tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21540079671132827482024-03-12T23:12:42.366+00:00Footless CrowUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger652125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-60424378541655949372022-02-11T10:48:00.000+00:002022-02-11T10:48:12.969+00:00A’Chreag Dhearg. Climbing Stories of the Angus Glens: Reviewed<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b> </b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUazDXXMrVgKQPVgIspCocYVh4m_vcB4AextVoaZdD1GFgWly7dZDsQDeg3Iw3hxwR4zTnOnUFmelhTtrqcbVku0y0rclKnUnM7bCfkne2SpkJmKM-QclvMzKIuhbnklziAY8-FzKTnyND6lVrB0OckT0dhSyYsJPUvR9ngstCv6uyw8FdUfVzEN5L=s4798" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4798" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUazDXXMrVgKQPVgIspCocYVh4m_vcB4AextVoaZdD1GFgWly7dZDsQDeg3Iw3hxwR4zTnOnUFmelhTtrqcbVku0y0rclKnUnM7bCfkne2SpkJmKM-QclvMzKIuhbnklziAY8-FzKTnyND6lVrB0OckT0dhSyYsJPUvR9ngstCv6uyw8FdUfVzEN5L=w260-h400" width="260" /></a></b></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Simon Stewart climbing in Glen Clova;Image-S<b>imon Stewart</b></span><b><br /></b><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A’Chreag
Dhearg. Climbing Stories of the Angus Glens. Compiled by Grant
Farquhar.376 pages, paperback, drawn on cover, perfect bound.
Scottish Mountaineering Press. £20. Ilustrated throughout by
black/white, colour photographs.</span></b></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">‘<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They
shattered the spell of the mighty Dr Bell, they were all good men and
true’</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From
a song by Tom Patey </span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I
lived in Scotland in the 1960’s the southern aspect of the
Cairngorm massif was hardly known to my Edinburgh companions of the
Squirrel’s. Although I used to go to Dundee regularly on business,
climbing on the Arbroath sea cliffs on occasion en route, I had not
then heard of the climbing revolution that was under away in the
Angus Glens. I stayed in nearby Broughty Ferrry where the big
attraction was the Folk Club, highlighting Ewan MacColl (I was to
learn later that he was from Salford where he was known as Jimmy
Millar). So this book, compiled by Grant Farquhar is revelatory and
was a joy to read by this old timer.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
first articles in this compilation illustrate the story of the area,
that Dundee used to be the centre of the manufacturing of Jute, and
that in the First World War, its denizens were very much the
recruiting City of the Black Watch regiment, which suffered many
number of deaths and injury. We also learn a little of the family
history of the compiler of this volume, a local boy; a Dundonian who
now resides in the Bahamas but who has a track record of difficult
ascents around the UK, and an equally impressive CV as a climbing
writer.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Also
surprisingly related in this book, there was one of the first access
battles, when the regular route, through all the way to Ballater and
Braemer from Forfar (the name by which the whole Angus region is
known) was blocked by the Landowner. This ended in the Court in
Edinburgh, and the claimants won one of the most important cases, in
the history of the outdoor movement. This known as the battle for
Jock’s Road, so well recounted by Des Hannigan, a local climber who
made his name further south on the Cornish sea cliffs. In January
1959 occurred a terrible tragedy following the route from Braemar,
along the Jock’s road to Forfar, a distance over 18 miles, and
which goes over the 3,000 foot contour. The party of five became lost
in worsening conditions and eventually perished; there was wide
publicity at that time and led to the present day mountain rescue in
the district. </span>
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
early mountaineering in the area was at the initiative of the SMC,
meets were held at the home of Hugh Munro (a baronet no less) whose
family seat was near Kirriemuir, whose name is now so aligned with
his list of peaks in Scotland over 3000 feet, published in that clubs
journal in 1891.There is a photograph in the book of a five strong
party roped together, in winter conditions on the Forfar hills.
Whatever global warming is affecting our winters now, in the latter
years of the 19th century, the snow and ice could be counted on by
these stalwarts. Another famous figure who lived close by was J M
Barrie author of the Peter Pan stories, although he was not a
climber, inevitably quotes from his work appear with some regularity
within this book. </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhWXHqPun19-w_wbsfkvxeXMF4LNLk2b8hSj8FoMZz_HljFXdyuniKvJjjni0dqmlA2Ex9dOM1KszD--EhlRj80DrH4q5yEzLC1e_loKfVphQfuQxVU9doAcRqHOo7QWPgPXP0fQkqqSFuy-W0kzXD3MZ9oZCIyKN0g-3WfTr3RFEbSbYgWQIPSrXk=s3118" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3118" data-original-width="2163" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhWXHqPun19-w_wbsfkvxeXMF4LNLk2b8hSj8FoMZz_HljFXdyuniKvJjjni0dqmlA2Ex9dOM1KszD--EhlRj80DrH4q5yEzLC1e_loKfVphQfuQxVU9doAcRqHOo7QWPgPXP0fQkqqSFuy-W0kzXD3MZ9oZCIyKN0g-3WfTr3RFEbSbYgWQIPSrXk=w278-h400" width="278" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Simon Stewart belaying Grant Farquhar on 'The Fuerer'- E4-5c, Craig Dubh: Photo Graham Ettle<br /> </span></span>
<p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of
the outstanding pioneers to emerge from this area was JHB Bell, who
pioneered some of the great climbs on Ben Nevis, besides local
classics in the Angus Glens like Maud Buttress. He was also a writer
of some distinction. I can remember how his book, ‘Bell’s
Scottish Climbs’ published by Gollancz was well received when it
appeared in 1988.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And so
the scene is set for what must have been one of the most action
packed groups to emerge from a big City to find their way into
climbing, winter and summer. A group of teenagers, none who had been
on any kind of course, who came into the sport a traditional way,
learning by their mistakes, but from the first keen to explore, to
new route, but most of all to enjoy themselves and find out what the
boundaries were to their lives. They came together and tongue in
cheek, called themselves; ‘The Men of Steel’, and many appear in
the mss as only their nick names; Dr Evil (Grant), Pot, Hendo etc.
One without a nick name but one of the keenest new routers was Simon
Stewart. In his writings he claims that he was never the best climber
of the group but his new routes on the cliffs of Glen Cova bear a
witness to his abilities at that time.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They
based themselves in the Carn Dearg Mountaineering Club hut in Glen
Clova, and they also became regulars at the pub in that valley. This
was in the mid 1980’s, and illustrates how much climbing is now
changed with the popularity of indoor walls, diets, training, fitter,
stronger, faster. At a later date some of the Men of Steel found
places in Dundee; buildings they could climb on notably the walls of
the Engineering Department of the University, but they were probably
amongst the last groups to find out what climbing was all about by
themselves? </span>
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We are
brought up short by the chapter on the ‘Life of Reilly’, this
tells of the story of the twins Ged and Ian Reilly. By this date some
of the Angus climbers were travelling further afield. 21st January
1978 Ian Reilly and 19 year old Brian Simpson fell from off a route
in the inner corrie of Creag Meagaidh. Ged who was in the area on
that day went looking for his brother. By the time they were found it
was too late, and both had succumbed to their injuries and the cold.
Ged despite this terrible accident still climbs. </span>
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In a
book of such length there is only space to concentrate on articles
that give the feeling of the work, so I will only highlight the ones
which I think were typical of the whole.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
first is by Grant Farquhar himself and is titled ‘The Pale Rider’
and goes out on a limb deciding how dangerous climbing really is?
This thoughtful article had its genesis, in an e-mail from Simon
Stewart. In that he noted that the three most experienced and oldest
climbers who he had ever climbed with, Andy Nisbet, Martin Moran and
Doug Lang had all died at great ages in climbing accidents. This
posited the question do climbers become more at risk as they grow
old? </span>
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Grant
is a psychiatrist so well able to pontificate on risk taking, and he
comes to the conclusion that climbing is not as dangerous as some
would believe, and for instance other activities like Base Jumping
are much so. As someone who gave some lectures on this subject I
would say that there are now different levels of risk involved in the
activities. Sport climbing should be safe, trad rock climbing less
so, winter climbing even more so, with the most dangerous being
greater range mountaineering with Himalayan the most demanding in
this respect. Freud inevitably is included in Farquhar’s musings,
with both, Libido, the sex drive and Thanatos the death wish
mentioned. His conclusion that we are all going to die in any case is
true and though most of us try to avoid facing up to this, his advice
is to enjoy our lives and to get out climbing.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This
leads on to the terrible accident on Creag Dubh, under the title
Redemption on Creag Death which befell Simon Stewart in the early
part of 1987. Pushing his grades he set out on a route on the main
wall, Acapulco a badly protected E4. When I lived in Edinburgh it was
a favourite haunt of the Squirrels. Bugs McKeith and I even soloed
the frozen water course which splits the crag one winter, and with
Dave Bathgate I made one or two first ascents. It is a difficult
cliff protection wise and unfortunately when Stewart fell off
Acapulco what gear he had pulled and he hit the ground and was badly
injured. Fortunately a mountain rescue team were training nearby and
he was lifted by chopper to Raigmore Hospital in Inverness, somewhere
that has poignant memories for me for it was where I first met my
future wife, who on her way to ski in the Cairngorms was involved in
a road accident. It was to be thirty years before Simon climbed
again. The accident had the outcome that he concentrated on his
University studies, and much to the surprise of his lecturers he
became an outstanding student which led him to eventually become a
Professor. Much of his early climbing and first ascents was with
fellow female student, CAMS. In 1992 his reverie was to be
interrupted by a ‘phone call from fellow Men of Steel member,
Graeme Ettle informing him that CAMS, Cathy had died in the Himalaya.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
final article I would like to highlight from this book is by Sophie
Grace Chappell on the naming of climbs. Many climbers have previously
used this has a theme for such, but Sophie has an unusual take on
this with the titles of many pop and wider musical pieces, even old
music hall favourites. How climbs are named is often the source of
much discussion, usually it is up to those making the first ascent to
do this, but in the case of Glen Clova it is revealed in this book
that many of the new routes are named in keeping with already
existing challenges.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrl64RTlrKVXeAeGQVDFB2oDawsFARwOkO7Kj7OzzggsGoGF6Ntgd-qERj8OhJFl6ByX_jSHDuhWGviL7YwfsbJmzfeIJW-bV5UBt-JmeF-gJFh7QnC7sKCPcrwlJWfqqPY6h9xeW0VfUhHUH1NKyOku3n1AutJgkpfKfAy_CvPeYvA8KXDtH8DDDh=s3968" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3968" data-original-width="2976" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrl64RTlrKVXeAeGQVDFB2oDawsFARwOkO7Kj7OzzggsGoGF6Ntgd-qERj8OhJFl6ByX_jSHDuhWGviL7YwfsbJmzfeIJW-bV5UBt-JmeF-gJFh7QnC7sKCPcrwlJWfqqPY6h9xeW0VfUhHUH1NKyOku3n1AutJgkpfKfAy_CvPeYvA8KXDtH8DDDh=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Andy Nisbet in his natural environment</span><br /> </span><p></p><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The
book almost finishes with a poem by Sophie in memoriam to Andy Nisbet
and Steve Perry, two leading Scottish mountaineers who died on Ben
Hope in February 2019, and ends with a list of the sources from where
some of the articles originate. The work involved in putting together
such a compilation is impressive and Grant Farquhar is to be
complimented on that. All profits from this are to go to the Scottish
Mountaineering Trust, a Scottish charity whose task is to make grants
to organisations that promote recreation, knowledge and safety on the
mountains, especially the mountains of Scotland. </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dennis Gray: 2022 </span></b>
</p>
<p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-33327458098767388622022-01-31T11:29:00.000+00:002022-01-31T11:29:47.235+00:00Redemption on Creagh Death<p>
</p><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwDm-ghkxVjcVsCVfXrHAjphSLWn6LV-_ZEEOLTmqbGMArg7lj40bAv4AbzomerMpz99wvYnC6bNFPVE3IGv9GEkuaP7UXCMfo0PcXmR4GUPSs_K2Xt2p2SOReSe4ZrUjtNs2rYLieestqfV-qWedXCFvRZYx9yuPS6a_Bkmp5wZpEfcr4BZOXx-wg=s2390" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2390" data-original-width="1435" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwDm-ghkxVjcVsCVfXrHAjphSLWn6LV-_ZEEOLTmqbGMArg7lj40bAv4AbzomerMpz99wvYnC6bNFPVE3IGv9GEkuaP7UXCMfo0PcXmR4GUPSs_K2Xt2p2SOReSe4ZrUjtNs2rYLieestqfV-qWedXCFvRZYx9yuPS6a_Bkmp5wZpEfcr4BZOXx-wg=w384-h640" width="384" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><p></p><p><i>Hermless, hermless,</i>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>There’s never nae bother frae me.</i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>Naeb’dy would notice if I wasnae
there,</i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>And I didnae come hame for ma tea.</i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><br /></b>
</p><b>Hermless by Michael Marra
</b><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">If you are prone to frustration getting
the better of you, watch out.It can kill you.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">We’d climbed a lot already on the
imposing walls of Creag Dubh. The routes were</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">notorious for their seriousness and
there were often fallen, exploded sheep carcasses</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> at the bottom, so it was also known as
‘Creag Death’. But, I liked the style: steep with</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> positive holds, and we ticked classics
like Inbred and The Hill without much drama.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Great Wall of Creag Dubh could only
be surpassed, I thought, if it was relocated</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> to Glen Clova.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">By early 1987 I was going quite well on
rock, technical 5b already in my rearview</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> mirror. The guidebook to Creag Dubh
seemed bursting with a ladder of routes that,</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">literally, just needed climbing. A
next-level standout for me was Acapulco, listed as</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> an E4 6a roof pitch above a short 5b
entry to the main event. Bruce, Graeme and I got</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> dropped off one rather damp, grey
Friday evening and pitched our tents in the trees</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> below the crag.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Saturday morning dawned as grey as the
night before. As was the case with my</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> new routing enterprises, the prospect
fully occupied my mind, visualizing obstacles</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> and solutions based on whatever
knowledge I had access to – the guidebook description</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> in this case. As I lay in the tent,
awake from first light, I’d already climbed the route 20</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> times in my mind when I gave up the
fight to stay quiet and I went to the other tents</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> rousing the team.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Bruce was not inclined for immediate
action. He was never bound by fashion</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> or ethics of the day and would climb in
his own time and his own way, following his</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> own route. To his credit he never gave
a damn what anyone thought of his approach to</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> rock climbing but it is certain that
you’d have to compromise on something, possibly</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> a lot, if you wanted him to partner on
one of your own missions. This was a mutual</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> understanding so I didn’t linger
outside Bruce’s tent and moved to Graeme’s which</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> was also silent.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Some one-sided commentary on the
conditions and options for the day ahead</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">eventually raised some groans and,
finally, acknowledgement that he was getting</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> ready. I wandered back to my tent,
crammed my rack and rope into the rucksack then</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> embarked on the process of waiting,
withdrawing into my layers from the damp and</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> chilly air. Graeme’s approach to
climbing is steady, methodical, and as he demonstrated</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> in winter, often unstoppable. But this
careful, stepwise approach clashed with</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> my anxiety to jump to what I felt was
the point.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> That morning I was unusually
exasperated, fuelled by nervousness about</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> taking on an ambitious route while
coping with the energy-sapping damp chill in the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> air. After some time, that in truth
wasn’t so very long, we were trudging up towards</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Waterfall Wall, the ground giving way
to an awkward boulder field steepening up to</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> crag.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGNDOHC_etXe_d5kUyINHJ0IrK9mneXy2bsmuKfMET5eAjrXv_7ntwZSu_VPAROHOTLTkQ6YVP94RJHjwBR62Bs4hsHAyQ4BIqi1P_6wX1ogw9POYMrGoproBeoHbN2cxmak1tGtloTT0CrkEfhF54iRVZ2VpO83TsXpA-cDwC9de2140caSazsn2r=s4718" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4718" data-original-width="3184" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGNDOHC_etXe_d5kUyINHJ0IrK9mneXy2bsmuKfMET5eAjrXv_7ntwZSu_VPAROHOTLTkQ6YVP94RJHjwBR62Bs4hsHAyQ4BIqi1P_6wX1ogw9POYMrGoproBeoHbN2cxmak1tGtloTT0CrkEfhF54iRVZ2VpO83TsXpA-cDwC9de2140caSazsn2r=s320" width="216" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Simon Stewart climbing Mental Crack in the Sidlaws: <span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo</span></span> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Simon Stewart</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was difficult to locate the first
pitch of the route, which wiggles up a short,</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> blocky lower tier. The boulders below
it are large and jagged, reminiscent of fractured</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> sea ice and not conducive to
comfortable seating for gearing up. Graeme unpacked</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> and laid out his gear like a
masterchef, examining everything and rearranging</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> with precision required to underpin his
customary success. Meanwhile I’m geared</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> up, booted and pawing at the initial
moves, looking for a first runner. Of course we</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> haven’t done any warm up, the ascent
to the crag produced a mild sweat but that is</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> now cooling us off.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> At last the belay is on and I can go. I
give up on the first runner, all the cracks</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> being thin and blind and set off up the
first couple of moves, heavy rack jangling</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> around my waistbelt. The moves pass
fairly easily but they are on sloping hand and</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> foot holds, and are surmounted by
momentum and belief that good holds are to come.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> But they don’t.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I wriggle in a tiny RP, barely enough
to resist the gravitational pull of its</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> quickdraw. Another move up, even more
sketchy,that one felt irreversible,going</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> from a sloping undercling to an
extended position without any positive holds, the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> rock steep and bulging. Looking down,
the scene looked bad, the ground consisting</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> of a jumble of sharp, multimetre scale
boulders that you couldn’t walk on without</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> twisting an ankle.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The cold air was getting to me, making
my fingers and toes numb, even though</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> they were clammy with the realization
that I was getting to be stuck. Logic told</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> me to continue, I’d read so many
times of climbers heroically facing a crunch and</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> climbing through it to success. But
it’s a biased dataset – the climbers who fail in</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> these situations don’t write their
stories because they’re dead.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Opposite logic said that the higher I
climbed, the worse it was going to be</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> if and when I came off, given that I
had, basically, no runners. I hesitated too long,</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> trying to muster the clarity to proceed
or at least make the best decision, eventually</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> reckoning the least worst option was to
descend. But I was pumped, numb and the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> rock was greasy. I made one move down,
my feet back at the RP.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Now came the move that had been
difficult to climb, I knew it was 50/50, at</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> best, to reverse it; I was still 20ft
or so from the ground. I didn’t have the courage to</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> make a jump to a controlled landing on
the jagged rocks because broken bones were</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> guaranteed. At least downclimbing
offered a chance. But it didn’t work.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> My foot slipped and I was off, out of
control, falling in a sitting position without a chair. I went
straight down with no arrest from gear and landed back-first on a
pointed shark’s fin of a boulder, the first two points of contact
being my lower back and left hand. I remained conscious. Graeme and
Bruce were there immediately asking if I was alright. I knew I wasn’t
– I could move my toes which was good news, but I could only take
shallow breaths. Vaguely aware of conversation I heard Bruce ask if
he should get the mountain rescue.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">‘Yes. Please. Now.’</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was obvious from what he could see
that this was the real thing. I saw Bruce, man of</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> the family, sprint down the hill and
off towards the local hotel and the nearest phone.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> If you have a minor injury you get over
the initial shock and work around it. More</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> major and that initial shock is
difficult to surmount. Add significant internal damage</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> and you are getting worse with time,
possibly without ever turning the corner. After a</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> few minutes it was clear I was in the
latter category.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> It was getting harder to remain
conscious. My vision would go in and out of</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> focus, the colours from regular to a
yellowish monochrome. Graeme was right beside</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">me, doing what he could but this was a
personal struggle; my main injuries were</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> unseen.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">It took a supreme effort to remain
conscious, I could feel myself getting weaker.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> I had to force myself to breathe,
something was preventing my chest moving. I felt</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> that if I went unconscious, no longer
in control, that could be it. Nonetheless I was</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> close to that point and would snap to,
having been somewhere, aware that I wasn’t</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> breathing.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Graeme held my head; I couldn’t hold
it up. In moments of lucidity after I’d</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> snatched a few breaths, I could see,
and accept, that I might not make it, that’s how</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> it is when you face unknown odds. I
wanted to survive and was fighting with all my</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> will power but I was losing.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">My thoughts in those clear moments were
sadness and self-pity: here I was 18</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> years old and now I’d miss out on all
the things, whatever they might be, that I my</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> future once held. Friends and family?
They’d be just fine without me. Then, I died.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> At least, that large part of me that
was the forceful, impatient climber, left, taking one</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> if not more of my nine lives with him.
He left behind a wrecked body clinging to life</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> with an unknown but surely profound set
of broken bones and internal injuries.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">‘There’s a helicopter coming,
you’ll be OK,’ said Graeme.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> I was annoyed by this seeming
fabrication but couldn’t talk anymore. Then I heard it,</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the sound of a Wessex chopper, familiar
from so many times I’d seen the mountain</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> rescue practising and operating in the
hills. For me? I couldn’t understand how it</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> could have appeared so quickly, even in
that state I could compute that a straight line</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> from Lossiemouth or Leuchars would be
more time than I might have left.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">In a supreme, unwarranted stroke of
luck It happened that the mountain rescue had been on training that
day within a few miles of us. A medic appeared and laid me out on a
back brace, broken spine being an obvious possibility. Next I’m
being winched up into the chopper. It’s loud and the medic is
giving me shots. It’s a familiar trip for these guys to Raigmore
Hospital, Inverness and at that end it’s a well-oiled machine into
A&E.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Someone’s asking, ‘Road traffic
accident?’ But I can’t reply and realise they’re not really
interested and are focusing on the job that they’re trained to do.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjG2y6wYIYdOzwVW_nSHzzlAJT2LiEY4XwDZPSBOBO9n3_j04R9J1swk-VjsqqqxzVJoHECZeM4eIGM_fmvxMxb0nwyvttff2bw-drfa0DMNpDjWWNOUf-oSieK3ViEKqCwFW1IMxeMR76F-rO3NgwsKtBJ7FYv_SQCqPor1cOOCNTVDiXo92Zv2xK1=s2400" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="1647" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjG2y6wYIYdOzwVW_nSHzzlAJT2LiEY4XwDZPSBOBO9n3_j04R9J1swk-VjsqqqxzVJoHECZeM4eIGM_fmvxMxb0nwyvttff2bw-drfa0DMNpDjWWNOUf-oSieK3ViEKqCwFW1IMxeMR76F-rO3NgwsKtBJ7FYv_SQCqPor1cOOCNTVDiXo92Zv2xK1=w275-h400" width="275" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Grant Farquhar on Colder than a Hooker's Heart-E5-5c on Creag Dubh</span>. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo-Graham Ettle</span><br /><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I get shuttled endlessly between the
A&E bed and an X-ray machine as they put in</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> chest drains, IV fluids, shots and
whatever else they need to do. I remain conscious</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> throughout, presumably through chemical
support. I’m hooked up to an increasing </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">number of machines and when I asked,
‘Am I going to make it?’ I didn’t get a straight</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> reply which was a little depressing.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The staff crowding around began to thin
out, which was difficult to interpret</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> but soon I was wheeled out; the
immediate crisis apparently over. I didn’t know the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> details at that moment, but the fall
had been slightly buffered by a chunky krab on my</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> chalk bag, now badly bent but saving
direct impact on my spine which got away with</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> a chipped vertebrae. </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My ribs were not
so lucky and took the rest of the force of the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> impact, each breaking in a diagonal
line from the base of my spine up and leftwards,</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> the broken ends getting forced into my
left lung, which was handsomely punctured</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> and collapsed, the void filling with
blood.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> My stomach also ruptured. This was
basically remedied by draining everything</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> out into glass demijohns while blood
was poured into me from bags above. Other than</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">this I was actually unscathed apart
from a broken thumb, a result of the impact being</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> concentrated on my back.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Since this isn’t being ghostwritten,
I obviously recovered in the end. The</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> following days and weeks could support
a whole separate story of in-hospital</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> adventures but a highlight that sticks
with me is that the sole visitor from the climbing</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> community outside my immediate family
and friends was the late, great Andy Nisbet,</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> who I’d walked and climbed with a
couple of years before. I was blown away that a</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> hero like him would make the time to
visit.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> In fact Andy got two for the price of
one from that visit because a couple of days</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> after my incident, another climber that
he and I knew, George Reid, fell off exactly the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> same moves on Acapulco pitch 1 and also
ended up in Raigmore. He was in a different</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> ward, though, and we had to communicate
by notes that we’d persuade the nurses to</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> pass.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> In the long run the whole episode
proved a redemption of sorts for me since</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was on the verge of flunking out of
my degree due to the amount of climbing I</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> was doing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bed-bound over the following
weeks I resolved to fully review my entire</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> coursework in preparation for the
mid-degree ‘sorting’ exams that the department</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">kindly deferred in my case. After
spending every waking hour for two or three weeks</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> reviewing the course material, I aced
the exam to the bewilderment of my course</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> mates who barely knew me, such was my
absenteeism.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> So it turned out to my surprise that an
aptitude, or maybe curse, of being</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> able to single-mindedly pursue a
vision, could be applied to any challenge. Climbing</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> focuses this ability and any climber is
well placed to harness it. I’ve sprayed it around liberally ever
since, to the dismay of countless colleagues who no doubt wished the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> crazy bastard would just go away.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgM13o8AE21MOiZtUe56aG6eBpYRxeRqAL5MiRA_7e_eamdMS5b4ONnLo5vjoBVvImh6mAI5j6MWsZcTdo-NIlXlmk986agpOnCSTP6w5tLevxVCnj5KPnKfnKQwKBHAAjak6n6V0-bLtaF004dsN1ComGhHz1eCl6Be1X_Fs1-rkvXDDhu1022_efq=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgM13o8AE21MOiZtUe56aG6eBpYRxeRqAL5MiRA_7e_eamdMS5b4ONnLo5vjoBVvImh6mAI5j6MWsZcTdo-NIlXlmk986agpOnCSTP6w5tLevxVCnj5KPnKfnKQwKBHAAjak6n6V0-bLtaF004dsN1ComGhHz1eCl6Be1X_Fs1-rkvXDDhu1022_efq=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Bruce Strachan, Simon Stewart, Grant Farquhar,Stewart Tawse and Lee Delaney, setting off from Dundee, heading for the crags.<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo Simon Stewart</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">But it must always be seasoned with
acute awareness of the moment – since</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> it could be your last – and the value
of the people around you. They may be all that</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> stands between you and an untimely end.
And you may be required to perform that</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> role for them. It’s amazing how many
non-climbers seem to have no vision or sense</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> of their mortality and the consequences
of their actions.</span><p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Simon Stewart </span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Photos supplied by Grant Farquhar </span></b><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> *****</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This essay is taken from <i>A’
Chreag Dhearg</i> which was recently published by the Scottish
Mountaineering Press.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: small;">Compiled and co-authored by
veteran climber Grant Farquhar with contributions from a range of
voices within Scotland’s close-knit climbing community, </span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>A’
Chreag Dhearg</i></span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: small;">
traces the rich climbing history of the Angus Glens.</span></span></span>
</p><p style="background: #ffffff; border: none; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.64cm; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: small;">Although less frequented than the
forbidding ramparts of Glencoe or Skye, the crags and gullies in this
unique area of the Cairngorms harbour classic summer and winter lines
that have attracted some of Scotland’s most respected climbers over
the course of a century. In this engaging collection of vignettes and
photographs, the origins of many of the glens’ best-loved routes
are described in intimate detail in an entertaining style that will
appeal to both local climbers and those seeking new venues to
explore. The authors have woven the distinctive dialect and humour of
this corner of Scotland into the narrative, imbuing it with a quality
that is, by turns, both edgy and wistful.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p style="background: #ffffff; border: none; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.64cm; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: small;">Despite the deceptively narrow
scope of this story, the breadth with which it is considered here
captures the way that climbing has developed in Scotland over time,
and how this history is often exceptionally localised. </span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>A’
Chreag Dhearg</i></span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: small;"> is
both a tribute to Victorian pioneers and latter-day trailblazers and
a poignant reflection on formative, youthful endeavours.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p style="background: #ffffff; border: none; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.64cm; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: small;">The book can be purchased from the
</span></span><a href="https://scottishmountaineeringpress.com/"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u>SMP
website</u></span></span></a><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: small;">.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-27647796638395240002022-01-19T10:46:00.000+00:002022-01-19T10:46:18.738+00:00People Watching<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_ZOajmV0NFBo-cSsP9HHZ6LO_k-_2E0ZcuSM6m3wERi_uWXGKHafGuvaYdZFK6hWiFvTFxAyO7EMUWSZwKGQMqb7c0VUApQinnh1CBi28E_9JeSuY-9DNYvaEz9HmQJ0Fg46Yq03RJQ_-Rva51F3zajmi59C6ZJo32zhqaY8TGvXiWa0ZubfqP84s=s2592" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_ZOajmV0NFBo-cSsP9HHZ6LO_k-_2E0ZcuSM6m3wERi_uWXGKHafGuvaYdZFK6hWiFvTFxAyO7EMUWSZwKGQMqb7c0VUApQinnh1CBi28E_9JeSuY-9DNYvaEz9HmQJ0Fg46Yq03RJQ_-Rva51F3zajmi59C6ZJo32zhqaY8TGvXiWa0ZubfqP84s=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">In the world of travel,
people watching is one thing we all invariably do, even if it’s a
subconscious activity. This is particularly true when moving from one
airport or railway station to another and subjected to the inevitable
delays, which occur sometimes at the most inconvenient times.
