Alf was attempting to lead a first ascent of the Flake Crack without assistance or a belay at the chockstone and fell out of the layback position, but somehow managed to grab the chockstone with his left hand on the way down. On The Oval below, Linnell and A B Hargreaves watched open-mouthed as he eventually found a foothold and tied on. The route was then completed in the conventional way.
The same team, in 1931, with the addition of W Dyson turned their attention to Esk Buttress. Standing in splendid isolation at the head of a remote valley its potential was obvious, yet in those days contained only one route. In 1920, George Bower picked out his fine climb on the more forgiving right-hand section (Bowers Route- Hard Severe).

Nine years later, after completing the third ascent with Colin Kirkus, A B Hargreaves spotted a possible line up the imposing Central Pillar but three years were to pass before the little man returned with his friends. 'We tanked up in the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel until late Saturday night 'A B wrote-'and walked until it was dark- then slept under an overhanging boulder alongside Angle Tarn'.Their enterprise was rewarded as the following day dawned fine and clear and they reached the crag via Esk Hause. It had been decided earlier that Alf would lead. The difficulties were well within his capabilities, until he reached a point where the 1974 route The Cumbrian (E5) now goes and was forced leftwards. What followed was a brilliant piece of route finding which produced one of the finest climbs, for its grade, in the Lakes. As a tribute to Alf the route was named after him (Bridge's Route- Hard Severe) Interestingly enough the headwall of The Central Pillar was to deflect the finest climbers of the day, including Dolphin and Birkett, until Pete Crew made the first ascent 30 years later.

Esk Buttress

Alf was part of the Kirkus-Linnell partnership that featured in the first ascents of Curving Crack and the Direct Finish to the East Buttress on Clogwyn Du'r Arddu . Providing a fascinating snapshot of those days Alf wrote, I remember, one day in winter being on Clogwyn du Arddu with Colin and we almost forced a route now known as Vember. We were in boots and the sole of one of Colin's boots had come adrift and he tied the two parts together with string. Of course, we had very little money and used six inch nails for pitons-. We did without midweek lunch each Saturday to gain a little extra for the weekend.

As a steeplejack he became a respected figure and formed his own firm. On one occasion he won a tender, against stiff competition, for a structural inspection of the Eiffel Tower. He carried out the job, solo, with little more gear than a rope and gym shoes. There was another episode when he became detached from a high building and fell through a glass roof into a typing pool. Amazingly he was not badly hurt and was offered a cup of tea while the girls wanted to know where he had come from!
Looking to the future, he attended night school and qualified as a structural engineer then, later as a Chartered Engineer. He specialized as an industrial boiler inspector that led to work on the QE2 where he helped to overcome the ship's ongoing boiler problems.

When the Second World War broke out he was in his middle years and became a part-time civilian mountaineering instructor for the Armv based at Helyg, The Climbers' Club hut in the Ogwen Valley. Later there was a spell at the Commando training unit at Achnacarry in Scotland where he taught mountain craft and how to live off the land. It was part of Alf's remit to pay the farmer for any livestock that ended up in the soldiers' pot. There was also a period of duty at the Commando Assault Wing at Bosigran, Comwall. During one training exercise a Commando survived a 100ft fall from the top of the cliffs. He later said he remembered Alf's instruction and jumped for a narrow rift at the cliff base where the sea rose and fell. He hit the sea just as a high wave came in and escaped with little more than a dislocated shoulder.

Some may wonder why,with all his rebellious tendencies he did not upset the Army establishment? Perhaps part of his contribution to the war effort was to toe the military line? However, he was proud of his association with the Commandos and for many years wore a green beret as a token of respect for these men.
Despite the generation gap he became close friends with Peter Harding who helped him to run weekend courses for the Central Council of Physical Recreation. Although, as a rock-climber he was past his best, his powers of endurance were undiminished and he continued with his marathon walks. They were frequent companions on the fells, often ending up at Alfs home at Dore on the outskirts of Sheffield where he lived with his wife Dorothy-they never had children.

He joined 'The Climbers' Club in 1931 and became Hon Secretary in 1950 and a year later he resigned from the Club. The reasons were complex and difficult. He vigorously campaigned for a change in CC policy to provide structured training for younger members. Perhaps he was too outspoken and ran into fierce opposition with those he called 'The Mandarins of the Club'. It was said there was a clash of personalities with Stuart Chantrell, the Custodian of Helyg and when Alf's honesty was called into question in the form of mischievous gossip, he handed in his resignation. Looking back on the problem A B Hargreaves wrote, 'It could have been possible for him to retire with honour, so to speak, to a Vice Presidency but he would not co-operate in this to the great disappointment of his friends and supporters'.

Some years later he was persuaded to rejoin the CC, then under David Cox's presidency, but he became embroiled in what has been described as 'local difficulties.' And once again he resigned. Compromise did not appear to be part of Alf's make up. He also served as President of the Manchester-based Karabiner Club and The Stonnis Club, which takes its name from Cromford's Black Rocks.

The Climbers Club Helyg Hut in Ogwen Valley-North Wales

After the end of the war he became friends with near neighbour, Eric Mensforth, then managing director of a business called Normalair that manufactured breathing apparatus — it was a fortunate meeting for British mountaineering.
Mensforth expressed an interest in mountaineering and under the guidance of Alf they had several seasons together in the French Alps and the High Atlas. It was about this time Alf joined The Alpine Club and became heavily involved, together with Mensforth, in the development of the oxygen equipment used in the successful 1953 British ascent of Everest. Mensforth was eventually given a knighthood and there was talk of an award for Alf but he would not have any of it.

When retirement beckoned, Alf and his wife settled at Colwyn Bay but unable to adjust took on a partnership with a firm of engineers in Sheffield. Three years later, in September 1971, the climbing world was stunned to hear that Alf Bridge, who had never ailed throughout his life, collapsed and died at the age of 69 whilst shopping with his wife.

In his lifetime he had been described as a stormy petrel, an impossible, rumbustious character with a prickly personality and Alf would probably have no problem with that. Despite these flaws many saw him as a loyal friend, with more than his share of dry humour, who could be counted upon in a tight situation. There is also little doubt that in any pre-War climbing'Who's Who' Alf would be up there with the best of them.

Ken Smith: First published in HIGH

References

Mountaineering in Britain-by Clarke and Pyatt
Climbers' Club Journal-Alf Bridge's Obituary
A Century on the Crags-by A Hankinson
High Peak-by Byne and Sutton
The Black Cliff-by Crew/Soper/Wilson
I am especially grateful to Peter Harding for his kind help and interest.

Himalayan peaks to be designated as conservation zones

2011-12-07T20:26:00.001Z

KATHMANDU: The Nepalese government will soon declare two of the mountains Phulchowki and Chandragiri in the mountain-rim circling Kathmandu Valley — as conservation areas. The declaration will Coincide with the International Year of the Mountains in 2012 when the government will make a formal declaration, according to Dr. Uday Raj Sharma, Joint Secretary at the Ministry of Forest and Soil Conservation. “We are doing the necessary homework before we make our decision public.” He said the government is designing a project for sustainable developmentand conservation in the two mountain areas that would be implemented after the formal declaration of the two new conservation areas is made.

The government has sought funds from the European Union, according to Ministry officials. “We believe that the EU Headquarters in Brussels would give the project top priority,” Sharma said. However, the finance ministry revealed that it had not as yet approached the EU office. Titled as the Phulchowki-Chandragiri Bio-diversity Conservation Area Project, the scheme is estimated to cost US$ 27 million. “One third of that money would be used for poverty reduction,” said Peter de Vere Moss, co-director at the Bagmati Integrated Watershed Management Programme under the Ministry of Forest and Soil Conservation.

“The project does not restrict the local population to live where they have been living, it will rather empower them with employment and provide environment security.” The two mountains have 40 Village Development Committees in Dhading, Kavre, Kathmandu, Lalitpur, and Makwanpur districts, with a population of around 150,000 people. Phulchowki and Chandragiri are two among the four mountains bordering Kathmandu Valley to the south. The remaining two are Shivapuri to the north and Nagarjuna to the west.

Designed for four years, the project also aims to promote tourism in the Kathmandu Valley, according to Moss. Phulchowki, according to Sharma, is being declared a conservation area keeping in view its rare butterflies and birds while Chandragiri will be conserved for its watershed reserves.“At the heart of such projects is sustainable mountain development. Moreover, such conservation areas will add to the greenery in Kathmandu Valley.”The idea to conserve the two mountains has to do with the preservation of the mid hills in the country, according to ministry officials.

“The mid hills are under represented from the conservation point of view,” said Sharma. “That is why we have identified the new sites.” Such conservation areas will also serve as links between the conserved areas in the Himalayan belt to the north and the conserved areas to the south, according to Ukesh Raj Bhuju, Programme Director at the World Wildlife Fund, Nepal Programme.

George Band....a life less ordinary

2011-12-03T16:13:00.001Z

Photo:Martin Pope

A celebration is to be held to remember the extraordinary life of George Band who was an important member of the successful 1953 Everest expedition and who became the first man to climb Kangenjunga with Joe Brown in 1955.

The celebration will be held on Tuesday 20th December at the Royal Geographical Society in London.

George Band was born in Taiwan in 1929 to parents working as missionaries. He was educated at Eltham College, London and Cambridge and London Universities, where he studied Geology and Petroleum Engineering. During National Service he was an officer in the Royal Corps of Signals. At Cambridge he was President of the University Mountaineering Club.

He was the youngest climber on the 1953 Everest expedition led by Colonel John Hunt, aged just 23. Two years later he went to Kangchenjunga on an expedition led by Charles Evans, and with Joe Brown, made the first ascent of the mountain, the third highest in the world and which was then then the highest peak still unclimbed. Further expeditions to the Alps, the Caucasus, Peru and the Karakoram followed.

After retiring from the oil industry, George spent more time climbing and trekking, and began lecturing on his mountain experiences. In 2003, to mark the Everest Jubilee he wrote Everest: 50 Years on Top of the World, and this was followed in 2007 by Summit: 150 Years of the Alpine Club, in celebration of the founding of the world’s oldest mountaineering club in 1857. George also became Chairman of the Himalayan Trust UK in 2003 and served in a number of other positions including: Chairman of the Mount Everest Foundation; Member of the Council of the Royal Geographical Society and; Appeal Patron for BSES Expeditions.

This is an open service and all who knew George, would like to pay their respects, or who would simply wish to celebrate his life, are most welcome. The celebration will begin a 1830-2030hrs with doors opening at 1800hrs (Kensington Gore entrance)

The event will be introduced by Charles Clarke and speakers will include Mick Fowler, Jerry Lovatt, Stephen Venables, Nigel Winser, Martin Scott, John Innerdale, Patrick Fagan, Rebecca Stephens, Susan Band

Venue: Royal Geographical Society
One Kensington Gore, London SW7
0207 591 3000: If you plan to attend please RSVP to Denise Prior d.prior@rgs.org

Inside the giant's skull

2011-11-27T17:06:00.001Z

Birkness Combe:Photo John Appleby

If you walk away from Malham Cove along the mossy edge of the beck, then stop and lean backwards until you can just see the rim of the cliff at the bottom of your field of vision, the turfy slopes at either side join on to the foliage of the trees to compose a huge circular frame, a border of leaves and grass and rock surrounding the broad blue pond of the sky: the round blue eye of the sky, with the crag as the exposed bone of the orbital ridge and the leaves as lashes.

And once you have focused the rock as bone and the vegetation as its soft, ephemeral contents, this image combines with the great age of the limestone, its many traces of earlier lives (strata, fossils, veins where waterfalls once coursed), to create a vision of a derelict giant spreadeagled across Yorkshire where he fell 280 million years ago, one arm reaching Gordale, shoulder blades laid bare between here and the Tarn, a fist clenched at Attermire ...Such are the trains of thought, or visions, that can come to us when we have time to settle into the climbing landscape, to grow intimately at home in its dales and corries, especially if you're working on a guidebook and have to spend hundreds of hours, spread over dozens of days, eyeing up the crags, noticing their whole shapes as well as their details, picking out landmarks from all points of the compass, memorising the paths of approach that will lead climbers' footsteps most conveniently to the starts and also the slopes and drops that will take them comfortably back down.

Years of this left me feeling at one with Buttermere. It had let me into its fastnesses and I have let it occupy my head. Yet five years before I had climbed there just once (Spider Wall and Rib and Wall on Grey Crag) and even after dozens of visits with Bill Peascod, it was still just one of eight Lakeland guidebook areas and meant less to me than Langdale or Borrowdale. Then, in the autumn of 1984, the Fell & Rock deputed Rick Graham to write the Buttermere half of the new Buttermere and Eastern Fells. He found he no longer had enough knowledge of the routes from Moderate to Hard VS/5a, and Bill Peascod had suggested me as his collaborator. Since then I have climbed twelve thousand feet of rock in Newlands and Buttermere — 73 routes, 10 of them new or new variants (on top of the 24 and 6000 feet I'd done before) and drove 2460 miles, mostly to Honister, Gatesgarth, and Little Town.

Exciting times gleam in the memory: jamming and laying-away on the fierce blade-edges of the two vertical cracks on Carnival (Eagle Crag), climbing with Rick; exploring with Howard Warner from Windermere up the dizzy terrain of Easter Buttress (Eagle) — an inter-War route that deserves to be known among the classics, Gimmer Crack and Grooved Wall (Pillar) and Overhanging Bastion; jamming at my arms' limit, then tip-toeing slab wise with no protection, then swimming up through vertical heather, to put up a new VS, The Legacy (for Bill), on Waterfall Buttress, Newlands, climbing with John Baker and Tim Noble from Wiltshire ...
But the days that have let me more deeply into that country than I had thought possible anywhere outside Scotland have been the solo days, climbing all day on Striddle, Fleetwith Pike, and Miners', Newlands, and Grey and Eagle, Birkness Combe, with no gear except my Fires, no company except the people in my head, no talk except the chatter of the old guidebook in my pocket, climbing and down climbing continuously for five or six hours with my pen and my glasses as my only equipment until cragging felt more like swimming, striking out through the crests and troughs of the rock, following its currents, cast thankfully up on its shores after days when it was possible to become so attuned that 4b or even 4c pitches felt as comfortable as walking round the garden.

William Heaton Cooper Grey Crag illustration for a previous Fell and Rock Buttermere guidebook.

It is in the great corries and partly enclosed dales — Birkness Combe and Bleaberry Combe, and Newlands near Dale Head and the side dale under Haystacks and the hummocky hollows below Round How near Dubs — that the 'Malham experience' is most vivid, when you realise that you're in the midst of a tract of ambient nature that surrounds your thoughts as snugly as your skull. And the greatest of these is Birkness.

To me (with native memories of the great corrie on Lochnagar, the north face of Liathach and Coire Mhic Fhearchair on Beinn Eighe and the colossal glaciated scoops on the Speyside faces of the Cairngorms), entering a corrie is like coming home. Part of me originated here before memory began. "Mere dreams, mere dreams! Yet Homer had not sung
'Had he not found it certain beyond dreams That out of life's own self-delight had sprung The abounding, glittering jet . ."

The great hanging basin of it looms up there, cloud steaming from its lips in wet summer months, filling with thick blue in October, dark-numb in winter as though the glaciers had come again, its upper atmosphere crossed by slanting sun rays as the light gets through at the end of the day. You lift yourself and your load at a steady plod up the path from Gatesgarth which didn't exist at all before Bill Peascod and Bert Beck began to forge their ways up Eagle in the summer of 1940. The green breast of the combe is gentle and the sun still lights it before moving inexorably round to spend the day behind High Crag and High Stile. Surmount the breast and then the squared whale-forehead of Eagle, just another chunk of mountain on first sighting from the dale-bottom, juts up, separating itself from the ragged outcrops of Brant Bield to its left, darkling at you, taking you on. But those rigours are still to come; down here a shadowed peace surrounds you as though the land had risen up behind you and sealed you gently in.

Nobody ever lived in Birkness, no farming families even summered up here with their flocks, according to the old shieling system; but the turf that makes little lawns beside the beck has been so well dunged and cropped by the Herdwicks that they are tailor-made for a tent-site and the boulder nearby has had a dry-stone shelter built up against it — a nice conundrum for the archaeologists of the 30th century.
So you enter the skull-casque of the mountain and become the one thought the giant is entertaining at the present time. The occasional echoing yell of "Safe!" or "Climbing!" disturbs the broad, contained silence of the combe as little as the ravens laughing gutturally to each other in the air above Grey Crag. All Birkness lacks is a tarn. Nearly all Lakeland corries face north-east, in the lee of the snow-bearing winds. The helm wind streaming over the ridge eddies when it swoops down into the corrie, as you can see when the wavelets on Bleaberry Tarn move towards the mountain, against the wind, in gusty weather.

The Buttermere Fells by Bill Peascod.

In the Indian summer of one year I rose into Bleaberry Combe by the newly masoned path up from the north end of Buttermere to find the cushioned slopes of Red Pike quietly on fire with blaeberry leaves that 'the devil had swiped with his tail' — early frosts searing them the colour of water-melon flesh. The mild temperature was hatching out so many flies that the fish rising on the tarn were making rings as numerous as the start of a thunder-shower.

My goal was Chapel Crags. The guidebook writer must check everything, even an area described by his predecessors as 'looking quite impressive' from below but 'very slow to dry', 'very grassy', gullies 'usually wet and best avoided in summer'. Might there just be something sound and clean amongst all that suppurating lichen? Invar, possibly (210 ft., Hard Severe), on a small "continuous" buttress? or Costate Wall (170 ft., Severe), described by Mike Lynch in his encyclopedic annotations to the Soper/Allinson guide as "50 yds. R of Invar"? These delights are on the "extreme upper left-hand buttress," according to the Good Book. Extremely upper or extremely left? In this dripping maze unmistakable instructions are crucial. I never found that buttress. I did climb twenty feet up a very steep, sodden chimney-crack on the wall of the "prominent scree shoot" before deciding that it was insane to risk my promising career by falling out of a kind of vertical sewer.

In thinning cloud I beelined over to the south side where the moss and heather was crisp in the sunshine and I could justify my day by visiting a neglected range of outcrops, the Ennerdale Face of High Stile: "scarcely worth a special visit" but "worth including in a walk along the ridge". Well — if they formed part of an edge in the Stanage area the book would be less snooty. The crags are a line of cracked towers, high and dry on sun ward slopes in full view of Gable, Scafell, Pillar across the gulf of Ennerdale. What a gorgeous place to boulder! And more than boulder: Outside Edge (80 ft., Diff. (hard)) has a start that would fit a Severe, forcing you to haul over a blankish bulge by stretching at full arms' length for a side-pull — never an easy manoeuvre — while smearing with the feet.

His left lobe thinks Grey: follow your fancy, have a go — try out that long rampart of slabby wall, Criss-crossed by heather cracks, between The Mole and the crown of Oxford and Cambridge Buttress — it's big, it has clean passages, why has nothing been done there? His right lobe thinks Eagle: do your duty — the seeping tangle of Border Buttress is not yet sorted out — and how many more days up here will the weather allow? Duty, in these last few weeks before the deadline, has to win, though I'd always regret it if the rampart turned out good and we'd failed to cover it. (I got up to it again the following week and found that it could be climbed anywhere at a most pleasurable V. Diff.: 60-metre sections of clean slab, wrinkled with quartz, divided by rakes of yellowing blaeberry.)

So I walk off southeastwards along the brink of Eagle, spying familiar landmarks — the belvedere at the top of the Front's final crack, the notch where the last few metres of Central Chimney's hundred-and-fifty split the crag —and then spend half an hour confusing myself amongst the savage clefts that seam the Birkness Gully/Far East Buttress wing of the Eagle. Each slithering way down the collapsing turf-and-gravel banks looks no more reassuring than any other, I commit myself to the last steep, then spend a fascinating quarter of an hour surmounting heathered ribs to find myself peering down hundred-foot crevasses with unclimbable dank and sheer walls, places that hold the night's murkiness at midday. Toil back up a rib, clamber precariously into the next crevasse, make headway gradually while the drop on my right deepens but I am at home in the giant's brainpan now, one of the more accustomed thoughts in his ancient circuits, my head and limbs are merging into his and I thank goodness more fervently than ever that I'm here without rope or harness, able to trot about, to slide and stretch and balance, with the unencumbered, fluid continuity of a gibbon moving from one feeding-tree to another in the rain-forest.

These hours of solitary freedom transfer you out of human culture and into a sort of provisional kinship with the animals and the plants. I may never again so nearly share air-space with peregrines as during an explosive moment this summer. I'm down climbing round the heathery verge of a crag, searching for some safe way back onto its face — a brown ignition near my feet — hot streak in mid-air — a peregrine is bolting off into space above the dale, a frantic fire-flaucht, zigging headlong sideways and back on course, shrinking in moments to a bullet at the far end of my vision. (It was probably a male in his first breeding season.

The birds evolved long after the giant's prime. In his moribund state they must seem to him like delirious thoughts of his own — coloured, wayward images — as they peck and fiddle at his bones to find sites and nesting-materials. On the front of Malham Cove the martin's nest, raising three broods by September. They stick their cups of mud to the wall — wall in the climbers', not the builders' sense — as they will have done for thousands of generations before houses were invented.

David Craig

Bonington and Steck in Mountain Heritage Trust Eiger gig

2011-11-23T19:58:00.001Z

Ueli Steck: Photo Schweizer Illustreierte

The North Wall of the Eiger is a supreme mountaineering challenge. Its history is wildly dramatic, full of adventure and tragedy. From the earliest attempts by German and Austrian climbers in the 1930s, the best of each generation of climbers has taken on the Eiger’s fearsome rockfall and shadowy reputation to make their own mark. Two of the world’s most famous Eiger climbers, Sir Chris Bonington and Swiss legend Ueli Steck, will tell of their encounters with the Eiger in a unique lecture evening at the Royal Geographic Society to raise funds for the Mountain Heritage Trust.

The Event
The lecture will be held in the Ondjaate Theatre at the Royal Geographical Society on Thursday 1st December 2011 at 7pm followed by a private dinner at the Polish Club, 55 Exhibition Road, London SW7 2PN, just 150m from the theatre.
Tickets for the lecture: £25.00
Tickets for the dinner to 'Friends of MHT': £50.00 to include pre-dinner champagne, a three course dinner with wine and coffee. Tables of 10 can be organised in advance on request.

To book the dinner, please contact Maxine Willett, Archivist of the Mountain Heritage Trust, on: 01768 840911 or email
maxine@mountain-heritage.org

Who are the Mountain Heritage Trust ?

The Mountain Heritage Trust (MHT) was called into being in 2000 to preserve the outstanding heritage and history of British climbing and mountaineering. To date we hold an impressive and growing collection of papers, photographs, archive documents, artefacts and film which includes the Chris Bonington archive; the Alfred Gregory collection (Everest 1953); the Simon Yates collection and the papers of Joe Tasker who disappeared with Peter Boardman on Everest in 1982. We also own, amongst other items, the oxygen apparatus used by Dougal Haston when he and Doug Scott became the first Britons to stand on the summit of Everest in 1975 and the Chouinard ice hammer used by Yvon Chouinard himself when he made the direct ascent of the Diamond Couloir on Mount Kenya in 1974.

