Coming Up: Richard Gilbert and the mystery of the first Munro completist.

Lagangarbh: The Scottish Mountaineering Club hut in Glencoe.Heart of Munro bagging country.

" Nowadays biographers have a tendency to rubbish schoolboy heroes and expose their human failings. Thus Captain Scott,Amunsden, Menlove Edwards, Spencer Chapman and TE Lawrence do not attract quite the same amount of admiration as of old.
Sir Hugh Munro still stands aloof, a staunch pillar of the SMC and compiler of his historic tables, yet it is common knowledge that Munro's untimely death in France in 1919 left him just two mountains short of completion. That honour was first claimed by the Reverend Archibald Aeneas Robertson in 1901 when he ascended Meall Dearg above Glen Coe, with his wife and Lord Moncrieff, and reputedly kissed the cairn first and then his wife before they consumed a quart of Ayala champagne and descended the screes.'

This Friday...Richard Gilbert and the mystery surrounding AA Robertson's claim to have been the first man the complete the Munros.

Obsession

Tom Devas nears the top of Pitch 3: Photo James Dexter©

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us - in short, 'Mid-Wales, Michaelmas Term lately over and Lord Sumner sitting in Bryn Hafod Hall. Implacable January weather. Snow everywhere. Snow up the hill, where it drifts loosely across the moor to Aran Fawddwy; snow down the gully descent to Craiglyn Dyfi, where it crunches promisingly underfoot. Bits of aircraft everywhere in Aero Gully, where we pull up on plane parts and suppress ghoulish stories. But no ice in the Left-Hand Branch where axes sing off-key and crampons stub the turf.

A fire in the hearth, Driskell's old jokes and Kevin's elderberry wine can transform the season of darkness at Bryn Hafod hut into something approaching the hope of spring. And hidden in the dusty attic is a hollow-cheeked presence making mountaineering dreams for the spring lord of the turf, the wily old bookmaker himself, Lord Sumner of Hafod Hall. His cunning gamble of placing three stars on Pencoed Pillar had given us a run for our money, and he freely admitted that by the form book of North Wales the route lacked the distance. But, taking up our copy of his new turf guide, with the straightening of a line on the Cyfrwy course diagram and the correction of a 16 to a 14 on the list of starters below, he offered us a hot tip for the new season, straight from the horse's mouth in short, thus began our obsession with Obsession.

I've blown it. Layed away and stepped up, into a cul-de-sac. I eyeball slopers and slap at everything. A spike squats a mere universe away. I've been rumbled. Cranking down off one arm has it screaming objections. I fail to find the same foothold again and stem away on friction.Cruising. I thought I was cruising and stepped up without thinking. "That must be the 'awkward move to reach a spike."

Some second I've got here. Norman. He sounds a lot like that spaced-out guy in Paris, Texas. Except he adds, "Get some gear in, youth!" This is the big pitch. He wants me to lead it and he wants to lead it. Both. Above me stretches the smooth slab under the left-leaning corner. We glassed it from the tent. It soars 130ft to the top of the North Face of Cader Idris, the crux of Obsession. Now it's nerve-testing time! I'm leading at my limit and I'm doing it wrong. My quivering calves tell me I've got to crack this fast.

Way left is a tiny triangular incut. I reach out a toe, slowly, like a prehensile thumb. It docks first time. Carefully I lean my body over towards it, feeling every inch of the space falling free to the lake below. Neither of us is yawning. I reach left, palming back right, and lock my fingertips onto an edge. Gently I pull across, reaching up for a ledge and then swing back right onto the spike. It's a done thing! I get cruising again, jimmy in a Friend and clip on a long, long sling for the commitment to the slab. Suddenly I'm singing across it. 'Reach up and it shall be given unto you'. Edges turn at a touch into ledges and there's the sweet jamming crack to lift you to heaven. Blues. Bottleneck. Open tuning. Perfect pitch.

Pursued by a Shadow.Photo James Dexter©

Later that evening, in the broken way of friendship that is the Lebenslust of the sport, we fell in with two companions who shared with us the joys of their day on the Table Direct approach to the Cyfrwy Arete. I do not know their names. The young woman had led the curly-haired, smiling man on one of his first routes and he was all grins and amiability, redolent of nothing so much as newly-discovered delight. 