Mannerisms, dress, appearance and behaviour are all indications to a
person’s walk in life and when boredom sets in on long stop over,
anything can help pass the time.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What makes people watching
an art form is doing it in far flung places where delays of two or
even three days occur from time to time. Three days at Lukla airstrip
in Nepal for example - waiting in the hope of a break in the weather
will be a never to be forgotten experience. Heavy cloud often blanks
the ridge which aircraft have to fly over to reach the tiny sloping
airstrip perched high above the deep valley. Even today the aircraft
carry few navigational aids so the pilots need good visibility to
clear the high col beneath the heavy afternoon cloud. Cows
nonchalantly move across the runway whilst children play football
around the unloading area. Occasionally there is talk and rumour
amongst fellow watchers of a flight arriving and a temporary
distraction takes over. Shaded eyes are drawn towards the col,
squinting, trying to glimpse the insect like aircraft silhouetted
against the sky, whilst hand cupped ears strain to hear the drone of
aero engines drifting across the Himalayan foothills. </span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A klaxon sounds announcing
the imminent arrival of an aircraft and a change from the sleepy
atmosphere. Dust clouds are raised, the noise and clatter of the Twin
Otter or helicopter creates a hive of activity. Aircraft bellies are
opened and supplies manhandled to be replaced by cargo for the return
to Kathmandu whilst passengers hastily gather for the 30/40 minute
flight back into the outside world. We are crammed in the fuselage
between cargo on canvas seats and a tiny perspex window offers
fleeting glimpses of the world below. The strobe effect of the
helicopter blades contrast sharply with the patchwork of the fields
below where farmers can be seen, ant like figures labouring to
produce crops which are so important to Nepal. Interconnecting paths
and tracks across the Himalayan foothills where convoys of porters do
the work of trucks and lorries of mechanised nations. Every day of
the year these “Himalayan juggernauts” carry vast tonnage from
one place to another. Many of the porters are women and children as
young as 12 or 14, their loads carried in a whicker basket (Doko)
supported by a headband and a crooked stick on which the loads are
balanced when rests are taken. </span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEht8W9_djjVAqtnjMZEl-eb73F42ri5c3NslJce_SgYF1SAmcOYBHpIzbiG1ie_op8HfAKtjIEU24YVentL8XKy3_Hx_IzC7sw6fyoo2D9IhGCSa9P4Y6mPKfThThXNUq8qKRDvooKW-5l_8ff7BSPqs4P9WQ3ISlhYoVT-uR_tK5yY5dEHaxgzuk40=s2592" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEht8W9_djjVAqtnjMZEl-eb73F42ri5c3NslJce_SgYF1SAmcOYBHpIzbiG1ie_op8HfAKtjIEU24YVentL8XKy3_Hx_IzC7sw6fyoo2D9IhGCSa9P4Y6mPKfThThXNUq8qKRDvooKW-5l_8ff7BSPqs4P9WQ3ISlhYoVT-uR_tK5yY5dEHaxgzuk40=w200-h150" width="200" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Awkward loads of wood and timber
required for building projects are simply tied together in bundles,
padded for the back and the weight taken by a simple headband across
the forehead. Lukla is a focal point for porters, traders and
westerners alike, situated 5 or 6 days walk from Jiri, the road head
from Kathmandu and 2 days below Namche Barzaar high in the Khumbu
Valley. With the advantage of the airstrip, Lukla is a busy place,
particularly when mountaineering and trekking expeditions are in the
area. and people watching assumes an important passion necessary to
pass the time that hangs heavy when far from home at the end of a
trip. The endless stream of people steadily shifting from one place
to another. Happy faces, smiling faces, even serious faces will have
a story to tell, perhaps more interesting than the stories on
western faces at a big international airport.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Smooth, clean cut young
men fast talking on their mobiles - rushing - moving - making deals -
here - there - no time to spare, very different from kaftan clothed
hippies, lounging, looking serene and all the time to spare. Who is
right? Young girls fresh from school on their way home - chatter -
gossip excitedly, talk of plans for the weekend. Boys of the same
age group - talking, greeting in the mono syllables of boy speak,
indiscernible, certainly to their parents and understood only to boys
of a certain age. Back home, people watching on the London tube, I
am reminded of the time when I met a young Sherpa boy just above
Thyangboche monastery. It was a few years ago on a winters
afternoon, about one hour before dark. He was about 13 or 14 years
old and a novice monk studying in Kathmandu on his way home for
holidays. He had travelled one day by bus to Jiri and walked a
further 5 or 6 days to Thyangboche . He was excited because later
that night he would reach Periche, his home a further 5 or 6 hours
walk and the first meeting with his parents for 6 months. He was
also very proud that day because he was looking after his three young
brothers for the first time.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitBOLYgR8Oi51E9ic9iD2gZkjl-BZzDLJmewa-Bhf-JeKJVa680Z0iYm5tKQ7t_xst7W4DLRmGvFDmxJzPQfxStQ1iEeGi5iGrj643OfKx5wY4CFIw-2JdAOlqaKphNPg831dLtdviYBqm4pG1N9HoKNG9Xbo8-b0mSeuu7TTFQOou-iZoyMqwiPm0=s2556" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJ6sPq3ea6GQfpVhIKfr0Dbp8B83S78e12GMpjxI3lduIMOR-lsL8fr2QhUBwtxJX7fWelQIuhvybYM2MZ_QJcZ9KuP_j-evCz7RNRCxOILgqDayyxCC9Yjx6j8HPulCrobWT3JZZnyCdEpfRQjnamrhdTCjBxJIR1WlMW4QfrHzzeWZjCpNtK0crx=s2556" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2556" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJ6sPq3ea6GQfpVhIKfr0Dbp8B83S78e12GMpjxI3lduIMOR-lsL8fr2QhUBwtxJX7fWelQIuhvybYM2MZ_QJcZ9KuP_j-evCz7RNRCxOILgqDayyxCC9Yjx6j8HPulCrobWT3JZZnyCdEpfRQjnamrhdTCjBxJIR1WlMW4QfrHzzeWZjCpNtK0crx=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /> </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here was a story indeed -
volunteered from a bright cheery face and delivered with the
confidence and freshness of youth. Perhaps all those other people
I’ve watched in faraway places have similar stories to tell -
perhaps however some of the stories are better, not for the telling,
but for the imagining! Again in the hills of Nepal I’ve
encountered such people as LP (Lakpa Sherpa) and Ang Chuldim both
Sherpa hill people and both Sirdars (climbing leader/guides). Their
dedication and leadership towards -group members are remarkable. Both
have had a limited education, only four or five years at best yet LP
is able to communicate in several languages. Both have remarkable
intelligence and understandably neither want their children to follow
in their footsteps and become Sirdars or farmers. </span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They want their
children to follow further education and take well paid jobs in the
city. If this is common throughout Nepal, and I suspect it is, who
will be the farmers of the future and produce the crops to sustain
life in these developing countries. Aid for educating the young is
necessary for the future of these countries but that could lead to
fewer farmers, particularly in a country like Nepal where aid is
vital to encourage the young to continue the good work of their
forefathers. Anyone who has seen the squalor and pollution of
Kathmandu will soon realise that life in the country is much
healthier, but is it? Again, I am reminded of the time when I met a
young boy by the side of the trail in the Hinku valley. He was 6 or
7 years old with a badly gashed and infected wound on his hand. </span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We
cleaned and sterilized the wound as best we could but I gave little
hope for the boy’s full recovery and he would probably suffer
permanently from such a wound. What did the future hold for him? How
would he cope with a manual job in the fields and with no school he
had a bleak future, or perhaps little future at all. Yet once the
wound was dressed he wanted nothing more than a cheap biro. He was
right handed and only when we gave him the biro did sadness cross his
face, with the dressing and injury, he couldn’t hold the cheap
plastic biro which a few seconds earlier had created so much joy to
his face. We move on in our own world and contact with others all
too brief. </span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In our western world we are often islands within a
seething human sea - isolated, separate identities within the human
race. We travel on planes, boats, trains, buses and cars -
occasionally we may even walk a little. We may observe our fellow
travellers but little do we speak. May be its only those on the
pathways and trails of the mountains that we speak to our fellow
travellers. A nod, wink or even a word, however brief, its at least
an acknowledgement to our fellows that we see them and wish them
well. Once in the mountains and hills though, life is very different.
A range of greetings throughout the world - Good Morning, Guten Tag,
Bonjour - Hi there, Namaste! Most greetings are well known, probably
learnt in school or on childhood holidays abroad. </span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The last however,
is the traditional greeting of the hill people of Nepal and should be
used with a slight bowing of the head and clasped hands. People
watch., people meeting. Take time to observe your fellow travellers
and speak - only then will you get some stories like mine to relate
to your friends</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYOv7asqNrZWau8rsE8W61ku41OH5pre1mRtpQXd_gKbg36hMg9gQ4JDYrwvTOF3zgBwtEEsHdA7N1_qb0iB7Ig-M5Q2hej9SPn4qw7GkvfANYt0M8wcfXahRZMDTLnirwj5q16ZO-eZPVbYcINqxUK-IzCqku-j1o3m8Et2TU_T2_ukd21GuSD4xu=s1840" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1232" data-original-width="1840" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYOv7asqNrZWau8rsE8W61ku41OH5pre1mRtpQXd_gKbg36hMg9gQ4JDYrwvTOF3zgBwtEEsHdA7N1_qb0iB7Ig-M5Q2hej9SPn4qw7GkvfANYt0M8wcfXahRZMDTLnirwj5q16ZO-eZPVbYcINqxUK-IzCqku-j1o3m8Et2TU_T2_ukd21GuSD4xu=w400-h268" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We sit in our Doctors and
Dentist’s waiting rooms; reading and re-reading notices and
leaflets scattered around, anything to avoid eye contact and
conversation with our fellow ‘waiters’.</span></span><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Malcolm Creasy </span></span>©</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">All images supplied by the author. </span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-21151176115436743432022-01-08T10:40:00.000+00:002022-01-08T10:40:25.824+00:00Give us this day<p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwbE6m0KVlyFjH5H9S8C3r5dvzOa1Ouym3QX_tOb2FrYZ6HNleUoTXn2JAO0sO4aMz11DvNoxCEumvDeVe3qhHZs_RtgQRGoCtDQoFyjiPJ3Y18oI8dRTw-7obzYfZk8Enqh4sPMdWP4GnEBcVqqwT0EvEB-AON61tquB1HZzBdGV1dHfd7XwHQ0PN=s1280" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwbE6m0KVlyFjH5H9S8C3r5dvzOa1Ouym3QX_tOb2FrYZ6HNleUoTXn2JAO0sO4aMz11DvNoxCEumvDeVe3qhHZs_RtgQRGoCtDQoFyjiPJ3Y18oI8dRTw-7obzYfZk8Enqh4sPMdWP4GnEBcVqqwT0EvEB-AON61tquB1HZzBdGV1dHfd7XwHQ0PN=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I
woke up the other morning and found my teeth chattering. I wasn’t
cold, far from it, still warmly embraced in half-sleep. Mornings are
not my thing and it can take a morning to realise I am not dead. The
chattering was just a nervous impulse. I tried to control it, and of
course I could by closing my mouth. But something intrigued me and I
concentrated on the tapping. It seemed significant, like messages
sent by Morse code. Perhaps my organs could decipher the language
innately and let the message roll as I rolled into the day with
thoughts of what made me…and for sure what made the universe also
made me…and the day is in!</span></span></span>
</span><p></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Seems
obvious that we humans are out of control and a little mixed up. And
yet everything we really need is arranged before us as if we are
dreaming and wishing in a fantasy world. We are totally dependent and
supported by the air and water provided, the earth’s soil and the
distant sun for food and survival. Somehow, by chance, it all worked
for us. As wriggling creatures wrapped warm in the female womb after
sperm and egg have done their juicy bit, we all wrestle in
self-importance, in the culture we create, oblivious within the
elements of nature that brought us here. And for that we don’t have
a clue. And for sure, this life before us, we didn’t ask for it. We
have not chosen the direct bus to human central. We cannot. It is an
unknown timetable and destination. As we have zero control over that
which our basic premise began, we sure as hell gonna demand attention
for the lifeform wriggling before us, that is us, in the stories we
tell and enact. From the sacred roots of myths of the planet and the
pushing and pulling of faith, legend and folklore, some explanation
of birthright and essence is sought and needed. But, as essential as
the earth, the galaxy, the universe and multiple universes are to
this ‘human central’, abandonment to other stories have been
fixated and dwelled upon. Sometimes when I dwell on this randomness,
the way we appear to be, the multitude of stories that attempt to fix
a belonging, a genesis, a rationale, the fairy tales, a moments
succour to that awesome void called creation… I glimpse why I
entered climbing the way I did. The culture that we order and enter
and rule and the nature in our bones are thus separated and defined?
It wasn’t the heroes or guidebooks that drew me into movement on
rock…perhaps only Crowley throwing himself at K2 was remotely
interesting! </span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">From
the third eye perspective with its resident objective view, a bizarre
world emerges. As climbers, we can argue the ethics of working a line
and discuss the grade of a route, say, The Indian Face on Cloggy. And
for the sake of this story, we can argue and discuss the sacramental
validity to the making of ‘altar bread’ for what is called
‘Mass’. Both seem utterly ridiculous from this third eye,
although a progression from climbing trees and seeking a vantage
point seem more natural than ‘drinking’ the blood and ‘eating’
the flesh of a cult hero…? Or is it?</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Eaters
of their hero need assurances that this bread is prepared properly,
as regards to the symbolism of Christ’s sacrificial death on the
cross, its ‘valid matter’, the bread, being the body of the
victim and ‘correct form’ and the liturgical text being required.
Now, sit back in the company of everyone, and I mean everyone who
cannot say who they are, and tell me the joke…?</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I
took a near ground fall, climbing to my own naive parameters on
Tormented Ejaculation, and others, more motivated than I, who
practiced, fiddled gear and top-roped this piece of rock. Sit back in
the company of everyone, and I mean everyone who cannot say who they
are, and tell me the joke…? Likewise, we discuss the ‘valid
matter’ and correct form in the terminology of ascent as if
biblical. We need the assurances to prove the story. If this valid
matter and explanation do not meet these assurances, does it really
count in the game? </span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Wheat
bread with gluten is judged to be the valid matter for the catholics.
These flat discs of wheat are known as ‘hosts’ and ‘hostia’
is Latin for victim. Victimhood and bread are synonymous ingredients
of this weird cult of idols. The perfect duo for a perfect chronic
poison. That bread is a powerful drug leading to repetitive cycles of
cravings for more bread has consequences for how we view the world.</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;">‘<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Give
us this day our daily bread…’. No one can worship God on an empty
stomach, it seems to say. Or, more likely, keep eating this shit and
collude passively to the scam…</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Descartes
called the pineal gland the ‘principal seat of the soul’, the
master-gland. Tucked into a groove near the centre of the brain, this
organ, the size of a grain of rice has a massive blood flow, has
become known as the ‘third eye’. It has been proven that this
organ of alternative vision and spirit cannot function correctly when
the body is fed wheat bread on a daily basis. Perhaps this is why the
Pope insists that bread is the sacramental ‘valid matter’ that in
reality clogs up our ‘true’, alternative sense of perception? </span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">As
I refer to Cloggy for climbing’s ‘valid matter’, I quote a
leading exponent and friend indicating that for him this rock is an
idol…</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;">‘<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>For
me the Indian Face came as the final realisation of a dream held
solid and perfect some years ago. A purity of expression that was
able to be so personal that it could transcend the obvious cosmic
futility of life; friendship and activity are some compensation for a
deep seated hopelessness, but only climbing appeared to have a germ
of profound depth in all its excited little plays of life and death.
Cloggy’s east buttress was the idol. So the beauty of the Indian
Face lies not in enjoyment or achievement, but in the rejoicing of
the exorcism of a self-made destructive cage…’. </i></span></span></span><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>Johnny
Dawes.</i></span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">For
me, Cloggy is more like a cauldron where you gather around the rich
brew and feel the heat in your belly. I have my own account of this
Face, written for ‘…and one for the crow’.</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;">‘<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>Dave
was insisting that we climb. Climb and become fit for only one line.
There are no routes I want to do. I cannot climb. The line seems not
to be a climb? Why paint pictures for the sake of? Did the ancient
hunters kill for its own sake? But what about preparing for the work?
The ‘work’ seems to already exist. Sketched beyond me.
Pre-empting training. Mileage is not training for this type of
operation’.</i></span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Of
course we differ and the concept of ‘futility of life’ is a
difficult and sensitive one. I think Johnny’s comments are
interesting and brave, coming as they did in the soul searching
introspective-melee for his book, ‘Full of Myself’. In being
honest in his cry for help, and the cathartic potential that climbing
offers, he has transcended ‘himself’, to become ‘full’ in the
searching that others also do. He was not alone in this dream, just
more talented, visionary and driven. ‘Give us this day our daily
climb’ could have been his mantra…and is the valid matter that
makes climbing a sport…and for me its greatest difficulty, and </span></span></span><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>bete
noire</i></span></span></span><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">.
If climbing is seen as a prop can you metaphorically ever walk again?
If climbing is a medicine you better watch the dose… or become
‘full of others’.</span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnMKtcb-I0WgJZrUVitf62rECLDdlhXpXFjzc_NsHFYS2n6pA2AsQ_bWyORtVHdAEz4fTSj_702ZrNVDwQ2cXFUCzPm2QKPZAmfT2a4AXnbq1xNEar7EPejeURh2t49IPm1pCjb6Dd9bJqrB1BSlLBTJ-QYCG-DvtAhgZcidEGzeUrE-VrWrb_jidv=s1280" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnMKtcb-I0WgJZrUVitf62rECLDdlhXpXFjzc_NsHFYS2n6pA2AsQ_bWyORtVHdAEz4fTSj_702ZrNVDwQ2cXFUCzPm2QKPZAmfT2a4AXnbq1xNEar7EPejeURh2t49IPm1pCjb6Dd9bJqrB1BSlLBTJ-QYCG-DvtAhgZcidEGzeUrE-VrWrb_jidv=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #383838;">‘<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>I
would rather be gnashing my teeth on the sidelines, faithless and
Godless and in grave doubt than be a convert to some religion, some
system, to some brethren where every question can be answered and
every answer brings a warm and cosy, complacent, self-satisfied
smile’. ‘</i></span></span></span><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>…and
one for the crow’.</i></span></span></span>
<p></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">It
is my opinion that if climbing can be construed as a medicine or
indeed a religion then keeping a distance, keeping the joke, keeping
its ‘hosts’ at arms length, staying almost hidden behind the
life-affirming and/or crippling addiction, behind the conquests,
makes sure that this perfect chronic poison doesn’t speak of
conversion, or instil into more potent aspects of human activity. </span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">And
of course the third eye often fails and after forty years since
moving through Cloggy’s mystic rituals, the joke wears thin. It is
as if one lives as if already dead, indifferent to the moves of
success or failure. But what connects Johnny to myself are those
moments when the playful-self, the ego, the group persona, the
character were naturally eliminated in the unconscious, effortless,
almost entranced connection to the rock as if another being were
doing the moves. Perhaps this is what is called ‘satori’? What
you choose to do with it, or how long it takes to register, depends
on how you relate to the language of the joke…?</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">My
‘principal seat of the soul’, when not acting ‘sticky’ and
silly in a yeasty sketch after scoffing two croissants and a </span></span></span><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>pain
aux chocolat</i></span></span></span><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">,
can often see that climbing and indeed all sport can be a unique
attempt to ease and relieve suffering, ominously sanctioned in the
manner, the vital matter of religion and belief. Hilariously, when
the wheat has been totally binned from my diet and the ‘penny
drops’ and the pineal ‘blings’ into action, the mystical
verbiage becomes more intense and the artist overdoses as if suddenly
being free. Here, my perception feels that the training for
achievement further inflicts the core values of a redemptive belief
in suffering as a destructive and addictive tool - for self and for
self it is.</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">From
here I can only assume that the commercial rise of ‘sport’ has
greatly increased what I see as the casualty rate of the human
soul…but life goes on and despair becomes brave and for the artist
who tweeks the ‘moving parts’, sensing this anomaly becomes
manifest. They go to ground.</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">But
who can say? Crisis, despair and alienation seem to be major players
in the quest to excel and be creative. The outsider role of the
artist fills this space. It is this ‘excel’ business what
inspires folk to do more and more, which strangely provokes me to do
less and less. I took my experiences and worked them through in the
studio to my own restless need to create some ‘other’, some
rationale, from the chaos. For chaos it is. Art comes from
alienation. </span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">For
the catholics, a munch of their ‘host’ is quite honestly born
from chaos - that God is a sham and we are throwing dice as a
desperate act to reason. For a climber, the use of chalk and
top-roping is quite honestly born from the same chaos - and that its
goals and achievements are inadequate. For an artist to immerse in
the ‘inadequate form of existence’, in shams and destructive
elements is quite honestly also born from chaos. That the
Anthropocene is upon us is effortlessly portrayed, the human impact
irreversible.</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;">‘<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>The
difficulty of the wall is not physical but emotional and so the
‘voyage’ remains substantially intact though to have frayed edges
on something so beautiful is perhaps to have not so much…’
</i></span></span></span><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>letter
from Johnny.</i></span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;">‘</span><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>The
shape of my paintings, the connecting of forms, present an atavism as
inherent as the shapes, buttresses, slabs and walls that constitute
Clogwyn Du’r Arddu. Its black bulk floats through pools, amassed
for the soul’s release…I cannot climb…too many hours in the
field…too many negotiations…I need to paint’. ‘</i></span></span></span><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>…and
one for the crow’.</i></span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I
can’t say I wasn’t attracted to the ‘gibbet’ side of
climbing, cos that’s the interesting bit, the trigger point that
says something more than the moves and moves onto something else. But
the bigger part of me knows the flaw. Joining bits of rock into
movement can be fluid and beautiful, and Johnny was a devotee and
master, and with training and time the language develops grows into
an art. And here we are, a person playing with a ball or a person
behind the wheel of a racing car can develop the same process. When
your health depends on the chosen activity, you are sure as hell to
take it seriously…to succeed at the game even though we are defined
by a total lack of belonging. When death features as a construct in
the game, it is little more than denial of a death already taken
place. </span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7e4m4n7OfUClz_9IC-7f9q5hKKLJDtQhFViJAlJCM1C3mA28caMiGrclKyUA442yNV9jH44uMYFKU3ZUHOrDwQG7PSJGuk0b7HRCFcyxF5v7XcBtwBAm5dce_gywyL_cNsA1KCA2vbZinDY0NRrELwfp4jT26G-x9efm_t1lwASnWTZ2ln9wrso_f=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7e4m4n7OfUClz_9IC-7f9q5hKKLJDtQhFViJAlJCM1C3mA28caMiGrclKyUA442yNV9jH44uMYFKU3ZUHOrDwQG7PSJGuk0b7HRCFcyxF5v7XcBtwBAm5dce_gywyL_cNsA1KCA2vbZinDY0NRrELwfp4jT26G-x9efm_t1lwASnWTZ2ln9wrso_f=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><p></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">My
particular grain of rice is the bastard, dwarf organ that tells me of
the futility. I call it the Gnostic chip. It converts ‘normal’
into the ridiculous. But don’t get me wrong, this is also the joy
and hope we obviously so desperately need. As ridiculous as eating
victim bread to symbolically devour the flesh of one who has
apparently suffered to save mankind, to continue the suffering and
persecute and kill for the sake of, progressing to ultimate species
annihilation. So when I have stated in the past that E9 6c, the given
grade of Indian Face and its valid matter, is being enacted out on
the streets every night in Liverpool, believe me, it is the knowing,
groaning of the possessed, the savage spin-off…</span></span></span></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">We
are such random fucks.</span></span></span></span>
<p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>John
Redhead. </b></span>Lous Maners, Costoja. February 2020.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgy2NJoO5BNfalx5xgOdMUhijcDrlKsOOLy5rkSoBa00i0QiPwoXP32MDLwGXuVfrPST62Hg5W4fDd00n0IR254d5nZTL1swc7EcRBw3MjF1TlWyjnwzkSSJ8QszM9ZX5LIyIA5MzfeaH4hoXELsPHjR5i3GFRsJo1vO1-Cpq3mMRRdDm-T_EO9N-aZ=s48" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" height="48" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgy2NJoO5BNfalx5xgOdMUhijcDrlKsOOLy5rkSoBa00i0QiPwoXP32MDLwGXuVfrPST62Hg5W4fDd00n0IR254d5nZTL1swc7EcRBw3MjF1TlWyjnwzkSSJ8QszM9ZX5LIyIA5MzfeaH4hoXELsPHjR5i3GFRsJo1vO1-Cpq3mMRRdDm-T_EO9N-aZ" width="48" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #383838;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span></span>
<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-75300412791963913112021-12-29T09:50:00.000+00:002021-12-29T09:50:30.417+00:00The Waiting Game<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjO2_0_x-j5oKw2AtHCTcVo8Igo8X0Eba1pSDo25yAE5DxYN7NT-0pA480L5-IFTeLAQ78C_qJ3WwvO_36lfSQ7d8bka48rUzYt5-HknV8OAW86BUDPhAmdqswZqcrTWOV4IVTRcVCTzr-lTF7hxvM95O68u2dQfUeqpieIgGi0PG54JAKOjS1NJrGn=s2556" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2556" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjO2_0_x-j5oKw2AtHCTcVo8Igo8X0Eba1pSDo25yAE5DxYN7NT-0pA480L5-IFTeLAQ78C_qJ3WwvO_36lfSQ7d8bka48rUzYt5-HknV8OAW86BUDPhAmdqswZqcrTWOV4IVTRcVCTzr-lTF7hxvM95O68u2dQfUeqpieIgGi0PG54JAKOjS1NJrGn=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> <i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Idle thoughts from a tent in the Khumbu</span></i>
</p><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some years ago I was sitting in my
tent high in the Khumbu Valley, snowflakes swirling through the
bitterly cold air then noisily slithering down the flysheet; flimsy
protection against the bitter elements. As we were unable to move
that day I cast a few thoughts on this all too common occurrence for
mountaineers. We partake in a sport which, by necessity, is exposed
to the vagaries and often unpredictable elements which affect the
weather wherever we happen to be. The mountains of the UK are of
course exposed to the prevailing and often moist south westerly winds
which generally brings a changeable weather pattern. Elsewhere in the
world from the Alps to the greater ranges the general consensus is
the bigger or more remote the hill – the more extremes of wind and
cold should be expected.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The great debate, as a mountaineer,
is to wait, or to go. A very difficult decision and, in the
circumstances I found myself at the time, even more so. As leader on
a Himalayan trip I had to make decisions not only for myself, but
also for all the clients and the Sherpa staff. The safety of all was
my responsibility</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The decision has to be right, we live
by the decisions we make - and make a decision to live by. To err on
the side of caution is obviously correct but too much caution and we
will not achieve. We must have adventure, and therefore risk, to be
successful in the mountains.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Making an informed decision or
judgement can become easier as you gain experience, however decisions
will still be difficult as you become more aware of all the factors
for consideration. If your decision to wait is because of danger to
life and limb, then waiting must be the answer. However, if the
adverse conditions are merely going to make things difficult, then
the answer is a little less clear. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Consider now the words ‘awareness’,
‘judgement’ and ‘decision’. We supposedly gain more
awareness as we grow older (or wiser)? Shouldn't this make it easier
to make a judgement? The pressures on the professional are much
greater because we are <i>supposed</i> to get things right! We make
judgements for others often with no one to assist in the thought
process. Where are the dangers? What is the avalanche potential? How
bad will the weather be higher up? These are all questions that must
be answered. In this I speak of the familiar problems facing
professional mountaineers, instructors and guides, but we are a very
small minority. There are many climbers out there who regularly
climb in the Alps, Himalayas or even Scottish winter conditions.
All, at some time or other subjected to the “Waiting Game”. How
do you make your decisions? Experience, weather, avalanche
potential, snow conditions or all that and perhaps a little “gut
feeling”. </span></span></p><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2D6ycrnKucWUZ7x2OdkURTxXyzRgWuWxzNlIDNyVE9uuQJ5g0cy5a7uUPgWH5VzGcmRwOHAL6-hPEpSXYMaohvtqN0MeG3kkt1dt-Ddxy2v0ymvJJ3JN191eRBa9rXS9-kuAA8wJS70mgqR2u0XRmSArN_MQxtcVERAsimGB3FJQuP25k2Sw36l-u=s1840" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1232" data-original-width="1840" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2D6ycrnKucWUZ7x2OdkURTxXyzRgWuWxzNlIDNyVE9uuQJ5g0cy5a7uUPgWH5VzGcmRwOHAL6-hPEpSXYMaohvtqN0MeG3kkt1dt-Ddxy2v0ymvJJ3JN191eRBa9rXS9-kuAA8wJS70mgqR2u0XRmSArN_MQxtcVERAsimGB3FJQuP25k2Sw36l-u=w200-h134" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Experience is obviously important,
but how do you get that experience in the first place? Through the
school of hard knocks and learning from mistakes in formative years?
Perhaps from an older, more experienced friend or on a course at an
Outdoor Centre. Either of these methods of learning is valid, but
it’s like learning to drive, you only start to build up experience
and judgement when you’re on your own in the car with nobody there
to help in case you make a mistake. There are numerous Scottish
Winter and Alpine Courses to go on (if you can afford them) and also
some excellent training Courses Jonathan Conville Trust. There comes
a time however, when you're faced with a decision regarding a
particular slope, anchor, or indeed the descent route in poor
visibility. What happens then when there’s nobody to help in that
potentially dangerous situation? </span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I well remember my first two routes
on Ben Nevis in winter, one resulted in an eighty foot slide base
over apex (that’s arse over tit in non-metric language), followed
by an incorrectly executed, but nevertheless effective self-arrest!
No one had shown me how to do it. I just did it! My second route
resulted in a lucky descent down into Glen Nevis. Lucky because many
have come down that way and not survived. Those two dangerous errors
happened because at the time I was not aware. I was naive and did not
understand big mountains but I soon learnt! My first few escapades
in the Alps would make your hair stand on end (it did mine,
literally)!</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The basic skills learned from
experienced friends or instructors are invaluable, then we must go
and arm yourselves with the all-important experience. That way you
begin to gain knowledge which helps you form a judgement and get that
“gut feeling” that is so important. In that way we can transfer
our skills and knowledge to bigger hills, and perhaps gain a little
bit of knowledge and know whether to play the “Waiting Game” or
not. You may not always get it right, I don’t now, after 50+
years, but at least I’m still trying. In many cases like that day
sitting in a tent high in the Khumbu trying to salvage something
before we were due back at Lukla. There were pressures that day from
myself as well from the group, but then again they may have been
imagined.</span></span></p><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVUAq9Id1sLZHeFFI2MgJ3zDwRq7MduL0tVp6Ov3qInY6g9hQ_YDlRRlMkFCB2LZUE4Dr_en7v0ictPcc3keNJHo9wC2lMQ_JNDSPcmUibHSg9b3bip-I02keqW11cM0V0DeuOtkq7GSX_p3OCtlMCfy3ST_1KUV1Q1vOT3Oxg3alD_rP8Fiqu_p5e=s900" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="900" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVUAq9Id1sLZHeFFI2MgJ3zDwRq7MduL0tVp6Ov3qInY6g9hQ_YDlRRlMkFCB2LZUE4Dr_en7v0ictPcc3keNJHo9wC2lMQ_JNDSPcmUibHSg9b3bip-I02keqW11cM0V0DeuOtkq7GSX_p3OCtlMCfy3ST_1KUV1Q1vOT3Oxg3alD_rP8Fiqu_p5e=w400-h254" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There are many other waiting games,
that elusive Alpine or the Scottish Winter route which is not often
in condition, for instance. Alpine routes especially, with the
recent series of hot dry summers, many of the “Classic” mixed
routes are now safer in winter. There will be more difficulties,
short days, long, hopefully snowy approaches and an ability to ski,
combined with a little lateral thinking to avoid the avalanche prone
slopes. There are however several distinct advantages. Modern layer
system winter clothing is far more effective at keeping you warm and
the technical advances in crampons, axes and protection make a
tremendous difference on those long adventurous run-outs. Settled
weather and a good snow cover will make the route safer from stone
fall but more prone to avalanche, but at least the route will be
there, which is more than can be said for some of the Alpine North
Faces of recent summers. </span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We should call this the “Tempting
game” where you may be tempted to try a route when it's not in
perfect “nick”, you have travelled a long way, not much holiday,
cost you money to get there, your mates done it, etc.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The difficulty arises when you have
to make decisions and conditions are not quite right. There may be
doubts in your mind about the weather or fitness, or lack of
confidence in your abilities. Conflicting thoughts which persuade you
to have a go interspersed with nagging doubts and fears, but it's
still <i>your j</i>udgement. We all take a risk, that is what
mountaineering is about, but we must make these <i>acceptable</i>
with the <i>odds</i> in our favour. When everything has been
considered, it’s still that “gut feeling” which is often relied
on. Sometimes in your head and your heart you know you’ve overdone
things, you know you shouldn’t be on a certain route or in a
certain place, but (sometimes) you are lucky and you get away with
it, vowing never to return. We’ve all done that if we are honest
and admit it!</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Taking falls on modern rock and
mixed winter routes can be a non-serious affair, but what of
traditional routes with minimal gear and much more to hit on the way
down? An ascent of The Orion Face, Zero or Walker Spur calls for a
much larger safety margin than some of the technically much harder
routes. Perhaps then we must play the “Waiting Game” much better
on these routes and not be tempted when conditions are not <b>“right”</b>.