Trustees:
Sir Chris Bonington, Doug Scott (Vice Chair), Paul Braithwaite, John Porter, John Innerdale, Jerry Lovatt, Professor Terry Gifford, Jim Lowther, Richard Lemmey, Ron Kenyon, Julie Summers (Chair)

Lines of Flight....revisited

2011-11-21T13:47:00.000Z

Filming 'Lines of Flight'.

Lines of Flight is an award winning-but little seen-socio
cultural climbing film which came out in 2009/10 and was set in the industrial towns and immediate environs of West Yorkshire. Harold Drasdo-of this particular parish- offers a belated review of sorts and is impressed by the films sense of purpose.

This is a film by Sally Brown and Martin Wood set in Yorkshire and Derbyshire on the eastern side of the Pennines -- the Backbone of England. 'Lines of Flight' might be read as Means of Escape. The focus shifts intermittently. We see the free soloing of extreme rock climbs, those reaching positions in which a fall would probably result in death rather than serious injury. Or we see life in the settlements below the gritstone outcrops, edges and quarries.

It's a marvellous and wildly ambitious production, a work of art. At film festivals it's won prizes on all sides. The sense of place is fixed through establishing shots of the moors and edges to the accompaniment of readings from Daniel Defoe's Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain, 1724. They're crisply and expressively delivered by Samuel West, the film's narrator, and they bring out Defoe's restless curiosity. The strategies soon become clear. Topographical writing is looted with passages from the poetry of Wordsworth, Gerard Manley Hopkins and D.H. Lawrence. Layered underneath is a subdued musical score composed and performed by Robin Garside. It adapts to fit each scene.

Sometimes it's delicately airy as a soloist glides upward. Sometimes it's a tension-building pulse-like beat with heavy breathing as he powers his way through overhangs. Throughout the film one focus of attention segues into another without any jarring sense of dislocation, to this viewer at any rate. The filming and editing is by Richard Heap.
The strategies include the straight interview. The subjects aren't interrogated. They've simply been encouraged to talk freely about their practices, aspirations and felt rewards. I couldn't identify all of the climbers seen in action but the principal performers are named. Amongst those featured Andy Cave went straight from school to become a miner, working the deep coal seams until he saw the light, discovered the gritstone surprisingly close to his home, and qualified eventually as a professional climbing guide.

Andrew Popp is an academic, a historian, and he reflects on the meditative, almost trance-like sense of sustainment, a ritualistic kind of performance art, that hard solo can offer. He resists the suggestion that it's simply thrill-seeking. He also asks himself whether there isn't an essential selfishness in risking one's life since that would impact on others. 'Whatever does not kill us makes us strong', said Nietzche. There's some truth in it but it's an oversimplification. It might cripple us.

Graham Hoey, a teacher, ponders with the disarming modesty of all the soloists the problem of how to get work satisfaction when you're not given enough time to do a job properly. He sees solo as the purest form of the sport with great risks and great rewards. Allan Austin, hero of a bygone era, appears. I was startled and amused to see the A3 5 van in which I accompanied him on his first trips to Derbyshire and Langdale. In typically forthright manner he promotes rock climbing as the best game of all time – as thrilling as sports car racing and a lot cheaper -- and he gives a surprising and entertaining account of his own introduction. Some old footage from Ilkley, from the late forties and early fifties is incorporated in his declaration.

In counterpoise, the settlements beneath the West Riding moors and the new cities of the plain are examined. We see archive film, the hazardous activity of a Victorian steelworks, the huge garment factories, the endless production and assembly lines. Rapidly the distinctive regional character of the mill towns is erased and the camera shifts onto crowds of commuters hurrying back to work or racing around to fit shopping in. We're in a post-modern, post-industrial conurbation of new warehouses and malls which could be anywhere in Britain. "There's a shopping centre there but nobody actually lives there," someone says. Even here, though, we see a rebellious display of street dance by a pavement and railing acrobat running through his repertoire of smart moves.

He's not doing it with cap thrown down like a busker. He's doing it for fun, to release energy, to show that escape is possible anywhere and by all sorts of means.
In sharp contrast to these escapologists another class of expert witnesses is paraded. They're sociologists of a kind, professors who give their take on the world we live in. It's a world of vicious competition in which, they agree, 'we want cash' becomes 'we want more cash', a world in which as much as possible is commodified and put up for sale. Therefore in their literature they can happily use the expression 'Lines of Flight' to describe activities like walking or climbing which escape or resist commodification.

At this point I want to enter a protest at the language they use, the way they talk. It's a developed terminology which critics might attack as sociobabble. It's built from a vocabulary of high-order abstractions. Here I'm quoting from privileged information, a lengthy document supporting the film. The concept of 'lines of flight' was actually first proposed in the 1980s by Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, a philosopher and a psychoanalyst. "Lines of Flight are ruptures, cuts, cracks and irregular and transverse lines of breakage, as well as folds and crease lines – interruptions without breakage – that divide a surface, landscape or space." The point is that I've taken this sentence absolutely at random from their page-long attempts at a definition. What's really needed is an effort to move down the ladder of orders of abstraction to find a language built on operational definitions.

Presently a man with feet in both action and theory appears and proceeds to interview himself. This is Martin Wood, the dreamer and fixer who directed the film. (Sally Brown is given equal credit and I assume that she is the producer and that Brown Bear Productions is her outfit.) At the time of filming Wood was lecturing at York University but he's now a Professor at Melbourne Institute of Technology. He charms us with his self-effacing manner and then happens to let out that he's soloed some or all of the desperate outings featured. He's a Renaissance Man for our times. He's sweetly reasonable. Nowadays, he points out, we're all in the same boat. The university lecturer shares anxieties about tenure with council workers fearful of cuts and with manufacturers watching rates of exchange. We all need fields for free action, some intensity in an outlet for escape.

The seasoned climber reading Loose Scree might well lose patience with the airy concepts and propositions underlying the film. Yet it stands entirely and easily on its own merits It demanded the collaboration of a very large number of people but everything's come together. Having watched it many times it still grasps me as I re-run it.

Lines of Flight: DVD, 22 mins, 16:9.
Brown Bear Productions in association with Zero Hold: www.brownbearproductions.co.uk

Harold Drasdo 2011: First published in Loose Scree:

Bernadette McDonald's 'Freedom Climbers' wins Boardman-Tasker

2011-11-19T19:38:00.001Z

Canadian writer,Bernadette McDonald has been announced as the 2011 winner of the Boardman-Tasker award for mountain literature. Her book 'Freedom Climbers' recently walked of with the prestigious Grand Prize at the Banff Mountain Book Festival.

Bernadette McDonald's book, published by Rocky Mountain Books in October 2011, gives an account of the bravery and dedication of Polish climbers and their race for Himalayan peaks in the 1980s. McDonald puts forth the theory that the difficult conditions that martial law imposed on Polish society charged these climbers with the resilience to be the best in the world.

The book recreates the challenges that Polish climbers faced in pursuing their sky-high goals, detailing Voytek Kurtyka's remarkable conquest of Gasherbrum IV and Wanda Rutkiewicz's pioneer ascent of K2 as the first woman to do so in history, along with the personal stories of their friends and colleagues, many of whom perished in the punishing conditions of winter in the Himalayas.

Bernadette is the founding vice-president of Mountain Culture at the Banff Centre and the author of seven books on international mountaineering. She is the winner of numerous awards including the Alberta Order of Excellence, the Summit of Excellence Award from the Banff Centre, the King Albert Award for international leadership in the field of mountain culture and environment, and the Queen’s Golden Jubilee Medal.

Here there be dragons: The Long Hope Climb review

2011-11-15T20:04:00.001Z

And so it begins...It is 1970, 'the greatest decade the world has ever witnessed has ended and we have patently failed to paint it black'. Ed Drummond who was busy making a name for himself with daring ascents in Avon and Wales, had persuaded fellow Bristol graduate Oliver Hill to join him on a climb which would cement his reputation as a pioneer par excellence. The destination-St John's Head on the wind wracked edge of Orkney.

A cliff which the pioneers described as 'like the prow of the SS Great Britain', cutting through the Atlantic breakers. The 500 metre route would take the challenge of the prow head on. Deviously twisting through loose, overhanging terrain with the added insecurity-weather issues aside- of puking fulmers disgorging their foul brew in the direction of any passing creature !

The ascent has 'epic' carved deeply into the blood red stone. Drummond and Hill's ascent over several days was unheard of at the time. A route of Alpine proportions involving technical climbing at the cutting edge of the era. Although it was a mixed aid route-the climb involved free climbing at up to E5 standard- given it's location and lack of escape or rescue potential, the climb became the stuff of nightmares for its ascentionists. Writing of the ascent, Ed Drummond described being visited by demons and ghosts as he climbed through fear and fatigue. Nearing the end of the route-and his sanity- he describes retreating in terror from one of the penultimate pitches and being assailed by an almost physical malevolent presence. " Who are you..what do you want from me?'

At this stage he asked himself 'am I committing climbing suicide?'. For his dogged partner Oliver Hill... ' I was there to prussik up the rope and take out the pegs'... it would take the wind out of his climbing sails for several years,such was the psychological impact. Twenty seven years later,the route was freed - by English climbers John Arran and Dave Turnbull. 'Freed'...well not exactly for Arran and Turnbull took a sideline which avoided the crux and which Hill,with an uncanny photographic memory-had detailed in a pin point topo which he had sent to the 97 team.

Thirteen years on and enter Scotland's golden boy and possibly the UK's greatest all round climber Dave Macleod with trusty sidekick Andy Turner reprising the Oliver Hill role. Unlike the Drummond/Hill and Arran/Turnbull ascents which relied on grainy out of focus self taken shots and wobbly cine8 images to record the occasion, the Macleod/Turner team had in harness the formidable creative unit that is the Hot Aches Crew who with acclaimed photographer Lucasz Warzecha, set out to record the event. An event which has evolved into the much anticipated latest Hot Aches flic..The Long Hope. A film which will receive it's world premier at the Kendal Mountaineering Festival this week.

The climb itself has been discussed at length in the climbing media so no need to give a blow by blow account of the climb itself. However,to get straight to the heart of the film itself, I have to say from the outset that the work is a stunning success ! Like the previously acclaimed Hot Aches production The Pinnacle- which featured the same Macleod/Turner team in their assault on the Marshall/Smith winter routes from 'one memorable week' in the early sixties- The Long Hope succeeds, not because of the drama of Dave Macleod pushing the envelope to the limit, Although there is plenty of sweaty palm moments throughout the sixty minutes running time. It works so well because it is so intelligently structured. Interspersing historical footage,stills,
interviews and narrative with contemporary events.

Rather than getting the Drummond/ Hill stuff out of the way and concentrating on Dave Mac flexing his abs on the 2011 route- Ed Drummond especially, is an engaging and overarching presence throughout the film.And so he should be of course, because after all, The Long Hope was his created from his raw ambition and vision. Albeit at times a demonic vision.

The contrast between Ed Drummond and Dave Macleod is a fascinating one indeed. Very much a case of Ed Drummond being the dark Yin to Dave Mac's lighter yang. Drummond the wild performance poet,crouched simian like atop a scaffold tower.
Hurling obscure poetic visions at his perplexed and frightened audience. The political activist and idealist who saw his life fall apart in the 1980's. Recorded in gruesome detail in a BBC documentary.

Dave Macleod by contrast is very much the modern rock athlete. A man of steely single minded determination. Dedicated,committed and every inch a lean mean climbing machine. He may not go around saying 'my body is a temple' but it clearly is! However, he is also a man who comes across as affable and approachable.
Someone the average climber could well imagine sharing a pint and an anecdote with in the Clachaig.

On the route itself,Dave offers the following information for those who fancy a crack at the route. 'You have to climb totally on balance. You can't afford to pull up on the holds' such is their fragility. The final crux pitches are totally compelling in their intensity. Like an all action film hero who just comes out gun blazing,Mac just ploughs on,and on,and on... with each move appearing ever more tenuous than the last. 'Surely not..how can he do that..he must be off..no...what the !!!

For the average climber gripping the edge of their seat, this is the stuff of dreams...and nightmares! The stream of expletives rattles out like machine gun fire as the bold Scot powers up the mind blowing face with the rasping waves far below. Simply watching this section is exhausting!

Graciously, Dave Macleod never falters in his praise for Drummond who with the rudimentary gear of the time and climbing into the unknown, achieved something equally magnificent. In truth the wild poet has mellowed these days into a wise and philosophical sage. Physically burdened by Parkinson disease since it was diagnosed in 1993. Drummond came over during the filming to be interviewed and come to terms with the climb which had nearly broken him physically and mentally.

In one poignant scene,he returns to a stone pillar above St John's Head and carefully scrapes away the luxuriant green lichen which had taken hold, Revealing the initials ED and OH carved into the stone 40 years ago. Despite the vicissitudes of a life lived less ordinary, Ed reveals he can only feel blessed as the days grow shorter,for the extraordinary experiences and relationships he has enjoyed in his extraordinary life For Dave Macleod..and Andy Turner...new horizons still beckon.

As I write,the film has yet to hit the mountaineering film festivals or gain general release. I can only reaffirm,this is a brilliant and imaginative piece of work which I feel may well be seen as something of a classic within the genre in future years. Enjoy...but make sure you have some finger nails to gnaw on first!

Extras include... Return to the Indian Face: 50 years in the mountains: Mucklehouse Wall: The Old Man of Hoy.

The Long Hope is soon to be available from Hot Aches

John Appleby: 2011

Last Post sounds for the legendary Bradford Lads

2011-11-15T11:43:00.001Z

Bradford Lads and lasses gather at Wall End Barn in the 1950's.

Photo: Neville Drasdo

The annual gathering of the legendary UK climbing group known as 'The Bradford Lads' takes place this week in Langdale at the heart of the English Fells of Cumbria. However, in the words of one of the groups best known activists,Harold Drasdo, someone perhaps should bring a bugle and sound The Last Post. For tempus fugits and for the venerable band of working class climbers from the northern mill town whose climbing exploits in the 40's 50's and 60's saw them in the vanguard-with other northern climbers like Joe Brown and Don Whillans-of British climbing in the post war period, this may well be the final gathering.

The Bradford Lads were a legendary group of working class climbers who had formed a loose and unstructured alliance. Uncomplicated by the rules and regulations which identified many existing climbing clubs of the time. Many of those activists within the club were amongst that small elite of leading English rock climbers of the day. Including, Arthur Dolphin, Pete Greenwood, The Drasdo Brothers, and Denis Grey.

In recent years the 'members' have gathered in Langdale for an annual reunion. Those attending complimented by 'honourary lads' including writers David Craig and Terry Gifford. However,with most members now in the 70's and 80's, and with many stalwarts like Pete Greenwood passing away in recent years, it looks as if old Father Time might have finally called last orders on the venerable climbing institution.Will the 2011 be the last ever Bradford Boys gathering in the Lakes? Well...let's hope not ! However.. if you do find yourself at the bar in one of the Langdale pubs tomorrow and find yourself standing next to a grey haired octogenarian with a pint in one hand and the pained expression on his face of someone in need of a quick nicotine fix and who looks like he's about to dart outside to satisfy this craving, offer to buy them a dram and offer your thanks on behalf of the UK climbing community for all the great routes and experiences they have given us.

Bradford Lad Harold Drasdo on the first ascent of HVS climb Jac Codi Baw in Wales

The times they are a changing.

2011-11-15T10:14:00.001Z

In the two years since Footless Crow crawled out of the ether; the site has consistently offered a new article each week from a
rock climbing, mountaineering or environmental perspective. The mixture of both republished and new articles has been relatively popular in terms of page visits, drawing a small but steadily growing audience.

I have been delighted to have received the support of many of the UK's best outdoor writers and photographers who have offered both new material and permission to republish their old articles in this new format. Just over twelve months ago.I added a linked page To Hatch a Crow which originally was intended to compliment the main site with news and reviews from the world of mountaineering and environmentalism.

Surprisingly perhaps,the Crow's fledgling site draws around three times as many visitors as the main site.Proving perhaps,that readers are more interested in a more consistently rolling agenda of new material than the more structured format of longer articles on Footless Crow. With this in mind, Footless Crow in future will now carry both articles and news and reviews which will be updated more regularly, with articles still carrying trailers but with shorter features complimenting the main material. I hope this revamp doesn't upset or put off the regular readers as it's intended to pep up the site and draw in new readers.

Not surprisingly for a UK site based in North Wales,the majority of those dropping in are from the UK but as many of a third of page visits are from the United States.With this in mind,US mountaineering news will compliment the UK stuff as it has on THAC.
To Hatch a Crow will now concentrate more on environmental news from around the world although news from wider world of mountain activities will still feature. Thanks for looking in and hope you like the new format.

This Week: Alfred Wainwright....True North.

2011-11-09T08:38:00.001Z

"I might have been the last man in a dead world" AW

"It is twenty years since 'the greatest fellwalker' , AW Wainwright was cast to the fell winds atop Haystacks above Buttermere. In the intervening years, the iconic image of the avuncular, flat capped, bluff Lancastrian with a smouldering pipe firmly fixed in a jowly jaw, has remained constantly in the public eye.

Indeed in the years since Wainwrights death there is no sign that 'The Wainwright industry' is grinding to a halt. Indeed,each year sees a fresh batch of glossy coffee table Wainwright tomes re-printed, New updated versions of his pictorial guides, ditto desk diaries,address books,walkers notebooks,calendars dvd's etc.

However,despite the general hagiographic treatment of Wainwright the man and his work from the media- Think Julia Bradbury traipsing around the Lakeland Fells in BBC's 'Wainwrights Walks', quoting at length from one of his pictorial guides as if AW was Rabindranath Tagore- Hunter Davies' 2002 biography of Wainwright, brought into the public domain some less than attractive elements of the man's life and character

Despite Hunter's sensitivity in dealing with the less savoury parts of his subjects' character, enough information came out both in his book and in contemporary articles by other writers to suggest that Alfred Wainwright was actually was not the loveable curmudgeonly eccentric beloved of Daily Mail readers and BBC presenters but was in fact, something of a dark,egotistical and self centred individual that most people would cross the street to avoid!

Not surprisingly though when dealing with iconic cultural figures like AW, nothing is quite as it seems and in truth,the heart of the AW enigma lies somewhere between the two extremes. So...as AW himself would say in his Lancashire drawl..let's get down to brass tacks. '

This week,twenty years after his death in 1991, John Appleby takes a warts and all look at Alfred Wainwright- the man and his legacy. Despite disturbing more than a few skeletons in Wainwright's closet,the author finds much to admire in 'the greatest fellwalker' .

Sacred Ground

2011-11-03T19:34:00.000Z

John Redhead

Browsed to the Bone

Hill farming has always been seen as a joke and annoyance by those using the hill recreationally. The farmers were treated with ridicule and flippancy when accosted by them on the hill. I was once stepping over a stile with my dog on a lead, on my way to climb a route on Tryfan, when a farmer approached me and said he wanted the dog off his land. A scrawled sign on the gate said, Dogs on a Lead. I asked him if he could read English and carried on. He persisted aggressively with his demands. I refused, saying I was on a designated footpath within the National Park and what right had he got to harass me? He came at me to fight! I pushed him away and his glasses fell to the ground, breaking a lens. He was in rage. He went into his house nearby and came out with a twelve bore shotgun. He raised it up and pointed it at me, at which his wife threw herself out of the house screaming at him in Welsh. She stood between me and the gun. It was a nasty scene. A twitch away from News at Ten. Ugly. He backed off shaking in a mess of a man. I actually felt sorry for him. The old boy should be hanging out with girls in grass skirts swinging his hips to some samba rift on a Caribbean island, pissed up on coconut cocktails! Why is the land such a burden to these people? Is this due to the conflicts and restraints of a hard life fighting nature and resenting those enjoying it? I shouldn’t feel sorry for being free in the land. You shouldn’t get used to this aggression.

Another ‘diverse hill farming character’ that is allowed to farm sheep on Snowdon aggressively jumped up and down on a friend’s parapente chute after he had landed on the flanks of Snowdon. Causing a lot of damage to the fabric of the chute, he gave him a mouthful of abuse about flying being unnatural and scaring the sheep! It was tragically comic! The incident was photographed. He came across as a lunatic! I know this man, he treats ravens and foxes with the same disrespect! The episodes of confrontation and abuse of rights from these people constitute a novel in its own right. There is a correlation between farmers, depression and shotguns and farming being the profession highest in the suicide stakes. Seems divine to me. That’s the land telling them! But part of me likes this old geezer! I like the energy of this old boy playing the game he knows and getting away with it. I once said to him that these hills need the trees and wildlife back and he replied, “You can plant as many trees as you want boy, fill it with what you want boy, but it will cost you. It will cost you a lot boy” It’s all about a commodity and spreadsheets to these folk.

The continuing damage caused by hill farming is a major consideration for the need for escape. I have taken the issues on board and can no longer see it as a joke. As a climber in the hills en-route to a climb it can be tolerated. It can be tolerated for entertainment value. As an intolerant bastard who doesn’t climb anymore and cannot ignore the damage it’s a ‘fuck up’! Groups like The Snowdonia Society patronize the ‘traditional’ upland sheep farmer by supporting so called 'thriving and cohesive' hill farming communities. They do not exist! It’s a con, make no mistake, it’s the tongue they are patronizing! Their lifestyle depends on subsidies with absolutely no economic benefit to the community at large! And you simply cannot reconcile ‘any’ upland farming methods and wildlife habitats. Further, there is no tradition of hill farming practices in North wales, unless you consider a 'tradition' within three hundred years. A 'true' tradition would be to leave the mountains alone and appreciate and respect them for what they are. Wilderness should be on the agenda. The last thing the hill farmer needs is more power! Or poetic accolade! Or even a house to live in! In protecting the tongue, The National Park supports terrorism against wildlife! An idiot with an aerosol can defacing a crag with graffiti does far less damage!

Subsequently, I can no longer venture into the so-called wilds of Snowdonia without feeling a sense of loss and sadness. The subsidized practice of sheep hill farming has browsed the mountain to the bone. I feel isolated. And as I feel in my own bones, the mountain is no longer sacred. My bones feel browsed out too. I have hunger for this ‘food’, this wilderness, this other. This is an important issue. I think the space that is wild nature is connected with the health of society and are we not all creatures within this space? To me this is ground zero, the all being source of life - a collective oneness. The man-made Gods breed a conquering of nature from the granite box down in the valley. These chapels are not lost in the landscape but scream, “Shit off nature.” The effort! To me they are symptomatic of the damage, symptomatic of the ‘pollution’. The wilderness has been traded for a cheap unnecessary commodity. It became personal. I could only focus on the damage, perhaps in the same way as focusing on the beauty of the city streets?

wilderness of the streets.