Here was a young apprentice about to join our obsession. He seemed blissfully unaware of the forms it could take, the choices he might make. Would he, I wondered, find himself on the path of self-assertion and will, the negative obsession with ego and grades? Or would he discover that joyous launch into the creative challenge the rock presents to body and mind? To put it another way, would he learn to know when to stop?

At the top of our route I'd asked Norman if he fancied doing another route. There was plenty of time. But he had said, "What can follow that?". There was a profound maturity in that reply. The previous weekend we had visited, for the first time, the bellicose charms of Den Lane Quarry and next weekend the resurgence of this absurd obsession would doubtless take us through the rain in search of some other obscure unvisited crag, whilst what this moment required was simply savouring. The sun was shining and below us there lay a lake. You will believe me when I say that the water beside the way is also of the way. And I make no apology for offending the miserable sham of decency that requires a costume. A swim can make the memory of a climb complete.

The conversation rattled along, as it does on these occasions, in an exchange of route names and a recollection of experiences. As the soft evening light slowly faded and a large white moon lifted over the mountain, we knew that, whatever went on in the magazines, we had shared a sport with dignity, without rancour. Before I slept I was up on that slab again, as though, waking, I had passed through the Gates of Idris, following an obsession. My head was singing and the words were already coming: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... 

The reflection of a mysterious promised land: The Cyfrwy Face of Cader Idris.

Terry Gifford©: First published in The Climbers Club journal.

A potted biography of the author can be found in the October archives. 'Ronnie's last long climb'.

Coming Up: Terry Gifford realises a mid-Wales Obsession

Cader Magic! : Photo James Dexter©

" Way left is a tiny triangular incut. I reach out a toe, slowly, like a prehensile thumb. It docks first time. Carefully I lean my body over towards it, feeling every inch of the space falling free to the lake below. Neither of us is yawning. I reach left, palming back right, and lock my fingertips onto an edge. Gently I pull across, reaching up for a ledge and then swing back right onto the spike. It's a done thing! I get cruising again, jimmy in a Friend and clip on a long, long sling for the commitment to the slab. Suddenly I'm singing across it. 'Reach up and it shall be given unto you'. Edges turn at a touch into ledges and there's the sweet jamming crack to lift you to heaven. Blues. Bottleneck. Open tuning. Perfect pitch.'

This Friday,Terry Gifford describes an obsession....with Obsession !

Between the ridge and the beaten path

The East Face of Bristly Ridge:

So often we keep to the well known ways; so infrequently do we stray off them. On many occasions I had passed by, going up or down Bristly Ridge in summer and winter, or crossing the slopes of Cwm Tryfan in fell races, but never had I set foot upon the cliffs that rise from the screes to the ridge. Summer was drawing to a close and time was running short for completing field work for the Ogwen guidebook. We had given Tryfan a good going over, but the nearby cliffs of the East Face of Bristly Ridge had so far escaped scrutiny. It wouldn’t do to leave a whole crag unchecked, so when the opportunity came on a warm September day, off I went; ‘I’ being the operative word. Guidebook work is an often solitary business. Mention Tremadog or the Pass, Gogarth or Pen Trwyn, and you’ll find no shortage of willing companions, but suggest the Devil’s Kitchen Cliffs, Gallt yr Ogof, or other unfashionable venues, and you’ll find they’ve all got vitally important tasks that can’t possibly wait another day to be attended to. So it was that I ascended the rock staircase to Cwm Bochlwyd, cool in the morning shadow. Minutes later I was perspiring in the sunlight, the dark waters on my right unruffled by any breeze as I climbed towards Bwlch Tryfan. In preparation for the day’s work I had read up the climbs, and was looking forward to getting acquainted with them.

The development of the Bristly Ridge cliffs is compressed into an unusually short time line. Surprisingly, there is no record of the early pioneers, like Thomson, visiting the cliffs, and no routes were done prior to 1936, when Skyline Buttress was climbed by Taylor and Jenkins. Soon the Second World War intervened, curtailing climbing opportunities for most of the area’s activists. On 22nd August 1944, Steuart Palmer wrote in the Helyg logbook: First visit to Helyg for nearly 5 years. The exigencies of war and foreign service responsible. With John Bechervaise, two weeks of intensive new routing followed.  In addition to new climbs on Craig yr Ysfa and Gallt yr Ogof, they made a thorough exploration of the Bristly Ridge cliffs, naming the prominent features and climbing all the obvious lines.

Mike Bailey on the impressive final pitch of Great Tower Buttress.

