Angel Pavement

Terry Gifford on pitch two.Original image-Ian Smith/CC

The place possesses a distinct allure: nowhere in Wales could a more confused and romantically sculptured disarray of rock be found; loose it may be, but like many a loose climb it scarcely lacks character or attraction. Typical journey into Wales, away from the coastal sands towards the hills to the west of Snowdon and under threats of rain down the valley towards Nantlle, above which, on Craig y Bera, hangs a neglected gem of a route, Angel Pavement.

It was 13 years since my only ascent of it. As the years have passed, that climb has glowed with memories of delicate moves, serious situations and of the old team I used to climb with.Now, as I saw with relief that the heavy wet clouds seemed to rest just on the top of the route, I remembered that clear spring weather when we burst out of Sheffield on a day trip to do it. The chanting song on the car radio seemed to have got it exactly right: The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz, And the sky with no clouds.

 

The heat was hot and the ground was dry But the air was full of sounds.We'd spent a weekend at Cwm Silyn and driving home up the valley from Nantlle we noticed this south-facing ramp of slab, nearly 500ft long, narrowing as it side-steps to the left of overhanging rock. Angel Pavement was in the new selected climbs guide 1970), where Ron James explained why we'd never heard of this long line of pinnacled rocks: 'This large cliff is composed (or decomposed!) of numerous totty ridges.' But here between them lay the irresistible line of Angel Pave­ment, the first of Tony Moulam's honourable list of new routes in Wales and graded by him Severe in nails. We had had to wait until the following Sunday to step on to that sunny pavement of slab.

 

Now, 13 years later, I was again driving from home to Craig y Bera, already late in the day and in the wettest August for years. `It's going to rain, can't you feel it?' Mrs Evlyn Jones told me, painting her gate at the farm below the crag, duffle-coat hood over her head, on the last day of August. A peregrine was calling above us.

`It's only rained in the mornings in Sheffield'

`Do they grow bananas in Sheffield?'

Haskett-Smith on the first ascent of neighbouring Pinnacle Ridge in 1911.

The guide warns that access to the crag is not allowed by the farmer living below it and that the situation is delicate, so I asked this diminutive lady with the round smile and ready wit how I should approach the crag and where to park.

 

`You can leave your car here and tell my husband I told you so. He's gathering stones on the hill there.' And he was, gathering stone into great molehills to make a scrap of cultivation on a level bit of hillside. 'In the villages that nestle on these slopes lived a special brand of people, little known to the brightly clad hordes that pour into Pen y Pass car park every weekend', wrote Dewi Jones. 'These are the Tyddynwyr (small-holders) and the quarry-men, an almost vanished race.' Gathering stones below this tottering mountain as we made our way up to the unstable scree was a tyddynwyr of the almost vanished race, straightening up to look at us as we passed above him. We didn't necessarily expect to be allowed these indulgences of access another time. But what indulgences? The direct approach to Angel Pavement is a moving pavement of scree on which you feel as if you're going up the down escalator.

It's still best to do as Tony Moulam did a week after I was born and traverse into the crag from the head of the valley. The route description of Angel Pavement is actually superfluous, such is the purity of its superb line. I had forgotten how easily it starts, scrambling up heathery rock ledges until a little route-finding linking the ledges is necessary. I found only one runner in a full rope run-out, but no move is more than Diff. The second guidebook pitch is harder and actually best taken as two 75ft pitches of good friction and square-cut little fingerholds. Whenever a straight-up approach meets steepening rock a solution is to be found on the left. The next stance is the crucial one, cramped under a dribbling roof in which you'll find two small chockstones, although nuts can be added easily to improve the confidence.
 