‘From my tree house studio in the centre of Liverpool, I survey the surrounding forest throwing up its sounds - the breaking of bottles, hideous screams and delirious shouts and the endless groaning of the dispossessed.’

This is another occasion when ‘real’ time caught up with me whilst cleaning the street outside my warehouse studio in Liverpool. It is also to do with an intervention and researching where you are, homes and letting go. These streets had become my purposeful nest built out on a limb and exposed. It could so easily be torn apart by the surrounding life-forms that charge about with different stories and other intent. I am reminded of the fragility and exposure that threaten the daily life of the inhabitants of hedgerows that my Grandfather showed me as a child. I don’t think I ever forgot the magic I felt in examining the nests and the eggs found in these hedgerows on our many walks. Regardless of the ‘art’, I think the interventions are somehow part of this childhood magic to examine and ponder the apparent fragility and wonder of life.

“With the town empty and splayed with the fresh droppings of the previous night, I brush the streets bordering my little patch. This patch has its reference point on a global grid within a mephitic network. I feel the patterns of this network radiating out from an insignificant crack at my feet in this Fleet Street pavement... the homeless emerge upon a morning of last night’s thrown away takeaways with the rats and pigeons... briefly they warm themselves at my urban bonfire... I hold my sweeping and gaze into the yellows and greens, blues and violets that set free the dense black clouds of smoke. I feel close to an envy? An envy of the homeless. An envy of their proximity to this speeding and of their carefree throwing and picking in the shade of consumer life - of their honest back to the bone, close to the life and death of whatever total wastedness and degeneracy is... much more than mere vagrancy in which I often see my future...

I met Peter Poetry in the street, enthusiastically eating a pizza that had been thrown on the pavement. Picking off ‘street bits’, he enquired as to my familiarity with Sartre! He was a large, erudite gentleman of the road who carried two plastic carrier bags full of books. These bags of books were his home. At that moment he was residing in an enclosed skip around the corner to my studio. He would be politely outraged if anyone threw rubbish into the skip whilst he was in residence, “I say, do you mind, I live here, I am trying to read!” His books kept his intellect ticking whilst the man disintegrated slowly from years of tragedy, pain and misfortune. We shared many a ‘coffee morning’ in the studio as I struggled to grasp the breadth of his intelligence…sharing his wisdom and his ‘big city’ trickster that kept him moving…

It was from my warehouse home here that my involvement with E9 6c was filmed and recorded. This happened within the last few weeks of my departure from this special perch. John Mortimer’s son, Jeremy, produced an excellent piece for Radio Three called, ‘Between the Ears’. Dominic Clemence produced and directed the film for BBC2. This was the attempted story of The Indian Face, a fierce route on the cathedral of rock, Clogwyn Du Arddu, on the flank of Snowdon. I liked the bit where I am sat under my climbing wall in the studio flippantly explaining the image I painted on the scar where the flake had been. This small granite flake had come away in my arms whilst testing the peg that had been smashed into its side. I drew a quick sketch on the wall of ‘the hunt‘, something that had stayed with me from viewing the Lascaux Caves in France. Only two people had seen it. Paul Williams had photographed it and Johnny Dawes had scraped it off (or rather, an acolyte had scraped it off). One had died and the other had seemingly gone mad!

The late Paul Williams photograph of John Redhead's notorious Indian Face painting

I joke, but I had to get Johnny back in the script when he became defensive about my rant against top-roping. I stand by my argument that top-roping damages the rock! Bolt, peg, top-roping ego – damage done! The narrative needed his feedback and method of approach. It was important because it set the scene. My attempts on the line were foolish, naive and dangerously ‘pushed my luck’. His determination and intense, practiced approach won the day. I took a huge, very lucky fall. Warriors or not, I think we both enjoyed negotiating with our lives in our own way. Perhaps the rock was secondary to the psychopathy that we both moved through? And out of? I think it a great historical episode and one that the youths of today will have to take on board and finish off? Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was a full stop. The youths of today have moved on by doing their own thing that in turn moves on towards their own full stop. They are emerged in their own paragraph. An endless series of climbing’s punctuation. Perhaps a few will turn a few pages back…

Dominic and Jeremy and the film crew stayed in a caravan overnight in the car park next door. They likened the experience to a safari! They stayed awake all night terrified at the noises of the inner city jungle. This is the weekend hunting ground of frivolity and bravery with its resident shouting and groaning and the dark savagery of the pack on the scent. I always said there is more wildlife here than on the peaks of Snowdon! And there is also more humanity, working itself out without the trickery of a fairytale land that says all is well! It isn’t. I like the fact that the city screams, “All is not well.” Beware! Sturdy creatures dwell here!

From this ‘Pool of Life’, I turn on the tap and watch the water flow over an upturned spoon in the sink as if a river meandering over rocks – it seems to belong, and listen, in its flowing, to the great, grey rivers of the world. And surely, when I turn the spotlight on, the solar wind charges across the solar system in the ceramic bowl and the spoon radiates with the energy of a thousand stars.

Granada TV had previously invited me for a slot in their arts programme, Celebrations. A few months before I had tried to gain permission to climb the Anglican cathedral but had been adamantly refused by the church authorities. “This is a sacred house of God,” seemed to seal my aspirations. However, thanks to ‘financing’ from Granada TV, this particular ‘sacred house of God’ came at a price! Negotiations were made and I was filmed on my ascent of The Apostles at about E3 5c. Maneuvering by the third apostle, the pinch grip I was using on his nose came off in my fingers! I had chalked up the previous two Apostle’s noses and had laughed at the thought of them taking cocaine! I guiltily placed this sandstone appendage in my inside pocket and climbed on more gingerly to the centre of the huge, mullioned rose, the symbolic mandala above the high altar. I returned later and abseiled down with a tube of glue! I laughed again at thoughts of a glue-sniffing Apostle!

Tony Wilson

I was later introduced by Tony Wilson on the six o’clock news as the first performance mountaineer!

As a climber, this was taken further thanks to being invited to play with urban trash percussionists, Urban Strawberry Lunch. They were Liverpool’s noisy, energetic outlaws that banged anything for a musical jape. Climbing, rigging and playing buildings became my first incursion into textural sounds and electro acoustic compositions. Climbing and playing the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester was particularly challenging and inspiring. Home to the Halle Orchestra, this glass structure is supported by huge stainless steel springs which the auditorium is then suspended from. It is built to withstand earthquakes and reduce any external noise from the street. We were told that it would be like playing a dry sock! As sound terrorists, we were initially despondent. However, as we explored the structure for potential, it transpired that if you placed the sucker of a bog-plunger on the plate glass, a strange and eerie whining materialized from the passing of traffic outside. With fishing lines attached to the external structure, an Aeolian harp was established. Amplification brought these sculptural sounds into aural existence. Ambient recordings of doors, stairwells and voices added to the orchestration of the building that was anything but a dry sock, for the opening of the International Festival of new Music!

John Redhead 2011: Images J Redhead collection apart from Indian Face image

This Week: John Redhead finds himself in Fairytale land

2011-11-01T20:06:00.000Z

Redhead you say !

" I was once stepping over a stile with my dog on a lead, on my way to climb a route on Tryfan, when a farmer approached me and said he wanted the dog off his land. A scrawled sign on the gate said, Dogs on a Lead. I asked him if he could read English and carried on.

He persisted aggressively with his demands. I refused, saying I was on a designated footpath within the National Park and what right had he got to harass me? He came at me to fight! I pushed him away and his glasses fell to the ground, breaking a lens. He was in rage. He went into his house nearby and came out with a twelve bore shotgun. He raised it up and pointed it at me, at which his wife threw herself out of the house screaming at him in Welsh. She stood between me and the gun. It was a nasty scene. A twitch away from News at Ten. Ugly. He backed off shaking in a mess of a man. I actually felt sorry for him. The old boy should be hanging out with girls in grass skirts swinging his hips to some samba rift on a Caribbean island, pissed up on coconut cocktails!

Why is the land such a burden to these people? Is this due to the conflicts and restraints of a hard life fighting nature and resenting those enjoying it? I shouldn’t feel sorry for being free in the land. You shouldn’t get used to this aggression.'

Following last week's slice of Johnny Dawes,this week another iconic rock master in the shape of John Redhead offers extracts from his forthcoming book 'Colonists Out'. Including John's take on the Indian Face affair. UK climbing's remarkable cause celebre in the 1980's in which Redhead and Dawes played out the key roles in a captivating piece of rock theatre upon Clogwyn Du Arddu's intimidating field of dreams.

Full of Myself...extracts

2011-10-27T21:28:00.000+01:00

In the 80s movement was taking off, coming away from its surfaces in a new way. Bodies lightened speeded up: breakdancers’ heads became feet to spin on, skaters ollied the board they stood on top of, opening up a whole new wave of moves. BMX. Laird Hamilton rode the big waves looking like a God. Freddie Spencer slid GP bikes on tarmac as if he was still on grass. Vatannen in Group B left foot-braking the T16, Senna in F1, Oh…my…God! All this was a fresh kinaesthetic mandala, a quickening expression of our inner urge to fly.

As much as Fosbury’s Flop changed high jump forever I could sense climbing would be transformed by new ways of spinning together body and mind.

When the Wright brothers left earth there must have been a sense that the fragile plane flew not with just a person aboard but with the whole of humanity. The sky wasn’t even the limit. Into the blank of mind came the unmistakeable sense that this was a new thread for the fabric of motion to weave with. The great climbing library in the sky would have to find a new shelf for these moves.

The face immediately proves more quixotic than hoped; both powdery and damp to the hand. The sea had got to work on the 600-million-year-old quartzite as soon as it could. Like a mad archivist searching through one folio after another for a missing word, one solid looking plate levers easily off, only for another that looks the same to hold, then ping unexpectedly at the last moment. Both leave pistachio-coloured scars behind, clearly telling me this rotting tramp’s Mac is no tableau on which to search for technical 6c.

What holds are left lead me to an overlap at a 100ft. Above, the rock sweating in the sun, though more vertical looks more tender still, impregnable and blank. Possibility above time had eroded down to a coughing, diagonal crimp. Faint. A skyhook perched on forgotten Parmesan would be the best to hope for in need of retreat.

…Joe Brown has pencilled a map for me on a Post-it that leads to an old tunnel. It cuts deep into the heart of Elidir Fawr. Slates scatter music around puckered ironwork. The cry of peregrines around discarded blocks fade, through hidden shallow puddles sound merges into half-light. A recognition comes to me, invisible as gravity; humanity walked out of thin air…we look up. High above on a tower, off to the side of Joe’s big adventures, flaring like a torch, is an astonishing groove. Away from it, glazed with water, a jewelled mineral array sparkles in the sun. This wall promised to be fresh territory for the world of climbing – a Schneider Trophy monoplane in sheer aluminium – tenuous seams, polished featureless shields, jagged undercut bulges way up in the sky.

To be just 15ft up it is to realize it means trouble. Already faced with a threatening slam, big crack features above that promise protection draw me. Each possible hold has to be wrenched or tapped in turn. Few pass the test, each that does cements a profound worry. The ‘rock’ is no such thing; super nutritious were it not for the salty ooze. Un-warm, power pumped, by the time the sprint to the roof past beautiful efflorescent mould is over, forearms are gone, all chalk supped off by the cliff. It’s a surprise not to find roses growing in the loose soil of the break at the bulge.

The Dawes family en-route to the French Grand Prix from Coventry Airport.

...I wasn’t joyful, trying these lines was what I did, fair or foul.

Lean from not eating and angry I go with the gear in a rattling flare. A foot
smeared on a bump low under in the groove, the technical problem is to
yank off a big flat 70° dish with your left palm, right hand on a chunky
waist height sidepull. A dry squidge of flesh pressed quickly in gives some
bite by the timed ‘in and out’ of my waist. Falling again – cursing, clapping
my hands, belting the rock, spitting – an acid intuition kicks in. I try again.
Fiercely I lurch for the slap, whirling my left foot from far right under my
right foot to full left; for a moment that extra motion both forces my left
hand on enough to snag the gruff sloper and reduces my apparent weight
– the flared undercut sidepull far up in the groove momentarily scratches
into my fingertips. Unexpected, the lateral force unleashed pulls me off.
Again I fall but this time an inner burst of excitement silences the shout. I
point at the floor careful to log the flow of the move.

I tie in small, take a pee and another shirt off, give my Calmas a final squeak.
The instant I tee up the move I feel I can set up deeper into the air behind
me. Firing with knowing this time, hitting the side-pull nicely, as the lateral
force kicks in both feet release automatically hopping together right, up
into the groove. Oh dear! Now I’ve done it.

The flow out of the blind corner up onto the rib is delightful. Card tricks;
dish, sharp pocket, arête in just the right spot, care on smears tight, rhythm
eases the sequence dramatically. Pulling round back into the scoop to a
place where a comfortable rest awaits, heels down, left hand leaning into
a shallow cup, the true situation I’ve put myself into rises up in my mind.

Breathing changes. “Mantels are good”, this angle of mantel I understand. I
reach under and chalk the remainder of my weighted left hand with my right
where it’ll be needed on the unprotected virgin mantel above. Four minutes
later, chalking again, sharing feet together out right, so it is possible to ease
the right foot to a place from where I can tease the base of the sloping shelf,
left foot drags unnervingly on the edge of the scoop...not yet.

I back off, tears come, foot shakes a little, Bob is freaking out as well. We
discuss him running round, throwing a rope down but I’d have to untie
and the rope would be off to the side. I’m slowly melting out of this big
hollow. “Gone too far this time”. Though I sometimes act like I don’t care
it shows me I do. Fifteen minutes in, stretching that bit farther, making sure
to leave room to share, I ease myself out of the groove using a pockmark
hole, swapping feet to shuffle the other hand in. It had been invisible from
the left. A ladybird is on the hold. There is nothing to do but crush it. Its
bodily juices don’t help, but killing it, so opened up, throws my mind away.
I rush at the mantel hell for leather, picking a good enough patch of rock
that works and chuck my foot around the arête. Pulling up I feel upset. The
climb is magnificent, beyond me now.

We arrive at the coast just in time to miss the ferry to Skye. We settle down to sort out the gear in a lay-by. We had just started the task when this moaning Scotsman arrives; all bagpipes and 2nd World War.

“Wharrrr dya thaynk yooore doin laddee? Woodie yaa do this on a road in England?”

“Of course”, I say, when Paul unhelpfully hurls something clattering down on to the man’s driveway, then whirls around like a dervish, screaming. When he starts to splash water from a dirty puddle on his face, the Scotsman turns and strides back to his house in disgust. Whatever Paul dropped on the drive flashes a warning as it rolls by: “do not put on metal or vinyl surfaces”. Paul has got ‘Jungle Juice’ in his eyes.

We half expect the highlander to return with his regimental sword and cut us down but instead he brings back a camera and shoots a couple of cheeky portraits of Paul. They would have been quite blurred, but he seemed pleased and told us:

“I’ve got evidence now, I’ll be taking it off to Angus”??

At 4 O’clock in the morning, at one of Dai’s dos, I needed to get back to the Peak so I bought a red Mini 850. One crook I’d met sold it to me for a fiver. A good deal? Well no actually, having no tax, no brakes, though suspiciously an MOT. It would do for a middle of the night romp. You could grind the barriers to brake. By keeping to the back roads police and public were avoided, even if at one junction it was necessary to actually hold the car on the foot break – my right foot that is – out the door.

Often stayed with illustrious mountaineer and cragsman Alan Rouse in Sheffield in those days and by the time the milk was being delivered arrived at a well-kept three story house in Wayland Road. It was never locked. Alan had got some new prints of the Alps and a new teapot. Kettle on, brew made, I quietly climb the stairs, put the mugs down on the side, take a run up and jump onto the bed. The faces of two people I have never met in my life shoot out from beneath the covers.

“I’ve brought you a cup of tea,” I say by way of introduction.

Alan had sold the house, Tom and Wendy had moved in.

A Real Buzz

Luckily the Cambridge Audio CD player from Richer Sounds had come with a promotional lollipop.

The van sets off down the hill, but on the windscreen, motionless, is a bee. Before wind-speed builds up to spill the bee to the mercy of road and tyre, I slow the van and stop. A car impatient behind, my bank card is already out of its holster. I rush out and lift the creature off into my hand.

By licking the lollipop – red like the van – and by dripping the syrup into the hollow of my left hands anatomical snuff box, the bee placed alongside it can start to feed. Her mouth is extraordinarily thin and long, like a straw.

We go around town and shop a little, I even take her to The Forum for a coffee. By now she is showing signs of a lively character. To attempt to put her at her ease, I stroke her thick fur as she feeds, but instead clumsily get syrup on her wing at which point a short sharp head movement points back up at me.

I watch as she works on the task of renewing her wing. Half an hour of meticulous cleaning with no discernible waste of effort, makes her look like a knowing miniature helicopter able to repair itself.

What had seemed like an abrupt reproach after my clumsiness with the syrup is now forgotten. Bee turns its head, this time a full 270° – show off – then tilts her head, and then again, as if to say: “Do you understand what I mean…?”

My companion’s gesticulations so precise, seemingly deliberate, make her appear not just sane, purposeful and certainly skilled, but generous of spirit. I have come to love this beady-eyed bee. She seems to say thank you and, slipping out of my cavernous hand is gone.

Full of Myself: Johnny Dawes 2011.Images J Dawes Collection.

Available direct from the author at Johnny Dawes.com

This Week: Johnny Dawes- Extracts from Full of Myself

2011-10-25T19:55:00.000+01:00

Hereeeee's Johnny!!!

"By licking the lollipop – red like the van – and by dripping the syrup into the hollow of my left hands anatomical snuff box, the bee placed alongside it can start to feed. Her mouth is extraordinarily thin and long, like a straw.

We go around town and shop a little, I even take her to The Forum for a coffee. By now she is showing signs of a lively character. To attempt to put her at her ease, I stroke her thick fur as she feeds, but instead clumsily get syrup on her wing at which point a short sharp head movement points back up at me.

I watch as she works on the task of renewing her wing. Half an hour of meticulous cleaning with no discernible waste of effort, makes her look like a knowing miniature helicopter able to repair itself.

What had seemed like an abrupt reproach after my clumsiness with the syrup is now forgotten. Bee turns its head, this time a full 270° – show off – then tilts her head, and then again, as if to say: “Do you understand what I mean…?”

My companion’s gesticulations so precise, seemingly deliberate, make her appear not just sane, purposeful and certainly skilled, but generous of spirit. I have come to love this beady-eyed bee. She seems to say thank you and, slipping out of my cavernous hand is gone.'

This week,extracts from Johnny Dawes long awaited auto-
biography 'Full of myself'- Chosen by the author himself. Johnny's unique writing style is both fluid and dynamic and reflects the physical and mental attributes which has made him such a unique character in the climbing world.

Full of myself can be ordered direct from the author at Johnny Dawes.Com

Two Weeks in June: Graham Balcombe and Engineers Slabs

2011-10-21T08:48:00.000+01:00

A rare shot of Graham Balcombe on the first ascent in 1934.

You could never describe the north-face of Great Gable as appealing. Standing at the head of Ennerdale and rising above Stony Cove to a height of 2,800ft it can be a gloomy place - often wet, its deeply cut chimneys and untidy gullies are more in keeping with the exploits of the nailed-boot brigade. First impressions however, can be deceptive for set within this confusion of broken and vegetated buttresses lies Engineer's Slabs – the name Slab is certainly a misnomer for this is a imposing vertical wall, of clean ryolite, nearly 200ft in height. The Crag had been climbed in the past the early pioneers seeking out the dark and damp recesses of Central Gully, Engineer's and Smuggler's Chimney, but for whatever reason, this impressive up-thrust of rock was left in its isolation until the summer of 1934 when it was decided to investigate the Crag for the forthcoming FRCC guide to Great Gable.

And it was around this point an virtually unknown climber, called Graham Balcombe, burst upon the Lakeland scene. He was a battle-hardened climber, but not part of the establishment, and had been recruited by FRCC member, Astley- Cooper, to help with the new guide, after the two met on Botterill's Slab. A couple of days later Balcombe showed his intent by pioneering Buttonhook, (HVS) on Kern Knotts so called as he used a wire to thread the hemp rope behind a small chockstone.
At first he came up on a top rope, but found his rope had come loose and swung away. This incident is vividly recalled in his notes:-
''I was wearing a new ''Beale'' (hemp rope) which was stiff and springy and tied with a bowline and half a fisherman's. Yes we decided to top-rope as it looked rather dicey from below. First pitch was rather strenuous and I did not notice the waist line had untied and it sailed away into space, but pendulumed back and I held it in my teeth in case I had trouble higher up. We didn't count that climb, but its memory has bitten much deeper that the formal lead that followed later that week.''
At the time Buttonhook was considered as the most technically difficult route in the Lakes - even today, after seventy-odd years and with modern protection, the first pitch, still remains one of those a 'pause and ponder' situations - Balcombe had set the tone for what was to follow on Engineer's Slabs.
The next day on Gable Cooper was due to lead but was injured by a fall of stones whilst gardening the first pitch so it was left Balcombe, supported by Jack Sheppard, to take the sharp end. Although somewhat shaken Cooper recorded the climb on his camera and came up on a tight rope.

Balcombe's Diary entry for that day may well be a reflection of his laconic approach to climbing when he wrote: " Friday 8.6.34. – Met Astley on Moses Trod. On starting up the scoop as an easy variant to the first pitch Astley dropped a pile of boulders on himself hurting his chest and arm muscles. Temporarily hors-de-combat. Took over lead and removed heaps of grass and muck with a slater's hammer. A full days work – six hours approximately and made a fine climb of it.' ( At first it was called Central Route then later changed to Engineer's Slabs.)

Gable Crag, north facing, dries slowly and it is best enjoyed after a period of dry weather – come here in damp conditions and the climbing takes on a vastly different dimension. Some consider the first pitch with its awkward distribution of holds as the crux but in reality the route holds its grade through-out. As you make height the exposure becomes more apparent especially on the long stride right from the safety of the sentry box to reach the twin cracks leading to the Chimney. An enjoyable finger and toe layback at the base the overhang gives access a comfortable stance. 'There is no belay here at present', recorded Balcombe, but a chockstone can and should be fitted in the crack at the back of the sentry box now attained'

All that remains is a steep V groove, which tends to hold moisture, even in the driest conditions, can give problems, leads to the top of the crag. Unable to find any belay points Balcombe was virtually soloing – it was a truly extra-ordinary lead. Describing the climb, in KenWilson's Hard Rock, Paul Nunn wrote:
'...It was a feat of considerable boldness...the climb Engineer's Slabs, must have been sparsely protected given the techniques of the time and the few stances...Yet it was neglected left to its geographical isolation and persistent darkness, the challenge of its considerable technical difficulty ignored.'