There is then, little difference between the professional and
amateur mountaineer, we all play the ‘Waiting Game’ Tempting
Game’ and hopefully the ‘Thinking Game, however as a professional
you are expected to get things right much more so. </span></span></p><p class="western"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUiEowwr1tR5Yb5aa4H9kFumeKt1hpzGUmH2avtmEMW5xWcL0zV2fZp5lXEoHHxXe_6_TJAK5OAbn6c-R4MrChh8k7mHisgnqW1OyP8oTOlTzQHXy9a4_UShsbCy4LSWWeKhVfJRTC1QsxeownN-XNKomfQK3btPipfHX_02gdO0k-yl875ZlhJdl_=s1840" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1232" data-original-width="1840" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUiEowwr1tR5Yb5aa4H9kFumeKt1hpzGUmH2avtmEMW5xWcL0zV2fZp5lXEoHHxXe_6_TJAK5OAbn6c-R4MrChh8k7mHisgnqW1OyP8oTOlTzQHXy9a4_UShsbCy4LSWWeKhVfJRTC1QsxeownN-XNKomfQK3btPipfHX_02gdO0k-yl875ZlhJdl_=w400-h268" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">These original thoughts were my way
of filling time and waiting for the next event of the day, yes, you
got it right - a brew!</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span>
<p></p><p class="western"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Malcolm Creasey</span> ©</span></span></b></p><p class="western"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All images supplied by the author. </span></span><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></span></b></p><p class="western"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpewIMCWEbxYYBaB2TbNinro0Bz023Euodt8p7bzBPtG6DJr9RTzefz9oUQxpBIW8Q7APw3NQO-9ehopW3Vj_P0O5YMXSRnIx2eqiHs_Pp6_WPJmQATHBoe70wguiCsyYWFuUPP_7UhAfgeqWe4n551Qq4i3c4OWJf8klW3GHI32PFO7rldAEoE2GU=s48" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" height="48" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpewIMCWEbxYYBaB2TbNinro0Bz023Euodt8p7bzBPtG6DJr9RTzefz9oUQxpBIW8Q7APw3NQO-9ehopW3Vj_P0O5YMXSRnIx2eqiHs_Pp6_WPJmQATHBoe70wguiCsyYWFuUPP_7UhAfgeqWe4n551Qq4i3c4OWJf8klW3GHI32PFO7rldAEoE2GU" width="48" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></b><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-8398904768214190552021-12-11T11:28:00.000+00:002021-12-11T11:28:33.989+00:00Carnage<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6gTZPssCQESzliKQcdkl3gHwqHiqq1r48P_Iga_esTfwuP2WHmZ1HoqJiuDcugcu4JLN-P-p6Jey613LfFkX_H3diumbwBj25gEyDxA8PP5qO6roMyPorsHWXxeavGzup8tGW8OACx5CWe5gopFLM2bS-gFNRZKJbddyZie7e-anwmilcY1EEernX=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1371" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6gTZPssCQESzliKQcdkl3gHwqHiqq1r48P_Iga_esTfwuP2WHmZ1HoqJiuDcugcu4JLN-P-p6Jey613LfFkX_H3diumbwBj25gEyDxA8PP5qO6roMyPorsHWXxeavGzup8tGW8OACx5CWe5gopFLM2bS-gFNRZKJbddyZie7e-anwmilcY1EEernX=w400-h268" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">John Redhead:'There but for the grace of God go I'.</span><br />
<p></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Forty
two years down the line the ‘art of knee maintenance’ fell upon
me. From a youth playing football, and at home on the couch
haphazardly clicking the joint to some geometric pattern and ‘strange
lights’ in my head, or to the beat of the Rolling Stones track
‘s</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>atisfaction</i></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">’
on the radio, whilst my Mother danced with a mop, plus the early
forays of cragging in Yorkshire, the tearing damage in the ball-joint
reached critical. Whilst on the famous mantleshelf move on C</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>arnage</i></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">
at Malham Cove, without the rock n roll backing, or weird mop work,
the left leg took my weight from an acute angle, and a final ominous
click locked the leg into a v-shape. It said, ‘No no no’. From
there, my one-legged finish to a break and right into a groove saw my
injured leg arcing behind me, wobbling like a puppet’s appendage,
in an effort to unlock the badly serrated cartilage. </span></span></span></span>
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">The
walk into the limestone cove is, for me, like the entrance to an
atrium of vertical delight. Ceremonial stage lights are switched on
and ethereal props arranged like a visceral palette, provoking a
feeling of expected good news and of anticipated wonder as if
awaiting a performance from the spirits revealing a testimony of
wisdom. </span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Formed
from glacial meltwater, the volume cascading over the limestone
pavement must have been awesome. Its wings always provided a movement
of joy in my soul in my early days of rock climbing. Its central,
overhanging body and capping roof system captured the imagination of
possibility as if thinking of a moon landing or core strength
unknown. Always a glance and a dream, of possibilities, looking for a
tenuous way, at this time, a revolutionary stage-set, unbelievable
from the wings…and, strangely, almost unnecessary as if wishing
that dreams are dreams and needed as such and kept safe in that
internal world, where to know your limits is a curse of adventure and
a stopper of those ‘strange lights’. As unbelievable as thinking
in terms of climbing as a sport, and yet as time gathered, Malham
became host to Britain’s first 9b sports route, Rainman. </span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">The
fearful air from the cliff’s cutting-edge to Malham Beck, a glory
for water fed up with levels, heavy with the rock below, had not yet
witnessed John Syrett’s desperate stirring, beyond reach, beyond
limits, a whiskey fuelled fall or plunge, either or…test pieces
indeed.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">So
true that the awesome wonder of the Cove and its curved, citadel,
ice-age magnificence should also be the sacred ground, attached to
that troubled void, that vulnerable balancing of dreams, hopes and
desires, where that </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="es-ES">personal
</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">inner logic of despair
weighs in heavy to become manifest to the endgame as the fun dries
out.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Unlike
John’s final act and dark theatre exit, this particular walk out of
the Cove, however, became a series of painful hops to the car and the
pondering of a solution. Pete Livesey’s steamy-windowed chat room
and cafe with egg beans and chips was not yet on offer. Indeed,
truthfully, painfully, can the climbing culture offer anything other
than a leaning towards the pushing of luck, even suicidal
tendencies…almost poetically accepted, acknowledged as brave
sacrifice…a smarting of misanthropic joking with death? When the
release becomes the burden, perhaps no horrors can be side-stepped…?
</span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I
never met John, but must have surely met his energy bouncing about on
the Leeds wall. He seemed obsessive, competitive and nostalgic, a
party animal, and judging by his gritstone essay in Extreme Rock,
caught in a halcyon day. This is no criticism however, as I write
this from the comfort of remembering the internal landscape of my own
youth, my own memorable ascents, ground up, of Western Front, Wall of
Horrors and Big Greenie at Almscliff, it is easy to be ‘unclipped’
and talk of ‘halcyon days’. My ground fall from over the lip of
John’s ‘Big Greenie’, almost remembered with glee and pride. My
subsequent solos of Wall of Horrors can only be compared to the
obsessive Paul Williams, who met his demise on Brown’s Eliminate, a
route he had soloed many times. So, halcyon? That the climber loves
the pleasure of the body moving freely and fluidly through a series
of moves, and is elated at the successful conclusion…of course this
is wonderful, and style its icing…but how sad to rely on excessive
hubris for one’s well-being. If only it were that simple.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">A
loving testimony of John by his friend Steve Dean appeared in Climber
and perceptively concluded…</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;">‘…<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>the
overall experience of climbing both physical and mental, is so
powerful and meaningful for some people when they are young, that it
can seriously disrupt the remainder of their lives…’ </i></span></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i></i></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcJzJjqJfgCFDYyuv4ut_-e467dVDRzSt4-6qfj_n-2qYzVh-lKnpqLdkgMCUVtBGbojvhbGWU4Jf_IiS1NTQfJOva4JfBokV2WKTh36qMGgLEJ2X7diIHzuYKsQiID6wnBBZtRz0ElzSQhYwuyc5y5SQKKnbyjsgdzTjPuUcazjBRG_BtKWjqUeaN=s720" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcJzJjqJfgCFDYyuv4ut_-e467dVDRzSt4-6qfj_n-2qYzVh-lKnpqLdkgMCUVtBGbojvhbGWU4Jf_IiS1NTQfJOva4JfBokV2WKTh36qMGgLEJ2X7diIHzuYKsQiID6wnBBZtRz0ElzSQhYwuyc5y5SQKKnbyjsgdzTjPuUcazjBRG_BtKWjqUeaN=s320" width="238" /></a></i></span></span></span></div><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: courier;">John Syrett: Photo - Gordon Stainforth</span><i><br /> </i></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">The
language of ascent is very much concerned with the minutiae, in much
the same way that poetry explores the detail of subject through the
intense looking through a lens, pairing down the words for essence
and effect. It is the nubbins and textures under the nose that moves
the climber upwards, filtering the moves and joining the dots to the
rhyme. But not just. I guess both forays are a primitive search for
that which threatens, for meaning, for some enlightenment through the
dark violence circulating in our joints…? So, like a dark art, when
‘burden’ transpires and consumes the text, how to step back from
the edge, when the edge led us in from the beginning? Upon venturing
here, do not be surprised at what sits on your shoulders.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">My
nearest stirring, beyond reach, was to push my luck by soloing the
fourteen flights of the Hull Royal Infirmary, after my emotional and
complicated first affair of coming of age. I was literally ‘beyond
reach’ from the third floor of the building as the extending
ladders from the fire brigade failed to reach that high. But I was
never alone clinging to the concrete pillars, as floors of infirm
folk from inside flocked to the windows and stared in disbelief. I
had left a little note in my blue Renault 4 in the car park below
explaining why my sudden ascent was such an urgent affair…death by
battle. But I soon forgot this ‘urgent affair’ as a perverse
optimism took over the controls of my life. The concentration needed
became pleasurable and the movement easier and more stylish than
expected and a banquet of self-preservation took over. Not suffering
but observing. I had curiously become detached. A narcissistic,
petulant and foolish enterprise maybe, as I stared at my fourteen
reflections superimposed by the shocked faces of hospitalised
inmates. Again, upon venturing, do not be surprised at what sits on
your shoulders.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;">‘<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>Foolish
man, what do you bemoan, and what do you fear? Wherever you look
there is an end of evils. You see that yawning precipice? It leads to
liberty…do you enquire the road to freedom? You shall find it in
every vein of your body’ </i></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>Seneca
- teacher of Nero.</i></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">So,
back to the limbs. The surgeon I chose liked my work as an artist and
offered to do the deed for a painting. He had seen my work at the
Ferens Art Gallery in Hull, and chose an exchange…a bonny number of
a landscape, the view looking out from a rabbit hole, a perceived
rabbit’s eye view. I came to see him hobbling into his surgery with
the aid of an Interalp ice axe. He noted with nonchalance the little
dents on his brown lino that led to his desk, like the dotted line of
a route in a guidebook. Like Carnage was to climbing, this was my
first historical landmark into injury. I just hoped that this
pre-keyhole operation was not inspired by such a gnored-out,
ivy-entwined, ragged view from inside the rabbit hole. I hoped his
attention to detail and technique surpassed the trade off. Deal done,
he gave me the sad, ragged, pale-cream cartilage in a plastic
specimen bottle, like the canopic jar preserving the viscera for the
afterlife… </span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Three,
physically static months went by, painfully changing dressings and
frantically facing the canvas with my leg propped up on a chair.
Works poured out of the studio and my quads became stronger, and my
leg bent a little more each day, inspired by the routes in mind. A
trip was planned by the East Yorkshire Mountaineering Club to Agden
Rocher in the Peak. Too keen for sure saw me cranking up a VS solo. I
hadn’t realised how unfit I was as I indulged my appetite for rock.
I became seriously pumped two thirds up with no strength to reverse.
I had entered the arena too soon. Pain erupts from the end of my
fingers and spreads into my core where mockery takes on a lead
weight. My arms cannot hold on and I prepare to take an horrendous
ground fall onto rocks. I shouted to the blurred figure of Pete above
who was belaying his second. A loose slack of un-coiling rope flew
over the edge as I departed from the rock. It somehow draped around
an arm and leg unknown to me and dragged me sideways into a tree
fifteen metres to the side of the climb. I fell chaotically through
the tree and collected myself. It was a wonder. But my knee was a
mess. It had opened up on the angle of impact and the internal
stitches were all torn. This was carnage of a knee and not unlike the
view out of the rabbit hole I had swapped, and envisaged for the
operation.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Accidents
and failures are remembered much more than a quick smooth ascent.
Proven beyond doubt by a vast portfolio of adventure stories that
have taken on epic movie status and captured imaginations at the box
office. But there was more to this episode than met the eye. I
mentioned to Chris who had been watching, “Did you feel that? </span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">What?”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">The
wind.”</span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">No,
but you fell diagonally across the wall.” </span></span></span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">It
seemed to me, in my extremis, that this wind had blown me into the
tree. It felt like I had been pushed by an invisible playmate. I took
a deep sigh. And there I left it. Left my invisible playmate, licked
my wounds, and retreated into my studio in Hessle, put my leg up on a
chair, and painted. And I forgot the script as the canvas remembered
something else.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">So,
for my fancy, my brief example of a ‘halcyon day’ involving no
beer on the crag, this e</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>xtremis</i></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">
was but a few seconds of my life, but as combustable as shaking hands
with a suicide bomber. Like one of those occasions where one stumbles
out and wakes up way beyond one’s limits, at the end of an era
almost, into a mythic landscape. Limp-tangled into a random rope, a
hopeless plummet, a significant breath of wind into the folding arms
of the tree-scape. Now, there’s a sport!</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">I
realise that it is not the act that is significant, but a means of
becoming awake to a wider field of consciousness. Such an act can
only be thought of as food for this purpose. Resigning to a fall was
not a passive resignation - I had not put my head in the oven
encouraged by the rancid fat of dead animals and turned on the butane
to escape confusion and trivialities. No, the arena was entered with
the innate faculties of an artist overriding the bad judgement of a
climber. Nothing more and this is how I climbed. I call it
otherworldly. It seemed that I merely became neutral and
unconditioned, in the hands of whatever had the time or inclination
for play. I call it evolving. I like that. My studio likes that. The
heart that is receptive to cosmic knowledge and not the chimeras of
the intellect, also like that. Whatever it is…it doesn’t serve or
call the politicians, bureaucrats or corporates or those who do not
serve the planet well. As far as any sport goes or any new Rainman
goes, they’re bank-rolled ventures. The more they shit gold the
more the planet loses.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>it…calls
for human beings who feel in their souls in fullest measure
everything that can activate spiritual awareness…” </i></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US"><i>Rudolf
Steiner</i></span></span></span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US"><i></i></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGrvw--3XmsGtlGXn6f4hBFvnWcIFHqeB9re45RIXoHA5KoO2KJqmo38bPApmftZv36nGtncZJiXXx37uSbF0CCC2m7ERxd-cRe79CBwuiJcth-DPyg38YoNLJWLh6puBcctMaHnKr7Wd5FY-ggBORlEWj2bsVfBfpV0eRJEuY8z0kpNzpbwJdhJmI=s800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGrvw--3XmsGtlGXn6f4hBFvnWcIFHqeB9re45RIXoHA5KoO2KJqmo38bPApmftZv36nGtncZJiXXx37uSbF0CCC2m7ERxd-cRe79CBwuiJcth-DPyg38YoNLJWLh6puBcctMaHnKr7Wd5FY-ggBORlEWj2bsVfBfpV0eRJEuY8z0kpNzpbwJdhJmI=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></i></span></span></span></div><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Malham Cove, Yorkshire.</span></span><i><br /> </i></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Well,
there we have it, thanks Rudolf. But when it comes to this intimacy,
I struggle with the narrative. And this is the most intimate struggle
of humanity pressing heavily on world affairs. Direct mystical
experience is not conspiracy theory, it is owned by the soul with
evidence and identification at the deepest sense of being…but
beware of anyone who has </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="it-IT">disciples</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">.
Call me a cynic, Rudy, but one hundred years on, the spiritual debate
fluffs on and on with the ‘oracle seeking beings’, the mysteries
for the brave, the cool thinking dudes meditating from Sprinter vans.
This activation seems just another process, a pin code of acceptance,
a means of commodification, to address nature as a named, fashionable
miracle, a multi-million dollar miracle, style zone…washing its
slaves passionately more than ever with the balms of self. Badges and
scarfs all round. I maybe wrong but this awareness is lost more than
ever in the bantering and bargaining with increased malevolence from
the harmers and impotent yoga-mat vanity. To live or to die, no
matter, murder it is. </span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="background: #ffffff; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">So
the artist once again gets to play in the mortuary of souls and more
and more realises that the best thing for spiritual awareness and the
planet is the spilling of blood on earth.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">Thanks
John and bless.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US">John
Redhead, Lous Manes, Coustouges. November 2021.</span></span></b></span></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-US"></span></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjDKe5tpYAnwUwPn_Ha0fSwLF8c1MIEqqMkf5m8kAZLg411KrS92cCCKfFjjEVilWnV1aoWkum7J470qa2NaFfU6m06mcNrhr0esCsOCwuop1PxVMtdu4XJbLS-B_j-AS9EY5mN6VF-5gN1aiQWWAkTyG5THblT8huDqkTlLxozNXmjrO9WxOFAod9_=s48" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" height="48" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjDKe5tpYAnwUwPn_Ha0fSwLF8c1MIEqqMkf5m8kAZLg411KrS92cCCKfFjjEVilWnV1aoWkum7J470qa2NaFfU6m06mcNrhr0esCsOCwuop1PxVMtdu4XJbLS-B_j-AS9EY5mN6VF-5gN1aiQWWAkTyG5THblT8huDqkTlLxozNXmjrO9WxOFAod9_" width="48" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span></b><p></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-68941986595844354062021-11-01T09:58:00.000+00:002021-11-01T09:58:29.098+00:00Paul Pritchard's The Mountain Path....Reviewed<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5oUXP0cp8Jg/YX-1A4k5svI/AAAAAAAAHhQ/ufFf7MmDqyEldtilLfrNMqXyzHeta0wwACLcBGAsYHQ/s617/713jvpthemountainpathpaulpritchard414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="617" data-original-width="414" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5oUXP0cp8Jg/YX-1A4k5svI/AAAAAAAAHhQ/ufFf7MmDqyEldtilLfrNMqXyzHeta0wwACLcBGAsYHQ/w269-h400/713jvpthemountainpathpaulpritchard414.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><br />
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
Mountain Path: Paul Pritchard. Vertebrate Publishing £24.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">192
pages hard back, case bound with 8 page art paper colour section. <br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GFvag7w9tAQ/YX-5ssgcq9I/AAAAAAAAHh4/xSb_FC5ufX4M6Xr5h9ZDeUJvMBIjy_T9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GFvag7w9tAQ/YX-5ssgcq9I/AAAAAAAAHh4/xSb_FC5ufX4M6Xr5h9ZDeUJvMBIjy_T9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/crow5.png" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;">‘</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Live
it up, fill your cup and be merry, sow your wild oats whilst you may,
for the toothless types of tomorrow, they were the tigers just
yesterday!</span>’</span></span>
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Demi, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom
Patey</span></span></b></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is the most unusual mountaineering book I have ever read, a combination of the philosophy of risk, the psychology of why we climb, and how it may unexpectedly change our whole being. I should have been warned as to what was included by Hazel Findlay’s outstanding introduction in the foreword; a committed climber she confessed that most climbing books she finds rather boring, too full of machismo but not in the writings of Paul Pritchard!</span><br /></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">In
the style of Dylan Thomas, let us begin at the beginning. Paul grew
up rather hedonistically on the moors of Lancashire, favourite
occupations were setting fire to them, spitting competitions and
cutting school, but a master at the latter introduced him to the life
affirming activity of rock climbing in the local quarries of Wilton
at the age of 16 and he was hooked. From then on climbing was to
dominate his life. I know from personal experience what a vibrant
climbing scene there was at that time in the rather low key climbing
environment of those quarries; Anglezarke, Houghton, the various
Wilton ones and that boulder-freakies delight, Brownstones and Paul
quickly became one of leading pioneers of the area.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">In
1986 Paul moved to Llanberis, to what was to be one of the most
innovative scenes of British climbing history, with totally
committing new routes on the sea cliffs of Gogarth and desperately
run out climbs in the Llanberis slate quarries. There was besides the
climbing scene the wild partying and this unfortunately led some of
its participants to the dead end of drug use and a promising climbing
career snuffed out, but fortunately Pritchard was not to be one of
these! It was the time of the Thatcher revolution, the rundown of
heavy industry and the coal mines, leading on to mass unemployment
but Paul, who had sacrificed a joinery apprenticeship happily became
a full time climber.....on the dole. Going climbing every day the
standards of these dole boys went through the roof and I recall
giving a lecture in Sweden at that time, being asked at its end ‘as
to why there were so many hard free rock climbs in the UK?’, and
the reply was ‘we have to thank Mrs Thatcher for this!’ which
rather confused the questionnaire by this answer.</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O9krR6NycRU/YX-4DdoYWBI/AAAAAAAAHhs/TznIlKOpXCEQnwbm_UGy1UrxQQ_bnd7GwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1080/4.%2BClimbing-the-Rainbow-Slab-once-again-in-2009-for-the-film-To-the-Rainbow.--%25C2%25A9-Bamboo-Chicken-Productions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="607" data-original-width="1080" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O9krR6NycRU/YX-4DdoYWBI/AAAAAAAAHhs/TznIlKOpXCEQnwbm_UGy1UrxQQ_bnd7GwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h225/4.%2BClimbing-the-Rainbow-Slab-once-again-in-2009-for-the-film-To-the-Rainbow.--%25C2%25A9-Bamboo-Chicken-Productions.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Climbing the Rainbow Slab once again for the film 'To the Rainbow'.</i> Image Bamboo-Chicken Productions<br /> </span><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">Paul
was to experience the first of his brushes with death at this time
whilst repeating a route on the back wall of the Wen Zawn at Gogarth.
When he reached what he expected to be the crux, it was seeping
water, but he was not too worried for he believed he had good
protection below him. The inevitable happened and he slipped off, but
to his surprise the wired nut just below him broke and this led onto
a chain reaction and his whole line of pro followed suit and he
landed in the sea. The fall had rendered him unconscious, and he was
under water for many minutes before his partner, the Australian
climber and photographer, Glenn Robbins managed to climb down, fish
him out and pull him onto a ledge above the high tide mark. Glenn
then gave him mouth to mouth resuscitation and Pritchard came back
from the dead, but remained injured by the fall. Robbins then tried
to climb out but failed and things were looking serious when another
climber appeared at the lip of the Zawn, who was alerted to Paul’s
predicament, and a rescue helicopter was eventually summoned and the
injured climber ensconced in Bangor’s accident and emergency. But
you cannot keep a man like Pritchard off the rock/mountain for long.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">A
few years later Paul was winter climbing on Creag Meagaidh, via its
route the Centre Post Direct, when he came upon a section of egg
shell ice, a frozen exterior but soft snow underneath. This is a rare
occurrence in Scotland but it happens, and inevitably in trying to
climb this he was in difficulty and was sinking up to his arm pits,
breaking through the surface ice into the powder snow beneath. He
tried to retreat, to descend the steep ice below him but the
inevitable happened and he took a monster 50 metre fall, severely
injuring his back. Fortunately a fellow guide was on the mountain
that day, Nick Kekus who took over and arranged a lower to the valley
floor and the eventual arrival of the Lochaber Rescue team in their
shiny, yellow helicopter which deposited him in Fort William
Hospital. Besides his back injuries the ice hammer he was carrying
hit him in the face as he was falling, injuring an eye and making his
face look like he had tussled with the Terminator. You would think
after such a close call that Pritchard would seek some solace on a
couch and watching TV, but that was not for him. The mountains called
and he was off to Patagonia, the Himalaya and still wending his way
up extreme rock climbs. But this was all to change at his third near
death experience on Tasmania’s Totem Pole, but that was in the
future.</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HjUWLCFPSDk/YX-2KNYRoII/AAAAAAAAHhY/sFOnJ26A4Q8GLlhBAcHWb1vrK_ZNLAmBgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/dEhscLcQ.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HjUWLCFPSDk/YX-2KNYRoII/AAAAAAAAHhY/sFOnJ26A4Q8GLlhBAcHWb1vrK_ZNLAmBgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/dEhscLcQ.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Paul
had begun to write about his climbs and journeys, and from the first
the articles he produced received wide acclaim. In 1997 a collection
of his writings ‘Deep Play’ won the Boardman/Tasker prize and
though this was so richly deserved, set in motion the most
challenging of Paul’s mishaps whilst climbing. Along with Celia
Bull he used his prize money to fund a world tour of climbing and in
1998 arrived on the Isle of Tasmania with an ascent of its Totem Pole
as their objective. This incredibly thin sea stack looking almost as
if a strong wind would blow it over, poses a challenge that Celia and
Paul could not resist. What happened that day in 1998 was fully
described in Pritchard’s second 1999 Boardman/Tasker prize winning
book ‘Totem Pole’, and the Mountain Path informs and educates us
that though this left him hemiplegic, he has somehow crafted a life
of adventuring and doing, albeit of a different style and objective
but none the less worthy. In fact he writes in his latest book that
his life, enhanced and enlarged spiritually by the experience of this
tryst with the grim reaper.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In,
what was to be his closest call! </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">After
a long period of rehabilitation in the UK, learning to deal with his
inevitable reduced physical ability, he returned to Australia, to
Hobart in Tasmania where he now resides, having married and become a
family man; but the spirit of enquiry, and wide reading on every
subject from psychology to philosophy, to which the pages of Mountain
Path strewn with observation and thought pay tribute. This I can
sympathise with, recovering from a Stroke and a serious infection I
have found one lives in thought and mind rather than in physical
roustabout, and it is not surprising that Paul became enamoured of
this, especially whilst practising meditation, Vipassana, originally
also by the Buddha. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A
chapter I found so interesting because of personal experience was
‘Pilgrimage’. This describes first the train journey from Chengdu
to Lhasa, then Paul and friend’s challenging journey by tricycle
beginning in that City to the Mount Everest Base Camp, then on to
Kathmandu. Whilst lecturing at Sichuan Da Xue (University) in
Chengdu, we had relations with the Tibetan Da Xue in Lhasa and thus I
was able to visit Xizang (Tibet) without the usual difficulty
surrounding permits etc. I was one of the first to ride on the train
which runs from Chengdu to Lhasa, surely the finest mountain train
journey in the world, running at over 5000 metres on the section
Qinghai to Lhasa, which equally impressed Paul and his female
companion. As did the visit to the Sera monastery and its Tangkas
once they had started out on their multi-day challenge, and I posit
that nobody can travel in that country without it affecting them
spiritually, and it certainly did Pritchard who was more than
intrigued and then committed to the precepts of Tibetan Buddhism. A
word of warning here though, I have travelled that country in the
company of educated locals, fluent English speakers and they paint an
entirely different picture to such as the organisation ‘Free
Tibet’. Whilst acknowledging the uniqueness of their culture, they
wished to move on and not be held in aspic by their past. </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I_AMzyHmCI8/YX-2zs_zglI/AAAAAAAAHhg/VvXHdB5Z7i8Ees3i08LF3uwzJ3C_jgtqQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/%25E2%2580%2598When%2BI%2Bwas%2Bfirst%2Brecovering%252C%2BI%25C2%25A0never%2Bthought%2BI%25E2%2580%2599d%2Bbe%2Bable%2Bto%2Btravel%2Bagain%252C%2Bnever%2Bmind%2Bpedal%2Ball%2Bthe%2Bway%2Bto%2Bthe%2Bhighest%2Bmountain%2Bon%2BEarth.%25E2%2580%2599%25E2%2580%2582%25C2%25A9%2BSharyn%2BJones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I_AMzyHmCI8/YX-2zs_zglI/AAAAAAAAHhg/VvXHdB5Z7i8Ees3i08LF3uwzJ3C_jgtqQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/%25E2%2580%2598When%2BI%2Bwas%2Bfirst%2Brecovering%252C%2BI%25C2%25A0never%2Bthought%2BI%25E2%2580%2599d%2Bbe%2Bable%2Bto%2Btravel%2Bagain%252C%2Bnever%2Bmind%2Bpedal%2Ball%2Bthe%2Bway%2Bto%2Bthe%2Bhighest%2Bmountain%2Bon%2BEarth.%25E2%2580%2599%25E2%2580%2582%25C2%25A9%2BSharyn%2BJones.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><i>When I was first recovering, I never imagined that I'd be able to travel again, never mind pedal all the way to the highest mountain on earth. </i>Image Sharyn Jones<br /> </span>
<p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
final chapter is about Paul’s return to climb the Totem Pole, 18
years after the accident which nearly cost him his life. A jolly team
assembled on the promontory above this and belayed by Steve Monks, he
set forth. Steve is English ex-pat and I well remember him in the
south west, burning up the classics and pioneering test pieces. But a
journey to Oz, and fetching up at Arapiles made for a change in this
viewpoint and he has become a local to what in Paul’s book, is in
his opinion ‘the best crag in the world’. Steve who had climbed
the Totem Pole before led with his usual flair despite the
advancement of years, whilst Pritchard prussiked up behind achieving
one arm pulls with his one good hand. Two long pitches and the summit
was reached and Paul could finally put to rest his Totem Pole
ambitions, though he was as we say in the north, completely banjaxed
physically.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mountain
Path is like the writer unique. I would recommend it as a read to all
who love, and aspire to climb in wild places. But I would also place
it on a list by anyone studying the psychology or philosophy of risk.
The reading list at the end of this volume illustrates where the
author is coming from and is comprehensive. Vertebrate, its publisher
is to be thanked for the courage in publishing such an impressive
work.</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Dennis Gray: 2021 </b></span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XKyMbVGhLtc/YX-34mA3bnI/AAAAAAAAHho/l1A0UV2tI2g8ystAjVb00LISn3FDNKBwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" height="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XKyMbVGhLtc/YX-34mA3bnI/AAAAAAAAHho/l1A0UV2tI2g8ystAjVb00LISn3FDNKBwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" width="48" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br /> </b><br /></span><p></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-34867465172569551302021-10-20T13:22:00.000+01:002021-10-20T13:22:36.548+01:00A Feeling For Rock...Reviewed<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GVnaLXLZrCI/YW__LZYHlFI/AAAAAAAAHg0/8e9INGpLEZ4hj1Hx5UhCbDlIc-wC2oDBQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/sarah-jane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GVnaLXLZrCI/YW__LZYHlFI/AAAAAAAAHg0/8e9INGpLEZ4hj1Hx5UhCbDlIc-wC2oDBQCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/sarah-jane.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sarah-Jane Dobner's ,A
Feeling for Rock, is in many ways, a tricky little book to review.
It's not a Bio/Autobiography, technical guide, travelogue or
philosophical treatise on the subject of climbing rock. It's a scrap
book - in paperback form- recounting experiences in the field,
sprinkled with poetry, polemical essays, cartoons and contributions
from friends who offer their thoughts on what climbing means to them.