I remembered my former leader, John Driskell, disappearing left round the corner from here where the slab narrows and steepens to a little wall. The slab is undercut below and by this height has leaned a long way left. Now the evening light had shrunk to the bottom of the valley below the slab. John had had not one brain hemorrhage, but two since I watched him confidently step out on to the edge where the last light now gathered. He still comes camping up in the high cwms with us, watching his pulse-rate methodically, mocking our modern gear and our not climbing in 'a little light drizzle'. To him I owe a lot of my first VSs, as his enthusiasm pulled me upwards against my instinctive reluctance. And I owe to him my memory of this route and this little crux. It's certainly a Severe move on a route that is still graded V Diff,*( Now severe in the latest CC guide) although from here you'd fall off the slab and hang in air. Angel Pavement has a deep gutter and if you step off the edge of the pavement you'll need the wings and luck of an angel. Above this pitch the rock gives way to scrambling over grass and heather laced with gorse.

There is just one more move round a corner which causes you to work out how to finger the clean-cut angles of steep rock to the right. But the belays are big sociable eyries where, 13 years ago, I had chatted to Dave as he brought up Agnes behind John and I.

 

It must have been one of Agnes' first climbs.The rumour in the pub had been that Dave had met this girl at a campsite in the Alps. Since Dave was a confirmed, pipe-stinking bachelor, there was much doubt about the story. 
Then one Friday evening as we were assembled in the back room of the Nursery Tavern as usual, Dave appeared in the doorway with a small, shy girl who didn't speak a word of English. Dave had just brought her from East Midlands Airport on the back of his motorbike. At that precise moment, as she was having her first taste of Mrs Jenkins' best bitter, her parents thought she was at the pictures in Paris. She climbed Angel Pavement without hesitation too.

 

Back to the present — the light had now almost gone and what I'd not remembered was how to get down. I kept leading left, avoiding loose rock and the abyss below as much as possible, until the neck behind the buttress dipped down the other side to a scree descent to end all scree descents, unless you're careful.

We got down to the farm in the dark. Mrs Jones was shutting up the hens with a torch. She had obviously been keeping an eye out for us.

`You should have been here in the earthquake,' she said. 'I thought the mountain was going to fall down on us.'

Local climbers we spoke to the next day thought it was falling down already. It's this reputation of Craig y Bera that keeps Angel Pavement fairly untrodden. Between threats of rain and nightfall I'd snatched another angelic walk, although in the pub I began to wonder if maybe my memories had made it glow just a little more than it really deserves. Make the journey to the crag of pyramids and pinnacles yourself one day, when it's raining on the higher hills but the sun is playing on Angel Pavement. As we drove away, America began to retell a tale:

On the first part of the journey

I was looking at all the life

There were plants and birds and rocks and things

There was sand and hills and rain.

The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz

And the sky with no clouds

The heat was hot and the ground was dry

But the air was full of sounds.

Terry Gifford. The Joy Of Climbing: Whittle Publishing

Mont Blanc-The Finest Routes.....review

There are two much-thumbed ‘bibles’ in my house: Ken Wilson’s ever-inspiring Classic Rock; and the nearest thing to pornography I’ve ever put on proud display in my living room: The Mont Blanc Massif: The hundred finest routes by the revered Gaston Rébuffat. Sad though it may seem, an evening with one of these on my lap, a fire roaring and half decent red is about as good a night as I can wish for.  And if I ever get to climb even a third of the routes in both books I’ll be a happy man. 

But the Mont Blanc book is definitely becoming dated. The latest edition required editor’s notes in places where things had changed radically. And there have also been some great new lines/routes added since the great Frenchman graced the rock and ice with so much style. So I was pretty damned excited to see a new book taking over where the last had left off. And Mont Blanc: The finest routes by Phillipe Batoux certainly sets its stall out to do this – as if swinging leads effortlessly with an older, steadier partner.

 

So how does the new offering compare? Like the original it’s a fairly large hard cover, coffee table book that will be used more for inspiration than as a guidebook.  The photography is awesome – you almost need to chalk up just to look at the front cover. And this theme continues through the whole book. The shots, all in colour, may lack the romantic, pioneering feel of some of the black & white masterpieces of the Rébuffat book but they instead show the audacious nerve and vision of a more modern alpine era, all set against one of the finest backdrops in the world. 