As far as is known the climb was repeated only twice in the following twenty years – in 1945 by Muscroft and Hill then in the early fifties when Peter Harding made a visit..
Balcombe was astonished to learn that his climb went unrepeated for that amount of time and comments:-
'Surprised that a generation missed out on an interesting route. Don't think the write-up made it appear particularly formidable, but the entrance examination at the first pitch may have turned the more caution away...My second Jack Sheppard was a remarkably reliable man...and it was a second like Jack that made it possible.'

During that 2 weeks holiday Balcombe led 7 new new climbs and variations (1) – it was without parallel in the previous decade of Lakeland climbing – this included a direct finish to Central Buttress (HVS) regarded then as possibly the hardest route in the country. Surprisingly, when the Gable guide was published in 1937 Balcombe did not warrant a mention in the historical section. Whether the old guard were closing ranks and operating a closed shop, is debatable, but Balcombe who was not a member of the FRCC recalls, ' they could be cool with those not from their own.' As a personality he could be very direct and was supremely confident of his ability which did upset some – perhaps he was misunderstood but Balcombe had no time for mock-modesty. There was an occasion during a FRCC meet at Pillar Rock when they discussing who would lead Route 1 (VS) ( now called Sodom) and without further to do Balcombe tied on and indicated, ' let's get on with it' – he would lead. This especially annoyed senior member Bill Clegg who went off, in a huff, to solo The North Climb including The Nose, indicating he would not climb with that man!

By the thirties, history was to record, the balance of power had swung to North Wales – Kirkus and Edwards was showing what was possible on Welsh Rock – Lake District climbing needed a resurgence and Balcombe could well have provided that. He should have been encouraged and given due credit for his achievements, but it was not to be – Balcombe came back to the Lakes only once, after that momentous holiday, as a leader for a party of Germany climbers, visiting Britain, in 1936.
In 1933 he had joined The Northern Cavern & Fell Club and was introduced to caving. Balcombe embraced caving with a vengence and with his natural tenacity and enterprising character he was a natural and certainly the pioneering spirit behind Cave Diving in this country. Looking back on those times he said,' I came to recognise what I could achieve in caving could be more important than enjoying the clean sport of climbing.'

Balcombe lived well into his nineties and to the end was his own man – as a committed atheist he declined a Church Service and his ashes were scattered at Wookey Hole, in the Mendip Hills, where a Plaque set into the rock pays tribute to him and his contribution in cave-diving.
And if those astonishing 2 weeks on the Lakeland Crags are anything to go by we can only speculate what he may have achieved, on British Rock, had his immense potential been fulfilled.

Notes.
(1) Balcombe's Routes.
Rainbow Ridge; (variation); Severe – Balcombe and Sheppard.
Lucuifer Ridge; Severe – Balcombe and Sheppard.
Hellgate Ridge; Severe – Balcombe, Barker and Sheppard.
Buttonhook (Kern Knotts);Hard-Very Severe – Balcombe and Cooper.
Engineer's Slabs; Very Severe – Balcombe, Sheppard and Cooper.
Unfinished Arete; (Gable Crags) Very Severe – Balcombe, Sheppard and Cooper.
Direct Finish to Central Buttress: Hard-Very Severe – Balcombe, Wright and Files.

Ken Smith 2011

This Week: Ken Smith on pioneering climber Graham Balcombe

2011-10-19T09:30:00.000+01:00

"You could never describe the north-face of Great Gable as appealing. Standing at the head of Ennerdale and rising above Stony Cove to a height of 2,800ft it can be a gloomy place - often wet, its deeply cut chimneys and untidy gullies are more in keeping with the exploits of the nailed-boot brigade. First impressions however, can be deceptive for set within this confusion of broken and vegetated buttresses lies Engineer's Slabs – the name Slab is certainly a misnomer for this is a imposing vertical wall, of clean ryolite, nearly 200ft in height. The Crag had been climbed in the past the early pioneers seeking out the dark and damp recesses of Central Gully, Engineer's and Smuggler's Chimney, but for whatever reason, this impressive up-thrust of rock was left in its isolation until the summer of 1934 when it was decided to investigate the Crag for the forthcoming FRCC guide to Great Gable.'

This week,respected climbing writer Ken Smith profiles pre-war activist Graham Balcombe and descibes his pioneering ascent of Gnarly VS climb Engineers Slabs on Great Gable. A route which can still provide a stiff challenge for competant climbers today in less than perfect conditions.

Climbing

2011-10-14T07:22:00.000+01:00

The shortest day of the year. We perch on the saddle of a promontory jutting west out of Anglesey into the Celtic Sea and look down into Wen Zawn – the white inlet. It seethes, the waves lift slow and bulky and burst suddenly, propelled by a force-8 gale. Rain hits our anoraks like grapeshot, pelmets of fog lour and droop on South Stack lighthouse, the airstream throws us off-balance and makes breathing difficult if you face into the wind. Across the rocking water is our goal – what was our goal as we planned at home over roast chicken and red wine: the crag of quartzite that armours Wales at this point, three hundred feet high, seamed with cracks. Ed Drummond found the first way up it 17 years ago and gave his line the most beautiful of rock names, A Dream of White Horses. For seven months we’ve been exchanging poems between his home in San Francisco and mine in Cumbria. Now we’re here to pluck his route from the teeth of winter but it seems madly unfeasible. I couldn’t live in that maelstrom. A thread of waterfall near the start of the route is blowing sideways and upwards. Ed looks and looks, saying little. Then: ‘If you don’t mind, I think we’ll leave it. It doesn’t look good. In these conditions.’ Pause. I say: ‘I’m glad you’ve said that. Because it looks terrible to me. I’m glad you didn’t feel you had to decide for it, for my sake.’

‘Let’s walk round and down the slope to the notch on the arete, and have a good look at the whole of the zawn.’

The nearer we creep to the sea, the less drastic is the wind, away from the focused up-draught.

‘Will you belay me?’ says Ed. ‘And I’ll have a look’ – now using ‘look’, apparently, in the Scottish climbers’ sense of ‘go and climb it although it’s clearly impossible.’ Why am I not terrified? Because there’s still a stage or two of non-commitment before I have to step into the vortex? Ed climbs unhesitatingly down a groove, tiptoes out along a tapering ledge, fixes a metal protection nut in a crack, and manoeuvres onto the wall, through the cascade, into the grey, fleeing world of spindrift and squall. Even the wintry twilight (at 11 in the morning) feels to be against us, subduing life. I chill and qualm as Ed places his left toe-tip on an invisible feature, poises with finger ends on other invisibilities, and clings with his right foot frictioning. Seconds tick. Nimble foot-change, then a mantis’s or gekko’s locomotion left and upwards. Can I do that? I can’t do that. But we’re inside the experience now, the huge looming and sucking fear has moved beyond the rim of vision, the climb is happening, it’s controlling me, its practical demands locking onto me, supplanting emotion.

After ten minutes’ enthralled spectating as this modern rock-master moves at his ease up and down the first big crack, holding onto the rope with one hand, establishing a hanging belay where he roosts like a large orange bird, I untie from my anchor and clamber down the groove. It should feel like lowering into a bottomless ocean but no, all is possible, at our command. Ed’s total competence flows along the rope. His smile of steady geniality, just visible, shows through the on-ding like a lantern. Under his guava-pink balaclava he looks like Punch – like an Andean shepherd steering his flock through a clouded pass – like the Pied Piper playing us into the hillside: contradictory symbols have begun to form.

Commitment time. From now on each perch will be precarious, spreadeagled; retreat from the razor-edge no easier than what lies ahead. As I cling to take a runner off, my fingers chill down towards the zone of incapacity, strength ebbs, command wavers. But a cat’s cradle of manageability has been woven along the cliff. At the crux I shout into the wind, ‘Looks difficult,’ and Ed shouts back: ‘Good little ledge level with your hip.’ Well remembered – there it is – a rung of possibility in the midst of nothingness. I press more blood out of my congealing finger ends, bracheate to the slim vantage-point (4 inches by l¼), and try to will the next stage. I don’t want to move, to take my left foot off terra firma and trust my compulsively curling fingers yet again. I must. I pull up a foot or two, lock my arms bent at right angles, shimmy my feet, and it’s happening – I’m in balance – the abyss of nothing, of non-possibility, has firmed over and turned material. I reach for a protruding rim of quartz, it’s rough below its film of wet, in ten seconds more I’m stretching for the karabiner on the soaked yellow sling that hangs from a fang of rock below Ed’s feet. I clip on, plant my feet, lean backwards at my ease, and chat happily on the flush of adrenalin.

Ed Drummond

As the wind poured its moisture and the winter day gloomed darker and darker, Ed decided against finishing the route by the overhangs, where the climbing is less hard but a slip would leave you hanging above an implacable sea-cave. We climbed homewards up Wen crack, a near-vertical ladder of black holds as convenient as an old-fashioned route in the Dolomites. On the ledge which was now our goal, huge tumps of sea-thrift bulbed out like green brains. As Ed’s silhouette merged with the silhouette of one tump, I saw it as a thought absorbed back into a mind. When I told him this fifteen minutes later, he laughed and said: ‘Oh no! I hoped they were breasts, and I was suckling up to them!’ As he led up the final rearing shield, these images started to grow and many phrases and lines of poetry were drafted before I pulled up over the last high step.

That degree of consciousness seems natural in climbing because so much time on the rock-face is necessarily still – contemplative. In extreme cases a discipline like meditation can even be necessary for survival. One rock-master of the Seventies, Pat Littlejohn, has been described, at extreme points where he feels near his limit, as ‘staring fixedly at the piece of rock in front of him’ in ‘an eerie, fascinating aura of quietude’ for ten to fifteen minutes (Jim Perrin in Climber and Rambler, March 1982). Equally, if you’re a climbing writer, you’re hard up against, almost inside, your subject, it’s inches from your nose and eyes. Behind your eyes, behind your front (the word still has for me the Latin connotation of ‘forehead’), your mind teems, with physical perceptions, often of tiny things (a pellet of fur and bone hawked up by a peregrine, stuck to a crystal; rust weeping from the stub of a piton hammered in by the first person to tread this way thirty years before), and with self-images. On a climb that frightens me my self feels to myself like an overheated cave; doubts of my adequacy flicker and dart like a maddened bat; not until this uncontrollable soot-black monster deigns to retreat into the deepest shadow and pretend to fold its wings in sleep can I muster my fingers, toes and forearms, my balance and my daring, and apply this mixed bag of faculties to the struggle against gravity.

Are such things felt at all by the ‘hard men’, as leading climbers are called in this golden age of machismo? On television climbs they’re as studiously monosyllabic as subalterns from the heyday of Empire and the stiff upper lip. Their humour is typified by the famous one-liners of Don Whillans on the Eiger, for example, ‘Somebody’s left a boot here’ drew the response: ‘Look and see if there’s a foot in it.’ But in 1976 I saw Ron Fawcett, rock-master since the middle Seventies, on the second ascent of Footless Crow in Borrowdale, then the hardest climb in the Lake District – 190 feet of overhanging rock without a resting-place. When his second called up, ‘What’s it like?’ he answered, ‘An ’orrendous place – Ah’m scared out of me wits,’ as he leaned way back on his fingertips, relaxing as comfortably as a sloth under a branch.

Some climbers use music because the rhythm steadies them as they climb near their limits: it gives them something to focus on, a means of earthing their rational fears and their neuroses. And in Mountain for July/August 1978 there is a photo of one American climber reading the Bhagavad-Ghita to another on a granite face in New Hampshire. Each one of us has a threshold beyond which we feel our selves will implode, crushed by the sense that the thing is too much, that it is beyond us (beyond our finger ends, beyond our belief in ourselves). Physically I was able to climb through the maelstrom of that winter day on Anglesey, mentally I was dependent on Ed Drummond’s rational knowledge that the thing could be done, and I know that this dependence (the cause of my limit being where it is) is rooted in my upbringing – my father’s fear of the injuries that my daring and love of wilderness might bring down on me. Whenever parents say to their offspring, ‘Be careful,’ instead of leaving them to discover for themselves that an edge or a drop or a depth is dangerous and must be explored with care, they cut at the off-springs’ sense of balance, their self-reliance, their ability to estimate risk rationally. It is analogous to leucotomy or amputation. The mental tendons, the driving-belts between mind and limb, are threatened with severance, the person starts to look elsewhere than in himself for the faculties that will enable him to survive. So, on the hardest rock that I can climb physically, I need a leader – usually, so far, my eldest and youngest sons, whose mental tendons I have tried (and apparently managed) not to sever.

I offer this not as a sad case – I climb many thousands of feet of rock each year and lead climbs to a quite hard standard – but as an example of how fully climbing engages our whole complex selves. So it’s natural that intense awareness and a habit of self-expression have been common in the history of the sport. Robert Graves climbed difficult routes in Snowdonia with Mallory just before the Great War and was told by Geoffrey Winthrop Young that he had ‘the finest natural balance’ he had ever seen in a climber. At the height of his enthusiasm he wrote that climbing ‘made all other sports seem trivial’, and in Goodbye to All That he records a fine physical image of the well-being that springs from it: ‘I remember wondering at my body – the worn fingernails, the bruised knees, and the lump of climbing muscle that had begun to bunch above the arch of the foot, seeing it as beautiful in relation to this new purpose.’ I.A. Richards loved to climb with his wife Dorothy Pilley and both wrote eloquently about it: in a Borrowdale climbing hut the other day I found the handwritten note of what may have been their last mountain walk in England, in the same logbook as my eldest son’s record of some of his first hard routes.

This long tradition (it starts with Coleridge’s tense letter describing his downclimbing of Broad Stand on Scafell in 1801) flourishes now as much as ever. Jim Perrin, one of our most intelligent writers on the outdoors, has been a leading explorer of the tortuous sea-cliffs at the south-west extremity of Wales. Steeped in literature (with a PhD in 17th-century biography), he has named some of his routes after classic works (Heart of Darkness, Second Coming, Strait Gate), as has Pat Littlejohn, a former teacher of English (Desolation Row at Bosigran near Land’s End, Crow in Cheddar Gorge), and Littlejohn also made up the inspired Joycean name Darkinbad the Brightdayler for his fearsome route up the sombre expanse of Pentire Head in North Cornwall. Now Perrin has used his scholarship to write an exceptionally wise biography called Menlove – the life of John Menlove Edwards, one of the strongest and boldest climbers between the wars and the chief explorer of the cliffs round Llanberis and the Ogwen valley in Snowdonia.[*]

Menlove Edwards

Edwards was a psychiatrist in Liverpool, noted for his success with difficult psychosomatic cases. His poems struggle to express what sometimes amounts to a metaphysic of inanimate rock in relation to sentient humanity. Perrin’s subtle analyses manage to treat such passages as biographical evidence (e.g. his noting of Edwards’s use of ‘valley’ as an erotic symbol) without any relaxing of his critical judgment. His biographer’s appraisal is focused as exactly on many passages of formidable Welsh cliff (‘passage’ was in fact the old word for what climbers now call a ‘pitch’ or section of a route), like the Devil’s Kitchen, which obsessed Edwards: ‘Whether or not he saw in these buttresses and damp grooves ... built of fissile rock and unregenerate grass in equal measure and vying in their states of decay, an objective correlative to his own condition of mind, we cannot know. Did he equate their rottenness with his own feelings of guilt about his homosexuality?’ So this study in climbing history, to be complete, must find its way into the depths of a person – one whose own climbing writings used creative means. In an article for a club journal in 1937, for example, Edwards wrote:

    The arms of the sun, as if driven into quick motion, lifted their beams clear of the earth, and the particles of their warmth, despairing, concentrated their last effort in a soft rose light along the western aspect of the strip of cloud. Down on the rocks a squat yew tree, clinging to the face, shivered and drew itself up. The shadows came together and lay cramped stiffly over it.

      We turned our backs finally to the hills and began to chatter: setting about to make our minds easy. But behind us, fighting their slow wars, the forces of nature also shifted steadily on.

For such a writer it is natural to perceive nature as a being, a presence. Wordsworth’s crucial passages – ‘a motion and a spirit that impels/All thinking things, all objects of all thought’, ‘a huge peak, black and huge,/As if with voluntary power instinct,/Upreared its head,’ ‘Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside/As if a voice were in them’ – were palpably still potent in the Thirties and the Forties for writers at home in Britain’s wilder uplands, as they are for me to this day.

The sub-culture has changed. I like my cliffs to rise out of lonely valleys, whether pastoral or trackless. The new climbers are at least as happy on faces that overhang motor-roads, quarries, transport yards, and they specialise in sustained angles beyond the vertical, manoeuvring by sequences of mini-holds invisible from ground level. The style for such experience is often more aware of self than of the rock, fraught with instantaneousness, the verbs violent, the syntax fragmented into verbless phrases or streams of short principal clauses separated by commas, and the tense is often the present – vividly present and extremely tense:

      Soon, there is a brain whisper, all jumbled like bearings scattered off a shop table. ‘Do. Go. Wrong foot, but do. Why have ...?’ The whispering is me but not me. It is like a possession. ‘Just do. Fall up. Something. Try that. Do. Do.’ Outside myself, I watch a foot near my shoulder. I’m catapulting over little sections, prying and foaming, a little crying sound bubbling out. ‘Lovely horrible. Lovely horrible.’ It’s a veritable ricochet of thought bits, not passion, not tactic, but a precious drop of madness. ‘It goes. Lovely horrible goes. Bitch! Sweet bitch! Foot flake. Nail hold. Enough. Go! There!’ Finally, there is a platform for most of my foot. With rest, the fire fades and logic returns.

Such writing (by Tom Higgins in the San Francisco magazine Ascent for 1976) is more American than European, it draws deeply on the drug/pop culture of the past two decades and specifically on the New Journalism that reported the trips of people like Andy Warhol and the Merry Pranksters by letting them invade the prose rather than drawing back to explain or judge.

This was a culture of heightened, even deranged perception, of pushing well beyond the limits usually deemed sane or civilised, with the help of heavy music and potent chemicals. When an Australian climber writes his account of a seven-day siege of Pacific Ocean Wall on E1 Capitan in the Yosemite valley (in Mountain for May/June 1978), his prose climbs jaggedly like a fever-chart from peak to peak, congested with specialist terms and images of excruciation:

    A race against time: it’s only a matter of moments before my brain weight pulls the teetering rurp [a kind of piton] that holds the memory together and unzips the entire string of flimsy aids from the present, the whole recollection of the climb falling into oblivion. Like so much suds sucked down the sink ... I am nodding off into a belay dream when Eric zips a few copperheads down to a bolt at the start of the pitch, jarring me back to reality. Back up there he welds those ‘mothers’ with a vengeance and makes progress on nested pins. Again I am awoken by pain-ridden screams ...

A few lines later, the climbers’ use of drugs shows through in a moment’s zany comedy:

    Kim reaches us and suddenly has the grim realisation that he has forgotten our vital life support and mellowing-out formula – the grass. Darryl begins to foam at the mouth and I have to beat him over the head to stop him from chewing through Kim’s rope.

Even where drugs are unused, or unmentioned, we can see how the experience of living for hours, often days, at the vertical or beyond it, flushed by maximum secretions of adrenalin (and we can become addicted to our own adrenalin), forces the imagination to screen so many signals at once that only the Modernist prose of the cinema age can re-enact such moments.

The more conscious climbing writers know very well how modern, how momentous and high-strung, their experience is: it shows in their readiness to use the language of ego and subconscious, masochism and schizophrenia, and explicitly in an observation such as the following (anthologised by Perrin in Mirrors in the Cliffs, 1983) whose title, ‘Coast to Coast on the Granite Slasher’, epitomises the culture of speed in both its senses:

    A hyperkinetic hotshot from the Bay Area named Zacher talked me into a free repeat of the West Face of El Cap. He talked so fast I had no chance to refuse.

      That’s the parking lot though, a market place for partners, gear, and simple amusements. People you hardly know will ask you to launch off on all manner of routes. All manner of people too. Sometimes the walls will echo to the screaming matches of teams in the throes of divorce.

The motives that impel us to take it to the limit (the name of a recent Extreme climb in Far Easedale) lie in our depths, but they seem to me not mysterious. Certainly we can get well beyond Mallory’s consciously off-hand ‘Because it’s there’, or Menlove Edwards’s laceratingly self-critical ‘symptoms of some psyclioneurotic disorder’. Michael Roberts, a notable literary editor in the Thirties, reviewing ‘The Poetry and Humour of Mountaineering’ in the Alpine Journal for 1941, opined that the risking and gruelling of oneself on climbs were good because ‘they show superiority to all mere utilitarian values: they show an excess and overflow which is really a gesture of confidence and vitality.’ These days such positives tend to be entertained with an ironic or problematic twist, as when Ed Drummond adds capital letters to them in his classic essay ‘Mirror Mirror’ about an agonising epic on a huge Norwegian wall, ‘To climb is to know the universe is All Right’, or the Cumbrian climber Neil Allinson writes in Hard Rock (1975) that we climb ‘to play at life’s brinkmanship ... to live like a searchlight of survival searing through the total darkness of failure’.

For myself, when I climb, I’m getting back as nearly as possible into the elemental immersion I left at birth. The hand sinks sideways into a dark crack, the toes take the shape of the rock, the nose smells moist fibres inches away as the fingernails delve into an earthy crevice, the spine plants itself against a bulge, the eyes pick out the shadow cast by a crystal, the arms embrace a burnished yew trunk, the eardrums vibrate to the hoarse hissing of jackdaw chicks three feet inside the rock ... During one of my first hard climbs, on White Ghyll in Langdale, I had a sense of myself cladding the rock as intimately as the clay applied to a sculpture to make a mould, and this came out seven years later in a poem that ends:

    It moulded him. He was its casting.
    His clay was kneaded to its bas-relief.
    His brain infolded, mimicking its strata.
    And when he called, and the echo heard his note,
    It parodied his language.

Such experience is whole, it is inseparably physical and mental –

      O the mind, mind has mountains, cliffs of fall
    Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
    May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
    Durance deal with that steep or deep ...

– and this wholeness of the experience enables it to be a paradigm for all that we know. The impossible is that gritstone prow my arms will never haul my body over, the unknown is the foothold waiting round the blind arete in heavy cloud, space is the void between your heels and the backs of pigeons skimming the larch tops a hundred feet below, effort is the squirming of muscles round your nose and upper lip as you strive to get your weight above your hands, imagination is conceiving of the will it must take to leave that half-inch flake top when the next hold is smaller, more sloping, and the angle is still 100° ... Being alive is when the organic mix that is you remains together, remains itself, in the pressure-chamber of Wen Zawn on the shortest day of the year.