Fast forward sixty-three years, during which the climbs were described in several editions of the guide, yet I had heard no one speak with any knowledge of them. I arrived with an open mind, though my expectation was of old-style routes, holds smooth and rounded from nailed boot traffic, much as the Tryfan classics. Like the East Face of Tryfan, the Bristly Ridge Face is confusing on a first visit. Among the mass of rock ribs no helpful landmarks stand out. I read and reread the old guidebook description, glancing repeatedly down at the text, then back up at the cliff. Finally I found a reference point in the two massive chockstones of Big Boulder Gully. Confident at last of where I was, I worked across left to the foot of Central Gully, to find Great Tower Buttress, my first objective.

I could see what I took to be the “tough crack” of pitch 2 some way up. At close quarters it did indeed look tough for Severe, and steep too. From its depths an alloy hex winked at me, bereft of its cord. I felt an irrational affection for this artifact, confirming by its presence that others had been this way, but it was beyond the reach of my groping fingers, too deeply trapped in its fastness. With some regret I abandoned it to its lonely vigil. At first the crack gives solid hand jams, then widens, with holds inside, but a loose chockstone needs careful handling. A few strenuous pulls and I’m on a broad grass ledge. By now it’s dawning on me things aren’t quite as I expected: the grass is pristine; there are no bucket steps worn in it; none of the holds showed any trace of wear, still less polish. I sit down, scribbling notes, enjoying the sun’s warmth through my shirt. My train of thought is distracted by the voices of a party on the path below, heading up towards Glyder Fach summit. We exchange hollered greetings, then press on our separate ways. Easier climbing leads to the upper rocks below the Great Tower, where things look steeper. A shallow groove offers the best way, so I bridge up it via a jammed flake to a bulge. It fits the guidebook description, though you’d never know anyone had climbed here. 

The rock is sound, its texture rough and unmarked, and by now it has absorbed the heat of the sun. I’m warming to this route. I swing left below the bulge onto a ledge, and another groove appears; mossy at first, then more good moves take me up to a grass ledge below the Great Tower itself. The old guide talked of a crack splitting its face, and I had pictured a soaring hand crack, a longer version of pitch 2, but it’s nothing like that. Instead a wide groove, stuffed full of wedged blocks, leads up the Tower face. Glancing down, I realise the exposure has crept up on me, but the blocks are solid, and with a few steep pulls I’m up, almost on the crest of Bristly Ridge, jotting down notes while the memory is fresh. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s a very good route. The old guide gave it one star. I’m inclined to be more generous, but defer judgement until I’ve seen the other routes. Loads more to do, so down Central Gully to find Two Tower Buttress over to the right. It’s a bit disappointing after the last route, but the finish is good and steep, probably harder than the V Diff given in the old guide.

Down again and right to Giant’s Steps Buttress, the first climb as you approach from Bwlch Tryfan. The Giant’s Steps are well named. The first two pitches climb huge rock steps, the lower of which is a flight of smaller steps. Once again the rock texture amazes me. It’s like drawing your fingertips over the teeth of a sharp file. I can almost feel its coarseness biting into the rubber of my old Scarpas. Pitch 3 is steep and cheeky for the grade; another one for the notebook.

Next a look at Dissected Buttress, a short climb in the Big Boulder Gully area. The write up in the Helyg log had caught my eye: Palmer and Bechervaise enthused about it, so a close look seemed in order. It’s easy to find – just right of the two big boulders is a tall buttress with a flake leaning against it. You start up the narrowing chimney between the flake and the buttress, move onto the front of the flake, and climb up to the exposed ledge at its top. Above, a crack rises up, with good holds until it opens to an offwidth. The angle lies back a little, so it doesn’t look too unfriendly. I can still feel the warmth of the afternoon sun, but any sensory pleasure is cancelled by the hunger pangs gnawing at my stomach. A few moves up, and helpful holds inside the crack run out, so it’s down to classic offwidth technique: one foot jammed across the crack, knee and cheek doing what they can, left arm barring from palm to elbow, and shuffle upwards. Once more the rock texture is my best friend. Small face holds for my right hand and foot give welcome assistance. It’s warm work. I flop over the rounded top, and know straight away it’s a little gem, noting mentally to give it a star.       