 

The layout is tidy and easy to follow, and many routes have well-drawn topos to assist in working out the complexity of the lines. As eluded to earlier, it’s not designed to be a guidebook but an inspiration, though it certainly gives all the relevant information for each route. It’s odd that the traditional Alpine gradings e.g. AD, PD etc. have been dropped. They may be subjective but I always find them a good starting point. But they are easy enough to check in other guidebooks and at least the rock gradings, ice gradings and mixed gradings are stated as are slope angles where relevant.

My only real disappointment with the book is more down to my modest ability than the author’s work. And that’s the way the grades have crept upwards. 

Both books list the climbs in order of seriousness/difficulty but the new book is definitely weighted towards much harder climbing with classic ticks like the North Face of the Tour Ronde relegated from 35^th in the Rébuffat book to 14th in Phillipe Batoux’s; or the Frontier (Küffner) Ridge on Mont Maudit drops from 50th to a lowly 31st.This significantly reduces the number of routes featured that I’ll ever get to tick. 

 

But in its favour, it also introduces some ‘new classics’ and that will be its real strength. There are plenty of routes, across the grade range, in here that aren’t in the Rébuffat book and that will ease traffic slightly on the established honeypots and inspire climbers to look beyond the most heavily worn tracks.

In conclusion, this is a beautiful book and a real work of art. If you are a sucker for books like this and love the Mont Blanc range like I do, you’ll definitely want to add this to your worn-out original. 

If you don’t own the original and your sights are modest, the Rébuffat volume will probably give you more to aim at and at the same time do more to immerse you in the heritage of one of the greatest alpine pioneers.

But if you don’t own either and you’re climbing to a pretty high standard – say D or above – and plan on aiming higher, this would definitely be the one for you and it will captivate and inspire for years to come......Stunning. 

Mont Blanc-The Finest routes available direct from Vertebrate Publishing.

Tom Hutton:2013 

 

Trikes on the roof of the world: Tibet Story

 

Honeymoon in Tibet

Fumbling with the tent fly I escape into a freezing, cavernous, deep space night. My eyes wander up and I contemplate the constellations of the northern hemisphere. Then I track down to the Pang La, the mountain pass which tackles the unsealed mountain of switchbacks on the rutted road to Everest. The pass seems to go on for ever. It is clearly discernible in the starlight.

We had been told often enough that we would never be able to pedal our trikes up this pass. In fact, Samdrup, our Tibetan guide just shook his head saying, “how can two disabled people tackle one hundred and seventeen switchbacks at 5200m?” I had a twenty Yuan bet with Samdrup that we could do this hill, but his lack of faith in us shook me up. Sharyn, our camera- woman, who had done the pass several times before, in a truck, had faith in us, but even she recalled grown men weeping on the side of the road amidst thick clouds of dust.

The ʻPang Laʼ was clearly going to be the crux of the whole Lhasa to Kathmandu journey. I stifled a shiver... And we were going to attempt to ride over this mountain of dirt at dawn.

Carol Hurst and I were making a honeymoon tour of China. We were to go birdwatching and golfing, take in the Great Wall and the Terra Cotta warriors. It was to be dream trip... At least that is what we were telling the Chinese immigration department. However, in reality we were making a tricycle journey of over 1100km from Lhasa in Tibet - via Mount Everest - to Kathmandu in Nepal. If you so much as mention Tibet on your visa application it will be found screwed up in some consular officeʼs wastepaper basket. And filming in Tibet... God forbid.

Our ploy seemed to work and Carol and I find ourselves on a Lhasa-bound train on the highest railway in the world. Climbing up onto a high plateau the train groans train like a monster and people are left reaching for the piped oxygen. Ibex, yak and wild ass dot the plains. On disembarking three people are stretchered off suffering altitude sickness.

In Lhasa we party down at a legendary Nangma nightclub, where every self respecting patron until recently carried a sword! We also ride out to Sera Monastery where a monk thrusts my head into a hole with a ʻhorse headed Buddhaʼ. My nose is painted black, and a Khata (a ceremonial scarf) is blessed and draped over my head.