David Craig: First published in the London Review of Books

This Week: David Craig..where it all began

2011-10-12T09:17:00.000+01:00

"The shortest day of the year. We perch on the saddle of a promontory jutting west out of Anglesey into the Celtic Sea and look down into Wen Zawn – the white inlet. It seethes, the waves lift slow and bulky and burst suddenly, propelled by a force-8 gale. Rain hits our anoraks like grapeshot, pelmets of fog lour and droop on South Stack lighthouse, the airstream throws us off-balance and makes breathing difficult if you face into the wind. Across the rocking water is our goal – what was our goal as we planned at home over roast chicken and red wine: the crag of quartzite that armours Wales at this point, three hundred feet high, seamed with cracks. Ed Drummond found the first way up it 17 years ago and gave his line the most beautiful of rock names, A Dream of White Horses. For seven months we’ve been exchanging poems between his home in San Francisco and mine in Cumbria. Now we’re here to pluck his route from the teeth of winter but it seems madly unfeasible. I couldn’t live in that maelstrom. A thread of waterfall near the start of the route is blowing sideways and upwards. Ed looks.... and looks, saying little.'

This week, a brilliant and masterful essay from argueably Britain's finest climbing writer, David Craig. The extensive work originally penned in the 1980's became the template from which David's classic work 'Native Stones' was drawn.

Almscliffe,Marvell and the Lord General

2011-10-06T22:38:00.001+01:00

And I desire... to expresse my great thankfulnesse unto God for the many p[re]servacons I have had in those hazardous imployments and dangerous encounters I have mett with in the course of my pilgrimage in this troublesome world...
(Will of Thomas, Third Lord Fairfax, 1667)

For well over a century climbers with a taste for literature have kept their eyes open for allusions to the appeal or challenge of our hills and crags. In poetry, before the appearance of the Romantics, any searches were poorly rewarded. What was found derives from a short list of perhaps ten poets. With two quite expansive exceptions these contributions are fragments, some unforgettable, some simply tantalising. One poem of interest to rock-Climbers has escaped notice however, perhaps because it was written in Latin, the English version the writer usually offered is presumed lost, and few translations are available. This is Andrew Marvell's Epigramma in Duos Montes Amosclivium et Bilboreum: Epigram on Two mountains, Almscliff and Bilbrough.

The poem was written between 1650 and 1653 at Nun Appleton by the river Wharfe, Yorkshire.
At that time Marvell was tutor to the daughter of Thomas Fairfax, Commander-in-Chief of the Parliamentary forces during the Civil War and finally the Lord General. Fairfax opposed the execution of the King and subsequently resigned in protest at the planned invasion of Scotland. Handing over to Cromwell, he retired to his country estates and properties.
These were disposed in two groups. South-west of York lay those close to or near Nun Appleton and Bilborough, Now Bilbrough. 30 miles further up the Wharfe lay the cluster of estates east of the family seat at Denton.

Marvell's mountains wouldn't be called hills today but these expressions were used loosely by lowlanders. The monumental gritstone block of Almscliff stands on a grassy plinth and is seen from distant viewpoints though it barely reaches 700 feet above sea level.
It's held about 10 names, first appearing as Almusclyue or Almusclive, 1203-20. (It's thought to derive from a woman's name, Almus. That name remains unknown but -us was a feminine suffix of the time with several closely similar forms recorded locally). `Amos‑cliff which Marvell latinised in his poem, isn't seen until 1695 but would have been established in local speech much earlier.

Bilborough Hill has been so reduced by gravel quarrying that it hardly exists, now only reaching 140 feet above the plain of York. This explains a problem that puzzled some since in the well-known poem 'Upon the Hill and Grove at Bilborough'. Marvell uses extreme poetic license in assertions about the extent of the views.
Three full translations of the epigram are now in print. The earliest, by the Rev CA Clark, is undated and also uses the form Almias-cliff, not recorded until 1822. It's a stylish effort but in forcing the Latin into a tight English straightjacket some strain has been imposed on meanings. The second is by W.A. McQueen and K.A. Rockwell. Almost a literal prose translation, it offers a corrective view. The third is by Mira Seo and follows the second closely. These three appear in the Lord, Donno and Smith editions of Marvell's poems. In addition David Craig, with the advantage of a climber's eye as well as Latin, has offered a reading of the crucial line.

The poem is of a kind common enough in Marvell's time and earlier, an exercise in flattery, the poet praising his patron or employer. It's in couplets, is twenty-four lines in length, and is dedicated to Fairfax. First the two landmarks are placed as dominating the plain with the observer near or on Bilbrough Hill (here, this) so that Almscliff (there, that) is seen distantly. In six shifts between one and the other their dissimilar characters are contrasted. These characters, rugged or gentle, are then shown as displayed in Fairfax's nature, unyielding or gracious according to circumstance. It ends with a brief salutation to Mary, Fairfax's pupil.
Almscliff, then, gets just six lines. Four of these are what we'd expect for the period. It rises from its mound like Pelion on Ossa, it supports the skies like Atlas, its towering rocks stand untamed. It's seen from great distances as a goal or as the turning-post to be reached in a race. A fifth line proves divisive: paraphrasing, either the jutting rocks stand erect; or the rough rocks are cloaked in terrors (Clark) this from a curious extension of meaning possible in Latin. The remaining line seizes the climber's attention:

Erectus, praeceps, salebrosus, et arduus ille
Marvell
The steep, the rough, the difficult are there
Clark
That is lofty, steep, uneven and arduous
McQueen and Rockwell
That is lofty, steep, uneven and harsh
Seo
That's high, vertical, rugged, and hard to climb
Craig

Clark's translation is intriguing since his abstract categories suggest that various lines of ascent have been noticed and that the writer realises that different approaches would present problems different in nature. It almost amounts to a prototype of a grading system. But four into three won't go unless advantage is taken of overlaps in meaning in the four terms. Looking at Marvell's work as a whole however it's hard to believe he'd wedge synonyms side by side.
McQueen and Rockwell make the distinction between height and steepness in a cliff and the sense of an on-site inspection persists. 'Uneven', on the other hand, seems a clumsy term in this context and Seo adds nothing useful. (It may be that none of these translators visited the cliff, a trivial detail in considering Marvell's output.) Craig also rejects Clark's abstractions as not in the Latin. The expression 'hard to climb' is justified since 'arduus' carries the sense of difficult to undertake. In speaking of a cliff that can only mean to get to the top.

It may be worth considering a grammatical liberty: to take 'salebrosus', usually translated as rough or rugged, neither as scholar or rock-climber but as a traveller of the time or a poet with a subliminal image.'Salebra' means a rut and might suggest 'rutted', a condition wearily familiar to every user of coach-roads and cart-tracks in England. To the crag's visitors the word brings to mind the parallel erosion grooves featured on these rocks, as on the climb named Fluted Columns.

None of Marvell's lines could have come from a distant view and the question arises: did he lay hands on the crag? It's clear he had ample free time at Nun Appleton and energy and activity characterise his life. He'd already spent four years travelling (or draft-dodging?) in Holland, France, Spain and Italy, seeing the sights no doubt.Ten years later he accompanied a two-year diplomatic mission to the courts of Denmark, Sweden and Russia. This was during his twenty years as Member of Parliament for Hull and it's recorded that he exchanged blows with Thomas Clifford on the floor of the House of Commons during his :first session. He also absented himself for two spells in Holland, during the second of which he seems to have been running a spy ring in the Hague. And this is the man who, `Had we but World enough and Time', would be willing to exercise patience -‑
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged Chariot hurrying near...

It's hard to believe he'd have spent two years or so looking towards Almscliff from Bilborough Hill — a favourite walk for him as it already was for Fairfax — without wishing to reach it. The possible clues in his other poems are slight and his movements and the mysterious gaps in his life have been so carefully examined that it seems unlikely that direct evidence will be found.

Nevertheless, the detail in the poem came from somewhere and the informant preeminently equipped to be his authority is Fairfax himself. Crucially, he owned the crag and hits will reveals some incidental detail. In it he confirms settlements of his lands already made including those for his 'mannor or Lordshipp of Rigton'. This centred on the North Rigton a mile east of the cliff.

There is also a codicil, longer than the will itself and dated I I November 1671, the day before his death. Here he scatters bequests to rich and poor, remembering numerous tenants, family servants, and local indigents. Amongst all this he reassigns a part of the rents from four farms at Rigton. Three can't now be traced but the fourth is 'the Spouse farrne.'The name is a rarity but a Spout House exists at Rigton today. The present building looks like a modern luxury home but the occupier states that parts of it date from that time. He adds that the property was a farm until as late as 1970 and that the lands might well have reached the crag.The old field walling suggests that the summit may have divided two tenancies.

West of the crag, from northwest to south, the estates of the Fairfax family and relatives formed a semicircle. Six of these lay within seven miles, with a sister barely three miles across the valley at Arthington. The Rigton estate lapped up to it from the east and may well have extended westward. Almscliff is the only viewpoint from which all these lands could be admired. It's hard to believe that Fairfax could have resisted the impulse to enjoy the summit's overviews of his domains whenever he passed by on a fine day.
He had a passion for horses and before the war he rode with the local hunts so that this practice alone, one biographer states, "had made every inch of Wharfedale familiar to him". (From an unknown but early date the crevices and cavities in the cliff were dry-walled up to prevent foxes going to earth there.) During the war his exploits would earn him the sobriquet 'The Rider of the White Horse'. As a young man he had made the rounds of all the properties on his grandfather's business and shortly began to oversee them. On any journeys to Rigton from Scow Hall or Fewston he would have been obliged to skirt the crag. Later he had to fit in more local travel as an officer of the civil administration.

Today he's remembered as a soldier. At 17 he was with an English contingent at the siege of Bois-le-Duc in the Low Countries and sent home his assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of the town walls and defences. During the Civil War he stormed or sieged a dozen walled towns or castles. As much as any cliff in Britain Almscliff stands like a castle on a hill. It's tempting to speculate that the besieger's eye might have been sharpened by scrambling around Almscliff.
The argument has become that if Marvell didn't visit the crag then Fairfax had given him his information. The literature is as daunting as that on Marvell though it's mainly devoted to the war and its aftermath. The Fairfax Correspondence (4 vols. 1850-52) deals almost entirely with matters of state and the biographies yield nothing. The manuscript Letters and Papers are a massive archive dispersed in three main collections and are only accessible to academic researchers. At present Fairfax is simply linked to Almscliff by circumstance. Yet he had endless opportunities, ample motives, and is the only suspect we have as Marvell's source.

Almscliff is one of the marker crags of British climbing and its great test-pieces. Frankland's Green Crack, Great Western, Western Front, Wall of Horrors — are indicator climbs for the limits of achievement in several decades. It would have been gratifying to be able to install the Lord General not only as its first known visitor but also as an habitue. Clearly we can't. Nevertheless Marvell's epigram remains unique for its instant of concentration on the form and nature of a celebrated crag long before the Romantics decided that cliffs and mountains are there to be admired.

Author's note: An earlier article appeared in FRCCJ Vol XXVII (1), No 78, 2002. It was written in response to the Clark translation and looked for clues in Marvell's work rather than considering Fairfax as the source of the description.

Harold Drasdo

This week: Harold Drasdo on poets and crags up north

2011-10-05T08:17:00.000+01:00

" The argument has become that if Marvell didn't visit the crag then Fairfax had given him his information. The literature is as daunting as that on Marvell though it's mainly devoted to the war and its aftermath. The Fairfax Correspondence (4 vols. 1850-52) deals almost entirely with matters of state and the biographies yield nothing. The manuscript Letters and Papers are a massive archive dispersed in three main collections and are only accessible to academic researchers.

At present Fairfax is simply linked to Almscliff by circumstance. Yet he had endless opportunities, ample motives, and is the only suspect we have as Marvell's source.Almscliff is one of the marker crags of British climbing and its great test-pieces Frankland's Green Crack, Great Western, Western Front, Wall of Horrors — are indicator climbs for the limits of achievement in several decades. It would have been gratifying to be able to install the Lord General not only as its first known visitor but also as an habitue. Clearly we can't. Nevertheless Marvell's epigram remains unique for its instant of concentration on the form and nature of a celebrated crag long before the Romantics decided that cliffs and mountains are there to be admired.'

This week,veteran climber and all round clever clogs,Harold Drasdo, looks at the relationship Andrew Marvell had with the area around the popular Yorkshire climbing venue, Almscliffe. Warning...this essay does not contain any references to slopers,red pointing,dynos,crimping and ripping RP's !

Bonfires in Borrowdale

2011-09-29T22:12:00.000+01:00

Night gathers over Shepherd's Crag. Phil Livesey,Anna Livesey and Liam Appleby on Jackdaw Ridge.

I looked down the first pitch from my stance beside a tree and braced my feet firmly apart to take a fall. The rope ran down in a straight line but disappeared over the top of the steep wall at the bottom. How reassuring the ritual calls are when you're out of sight of each other. Tom's head soon came into sight, and his hands, feeling over the rock, testing holds. 'The trouble with these trainers,' he said, 'is that you have to be careful not to catch them as you lift your feet, or the velcro lifts and they might drop off!'
At the start of the next pitch I placed a left foot high in a groove and made a huge pull, wondering if Tom could find the solution to this problem. I needn't have worried. He didn't hesitate to discover an alternative to the left, and in the polished groove of the third pitch, followed by the foot-jamming crack of the fourth, before the final wall of the fifth Tom kept coming, talking all the time. On the Belvedere I coiled in the sunshine whilst Tom removed the belay before we moved across to peer over the edge a few feet further to the north. Another team were starting the final pitch of Little Chamonix, the leader spreading fingers and toes across the steep top wall. Tom's eyes lit up. Well, we'd come to that. Tom had just done his first route in the Lakes. When you're seven there is plenty of time to feed bonfires.

In fact that very night, instead of dreaming routes ahead, time turned backwards as the young climber blacked his face with the rest of his family and swinging a fearfully grinning turnip lantern set out singing the Lyke Wake Dirge to trick or treat the 'shepherd's house' below Shepherd's Crag. Later that night, the excitement over and young climbers fast asleep, a rustling at the window brought us peering out into the dark to glimpse a witch in black plastic bags riding a beesom round the corner of the cottage.
Tempted closer, after our shock, the disguised shepherd of the crag offered us a drop of `real dragon's blood' to calm our nerves. His little lad, Jason, watched these pagan rites from behind a car, as we brought out the turnip's and the pumpkin's flickering faces to see them off again to their home under Tom's high viewpoint of earlier that day.

Tom's route, Jackdaw Ridge, makes a final jagged fling and tumble of rock through the trees before Shepherd's Crag disappears round the corner into the hillside and a marvellous walk up to Watendlath. For connoisseurs of Bentley Beetham's detailed explorations of Borrowdale, and this end of Shepherd's Crag in particular, the Jackdaw Ridge actually starts up Beetham's Ant High-way, which matters little. Tom claimed it like a new route and climbed it again next day together with a 30-year-old who had never climbed before, but knew someone else who would love to do it.
However, the following afternoon Kev and Barby arrived for Tom and I to guide them up Knitting Haws. It's a scrappy scramble, but Tom led up all the bits of boulders and little walls that we could find as, unroped, we strung rock and heather together. By far the finest descent is to turn north and follow a track below a wall to a smoothly grassed spur. We fell through deep bracken towards the lights of Grange as dusk closed in.

A wet day and we were pulling fallen branches out of the fields, dragging them down the road to a growing bonfire opposite the Borrowdale Hotel. And still Little Chamonix was receiving continuous ascents. In an afternoon of clearing weather, Tom and I, with three-year-old Ruth, walked into the great bowl of bronze trees that leads to Black Crag. Voices came from Troutdale Pinnacle, a valley route with a big-crag feel that Tom could look forward to climbing at any time of year. I memorised the elegant line of a parallel party on the Superdirect as we slowly explored the orange fell below Greatend Crag. In full autumn colour this is a magic corner of the Lakes, not far from the road. Rowans explode in bonfires of berries along the paths.

November the fifth and I wanted to take Tom on a nostalgic climb in Coombe Gill. I must have been 16 or 17 when I did my first climbing here. We were awestruck working class kids from a Scout troop up Newmarket Road in Cambridge. Des Oliver (creator of Troutdale Pinnacle Direct) introduced us to rock-climbing on his afternoon off from the grocer's shop where he worked in Keswick. I've never forgotten Glaciated Slab since that day twenty- ago when we Fen boys flogged up the bouldered fell towards this whale's back 100ft high. As we youngsters were introduced to the concept of Old Man's Pace up that slope I remember someone stating what became for us the Cambridge definition of steepness: 'I wouldn't ride me bike down here!'

The top of Glaciated Slab is the top of the fifth pitch of a Bentley Beetham creation called Intake Ridge, twelve pitches of Mod that wander up the east side of the entrance to Coombe Gill to the top of Bessyboot. Beetham is supposed to have made these linked scrambles for the initiation of kids into climbing. Glaciated Slab is itself perfect for the purpose as Des Oliver obviously knew. He lit something there that was becoming a recurring ritual. Tom silently soloed up the easy scoop at the top end of the slab. I followed at his heels. Next David Craig, who had come up to Borrowdale for Bonfire Night, started out in big boots up the face in the centre of slab declaring it clearly V Diff rather than, Beetham's grade of Diff. Tom tried hard to solve the problem of the thin crack in the middle, but finally traversed across to find an easier way up for his short reach.

The chimney also proved good fun, taking us out to the open left edge of the outcrop. Finally, David and I soloed the excellent break just around the corner that finishes at the top of the chimney.And then to the bonfire, with fireworks provided by the film director Ken Russell. Anyone who has seen just one of his films can imagine his delight in setting off bigger and better display pyrotechnics. The rockets shot up like flares, lighting Little Chamonix. The first Guy, top of the pile of branches and beds, was quickly consumed and so we then brought on our crucified straw man whose candle eyes flamed from the front of the fire. As his body burnt, the turnip head rolled safely out of the fire for a second or third life beyond Halloween, the Celtic year's end.

The shepherd passed round his tattles from a tin hooked out of the heat of the fire to challenge the bonfire toffee already circulating. We stood facing the heat in the comfortable neighbourly atmosphere.
`I took our Tom climbing in Coombe Gill today on routes that have all got the old sheep counting names, you know. Trod, Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera .... Do you know them?' `No, I've never used them.'
`They were named by a guy called Bentley Beetham.'
`Now I remember him. I gave him a lift once. He used to stay in a tin hut beside the road beyond Rosthwaite. He was getting on then, maybe in his eighties, and he could hardly walk along the road. He said he'd climbed a route up Bessyboot that you could walk up either side of.' `Intake Ridge! That's where we've been today.' `Aye and I remember him saying "They'll never stop me till they nail me down".`Well I hope I'm around when our Tom takes his daughter or son up old Bentley Beetham's routes in Borrowdale!'

As the fire died down at last and we drifted away, the crag bulked black above. It held in the promise of darkness one of Beetham's best discoveries, made a month before I was born. From Halloween to Bonfire Night, Little Chamonix had literally hung over us like the future, to be savoured when it comes ... the spikey corners, aircy stances, the engaging of toes on the slab, the revelation over the knife blade pitch. Well, Tom will come. to that in his own time. Some routes are worth saving to savour in the fired light of leading.

Terry Gifford: The Joy of Climbing : Whittles Publishing 2004
Photographs: John Appleby

This week: Terry Gifford is harvest home in the northern fells

2011-09-27T22:53:00.000+01:00

Moonlight Sonata: Troutdale Pinnacle above Borrowdale.Photo Liam Appleby

"The top of Glaciated Slab is the top of the fifth pitch of a Bentley Beetham creation called Intake Ridge, twelve pitches of Mod that wander up the east side of the entrance to Coombe Gill to the top of Bessyboot. Beetham is supposed to have made these linked scrambles for the initiation of kids into climbing. Glaciated Slab is itself perfect for the purpose as Des Oliver obviously knew. He lit something there that was becoming a recurring ritual. Tom silently soloed up the easy scoop at the top end of the slab. I followed at his heels.

Next David Craig, who had come up to Borrowdale for Bonfire Night, started out in big boots up the face in the centre of slab declaring it clearly V Diff rather than, Beetham's grade of Diff. Tom tried hard to solve the problem of the thin crack in the middle, but finally traversed across to find an easier way up for his short reach. The chimney also proved good fun, taking us out to the open left edge of the outcrop. Finally, David and I soloed the excellent break just around the corner that finishes at the top of the chimney.And then to the bonfire, with fireworks provided by the film director Ken Russell. Anyone who has seen just one of his films can imagine his delight in setting off bigger and better display pyrotechnics. The rockets shot up like flares, lighting Little Chamonix.

The first Guy, top of the pile of branches and beds, was quickly consumed and so we then brought on our crucified straw man whose candle eyes flamed from the front of the fire. As his body burnt, the turnip head rolled safely out of the fire for a second or third life beyond Halloween, the Celtic year's end.

The shepherd passed round his tattles from a tin hooked out of the heat of the fire to challenge the bonfire toffee already circulating. We stood facing the heat in the comfortable neighbourly atmosphere.
`I took our Tom climbing in Coombe Gill today on routes that have all got the old sheep counting names, you know. Trod, Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera .... Do you know them?' '

This week...pour yourself a hot toddy and throw another log on the fire as Terry Gifford descibes the autumnal delights of
Borrowdale.Climbing easy routes with friends and family above the smoking chimneys,russet branches and tangled crow's nests within one of Lakeland's most inspiring and beautiful valleys.

For Evan forever ago

2011-09-22T22:03:00.002+01:00

A day out climbing on Tryfan (in Snowdonia - North Wales) and a short walk in the Ogwen Valley manifests a very personal consideration of time and mortality:High above the valley on Gashed Crag in the white grey cloud that whistles above The Heather Terrace, we are tied to a rich green grassy stance with the bright nylon ropes uncoiled on the grass and shattered rocks loose at our feet.

A wet summer Tryfan mist condensing sogginess that sets and drips on our clothes and ropes. Hair is plastered and matted. It is cold but not frozen, damp but not sodden. Clothes are cold but not hypothermic. There is the occasional bleat of sheep that is carried off fast in the streaking wind The ropes gradually trail slowly upwards and out into the grey aerial vapour. We hear wind carried chatter and talk from the craggy main summit of Tryfan, but that babble of those voices is invisible as the cloud base wind streams between the peaks

We are three college friends long gone grey, laughing our way up this fun wet afternoon outing that is just a very special treat. Our last mad meeting was nearly a full decade ago. We have started early, we have plenty of light, we have plenty of time and lots of rope The rock gets running water wetter and greasier the higher we go, we climb alpine style on double ropes until we get to a harder, thinner pitch and then climb up much more studiously just one at a time. Dark, sweet ripe blueberries are surprisingly picked from stubby raven pecked bushes on the roomy stances and we josh and banter our way slowly up the mountain as the coloured ropes ease out and the leader boot climbs slowly, carefully reeling in the many upward mossy and lichenous pitches

The streaming pitches are nervous and the polished cracks awkward, the raking and gusting bumps of wind blow us off balance and we get wetter but the ribald, ribbing laughter continues as we climb upwards towards the end We finally get to the top of the last awkward off width pitch, unmercifully sledging each other’s ageing bones and muscles as the last awkward thrutchy foot and knee jamming crack pitch dumps us out onto a final flat puddled rocky platform. We carefully hide ourselves away out of the gusting wind and coil up the lank, wet ropes, exchanging slings, snap links and the bits of gear collected from each other on the way up there.