I was going to describe it as something of a smorgasbord of writing
but flipping to the rear cover upon finishing the book, I see that
Natalie Berry of UKC got in first with that description so lets
plunder Hemingway and call it a moveable feast. A book that weaves
this way and that without following a discernable path.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The author writes from
the perspective of feminist and politically aware observer. Offering
strong opinions on issues within the climbing game but never falling
into the pit of zealotry. In an early essay she contemplates which
activity she prefers, Sex or Climbing? A subject first broached by
Geoffrey Winthrop Young I believe! <i>Which to choose? After all
these years I'm still not sure. I figured I might plump for climbing
if push came to shove</i>. In another essay she contemplates the
patriarchal structure which has always held the activity in a vice
like grip. Shaped and controlled by men and where women were until
fairly recently only grudgingly accepted by the climbing
establishment. After all, many of our established climbing clubs
operated like London gentlemen's clubs until relatively recently. I
believe I am correct in stating that Ken Wilson was a key figure in
pushing for female emancipation within the Climber's Club for
example.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">However, that
historical stain on climbing history aside, the author does take a
detour occasionally into 'Right On City, Arizona'! In 'the
decolonisation of climbing which is part of a wider essay, <i>The
Perfect Line</i>, Sarah-Jane offers the suggestion that when it comes to
naming and claiming routes in developing countries, then it should
perhaps be left to the indigenous communities to name these routes. <i>Why not leave marked up topos with,say, the village elders, the
school, the local women's cooperative and ask them to name the
lines?</i>' I sense a flaw in this suggestion. First off, climbing is
essentially an activity carried out by comparatively wealthy
westerners. For the majority of people in the developing world, climbing
must be seen a pretty silly and pointless activity. Enjoying a passion
for climbing is a luxury that even in the UK, only those with money
can afford. For many people, flying off to the Alps or Spain for a
few days climbing or buying a new pair of rock boots for £130 is not
an option when you are living on benefits and struggling to survive.
Taken to the next level, in a place like say Mali, then if you are
having to walk ten miles a day to collect water or firewood then
perhaps the honour of naming a westerners' rock climb will not fill
your bosom with pride! </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IzcSptRCOqM/YXADFj_SrQI/AAAAAAAAHhA/MWq4FxDaND09TqHzJO7ZGH_VbvQnVL-TACLcBGAsYHQ/s950/IMG_2417.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="814" data-original-width="950" height="343" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IzcSptRCOqM/YXADFj_SrQI/AAAAAAAAHhA/MWq4FxDaND09TqHzJO7ZGH_VbvQnVL-TACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h343/IMG_2417.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Photo: McKenzie Lloyd-Smith</span><br /> <span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Taken as a rule, I
don't think that the naming and claiming of new routes is an issue or
has to be controversial. But that's just to pick out one of around
sixty short pieces in the book. The majority of which veer from
practical technical advice to poetry which escapes the damning
critique of being described as 'interesting' by virtue of their
undoubted quality. In fact, its nice to see poetry within a climbing
work as since the decline of the paper media when climbing writers
like David Craig and Terry Gifford were not afraid to strut their
stuff in the mags and journals from 40 years ago, climbing poetry has
receded into the less visited world of personal blogs these days it
seems.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">While there is no doubt
that the author is passionate about her subject matter and offers
strong opinions laced with humour, she nevertheless remains on the
right side of the divide between the climbing enthusiast and the
climbing fanatic. The latter being somewhat trapped in a world of
punishing training schedules, strict dietary regimes and an obsession
with achievement. Rather than just enjoying the ride as the author
clearly does.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-92EfDXot1uo/YXAEUQK-OaI/AAAAAAAAHhI/aFORy_6CcrkLMqAc4mz4s1e_FgcL6FYUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/IMG_1146%2B%25281280x960%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-92EfDXot1uo/YXAEUQK-OaI/AAAAAAAAHhI/aFORy_6CcrkLMqAc4mz4s1e_FgcL6FYUgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_1146%2B%25281280x960%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Photo- SJD</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">So....overall a scrap
book of thoughts, feelings, memories and advice which was pretty
unique in its way. There have been similar collections of writings
published in the past. Such as Jim Perrin's climbing articles lifted
from magazine and club journals, but <i>A Feeling for Rock</i> is nothing
like works like this through its range of subject matter. I've no doubt that the book will not be
to everyone's taste. Certainly for those who like their climbing
literature to be structured in a style which they are used to, the
book might seem discordant and a bit too edgy for their liking.
Certainly the pieces don't follow a clear trajectory in the way they
are set out. There is almost a nervous energy here which usually
works but occasionally, like a hex dropped from the top pitch of a
climb, the piece ricochets down. Glancing off rocks until you lose
sight of it in the undergrowth. But then, who asked for perfection in
a climbing book. Its a personal odyssey which will always mean more
to the writer than reader. The pleasure for the reader is when there is a meeting of minds and emotions with the author and many of these pieces will I'm certain, chime with the reader.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">John Appleby: 2021 </span></b></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xVmVn_K_7J8/YXAC24bS28I/AAAAAAAAHg8/Pz_tPrrbkQceDnzPvkObrqCStDHLoUwNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" height="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xVmVn_K_7J8/YXAC24bS28I/AAAAAAAAHg8/Pz_tPrrbkQceDnzPvkObrqCStDHLoUwNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" width="48" /></a></b></div><b><br /> </b><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span>
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-32950332239639026112021-09-29T10:44:00.000+01:002021-09-29T10:44:13.104+01:00Sir Leslie Stephen: Spirit Of The Age<p>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0bwOCgTZfok/YVQxTR2SdjI/AAAAAAAAHf0/VCkAbb2yyi0mVjg7I5zdhCwrTdZUhRp4wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/virgina%2Band%2Bfather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1857" data-original-width="2000" height="371" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0bwOCgTZfok/YVQxTR2SdjI/AAAAAAAAHf0/VCkAbb2yyi0mVjg7I5zdhCwrTdZUhRp4wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h371/virgina%2Band%2Bfather.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Father and Daughter : Leslie Stephen and Virginia Woolf.</span><br /><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">‘<span style="font-size: medium;">Fleetest
of foot of the whole Alpine brotherhood’ Edward Whymper</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This
country is almost unique in the number of climbing clubs that exist
throughout Britain, unlike other countries where the sport has a
major presence, France, Italy, Germany etc; almost every city in the
UK has its own climbing club. There are also the long established
organisations which draw their membership nationally, the Scottish
Mountaineering Club, the Climbers’ Club, the Fell and Rock, and the
Alpine Club. The BMC has 280 clubs in membership and the
Mountaineering Council of Scotland 160. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How
did this come about?; it really has its origins during the Victorian
era when so many organisations were formed and the world’s first
mountaineering club, the Alpine Club was founded in 1857. The men
(and they were all men in what was then still a most patriarch
society) who were responsible were all from the upper/professional
class. They were the ones who had the income and leisure time to
follow what was then seen as a new sport; a new challenging activity
in what they believed themselves to be the experts. It was a Golden
Era for many of the peaks were still unclimbed in the Alps, and the
Public’s interest was aroused by the 2000 performances over 6 years
by Albert Smith in the Egyptian Hall Piccadilly, of his illustrated
ascent of Mont Blanc which began in 1862, and was attended by
thousands of people. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One
of the earliest mountaineers to join the Alpine Club was Leslie
Stephen, the year after it was formed. He was already a mountaineer,
who with the Mathews’s had pioneered ascents in Austria and North
Italy. He was educated at Eton and Trinity Hall Cambridge where he
had also been ordained as a priest. At school he had been somewhat
sickly and physically weak but at Cambridge he took up rowing and
this built up his physique and he started to visit the Alps. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
first ascents which he made in the years 1858 to 1871 stand out,
especially in the Valais and Oberland, and mark him out as one of the
outstanding early pioneers, but he did not always win favour with his
fellow alpinists, who believed in his writings he gave his guides too
much praise who he credited with so much of his success. Melchior
Anderegg born near Meiringen was one such, who was lauded as the
‘King of the Guides’. In 2014 a statue of Anderegg and his
adventurous ‘Herren’ was unveiled in that town. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
suppose Stephens success in completing the Eiger and Jungfrau Joch’s
in 1859 made his fellow Alpine Club members aware that a new force
was in membership. The number of first ascents he was to make over
the next decade highlighted this, Mont Blanc from St Gervais, the
Schreckhorn, Zinalrothorn, Alphubel, Wildstrubel, Monte Disgrazia,
Obergabelhorn, Bietschorn, Rimpfischorn, Mont Mallet, and he made
many second ascents the Weisshorn, Obergabelhorn, and the Fletschorn
plus many other successful climbs. He was elected Vice President of
the Alpine Club 1863 to 1865 and President 1866 to 1868.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In
1862 he had a personal rejection of being a clergyman; he resigned
his position at Cambridge, his fellowship depending on this.
Eventually he was to publish a book on this change in belief,
‘Agnosticism and Aetheism’ confessing he had never really
believed in the Christian message, swayed by his family, who were
evangelicals of the Clapham sect. His father had been the Under
Secretary of State for the Colonies for which public service he had
been knighted. Stephen moved to London and from thereon was a
journalist and editor of some renown, initially contributing to the
Saturday Review and the Pall Mall Gazette. </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kltK4xHOCcY/YVQx2ErqoVI/AAAAAAAAHf8/wubu_KkQ20o_8LOKhUQ_Ju3VToz8U3yYQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1000/alps1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="1000" height="238" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kltK4xHOCcY/YVQx2ErqoVI/AAAAAAAAHf8/wubu_KkQ20o_8LOKhUQ_Ju3VToz8U3yYQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h238/alps1.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">1865
occurred, the accident after the first ascent of the Matterhorn when
four of the party were killed on the descent. Alan Lyall’s
impressive book of almost 700 pages gives full details of this,
especially the aftermath; the enquiry, the main figures who were
involved and the media reaction. I do not think any event in
mountaineering history has received such coverage, even the Monarch
was reported to comment as one of those who died was distantly
related. Much of the media coverage initially was anti, so much so
that Whymper the sole survivor of the amateur climbers had to defend
himself and write a full account of the disaster in the ‘Times’.
Stephen, who was then a Vice President of the Alpine Club spoke up
for the sport, and he defended the role of the senior guide who to
survive was accused of either cutting the rope, or purposely using a
weak one to save his own skin. </span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In
1871 appeared two books which had a large affect on the subsequent
development of mountaineering. Edward Whymper had published
‘Scrambles amongst the Alps’ which included his many attempts to
climb the Matterhorn and his eventual success, clouded by the
accident on the descent, and the ‘Playground of Europe’ by Leslie
Stephen both of which became instant mountaineering classics and
played a part in popularising the activity. The first of these ran to
five editions in little more than a decade and both books are still
in print. In 1868 Stephen became editor of the Alpine Journal, and he
was well suited for such a role, his knowledge of the Alpine ranges
was probably unsurpassed at that time in Britain, for in 1861 he had
translated from the German the best selling, in that country a book
which also covered widely many of the less visited areas, ‘The
Alps’ and may have led him on to make the first ascent of Monte
Disgrazia? He was an early enthusiast for winter ascents, but he made
it obvious that he took a very serious view of the dangers inherent
in mountaineering, besides the enjoyment and challenge of the sport.
Many of the early pioneers suffered serious accident or death who had
become friends or rope mates with him. Most of the volumes of the
Alpine Journal he edited are still available on the internet. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">During
the Victorian period the Alpine Club gained in numbers and influence,
some of those who joined were enthusiasts for mountain scenery, and
commented on this but preferred to view this rather than climb to
summits; John Ruskin, Mathew Arnold and the well known publisher John
Murray (Byron was one of the poets who he published) were some of
these. Stephen became editor at this time of the Cornhill magazine
and the writers for that organ were amongst those who were to become
household names; Robert Louis Stevenson, Thomas Hardy and William
Makepeace Thackeray. Stephen married one of the the latter’s
daughters, known to everybody by the nick name ‘Minny’ who bore
him four children, two who were to become more famous than him, but
who cruelly died whilst the children were still young.</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LDubcAsiTCY/YVQyMcjdx4I/AAAAAAAAHgI/dXJZWjjqg3UakPQiK4NRgNy7XKmfchaagCLcBGAsYHQ/s861/alps2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="579" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LDubcAsiTCY/YVQyMcjdx4I/AAAAAAAAHgI/dXJZWjjqg3UakPQiK4NRgNy7XKmfchaagCLcBGAsYHQ/w215-h320/alps2.jpg" width="215" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Stephen
is best known now as the founding editor and contributor to the
‘Dictionary of National Biography’ of which he edited many of the
volumes. This incredible academic work is still being updated and
published by the Oxford University Press and is referred to almost
daily, particularly in our University and Public Libraries. The
original publisher was the same as the Cornhill magazine, and that
explains Stephen’s involvement in the whole project? an editorship
which was to lead, amongst his other works to a knighthood. At the
death of his first wife, Stephen eventually married a lady, a close
friend of his wife, a widower who also had four children. One can
imagine the noisy atmosphere at his house in Hyde Park Gate, now a
blue plaque site, with so many children growing up there. But he did
employ several maids to look after this brood.</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Obviously
with such domestic demands and sadness at the loss of his first wife,
plus editorial work, his involvement in the world of mountaineering
was limited. But every Sunday along with like minded friends he took
off on what became legendary long walks amongst the South Downs and
further afield. His band of Ramblers became known as ‘The Tramps’
and 20 to 30 miles were often covered on their outings. In a history
of walking in this country, ‘Ramble On’ by Sinclair McKay full
detail of ‘The Tramps’ can be found. What is memorable about this
was a list of all who took part in these walks, everyone from those
who made their living by their pen to Judges and Queen’s Councils.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Stephen
died in 1904 but the family’s fame was to rise, and rise for two of
his daughters eclipsed his memory. His oldest Vanessa married Quentin
Bell, and moved to Bloomsbury, where they were joined by Virginia who
had married Leonard Woolf. And this was the beginning of what became
known as the Bloomsberry set which included E.M.Forster, Lytton
Strachey, John Maynard Keynes and so many other prominent figures of
that time. Vanessa Bell and Virgina Woolf in their respective fields
are lionised for their achievements, Vanessa in the field of art,
particularly abstractions. Virginia is one of the most famous
novelists worldwide, a leader of modernist fiction and an archetypal
figure in the feminist movement. I was surprised to learn that now
her biggest fan base is in the USA. Her father is very much
caricatured in her most famous work ‘To the Lighthouse’. He is
the Mr Ramsay who leads his family on an adventurous holiday to the
Isle of Skye.</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkImzXIyV3U/YVQyveYvksI/AAAAAAAAHgg/WFGkqoWiU3EfRraphE_L7UkeehI__FhDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/Matterhorn_from_Domh%25C3%25BCtte_-_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkImzXIyV3U/YVQyveYvksI/AAAAAAAAHgg/WFGkqoWiU3EfRraphE_L7UkeehI__FhDwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/Matterhorn_from_Domh%25C3%25BCtte_-_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Leslie
Stephen was very much a product of his time, when everybody had
beards like the Taliban, and Victorians of his background did not
worry too much about their privileged existence. But they did leave a
society that was capable of change. The Alpine Club is a prime
example of this, to be a member now depends on ones climbing record,
not social standing. And so Sir Leslie Stephen set the sport on its
path for which today’s climbing fraternity should be grateful.</span></span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dennis Gray: 2021. </span></span></b></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iIGZKCUOYuc/YVQy-xXFHpI/AAAAAAAAHgo/OzNZteNDQ0wwRgBHXbLiwFexK1yueWKDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" height="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iIGZKCUOYuc/YVQy-xXFHpI/AAAAAAAAHgo/OzNZteNDQ0wwRgBHXbLiwFexK1yueWKDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" width="48" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></b><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span>
<p></p><p> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-19995311536394448762021-09-07T09:56:00.000+01:002021-09-07T09:56:05.429+01:00Olympic Dreams<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BtpbYYDBFcM/YTcm_quUO4I/AAAAAAAAHfY/V7B1ausS2aAXJ_4cUqw4oVKDEFMEe3fxgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1000/Olympics_ef.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="1000" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BtpbYYDBFcM/YTcm_quUO4I/AAAAAAAAHfY/V7B1ausS2aAXJ_4cUqw4oVKDEFMEe3fxgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/Olympics_ef.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>It's climbing but not as we know it! Photo- Eddie Fowkes.<br /><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">‘<span style="font-size: medium;">Citius,
Altius, Fortius’</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To
represent a country at the Olympics is the ultimate dream of a games
player and a participant in the athletic events. I am still in awe of
the Czech athlete, Zatopek who won the 5000m, 10000m, and the
Marathon at the Games in Helsinki in 1952. I was privileged to meet
him when young and this feat stands as likely to be unrepeated. I am
a supporter of the Games, but I believe the inclusion of ‘Sports
Climbing’ at the recent Tokyo Olympics begs questions at least with
the old timers like me.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
modern Olympics were brought about by the initiative of the French
nobleman, Baron de Coubertin, and the first of these was held in
Athens in 1896. Mountaineering was one of the physical activities
that he envisaged should be recognised as an Olympic discipline and
the members of the 1922 Everest Expedition were awarded a gold medal
at the 1924 Winter Games held in Chamonix. Awards continued until the
Dyhrenfurth’s in 1936 for their Himalayan explorations but were
then discontinued. It is interesting to report how climbing was seen
by commentators and artists to almost modern times, let us be dog in
a manger about this and Ernest Hemingway could opinion there are
only three sports; ‘bull fighting, flying and
mountaineering......the rest are merely games’. I guess what
brought him to such a view was that the sports he nominated were
undertaken for keeps. The obituary section in the Alpine Journal at
this time would illustrate where he was coming from?</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In
my own times I have to ponder on the many who so felt ‘the romance
of mountaineering’ that they pushed the boat out, were caught out
by a run of bad luck and they paid the ultimate price. But we
survivors paid our respects and kept alive their feats and memories.
One of the salient facts being there was little or no money in it,
recognition such as it was, mainly was by one’s own peers. I still
think of how we all, in our milieu greeted the news that Brown had
climbed the Boulder on Cloggy; and he had run out 270 feet of rope in
a single lead, on sight because none of his companions could follow
him because of the conditions. So how come that such a committing
activity can be cut down to racing up an artificial wall, on plastic
holds, safe because such ‘climbing’ is done on top ropes. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At
the 1972 Olympics held in Munich was the first time that ‘speed
climbing’ was a demonstration sport. This by a group of climbers
from Soviet Russia, wearing on their feet what appeared as galoshes
to us western climbers who witnessed this, on a limestone crag
outside the city. It transpired that the climbers had spent some days
practising the route/s and their ascents were at speed on top ropes.
All who witnessed this (including many different nationalities)
thought this style of climbing was rather pointless and preferred to
climb the excellent traditional routes that were on offer at this
cliff. One can understand a group of climbers, moving fast up routes
in a friendly, rivalry, but to make this an Olympic sport/discipline
is surely bringing such an activity down to a questionable level? And
yet some of the-none climbing commentators thought this was like the
wacky races, and conferred on some of the participants instant
recognition, and liking. </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ow6xi3K8UI/YTcnhHJkoBI/AAAAAAAAHfk/ozZYoLZYwQQRZEp2M1vRueQEGFzfokx6QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/shana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ow6xi3K8UI/YTcnhHJkoBI/AAAAAAAAHfk/ozZYoLZYwQQRZEp2M1vRueQEGFzfokx6QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/shana.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Shauna Coxsey in competition mode.Photo- BMC<br /> </span></span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I suppose it will go well when those
involved are collared by agents and sponsors. And that is a problem
for those so involved, are they to declare that this really has
nothing to do with ‘real’ climbing or do they milk this
surprising turn of events. For the first time real amounts of money
is involved, when one is apprised by UK Sport that one of the Olympic
programmes of the National sports bodies was under-written by £27
millions. And any of those who might win a medal, their day to day
living is being under-written, as are their coaches, medics and
dieticians. It is being estimated that each gold medal is costing
around £1 million and the athletes involved can if they wish it
become full time professionals. Such designation leads on to
sponsorships, deals with equipment firms, and large amounts of money
changing hands. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
worry is how this came about without the traditional defenders of the
British way of climbing not really taking an interest. Their attitude
being if a group within the mountain world wish to do this, ‘let
‘em get on with it’. Without at least discussing how in the long
run it might affect the activity, which as recent as the 1980’s was
a new kid on the international climbing scene. We came to accepting
organised competitions after months of argument and discussions at
the BMC in 1988, but we were only willing to accept them as long as
they were held on artificial walls and not on the natural outcrops
and crags. This decision was influenced by what was happening on the
natural cliffs; Ron Fawcett was despatched to competitions held in
Russia and reported back that many of the routes involved in these,
were chipped and manufactured and visiting CzechSlovak climbers who
had taken part that year in competitions held in Arco reported that
the final route of that event was similarly prepared specially for
that competition. </span></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Despite
the above what finally swung the then British climbing fraternity
behind supporting competitions but only on artificial walls was the
attempt to hold a major competition at Malham. Those involved were
leading climbers of that era, the BBC were interested in covering the
event and this was in opposition to the wishes of the locals, the
RSPB and the National Park. The view we came to at the BMC was this
could damage climbing in the future and I was tasked to contact all
concerned and use what argument we could against such an ill thought
initiative? Pointing out that if it rained and conditions changed the
whole competition could become unfair and farcical; to say nothing of
the safety of the inevitable spectators roaming around an area like
the Cove. We had to go almost to the head of the BBC to head off the
interest in covering the event. Fortunately our arguments were
soundly based and eventually all came round that competitions should
be held in the UK only on artificial walls. Since when the growth of
competition climbing and climbing walls has being impressive with
over 400 noted in the last complete survey. Many run bouldering
competitions in the winter, and the Leeds Wall did that when I was
the Chair of its Board.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">However
we never expected, but it is now a fact, that some of the attendees
at climbing walls never climb outside, and for their own personal
reasons have no wish to do so. If I was still an active climber,
selfishly I would declare ‘good on ‘em! ’ for that would mean
less traffic on popular crags but frankly they do not know what they
are missing, a special activity that as the web master on this site
has opined is life enhancing going to the hills to refresh ones soul.
Easily dismissed as romantic gibberish but it is true as those who
experience such feelings bear witness.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">International
Competition Climbing became a fact in Leeds in 1989, this organised
by the BMC and DMM the equipment firm on behalf of the then
recognised body, the UIAA for such an international event. It was in
Leeds because that is where I live and friends interceded for us and
we managed to obtain the Queen’s Hall, which previously had staged
massive rock concerts and the Rolling Stones, the Beatles and the Who
had strutted, their stuff on its stage. The women’s event was won
by the American, Robyn Erbesfield and the men’s by Jerry Moffat. It
was very much a learning event for such a competition, and it made me
think that whilst the finals were electrifying the events leading up
to them were so boring that I could never believe it a spectator
sport. In fact one of the sports journalists collared me after some
of the preliminary rounds to declare ‘he was departing......this
was like watching paint dry’. I could understand this as the
majority of the participants did not get very far up the routes. It
is a mystery to me that climbers can sit and watch such a competition
whilst close by, for instance at Arco is excellent climbing on
natural rock. But as Cyndi Lauper warned us ‘money changes
everything’ and I suppose there is a vicarious pleasure in watching
the winner and losers. </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iLZoyjcWv_0/YTcn7Eep9DI/AAAAAAAAHfs/D7xyZwTMcS8-Dzcnx8scG643S1icFBjdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Malham_Cove_Waterfall_03_resize.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="2048" height="265" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iLZoyjcWv_0/YTcn7Eep9DI/AAAAAAAAHfs/D7xyZwTMcS8-Dzcnx8scG643S1icFBjdQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h265/Malham_Cove_Waterfall_03_resize.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Malham Cove. Venue for a proposed speed climbing competition that thankfully never got off the ground. </span><br /> </span>
<p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Finally
my reaction to the Olympic climbing is ditch, the speed competition,
it is a cuckoo and not only has no place in such, and in the long run
it may damage the sport? None climbers will think that is how we
proceed on the natural crags and outcrops and the land managers may
react in ways that no one has yet experienced. The walls should be
designed like crags to be more realistic, I have been lucky to climb
at such in dozens of countries and have never found features as those
that were a part of the Olympic bouldering competition. Dali would
have been exercised by their design. I am very aware that by
expressing such views that I will be the subject of criticism and
gales of laughter, the wish to compete is part of the psyche in a lot
of humans, and we must accept that climbing is changing and a part of
mainstream sport, no longer the preserve of a band of clubbable
types. But we have to point out what is worth preserving, and that
the rock faces and mountains of this world we expect will always be
there posing a challenge and enjoyment to those who answer their
call. </span></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></b>
</p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">
Dennis Gray : 2021</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I5lyudlst5I/YTcm4Ir8eCI/AAAAAAAAHfQ/QULsguwKDYgPdFtQTwQLxa5Px0F4ou27QCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" height="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I5lyudlst5I/YTcm4Ir8eCI/AAAAAAAAHfQ/QULsguwKDYgPdFtQTwQLxa5Px0F4ou27QCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" width="48" /></a></b></div><b><br /> </b><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-1888369048023529242021-08-19T10:28:00.001+01:002021-08-19T10:28:47.844+01:00Jim Birkett<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N2jwsWILyiU/YR4i0RlxQAI/AAAAAAAAHeo/_nOsQvRhWv4czTrRqCfOFrQeTq54x0BnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/JB-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1371" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N2jwsWILyiU/YR4i0RlxQAI/AAAAAAAAHeo/_nOsQvRhWv4czTrRqCfOFrQeTq54x0BnwCLcBGAsYHQ/w429-h640/JB-1.jpg" width="429" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Jim Birkett belaying above Gimmer Crag, Langdale in the English Lakes District. Image-Bill Birkett collection</span><br />
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was in the Golden
Rule, Cumbria's popular climbing pub, that two years ago and
buzzed-out after climbing his Slab & Groove (VS 4c) on Scafell, I
phoned Jim on a whim to tell him what a mega-effort his climb was.
Considering that the route stood among the six hardest on the crag in
the last Scafell guide to contain league tables of the climbs placed
in order of difficulty, his reply was something of a surprise. "When
Len (Muscroft) and I did the climb," Jim said, "we thought
it was only severe. But thanks, Tony, you've made my day."
"Thank you, Jim," I heard myself say. "And you nearly
made mine." There via British Telecom glinted the steel of the
man, minus any fuss or shouting the odds whatever. Jim was schooled
in the hills as a boy by a well-meaning uncle who would take him
hunting with a local fell pack. Gradually he realised there must be
more to the hills than killing foxes. And the same thing happened
with his enthusiastic birds-nesting. He even taught himself to abseil
to collect eggs. But then he did an abrupt about-face and today is an
active member of the RSPB, licensed to protect peregrines. Birds and
the locating of rare plants are a great passion of the man, and his
son Bill remembers many days spent on the hills from when he could
first walk with a Dad patiently showing the boy the wonders of
nature.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Like Ron Fawcett was to do, Jim did not begin making new
climbs until he'd climbed all the hardest challenges going. These
included —with the help of a number of trusty motor bikes to drive
him from the Lakes Diagonal on Dinas Mot, Raven's Gully in Glencoe
and Central Buttress on Scafell. This he did in nails to make the
second ascent so shod, the first having been done by Menlove Edwards
in 1931 (and Arthur Dolphin was later to take a flier endeavouring to
do the same). As Jim says: "It was a point of honour to try the
hardest routes in nails". Together with pals like Len Muscroft,
Vince Veevers, Charlie Wilson and Tom Hill he began producing his
vintage climbs in 1937 when he was 22. And, sorry Jim, but what
greats they are! They are surely epitomised by Overhanging Bastion,
the ascent lauded by The Manchester Guardian, and flashed on that
first ascent with the super-cool of a natural matured before his time
by those solitary escapades where he'd find bits of snakes — and
once a dead cat — in the dizzily sited eyries of buzzards and
eagles. He'd had a shaky start when he placed three pegs on Mayday
(HVS 5b) the year previously. "It was a big mistake," he
says. "I was a bit over-awed by the occasion." But he
quickly learned and never repeated the mistake again. His forte was
crack lines until then thought unjustifiable. "F Route on Gimmer
had a hell of a reputation," he remember. "Yet when Vic
(Vince Veevers) and I did it we couldn't see what the fuss had been
about."
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">There were downers of
course. The lines eventually to become Gimmer String, Poacher,
Sidewalk and Extol were all tried and backed down from when "things
got a bit out of hand." Jim's shot at Central Pillar on Esk
ended with Great Central Route (VS 5a) rather than the projected
dream - though Jim did launch out on the upper wall with a long probe
before giving it best. And, no, Jim didn't take it hard when Jim
Haggas had pipped him to the post on Gordian Knot (VS 4c) on what was
to become Jim's. preserve, White Ghyll. "I was glad for him! Jim
(Haggas) put up two great climbs, what with Gordian and Hangover
(Dove) but he was never the neatest climber to watch. He went
blinding out from the overhanging corner on Gordian Knot in a way I
could never have done. But he got up! I managed to break off a bit of
loose rock and climb it more directly and I'd think a bit more
easily." "Hell, no!" Jim Birkett could not have been
more definite. It was his reaction to anything appearing in print
that might make him look big headed. And my musing on the lines of A
GREAT CLIMBER IMMORTALISED FOREVER BY HIS ROCK CLIMBS was quickly
melted down. But I persisted, surely he was proud of routes like
Haste Not, Slab & Groove, Leopard's Crawl, Mayday cracks, Do Not
and Harlot's Face just to mention a few of the classic Lakeland rock
climbs he so ably created in the immediate pre- and post-war years
and which make such an outstanding contribution to British climbing?
Well, yes he said. He was. But he didn't want anything appearing even
remotely over the top. Jim is the essence of modesty while appearing
still at the age of 71 as a hard man indeed and in every way that is
admirable. He has allowed hardly anybody ever to interview him and
his dislike of the ostentatious and loud comes through clearly. He is
essentially a man who lets his climbs do the talking.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Anyway," he
said. "The routes are good ones and I had a lot of fun climbing
them but to make them out as masterpieces would be going a bit far. I
mean, it would only take a small earthquake to wipe them out."
As happened to Sepulchre, the Kern Knotts route — and one of his
favourites — which suffered after an earth tremor? Yes, agreed Jim,
but no he didn't follow when I mentioned that the smell of gunpower
persisted around the crag for weeks afterwards. Had he never smelt it
before during his time in slate quarries when large rockfalls emitted
a sulphury smell? "I'll tell you what, mate," he said,
laughing. "You're wasting your time at that typewriter. With a
nose like yours you could earn a fortune with the Drugs Squad."
When Jim Birkett laughs his love for life comes through. Of a
statesman-like mien, you can quite believe he worked his way up from
being a reiver in slate quarries from the age of 14 — when he left
Little Langdale school — to becoming a quarry manager. You can also
easily understand the directness with which he faced down crags in
nailed boots and with frail ropes and produced such great climbs.