We pose for photographs below the Potala Palace. A seemingly pre-pubescent soldier, finger on trigger of rifle, approaches us lets us know the wind-horse on the prayer flags festooning our trikes is a highly dangerous symbol and is banned in the square. Uniformed snipers positioned on the roof-tops surrounding the Jokhang Temple (stark reminder of the 2008 riots) study us as we depart on our long journey.

We pass the huge golden Yak and stop at a ten meter tall Buddha that ʻmagicallyʼ appeared in the rock face. At camp that evening I wallow in the peaceful waters of the Kyi Chu oblivious to the thundering trucks passing close to our camp. The women are playing badminton with Samdrup and invite me to play but I fall heavily. A dangerous game, badminton.

It is a requirement of the Chinese government that all independent foreign travelers in Tibet have a guide. The guide then requires feeding and transport so we have a cook, Dawa, and a driver, Mota. At first the whole ʻkitchen sinkʼ approach didnʼt sit easily with me. But now I am disabled having a truck seems rather useful.

Tibetans are notoriously stubborn with regards to client service, though our Tibetan crew get the idea that we are on pilgrimage. Just like thousands of others we have seen, we are heading slowly towards our respective goals. It was Carolʼs aim to make it all the way to Kathmandu, whereas my interest always lay in Mount Everest. After all I was a mountaineer and climbing

mountains had been my life. I had forsaken a ʻrealʼ job at an early age and had summited mountains in the Himalaya, Patagonia and Baffin Island.

Then in 1998 on a climbing trip to Tasmania my life unravelled before my very eyes. A boulder fell on my head whilst climbing the Totem Pole on Cape Hauy. The rescue took a day during which I lost half my blood through a gaping hole in my skull. I ended up in hospital for a year with paralysis down my right side and had to learn how to walk again, talk again, feed and dress myself.

At Chusul we meet the Yarling Sangpo, tributary to the great Brahmaputra. As we ride up the river the scenery gets grander and more serene. I often cannot see Carol for dust. We ride fifty-three kilometers, seventeen kilometers further than she has ridden before: a marvelous achievement.

We enter a narrow gorge where there are objective dangers a plenty: yaks precariously perched on cliffs, loose boulders overhanging the road, and big concrete trucks thundering past. On one down hill stretch we pass by a bus load of monks stopped by the side of the road. With a fervor normally reserved for rockstars they wave, dance and cheer us. So much attention do our trikes command, at one point on the road to Everest we cause a traffic jam as Chinese tourists queue for a photo with us.

On exiting the gorge a huge Tibetan mastiff begins to chase me. I try to speed up, but at close to 4000 meters I only end up gasping like a landed fish. Soon I was face to face with the vicious creature as it slobbered on my chest. All I could do was present my spastic arm to it as one would a rubber chicken. I was cycling hard, and moving along at a brisk jog. Just as the monster is about to gnaw on my arm Sharyn comes to my rescue and charges the dog down with a fierce growl.

After a week of riding our first rest day is at the 'Braille Without Borders' vocational farm near Xigatse. Paul Kronenberg, one of the founders, tells stories of how some blind kids are locked away through shame on the part of their parents. In Tibetan culture blind kids had to have done something terrible in a previous life. I consider peopleʼs reaction to me whilst limping around Lhasaʼs streets: one person even spat at me. Any kind of disability is viewed in such a way. Paul and his team were challenging such ignorance and, by cycling across Tibet, so are we. Disabled people can do everything that the abled bodied can do. And that needs celebrating.

Shortly after leaving Xigatse rain begins to pour, which, when lying prostrate is a special kind of treat. We get soaked, and darkness is falling. Just as our band are beginning to contemplate spending the night out, Samdrup finds a monastery to sleep in. After a breakfast with young monks we tackle the Tra La, which at 3975m is only a baby pass. We set up camp in a quintessentially Tibetan landscape - flat plains with yaks and distant mountains. The setting sun is beautiful even with the silhouetted power poles which Tibet seems to grow so well.