The final peak’s mist and cloud clears momentarily and we very briefly pick out the dark, stony outlines of Adam and Eve on the main summit and the black silhouettes of the walkers at the end of the mountain hooraying the top Descending the frost shattered screes and soggy moss peat on careful knees down the Heather Terrace the verbal badinage continues relentlessly. A suddenly unexpected sunlit break in the cloud produces a rare wet quivering rainbow over the moorland Ogwen Valley deep below. Out of a deep secret, warm dry pocket comes a mobile phone camera and that strange magic moment of the scene is captured forever.

Forever, and deep in that word is the rub as a couple of days later I stand on a now quietly redundant stone bridge over the tree lined River Ogwen looking at the mossy grooves and crazed patina of images and the initials that quarrymen scratched deep in the slate slabbed parapets. Inscribed images of elephants and Nazis and the steam train that carried the massive lumps of rock in the quarry over a hundred years ago, lines and curves scratched deep in those silent, flat shiny grey black stones

The bridge is in a very special back water place that I first excitedly photographed as long haired student several decades previously in black and white on now antique 35mm film, I rushed back to the college and printed up the papers in a red lit smelly bath of chemicals and hung them out to dry This bridge is a public but secret place that some know about but only a few will tell, it is a place to pause over the glittering brown river, look for nervous darting trout, hope for secretive salmon and trace the graffiti of the then and also the graffiti of the now.

There are the names and initials of big bearded, hob nail booted and black waist coated quarrymen who lived in the long cottages nearby, now long gone into the ground, quarrymen who are now hidden high on the sides of the valley, deep under the tilted singing gravestones of the silent, bleak and empty chapels My brother tells me of a quarry sign that warns of blasting and carried the severe instruction ‘No Entry’. There was a right of way along the river. So many years ago I scrubbed out the No Entry instruction, but it is such a forever ago that I have even forgotten ever doing it, but that dour warning sign is still there for all to see in English and in Welsh with the rusty scrub marks of the deleted instruction underneath

And if you look just a few yards away from the silent stone bridge there are the deep grooved striations of long ago melted glaciers that ground their way to the sea over the unquarried rock, forgotten frozen glaciers that slid down this valley forever times ago The shape and colours of the mountains always stay about the weather washed same, the dry stone walled narrow winding roads perhaps get a little wider and straighter as the time passes and the roughness of rock climbs each year get just a little more shiny black rubber polished.

I hope that this quiet bridge and it’s deep etched history stays there forever; each year being given just a few more names and lines to add to it’s quiet story long after I am gone away........forever

Michael Combley 2011

This week: Michael Combley discovers ghosts in the machine

2011-09-21T08:12:00.002+01:00

"High above the valley on Gashed Crag in the white grey cloud that whistles above The Heather Terrace, we are tied to a rich green grassy stance with the bright nylon ropes uncoiled on the grass and shattered rocks loose at our feet.
A wet summer Tryfan mist condensing sogginess that sets and drips on our clothes and ropes. Hair is plastered and matted. It is cold but not frozen, damp but not sodden. Clothes are cold but not hypothermic. There is the occasional bleat of sheep that is carried off fast in the streaking wind
The ropes gradually trail slowly upwards and out into the grey aerial vapour. We hear wind carried chatter and talk from the craggy main summit of Tryfan, but that babble of those voices is invisible as the cloud base wind streams between the peaks'

This week: Michael Combley returns to North Wales from his Australian home and reflects on those early days in Wales, spent climbing and exploring amongst the slate grey hillsides. Walking with the ghosts of long dead quarrymen and finding their lives recorded in secret places.

The Rescue

2011-09-15T23:31:00.000+01:00

At eventide, upon a dreary sea, I watched a mountain rear its hoary head To look with steady gaze in the near heaven. The earth was cold and still. No sound was heard But the dream-voices of the sleeping sea. The mountain drew its gray cloud-mantle close, Like a Roman senator, erect and old, Raising aloft an earnest brow.

"The sunset," he cried; "we must have the whole horizon." Then he started running along the ledge like a mountain goat, working to get around the vertical cliff above us to find an ascent on the other side. He was soon out of sight, although I followed as fast as I could. I heard him shout something, but could not make out his words. I know now he was warning me of a dangerous place. Then I came to a sharp-cut fissure which lay across my path—a gash in the rock, as if one of the Cyclops had struck it with his axe. It sloped very steeply for some twelve feet below, opening on the face of the precipice above the glacier, and was filled to within about four feet of the surface with flat, slaty gravel.

It was only four or five feet across, and I could easily have leaped it had I not been so tired. But a rock the size of my head projected from the slippery stream of gravel. In my haste to overtake Muir I did not stop to make sure this stone was part of the cliff, but stepped with springing force upon it to cross the fissure. Instantly the stone melted away beneath my feet, and I shot with it down towards the precipice. With my peril sharp upon me I cried out as I whirled on my face, and struck out both hands to grasp the rock on either side. Falling forward hard, my hands struck the walls of the chasm, my arms were twisted behind me, and instantly both shoulders were dislocated. With my paralyzed arms flopping helplessly above my head, I slid swiftly down the narrow chasm. Instinctively I flattened down on the sliding gravel, digging my chin and toes into it to check my descent; but not until my feet hung out over the edge of the cliff did I feel that I had stopped.

Even then I dared not breathe or stir, so precarious was my hold on that treacherous shale. Every moment I seemed to be slipping inch by inch to the point when all would give way and I would go whirling down to the glacier. After the first wild moment of panic when I felt myself falling, I do not remember any sense of fear. But I know what it is to have a thousand thoughts flash through the brain in a single instant—an anguished thought of my young wife at Wrangell, with her imminent motherhood; an indignant thought of the insurance companies that refused me policies on my life; a thought of wonder as to what would become of my poor flocks of Indians among the islands; recollections of events far and near in time, important and trivial; but each thought printed upon my memory by the instantaneous photography of deadly peril.
I had no hope of escape at all. The gravel was rattling past me and piling up against my head. The jar of a little rock, and all would be over. The situation was too desperate for actual fear. Dull wonder as to how long I would be in the air, and the hope that death would be instant— that was all. Then came the wish that Muir would come before I fell, and take a message to my wife. Suddenly I heard his voice right above me. "My God!" he cried. Then he added, " Grab that rock, man, just by your right hand." I gurgled from my throat, not daring to inflate my lungs, " My arms are out." There was a pause. Then his voice rang again, cheery, confident, unexcited, "Hold fast; I'm going to get you out of this. I can't get to you on this side; the rock is sheer. I'll have to leave you now and cross the rift high up and come down to you on the other side by which we came. Keep cool." Then I heard him going away, whistling " The Blue Bells of Scotland," singing snatches of Scotch songs, calling to me, his voice now receding, as the rocks intervened, then sounding louder as he came out on the face of the cliff. But in me hope surged at full tide.

I entertained no more thoughts of last messages. I did not see how he could possibly do it, but he was John Muir, and I had seen his wonderful rock-work. So I determined not to fall and made myself as flat and heavy as possible, not daring to twitch a muscle or wink an eyelid, for I still felt myself slipping, slipping down the greasy slate. And now a new peril threatened. A chill ran through me of cold and nervousness, and I slid an inch. I suppressed the growing shivers with all my will. I would keep perfectly quiet till Muir came back. The sickening pain in my shoulders increased till it was torture, and I could not ease it. It seemed like hours, but it was really only about ten minutes before he got back to me. By that time I hung so far over the edge of the precipice that it seemed impossible that I could last another second. Now I heard Muir's voice, low and steady, close to me, and it seemed a little below. " Hold steady," he said. " I'll have to swing you out over the cliff." Then I felt a careful hand on my back, fumbling with the waistband of my pants, my vest and shirt, gathering all in a firm grip. I could see only with one eye and that looked upon but a foot or two of gravel on the other side. "Now!" he said, and I slid out of the cleft with a rattling shower of stones and gravel. My head swung down, my impotent arms dangling, and I stared straight at the glacier, a thousand feet below. Then my feet came against the cliff. " Work downwards with your feet." I obeyed. He drew me close to him by crooking his arm and as my head came up past his level he caught me by my collar with his teeth!

My feet struck the little two-inch shelf on which he was standing, and I could see Muir, flattened against the face of the rock and facing it, his right hand stretched up and clasping a little spur, his left holding me with an iron grip, his head bent sideways, as my weight drew it. I felt as alert and cool as he. " I've got to let go of you," he hissed through his clenched teeth. " I need both hands here. Climb upward with your feet." How he did it, I know not. The miracle grows as I ponder it. The wall was almost perpendicular and smooth. My weight on his jaws dragged him outwards. And yet, holding me by his teeth as a panther her cub and clinging like a squirrel to a tree, he climbed with me straight up ten or twelve feet, with only the help of my iron-shod feet scrambling on the rock.

It was utterly impossible, yet he did it! When he landed me on the little shelf along which we had come, my nerve gave way and I trembled all over. I sank down exhausted, Muir only less tired, but supporting me. The sun had set; the air was icy cold and we had no coats. We would soon chill through. Muir's task of rescue had only begun and no time was to be lost. In a minute he was up again, examining my shoulders. The right one had an upward dislocation, the ball of the humerus resting on the process of the scapula, the rim of the cup. I told him how, and he soon snapped the bone into its socket. But the left was a harder proposition. The luxation was downward and forward, and the strong, nervous reaction of the muscles had pulled the head of the bone deep into my armpit. There was no room to work on that narrow ledge. All that could be done was to make a rude sling with one of my suspenders and our handkerchiefs, so as to both support the elbow and keep the arm from swinging.

Then came the task to get down that terrible wall to the glacier, by the only practicable way down the mountain that Muir, after a careful search, could find. Again I am at loss to know how he accomplished it. For an unencumbered man to descend it in the deepening dusk was a most difficult task; but to get a tottery, nerve-shaken, pain-wracked cripple down was a feat of positive wonder. My right arm, though in place, was almost helpless. I could only move my forearm; the muscles of the upper part simply refusing to obey my will. Muir would let himself down to a lower shelf, brace himself, and I would get my right hand against him, crawl my fingers over his shoulder until the arm hung infront of him, and falling against him, would be eased down to his standing ground. Sometimes he would pack me a short distance on his back. Again, taking me by the wrist, he would swing me down to a lower shelf, before descending himself. My right shoulder came out three times that night, and had to be reset. It was dark when we reached the base; there was no moon and it was very cold. The glacier provided an operating table, and I lay on the ice for an hour while Muir, having slit the sleeve of my shirt to the collar, tugged and twisted at my left arm in a vain attempt to set it. But the ball was too deep in its false socket, and all his pulling only bruised and made it swell. So he had to do up the arm again, and tie it tight to my body. It must have been near mid-night when we left the foot of the cliff and started down the mountain.

We had ten hard miles to go, and no supper, for the hardtack had disappeared ere we were half-way up the mountain. Muir dared not take me across the glacier in the dark; I was too weak to jump the crevasses. So we skirted it and came, after a mile, to the head of a great slide of gravel, the fine moraine matter of the receding glacier. Muir sat down on the gravel; I sat against him with my feet on either side and my arm over his shoulder. Then he began to hitch and kick, and presently we were sliding at great speed in a cloud of dust. A full half-mile we flew, and were almost buried when we reached the bottom of the slide. It was the easiest part of our trip. Now we found ourselves in the canyon, down which tumbled the glacial stream, and far beneath the ridge along which we had ascended. The sides of the canyon were sheer cliffs. " We'll try it," said Muir. " Sometimes these canyons are passable." But the way grew rougher as we descended. The rapids became falls and we often had to retrace our steps to find a way around them. After we reached the timber-line, some four miles from the summit, the going was still harder, for we had a thicket of alders and willows to fight. Here Muir offered to make a fire and leave me while he went forward for assistance, but I refused. " No," I said, " I'm going to make it to the boat."

All that night this man of steel and lightning worked, never resting a minute, doing the work of three men, helping me along the slopes, easing me down the rocks, pulling me up cliffs, dashing water on me when I grew faint with the pain; and always cheery, full of talk and anecdote, cracking jokes with me, infusing me with his own indomitable spirit. He was eyes, hands, feet, and heart to me—my caretaker, in whom I trusted absolutely. My eyes brim with tears even now when I think of his utter self-abandon as he ministered to my infirmities. About four o'clock in the morning we came to a fall that we could not compass, sheer a hundred feet or more. So we had to attack the steep walls of the canyon. After a hard struggle we were on the mountain ridges again, traversing the flower pastures, creeping through openings in the brush, scrambling over the dwarf fir, then down through the fallen timber. It was half-past seven o'clock when we descended the last slope and found the path to Glenora. Here we met a straggling party of whites and Indians just starting out to search the mountain for us. As I was coming wearily up the teetering gang-plank, feeling as if I couldn't keep up another minute, Dr. Kendall stepped upon its end, barring my passage, bent his bushy white brows upon me from his six feet of height, and began to scold:

" See here, young man; give an account of yourself. Do you know you've kept us waiting " Just then Captain Lane jumped forward to help me, digging the old Doctor of Divinity with his elbow in the stomach and nearly knocking him off the boat. "Oh, hell!" he roared. "Can't you see the man's hurt?" Mrs. Kendall was a very tall, thin, severe-looking old lady, with face lined with grief by the loss of her children. She never smiled. She had not gone to bed at all that night, but walked the deck and would not let her husband or the others sleep. Soon after daylight she began to lash the men with the whip of her tongue for their " cowardice and inhumanity " in not starting at once to search for me. " Mr. Young is undoubtedly lying mangled at the foot of a cliff, or else one of those terrible bears has wounded him; and you are lolling around here instead of starting to his rescue.

For shame! " When they objected that they did not know where we had gone, she snapped: " Go everywhere until you find him." Her fierce energy started the men we met. When I came on board she at once took charge and issued her orders, which everybody jumped to obey. She had blankets spread on the floor of the cabin and laid me on them. She obtained some whisky from the captain, some water, porridge and coffee from the steward. She was sitting on the floor with my head in her lap, feeding me coffee with a spoon, when Dr. Kendall came in and began on me again: " Suppose you had fallen down that precipice, what would your poor wife have done? What would have become of your Indians and your new church?" Then Mrs. Kendall turned and thrust her spoon like a sword at him. " Henry Kendall," she blazed, " shut right up and leave this room. Have you no sense? Go instantly, I say! " And the good Doctor went. My recollections of that day are not very clear. The shoulder was in a bad condition—swollen, bruised, very painful. I.had to be strengthened with food and rest, and Muir called from his sleep of exhaustion, so that with four other men he could pull and twist that poor arm of mine for an hour. They got it into its socket, but scarcely had Muir got to sleep again before the strong, nervous twitching of the shoulder dislocated it a second time and seemingly placed it in a worse condition than before.

Captain Lane was now summoned, and with Muir to direct, they worked for two or three hours. Whisky was poured down my throat to relax my stubborn, pain-convulsed muscles. Then they went at it with two men pulling at the towel knotted about my wrist, two others pulling against them, foot braced to foot, Muir manipulating my shoulder with his sinewy hands, and the stocky Captain, strong and compact as a bear, with his heel against the yarn ball in my armpit, takes me by the elbow and says, " I'll set it or pull the arm off!"
Well, he almost does the latter. I am conscious of a frightful strain, a spasm of anguish in my side as his heel slips from the ball and kicks in two of my ribs, a snap as the head of the bone slips into the cup—then kindly oblivion. I was awakened about five o'clock in the afternoon by the return of the whole party from an excursion to the Great Glacier at the Boundary Line. Muir, fresh and enthusiastic as ever, had been the pilot across the moraine and upon the great ice mountain; and I, wrapped like a mummy in linen strips, was able to join in his laughter as he told of the big D.D.'s heroics, when, in the middle of an acre of alder brush, he asked indignantly, in response to the hurry-up calls: "Do you think I'm going to leave my wife in this forest?"

One overpowering regret — one only—abides in my heart as I think back upon that golden day with John Muir. He could, and did, go back to Glenora on the return trip of the Cassiar, ascend the mountain again, see the sunset from its top, make charming sketches, stayed all night to see the sunrise, filling his cup of joy so full that he could pour out entrancing descriptions for days. While I—well, with entreating arms about one's neck and pleading, tearful eyes looking into one's own, what could one do but promise to climb no more? But my lifelong lamentation over a treasure forever lost, is this: " I never saw the sunset from that peak."

From 'Alaska days with John Muir' -Samuel Hall Young.Published Fleming H Revell-1915

This Week: John Muir....on the edge of the abyss

2011-09-14T07:50:00.000+01:00

John Muir-hard core all action hero in his heyday!

"Falling forward hard, my hands struck the walls of the chasm, my arms were twisted behind me, and instantly both shoulders were dislocated. With my paralyzed arms flopping helplessly above my head, I slid swiftly down the narrow chasm. Instinctively I flattened down on the sliding gravel, digging my chin and toes into it to check my descent; but not until my feet hung out over the edge of the cliff did I feel that I had stopped. Even then I dared not breathe or stir, so precarious was my hold on that treacherous shale. Every moment I seemed to be slipping inch by inch to the point when all would give way and I would go whirling down to the glacier.
After the first wild moment of panic when I felt myself falling, I do not remember any sense of fear. But I know what it is to have a thousand thoughts flash through the brain in a single instant—an anguished thought of my young wife at Wrangell, with her imminent motherhood; an indignant thought of the insurance companies that refused me policies on my life; a thought of wonder as to what would become of my poor flocks of Indians among the islands; recollections of events far and near in time, important and trivial; but each thought printed upon my memory by the instantaneous photography of deadly peril. I had no hope of escape at all. The gravel was rattling past me and piling up against my head. The jar of a little rock, and all would be over. The situation was too desperate for actual fear. Dull wonder as to how long I would be in the air, and the hope that death would be instant— that was all.

Then came the wish that Muir would come before I fell, and take a message to my wife. Suddenly I heard his voice right above me. "My God!" he cried. Then he added, " Grab that rock, man, just by your right hand." I gurgled from my throat, not daring to inflate my lungs, " My arms are out." There was a pause. Then his voice rang again, cheery, confident, unexcited, "Hold fast; I'm going to get you out of this.'

This week...tales of mountaineering heroics from the father of conservation and environmentalism-John Muir. From almost a century ago,Samuel Young recounts being totally incapacitated in a serious mountain fall and the dramatic single handed rescue conducted by John Muir.

Claud Deane Frankland...the hunter home from the hill.

2011-09-08T22:00:00.000+01:00

The Accident

On the late afternoon of Sunday, 31st of July, 1927, a party of four were preparing to climb 'Chantry Buttress' on the Napes. The route was considered relatively easy; graded very difficult and was certainly not a passage to over-tax their capabilities. The party was a strong one, led by Claud Deane Frankland, reputed at that time to be one of the leading climbers in the country. The other members were Mabel Barker, A. Wood-Johnson and Lawson Cook. They had been on the Napes most of the day. Frankland and Mabel Barker had climbed 'Eagles Corner' and they found an egg in 'Eagles Nest' — an interesting incident overshadowed by the tragic happening later that day.
They decided to rope up in two teams with Frankland leading the first rope. He climbed the first pitch and brought up A. Wood-Johnson, who was his second. Frankland was commenting about their successful traverse of the Cuillin Ridge a year earlier — these remarks were his last! The leader then negotiated the slab and moved up the steep crack. Suddenly and without warning Frankland fell, his body turning a half somersault on its downward plunge. Wood-Johnson took in some slack damaging his hands in the process, but he was unable to stop Frankland's fall as he hit a rib of rock about 40 feet below. Lawson Cook rushed forward in an attempt to prevent further movement and injury, but it was to no avail, Frankland died twenty minutes later with severe head injuries and without recovering consciousness.

How was it possible for a climber of Frankland's ability and wide margin of safety to perish on such an innocuous route ? From eye witness reports it seems clear that the fall was caused by a loose or broken handhold, and not by a slip; a piece of rock still clutched in his hand after the accident would appear to support this theory. It was further substantiated by a party above the route at the time who stated hey heard a loud crack as though a hold had snapped.

After the Great War the sport of rock climbing entered a 'state of limbo'. Many of the pre-war climbers died in the trenches; great names like the legendary Herford, perhaps the most gifted technician of his day, Jeffcoat, Oppenheimer and Worthington did not return; and Fred Botterill, incapacitated through gas poisoning, died in 1920 — all part of the lost generation.
It took a new breed of climber to regenerate the scene, reshape rock climbing history and give the sport a separate indentity. These cragsmen, like Herford and Botterill, learned their trade on the steep gritstone outcrops of the Peak and south Yorkshire, where the technique of delicate balance moves alternated with the more strenuous laybacking and jamming was the name of the game. Leading this field were H. M. Kelly, G. S. Bower, A. S. Pigott, Morley Wood, Fergus Graham and, further north, a remarkable man called Claud Deane Frankland was carving himself a reputation as one of the greatest climbers ever.

Almscliffe was C.D.F.'s domain and he ruled supreme. His routes include 'Whisky Crack', 'Traditional Climb' and the 'Central Route'; but without any doubt his finest climb is the 'Green Crack' considered by many experts to be one of the top fifty gritstone routes, and when it was put up in 1920 was the hardest single unprotected pitch in the country. These climbs were first led by Frankland when he was forty two years old, and when he died in 1927 Central Route and Green Crack had not been led by anyone else.

Fred Pigott, then a young and dynamic leader recalls a trip to Almscliffe in May, 1922. "One memory of this visit to Almscliffe is of being taken up the Green Crack and the Central Route by Frankland and of hearing that only he was considered competent enough to lead them safely. Attempts by others were discouraged. This attitude is better understood when it is remembered that few climbers of that period were accustomed to supporting themselves out of balance by pulling outwards on their hands which had to be done in the upper reaches of the Green Crack. It was this capacity of climbing safely out of balance, and his ability to use the 'lay-back' method that probably robbed the Flake Crack on Scafell Central Buttress of much of its formidable reputation".

One can imagine Frankland's genuine concern for the safety of these young climbers who were no doubt 'stomping at the leash'; but, it should be said that Pigott, as he went on to prove, was certainly capable of leading the climbs in question. C.D.F. by this time was at the height of his powers and was held in awe by the vast majority of the younger climbers. Fergus Graham remembers those formative years. "I well remember C. D. Frankland's descent from his Yorkshire Olympus at Almscliffe to the rocks at Laddow. The occasion had all the atmosphere of a visit by royalty, it was a tremendous privilege for me to climb with him, though I am bound to admit this is rather a euphemism. He led up the North Wall to the top and then brought up George Bower who in turn brought me up. Still, I saw him climbing at close quarters, and it was an education I never forgot. His was the finest climbing I have ever seen, and a wonderful object lesson. He would choose a hold carefully, and once it was found he just stuck to it till he passed on to the next. There was none of that nervous paddling with the toe, or taking a handhold, letting it go, trying another, etc. It was just slow, smooth and inexorable movement".