Indeed, once watching a bold youth soloing Cracked Actor (E2) on
Trowbarrow Quarry while wearing a weighted diving belt, my partner
said at the time "Jim Birkett was doing that kind of thing years
ago!" Jim is fully aware that modern gear and the protection it
affords is light years on from his tricounis, clinkers, pumps and
"ploughcord" rope. I'd heard that when somebody had told
him recently that I'd done one of his best routes he'd said: "If
Tony Greenbank is leading F Route (Gimmer) I'm starting climbing
again." </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vfjqs6llklk/YR4jUlLMtfI/AAAAAAAAHe0/Dtf9PBb5Gi8x8bu6JltTl3xvgczie08mQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/JB-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1424" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vfjqs6llklk/YR4jUlLMtfI/AAAAAAAAHe0/Dtf9PBb5Gi8x8bu6JltTl3xvgczie08mQCLcBGAsYHQ/w279-h400/JB-2.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Two Lakeland classics. Jim Birkett poised on the arete of Napes Needle: Photo-Bill Birkett collection</span><br /> <span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Never were truer words
spoken. The comment says it all. As the first Lakeland climber to
climb really hard, Jim did it with negligible protection, rarely
using runners of any description and cranking up those heavy boots on
a number of his first ascents. Like on the excellent Square Chimney
(VS 4c) on Esk. In all he created over 60 new climbs, though for some
reason only 45 are recorded today. And while he climbed in pumps for
some of the harder ones like Do Not and Harlot's Face, the first
Lakeland extreme, the absolute golden rule, was not to fall off,
pumps or no pumps:
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">"The fun and sheer
enjoyment I've had from climbing is everything," he told me. "I
wouldn't exchange that pleasure I've had for anything. Cameras? I
never needed one. I can remember every priceless moment." And
then comes the glimpse of heavy metal again and this time told by his
son, Bill. He had broken down in Preston on a wild winter's night
last and plaintively rung his Dad in Little Langdale to come and
rescue him. "I'm too old," said the admirable Birkett
Senior, after hearing him out, then breaking the connection. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Tony Greenbank</b>: <span style="font-family: courier;">First Published in High -July 1986 </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vt1GEMYRb1s/YR4jrfxJp3I/AAAAAAAAHfA/UmhVYAszbM0L69CPN69gwj74FH0kv1RNwCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" height="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vt1GEMYRb1s/YR4jrfxJp3I/AAAAAAAAHfA/UmhVYAszbM0L69CPN69gwj74FH0kv1RNwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" width="48" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-60078803212969866752021-07-27T14:18:00.000+01:002021-07-27T14:18:16.884+01:00The Finger of God<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-agloNM7WNwA/YQACEVx5McI/AAAAAAAAHd0/s5utTLxiiZojQ69lQFUkApUPy_ynWBfEQCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/Nascer_do_Sol_no_Dedo_de_Deus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="800" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-agloNM7WNwA/YQACEVx5McI/AAAAAAAAHd0/s5utTLxiiZojQ69lQFUkApUPy_ynWBfEQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/Nascer_do_Sol_no_Dedo_de_Deus.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Photo- Carlos Perez Couto (CCL)</span><br />
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">THERE ARE A FEW great
cities in the world that live with mountains and quite a number of
these lie in South America—C a r a ca s, Quito, Lima, Santiago, and
Rio de Janeiro. But in none does the mountains enter the city, sit
astride its traffic arteries, and chop up its suburbs as in Rio de
Janeiro. In Rio, the urban dweller has a choice of "umpteen"
grade 5 and 6 routes a short sweaty stride from the nearest bus stop.
One or two are a thousand feet high, others are two-pitch problems.
The city counts at least one three thousand foot peak in its parish,
and more virgin faces, smooth and unsullied by holds or cracks, than
any other accessible spot on earth. Climbing in Rio has one great
disadvantage: the heat. But every now and then, even in the hottest
weather, a clear day will afford that distant visibility that brings
the 7,000 foot Organ mountains into clear focus from the streets of
the city. And there, climbing skywards, a gigantic replica of the
pinnacle ridge of Sgurr nan Gillean, is the multi-pinnacled ridge
that culminates in Pedro do Sino, the Bell peak, at 7,400 feet. And
the second of these pinnacles is enough to make the visiting,
sweat-sodden, heat drugged climber straighten his curving spine.
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Vertically sided, this
pinnacle is a finger of rock pointing to the sky; a tropical dream
that has no place in a real world. But it is real. Fifty miles of
driving and a fine climbing road up the jungle clad flanks of the
Organ mountains takes on to a favourite belvedere of Rio citizens,
and there, right above, no less incredible at close quarters is the
peak they have chosen aptly, to call the Finger of God. It was
Harvey, my American friend and colleague, who had never climbed
before, who introduced me to Carlos Costa Ribeiro, one of the best
climbers in that part of Brazil, and who as a result arranged my
visit. We fled the phantom city of 4.00 a.m. and arrived at the
parking place as the granite finger turned red, and a tomato orb
climbed out of a sea of white mist. "The normal way is round the
other side?" I suggested to Ribeiro, from my casual reading.
"Yes, but we shall do the east face." I thought of all the
cheap gin I had drunk, and of Harvey, and looked at the sparse system
of chimneys that held the seemingly overhanging blocks apart. But my
immediate worry was the jungle, which holds for me terrors
unimaginable to normal people. The vestigial trail led through dense
forest, with little light. I watched for snakes. I listened for
Oncas, I waited to be stung by insects. There was a slightly rotting
smell, and I avoided Ribeiro's enthusiastic noises about the beauty
of the forest.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">We clambered up moss
covered grooves, and edged an overhang by the virtue of a tree whose
roots seemed to have finally died. Eventually the route is doomed.
More hen-like scratching at slippery red mud and rotting vegetation
brought us to clearing. Light, and a moment's dalliance on .a slab
drenched in sunlight, and then back into the gloom, and a delicate
traverse of some avalanched trees. "Here we leave the sacks,"
announced Ribeiro, adding, "And you do not need those things."
I was lifting out some pegs and karabiners. He did not know I had
heard about Brazilian safety techniques. At least I should remain
attached to the face if the worst happened! We crossed another
avalanche channel of trees and red mud, and leapt like apes from
branch to branch along the foot of the steep south wall. Harvey never
faltered. Using immense energy, and climbing wholly on his arms, he
fearlessly followed where Ribeiro led. No ropes were used, and to one
accustomed to the old fashioned handhold, the joys of couch grass,
red mud, and greasy holdless chimneys, all too womb-like, offered me
little joy. Their voices, chattering like monkeys, vanished into the
vertical forest ahead of me. Only a deep red orchid growing wild and
parasitically on a tree brought me any reward. Suddenly the forest
was gone. Dense bushes had replaced them and a step further I was
looking down the vertical north face. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vgut7JZggHU/YQACxpCXJxI/AAAAAAAAHeI/NY2lGpCEcCUqlbAN1JAyZjVlj-Rac1rjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s949/cumber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">.</a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A little pinnacle was
free of vegetation and we sat surveying our route, a steep serpentine
crack occupied by the occasional tree. It looked impossible. Harvey
talked of descending, and we talked him upwards. It was about grade
4, but grade 6 if the negligible belaying techniques were taken into
account. Desperately I tied the party to all holds I could find—a
meagre branch here, a piton driven in there; there was nothing more.
Ribeiro climbed fast and well, Harvey fast and badly, his whole
weight on his arms, legs flailing, calling out and getting continual
uplift. I found the rock superb, almost holdless,and hand jams the
only security between trees. After 200 feet we came to a cave, and on
the floor of which Harvey lay heaving like a stranded fish. I joined
him, prostrate from heat. In Rio that day it was almost 100°F.
Ribeiro contemplated the way ahead—a steep wall leading out under
an overhang which was circumvented by traversing. Where all vestige
of adhesion by counter-pressure was gone, there was, Carlos assured
me, a series of expansion bolts. A word here. Expansion bolts in
Brazil are meant to last. They are inch in diameter, and often set in
a full inch. Entire cordees will dangle from one of them without
batting an eyelid. I lent Carlos two tape etriers, and he set forth.
Just then Harvey decided to return. But he had waited a moment too
long, and he was told how the mountain code forbade his solo descent,
and now called for his heroic pursuance of the object of the day—Up!
Carlos disappeared round the overhang, and the only thing that linked
him to us was falling globules of sweat that he flicked from his
fingers. I coaxed Harvey to the point of no return, and then withdrew
so that his only moral support came from above—a support that
remorselessly enjoined him to climb and seemed deaf to the words "I
can't". Since I had no absolute confidence in Ribeiro's belay I
tied us to a huge jammed block, and waited in the back of the cave
just beyond reach of the sunlight. The rope tugged me up. It was
awkward. Once clear of the overhang a crack slanted rightwards on a
vertical wall. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yyyax9EnSac/YQACbI6FPKI/AAAAAAAAHeA/yOIYS8aNktUWSWtqrcROqw2kDHJfoE2igCLcBGAsYHQ/s250/malc.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="250" height="196" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yyyax9EnSac/YQACbI6FPKI/AAAAAAAAHeA/yOIYS8aNktUWSWtqrcROqw2kDHJfoE2igCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h196/malc.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Malcolm Slesser</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">One could get a partial
hand jam and one leg in. I landed tired and gave one baleful look at
Ribeiro's belay—a loop of rope round a cactus whose roots could be
lifted with my toe! Harvey was all in. But the worst was over. From
there on we were in the mountain, not on it. Deep cracks led us
upwards in perfect safety, and a final slab to stance twenty feet
below the summit Harvey was agog with delight. We munched pineapples,
and we revelled in the vista of peaks too innumerable to count. Many
of them with fin walls. Three thousand feet below, the little town of
Terespololis went about its business, and we thought of bee and
sauerkraut and pork in the Restaurant Alpina at the end of the day.
The final point of this peak is not possible without recourse to
unmanly ladders. A huge crevasse separates it from the lunching
place, dire and overhanging. But a thoughtful tourist agency had
propped a ladder of metal against the upper lip of the crevasse and
one by one we gingerly ascended acutely aware that the natural span
allotted to untreated iron has elapsed and the moment of collapse was
a hand. Appropriately, some rotted electric flex held the thing on to
the upper lip. The top is flat and could hold a battalion and enough
trees grow there to keep it comfortably in firewood for weeks.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">A plaque recorded the
first ascent by the easier west face in 1912. I quickly had reason to
admire that first ascent. It is one steep hold less chimney after
another and with the equipment of those days it was a very fine feat.
In the first rappel Harvey lost his glasses. We heard the tinkle of
their broken glass working down some great internal cleft. In the
third, Harvey took one look over the edge, perceived a small ledge
and then a continuing massive drop to a flourish of yellow blossomed
Ipe trees a good thousand feet lower. He sensibly asked for a top
rope. I went first and sat on my ledge contemplating in my
foreground, a foreground of bearded lichen dripping from gnarled old
trees. Behind, shiny black precipices appeared through windows in the
mist. Harvey was on his way down ; myopically scanning the rock at
his feet for purchase. About twenty feet from the ledge his safety
rope jammed and the strain was taken from his abseil rope to that
roundt his waist which promptly slipped to his chest. "Slack!"
he bawled, and Ribeiro as he told me later, tried to de-kink the
safety rope which was locked round a karabiner. He cried to Harvey to
lift himself up on the abseil rope so that he could work on the
safety rope, but poor Harvey had spent his strength. "Cut the
rope" he ordered. The words shot through me like an injection.
Cut the rope! My rope here in Brazil, seven thousand miles from
another, and the whole panoply of Brazilian customs arraigned against
me before it even got into the country; and then the parcels service,
whose reputation was sufficient to deter most comers.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was appalled.
"Wait!" I cried. "We haven't tried all possibilities."
I exhorted Harvey to climb. Suggested footholds, offered chimneys,
even climbed up to almost his level and tried to swing him into a
little ledge. But his strength was failing. He took no weight now on
his hands, and was dangling full on the jammed rope. Eventually he
would suffocate, and he had sensed this. "Cut the rope!" he
howled. "I'll buy you another, I'll buy you as many ropes as you
like. Cut the rope!" Ribeiro and I exchanged glances and the
knife did its work and down I slid Harvey. He was beat. But Harvey
was American, and tough. A long traverse brought us to a broad ledge,
with a view over a remarkable smooth rock pinnacle towards the
flatlands and Rio. Dusk etched the rock profiles, and laid the
lowlands in an obliterating haze, and then with no more than thirty s
minutes half-light left to us, we hurried down to our abandoned
sacks, where there was one torch. One torch in the night, the black
night of the jungle interior, is insufficient for three tired
climbers handling greasy rock, greasy mud, twisting almost
untraceable trails. I forgot snakes and scorpions, oncas and
mosquitos. I merely memorised , the point a few feet in front of me
where Ribeiro put his feet, and where Harvey followed. We tripped
over lianas that hung from the trees like ropes. We got caught in
snares of roots that looped out of the ground. We fell, and crawled,
and swore, and pressed on, refusing all pleas for rest. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aXpN1-gYFao/YQAENgvmqnI/AAAAAAAAHeQ/pQTgBWAPqhA_lyzaNKwNLB4e2bfi4Y9qgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Agulha_do_Diabo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1435" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aXpN1-gYFao/YQAENgvmqnI/AAAAAAAAHeQ/pQTgBWAPqhA_lyzaNKwNLB4e2bfi4Y9qgCLcBGAsYHQ/w280-h400/Agulha_do_Diabo.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I knew that to stop was
to be there for .the night. Though the road was a few hundred feet
below, the forest swallowed all sound and light. We didn't see the
road, we tripped over it. As we walked up the road, ragged and mud
spattered, to bathe in the river pool, I realised with pleasureable
surprise that I was neither scratched, nor bitten, nor bruised. In
fact I was very happy. Next day at work Harvey was showing on his
bruises and scratches. He looked the luckier survivor of a bad
automobile accident. An hour later as the smoke from his cigar wafted
over our partition he said--"I'll buy you a rope. Abercromby and
Fitch have the best mail order service in the world. You specify it,
and I'll get it here in a few days." "Not at all, Ernie,
it's just one of those things." An hour passed unspoken.
"Malcolm, you got whisky?" I had not. It cost £10 a bottle
in Rio. "I get it cheap," he said, -"Would a case be
any good?" Every man, I reflected with a guilty sigh, has his
price. As a Scotsman I had mine. From then on our climbing
partnership was secure, and the hospitality of my household assured. </span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ZJZjG9B1Ypc" width="320" youtube-src-id="ZJZjG9B1Ypc"></iframe></div><br /> <span style="font-family: courier;">Highline Traverse to The finger of God: Ryan Robinson 2018.</span><br /><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Malcolm Slesser: </span></b><span style="font-family: courier;">First published in 'The Climber'-February 1968</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uSApiCGALj0/YQAB9e7YmHI/AAAAAAAAHdw/8BnjZZBxm10mHf91OEq2XTBu4iQ4HcaWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uSApiCGALj0/YQAB9e7YmHI/AAAAAAAAHdw/8BnjZZBxm10mHf91OEq2XTBu4iQ4HcaWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: verdana;"></span>
<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-14270339459938817662021-07-16T11:30:00.000+01:002021-07-16T11:30:30.313+01:00Bearing Up : A cool line in the Cuillins<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: courier;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FdNRFIfSDLE/YPFbdevgmtI/AAAAAAAAHcg/BZN9-yD4TLwFjhIDFwrcditizxLbeaBCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2440.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FdNRFIfSDLE/YPFbdevgmtI/AAAAAAAAHcg/BZN9-yD4TLwFjhIDFwrcditizxLbeaBCQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_2440.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Author Paul Taylor has a point.<br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;">An odyssey (noun) - A
long and eventful or adventurous journey or experience</span>.</span><span style="font-family: courier;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">T<span style="font-family: courier;">he fairy world is
inhabited by many different types of fairies. Like the humans
themselves they live in all kinds of houses. Time does not matter in
the land of the fairies.
</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Motif of the
Mermaid in English, Irish, and Scottish Fairy and Folk Tales</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Stephanie Kickingereder</span></b></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What is a true
wilderness experience? A long, exciting, mythical journey or a
spiritual odyssey? What is the aim and what bearing does it have on
the traveller? Is there any target or goal?</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> After many years of
chasing blue lines on the bottom of swimming pools, I changed my
ways, preferring to scale rock or ascend mountains or both. Finding
thrills following good lines. As a keen photographer, I’ve learnt
the importance of lines-of-sight, discovering that landscape images
frequently show a body of water in the foreground or background. It
took many years of my time-line to piece things together, but the key
that unlocked recent route plans was with the purchase of an open
water wetsuit, then it all began to fit. I’d found merman skin. My
wilder adventures have usually been by climbing, but surely water and
rock don’t mix?... and rain stops play. My latest projects all have
a common linear theme, across water and up rock, striving to create
classic, memorable lines. Off we’ll go…. Bearing Up!
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Planning from home in
Halifax, I found myself looking at maps, zooming into significant
water features, thumbing through guidebooks and searching for lines
in the land. I had some knowledge of landscape art and was
particularly drawn to the land art and photography of “A line made
by walking” by Richard Long in 1967. This work was drawing me
closer to focus in on an objective, to find a new simple way to plan
some “good days out” and “get out there…” to “boldly”
go… and go and keep on going… straight ahead, on one bearing.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Not long after, I read
some of Robert Macfarlane’s “The Wild Places” and a passage
that clearly described his swim in the sanctuary of Loch Coruisk. I
too have an attraction for the Cuillins, perhaps it’s the magnetic
rock, but I couldn’t fail to glance an eagle eye over one line,
stretching along the map and forming “The Skye-Line.”</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">It wasn’t just that
many of Skye’s main tourist attractions lay on this line, bisecting
the Cuillin mountains, through Loch Coruisk, to the Fairy Pools,
there was more; an in-land island, sea and summits, a ridge, the most
awesome wall of rock in the UK and all in a wild and remote
environment. I didn’t have a ruler long enough to link all the
points…! I reached for the longest, straightest edge I could find,
and joined the dots…</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Bearing Up!”
Mascots, two teddy-bears, from A to Z, Azimuth and Zenith, ideas
raced and there was no way back. I plotted route after route on my
phone’s Viewranger mapping app, quick and simple, just a start, a
lake, a good climb and a finish point.”</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">When is a line not
straight…? Answer: Everywhere. Light has been described as
travelling in straight lines. But according to Einstein’s general
relativity…</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">As a matter of fact,
‘straight’ is a very relative term… to keep it simple and
straight-forward... There is NO straight… since gravity alters
the very fabric of space-time, bringing in curvature, it is safe to
assert that nothing is actually ‘straight’. So by extension,
light doesn’t really travel in a straight line. It just
follows the curvature of the space-time fabric, whatever that may
be. A pretty cool example would be when this was actually
observed for the very first time- when it was proved that General
Relativity actually holds good.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Faraz Ahmad
<span style="font-family: courier;">www.quora.com/Why-does-light-travel-in-a-straight-line</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The first observation
of light deflection was performed by noting the change in position
of stars as they passed near the Sun … by Arthur
Eddington … during the total solar eclipse of May 29,
1919</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tests_of_general_relativity</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The absurdity of
straight lines soon dawns on me. My new routes cannot be completely
rigid, I’m not mad! Of course it may all be rather eccentric, I
would clearly need to occasionally bear left or bear right or I’d
travel straight into dire straits… I needed flexibility in my
approach. These straightforward ventures, linear from a bird’s eye
view, would have their ups and downs… U-turn if you want to… but
of course there was no going back.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Cancel the alpine
holiday, we hope for fair weather, out with the midge hoods, we
commit to a summer of Bearing Up! … over the sea… to Skye.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Heeding some very sound
advice from the Mountain Rescue Team, Rachel and I make a brief
reconnaissance dash over to Coir an Uaigneis. We set off despite grey
and gloomy weather, with the ridge looking distinctly imposing. I
identify a rake that leads up to Sgùrr a’ Mhadaidh and my angle up
onto the Cuillin ridge. This would then meet the adjoining spur
adjoining Sgùrr Thuilm. “Keeping on the straight and narrow”
tested by jagged gabbro rock, I hope that there’s a thread that
stretches higher into the mists. Peering into the cloud gives me no
further clear clues but the gloom lifts enough below, to enable us to
take a back-bearing photo down to Loch Coruisk and Sgùrr na Stri,
the “Peak of Strife.” I point “Bolt-like” along my elected
future bearing. The obstacle course stretches out, baring its teeth.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-avzqfChPUnY/YPFb0tfIBwI/AAAAAAAAHco/oE3xAUlyO7YACkPxez9NUq5Kicc_VCcCACLcBGAsYHQ/s1000/IMG_4300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="820" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-avzqfChPUnY/YPFb0tfIBwI/AAAAAAAAHco/oE3xAUlyO7YACkPxez9NUq5Kicc_VCcCACLcBGAsYHQ/w164-h200/IMG_4300.JPG" width="164" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Why Go On a Walk, When
You Can Go On a Bear Hunt?</span><p></p><span style="font-family: courier;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We're going on a bear
hunt.</span></p><span style="font-family: courier;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We’re going to catch
a big one.</span></p><span style="font-family: courier;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">What a beautiful day!</span></p><span style="font-family: courier;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">We’re not scared</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Michael Rosen</span></b></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">We pitch up, with a
fine dawn forecast, and I set off alone at seven in the morning,
straight from the tent at the road junction (Grid Reference NG 5432
1561) on a bearing of 309°. The hill immediately climbs steeply and
I am led by a small herd of deer high on the horizon. The weather is
clearly set for a good day. Ben Mèabost rises up on my left, the
deer flee off right. The Cuillin are obscured behind the horizon.
Boggy topped, flowering with various marshland species, Ben Mèabost
is the most southerly Marilyn on the Elgol peninsula. Its flat
plateau reaches only 345 metres and is separated by Glen Scaladal
from nearby Beinn Leacach. So time to “tick” this, then tramp
over a Tump, splash across a sea bay, scramble over another Marilyn,
make a long loch swim, with an island hop, “bag” a Munro (also
classed as a Murdo) and finally scramble along a rocky ridge. What a
wilderness feast!</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sgùrr na Stri peeks
its head up. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">An eclipse of its summit occurs as I continue down into
the small glen. Climbing up the other side, a new panorama is
revealed, the mild but still wild nature exchanged for the more
remote and rugged views of the Cuillin.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then, down to the bay,
where I’ll swim over the sea, in the realm of the selkie or
seal folk where perhaps I’ll encounter… </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">… water spirits …
merfolk and … kelpie. The Scottish kelpie either appears as a horse
or as an old shabby man. He can be found in all types of waters. He
is a mischievous creature who likes to drown lonely humans. As an old
man the kelpie walks behind lonely [travellers] tearing them apart
and eating them up… A spirit called shellycoat who lives at the
Scottish sea coast also … is depicted as wearing a coat full of
shells which make a strange sound whenever he appears. He likes to
play jokes by giving wrong directions to humans who are on a journey.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">The Motif of the
Mermaid in English, Irish, and Scottish Fairy and Folk Tales
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Stephanie Kickingerede</b>r
2.1.3. Water Spirits and other Fairy Types</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Shellycoats are
considered to be relatively harmless; they may mislead wanderers,
particularly those they think are trespassing upon the creature's
territory, but without malice. A common tactic of a shellycoat
would be to cry out as if drowning and then laugh at the distracted
victim.</span></p><span style="font-family: courier;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shellycoat</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Camasunary (Camas
Fhionnairigh) is a beautifully isolated bay lying at the foot of
Blaven (Bla Bheinn). There are only two notable signs of habitation,
a bothy and another larger property, privately owned, it’s a lovely
spot perhaps to stay a while. I hear faint cries of children playing
near the house as I prepare for the first aquatic adventure of the
day. Three oyster catchers flit about the water’s edge on a gabbro
boulder. I pack my kitbags. These buoyant, waterproof vessels are in
fact an unusual eclectic mismatched collection of water containers,
an orange tow-float and some bargain-choice black bin liners! I
giggle at the possibility that a refuse bag manufacturer might
sponsor such adventures.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">“From our classic
Cuillin range of rubbish bag products, our best-selling black waste
sacks are perfect for everyday use and swim-trek expeditions. Made
from 160 gauge polythene, they strike the perfect balance between bag
strength and price - thick enough so they don’t rip easily, but not
too hard on the wallet either. Tested at sea and on Scottish lochs to
always keep afloat. A popular choice, these are our recommended bags
for Bearing Up! as well as chucking out…!!”</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I stick both boots in…
don my merman-suit, and orange swim hat… cochall draoidheachd =
magic hood</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: courier;">Merfolk wear a special
hat which enable them to dive beneath the waves. If they lose this
cap, it is said that they will lose their power to return beneath the
water.
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merrow</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dAfWUy7dgzE/YPFcVnkZ23I/AAAAAAAAHc4/0oDSGN1ofzYIn9Yf6L7fV2hcRttierc5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dAfWUy7dgzE/YPFcVnkZ23I/AAAAAAAAHc4/0oDSGN1ofzYIn9Yf6L7fV2hcRttierc5gCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_2385.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The water is cool,
clear and calm. Changing from front-crawl to back-crawl, looking
around, taking in the view, this is no place to race and no fun
without lapping up the atmosphere. The waves crossing the bay buffet,
disorientate and put me off balance. Overhead a small group of gulls,
dive down to inspect their invader. The water is clear and shallow
and I rarely lose sight of the bottom. My forward sightings are fixed
on the lofty summit ahead but breathing to the right I regularly
glance over to the little white houses onshore in the valley. A flash
of a jellyfish below pulls me up but is rapidly replaced by sweeps of
seaweeds and the shallows soon reappear as I approach the craggy
shore. My swimming distance so far, about a kilometre. Unpacking
boots, I happily find them dry. I wrap up the damp wetsuit in my tow
float’s pocket. All remaining kit is bone dry and feels warm. I
soak in sun and the satisfaction of having swum Camasunary bay.
Sunshine, boots and socks warm my slightly chilled feet.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Next… a classic
scramble, one that I was very much looking forward to. The direct
route up the south east ridge of Sgùrr na Stri is a grade 1
route, gets two stars and is described as “only for experienced
scramblers.” Many reckon the summit to be Britain's finest
viewpoint. By taking the ridge route I would avoid the infamous Bad
Step and take in the glorious view. Strictly speaking the summit
would be slightly “off bearing” but sometimes making a minor
diversion returns major rewards. I am not disappointed. The Cuillin
lie stretched out ahead, bisected by Loch Coruisk. The image
surpasses that which I had imagined it to be. A brief stop at the top
and then I’m off again bearing down on Loch Coruisk to the
"Cauldron of Waters".</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The descent is more
awkward. The rake to the west of the summit leads down through
precipitous gabbro slopes which in turn aim directly for an erratic
boulder perched upon a slab and perfectly in line with a long thin
island in the middle of the loch. This would surely be a lonely
isolated, disorientating place in the mist. However, I have warm
sunshine on my back, a clear view ahead and, as my photo shows, my
own shadow as guide to point the way down. A perfect navigator.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Boat passengers are
clearly enjoying their day ashore having been ferried there by the
Bella Jane.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">At the water’s edge I
test its temperature. Not exactly balmy. There is not a soul in the
lake despite a small number of walkers about its edge. I feel
conscious of an audience as I line out a procession of burdensome
baggage strung out on bungee cord and tapes. My orange swimming cap
does nothing to help me blend in…</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I decide to set sail.
With a simple glide, I’m off, heading to my island in the sun…</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The loch has been
atmospherically painted by Turner, George Fennel Robson and Sidney
Richard Percy. Lord Tennyson reported his own visit somewhat
wretchedly:</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BZFwwGbhf30/YPFcua_Wa6I/AAAAAAAAHdE/riKB8uWh_TooJwM2n2ZzYhbeUBn4bPdNgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2383%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BZFwwGbhf30/YPFcua_Wa6I/AAAAAAAAHdE/riKB8uWh_TooJwM2n2ZzYhbeUBn4bPdNgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_2383%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25282%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Loch Coruisk, said
to be the wildest scene in the Highlands, I failed in seeing. After a
fatiguing expedition over the roughest ground on a wet day we arrived
at the banks of the loch, and made acquaintance with the extremest
tiptoes of the hills, all else being thick wool-white fog.”</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sir Walter
Scott also visited the loch in 1814 and described it more
intensely:
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Rarely human eye has
known</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A scene so stern as
that dread lake,</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">With its dark ledge of
barren stone...”</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Perhaps you’d best
visit Coruisk, like me, on a good clear day.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Rumours abound that the
loch is the home of a water horse or Kelpie, the shape-shifting
water spirit inhabiting the lochs and pools of Scotland
usually described as appearing as a horse but able to adopt
human form. All that I can see is rocks, water and weed but my
imagination gallops off wildly none the less. Any Kelpie would
hopefully let me pass!</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I leave the outflowing
Scavaig River which flows down to meet the sea at Loch na Cuilce, an
inlet of Loch Scavaig. Only a few hundred metres long, it may be
the shortest river in the British Isles. Submerged on my chilly
course, but with the sun shining down on my back, I swim towards a
mysterious island. Curious tourists ponder my progress. Whether they
think my journey is mad or admirable is difficult to tell.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The water is once again
clear and sparkling, perhaps swimming is spoiled by the need to wear
goggles. Occasionally I stop to take them off and take in the view
above water. A slope to the north east of me shows evidence of
rock-fall down to the loch, most slopes are barren slabs. There are
no trees. My bearing is parallel to the long ridge Druim nan Ramh,
the name meaning "Ridge of the Oars." Each stream that
tumbles down its slopes perhaps signifies a blade for the enormous
“hull”. I paddle alongside, like a sailor, lost overboard from
this giant long-boat but heading for a rocky “life-raft” ahead.
One of a few isolated islands, this feature is also ship-shaped,
anchored midway in the loch. Its sharp gabbro rocks prompt me to wear
my purple “crocs” to protect my feet when standing up.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">You tern if you want
to! Gulls being the only residents are surprised by my arrival
aboard. Feathers and the occasional pile of bones hint that birds are
the only residents. The green woodrushes carpet and conceal the rocky
isle under my “crocodile” shoes. I hear my name called out from
onshore. So, Rachel has seen me at last! I wave back to her then, on
the “bows” of the island slip back into the loch and take another
photo. My strange selfie featuring feet could be titled “Crocs but
no Gaiters.”
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Less than one mile of
swimming to go, I tug steadily on my trailing baggage and pull away
from the island… </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The steep continuously
steady slopes of the Dubh ridge are on the left, “a contender for
the best easy climb in Britain”. It’s a very long route in a
remote setting. A few tiny tourists traverse its huge foot. The rough
weathered rock climbs continuously up from sea-level to the summits
at 3000 feet!</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sighting my target
ahead, the line stretches out straight through the middle of the
narrowing loch. Intermittently I lift my head forwards above the
waterline. The V notch high on the ridge marks out the Skye-line.
Despite such a clear target, I make a few zig-zag diversions off
line, frustratingly buffeted by the steadily building waves. Nearing
the shore a cheer goes out to my right. A couple call-out, something
on the lines of, “Keep going!” Thank you whoever you may be! (I
hope that they are not mysterious shellycoat tricksters.)</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Giant boulders mark the
entrance of the Coruisk River flowing into the loch. Rachel is
waiting on an adjacent beach ahead, acting as a witness and marshall
at this glorious transition checkpoint. The bottom comes up to greet
me and I struggle to stand on the uneven ground. The changeover from
water to land is tricky. The surface of the water refracts and
reflects complex patterns of light, and bends or warps the images of
any solid, firm or stable ground and confuses and befuddles my sense
of balance. I concentrate on sensing a new centre of gravity as I
escape the water’s upthrust and move back from being horizontal to
the vertical world. I only just manage to adapt to the weighty
heaviness of gravity and seem to impersonate an ungainly monster
wallowing out of the lagoon. Perhaps I could be mistaken for an alien
creature from the deep, an ancient merman or even a new-born
shape-shifted Kelpie!</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zKmMI0al4f0/YPFc8DApkvI/AAAAAAAAHdI/nHJjXDyWWjoFQsQcw_wzlLUA6dmpgH51ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zKmMI0al4f0/YPFc8DApkvI/AAAAAAAAHdI/nHJjXDyWWjoFQsQcw_wzlLUA6dmpgH51ACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_2337.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">I wade through the
clearer than crystal blue waters of the Coruisk River. I can’t hold
back my enthusiasm, retelling the day’s events so far to Rachel who
follows me along the river bank. We cross over and step up onto a
warm dry slab where I lay out my dry kit, change into warmer clothes
and produce my lunch from my chain of drybags. I have everything I
need for a full day in the Cuillin and have either towed or carried
it all this way including a dry 30 metre line of 8 millimetre rope. I
really enjoy the feeling of transition from water to land, knowing
that all is going to plan and I’ve left nothing behind. Rachel
takes a few photos and we chat within the rock architecture about the
splendid surroundings that had been sculpted here, drawn out along an
almost perfect line by what must have been an unswervingly deep
glacier. Erratic boulders litter the valley floor along with smooth
whaleback glaciated slabs, scoured with striations. Everyone becomes
a geologist in Coruisk, it’s impossible not to see the naked
evidence around.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Lunch refuels my
wobbling limbs. Trading in tired shoulders for less weary leg power
is a welcome exchange. I check the arrangements for meeting Rachel on
the Glen Brittle side of the Cuillin and set off on the next leg of
my 309° journey, across the flat, marshy, boggy wetland stretching
on for a thousand metres towards the Coir' Uisg Buttress guarding its
head. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The buttress has been
described by climber, Dave Birkett as 'the most awesome wall of rock
in the UK.' Ascending its steep wall, Moonrise Kingdom is a new 130
metre high climbing route, scaled in three pitches and graded E9
(6b/c). Established by James McHaffie and Dan Varian the previous
May, it is claimed as a contender for the most serious multi-pitch
climb in the country. It’s not my line, nor ever shall be. Too hard
for me…! but if anyone’s considering chasing the title of a true
Bearing Up! champion, this would be my certain line for any purists’
adventures…</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Looking back is as
enthralling as looking forward. I take a glance along my back bearing
towards Loch Coruisk, its central island and my rocky descent route
from Sgùrr na Stri. It’s clear why the peak might give someone
strife… Turning around to focus on the wall of Coir' Uisg Buttress
on my forward bearing, I’m struck by how impossibly steep and sheer
it all looks. There is nothing by way of vegetation other than some
dusty algal deposits below overhanging faces. Adrenalin surges around
my system and heightens my senses, I feel my lonely isolation as an
insignificant, tiny visitor, and pushes my imagination further. Coire
an Uaigneis, aka the Ugly Cauldron in my mind brews images of witches
mixing potions high in the shattered rocky cirque above. “Cirque
des Sorcières?” I spook myself thinking in French. Glen Brittle’s
pools may have friendly fairies on the sunny far side of the Cuillin,
but this side of the mountain is more like Mordor. Tolkein, Dante,
Hieronymus Bosch all had visions of such vast, jagged landscapes.