Just Skyline Buttress to check out now, but first some food and a few minutes to relax and take in the view. The long cwm drops away below me in tiers of rock and shelves of heather, now in full purple. Although it’s a weekday the brilliant weather has brought people out. A large party sunbathes down at the bwlch; shirt-sleeved walkers pass below on their way to the plateau, and from above on Bristly Ridge, disembodied voices drift down in the still air. I look across at Tryfan’s southern aspect: not the familiar three peaked profile, but a ragged cone, like a decaying pyramid ravaged by the desert winds.

The great corner on pitch three of the entertaining 'severe', Skyline Buttress: Mike Bailey©

Back to work. I know roughly where the route goes but the start takes some finding. It’s a grassy chimney and doesn’t look inviting. Consign that to history. A short rib above it looks more promising, and leads to the foot of a steep slab, unblemished by scratches or other evidence of use. It’s like climbing on an undiscovered cliff, and I wonder just how many repeats these routes have had; it can’t be many, despite their friendly grades. Another rib brings me to the final tower, rising abruptly from a grass terrace. I climb over blocks into a broad groove that funnels to a niche. The right wall drops plumb to the terrace; the holds are good though the growing exposure lends a serious feel to the pitch. Up above it’s all steepness and bulges, but out to the left, the wall of the groove eases back to a slab. Enticing holds lead me on; one delicate step and I’m sitting on a fine perch. If I wasn’t climbing alone I’d stop and belay here. 

You could continue, but it’s too fine a spot not to savour for a while, and share the enjoyment as your belayer moves up to join you. I’m anxious to get moving; time is getting on, but I make myself stop to assess the quality of this climb, realising I have enjoyed it as much as Great Tower Buttress four hours earlier. It has all the right qualities: good line, good rock, good positions, sustained climbing. It’s got to be two stars for both routes. I write it down in case my resolve wavers later at the keyboard. A sudden shiver focuses my attention on the celestial chronometer, now dipping close to the Nant Ffrancon skyline. Its warmth has gone. I zip up my fleece and climb the upper slab to the steep nose and final sharp arete connecting the buttress to the mountain side. The direct approach rebuffs my first attempt, but on the left things are more straightforward, I’m up, and the day’s work is nearly done.

Down again, I ease off my old Scarpas. Inside my sensible shoes my feet expand as I mark lines on the crag photo. Shadows are lengthening and now there’s a chill in the air. West facing slopes bathe in the pink evening light that marks the end of a day of perfect autumn weather. I shoulder my sack and jog down to the bwlch. Warm again, I descend into Cwm Bochlwyd, turning over the day’s work in my mind. The cliff offers a handful of good middle-grade climbs, which, evidence suggests, have been largely neglected. The long approach may not appeal to some; on the other hand, the cliff’s nearness to Tryfan’s East Face and Glyder Fach’s Main Cliff gives scope for a variety of mountain itineraries. I reflect on what the future may hold for this crag, whose acquaintance I have made in the course of a September day. Will better information and a crag topo attract more people here, and if so, will something have been lost? I can’t answer that. Only time will tell ?

Author Mike Bailey on pitch three of The Great Tower Buttress


Mike Bailey© 2010

Coming up: Mike Bailey rediscovers some lost Welsh Classics !

The third pitch of the magnificent Great Tower Buttress: Mike Bailey©

This Friday....Mike Bailey-author of the soon to be published Climbers Club guide to Ogwen,describes one memorable day when, in the interests of guidebook research, he soloed every mountaineering route on the forgotten East Face of Bristly Ridge and discovered some absolute classics which have totally fallen off the modern climber's radar.

One of these routes...Great Tower Buttress- is possibly one of THE great mountaineering routes of north Wales and probably
deserves to be ranked with Main Wall, Creagh Ddu Wall and The Cracks as one of the area's classic Hard Severes. In Between the ridge and the beaten path Mike offers a seductive account of just why those of a mountaineering bent should consider this alternative venue to the honey-pot mountain crags of north Wales.

The Night Shift

Steve Ashton grew up in Lancashire and began climbing in Wilton Quarries at the end of the 1960s. Encouraged by this short but brutal apprenticeship, he visited the Dolomites aged 17, climbed a couple of short grade VI routes (one of them a first ascent), and narrowly survived an epic thunderstorm that claimed many lives across the Alps. He worked as a labourer and body exhumer then moved to North Wales to train as a climbing instructor. After a brief career in outdoor centres and a summer of guiding in Switzerland, he switched to writing, eventually becoming a regular columnist for High and an adventure sports writer for lifestyle magazines. He also produced several mountaineering guides and handbooks, the best known being the influential Scrambles in Snowdonia, which was largely responsible for reviving interest in this esoteric sport, and 100 Classic Climbs in North Wales. He moved to France but soon returned to Britain to begin work as an actor and playwright, later co-founding Blue Lizard Theatre Company. He is currently writing a novel with a climbing backdrop.