Almscliffe:Photo Geographia

The elder statesman of British climbing, Geoffrey Winthrop Young writing about climbing styles of the twenties spotlights an exhibition by Frankland.
"Soon after the war I was invited to watch C. D. Frankland on his Almscliffe verticals and overhangs, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him illustrate fully for the first time continuous movement up severe rock, with its rhythmic fluctuations and grace
Frankland began climbing in 1909 at the age of thirty one. His brother Willie introduced him to the sport and they made regular trips to Wales and the Lakes using Abraham's 'British Mountain Climbs' as their bible. (This was long before the days of the club rock climbing guides).
In 1914 he went to Skye, staying with the hospitable Mrs. Chisholme at the Post Office, Glen Brittle, and he climbed no fewer than thirty six routes. Then the war broke out and he joined the 21st West Riding Ambulance Brigade. He served in France with the 62nd Division and was demobilised in 1918.

After the war he returned to his profession as a schoolmaster, teaching, at Blenheim School; he was then promoted to Headmaster at Sweet Street School, Leeds. He was a keen club man being a member of the Yorkshire Ramblers' and later he joined the Fell and Rock Climbing Club.
In 1920 Frankland decided to undertake a course of solo climbing in the Lake District. This may have appeared as a rather foolhardy venture, but his decision was the result of a great deal of soul searching and deep thought, and was no doubt influenced by the inadequate belaying system of the period. He explained his motives in an article entitled, 'In the Tracks of the Rubbermen' written for the Yorkshire Ramblers' Club Journal.
"Many experienced cragsmen today disparage the use of a 'shoulder.' By giving this adventitious aid to his leader a second man may help him into a situation dangerous to the party. The supplementary aid afforded by the rope is different. However, on the climbs on which I desire to qualify, the rope is declared to be more dangerous than useful. Archorage is often lacking. The pitches are very long. Companions capable of leading are few. I came to the conclusion that I must climb alone, and then there would be no question of either shoulder or rope. It would be playing strictly according to the rules of the game if I tried the climb myself before inviting others to trust their safety to my leadership".

Over the years the history of solo climbing has received meagre documentation, but it is generally accepted that the vast majority of the 'great climbers' have sometime in their careers sampled solitary climbing. It should be remembered that Frankland wrote his convictions many years ago and was revealing an attitude more in keeping with the modern day trend. It is little wonder that C.D.F. was considered by many of his contemporaries as the greatest crags-man of his time.
No one knows the full extent of Frankland's lonely wanderings during his period of penance, but it has been recorded that he climbed on Pillar Rock and Scafell, and among the courses he followed were; 'New West' 'Rib and Slab' and 'South West' on Pillar, also 'Botterill's Slab" Jones's Direct from Lord's Rake' and 'Hopkinson's Cairn Direct' on Scafell.

Frankland was now ready to break through the psychological barrier of 'Central Buttress' — first climbed it 1914 by Herford, Sansom and Holland, (in three separate stages). It had fired the imagination of the climbing world and in 1921 was still awaiting a second ascent, or indeed, a complete single first ascent.The aura of mystique and desperation that surrounded Central Buttress during those early years is captured in this dire warning handed out to would be participants by C. F. Holland.
"The most arduous ascent in the Lake District; unexampled exposure; combined tactics and rope engineering essential at one point; not less than three climbers. Rubbers. The difficulties met are so great that the expedition ranks among the world's hardest. And it is possible only under practically perfect conditions".

At 9 o'clock on the 20th August, 1921, and after two days of intensive preparatory climbing practice, Frankland and Beetham set off up the tedious haul of 'Brown Tongue' for their attempt on Central Buttress. For insurance on the formidable 'Flake Crack' they armed themselves with two ropes — one length of 80 ft and one length of 50 ft.
Sansom and Herford gained access to the Oval via a rising traverse from the lower part of 'Botterill's Slab', but Frankland and Beetham arrived there by climbing the steep slanting rib of rock which is now the accepted ordinary start to C.B. The upper corner of the second pitch was running with slime which Frankland found rather off-putting in his rubbers. Writing later in the Yorkshire Ramblers' Club Journal Frankland portrayed the scene. "The feature that claimed our attention was the Flake, which spring from the neglected turf of the Oval . The Flake is a thin leaf of rock which the frosts are peeling off the great smooth face of the Buttress, leaving more than a crack, but less than a chimney, a fissure too wide for wedging, yet too narrow to enter. The difficulty is due to the overhang, which becomes pronounced above a chockstone, lodged 12 feet or so from the top."

Beetham thought it would go and said so. Both ropes were brought into use. The first 30 feet of rock were soon scaled to a ledge 9 inches wide. We took precautions to thread a rope at once. Looking up we saw that two pronounced bulges precede the overhang. I climbed around and stood on the first, while Beetham squeezed himself as securely as possible into his awkward corner. [Most climbers now take a stance on the Oval and to the right of the Flake]. When he was firm I attacked the second and more interesting bulge. Its mildness was a little disappointing, but the next 15 feet of smooth wall compensated adequately. By the time I had reached two holds, which are designed to be well-known by reason of their rarity, the left one on the edge of the Flake and the right one on the wall itself, I had begun thoroughly to enjoy myself. The rock was sound and the climbing simple. It is true that it was extremely strenuous going, but it was just as hard to remain still, and there was always the splendid flat top of the tall, narrow chock to justify any slight 'overdraft' on reserves. As soon as I could, I hitched one rope across the top and dropped my arms to rest. While threading the other rope on the Flake side of the jammed block I found a short, blackened fragment of old rope, firmly wedged. It is, still there, its suggestion of mythical legend perhaps accentuated by the harsh croaking of ravens, wheeling over Mickledore".

Frankland 'set about' the overhang and tried to lead straight through and he struggled in the crack for at least a half hour before admitting defeat. After a hurried lunch on the Oval during which time they saw two climbing friends near the top of the Flake, Beetham climbed up to the threaded chockstone, and tied himself on and invited Frankland to use him as a launching platform. Within five minutes, and by using Beetham's head and shoulders as holds, Frankland was able to turn the overhang and reach the finishing holds on the crest of the Flake. C.D.F. describes his feelings as he pulled over the top.

"The fingers curled over and hooked the sharp crest. Then, with feelings unbecoming of expression to a man who has reached my side of middle age, I enjoyed the luxury of lusty hauling, which was sheer joy with such a hold and such space below to spur one's efforts .One of our friends was crawling at this moment carefully along the knife-edge of the crest of the Flake when we met literally face to face. The situation ludicrously unexpected, and the exclamation "They're up!" was accepted as an intimation of surprise and a quaint form of congratulation".

The two friends were Bower and Kelly, who themselves had designs on the climb but were taking the precaution of prospecting downwards before committing themselves. This gives some indication of Frankland's moral fibre and the purism of his approach. The foursome then joined forces and finished the climb together.
The summer of 1921 was one of the finest in living memory, but the much acclaimed second ascent of Central Buttress did not act as a stimulous for the tigers of the day, in fact a year was to pass before it was climbed again. R. S. T. Chorley, the editor of the Fell and Rock Journal, thought that Frankland's ascent, because it had been led without previous inspection from a top rope, was pure, but perhaps risky mountaineering.

It was during an Easter meet at Wasdale in 1924 that Frankland became involved in an 'epic' while prospecting 'Bower's Route' on Esk Buttress. Jack Hilton, a regular climbing partner and close friend of Frankland, reminisces about that day. "C.D. (as Frankland was often called), W. V. Brown and myself had been climbing all day on Scawfell when we met C. F. Holland and G. R. Speaker who were compiling the Scawfell Rock Climbing Guide.
They asked Frankland to undertake a survey of Esk Buttress, and although it was late in the day we agreed and arrived at the foot of the crag about 6.30 p.m. It is a very perpendicular face, 400 feet high and, quite sheer, and in those days we did not have any pitons, karabiners or slings. Eventually, when we arrived at the bottom of the finishing cracks Frankland said, "I do not think I can get up this one Jack!" We could see Brown waiting for us at the foot of the crag .... well of course, he finally made it and we got down about 9 o'clock. It was not until C.D. sent in his account of the climb to Holland we were told there was an easier way off by a traverse below the exit Frankland had made".

This episode must have left a vivid impression on Frankland as they hastened to complete the climb in the gathering gloom, because he later wrote in the Yorkshire Ramblers' Club Journal.
"we were racing against the clock. A vertical wall rose up before us with a little rock shelter, [this is the waiting room] admirably adapted for a benighted party. We looked coldly past the suggested implication at a twisted crack which offered a strenuous means of scaling the wall. Overboard went all thoughts of style. Some twelve feet up was a Sanger Davies recess. It must be reached somehow. Elbow poking helped when the hands struck work. Then the leg strokes. Had the cliff been submerged we should have reached the surface ... .... breathless, at last I thrust one arm and head into the recess. I hung there as if I loved it, until I had fully realized the pangs of the pillory. Then I prepared to move on fighting for breath and a knee hold near my nose to the amusement of Hilton. It was exasperating, and had Jack indulged in any leg pulling I should have been down on him like a ton of bricks ....

"I was privately stimulated by the thought that he also must in turn claw and kick, swear and sweat up this elongated 'Whisky Climb' [a similar, but much easier line at Almscliffe]."Anyone who has climbed 'Frankland's Finish' will know the exact place where he experienced difficulty — the overhanging crack with the strenuous and awkward mantleshelf move. With the light fading quickly it is probably a matter of speculation if he found the key hold high up on the left wall.
All that remained was the corner chimney-crack which can prove a knotty problem for some physiques. It is not hard by present day standards, but in those circumstances, with no belay and with the steep groove just below (climbed by Dolphin in 1952 and called Trespasser Groove), it must have been a harrowing finish to the day.

This variation is called 'Frankland's Finish' and the latter day routes of 'Great Central Climb' and 'Trespasser Groove' both use it as an exit. It is still graded very severe. The Fell & Rock Guide credits Bentley Beetham as being Frankland's second but it was Jack Hilton who followed C.D.F. up this climb.
"Frankland usually made a point of climbing up and down routes", reflects Jack Hilton, "in this way he got more climbs in. He used to look at a pitch and state, 'the difficulties are only mental', — a favourite saying of his. He would say 'no advance without security', which seems rather tragic when one thinks of his accident. His death was a stunning blow to us all.

"I once saw a film of a man called Arthur Dolphin climbing the'Green Crack' at Almscliffe, and his movement reminded me very much of Frankland". During the twenties there was a tremendous upsurge of pioneering in the Lakes, and yet, for all his unique skill, Frankland did not really become identified with this momentum. He put up such climbs as 'Eagles Corner' and 'Tricouni Rib' on the Napes, 'Troutdale Ridge' on Black Crag, 'Woden's Face' (Direct) in Borrowdale and the phantom 'Cam Spout Buttress' in Eskdale, (three generations of guide book writers have not been able to find this route) but the real climbs of quality were left to be discovered by others. Why was this ? I think Frankland did not have the hunger for crag exploration that the likes of Kelly, Bower, Gross or Graham projected in their intense search for new lines. Frankland, a keen potholer once told Fred Pigott that he preferred to spend his summers caving and reserve his climbing for the- less favourable seasons.

An interesting example of Frankland's apparent lack of enthusiasm for pioneering new ground occurred one wet day in 1921 when he was walking along the Borrowdale road with Bentley Beetham. Beetham later wrote. "We happened to catch a glimpse through the foliage of a rib of rock that looked sufficiently attractive to cause us to halt to investigate it. We were mildy surprised at its quality; climbed it, and thought no more about it". This rib is what we now call 'Brown Slabs Arete'.
Frankland led this climb and then the outcrop, which we now know as Shepherd's Crag, was forgotten about until it was rediscovered by Beetham 25 years later, when he then began his amazing tour-de-force of these rocks.
C. D. F.'s stamina and strength remained undiminished as he settled into middle-age and at the age of forty seven he girdled Scafell in 22 hours starting from the Mickledore end, and he again climbed Central Buttress for the fourth recorded ascent. He completed the route and descended by way of Moss Ghyll in 3 hours —an impressive performance by any standards. On both occasions his second was Mabel Barker.

In 1926 Frankland went to Skye and in inclement weather completed the traverse of the main 'Cuillin Ridge' in fourteen hours —considered a respectable time for the period. The party, which included Mabel Barker, kept strictly to the ridge and did not take a rope — a bold undertaking when one considers the conditions. It was during this holiday that C.D.F. pioneered a climb on Sgurr Sgumain purely by a mistake in route finding in the mist. The route was called 'Big Wall Gully' but is better known as 'Frankland's Gully' and is graded hard severe.
C. D. Frankland was forty nine when he was killed — a victim of one of those unavoidable and tragic accidents which sometime afflicts our sport. He was buried in the tiny graveyard at Wasdale at the request of his family, surrounded by the crags and mountains that meant so much to him.

"Frankland's caution was as marked as his grace and strength", wrote W. V. Brown in Frankland's obituary. "So that it is certain that the handhold must have stood testing from below. As we picture him moving steadily and certainly on far more difficult climbs, it is a struggle to realise that Frankland of all men perished by a fall, and more to grasp that Gable of all crags betrayed him he depended on one hold .It is scarcely too much to say Claud Frankland was without equal among cragsmen, and it is fitting he should sleep his last long sleep at Wasdale, for to us who have climbed with him and loved him, the encircling mountains will for ever wear a mournful glory to his memory".

This is the verse you grave for me

Here he lies where he longed to be,

Home the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill

FOOTNOTES
1. Pigott led the third ascent of Central BL 1922 and pioneered the first route on the ease of Clogwyn du'r Arddu (Pigott's Climb - H.V.S., He was one of the original explorers, and one of Longland's party which first climbed the west buttress Clogwyn du'r Arddu in 1928. (Longland's Climb VS.
2. Ironically, it was Fergus Graham who put up the climb (solo) on which Frankland lost his life.
3. The shoulder belay at this time had not been uiversally accepted and for long run-outs the full weight rope was in many ways a liability, being too heavy and cumbersome. (The waist belay had not yet been developed).
"On climbs involving a long run-out for the wrote George Bower, "additional safety obtained by using the Alpine line instead of a rope. If the leader should come off no rope would stand the shock, but he is less likely to come off when not subjected to the weight of a lengthy rope".
4. Menlove Edwards was the first climber to 'Flake Crack' without assistance at the chock he did so in 1931 and in nailed boots!
5. Jack Hilton, an ex- president of the Yorkshire Ramblers celebrated his eightieth birthday by climbing Gwynn's Chimney on Pavey Ark and several routes on Scout Crag.
6. G. R. Speaker, an ex-president of the Fell Climbing Club, was killed in a fall whilst leading Nest West Chimney' on the 20th September. He is buried at Wasdale and was sixty-seven when he died.
7. Dolphin, like Frankland before him, was on easy ground. He was descending after completing a climb on the South Face of the Geantt when he fell and struck his head.
8. Frankland was involved in the first descent of Pot Shaft' and he explored 'Rowton Pot', 'Jingling Pot' 'Boggart's Roaring Hole' and Pillars Pot'. His last were the 'G.C.' Passage and the 'Flood Entrance', Gaping Ghyll.
9. Frankland's party were the first climbers to the traverse and return to the starting point (the Scavaig hut) in the same day; the ascent involved 10.000' of climbing and they covered 18 miles. They were out 20 hours — the longest expedition so far.
10. For many years after Frankland's accident,Chantry Buttress retained a reputation for unreliable rock.In 1939 Miss Joyce Houcher leading this climb fell from the vicinity of the traverse line, but fortunately, the fall was not fatal. The failure of a handhold is to have been the cause of the accident, and the breaking of a hold on the traverse very nearly caused incident the previous year.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

The Yorkshire Ramblers' Club Journal 1921-19 The Journal of the Fell and Rock Climbing Club 1921-1927,1936/37,1939,1943,1943. High Peak. Sutton & Byne.

Snowdon Biography. Young, Sutton and Noyce. Climber and Rambler. August, 1974.'Almscliffe',Dennis Gray.
I wish to thank the Yorkshire Ramblers' Club,the Fell & Rock Climbing Club for allowing me to quote from their journals.

Ken Smith

This Week: Claude Frankland...song of a cragsman

2011-09-07T08:56:00.001+01:00

"On the late afternoon of Sunday, 31st of July, 1927, a party of four were preparing to climb 'Chantry Buttress' on the Napes. The route was considered relatively easy; graded very difficult and was certainly not a passage to over-tax their capabilities. The party was a strong one, led by Claud Deane Frankland, reputed at that time to be one of the leading climbers in the country. The other members were Mabel Barker, A. Wood-Johnson and Lawson Cook. They had been on the Napes most of the day. Frankland and Mabel Barker had climbed 'Eagles Corner' and they found an egg in 'Eagles Nest' — an interesting incident overshadowed by the tragic happening later that day.

They decided to rope up in two teams with Frankland leading the first rope. He climbed the first pitch and brought up A. Wood-Johnson, who was his second. Frankland was commenting about their successful traverse of the Cuillin Ridge a year earlier — these remarks were his last! The leader then negotiated the slab and moved up the steep crack. Suddenly and without warning Frankland fell, his body turning a half somersault on its downward plunge. Wood-Johnson took in some slack damaging his hands in the process, but he was unable to stop Frankland's fall as he hit a rib of rock about 40 feet below. Lawson Cook rushed forward in an attempt to prevent further movement and injury, but it was to no avail, Frankland died twenty minutes later with severe head injuries and without recovering consciousness.

How was it possible for a climber of Frankland's ability and wide margin of safety to perish on such an innocuous route ? From eye witness reports it seems clear that the fall was caused by a loose or broken handhold, and not by a slip; a piece of rock still clutched in his hand after the accident would appear to support this theory. It was further substantiated by a party above the route at the time who stated hey heard a loud crack as though a hold had snapped.'

This Friday- acclaimed climbing historical biographer, Ken Smith's in depth study of pioneering north country climber Claude Frankland. A late developing climbing schoolmaster who between the wars established many of the regions hardest technical climbs. Routes which still today, provide modern climbers with challenging and exciting outings on the crags of Yorkshire and Cumbria.

The Dark Side of the Moon

2011-09-01T21:42:00.000+01:00

The West face of Tryfan

It's one of those questions which regularly pops up on climbing forums and stimulates intensive debate ... what's the longest climb in North Wales ? At this point everyone weighs in with their suggestions, which normally range far and wide from obscure traverses to contrived winter ascents.
If we are talking pure vertical rock climbs then the choice of venues containing these leviathans is limited to a relatively select band of less popular cliffs, Lliwedd, Carnedd Filiast Slabs ,Cader ldris's Pencoed Pillar. Maybe Craig Ysfa can throw a line into the mix ? An email from Mike Bailey, author of the Climbers Club guide to Ogwen offered a potential trump card by which I could see their Rocker Route or Hawkwind and raise them my 13 pitch, 1175 route on Tryfan's West Face!

Despite already covering areas in the guide which in terms of popularity rivalled toxic waste dumps, in a fit of uncharacteristic enthusiasm, I had offered to take on the equally unpopular West Face of Tryfan late in the day when the largely completed text was in the can, as it where. Still....not a lot to take up my time I thought. Only a dozen or so easy climbs and scrambles which I should knock off fairly quickly.
After an intensive first visit in which I managed over 2000' of ascent and descent including, it later transpired, a 400' new route in one short blast, it looked as if I could wrap it up before autumn.
At this point Eric Byne comes into the equation. Now for those more seasoned campaigners in the UK, Eric Byne is something of a minor legend. A midlander who,Harold Drasdo tells me, was an exceptionally gifted gritstone climber and as a leading member of the MAM ( Midlands Mountaineering Club) club which has its Glan Dena base underneath Tryfan's North Face, was also something of a pioneer of obscure routes on the Mountain,
When Mike and I completed Columbyne and Pierot, two Byne routes which lie on the West Face just above the Milestone Buttress, I began to question certain aspects of his described lines, not least the actual length of these climbs. Incidentally, on the first ascent of Pierot, the first ascent party is listed as Eric Byne and 7 others including Bimbo..... Bimbo presumably was a pet dog and not some local good time gal from Bethesda !

Mike confirmed that Eric had claimed lots of routes that are in the old guides on Glan Dena crags twixt the aforementioned MAM hut and the Milestone Buttress, which were rather shorter than described. In truth Columbyne was a pretty good mountaineering route with a classic 120' hard, clean, final pitch. Unfortunately, the pitch was not the pitch originally described by Eric who - I have to say somewhat bizarrely -ignored the superb direct continuation to shoot off from a ledge beneath the final bold corner and traverse across broken ground to finish up a tower on the opposite side of the steep wall ?
It was as if Joe Brown on the first ascent of Cenotaph Corner decided two thirds of the way up to detour across Right Wall and finish up Cemetery Gates instead !
Still, all credit to him for at least looking beyond the East Face and Milestone honeypots to establish his presence on the mountains'more isolated ramparts.

Enter 15 year old youngest son Luke who was pressed into service during the summer hols to help his old man look at the remaining routes which included a couple of unrecorded lines which looked promising.
It was time to look at Byne's terribly big adventure, the route which ostensibly was the longest vertical climb in Wales and indeed,one of the longest in the UK. The Cannon Ridge, 1175': V Diff. (US 5.4) First Ascent Eric Byne,Ursula White, Fred Tommey and Brian Thorneycroft on 9th August 1956.
I had previously scrambled up to its second pitch, intending to solo the route, but after taking one look at the green vertical chimney with some dubious looking flakes therein, I uttered the immortal and oft repeated climber's oath, "sod that!" and beat a hasty retreat to Helyg * for a brew.

The Wrinkled Tower

When Luke and I returned on a chilly but rare dry August day it was almost 51 years to the day since Eric and his cohorts had first ascended the ridge. After the 150'scramble to reach the meat of the route, I pulled on my fleece.... a fleece in August ! ... and set off up the initial easier cleft into the tightening constriction. It felt increasingly insecure the higher I got so without thugging it out up the chimney - I stepped out right onto a containing ramp line upon which were seated two rather large suspect flakes,and exited rather gingerly through the obstacles to reach a small stance beneath a tower.
As I brought Luke up I considered whether or not I should up the grade a bit but decided that if it was a bit cleaner, which hopefully it will be after the guide comes out, it will be just a good solid trad Vdiff. With Luke ensconced on the ledge, I set off via an awkward little bulge on friction and a prayer to reach a rather nice clean cut corner. Good holds but scraping feet brought a better ledge within hand.
Those averse to grade drift in route descriptions should look away now, for a route graded at Diff in my Tom Leppert guide,was eventually upgraded to a 'severe' US (5.5) in the new guide.
A short mantelshelf move led me to an impressive slabby tower directly above the stance. After checking and rechecking Eric Byne's original description there was no doubt. Another steep rise which required a traverse out right to a spike followed by a bulge on sketchy holds. Traversing across to the spike was interesting, but not nearly as interesting as standing on the spike and feeling for the expected jugs whilst the merest tip of my left rock boot balanced on a feeble excuse for an edge. Unfortunately,to avoid the dreaded Elvis shakes, I had no option but to abandon this tiny barb and set off. Now committed, my fingers danced around the slab like Oscar Peterson on his 7th expresso whilst scraping toes found themselves rock-fast through friction rather than any suggestion of a foot hold.
When it was over, you think ... Oh.... that wasn't too bad actually. Still, upgrading it to Severe, 4a would not be an outrageous re-jig in the circumstances.