This is a pivotal point on my linear odyssey, where a poor route
choice could lead to misfortune and misadventure…</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Indeed the ascent is no
easy feat. The route is along the edge of a steep sided ravine,
described in the guide book as a “defile.” Water thunders down
the falls on the right. I find my way up a challenging scramble
passing old abseil slings discarded perhaps by long departed
mountaineers maybe descending and in retreat. What a truly awesome
adventure!</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The slopes and walls
reveal no obvious route but a tiny zig-zag takes me up to rather
loose and slippery slabs below steep overhanging walls. My mind
conjures up cautionary warnings, stressing the need to keep calm and
carry on up. I pause, take a deep breath, test the holds, weight my
footing and then gradually make the necessary moves. Will the way
lead ever upwards or will I be forced back? I feel uncertain. But,
eventually the angle subsides and the potential fall factor reduces
to give way to an atmospheric amphitheatre split by a stream. Only a
few days before, I had stood a little higher, on the spur perched on
top of the wall to my right, scouting out the possibilities of
getting through this section. I am increasingly confident that now
the “only way is up” and once I have crossed the stream a
pleasant scramble will place me at the bottom of the rake.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The ridge map shows two
parallel crag markings. I aim to take a way between them, climbing a
“stairway to heaven” rather than slipping down through any “gates
of hell.” The scrambling becomes more entertaining, less precarious
and I gain height confidently. It is hot work and I’m looking
forward to a breeze over the bealach, to a pause, a drink, some food
and breathing in the satisfaction of reaching my favourite ridge. I
climb through a constricted section, breaking through to talus,
boulders and some firm scree. I now know that the ridge will soon be
within my grasp.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">With relief, I reach
the notch on the crest below the summit of Sgùrr a’ Mhadaidh, the
fox’s (or wolf’s) peak, but no sign of any furry friends. I am
completely alone. I had somehow imagined a welcoming party of ridge
traversing mountaineers, climbers or even nimble fell runners at this
point, but no one makes an appearance. Even on such a beautiful day,
on such a classic ridge, you can be entirely on your own.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Having completed the
full Cuillin ridge traverse a few years ago, the craggy way now looks
more familiar. I teeter along the ridge, clamber down to step onto a
large slab and saunter across to gain my line to the summit of Sgùrr
a’ Mhadaidh. At 918 metres altitude, the view stretches out to Glen
Brittle and down to mean sea level. The Munro bagged, ticked and
recorded. My Skye-line Bearing Up! done.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Perhaps the upward
journey is over and a further bearing of 309° from here is just
stubbornly bearing down but the ridge to Sgurr Thuilm is coincidently
on the same line! I start to descend the steep face towards this
outrigging ridge spur. This will clearly be no picnic, so I stop and
have something to eat… The guidebook informs me that the Thuilm
Ridge is graded as an Easy rock climb, “…contains sections which
are both exposed and hard. …is a fine scramble for those with the
nerve and ability...” It is indeed steeply precipitous and route
finding proves trickier than might appear from a map. I descend a
route that others usually ascend and it’s more than a little
challenging.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Two deep gashes split
the ridge and neither gives me a way down. Instead, I follow the main
central buttress and eventually find the col. Here, a stunningly
beautiful aerial pathway between the rocky Coire An Dorus and Coir’
a’ Mhadaidh separates the “wolf” from the “door”. The way
up to the summit is both straight up and straight forward. Sgurr
Thuilm might seem to read as an oxymoron, “the jagged rocky peak of
the rounded hillock”, or maybe it’s the “rocky peak of Tulm”
but google translates it as the “peak of the flood”. From its top
I see crowds of parked tourists’ vehicles, stretching out and
sprawling, serpent-like along the single track road to Glen Brittle,
“flooding the way” with cars and campervans in their pursuit of
“wild swimming” at the Fairy Pools, creating the paradox of a
“wilderness car park.”</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-miknag59E0w/YPFdIOy19WI/AAAAAAAAHdQ/Icb4N9WUo1AXsM1-iife3t1xtwi3J29oACLcBGAsYHQ/s1078/Skye%2BLine%2BOpen%2BSource%2BMap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="744" data-original-width="1078" height="276" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-miknag59E0w/YPFdIOy19WI/AAAAAAAAHdQ/Icb4N9WUo1AXsM1-iife3t1xtwi3J29oACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h276/Skye%2BLine%2BOpen%2BSource%2BMap.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;">He went thataway!</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">But one last challenge
concerns me. The descent from this pyramid shaped peak into Glen
Brittle is cut by gullies and scarred by scree slopes. The deepest of
these is best avoided by side-stepping just over to the west. I ride
down on the shards of rocks, pleased that I chose to wear
mountaineering boots rather than lightweight shoes. Isolated
foxgloves eventually appear, poking through the rocky, rugged
hillside, and lower down the marsh cotton populates the boggy slopes.
My transect following the “Skye-Line” is nearly complete. A
distant lone bird soars skyward over the high horizon. The eagle’s
aerial bearing bisects my own terrestrial-path, a fitting conclusion
to a fabulous day.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">So, did travelling
straight from A to Z provide me with a truly wilderness experience?
Was my new, long and exciting mythical journey, my spiritual odyssey
coming to its end? What has been my aim and what bearing did this
line leave on this lonely traveller? Was there any target or goal?...
All becomes clearer during my concluding steps…</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The route fords the
River Brittle and leads me up to the car park. I am once again in the
company of many fellow tourists. The combined results of such large
visitor numbers at my chosen terminus have clearly left an unpleasant
trace at the finish. A surreal landmark has been placed in the
landscape, there’s no crock of gold at the end of this line, no
“coire òir,” instead two large wheelie bins overflow with their
daily input. Do the fairies mind? Does the Kelpie know of this rival
monster? May the curse of the boggarts be
upon the perpetrators! Will any fairy folk stand together united
against this foe? As I turn to wave farewell to my linear pathway
through the land of the selkies, can I perhaps hear a shellycoat cry
out and then laugh, “Is the Isle of Skye refuse service bearing
up?” Should I unpack my 160 gauge polythene black waste sack? Such
a devious and ironic final twist to my tale. Despite it having been a
very straight-forward day…
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iAbkwlxfPYw/YPFd2vBP0NI/AAAAAAAAHdc/o_SZdZWa4AgjWO1FYSs2CTgRuNGpWxBSwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2436%2Bblot%2Bon%2Bthe%2Blandscape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">.</a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"> there are
no straight-forward answers…
</span><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">
…at the end…</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">
…of
this…
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">
…line... !</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <br /></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I’ve been going 11
hours on a bearing… but it’s been a beautiful day!
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">"The
Skye-Line" Route Summary 10/8/2017</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">A swim across
Camasunary Bay and a cross-sectional-bisector of Loch Coruisk
and the Cuillin mountains to finish near the Fairy Pools, Glen
Brittle on the Isle of Skye.</span></i></p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bearing 309°
</span></i></p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Start location NG 543
156 ? Finish location NG 422 255</span></i></p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Walk length 15.6 km ?
Sea Swim length 1 km ? Loch Swim length 2.4 km ? Scramble grade 3***
</span></i></p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Total Ascent: 1820
metres
</span></i></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jCxh5Y8vvpw/YPFeKeCR-wI/AAAAAAAAHdk/zfHlqAP6-64CHaqizT4bRc12gIhMzJJBQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2436%2Bblot%2Bon%2Bthe%2Blandscape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jCxh5Y8vvpw/YPFeKeCR-wI/AAAAAAAAHdk/zfHlqAP6-64CHaqizT4bRc12gIhMzJJBQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_2436%2Bblot%2Bon%2Bthe%2Blandscape.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Leave Big Trace!</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
<p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Postscript 2018: Jack
McGregor reports in The Herald 31st August 2018 on one “answer”
to the overcrowding conundrum and the riddle of the Fairy Pools
tourist trap, “a new 130-space car park and toilets [have been]
built after receiving over £650,00 of public funding including
£300,000 from the Scottish Government”
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Only time will tell how
the fairies will fare at these pools in the future… but then
perhaps “ Time does not matter in the land of the fairies.”</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> I am also pleased to
report that on October 13th 2018, the Real3Peaks Challenge gathered
10 black bin bags of rubbish at the Fairy Pools led by Adrian and
Bridgette with a team of volunteers from All Things Cuillin. May the
fairy force be with you…</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">What is Bearing Up!?</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Bearing Up! project
is a set of wild challenges that hopefully might "bear fruit"
for the benefit of Mountain Rescue teams following difficult lines on
one bearing within mountainous landscapes along adventurous lines,
swimming challenging open waters, scrambling and climbing up steeper
ground to support others in straits and also raise awareness of the
rising number of floods that have reached new levels in our valleys.
All lines are followed with a "leave no trace" philosophy
and a target to "do each route in one continuous push within a
day".
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">For more information
visit: www.facebook.com/bearingup</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Other successful tales
of epic odysseys include;</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"In Llyn and
Incline"- Llyn Llydaw to Lliwedd.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Braving the water of
Wales avoiding encounters with the Afanc.
</span></i></p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The "Wast-Line"
- Wastwater, Napes Needle and Needle Ridge.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></i></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Swimming over deep
subaquatic gnome gardens that lurk far below and on to reach Gable’s
famous pinnacle.</span></i></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">For donations to
Mountain Rescue England and Wales visit</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">www.mountain.rescue.org.uk/how-you-can-help-us/online-donations</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">For donations to my
local Calder Valley Search and Rescue Team visit </span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">www.cvsrt.org.uk/support-us
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">For Skye Mountain
Rescue donations visit </span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">www.skyemrt.org/donations.html</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
</p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bearing Up!</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Paul Taylor 2021 </b></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Images provided by the author.<b> <br /></b></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qM50qX3bFfQ/YPFazAxn8nI/AAAAAAAAHb4/k-Ca3lzvWp4TRdzGnK3S6rHKR7LfLvHKACLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qM50qX3bFfQ/YPFazAxn8nI/AAAAAAAAHb4/k-Ca3lzvWp4TRdzGnK3S6rHKR7LfLvHKACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></b></div><b><br /> </b><br /><p></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-88713120579412441402021-06-29T10:54:00.000+01:002021-06-29T10:54:12.979+01:00Two Thousand Feet Plus<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BilF1ZlZc3I/YNrqdvWzCZI/AAAAAAAAHZk/JYUh4NPQN1oEZCu4oh24kHHqkVHYGPAFwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/gwen%2Blees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BilF1ZlZc3I/YNrqdvWzCZI/AAAAAAAAHZk/JYUh4NPQN1oEZCu4oh24kHHqkVHYGPAFwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/gwen%2Blees.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">An iconic image of Gwen Moffat. Barefoot climbing above the sea. Image-Johnny Lee Collection</span><br /><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">" IN TWO MILES,"
my husband said, "you'll strike the path. You've got your map
and compass?" I looked at him with contempt and strode away
through the heather. I glanced back a moment later but he'd
disappeared. For the first time I was alone on the Pennines. The
cloud thickened, and with the sun gone in, due south was guesswork.
In five minutes, with John still virtually within whistling distance,
with clear visibility, I was lost in the sense that I didn't know the
direction I should take. For the rest of that walk I moved on a
compass bearing, even when I could see the other moors because
every long smooth ridge looked the same. There was no path, no tree,
not even a boulder to tell me whether I walked straight or in
circles. I'd met groughs for the first time on Kinder. A Himalayan
climber led me along them with only an occasional glance at the
compass. I'd met them again on Cross Fell when John made me go down
and across and up the other side in deep snow, taking pictures for a
lecture on mountain safety. <br /></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">They are deep drainage channels in thet
peat; in winter drifted with snow and perhaps with water under the
ice in the bottom. Like crevasses on a glacier they run in all
directions; each one has to be summed up. To go round or through. In
summer they are a frustrating obstacle, in winter a potential
deathtrap for the exhausted walker. Their composition varies. On
Bleaklow the peat's aeriated and you can get some sort of hold with
the boot (but frozen in winter- they say, it's hell). North of
Longdendale they are slimey. The first one I got into here I could
find no exit for a while. I tried kicking steps as in snow and slid
back each time. Eight feet below the level of the moor I stared along
the channel and felt the faintest shade of panic that others must
have felt in the same circumstances, or worse. I thought about
parties of tired children under an incompetent leader. Of mists and
blizzards and darkness. I wondered why people saw a move to
Derbyshire after years of living in high mountains as a
retrogressive step. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Walking on the two thousand foot moors of the
Pennines is one aspect of mountaineering of the highest order. In
Snowdonia, in the Highlands, there are features everywhere: gullies,
buttresses, identifiable peaks. There, in bad weather, you can find
shelter in a corrie or cwm, here there are no features and no
shelter. Even in mid-summer you know what it will be like in winter. Gales sweeping across the plateau and bogs half-frozen under-foot.
In summer in the mountains you can leave the torch behind and usually
you know your own stamping grounds well enough not to need the
compass even in cloud. In Derbyshire you take the torch in June and
start thinking in terms of a second compass, in the same way a
short-sighted person carries a spare pair of spectacles. In the
second week of our coming to Derbyshire there were three climbing
accidents and two men died. Being connected with Mountain Rescue we
went up to look at the site of the fatal accident to try to determine
the cause.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Below the cliff were the sordid remains of first aid :
stained cotton wool, a wooden spoon. "But it's the wrong place,"
I pointed out, "they couldn't both have been killed here."
The wall above us was scarcely more than thirty feet high. You broke
a leg or an arm at thirty feet, some-times you walked away under your
own steam. It had happened to both of us. But this was the place: the
proof lay in our information from the rescuers and the cotton wool.
We climbed the wall looking for traces of a slip or a broken rock. I
hated every move. Afterwards we moved away to another climb and
suddenly the rock seemed lighter and the wind less cold. For a
mountain guide, that first fortnight-was a salutary introduction to
the High Peak.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3bV1Cqt6EPk/YNrsO3xii7I/AAAAAAAAHZw/tUu3zsLqDL8J9_HsKaRrAGcc4I1QB89-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/bleaklowx2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3bV1Cqt6EPk/YNrsO3xii7I/AAAAAAAAHZw/tUu3zsLqDL8J9_HsKaRrAGcc4I1QB89-ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/bleaklowx2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You adapted quickly; you had to. By the second Sunday
the ravines were no longer `ghylls" but "cloughs." And
underlying my delight in the sudden revelation of their beauty: the
flycatchers in the billowing oaks, dippers singing on orange rocks in
the streams, was the awareness of that other world a thousand feet
higher where, even on Sunday in this enclave between Sheffield and
Manchester, your only company was curlew and golden plover (and the
grouse telling you to go back, go back)—where you walked two miles
for every one on the map—travelling on bearings in perfect
visibility. <br /></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Gwen Moffat. </b><span style="font-family: courier;">First published in The Climber-September 1968</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rTtmkYzVDIk/YNrqU2VUhQI/AAAAAAAAHZg/Fhb8TpEXs1w3zOdETfEUNtosQlKk21cwACLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rTtmkYzVDIk/YNrqU2VUhQI/AAAAAAAAHZg/Fhb8TpEXs1w3zOdETfEUNtosQlKk21cwACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-46329622727362004472021-05-14T16:03:00.000+01:002021-05-14T16:03:05.945+01:00Climbing in South Greenland<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kj8_9dwFV6Y/YJ6PA6nzhQI/AAAAAAAAHW4/gkM3i_Ja8AY7QcS8pC4mwjW98nWYKTq_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1014/joss1_0004x1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="1014" height="316" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kj8_9dwFV6Y/YJ6PA6nzhQI/AAAAAAAAHW4/gkM3i_Ja8AY7QcS8pC4mwjW98nWYKTq_QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h316/joss1_0004x1.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">The Ronne moored in a cove waiting for the ice to clear</span><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This past summer a
party of seven mountaineers from Dublin went to the Tasermuit Fjord
area, near Cape Farewell in South Greenland. It was primarily a
climbing expedition, but some scientific workwas also done. The
party consisted of Joss Lynam (leader, surveyor, geologist), Joe Bent
(cine-cameraman), Frank Doherty, Paul Hill (doctor, physiologist,
botanist), Noel Lynch, Doug Milnes (the only non-Irishman), and Ken
Price (assistant surveyor). We arrived at Narssarssuaq in South
Greenland by air on 16th July. At the quay below the airfield we
found Carl Hoyer waiting for us on his 30-foot ex-lifeboat, the
Ronne, with his crew—in the person of Arnie, his eleven-year-old
son! The Ronne seemed too tiny to accommodate our party let alone the
one and a half tons of food and equipment waiting for us in the
warehouse at Julianehaab! But, somehow, a place was found for
everything, and we sailed down the fjord through the long evening,
happy that in spite of mixed-up plane bookings we were all in
Greenland two days ahead of schedule. Then just as we were
congratulating ourselves that we would soon be in Julianehaab, we met
pack-ice.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This had pushed up the
fjord during the day. Carl had had a clear run up only that morning.
For hours we twisted and turned, backed and inched forward, easing
our way between the ice floes. It was half dark and Carl stood in the
bows fending off floes with a boathook, and signalling to Arnie at
the helm. The rest of us took turns standing at the sides of the boat
to help push off the ice. The Ronne crept slowly forward, keeping
close to the shore, where there was often a narrow lead of open
water. Early next morning, Julianehaab was in sight, only a couple of
kilometres away, but then the tide turned, the floes pressed back on
us, and we had to take refuge behind a promontory and wait until the
tidal current slackened. We finally reached Julianehaab after 16
hours out from Narssarssuaq. We had taken 10 hours to cross a stretch
that Carl had crossed in half an hour the day before. This was our
introduction to sea travel in Greenland. Carl accepted it as a matter
of course, but we found it disturbing, especially as the Ronne was a
wooden boat, which would have been crushed easily by the ice. Nor was
it reassuring when the packet boat which had left Narssarssuaq half
an hour after us limped in five hours later with a foot-square hole
in her bows. We spent two days in Julianehaab, waiting for the ice to
clear, and set off hopefully on the 20th, towing two dinghies in
which were stowed our boxes of food and gear. But the ice was still
thick and our experiences on the way to Julianehaab were repeated
daily for more than a week, as we slowly fought our way to
Nanortalik, only sixty miles away.
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">At Nanortalik we spent
four wet, miserable days (camped on the town rubbish dump except for
the last night when Paul persuaded his confrere at the local hospital
to lend us his absent assistant's flat, before the ice broke up
enough to enable us to move on. Then we had a wonderful run up
Tasermuit Fjord-clear of ice at last—to Base Camp, which we reached
on the evening of 2nd August, 17 days out from Narssarssuaq. Base
Camp was beside the snout of the Sermitsiaq glacier, near the head of
the fjord. Nearby were the remains of the camp of Roger Wallis's 1961
expedition, which had climbed two peaks in the area, Akerna (2030
metres) and Lapworth (1830 metres). It was Roger's photographs and
enthusiastic descriptions which first turned our attention to
Tasermuit. We spent the next five days ferrying food and equipment up
to an advanced base at 920 metres on a rock-island beside the glacial
plateau from which rose our main mountaineering objectives, the
"Cathedral" (2130 metres) and the "Minster" (2010
metres). It was cold and cloudy, and though we were able to
reconnoitre routes on both peaks the weather was too uncertain for us
to make a real assault. Three of us therefore went on across an arm
of the ice-cap towards Lindenows Fjord, an inlet running in from the
east coast. We were at "Camp Z" at 1300 metres in the
middle of a huge snowfield when the weather broke, and we experienced
the wildest night that I can remember in 25 years of mountaineering.
We had a good tent, a Meade, but as we lay there watching the fabric
flapping and straining in the wind it seemed impossible it should not
tear.
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Snow found its way in
and melted, so that by morning we were soaked as well as half-frozen.
The wind eased slightly about 11 a.m., so we bundled up our gear, dug
out the tent, and fled. Crossing the glacier in "white-out"
conditions we found most of the crevasses by falling into them. We
found Advanced Base deserted; the others had collapsed the tents and
gone down. A ripped and tattered flysheet showed that they had also
had a rough night. Dumping our tent, we hurried down to base, where
we found the others repairing the storm damage there. The tarpaulin
roof was half off our "kitchen" and the flysheet of our big
sleeping tent was ripped and askew. Life was thoroughly miserable,
but at least they could give us the good news that the day before the
storm Frank and Paul had climbed an 1800 metre peak east of
Cathedral, and had seen what they thought was a practicable route up
the S.E. ridge of Cathedral itself. The weather improved after a
couple of days. but since it would take some time for the new snow to
melt or consolidate, we turned our attention to scientific work, and
to exploring the lower peaks on the west shore of the fjord. One day
remains in my memory as a complete contrast with out experiences at
Camp Z. We walked up the Itivdlerssuaq valley to collect plants near
a moraine lake, The lower part of the valley was. as is usual in
South Greenland, a knee-high jungle of dwarf birch and willow,
guaranteed to ruin a walker's shins and temper in ten minutes. But
around the lake were grasses, and many species of erica, campanula.
and alchemilla; from the lake flowed a clear stream; the sun shone,
the air was warm, and even the midges seemed less ubiquitous. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MkNCg6_fap8/YJ6Prja1enI/AAAAAAAAHXI/6Xb0CjMA3iQIDzO2Nq9xtLbseujWkKYFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/green%2Bmountains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MkNCg6_fap8/YJ6Prja1enI/AAAAAAAAHXI/6Xb0CjMA3iQIDzO2Nq9xtLbseujWkKYFgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/green%2Bmountains.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The day after this Ken
and Doug attempted a 1400-metre aiguille behind Base Camp. An ice
gully led them to within a hundred metres of the top, but the
apparently climbable final ridge turned out to be a mass of unstable
boulders, and they retreated down another ice gully. The rest of us
crossed in the dinghy to the west shore. Paul "botanised,"
the rest of us climbed. Noel and Joe climbed two snow peaks (the "Ben
Bauns") of about 1440 metres, which we had glimpsed the day
before. Frank and I climbed "Staircase Peak" opposite Base
Camp. It looked easy, and it was, until we met the summit tower,
black, lichen-covered rock, plastered with soft snow. However, we had
not come up 1300 metres to be stopped by the last 50 metres, so with
the aid of three pitons, the tower was climbed. Next day Noel and I
collected another peak on the west shore, mainly as a survey station
since the weather had been too cloudy for surveying from Staircase
Peak. The others went down the fjord in the rubber dinghy, searching
unsuccessfully for a Norse monastery, whose ruins were supposed to be
visible on the east shore, about ten kilometres down the fjord. A
dinghy and outboard motor are essential for communications in case of
any emergency—it would take days to walk out along the precipitous
shores of the fjord to the nearest settlement, 50 kilometres away.
The dinghy was also very useful for fishing. In half and hour we
could easily catch enough cod to make a good meal for the seven of
us. By 16th August conditions were good enough for us to go back to
Advanced Base, to make a determined attack on the Cathedral. The
first assault team (Ken and Noel) moved up to a camp perched at 1200
metres on the col between the Cathedral and the Minster. The next day
they went for the summit; busy surveying, we watched with half an eye
for the green flare that would signal their success, but we saw
nothing, and the next team (Doug and Frank) moved up to Col camp.
Then at 10 p.m. that night we were awakened by a triumphant Noel and
Ken—they had climbed the Cathedral! It had been a long hard day.
The first 500 metres was an easy, if laborious, plod up soft snow
slopes. The last 500 metres was up the granite slabs of the
south-east ridge. The climbing never fell below V. Diff., and the
crux was a strenuous V.S. crack just below the summit block. They
reached the summit at 4 p.m. after 8 hours' climbing.
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A few clinometer sights
confirmed our belief that the Cathedral was higher than all its
neighbours, and then they descended. Doug and Frank were to have
climbed the Cathedral the next day, followed by Joe, Paul, and myself
with the cine camera, but in the morning the clouds were down, and
the cold S.E. wind was blowing—no weather for the Cathedral. Doug
and Frank brought back the Col camp, and with Doug now nursing a
damaged ankle, continued down to Base Camp. Paul, Joe, and I climbed
an 1800-metre peak to the north, on the edge of the bad weather. It
was bitterly cold, but from the summit we could see to the north and
west where the sky was clear, across the ice-cap, a limitless rolling
plain of snow, with only an occasional nunatak breaking the
whiteness. One geological objective was to find the northern limit of
the Tasermuit granite, so Joe, Ken, Paul, and myself went north again
to Camp Z. At the time of the storm we had called the campsite "the
backside of nowhere" and even in sunshine, when our dump came
into view as a minute orange dot in the level snowfield, it seemed
utterly remote. Above Camp Z was "Tent Peak" (2050 metres),
almost as high as the Cathedral. We climbed it the next day by a rib
on the south face, without much difficulty, though the last 50 metres
to the summit ridge were good Severe (or maybe the fact that my
breeches were falling down while I led this pitch made me over-grade
it!) We had a wonderful view over Lindenows Fjord to the 2250-metre
Apostelen Tommelfinger. This had been one of our original objectives,
but the two weeks lost in the pack ice had left us with insufficient
time to reach it. The Minster was the biggest remaining challenge, so
Ken and I tackled it next. We tried the west ridge (previously
reconnoitred by Doug and Ken) and after a lot of trouble in a snow
couloir reached the west shoulder. Above this we had good
climbing—about Severe—on the rock ridge, until about 250 metres
below the summit. Then the climbing became really hard and dangerous,
since the granite was friable, and holds crumbled. We could get a
little higher by moving onto the S.W. face, but one pitch higher we
were blocked by a series of over-hangs. We turned back, without a
siege for which we had no time, the Minster could not be climbed. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e_GFeqkZVtU/YJ6P0FmdhiI/AAAAAAAAHXM/AE4roXlJg9glQ517YeP0D8P6wvLItrlfwCLcBGAsYHQ/s976/green%2Bvillx1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="976" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e_GFeqkZVtU/YJ6P0FmdhiI/AAAAAAAAHXM/AE4roXlJg9glQ517YeP0D8P6wvLItrlfwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h225/green%2Bvillx1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A couple of days later
Carl picked us up; there was no ice, and instead of 17 days, it only
took us two to get back to Narssarssuaq. On the way we experienced
again the helpfulness of Danes and Greenlanders. In Nanortalik a Dane
with happy memories of a week in Dublin gave us all tea, and was a
mine of information about Greenland past and present. The manager for
the Royal Greenland Trade Department came out on Sunday afternoon to
take over our heavy baggage which we were sending by sea, so did the
manager of the local supermarket. And at Syd Proven we were given the
canteen of the fish factory for our overnight stay. A heaven with
central heating and hot showers. We would strongly recommend
Greenland to any small group contemplating a mountaineering
expedition. Perhaps the possible delays due to pack-ice (though we
were told that this summer was the worst for 40 years) and bad
weather might put people off the Cape Farewell area, but elsewhere on
the coast there are hundreds and hundreds of unclimbed peaks, and
virtually unmapped areas. You can travel to Greenland by ship or
plane, quickly, and comparatively cheaply. Food and fuel are in good
supply and very cheap (the Danish Government subsidise transport to
Greenland) and it is easy to get permission for an expedition from
the Danish Ministry for Greenland. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Joss Lynam : <span style="font-family: courier;">First Published in The Climber-December 1968</span></b></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jcxH81r_hsc/YJ6QSyChIWI/AAAAAAAAHXY/hD3feZYPa4Y0lf2tAyDQbaSi01vIq3v9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jcxH81r_hsc/YJ6QSyChIWI/AAAAAAAAHXY/hD3feZYPa4Y0lf2tAyDQbaSi01vIq3v9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></b></div><b><br /> </b><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-74436738467533914602021-04-30T12:03:00.000+01:002021-04-30T12:03:54.935+01:00Colin Kirkus: Pathfinder<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zM-40P7rXjc/YIviCeSrd7I/AAAAAAAAHWI/1oBRaogHHu8PuIseG4DaeR4xFRp8u_CnACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/kirkus%2Bcam.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="696" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zM-40P7rXjc/YIviCeSrd7I/AAAAAAAAHWI/1oBRaogHHu8PuIseG4DaeR4xFRp8u_CnACLcBGAsYHQ/w436-h640/kirkus%2Bcam.webp" width="436" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">The motor cycle roared
north from Kendal, over Shap, towards Scotland and Ben Nevis.
Crouched over the handlebars was Maurice Linnell; behind him, with a
mountain of camping gear, Colin Kirkus. It was Easter, 1934, and in
the previous three years or so these young men had shot like
brilliant meteors across the British climbing scene. As the snow clad
Highlands opened up before them it seemed as though the motor bike
was carrying them into a glorious future. Seven years before,
young Colin Kirkus had persuaded his parents to take the family
holiday at Betws y Coed. Usually they holidayed on the Welsh coast,
but Colin, fired with a love of mountains and stirred by George
Abraham's British Mountain Climbs, wanted to be nearer the heart of
things. Betws y Coed was a compromise. He had nobody to climb with,
but this did not stop him from setting off alone for Craig yr Ysfa,
armed with a rope. He climbed Arch Gully, then tried B Gully and fell
at the crux — a smooth overhanging chockstone. Picking himself up
he tried again, with the same result. He gave the mountain best and
went home. </span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Kirkus was born in Liverpool in 1910. He first went to
Wales when he was seven and right from the start there was something
about those wild hills which appealed to him. He scrambled and walked
whenever he could and by the age of twelve he was acting as "guide"
to his younger brothers. His first real climbing, however, was on his
Betws y Coed holiday. Not content with near disaster on Craig yr
Ysfa, he tried his luck on the Holly Tree Wall at Cwm Idwal, choosing
Lazarus as a likely looking solo climb. He got out of that one by
lassoing a bollard and swarming up the rope! But Kirkus didn't seem
to mind; already he seemed to have those nerves of steel which became
the hallmark of his great ascents. In the following year, when he was
18, Kirkus joined the Climbers' Club. Of medium height, slight of
build, with a longish face and characteristic quiff in his hair, one
of his contemporaries who met him at Helyg thought he was "rather
strange looking". He had the reputation of being a gannet where
food was concerned, and also, since rumours of his solo climbs had
got around, of being slightly crazy. At Helyg he met Alan Hargreaves
(The Little Man) who also had a reputation to consider, so together
they tackled Holly Tree Wall in nails in the pouring rain. The other
members referred to them collectively as The Suicide Club.