"I was leading the Very Severe Great Central Route on Dow Crags. My second Alan Hargreaves, was belayed on a small stance, about 30ft below the ledge known as the Bandstand. Above me was the South America Crack. The crack was terribly strenuous, and near the top the holds seemed to give out completely. My only support was my left arm jammed in the crack; I hung outwards from it and clawed at the rock... I squirmed up again until my head came to the overhang; my balaclava helmet dropped noiselessly to the bottom. I slipped down again and hung there exhausted... I had to go on struggling — for ever and ever, it seemed. I jerked myself up again in a last despairing effort. I was so done in that I could hardly see. Everything went black. The next thing I knew I was 30ft lower down, hurtling head-first through the air... Now I'm in for a nasty smash, I thought.'....from 'Let's Go Climbing' by Colin Kirkus)

I was leading the Very Severe Great Central Climb on Esk Buttress. My second, a youthful Crag Jones, was belayed on a small stance, about 30ft below the ledge known as the Waiting Room. Above me was Frankland's Crack. The crack was terribly strenuous, and near the top the holds seemed to give out completely. My only support was my left arm jammed in the crack; I hung outwards from it and clawed at the rock. I squirmed up again until my head came to the overhang; my shirt tore and my tobacco tin spilled out, clanking down the cliff with a terrible noise, followed by the guidebook which fluttered past Crag's head like an angry owl. I slipped down again and hung there exhausted... I had to go on struggling — for ever and ever, it seemed. I jerked myself up again in a last despairing effort. I was so done that I could hardly see. Everything went black (hardly surprising — the sun had set over an hour ago). The next thing I knew I was 30ft higher up, sitting on a ledge above all the difficulties. Now I'm in for a pat on the back, I thought.' (from 'Let's Not Bother' by Steve Ashton)

Steve Ashton leading Via Rossi (VI) Sella, The Dolemites 1972: Ashton Collection©

Kirkus's epic ended when `everything went black' — he fell 70ft without major injury and limped down to Coniston in time for dinner. Ours was only just beginning. Crag prusiked up using a sling and his teeth. We didn't know the way down. There was no moon. Crag said we might make last orders if we hurried. We got back to Brotherilkeld at 2.30am. Kirkus had epics because he was pushing out the frontiers of technical achievement. I had epics because I couldn't get up in the morning. Climbing in the dark was as normal as climbing in the rain, in the days when that was normal. Night climbing through choice became part of our preparations for a first visit to the Dolomites, anticipating (correctly) that we would be incapable of completing any of the routes in daylight.

This nocturnal but otherwise innocent banging and flashing in Wilton Quarries once attracted the attention of the Lancashire Constabulary. At the time I was struggling among a tangle of fifis and etriers two-thirds of the way up a route (probably since free-climbed at Mild VS) while my brother Tony belayed me from the shelter of an umbrella. The PC shone his interrogating light up into my eyes: "What are you doing?" he said,unsure which word to emphasise. "Trying to place a Cassin channel peg," I replied. The light waved around a bit but there was no response.After five minutes of standing in the lashing rain he said, "Oh", and walked off.

Climbing by torch or moonlight was almost cheating. It could be brighter than Houghton Quarry on a dull afternoon. Our new puritanical approach reached its zenith on the Widdop Ordinary. We climbed as a threesome — one climbing, one belaying, one striking the matches. The rain didn't help. We pulled socks over our boots for extra grip on the lichenous rock and battled through to the crucial Bull's Horns move. We took the bull by the horns, as it were, and hung on while it bucked us around the paddock. And we were well and truly bucked, I can tell you, when we finally emerged bloodier and wiser at the top. We decided it would be easier in the Dolomites if we simply got out of bed earlier.

I was to meet Tony at the railway station in Bolzano. `Bring lots of food and money with you,' he had said in his letter. I brought a family-sized pack of Kellogg's Cornflakes, two loaves of Mother's Pride, and eight quid in cash. Tony called me a dick. In his rucksack was enough ironmongery to aid our way up the Brandler-Hasse without having to clean the pitches. But there was no food, and not much money. "Help me up with it," he said. But it was so heavy I couldn't even pick it up off the platform bench.