The pitch still had more to offer although without the excitement before pitch 4 threw in another 4a section. Byne had suggested that a steep chimney should be ascended via its left-hand branch as it proved to be the most interesting. Interesting or not, my rucksac prevented an ascent of this fissure as I just could not get in without jamming in its lower reaches. With some dubious looking flakes at the exit of the right-hand branch I was left with no choice but to shuffle delicately out of the cleft via friction moves and side pulls onto the containing rib on the right. Luke had taken it all in his stride and at this point we found ourselves beneath an easy broad rib which was taken via its centre point to reach broken ground.

The author on the first ascent of Boanerges.A direct VS start to The Wrinkled Tower.

If you were Eric Byne at this same spot in 1956 you would have pulled a crumpled packet of Woodbines out of your moleskin breeches and lit up. Your ex MOD rucsac stiff with sweat and mud would have been set upon a rock whilst you rummaged around for your corned beef sandwiches and flask of strong sweet tea .You would then survey the lay of the land before setting off to claim another 700 feet of ascent to the North Ridge of Tryfan. However, if you were a guidebook writer in 2007 you take one look at the explosion of disconnected rock features spread across the mountain in every direction and say to yourself in the immortal words of Mr Spock"this is most illogical!"

It was clear that the climbing was over to all intents and purposes. The steep and at times inescapable ridge line had melted into broken mountainside. Any continuation would be seriously contrived.What the hell! It might not have been the longest vertical route in Wales but it was still a 550' Severe mountaineering route which gets a star and that's got to be worth something if the alternative is queueing under Grooved Arete, on a bank holiday !

I was nearly there. All the routes on Tryfan's West Face had been ascended, accurately described and re-graded if necessary, Furthermore, the complicated structure of the face has now been detailed and described with one previously uncharted buttress, Buzzard's Buttress - Bwtres y Boncath – now listed and carrying two routes.
Within the week Luke and I returned and on separate days made two first ascents. Jamie's Route, a 460'severe on Buzzard's Buttress was named in memory of my late second son and one of Luke's elder brothers who had passed away nearly two years previously. The other route was Boanerges, a VS direct start on The Wrinkled Tower.

Hopefully, now that Tryfan's attractive West Face has finally been totally reassessed and accurately described a few adventurous souls might scan through the latest CC Ogwen guidebook and be tempted to pick their way up the scree and heather slopes and take a gander at what the West Face has to offer. A pleasant selection of long, easy climbs and scrambles with just the mountain goats for company ....any takers?

* Helyg-Climbers Club Hut in the Ogwen Valley.

Tryfan's West face

John Appleby: First published as 'Into the West' in The Climbers Club journal 2009.

This week: Tryfan's wild wild West.

2011-08-31T08:54:00.000+01:00

Luke Appleby chills out on Cannon Ridge's eponymous feature.A route claimed by its first ascentionists
as one of the longest climbs in the UK.

"It's one of those questions which regularly pops up on climbing forums and stimulates intensive debate ... what's the longest climb in North Wales ? At this point everyone weighs in with their suggestions, which normally range far and wide from obscure traverses to contrived winter ascents.
If we are talking pure vertical rock climbs then the choice of venues containing these leviathans is limited to a relatively select band of less popular cliffs, Lliwedd, Carnedd Filiast Slabs ,Cader ldris's Pencoed Pillar. Maybe Craig Ysfa can throw a line into the mix ? An email from Mike Bailey, author of the Climbers Club guide to Ogwen offered a potential trump card by which I could see their Rocker Route or Hawkwind and raise them my 13 pitch, 1175 route on Tryfan's West Face!

Despite already covering areas in the guide which in terms of popularity rivalled toxic waste dumps, in a fit of uncharacteristic enthusiasm, I had offered to take on the equally unpopular West Face of Tryfan late in the day when the largely completed text was in the can, as it where. Still....not a lot to take up my time I thought. Only a dozen or so easy climbs and scrambles which I should knock off fairly quickly.
After an intensive first visit in which I managed over 2000' of ascent and descent including, it later transpired, a 400' new route in one short blast, it looked as if I could wrap it up before autumn.
At this point Eric Byne comes into the equation. '

This week,Climbers Club guidebook team member,John Appleby describes a labour of love on the rarely frequented West face of Tryfan. A complex yet fascinating mountainside which holds some classic scrambles and easy mountaineering routes within it's towering ramparts,gullies and ridges.

The Accident

2011-08-25T22:11:00.001+01:00

We all knew now that some of us might never get down the mountain alive.
Each had long recognized the near impossibility of evacuating an injured man from the upper ledges of K2. We had told one another that "if somebody broke a leg, you never could get him down the mountain but now that we were faced with Gilkey's helplessness, we realized that we had to get him down. We didn't know how, but we knew that we had to do something.

Schoening in particular, and also Bob Craig and Dee Molenaar, had done a lot of mountain rescue work, and the rest of us placed great confidence in their faith that somehow we could get our casualty to Base Camp. Gilkey's high morale and his confidence in us was a great boost to our spirits and we faced the job ahead with strong determination.
When on the morning of August 10 Charlie Houston thrust his shoulders through the tunnel entrance of the tent where Shoening, Streather, and I- shoulder rubbing shoulder- had tossed during the long night hours, we spoke almost in unison "'How is he?"

"We've got to take him down," said the doctor. "His other leg has a clot now and he can't last long here."
The wind was hammering the tent fabric so hard that we had to yell at one another. Drifts of fine powder snow were sifting in through a strained seam in the tent vestibule, though we had done our best to keep the shelter airtight, and we could feel the whole tent vibrate as gusts stretched the fabric to the utmost.
"What? Move in this storm?" said someone. "We've got to," said Houston. "He'll soon be dead if we don't get him down."

Nothing needed saying after that, for we knew what this decision meant. All of us had fought mountain storms before, but we had never seen anything like the duration and violence of this furious wind and snow that was still battering us. We all knew the story of the storm on Nanga Parbat in 1934, when nine members of a German expedition had died of exhaustion while battling the wind and snow. Willy Merkl, Uli Wieland, and Willi Welzenbach had been famous mountaineers, but a storm had exhausted them and killed them one by one. Here on K2 we had not only the storm to fight but the steepest part of the mountain and we were trying to bring down these precipitous slopes a crippled companion as well!

We all realized that our adventure had now become grim,for the odds against getting Art down were obvious, and our own position was getting more critical all the time. While Houston and Schoening were easing Art out of his tent into the storm, the rest of us began packing light loads to take down. We would need one tent in case of emergency, and we took the Gerry tent, our lightest one. We also might need a stove and pot, and some meat bars, chocolate, or quick, energy food that needed no cooking.
Often the effects of altitude so weaken ones determination that doing nothing becomes a positive pleasure, but this was no time for lethargy, and as we moved purposefully out of the tents into the stinging blasts of snow, we knew that we had to move fast, while fingers and toes still had feeling. Little was spoken. Each of us realized that he was beginning the most dangerous day's work of his lifetime.

Gilkey seemed in no pain as we wrapped him in the gnashed tent, put his feet in a rucksack, and tied nylon ropes to him in such a way that they cradled him. Four ropes, tied to this cradle, could be held by one man ahead, one man behind, and one on either side. We had already put on all our warm clothing—sweaters, wool jackets, down jackets, and nylon parkas--and stripped our packs to the minimum. As we worked, the disabled man watched the preparations silently. He was an experienced mountaineer and realized what all of us were up against. But he knew also that we would never leave him, and that we would bring him down safely if it were humanly possible. Art's cap was pulled down over his face, which looked drawn and bluish-gray, but he gave a wan smile whenever someone asked, "How is it going?"

Charles Houston

"Just fine," he would say. "Just fine." And his mouth would smile. He never showed a moment's fear or the slightest lack of confidence but he realized of course that he had been stricken by something that was likely to be fatal, that his condition was getting worse, and that he was 9,000 feet above Base Camp in a terrible monsoon storm.
The nearest tent, at Camp VI, was 2,000 feet below. He knew that we could not carry him down the tricky route we had come up, and that we must go only where we could lower him. Even in perfect weather with all men in top physical condition, the task might prove impossible—yet Art Gilkey could smile, and his smile gave us strength.

While we were adjusting the tow ropes, Schoening and Molenaar strapped on their crampons and disappeared into the storm. They were to find the best route past the dangerous avalanche slope that had blocked us a few days before, and to go over to the Camp VII cache to get a climbing rope that was strung on the ice slope just above. It would be useful in the descent. After their departure Houston called Base Camp on the walkie-talkie and told Ata-Ullah our plans. "It's pretty desperate, Ata," he said grimly, "but we can't wait

We're starting down now. We'll call you at three o'clock."Each man took his place on a rope tied to Gilkey and for a couple of hundred yards we lunged hard at the tow ropes to pull Art through the knee-deep drifts of powder snow; then gravity took over and we had to hold back just as strongly to keep our helpless 185 pound load from plunging into the abyss.
The steep slope we were on disappeared below us into nothingness. Was there a cliff there, a jumping-off place.? We strained our eyes peering into the storm, but we could not wait for clearing weather. Instead we had to depend on Schoening and Molenaar who had gone ahead to scout out the way. As we descended, Craig and Bell pulled the front ropes, one on each side, and Houston directed operations from a point immediately behind Gilkey, while Streather and I anchored the rope higher up.
Gradually we worked our way to a rock ridge, climbed down alongside it, and then began to lower Gilkey down a steep snow slope leading to a snow chute and an ice gully below.
This route was not the one we would have taken had Gilkey been able to walk, but now we had no choice: we could go only where we could lower our companion, and we had faith that the two men ahead would find a route down. Once we were well started, return to Camp VIII would be impossible for any of us.

The wind and cold seeped insidiously through our layers of warm clothing so that by the end of the third hour none of us had feeling in his toes any longer, and grotesque icicles hung from our eyebrows, beards, and mustaches. Goggles froze over and we continually raised them on our foreheads in order to see how to handle the rope. Moving the sick man was frightfully slow. We had to belay one another as well as Gilkey, and our numb would not move quickly. Somehow, when we got to the steepest pitch, however, someone managed to tie two 120-foot nylon ropes together and we started to lower Gilkey down, down in the only direction the slope would permit. Houston and I braced on the storm-swept ridge, backs to the wind, could feel the terrible gusts trying to hurl us off the rocks. We could not see where we were lowering Art, but we could hear faint shouts from Schoening and Molenaar, who were out of sight below.

As we slowly payed out the coils of rope, thankful that they were of nylon and would not freeze in kinks, Bob Craig unroped from us and climbed down alongside the injured man to direct the descent. Soon he was completely obscured, too, but Streather climbed down to where be could see Craig's arm signals, yet still see us, and so we belayers had communication with Craig and Gilkey and knew whether to lower or to hold the rope. Alternately we anchored and paid out line until we were nearly frozen, and our arms were strained when Tony Streather, whom we could barely see, turned and shouted, "Hold tight! They're being carried down in an avalanche!"

We held. Our anchorage was good and the rope stretched taut. For a moment snow flurries blotted out everything, and then we could hear a muffled shout from Streather. "They're still there!" The rope had broken loose a wind-slab avalanche of powder snow that had roared down over both men, blotting them from sight. Craig clung to the rope to Gilkey, and held on to it for his life. The pull of the hissing particles must have been terrible, but the avalanche was of unconsolidated snow. The falling powder slithered out of sight and down off the side of the mountain, where it must have kept falling long after we could hear it. When it was gone, Craig still clung to the rope, grey and very chilled. Both men were safe.

The grim descent continued. Schoening and Molenaar, who were not far from Camp V11, soon were able to reach Gilkey, but it seemed like hours to the four of us on the icy rocks of the wind-swept ridge before they shouted up that they had him strongly belayed "on the edge of a cliff," and we could climb down. Stiffly we shifted from our frozen positions, and climbed clumsily down the steep, crumbly rocks to the snow chute above the ice gully. Houston and I were on one rope, Bell and Streather on the other. All were so cold, so near exhaustion, that moving down over dangerous, snow-covered ice stretched us to the limit. Through the murk of blowing snow we saw Schoening standing in front of a large, rounded rock that had become frozen onto a narrow ledge. His ice axe was thrust deep into the snow above the rock, and the rope with which he held Art Gilkey was looped tightly around the shaft .

The sick man was at the edge of a 20-foot cliff, beneath which we could glimpse the ice gully dropping off
steeply into the storm toward the Godwin-Austen Glacier nearly 2 miles below. Schoening looked like a man from another world. So much frost had formed on our beards that faces were unrecognizable, and we knew that we were fast reaching the breaking point. We could not continue much longer without shelter from the driving storm and food to renew our energy. Some 150 yards below us to the east was the tiny shelf, nicked into the ice slope, where Schoening and Gilkey had spent the night of July 30 during their reconnaissance above Camp VI.

We had called it Camp VII, or Camp VII cache. None of us had expected anyone to spend another night there, but Bob Craig, whose struggle against the avalanche had so completely exhausted him temporarily that he could hardly tie a crampon strap, had been belayed over to this site to rest and clear some of the avalanche snow that had seeped under his parka. We yelled to him to try to enlarge the ledge. Meanwhile, Schoening anchored the rope, we lowered Gilkey slowly over the short rock cliff until he was resting against the 45-degree ice slope. Streather, who was roped to Bell, climbed down to Gilkey. Schoening held Gilkey's rope firmly while Houston belayed me across a delicate pitch of steep, hard ice and then Houston climbed down to a point opposite the man suspended against the slope.

The problem now was not to get Gilkey down, but to swing him across the steep ice slope to the ice shelf at Camp VII. Our plan was to get a firm anchorage and then pendulum him across, but unfortunately the ice near him was too hard for axes to be driven in and the slope was relentlessly steep. Even during the best weather conditions the maneuver would have been dangerous, and our position at that moment I shall never forget.

Schoening, was belaying Gilkey, who hung 60 feet below him, suspended against the sharply angled ice. On the same level as Gilkey, and 40 feet across from him, five of us, facing into the stinging, drifting snow, were searching for a place where we could stand and anchor the rope to Gilkey as we pulled him across the ice in the direction of Craig on the ice shelf. With our spiked crampons, biting the hard ice, Streather, Houston, Molenaar and I stood close together. Bell and Streather were roped together, Houston and I were on a rope together—and Molenaar had just "tied in" to a loose rope to Gilkey. He had done this when Craig had unroped and gone over to the ice shelf to rest, and it was Molenaar's precaution that saved us all. For George Bell, who was some 60 feet above us, began to descend a delicate stretch of hard ice in order to help with Gilkey's ropes. At that moment, what we had all been dreading occurred. Something threw Bell off balance and he fell. I never saw Bell fall, but to my horror I saw Streather being dragged off the slope and making desperate efforts to jam the pick of his axe into the ice and stop.

Streather had been standing above the rope from Houston to me. In almost the same instant I saw Houston swept off, and though I turned and lunged at the hard ice with the point of my axe, a terrible jerk ripped me from my hold and threw me backward head first down the slope. This is it! I thought as I landed heavily on my pack. There was nothing I could do now.

We had done our best, but our best wasn't good enough. This was the end. Since nobody was on the rope with Houston and me, there was no one else to hold us, and I knew that nothing could stop us now. On the slope below, no rock jutted on which the rope between us could catch. Only thousands of feet of empty space separated us from the glacier below. It was like falling off a slanting Empire State Building six times as high as the real one.
Thrown violently backward, with the hood of my down jacket jammed over my eyes, I had a feeling of unreality, of detachment. The future was beyond my control. All I knew was that I landed on my pack with great force, bouncing faster and faster, bumping over rocks in great thumps.The next bound I expected to take me over a cliff in a terrible drop that would finish it all, when, by a miracle, I stopped sliding.

I was on my back with my hood over my eyes and my head a yard below my feet. My arms, stretched over my head, were so completely tangled with the taut rope that I could not loosen them. I was helpless, and when I tried to move, I realized that I was balanced on the crest of some rocks and that a change of position might throw me off the edge. The rope had apparently snagged on a projection---though how and where I couldn't imagine—but it might not be securely caught. Whether it was firmly held, whether anyone else was alive, I did not know, but I didn't need to wait. Almost immediately I heard a groan coming from nearly on top of me."Get me loose," I called, and immediately I felt the pressure of a leg braced against my shoulder and the rope was pulled off my arms.

Grabbing a rock, I swung my head around. Molenaar and I were clinging to a rocky outcrop at the side of a steep ice slope, studded with rocks, about 150 to 200 feet below the place where we had been working on the ropes to Gilkey.
Blood from his nose trickled across his mustache and beard, and he looked badly shaken. My rope was tight to someone or something above, and I heard a distant yell, "Get your weight off the rope!" Fifty feet higher, through a mist of blowing snow, I could see Tony Streather staggering to his feet, a tangle of ropes still tight about his waist. Below me I heard a cry, "My hands are freezing!" and., looking down, to my amazement I saw George Bell, who seconds before had been 60 feet above me. Now about 60 feet below, he was climbing up over the edge of nothingness. He wore neither pack nor glasses and was staggering up over the steep rocks, obviously dazed, with his hands held out grotesquely in front of him. His mittens had been ripped off in the fall, and already the color of his hands had turned an ugly fish-belly white. If his hands were badly frozen, of course, we might never be able to get him down off the mountain.

Turning to Molenaar, I thrust my pack into his arms. Most of the lashing had ripped loose and the walkie-talkie radio, which had been on top, was gone; my sleeping bag was half off, held by a single twist of line. Without sleeping bags we were unlikely to survive the night, no matter how we tried! Since Molenaar wore no pack, I imagined that his sleeping bag also had been torn off in the fall. Whether or not the tent someone had been carrying had survived the fall, I didn't know. "For God's sake, hold this," I yelled above the wind, placing my load in Molenaar's arms. (For all I knew, mine was the only sleeping bag to survive the fall, and we must not lose it now.) The loose pack was awkward to hold securely while we were standing on such steep rock, but Molenaar grasped it and I unroped and started to climb shakily down to meet Bell.

As I climbed down, I wondered about the ropes that had saved us. They were snagged to something up above, but the driving snow kept us from seeing what was holding them. Luckily I had a spare pair of dry, loosely woven Indian mitts in the pouch pocket of my parka, and when I reached Bell, whose face was grey and haggard, I helped him to put them on. Already his fingers were so stiff with cold that he couldn't move them, but balancing on projections of rock on the steep slope, we struggled to save his hands and finally forced the big white mittens past his stiff thumbs and down over his wrists.

Bell's fall had ended with him suspended over the edge of a ledge, below which the slope dropped away precipitously for thousands of feet. The weight of his pack pulled him head down, and he had lost it while trying to get right side up and back over the ledge. While Bell crouched down working desperately to warm his hands under his parka, I left him, for Molenaar and I had seen a crumpled figure lying below a 30-foot cliff on a narrow shelf that seemed projecting over utter blankness below.
It was Houston. Somehow a rope to him was snagged high above us, too. Climbing unsteadily but cautiously, for I was not roped and felt shaken by the fall, I worked my way down the steep rocks and across to the ledge. Houston was unconscious, but his eyes opened as I touched his shoulder. When he staggered to his feet, I felt relief it is impossible to describe. "Where are we?" he asked. "What are we doing here?" He was obviously hurt. His eyes did not focus and he appeared to be suffering from a concussion. Again and again I tried to persuade him to climb up the cliff, while Molenaar anchored the rope still attached to him from above. He didn't understand. "Where are we?" he kept saying, for my replies did not convey any meaning to him in his confused state.

The wind and blowing snow seared our faces. We were all near exhaustion and in danger of crippling frostbite. If we were to survive, we had to get shelter at once, or we would be so numbed by exposure that we could not protect ourselves. What had happened in that Nanga Parbat storm which had taken so many men was a grim reminder.All of us working together did not now have strength enough to pull or carry Houston up the steep rock and snow to the ice ledge, 150 feet above, which we had called Camp VII. "Charlie," I said with the greatest intensity, looking directly into his eyes, "if you ever want to see Dorcas and Penny again [his wife and daughter], "climb up there right now!"

Somehow this demand penetrated to his brain, for, with a frightened look and without a word, he turned and, belayed by Molenaar, fairly swarmed up the snowy rocks of the cliff.Instinct and years of climbing helped him now in his confused condition, for he climbed brilliantly up to Molenaar.I followed more slowly because, being fully conscious, I had great respect for this steep rock wall, and with great care .I pulled myself up over the snow-covered slabs. When I reached Molenaar, he was looking puzzled and very unhappy as he tried to answer Houston's repeated question,

"What are we doing here?"

The Art Gilkey memorial cairn at the foot of K2

From 'The Savage Mountain'- C Houston/R Bates: McGraw Hill 1954

This week...Accident on K2

2011-08-24T09:38:00.000+01:00

"At that moment, what we had all been dreading occurred. Something threw Bell off balance and he fell. I never saw Bell fall, but to my horror I saw Streather being dragged off the slope and making desperate efforts to jam the pick of his axe into the ice and stop.
Streather had been standing above the rope from Houston to me. In almost the same instant I saw Houston swept off, and though I turned and lunged at the hard ice with the point of my axe, a terrible jerk ripped me from my hold and threw me backward head first down the slope. This is it! I thought as I landed heavily on my pack. There was nothing I could do now.

We had done our best, but our best wasn't good enough. This was the end. Since nobody was on the rope with Houston and me, there was no one else to hold us, and I knew that nothing could stop us now. On the slope below, no rock jutted on which the rope between us could catch. Only thousands of feet of empty space separated us from the glacier below. It was like falling off a slanting Empire State Building six times as high as the real one.
Thrown violently backward, with the hood of my down jacket jammed over my eyes, I had a feeling of unreality, of detachment. The future was beyond my control. All I knew was that I landed on my pack with great force, bouncing faster and faster, bumping over rocks in great thumps.The next bound I expected to take me over a cliff in a terrible drop that would finish it all, when, by a miracle, I stopped sliding.

This week, a classic tale of Himalayan triumph and tragedy.

Charles Houston and Robert Bates dramatic account of the event which defined the US 1953 Karakoram expedition.An event which more than justified the peaks sobriquet 'The Savage Mountain'.