Nevertheless it was a fruitful partnership, with Hargreaves
transforming an untutored climbing genius into a brilliant
technician. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QumuheCVwm4/YIvjFUQt4wI/AAAAAAAAHWc/Cg14XY1_vv80xSPdbllvOdaxkn1jhiuHQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/kirksilyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="920" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QumuheCVwm4/YIvjFUQt4wI/AAAAAAAAHWc/Cg14XY1_vv80xSPdbllvOdaxkn1jhiuHQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h230/kirksilyn.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">The classic 'Kirkus Route' on The Great Slab-Cwm Silyn </span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Twice in the course of this partnership Kirkus came off
and Hargreaves held him: once on the Craig yr Ysafa Pinnacle and
again on Great Central, Dow Crag. It was with Hargreaves that Kirkus
produced the guide book to Helsby Crag; a fine sandstone outcrop in
the Wirral which has always been popular with Liverpool climbers and
where, at that time, men like Marshall, Hicks and Edwards were
climbing. Marshall, in fact, was exploring for the book when he fell
and was killed. Kirkus and Hargreaves took up the work and Kirkus
added nineteen new routes, mostly of a very high standard. Strangely
enough, Kirkus did not like gritstone, but he did climb on the
Cornish cliffs — the well known Pendulum Chimney on Chair Ladder is
one of his creations. The other outstanding Helsby tiger of that
immediate period was F. E. Hicks and it was inevitable that he and
Kirkus should meet. In fact they met quite accidentally at Helyg in
1929 and at first Hicks was not keen to have the young Liverpudlian
join his party — Colin's reputation was a handicap at times. But
they did join forces and the result was Lots Groove on Glyder Fach
and Central Route on Tryfan's Terrace Wall. On the former route only
Hicks was able to follow Kirkus and on the Terrace Wall, even Hicks
could not follow the powerful lead. Three days later, with
Hargreaves, Kirkus made the second ascent of Longland's Climb on
Clogwyn du'r Arddu. It took them four and a half hours; much of the
time being spend gardening. In a way this second ascent of Longland's
marked the end of an apprenticeship. Now he was an acknowledged
master and the next three years were ones of brilliance. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In 1930,
with Graham MacPhee, Kirkus put up the Great Slab route on Cloggy.
Today regarded as one of the easier climbs on that great cliff it was
then a major breakthrough for not only did it penetrate the
over-hangs which prevent access to the West Buttress but it involved
run-outs which were quite exceptional. Kirkus had more than 120 feet
of rope behind him on his first pitch — all unknown, very severe,
exposed, loose and vegetated rock. Today, of course, the climb is
sound and picked clean by a thousand grasping fingers, but in 1930 it
was quite different and it is doubtful if any other climber of the
period had both the nerve and skill to do what Kirkus did.
Incidentally, it was after this climb that the nickname Cloggy was
invented. To the chagrin of ardent Welshmen it has stuck ever since.
Turning his attention to the Lake District, Kirkus looked at the
black, forbidding East Buttress of Scafell—the result was
Mickledore Grooves, the first breach in that cliff. Thus in one
season Kirkus had demonstrated the possibilities of the two great
cliffs which were to dominate the immediate post-war years of British
climbing. In Wales, before the year was out, he also climbed his
famous Direct Route on the Nose of Dinas Mot. All these climbs
represented exploration and skill of a high order, not to be despised
even by today's high standards — indeed, for twenty years they
represented the ultimate in British rock climbing. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lsQZz-t7Nx0/YIviRnlgJHI/AAAAAAAAHWM/-rUQ43tV-40D2kN92DB9FOxVW611g_EogCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/kirkus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="555" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lsQZz-t7Nx0/YIviRnlgJHI/AAAAAAAAHWM/-rUQ43tV-40D2kN92DB9FOxVW611g_EogCLcBGAsYHQ/w139-h200/kirkus.jpg" width="139" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Unlike Edwards,
who lived on his nerves and was eventually consumed by them, Colin
Kirkus seemed not so much to conquer fear as to be completely
fearless, which is quite a different thing and very rare. Marco
Pallis said that Kirkus could stand for what seemed like hours on
next to nothing, a hundred feet above his second man, with complete
indifference. Perhaps he had supreme confidence in his own technical
ability —certainly it never let him down, and he was not a strong
man (as Edwards was) able to rely on muscle to get him out of a tight
spot. He climbed slowly, often ungainly to watch, yet all problems
dissolved before his technical mastery and superb aplomb. A
comparison with Edwards is inevitable since both were the great
innovators of the 30's. There were others to match them in skill —
Linnell, for example — but none had that vital spark which they
possessed and which makes for progress. Yet they had it differently;
Edwards pulgging away at the Three Cliffs and the Devil's Kitchen
area and altering basic conceptions of the sport; Kirkus flitting
like some glorious butterfly from cliff to cliff, armed with a Midas
touch, picking off lines of greatness. In 1931 he made his remarkable
solo first ascent of the Pinnacle Wall, Craig yr Ysfa. Then came
Chimney Route and Pedestal Crack, Cloggy, and a couple of routes on
the much neglected Great Slab of Cwm Silyn. A year later, on his
birthday, came Birthday Crack and the ever popular Curving Crack, on
Cloggy. He kept fit by cycling to Helyg from Liverpool and on
occasions even walking it. </span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There is no doubt that he thought he would
be picked for the 1933 Everest Expedition (though his Alpine record
was undistinguished) and he might have been, too, but for opposition
from certain influential quarters. His failure to be chosen was a
bitter disappointment but he gained some consolation by going on
Marco Palls' Gangotri Expedition. He took a leading part in the
ascent of Bhagirathi III (6,866 m), a climb said to involve some of
the hardest rock climbing ever attempted at high altitude. And so to
1934 and that fateful Easter journey to Ben Nevis. They camped below
the mountain which was well covered with snow and on the Saturday set
off to climb the Castle; one of the standard routes on Cam Dearg.
They made good time and had reached the treacherous slabs just below
the top when a step broke, and Linnell, who was leading, hurtled down
the cliff. There was nothing Kirkus could do. Plucked from his steps
he tumbled after his leader, alternately banking from rock to rock
and hissing through snow slopes. Linnell was killed outright,
strangled by the rope. Kirkus was seriously injured, temporarily half
blinded. Yet even in this extreme situation his supreme calmness
never deserted him. He anchored Linnell's body, carefully laying out
the rope so that place could be easily recognized and only then did
he drag himself off the mountain, all the weary tortuous miles to
Fort William and help. For Colin Kirkus it was the end of a brilliant
climbing career. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j1D3NiwqQrA/YIvicZvEc4I/AAAAAAAAHWU/KWSe8xf6DTIEoB3cJxZCtxpGSSxM6O9hQCLcBGAsYHQ/s474/kirkus%2Bbook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="318" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j1D3NiwqQrA/YIvicZvEc4I/AAAAAAAAHWU/KWSe8xf6DTIEoB3cJxZCtxpGSSxM6O9hQCLcBGAsYHQ/w269-h400/kirkus%2Bbook.jpg" width="269" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Though he recovered completely, the impetus of
exploration left him and he confined himself to modest climbs,
frequently instructing beginners. He made a brief comeback to do the
Glyder Fach guidebook, and though this showed that he hadn't lost
his nerve or skill, the old fire was gone. It was during this time
that he wrote his delightful Let's Go Climbing, one of the best
introductions to the sport ever published. On the outbreak of war he
joined the R.A.F. and became a navigator. In 1940 his plane failed to
return from a bombing raid on Germany. </span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Walt Unsworth:</span></b></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">First published in 'The Climber' August 1967. </span><br /></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a name="cite_ref-3"></a>
<span style="font-family: courier;">Kirkus was killed in WW2 in September 1942. He was serving as a navigator with
an RAF Pathfinder squadron. He was one of four brothers, all of whom saw flying service
in the RAF, and three of whom were killed in action in the Second
World War. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-flGr749kqT8/YIvbyzpVXaI/AAAAAAAAHWA/tLL9U8wmQ0UJNnkpgxUlIteCzpDyRrNkQCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-flGr749kqT8/YIvbyzpVXaI/AAAAAAAAHWA/tLL9U8wmQ0UJNnkpgxUlIteCzpDyRrNkQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-33941407757576133702021-04-09T12:22:00.000+01:002021-04-09T12:22:49.828+01:00The Decline of Tremadoc<p>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zOoVYGNLZD8/YHA1TB1j67I/AAAAAAAAHVM/DG6qzvnvvkYxb0GtlD5YCa4x76vJBXpdgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/HaroldWanda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1150" data-original-width="1600" height="288" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zOoVYGNLZD8/YHA1TB1j67I/AAAAAAAAHVM/DG6qzvnvvkYxb0GtlD5YCa4x76vJBXpdgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h288/HaroldWanda.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Harold Drasdo on an obscure and rarely ascended Tremadog VS 'Wanda'. Look out for Adders if you ever fancy having a go at this slice of Tremadog esoterica!</span><br /><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Dismantle
Milestone Buttress stone by stone, and rebuild it in the Pass, and
you could blow up the rest of Tremadoc for all the good it is.".
So spoke Pete Crew. Strange words, especially as more people climb
there than ever before. Does not this popularity make Crew's words
paradoxical to say the least? How is it possible to speak of "the
decline" of a climbing area when the latest guide to it states
that it is no longer a bad weather alternative, but an important
centre in its own right? Every period in the development of Welsh
rock climbing has featured certain crags as the venues for its
greatest achievements, as a barometer of its whole conception of high
standard climbing. For a brief period Tremadoc came near to
fulfilling such a role, and perhaps it actually occupied such a
position in the years at the end of the 1950s; between what has been
called the 'Brown Era' and the more modern period that began in 1961
on Clogwyn dur Arddu. During those few years most of the hardest
routes were climbed, and everyone wanted to know about Snowdon South.
Today the barometer has certainly moved elsewhere, back to the big
high cliffs, and to the area that may become Wales's next major bad
weather centre, the sea cliffs of Anglesey.
</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">There are some
interesting reasons for the decline in status that Tremadoc has
suffered. First an obvious one—there are not many good routes
there. Some people have prophesied a trend away from majesty of line,
and towards concern with technical detail, as the next stage of Welsh
climbing. So far they have been wrong. Advanced technique has been
used to open up better lines. Look at three of the technically most
difficult routes in the' new Llanberis South guide "Beorn",
"The Great Buttress" and "Nexus"; all great
climbs up really impressive `weaknesses'. In fact it is at Tremadoc
that the difficult, but less worthy, additions seem to have been
made. Also, there has been a social revolution in Welsh climbing.
Greater prosperity for young people has made motor transport
accessible to thousands of climbers who previously had to be content
with local outcrops at weekends. This has made 'weekending' in Wales
regular instead of exceptional—but there have been less obvious
changes, towards which the peculiar characteristics of Tremadoc have
contributed. The aura of impregnability that surrounded the hard
routes of the 1950s has often been described, but the role played by
Tremadoc climbing in undermining these myths, is not so well known. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The discovery of the
area's possibilities helped to make Welsh climbing an
all-the-year-round affair. It became worth going up to Wales on a
winter weekend (as well as possible). Routes could be done even if
rain blanketed Llanberis. It was inevitable that the hard routes in
Snowdon South, should provide the first introduction to high standard
Welsh climbing for many of the outcrop-trained newcomers. (The North
side of Llanberis Pass of course played a similar role). What's more
the short, sunny, accessible and well-protected Tremadoc climbs
provided an exceptionally homely and unexacting introduction. As late
as 1964 it was possible to do early ascents of routes on high crags
that were technically much easier than the hard problems in Snowdon
South, which had already become standard routes. There were plenty of
'myths' of course, even at Tremadoc, in these `early' days, but they
were myths that crumbled fast. Climbs seemed to hold their
reputations for a year at most, and only routes of really stupendous
quality such as 'Vector' survived this process of devaluation. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vSUSLLYX_S8/YHA3x3zxVXI/AAAAAAAAHVc/tKb34OEMYVcw5NbiMicU1kZs80DiGdDkgCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/maggie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vSUSLLYX_S8/YHA3x3zxVXI/AAAAAAAAHVc/tKb34OEMYVcw5NbiMicU1kZs80DiGdDkgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/maggie.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Maggie Reenan climbing at Tremadog for a TV special. See linked interview below.</span> </span> <br /></span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">By 1964 Tremadoc has
done its work well. The floodgates were open. A new wave of high
standard climbing swept the big cliffs, and achievements by the sea
just didn't seem to matter any more. Last summer a party did "Red
Slab", "Troach" and "Shrike" in one day.
Three years ago this would have been a good summer's ambition for
most climbers. Most Welsh regulars will probably agree with Crew's
debunking statement with which the article began. It may seem a
little unfair to be so hard on the training ground that has played so
important a part in making the big routes much more accessible,but
the other side of the coin to the 'decline of Tremadog' is the
enjoyment of really great routes by more and more climbers.
<br /><br /><b>Dave Cook</b>: <span style="font-family: courier;">First published in The Climber: April 1967</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://footlesscrow.blogspot.com/2012/05/maggie-reenan-interview.html">Maggie Reenan interview </a></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8S7IRCPrZwQ/YHA4axUzttI/AAAAAAAAHVk/A46QG7DlZOkVE6sYgUACrM1u3L8CPpq5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8S7IRCPrZwQ/YHA4axUzttI/AAAAAAAAHVk/A46QG7DlZOkVE6sYgUACrM1u3L8CPpq5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-7844850421689183102021-03-22T11:14:00.000+00:002021-03-22T11:14:15.000+00:00Scafell : The finest climbing ground in England<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8jA2u_k7qNI/YFh1EhHjw8I/AAAAAAAAHUg/sMDkSNej318Ekh2rx0HN6Te3jMG48PaWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1000/scafell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="1000" height="318" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8jA2u_k7qNI/YFh1EhHjw8I/AAAAAAAAHUg/sMDkSNej318Ekh2rx0HN6Te3jMG48PaWQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h318/scafell.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">There are only a few
places in Britain where you can see more rock in one glance than you
can from around Mickledore—and they are nearly all in Scotland. For
the great cliffs of Scafell are the biggest and most forbidding
precipices in England—the best climbing ground in the country and
really the place where it all started about a hundred years ago.
True, there had been something like 50 ascents of Pillar Rock by the
time men in deerstalkers and Norfolk jackets discovered the North
Climb and Mickledore Chimney, but these were mostly scrambles up
fairly easy ways requiring little knowledge of cragmanship. And,
besides, the very earliest climbing enthusiasts had been accepting
the challenge of an isolated pinnacle with a summit that cried out to
be trodden, whereas on Scafell the pioneers were not trying to reach
a summit—easily attainable by walking—but deliberately seeking
out steep rock for its own sake. Pillar Rock is just as high, but
perhaps not so steep, as the steepest cliffs on Scafell which embrace
several crags, and Scafell became the Mecca of the climbing world
long before the turn of the century. And, to a greater degree than
anywhere else, it was on these unrelenting cliffs that rock-climbing
became a sport in its own right. Today, the development of
rock-climbing in England—especially free climbing—may be said to
have reached its present peak on Scafell, but the experts declare
there are still new lines to discover, still a great deal of
unclimbed rock which some day may be scaled.
</span><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You can glean the story
of this surge of development, from the easy routes up obvious ways by
pioneers in heavily nailed boots to the delicate balance moves of
today up vertical or overhanging rock, by a study of the new guide to
the Scafell Group. This is the second in the new series published by
the Fell and Rock Climbing Club and edited by John Wilkinson—the
new Langdale guide was published last year. The Scafell guide has
been written by Geoff Oliver and Joe Griffin who have been
responsible for several of the new routes, and, commenting on their
labours, the editor writes: "certainly nowhere in the
Lake District are so many routes of such superlative quality and
difficulty to be found." Something like 150 routes are listed in
the guide, and half of them are in the very severe or extremely
severe category, a remarkably high proportion. Of the eight routes in
the highest grade, five are on East Buttress—the "Cloggy"
of the Lake District. In the very earliest days development was slow
indeed, When the North Climb and Mickledore Chimney were discovered
in 1869 the only known way to the top of the crag was by the scramble
up Broad Stand, a route which adventurous shepherds had used for
years, but it was to be another 13 years before anything else
happened .on the crag. Then Haskett Smith found his way up Deep Ghyll
and the pioneers began to work out the obvious routes. All the great
names in the first decades of British climbing—Haskett Smith, Owen
Glynne Jones, W. G.., Slingsby, the Abrahams, Siegfried. Herford and
H. M. Kelly—were associated with the development of Scafell Crag.
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But for more than 30
years now the emphasis has shifted across the other side of
Mickledore to East Buttress, the dark, overhanging cliff that the
pioneers , considered impregnable. Here, and especially since the
war, routes have been put up .which approach the limit of possibility
and on many summer weekends climbers may be seen, high up among the
overhangs, trying to force even harder routes. Perhaps the art of
free climbing reaches as high a standard on the East Buttress of
Scafell as it does anywhere in Europe. The pace has increasingly
quickened with the discovery of harder and harder routes. By 1900
there were only 22 climbs on Scafell including Collie's Moss Ghyll,
only forced after he had hurled the gauntlet at convention by
clipping a foothold in the rock with his axe. Perhaps the most
remarkable achievement up to that time had been Owen Glynne Jones's
great lead up the Pinnacle Face in stockinged feet on an April
evening in 1898. But by the outbreak of the First World War there
were -78 climbs in the area, one of the highlights of this period
being Fred Botterill's ascent of the slab that bears his name—in
nailed boots and carrying rucksack and ice-axe. This was in 1903—the
most daring lead in Britain up to that time, and even today a
delicate route for experts only, still holding its very severe
classification after 65 years. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vZTvn_pCzCY/YFh3_SRcc6I/AAAAAAAAHUo/04ZmZbcm3vQZZUa2UHOrklcdDns5GsGBQCLcBGAsYHQ/s500/sca3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="362" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vZTvn_pCzCY/YFh3_SRcc6I/AAAAAAAAHUo/04ZmZbcm3vQZZUa2UHOrklcdDns5GsGBQCLcBGAsYHQ/w290-h400/sca3.jpg" width="290" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was followed by the
great climbs on the Pinnacle, Face by Herford and Sansom, their
girdle traverse of the crag and finally, a few months before war
broke out, their ascent of Central Buttress. This was probably the
biggest single breakthrough in standard in the history of Lakeland
climbing. Central Buttress is unremittingly steep and the crux is the
ascent of the overhanging Flake Crack. On the first ascent the second
man sat in a cradle of rope loops from the chockstone below the
flake, the leader gaining the top of the overhang by standing, first
on his second's knees, then on his shoulders and head, and finally
reaching up to grip the tip of the flake. Nothing like this had ever
been attempted in Britain before and it was many years before
anything harder was achieved. Central Buttress is probably the most
famous climb in Lakeland and is still regarded as a route of great
difficulty and character, although there are now at least eight
routes in the Scafell area alone that are today regarded as much more
serious undertakings. Many years ago I climbed on several occasions
with G. S. Sansom, a very neat climber indeed in rubber plimsolls,
moving quickly up smooth rock with little effort and just as nimble
in descent. He was a man who must have kept his form even when far
from the Lake District, for on his rare visits he always liked to
start with Hopkinson's Gully, still a hard severe. After the First
War H. M. Kelly became the outstanding leader on Scafell, Moss Ghyll
Grooves being one of his finest discoveries, and in 1931 the late
Colin Kirkus began the assault on the bulging walls of East Buttress
with his magnificent Mickledore 'Grooves, which involves a run-out,
on its last pitch, of up to 140 feet of rope.
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He was followed by
others, including the late Maurice Linnell, the late A. T. Hargreaves
and finally, just before the war, by Jim Birkett, the Little Langdale
climber who was to dominate Lakeland climbing for nearly ten years.
All these rising standards, however, were eclipsed in 1952 by the
extremely difficult Hell's Groove, led by the late Arthur Dolphin,
and climbs like Trinity and Phoenix put up a few years later by Don
Whillans and Ron Moseley carried on the new tradition. And standards
continued to rise in more recent years with remarkably exacting
routes by the late Robin Smith from Scotland, Les Brown, Geoff Oliver
and others, some of the new climbs being on Esk Buttress, on the
opposite side of Mickledore, below the summit of Scafell Pike.
Indeed, so advanced has become the climbing in the district that the
"very severe" category has had to be divided into three
sections and a higher grade of "extremely severe" added.
Most of the eight climbs in this highest grade are on East Buttress,
as I have written earlier, two are on Esk Buttress and one on Scafell
Crag itself—straight up the steep wall to the left of Central
Buttress. The very names of some of the hard routes on Scafell betray
something of their flavour—names like Hell's Groove, Holy Ghost,
Armageddon, Gargoyle Direct, Ichabod, Black Sunday and Overhanging
Grooves. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xZ4G32_1Bzw/YFh4MxCkkOI/AAAAAAAAHUs/umN5cG2-xhUpqMhICbGUWFQwJtfA6oeOwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/AH_griffin%2B%2528716x1280%2529x2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="716" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xZ4G32_1Bzw/YFh4MxCkkOI/AAAAAAAAHUs/umN5cG2-xhUpqMhICbGUWFQwJtfA6oeOwCLcBGAsYHQ/w358-h640/AH_griffin%2B%2528716x1280%2529x2.jpg" width="358" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;"></span> <p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">All have been put up by
a new breed of climbers who seem safer on smooth, sloping holds half
an inch wide or less, than some of us may be on ledges you could walk
along. The writer has had no personal acquaintance with these harder
routes on Scafell, but has watched some of them being climbed and has
marvelled at the difference between their standard and that of the
climbs we considered hard 30 years ago. Many times it has been stated
that the crags of Lakeland are worked out, but more new climbs than
ever are still being made and already the new Scafell guide can be
said to be slightly out of date. It is still impossible to forecast
when saturation point will be reached and when the limit of human
achievement will arrive, and the authors of the new guide tell us:
"There are still new lines to explore on Scafell, protected more
by their isolated situation than their difficulty. So should the
Mickledore chairlift ever become a reality, let Scafell beware."
Mercifully, I'm sure there'll never be a chairlift up to Mickledore,
but I'm equally sure that within the next few years several new ways
will still be found on the crags of Scafell—the most challenging
rock in England. And while this is happening I hope, on occasions, to
be active enough to potter about the sun-warmed rocks of Pikes Crag
and look across at the great face of Scafell Crag where,for a hundred
years now, men have found adventure and, in some cases, rediscovered
their youth. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>AH Griffin: 1968. </b></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;">First published in Climber-April 1968 </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-34c4alC2dmg/YFh6jgDCBgI/AAAAAAAAHU4/HHUDkSt_hGgNzlZv1_yOa28k9_WFzptLwCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-34c4alC2dmg/YFh6jgDCBgI/AAAAAAAAHU4/HHUDkSt_hGgNzlZv1_yOa28k9_WFzptLwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-52339233052941029022021-03-11T10:22:00.002+00:002021-03-11T10:52:51.420+00:00A Dream of Edwin Drummond....Reviewed<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YZHKk_PfKZQ/YEnnkvnUzkI/AAAAAAAAHUA/4_e3yKCh9UQ34kvVxYtGxEQ59eolOXPsACLcBGAsYHQ/s720/ed%2Bdrummond.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="506" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YZHKk_PfKZQ/YEnnkvnUzkI/AAAAAAAAHUA/4_e3yKCh9UQ34kvVxYtGxEQ59eolOXPsACLcBGAsYHQ/w450-h640/ed%2Bdrummond.jpg" width="450" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ed Drummond was always
something of a climbing hero to me. In fact I was aware of him before
I had even started climbing through his well publicised ascent of
Nelson's Column with Colin Rowe to protest against the apartheid
regime in South Africa. An ascent since described as the first
political protest climb in history. Eventually as a climber, I would
become all to well aware of his unique place within the sport and for
myself, his achievements and his buccaneering persona only cemented
his place in the pantheon of heroes.</span><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now Paul Diffly and his
Hot Aches team have delivered something of a late Christmas present
for those like myself who remain in awe of this climbing poet,
activist, explorer and all round renaissance man. In ' A Dream of
Edwin Drummond' the makers have captured the essence of the man
through contemporary footage and interviews shot when he was alive,
and through the prism of current rock stars, James McHaffie and
Robbie Phillips who are drafted in to recreate some of Drummond's
more memorable chapters. Drummond's classic Dream of White Horses
above the foaming Irish Sea at Gogarth-first climbed with Dave Pearce
in 1968- is recreated by James McHaffie with Dave Pearce's son Alexis
sharing the rope. Shot in appropriately sixties 'technicolour', James
Mac and Lex shuffle their way across the classic HVS using the
protection and footwear contemporaneous to the first ascent.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Before
that, JM solos a knife edge arête on one of the gritstone edges of
England and takes on a hard route on Cloggy's Great Wall. “ Above
me the wall gleamed rainy, bald as a whale' The iconic white helmet-a
JB perhaps?- clamped over his head. A counterpoint against the dark
cliff which rears up and disappears into the mist. Scottish hard chaw
Robbie Phillips recreates Drummond's performance art which featured
at climbing literary festivals across the world, and which I believe was first
performed at a Leeds mountain literature festival, organised by Terry
Gifford and David Craig. Twirling on scaffold frames and flexing and
uncoiling amongst the bars. Still bearing the iconic white helmet, RP
elegantly recaptures the feline ballet which defined a Drummond's
performance.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">'A Dream of Edwin Drummond' essentially concentrates on his extraordinary climbing career. The well documented darker chapters of his life where tragedy stalked him for many years and which were at the heart of Simon Beaufoy's 1993 film 'Shattered Dream' are absent here and why should it be. For the film is a celebration of an extraordinary climbing life,not a warts and all biopic.<br /></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">With the end nigh,
Drummond now held in the grip of the Parkinson's condition which had
defined his later years, finds himself back at St John's Head in The
Orkney's. Scene of one his his greatest climbs. The Long Hope
Route-E7- which he completed over several gruelling days with a fresh
faced Oliver Hill. He was back with the Hot Aches film who were
filming Dave MacLeod's attempt to free the crux headwall which went
eventually at 8b. Poignantly, its creator looks across the bay at the route and
finds himself awe struck that he could ever have climbed in such an intimidating place!. The footage and interviews at the time shows someone at peace
with themselves and accepting of the place they were in.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">These different
elements of the film which blends the old and the new each time
returns to a beautifully animated image of the man
himself. Head and shoulders resting against a pillow. Eyes closed and
face content. Topo lines and faint route names appear on the pillow.
A red line occasionally snakes across the image. The 'throbbing red
rope' or is it blood pulsing through a tired body? Whatever
interpretation you make, it can't but help evoke a death bed scene.
Quietly reposed,calm and accepting. Where the man at the end of his
life dreams of white horses.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fvimeo.com%2Fondemand%2Fadreamofeddrummond%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR1Ie576B7JGS5oVdWBFnTSKj9pdn0xi6wKogpz5ucuZo0EC222tZTe1940&h=AT27AzKuyIPobMgK7y5bV7F8-6sVzn7hWiNEDD2N9TaivLSF6fvmnRcPIqSLjondTdZdDfYiTWRCya7YzjMpWBRgOXQUsW6EL3kbFoXyINCBVcKkKEk_G9VQNd4OKoYUKKvS0h2D554ADo9pgTzZ&__tn__=-UK-R&c[0]=AT3Fh2IWUSiEAgoFk7v9WVMTXAvcqQusbl_N59OwwRn6UbLIGgg8lgkUqbSuYqGW1OlPGSc945lE9EooihfzMRtUMVNY4VT6bYNPq7P-HfsrFrEc5pUSjVNEdeOsHOQUE14P9lmWl6WixklIAdNJWqKaWIilbzbC2ey0DcPIb_hyEr-MdTSKBdbZt5l0ntEjy-K8xbSLiYSaqg">A Dream of Edwin Drummond is now available on Vimeo </a><br /></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>John Appleby: 2021</b></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9EZYnTXLqqw/YEntRQwJQaI/AAAAAAAAHUI/Kaw6r7o8jGsVcx-8NVVS52ve-ilDEJD8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9EZYnTXLqqw/YEntRQwJQaI/AAAAAAAAHUI/Kaw6r7o8jGsVcx-8NVVS52ve-ilDEJD8ACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></b></div><b><br /> </b><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b> </b> <br /></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-47454147964825402182021-02-18T10:22:00.000+00:002021-02-18T10:22:31.291+00:00Whillans at 'Treemudrock'<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E1eXFLFBT1c/YC4969rX9xI/AAAAAAAAHTc/XkvkGydVFhsQ4MQVRJ2YUZPxbGIK2yYdwCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/cleare%2Bwhillans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="579" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E1eXFLFBT1c/YC4969rX9xI/AAAAAAAAHTc/XkvkGydVFhsQ4MQVRJ2YUZPxbGIK2yYdwCLcBGAsYHQ/w290-h400/cleare%2Bwhillans.jpg" width="290" /></a></div>John Cleare's classic shot of 'The Don'.<br /><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">His reputation was
already established when I first met him in 1962. He had agreed to
come to Derby and give a lecture at our youth club and was to meet me
at our home before the 'Do'. I was apprehensive, a word which my ex
wife always says is my euphemism for 'shit scared.' Anyhow, he turns
up, says "How do?" and lies on the floor to play with
Elaine, our one year old daughter. He asks for a fee of £5 for the
evening, which covers his petrol and a couple of pints, a phrase I
come to know well over many years. He has already eaten at Nat
Allen's. He gives a great lecture, not only to the club but to Derby
climbers in general and no words of mine can express his unique
style. Not only did he entertain on that Friday evening but he came
out to Stanage the day after and climbed with the lads, obviously
enjoying himself. Don became a friend and a regular visitor to Derby.
There are so many memories but a couple stand out as if they occurred
only yesterday. I was alone this particular weekend; the family were
at Granny's in Liverpool. In he walks, "Ow yer diddlin? Fancy a
day out?" "Do you want a brew?" I ask. "No, ta,
I've gorra mate with me, the Gaffer in fact, he's called Arthur. He's
alright, but I need a bit of support like." "Where do you
want to go?" I ask. "Treemudrock." Well, that's
settled then, he doesn't muck about making his mind up doesn't Don.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"I'll see you at
Erics in a bit; I'll get my gear sorted and follow on." I
overtake them at Rhyd Ddu, Arthur's old builders van isn't fast
anymore. Arriving at Eric's cafe I get the teas. The van arrives
before it has gone cold and I ask how many sugars. "British
standard climber," is the answer I get. That means two lumps,
spoonfuls or whatever is going. I think the expression started with
Pat and Baz Ingle. In those days the locals had a lot of colour in
their speech. It had something to do with the mix of origins. North
Wales in the 60's was a retreat for so many climbers from England &
Scotland or wherever. Don said that he had never done 'First Slip',
so we knew what we were on. Arthur hadn't said much, but as we made
our way up through the trees he said "Is it hard?" "It
all depends on if you get it right," was as much consolation as
he got from Don. Arthur sat by the tree at the start of the first
pitch, I tied on after offering Don the sharp end, which he refused.
I thought he was scheming to get the long, main (and best) pitch. I
arrived at the stance. There was a tree there in those days and it
was occupied by two Americans.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I said nowt and brought
Don up. He immediately started up a conversation with the second,
whilst the leader appeared to me to be struggling above. Don was in
good humour so I suggested bringing Arthur up to the stance. "Leave
the bugger down there, there's no room up 'ere." The leader was
definitely scrabbling in the main, crux, groove above us, I nudged
Don. Sure enough, a few seconds later the U.S.of A. flashed past. Don
stops short his banter, "That makes it your turn Barney, he says
aloud, then whispers in my ear "You can bloody do it, can't you
?" The Americans are dismissed in an instant, I climb past the
somewhat shaken second and place a runner high up under the roof.