Top of our credentials for blitzing the Dolomites was a recent ascent of Crackstone Rib, a wobbly Severe on Carreg Wastad. Alarm bells rang on the bus ride up to the Sella Pass as we pressed our faces to the back window and looked up at the 4,000ft north face of Sassolungo — our prime objective. Ignited by the setting sun, it looked like a volcano about to erupt. Unable to control my anxiety, I let out an involuntary and embarrassingly loud noise. The passengers turned their heads and glowered at us in South Tyrolean. Due to some confusion (or perhaps it was deliberate), we were put off the bus some five miles short of the Sella Hut. This created a bit of problem, because although Tony was capable of lifting his rucksack, he could not carry it and walk at the same time. We curled up on the grass, masticated a slice of Mother's Pride, and lay awake all night wondering if we wouldn't be more at home in Cwm Idwal.

For three days we avoided benightment, largely because we never got higher than two pitches off the ground. On the fourth day, our supply of cornflakes and bread exhausted, we went shopping. We bought grapes, bread sticks, spaghetti, pilchards and red wine, these being the five cheapest items in the shop. Thereafter we had spaghetti sandwiches and red wine for breakfast; grapes and red wine for lunch; pilchards, spaghetti and red wine for dinner; and red wine for supper. Then, after we had sicked it all up, we made eyes at the daughters of Italian mothers until our vision became too blurred to make a distinction between mothers and daughters and then fell asleep in, or in the vicinity of, our room in the Englishmen's annexe to the hut.

One day we got to the top of a mountain. Being unprepared for this turn of events — we had neither torch nor bivvy gear with us — we became desperate to get down before nightfall. We got 50ft down before it went dark, then it went like this: Tony would throw a pebble over the edge while we both listened carefully; a noise meant there was a rock ledge below, whereas no noise meant there was a grass ledge below. Tony, being the leader, would then go down with the cigarette lighter to confirm our prediction, later holding the lighter so it shone in my eyes while I climbed down to join him. Then we did the bit with the pebble again. It worked well enough and we didn't die.

Next day we went on Cinque Dita. It being already two o'clock in the afternoon, a route billed as, 'ideal for a short day' seemed like our sort of climb. No need for bivvy gear, just throw in a spare cardigan and off we go. Chastened by our experiences the previous night, Tony nevertheless decided to upgrade our emergency equipment with a pen-light torch. Everything went smoothly until we reached a notch a couple of hundred feet down the descent route. Then it went dark.Tony threw a pebble over the edge. Silence. Good, that meant grass. He began to climb over the edge, the torch gripped between his teeth. We knew all about this sort of thing. Fifteen seconds later came a distant tinkling noise as the pebble hit rock. Tony climbed back up and spat out the torch.

Fortunately we both knew how to abseil. Only last month we'd abseiled down an 80ft slab in Cwm Idwal. "I'm game if you are," I said, anticipating a jolly adventure. Tony banged a Cassin knife-blade almost halfway into the rock and lowered himself over the edge, taking the torch. I leaned down and put my hand on the peg. I could feel it bending and hurriedly unclipped from it. Then I thought about freezing to death all alone on the mountain and clipped back in.

Free Abbing in the Dolemites 1971: Ashton Collection©

Hours later, or it could have been minutes, the peg relaxed and I knew Tony had either reached a ledge or slid off the end of the ropes. Either way it was time for me to follow. Fumbling in the dark, I clipped my figure-of-eight descendeur made from superior-grade coat-hanger wire on to my state-of-the-art, four-strand chest harness and lowered over the edge. Thank God for technology. After 15ft I lost contact with the rock. I could see nothing, and if it hadn't been for the asphyxiating constriction on my rib cage I might have been falling down a bottomless chimney.

By and by I came to a knot in the end of the ropes. My ordeal was over. But what's this? Tied to the end of the ropes was a sling. I stood in it and unclipped the descendeur. I could breathe again. But what's this? Another sling. Then another, and another, until there were no more slings, only air. Then a voice said, "Start swinging towards me," and from somewhere in the blackness a switch clicked and a bulb glowed. After penduluming this way and that (mostly that) for a couple of minutes, something grabbed hold of my leg. Hello Tony. Hello Steve. Tony was hanging from a sling clipped to a Cassin knife-blade hammered almost halfway into the rock. "How did you manage to get that in?" I asked. "It's a long story," he said. Then, in a quiet but authoritative voice, added: "Don't let go of the ropes."