On the day when Carol and I are supposed to be golfing at Shenzen Mission Hills, we find ourselves grinding painfully up the Gyatso La. At 5220m this is the highest pass of our journey. We climb it over two days. The second day of ascent begins ruthlessly cold. We pass nomads living in yak hair tents like they have done for thousands of years and, in two interminable hours, we surface into sunlight. My lungs silently scream as I try to keep up with Mel, our physiotherapist and unintended pace-setter. Carol has to stop every kilometer to massage her deadened feet.

Carol was a keen adventurer when, in her twenties, she developed osteoarthritis in her hips. When avenues for outdoor activity narrowed Carol took to white-water paddling with determination, becoming six times Classic Wild-water Australian Champion. Now, a specially customised trike is allowing her to crank up passes in Western Tibet.

Our first view of Everest comes a full week before we reach it. Huge Chinese slogans on mountainsides inform us of I donʼt know what. As the sun sets a silhouette of a dzong, a fortress built on a high outcrop of rock, dominates against the broadening night.

 We begin climbing the Pang La, or ʻPain Laʼ as it is known to cyclists, at first light. The hot water we put into our bottles freezes. By mid morning we are at hairpin nineteen when a woman stops her car and force feeds me hard-boiled eggs. As we are nearing the top of the pass, which has only forty-six hairpins (a hundred and seventeen was to be for our descent, thankfully), snow flurries begin.

Carol and I summit the Pang La (5150m) in cloud together, through the usual tunnel of prayer flags. Passengers of cars scatter paper 'wind horses' printed with Buddhist prayers. After a brief rest we descend endless switchbacks on a Dr Suess road, straight out of Green Eggs and Ham. Pedalling to Everest Base Camp is a gruelling exercise: uphill and on dirt all the way. At itʼs zenith the sun blazes down.

 

Personally, I was realising a lifetime dream in seeing the goddess mountain up close. For thirteen years since the accident, I've spent every day learning to walk and talk again. From my first day back climbing and the first ride on my trike; everything I've done has been to get me here, today. When I was first recovering I never thought I'd be able to travel again, never mind pedal all the way to Everest Base Camp. It's been a long and tortuous road getting here.

On the return from Everest we reach the Nam La (5100m), a sandy single track were I have to weigh my panniers down with rocks to prevent the rear wheel spinning. As we ride below Choy Oyu, the worlds sixth highest peak, I sheer a quick release pin so rough is the road. Mel lashes the seat back to the frame with a tyre inner-tube. On the way down to the sealed road a kid throws a pebble at Sharynʼs head with remarkable accuracy. After eight days of pot-holes I kiss the metalled road surface.

The last pass, the Lung La, is into a headwind. The back of my knee hurts. Mel comes to the rescue again and feeds me anti-inflammatories and ʻEmergen-Cʼ. I try all the tricks in the book to take my mind off the job in hand.

A three kilometer uphill straight - mantras, headphones, bead counting, you name it. I finally make it through the arch of prayer-flags miles behind Carol and am faced with Shishapangma, Phola Ganchen, and Melung Tse, all giants in their wedding gowns.

Now begins the deepest road descent on Earth. We scream down from the ice and frost of a Tibetan morning to the tropical lushness of a Nepali afternoon. The quality of the road deteriorates from brand spanking Chinese bitumen to dirt, landslides and Nepali mayhem.

On day twenty-six we enter Kathmandu. We ride through a convoluted matrix of villages and back streets, past monkeys and metal workshops, bakeries and brick works, temples and shrines, and everywhere a jam of cars and motorbikes.

After much struggle and hardship we had finally made it. We had ridden 1158 kilometers over the Himalayas. For me it affirmed once again that life is an incredible gift that should not be squandered.

This tricycle trip across the roof of the world had certainly been no

ʻhoneymoonʼ.

Trikes on the roof of the world website

Paul Pritchard:2013. Photographs PP Collection