While Tony shone the torch in my eyes, I climbed up to retrieve the ropes. Tony said to be careful because he couldn't guarantee the belay. I told him to quit shining the torch in my eyes. I thought I must have offended him, because at that moment the light went off altogether. Job done I climbed back down over his head and on to his shoulders and clipped myself into the Cassin knife-blade peg, the full story of which hasn't been gone into, even to me. Then Tony said in a quiet voice: "Keep very still; I've dropped the torch and I think it's wedged between my leg and the rock." And it had. I retrieved it and Tony started giggling. I thought about slapping his face. But then he put the torch back between his teeth, said "eel gee gow shoo", and abseiled off into the night.
Hours, or minutes, later the peg stopped twitching and it was my turn again. When I got to the end of the rope I felt a knot, and beneath the knot was a sling, and beneath that sling was another sling, and so on and so forth. And then a voice said, "Over here," and it was the same thing all over again. Thirteen abseils later we tossed the ropes into a black void only to hear them thud into scree a few feet below. Our waking nightmare was over.

We got to the hut just as the sky started to pale. There was an Italian gentleman sleeping in Tony's bunk. Tony told him what to do, expresso. But the Italian shook his head, turned over, and went back to sleep. "Leave him, he doesn't understand", I said, having noticed that the man reached both ends of the bunk. "I'll make him understand," Tony said, starting up the ladder, "I'm buggered if I'm going to lie on the floor all night listening to Mario here snoring in my bunk". Well, one thing led to4 another, and the upshot of it was that I lay on the floor listening to Mario snoring in Tony's bunk and Tony snoring in mine. But it didn't matter; in an hour it would bedaylight, and we had some shopping to do.

Pia Ciavazes, Dolemites 1971 at the impromptu bivi. Ashton Collection©

Steve Ashton© : First published in High- April 1990.

Coming up: Classic Steve Ashton

A 17 year old Steve Ashton at Bolzano in the Dolemites:Photo Ashton Collection©

`I was leading the Very Severe Great Central Route on Dow Crags. My second, Alan Hargreaves, was belayed on a small stance, about 30ft below the ledge known as the Bandstand. Above me was the South America Crack. The crack was terribly strenuous, and near the top the holds seemed to give out completely. My only support was my left arm jammed in the crack; I hung outwards from it and clawed at the rock... I squirmed up again until my head came to the overhang; my balaclava helmet dropped noiselessly to the bottom. I slipped down again and hung there exhausted... I had to go on struggling — for ever and ever, it seemed. I jerked myself up again in a last despairing effort. I was so done in that I could hardly see. Everything went black. The next thing I knew I was 30ft lower down, hurtling head-first through the air... Now I'm in for a nasty smash, I thought.' (from Let's Go Climbing by Colin Kirkus)
`I was leading the Very Severe Great Central Climb on Esk Buttress. My second, a youthful Crag Jones, was belayed on a small stance, about 30ft below the ledge known as the Waiting Room. Above me was Frankland's Crack. The crack was terribly strenuous, and near the top the holds seemed to give out completely. My only support was my left arm jammed in the crack; I hung outwards from it and clawed at the rock. I squirmed up again until my head came to the overhang; my shirt tore and my tobacco tin spilled out, clanking down the cliff with a terrible noise, followed by the guidebook which fluttered past Crag's head like an angry owl. I slipped down again and hung there exhausted... I had to go on struggling — for ever and ever, it seemed. I jerked myself up again in a last despairing effort. I was so done that Icould hardly see. Everything went black (hardly surprising — the sun had set over an hour ago). The next thing I knew I was 30ft higher up, sitting on a ledge above all the difficulties. Now I'm in for a pat on the back, I thought.' (from Let's Not Bother by Steve Ashton)

This Friday,another chance to enjoy the unique, entertaining work of one of the UK's best loved outdoor writers, Steve Ashton. For many years through his features and regular columns in High magazine,Steve offered a unique quirky take on the climbing game which to many was a refreshing contrast with some of the more po faced and earnest offerings being printed at the time For first time readers of Steve and grizzled old sweats alike,prepare to be entertained!