Hand traverse, followed by this thin, open groove then the jug for
the left hand and I'm on the stance. His head appears quickly at the
bottom of the groove and I notice for the first time that he's
wearing boots not PAs. I say nothing and watch. He swings to face
left, grabs the vertical arete and laybacks calmly up. "Bloody
hell, I've never seen it done like that before," I tell him as
he perches on the ledge alongside me and lights a fag.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Ow did you do it
then ?" he asks. I tell him, shoulder against the left wall,
finger tips in crack and at the jug, bridge out. "Why didn't you
tell me then?" he grunts "I'm telling Whillans how to climb
am I?" " Bring Arthur up then" I do as I'm told .
Arthur isn't a natural. Beneath the overhang are a set of very good
hand holds, boot scrapes and, with a little up swing, one lands on a
really 'comfy' ledge. He gets it wrong and falls off. Fortunately he
arrives directly beneath the groove and, with a bit of help, installs
himself on the ledge below the difficulties. "Barney will tell
you how it's done," Don says. "He wouldn't tell me though,
the bugger." I explain, he starts upwards. The first two moves
are thin and he falls a couple of times. "Arthur, we're climbing
today, not bloody flying." Arthur finally arrives, shattered, at
the stance. Don doesn't move, he isn't belayed and he still has his
fag to finish. He looks disdainfully at his Gaffer. "John's led
us so far, so that makes it your lead." Arthur's face says it
all, "Is it hard?" I assure him that it isn't and that the
pitch is well protected and not strenuous. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BVQxu55Td3c/YC4-JHCIUDI/AAAAAAAAHTg/O55SskZOGXsBaeK8FPuEJhsiDb6f0rYRQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/barny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BVQxu55Td3c/YC4-JHCIUDI/AAAAAAAAHTg/O55SskZOGXsBaeK8FPuEJhsiDb6f0rYRQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/barny.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">The irrepressible 'Barney' Brailsford (Left)</span><br /> <span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">With courage he moves
up, slowly, until he reaches the trees into which he disappears, the
ropes run out, then stop. His temporary ordeal is over. Don has gone,
he ambles out of sight whilst I go through the ritual of all seconds,
shout "Climbing," and follow up to the top of the route.
"What's next then, Don?" I ask. "Tensor, I haven't
done that either." Arthur sidles up close, mouth to ear, "Is
it hard?" he asks. Back in Eric's cafe I ask Don why he climbed
in boots. "I realised halfway here that I'd left my PAs at home,
your place was near and I knew you'd come out and lead." Crafty
sod, but we had a good day. A few weeks later Arthur and his son,
Roy, were lost on the Matterhorn. </span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">John Brailsford 2006 </span></b></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></b></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">First published in Loose Scree- March 2006 </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FuokOgDGcNo/YC4_FeVWZTI/AAAAAAAAHTo/Ax-xUNEb8SMUweRPVRfsW4k0j1V-fd5ZACLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FuokOgDGcNo/YC4_FeVWZTI/AAAAAAAAHTo/Ax-xUNEb8SMUweRPVRfsW4k0j1V-fd5ZACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: verdana;"></span>
<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-32151405548964853192021-01-27T10:32:00.001+00:002021-01-27T17:57:10.563+00:00Remembering Slingsby<br /><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 120%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1j71nDz5DnU/YA_3De1gnTI/AAAAAAAAHQc/0yRv-HLg41s3Q6BDgfKJN5qGNfj1XIDVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/slingsbyx1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1j71nDz5DnU/YA_3De1gnTI/AAAAAAAAHQc/0yRv-HLg41s3Q6BDgfKJN5qGNfj1XIDVQCLcBGAsYHQ/w426-h640/slingsbyx1.jpg" width="426" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />William Cecil Slingsby’s book, Norway the Northern Playground, was first published in 1904. It is a tale of exploration, adventure and the exuberant joy of high endeavour. It was one of my earliest inspirations and I still have my 7/6d (37pence) 1941 edition. Born in 1849, he visited the country over twenty times between 1872 and 1921 and is considered the ‘Father of Norwegian mountaineering’. It was said of him: “There are two patron saints of Norway – St Olaf and Cecil Slingsby.”<br /><br />Climbing in the early 1950s, when I began, was far more esoteric than it is today. It was rare to meet anyone who knew anything about it. In the northern Peak District where I grew up, scrambling in my pre-teens on what were then famous gritstone cliffs such as Laddow and Dovestones, I only glimpsed ‘real’ climbers a couple of times though never actually met them. For me, books like this were an introduction, temptation and escape to the climbing world. I read them avidly and dreamed of exploring wild mountains. <br /><br />Slingsby and other early pioneers opened my eyes to the climbing world. Winthrop Young, another world class mountaineer of that period, comments in his Biographical Notice to Slingsby’s book about “the all consuming zest for adventure in high places which was at the core of Slingsby’s life”, saying, “his business instincts were not a little jeopardised by his picaresque sympathy for schemes and enterprises with names suggestive of forest and cañon and mountain fastness and far, sun-tinted lands and places”. Exactly!<br /><br />Walt Unsworth observed, “[Slingsby] spent a dozen short "seasons" in the Alps, and [was] the first to climb several formidable peaks… He climbed with friends, but without guides - an almost unheard of thing in those early days”. On Slingsby’s passion for Norway, Walt wrote, “Time and again he made the journey across the North Sea, pushing his way over remote glaciers and wild valleys to forgotten hamlets and farms; exploring, climbing, making friends wherever he went. On these journeys his guide would be a local farmer.” In fact, although he also made some first ascents in England, Norway’s mountains were Slingsby’s consuming passion. On his first visit, he saw the Hurrungane Massif in the Jotunheim, later writing, “I shall never, as long as I live, forget my first view of Skagastølstind, the grandest European mountain north of the Alps. Our guide told us that it was the highest mountain in Norway, that it had not yet been ascended, and that no doubt this was impracticable. Can it be wondered that I determined, if possible to make the first ascent?”.<br /><br />His routes were made by preference with local mountain people. They will be found from Lyngen in the far north on peaks with “wild beauty and eerie forms” but plagued by “the musical mosquito and the bloodthirsty klegg”, all the way down to the Jotunheim, “the finest mountains in Scandinavia”, to which much of his book is dedicated, and south again to the ice cap and mountains above Hardangerfjord. He writes about this golden age of pioneering and often bold mountain exploration with the same attention to detail and happy, unassuming style in which he made his climbs, both benefiting from the same joie de vivre.<br /><br />It is hardly surprising therefore, that Norway was to be my own first experience of real mountain exploration. We set out in the summer of 1962, armed with the Northern Playground and some thin but inspirational paperback guides to Rock Climbs in Norway written in 1953 by Per Prag. They were sprinkled with Slingsby’s first ascents and tantalising references to unclimbed walls. The Arctic islands of Lofoten were our destination. Slingsby had climbed there in 1903 and 1904 making first ascents, often with Norman Collie, of peaks that variously “rise precipitously out of the ocean”, “resemble the Drus” or have “climbing of the very best Chamonix aiguille type”. <br /><br />Like Slingsby, we had a great time, climbing two or three known routes and adding numerous climbs of our own. It was wild and remote. The weather was at times either glorious or foul. Almost penniless from the start, we eventually ran completely out of money despite the hospitality of fishermen and farmers who displayed, as they did to Slingsby, “the kindness and gentle attentions … of a race that we are nearer akin than to any other in Europe”. The die was cast. With the aid of Slingsby, mountains became a lifelong obsession.<br /><br />Hitching south, we passed through the magnificent Romsdal valley, tempted there by Slingsby’s tales of “good sport” on its many peaks, and also by curiosity about Trollveggen, the Troll Wall, which was then Europe’s greatest unclimbed rock wall. Though partially rain shrouded, this awesome vision gnawed at us for three more years until, in 1965, we climbed it. Slingsby’s eye, however, was drawn to the classic alpine peaks above and beyond the other side of the valley where the partially concealed ridge of Vengetind was an irresistible attraction. He made the first ascent of both its summits with Patchell in 1881, saying “the scenery is too grand to describe”.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-enfwiqEfwNs/YBABpMczGMI/AAAAAAAAHRc/lD6NPqO8h0on-xpJbcHB--fQnYUfMr1TwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/%25C3%2598H.DSCN0043%2Bcopy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-enfwiqEfwNs/YBABpMczGMI/AAAAAAAAHRc/lD6NPqO8h0on-xpJbcHB--fQnYUfMr1TwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/%25C3%2598H.DSCN0043%2Bcopy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><p></p><p><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Standing guard at the
head of Vengedalen and looming high above Romsdal, the great truncated
tower of the Romsdalshorn dominates the view. Slingsby climbed it in
1884 with his wife Alizon, the first woman to reach the top, commenting
“The mountain is more difficult than the Matterhorn when in good
condition”. They returned in the following year with Bowen for the first
ascent of the neighbouring fang of Kvandalstind which he described
rather enthusiastically as “the steepest mountain in Europe”. It was
also a peak I was keen to climb, rising between two glaciers with the
dramatic pinnacle of Torshammer standing between it and its grander
neighbour, Vengetind. Slingsby who discovered it in 1875 had named it
Thors Hammer, quoting from Olav Trigvasson’s Saga:</span></span><i> </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>“I am the God Thor,<br /> I am the War God,<br /> I am the thunderer!<br /> Here in my Northland,<br /> My fastness and fortress,<br /> Reign I forever!” </i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Together they present as alpine a scene as it gets in Romsdal. It was good to ascend the glacier in their footsteps to reach the foot of Slingsby’s North Ridge, but I have to admit we were tempted away to explore its unclimbed six hundred metre North East Face which turned out to be both easy and enjoyable. Part way up we climbed a small pinnacle sticking out above the Miolnir Glacier, naming it Hrungnir after the giant killed by Thor with his fearsome hammer Miolnir. The final steep wall to Kvandalstind’s summit was the crux, which is as it should be, keeping the conclusion in doubt to the end, but at 3+ the route was only around V Diff which left us with plenty of time to climb Torshammer.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Still in alpine mode and tempted by our close view of the jagged Vengetind ridge, another top we hadn’t climbed and the highest in Romsdal at 1852m, it wasn’t long before four us decided on a three day trip from Åndalsnes, making a circuit of the hanging valley of Vengedal by following the ridge straight from town to the Romsdalshorn, over that and the smaller Lille Romsdalshorn, round the head of the valley to Kvandalstind and Torshammer, then along the impressive Vengetind ridge and back down to the fjord. It sounded like fun, and was. We left late one morning and bivouacked near the col under Romsdalshorn. It was a beautiful evening with great views of our cirque, the Troll Wall and the Kongen massif, whilst a long grey finger of cloud drifted up Vengedal and settled beneath us giving us some cause for concern. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Waking early, the morning was fine and we romped up Romsdalshorn’s classic North Ridge to its flat topped summit then down by abseil to the gap between it and the smaller Lille Romsdalshorn which we then climbed before descending again to the col at the head of Vengedal. Then easily over to Kvandalstind and Torshammer where we bivied again. On our third day the weather was looking doubtful but Vengetind’s jagged South Ridge looked far too good to miss, traversing above a glacier over two smaller tops beyond which, with the weather worsening, we chose the easy but exposed Gallery Route to the cloud-capped summit. By now it was snowing and we were greeted by thunder and lightning, our axes and metal gear buzzing alarmingly. It was no place to linger in an electric storm so we quickly negotiated our way down through the white-out and falling snow until we felt confident enough to glissade blindly down in the general direction of Vengedal. Once beneath the clouds we walked down to the fjord and hitched back to town after a wonderful mountain trip. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XKTERgFV91U/YBAFHYbCNoI/AAAAAAAAHSc/8WZ8phgdf3kODhDq_ttdJ-3A1V3F7nQHgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/K%25C3%2598.Kvandalstind%2Bcopy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1360" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XKTERgFV91U/YBAFHYbCNoI/AAAAAAAAHSc/8WZ8phgdf3kODhDq_ttdJ-3A1V3F7nQHgCLcBGAsYHQ/w133-h200/K%25C3%2598.Kvandalstind%2Bcopy.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But back to Slingsby!
When in Romsdal, he stayed at Aak, an idyllic small farm and hotel used
by climbers since the1860s and still a popular hotel today. His route
descriptions can be found in the guest book. We stayed there twice in
the1990s, enjoying the company of old friends and familiar mountains
before returning south, past another haunt of Slingsby’s, the delightful
Hotel Union at Øye in Sunnmøre. There, he and others including Raeburn
and Patchell, climbed peaks like Slogen, which he called “Norway's
prettiest peak" with, according to his entry in the hotel guest book,
“the proudest view in Europe”. He was also active in Nordmøre, where he
attempted “the fearsome-looking” 3,500 feet Furuveita Ghyll in 1906,
only to be halted by a waterfall near the top of “the grandest ghyll it
has ever been my good fortune to enter”. He found the neighbouring
alpine peaks rather more attractive, writing, “there is an air of
mystery and romance about Vinnufjell and its great snowfields”.
Unsurprisingly, Slingsby made the first ascent, climbing it by two
different routes, just four days apart in July 1906.<br /><br />I have not
yet had time to explore these peaks, nor those of Europe’s great ice
cap, Jostedalsbraen, whose “snow solitudes, glaciers and ice-fields were
a joy” to Slingsby. To their east is the great Jotunheim Massif “Home
of the Giants” and beneath is Turtagrø Hotel, still one of Norway’s
pre-eminent centres for mountaineering. Slingsby spent many happy days
there and mementoes remain though tragically, the old hotel burnt down
in 2001. “What a jolly time we spent at Turtagrø!” he wrote. “Is it
heresy to say that the ‘off days’ picnicking were as enjoyable as the
days spent on the mountains?” Here are the most alpine peaks in Norway.
In the distance is Galdhøppigen at 2469m, Norway’s highest though
Glittertind is a close second. I have climbed both, which, in fair
weather, are nothing more than enjoyable snow and glacier routes
compared with Slingsby’s favourites, the Hurrungane Group, “with great
glaciers and dramatic peaks, none more so than Skagastølstind”. <br /><br />For
me, this alpine spire has remained elusive but Slingsby considered it
“Norway’s crowning glory”, epitomising, like the Matterhorn, all that is
most appealing about mountain architecture. He made its first ascent in
July 1876, four years after first seeing it and two years after making
the first traverse of the range, to get better acquainted with his
ultimate objective. This traverse was itself considered of great
significance to Norwegian mountaineering, crossing the only region of
the Jotunheim still unexplored. When he finally succeeded on the
mountain itself, he climbed the last five hundred feet alone, leaving
his companions over-awed at the head of the glacier, asking him “Should
we declare it inaccessible?”. Its north summit is still named Slingsby’s
Fortopp in his honour. The 1953 guidebook says “The ascent made
climbing history in Norway … it is still a first rate climb with a
splendid variety of ice and rock”.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YpGVfo7yE1g/YBAFakTwFhI/AAAAAAAAHSk/SvRrIO0vELEzpiyVO0hgIubzpNlgsDVvACLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/Torshammer.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="880" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YpGVfo7yE1g/YBAFakTwFhI/AAAAAAAAHSk/SvRrIO0vELEzpiyVO0hgIubzpNlgsDVvACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Torshammer.jpeg" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> I
continue to be tempted back to Slingsby’s ‘Northern Playground’
whenever opportunity permits, and trust his book will still give others
equal inspiration.</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></div><p></p><p align="CENTER" class="western" style="line-height: 120%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;"><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-US"></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US">_________________________________</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 120%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 0.5cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /><span lang="en-US">Books:
</span><span lang="en-US"><i>Norway
the Northern Playground, William Cecil Slingsby, </i></span><span lang="en-US">1904
and 1941.The 2003 edition was published by Ripping Yarns, with an
introduction by Tony on which this article is based.</span><br /><span lang="en-US">Tony
is also author of </span><span lang="en-US"><i>Troll
Wall</i></span><span lang="en-US">
</span><span style="color: #011ea9;"><u><a href="https://www.v-publishing.co.uk/books/narratives/troll-wall/"><span lang="en-US">https://www.v-publishing.co.uk/books/narratives/troll-wall/</span></a></u></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: courier;">
</span></span><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="line-height: 120%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Quest
into the Unknown</span></i></span><b>
</b><span style="color: #011ea9;"><u><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://www.v-publishing.co.uk/books/narratives/quest-into-the-unknown/"><span style="color: #011ea9;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-weight: normal;">https://www.v-publishing.co.uk/books/narratives/quest-into-the-unknown/</span></span></span></a></span></u></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
also climbing and/or trekking guides to the Peak District, Norway,
Palestine and Jordan.</span></span></span></span></p><div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 14.2px;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><i>Norway the Northern Playground, William Cecil Slingsby, </i>1904 and 1941.The 2003 edition was published by Ripping Yarns, <span style="color: #0061ff;">with a useful Appendix to Mountaineering in Norway Today by Dave Durkan and</span> an introduction by Tony on which this article is based.</span></div><div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 14.2px;"><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span></div><div class=""><span class="" style="font-family: courier; font-size: small;">Norway Images all supplied by the author.</span></div><div class=""><span class="" style="font-family: courier; font-size: small;">Top..L to R: </span><span class="" style="font-family: courier;">Vengetind</span><span class="" style="font-family: courier; font-size: small;"> </span><span class="" style="font-family: courier; font-size: small;">and its south ridge,</span><span class="" style="font-family: courier; font-size: small;"> </span><span class="" style="font-family: courier;">Kalskratind</span><span class="" style="font-family: courier; font-size: small;"> </span><span class="" style="font-family: courier; font-size: small;">and Romsdalshorn> Photo Øyvind Heen.</span></div><div class=""><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: Vollkorn; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 18.48px; margin-bottom: 0.0cm;"><span class="" style="font-size: small;"><span class="" style="font-family: courier;"><span class="">Middle..Kvandalstind with its north ridge below.Photo Kyrre Østbø </span></span></span></p><p align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: Vollkorn; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 18.48px; margin-bottom: 0.0cm;"><span class="" style="font-family: courier; font-size: small;">Bottom..Kvandalstind and Torshammer. Photo TH.</span></p></div><p class="western" style="line-height: 120%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 120%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="en-US">©
Tony Howard 21 Jan 2021.</span></span></b></span></p><p class="western" style="line-height: 120%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US"></span></span></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dMqLKVLji9o/YA_0v0oj1qI/AAAAAAAAHQU/GgLc5KelI1QZ3L87cF2fYmmdiMnm-Mj4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dMqLKVLji9o/YA_0v0oj1qI/AAAAAAAAHQU/GgLc5KelI1QZ3L87cF2fYmmdiMnm-Mj4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /> </span></b><p></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-21458692965972986772021-01-19T11:01:00.000+00:002021-01-19T11:01:26.740+00:00A Dark Shadow Falls : The Tragic Hopkinson Family.<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnaOi32jLWs/YAa4vJF5CHI/AAAAAAAAHPg/vHHwpawWoDQlEuyQFKvH22onJXrYQCsgwCLcBGAsYHQ/s808/mountanalps.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="808" data-original-width="535" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnaOi32jLWs/YAa4vJF5CHI/AAAAAAAAHPg/vHHwpawWoDQlEuyQFKvH22onJXrYQCsgwCLcBGAsYHQ/w424-h640/mountanalps.png" width="424" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">DURING the second half
of the last century British mountaineering boasted several
remarkable families whose exploits have gone down in history. The
Walkers, the Matthews, the Pilkingtons—these, and others less well
known, helped to found the sport in Britain and the Alps. Of all
these families, none has a more remarkable story than the five
Hopkinson brothers from Manchester. Their father was a mill mechanic
who by hard work and flair rose to become Mayor of his city and an
Alderman. Their mother was one of the Yorkshire Dewhursts, related to
the Slingsbys and Tribes, and mountain walking was a long tradition
on both sides. The young Hopkinsons grew up with an intimate
knowledge of the Yorkshire dales and the Lakeland fells. Often they
were accompanied by their cousins, W. C. Slingsby and W. N. Tribe, so
it is little wonder that they soon became involved in the new sport
of rock-climbing.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The eldest of the five
was John (1849-98) then came Alfred (1851-1939), Charles (1854-1920),
Edward (1859-1921), and Albert (1863-1949). Perhaps because he was
the eldest, perhaps because he was a genius, John was always looked
up to by the others; but in fact each and every one of this
remarkable family was talented in the extreme. Quite apart from their
climbing, it is worth while to glance at their careers so as to
appreciate more fully the intellectual stature of these men. John was
a consulting engineer with a brilliant academic career—Senior
Wrangler at Cambridge, Doctor of Science of London, Fellow of the
Royal Society, twice President of the Institute of Electrical
Engineers. He was one of the founders of modern electrical
engineering, perhaps best known to the public as the man who built
Liverpool's famous tram system. Charles and Edward were also
engineers and often worked with their brother. Edward it was who
first introduced London to underground electric trains in 1890; the
start of the modern tube system.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The other two brothers
broke with the family tradition of engineering but both reached the
top in their chosen professions. Sir Charles Hopkinson was lawyer,
M.P., and Vice Chancellor of Manchester University. When he was
elected Treasurer of Lincoln's Inn he had to adopt a crest and motto,
so he consulted his other brothers as to what the motto should be. It
is significant that they chose "Who shall separate us?"
Youngest of all was Albert, who took medicine as his profession. He
became a leading Manchester surgeon and eventually lecturer in
Anatomy at Cambridge, because, he said, "Cambridge found it
could not do without a Hopkinson"—a reference to the close
ties the family had with the university. Details about the early
climbs of the Hopkinsons are not easy to find, but they certainly
descended the East Face of Tryfan in 1882, which is four years before
Haskett Smith climbed the Napes Needle. However, their interest
turned to the Alps, where, among other climbs, they made new routes
on the Unterbachhorn and in the Fiisshorner. Their first major
contribution to British rock-climbing came in 1887 when, in the
September of that year, Charles, Edward and Albert Hopkinson, with W.
N. Tribe, attempted to descend the steep face of Scafell Pinnacle. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l7oWvEFg6tM/YAa46CUtlcI/AAAAAAAAHPk/eQ-4g_Go9Gg-IspJfVb3PhHD4sFGDmUeQCLcBGAsYHQ/s500/scafx2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="500" height="145" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l7oWvEFg6tM/YAa46CUtlcI/AAAAAAAAHPk/eQ-4g_Go9Gg-IspJfVb3PhHD4sFGDmUeQCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h145/scafx2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">They were stopped at a
point about 250ft. from the screes, at a narrow ledge. At this point
Edward Hopkinson erected a pile of stones. Hopkinsons' Cairn acted as
a magnet to all the best climbers of the day. Attempt after attempt
was made to reach the tantalising pile of stones from below. Charles
himself led the first attempt in December of the same year but failed
about 150ft. up, due to ice. In 1903 an attempt to reach the cairn
caused the death of three climbers—the first major climbing
accident in Britain. * The problem was not solved until 1912, when the
incomparable Herford, climbing in stockinged feet, ran out 130ft. of
rope on the crucial pitch. The Hopkinsons found an easier way to the
top. By climbing Deep Ghyll they gained a wide rift which they called
Professor's Chimney in honour of John. In 1888 a famous party
attacked Scafell by way of Steep Ghyll. The leader was W. C. Slingsby
and with him were Edward Hopkinson, W. P. Haskett Smith, and Geoffrey
Hastings. At the foot of the great pitch of the gully they turned out
onto the face and Slingsby, running out 110ft. of rope, climbed the
chimney which now bears his name and which was to become one of the
most popular climbs in the Lake District.
</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">That same year Hastings
led Great Gully on Dow Crag and Edward Hopkinson was with him once
again. The gaunt buttresses of Dow must have appealed to him, for a
few months later he returned with his brothers when they climbed the
gully again, this time leading the first and most severe pitch
direct. There is little doubt that the Hopkinsons must have put up
many new climbs which went unrecorded and it is a fair criticism of
them that they failed to appreciate the part they were playing in the
formation of a new sport. In fact, their greatest 'discovery' was not
recorded for three years; the northern face of Ben Nevis. In 1895,
however, they reluctantly published a small paragraph in The Alpine
Journal mentioning the fact that in 1892 they had enjoyed some
interesting scrambles on the mountain. In fact, they had made the
first ascent of the North East Buttress (though it is not known by
what route) and the first descent of Tower Ridge. They had tried to
climb Tower Ridge but were stopped by the Great Tower. There can be
little doubt that it was the enthusiastic reports of the Hopkinsons
to their climbing friends that led Norman Collie to make his visit in
1894, the start of real rock-climbing on the Scottish mainland. In
1895 the brothers revisited Dow Crag where they made the two climbs
by which they are best known today. Edward and John, with a climber
named Campbell made the first ascent of Intermediate Gully; a very
strenuous and severe climb and on the same day Charles was leading
Hopkinson's Crack, a tour de force which still ranks as one of the
hardest severes in the district. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zJY_DaF2Sx4/YAa5OWUO2zI/AAAAAAAAHPw/2aBW3sX0fXkmKsRCPA7Hd_lIYVM_EjaFwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/veisivi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="705" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zJY_DaF2Sx4/YAa5OWUO2zI/AAAAAAAAHPw/2aBW3sX0fXkmKsRCPA7Hd_lIYVM_EjaFwCLcBGAsYHQ/w275-h400/veisivi.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">The Haunted Mountain: The Petite Dent de Veisivi where tragedy struck the family.</span> <span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But in 1898 an
overwhelming tragedy struck this brilliant family. The summer of that
year saw John Hopkinson, with his wife, four sons and two daughters
staying at Arolla in Switzerland. They did a number of the popular
climbs, guideless, including the difficult Arolla face of the Za. On
August 27th, the father, together with his son Jack, aged 18, and his
two daughters aged 23 aid 19 set out to traverse the Petit Dent de
Veisivi. When they did not return that evening a search party was
organised and the next morning their bodies were discovered below the
south face of the mountain. They had obviously fallen from a point
near the top, but whether from a slip or through falling stones, it
was impossible to tell. It remains to this day one of the most
poignant of Alpine tragedies. The remaining four brothers rushed out
at once to the scene of the disaster, but nothing they could do could
lessen their grief. John, their favourite, was gone. They never
climbed again. So ends the story of the brilliant Hopkinsons, and yet
there is a pathetic little footnote—both of John's remaining two
sons were killed in the Great War. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://scafellhike.blogspot.com/2015/02/the-scafell-tragedy-of-1903-broadrick.html">* The Scafell Traged</a><a href="https://scafellhike.blogspot.com/2015/02/the-scafell-tragedy-of-1903-broadrick.html">y </a><br /></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Walt Unsworth:</b> <span style="font-family: courier;">First published in Climber-February 1966 </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ruIKXJUGHsc/YAa576-GjJI/AAAAAAAAHP4/_moEq18qNHwCK1BAVhxQllAf12Phxbr0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ruIKXJUGHsc/YAa576-GjJI/AAAAAAAAHP4/_moEq18qNHwCK1BAVhxQllAf12Phxbr0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: verdana;"></span>
<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-33322139889721274902021-01-04T16:13:00.000+00:002021-01-04T16:13:45.456+00:00Saved by the Burn<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pFYOhu6S8Rs/X_M3W9GJWqI/AAAAAAAAHO4/KIhQpOgGe3sbYA_CEn0Ot0YHkuPdA6IgwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2067/cuillinsx2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="931" data-original-width="2067" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pFYOhu6S8Rs/X_M3W9GJWqI/AAAAAAAAHO4/KIhQpOgGe3sbYA_CEn0Ot0YHkuPdA6IgwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h180/cuillinsx2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">It wasn't until the
wind blew the two of us off-balance that we realised its strength.
Until we actually cannoned into each other near the summit cairn of
Gars Bheinn I had persuaded myself that it wasn't too bad. It was
tearing shrilly across the exposed ridge, as bitter and as numbing as
a dental anaesthetic. It seemed certain our long-awaited traverse of
the Skye Ridge would end in an untimely retreat. But, as so often
happens with climbers from south of the border arriving in Scotland
bent only on the routes of their dreams, we were then lulled by an
improvement in the weather. The wind dropped, and though the weather
remained oppressive with low cloud hiding the highest peaks, the rock
was dry and the weather report had not been altogether bad. "Let's
give it a go," I said to James and he agreed. Scots climbers,
knowing they could return more easily some other time might well have
been more inclined to call it a day and drop back down the screen up
which we'd so recently toiled. The Cuillin Ridge had been our
objective for 12 months. That compelling skyline traverse of peak
after lofty peak — ten of them over 3000 feet and encompassing in
its crude six-mile horseshoe a total height of 10,000ft to climb —
had chivvied our subconscious brain cells until we just had to
complete its course. For me it would be the second time, having
traversed the ridge in 1958 with Todmorden's Silver Fox, the
evergreen John Wilkinson. Then it had taken us an incredible ten
hours, incredible because of the day — lambent skies, two eagles
soaring above and rain-starved gabbro. But we had somewhat marred our
otherwise perfect day by ending up on Sgurr nan Gillean. With our
camp site back in Glen Brittle, the resulting yomp by way of the Am
Mhain Pass in darkness is as memorable as the ridge, but in just the
opposite way. <br /></span><p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Though discounting any contact with Am Mhain on my
second attempt, I had learned the hard way of what was in store in
terms of the energy and persistence required for the ridge itself.
James, who lived in deepest Essex, had prepared by running endless
laps around a large sports ground close to his home. He had also
followed a lightweight training regime. For myself, I read up my
notes of a Boy's Own Paper interview with Eric Beard I wrote on his
cracking the Skye Ridge record (4hrs 9mins), and the inside
information he had given me. Just down the road, lived the man who
broke Beardie's record, Andy Hyslop (4hrs 4mins). He, too, gave
invaluable assistance in times and route preferences. Andy it was who
recommended an energy-giving sandwich filling of honey and peanut
butter spread on granary bread — a mixture we later found revolting
as the taste lingers when the going gets tough. The summer of 1983
had been one of the driest in the Western Isles in living memory. We
expected blistering heat stored in the vaults of stone and reflected
back off the tar-black rock. And at first it looked as if we might be
lucky. Through the Borders every truck and artic lorry had the
squeaky clean colours of Dinky toys fresh from the box. Water was not
available from garages for windscreen washing. Everywhere the grass
was burnt an ochre tint. Yet as we motored north from Fort William,
we experienced that feeling of intense disappointment that only
climbers know, that choked feeling of someone who has travelled four
hundred miles to arrive — and who has suddenly to switch on the
wipers. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sixty miles on at the Kyle of Lochalsh ferry it was pouring
down. Another thirty miles further, at our climbing but in Glen
Brittle, nothing had changed. Dining out, according to James, in the
hospitable glow of the Sligachan Hotel might seem a better idea than
wallowing in self-pity. As he said the meal was on him, I quickly
agreed. By the time the pears cooked in port arrived — followed by
coffee and a good malt — the rain had stopped. Thick cloud still
obscured the mountain tops, and when I rang the Glasgow weather
centre I received a non-commital forecast for the day to come. Things MIGHT clear. We returned to the but convinced that they would. By 3am the rain had not returned, and I began making a breakfast of stodgy porridge mixed with sultanas and endless rounds of toast and marmalade — washed down by litres of thick-brewed tea. Then at 4am it was out into the blackness, our eyes straining for any glimmer of light along the moor that leads to the first peak. We progressed marvellously at first, reaching the summit of Gars Bheinn two and a half hours later and well in par time — although the highest tops remained hidden by cloud and the scenario looked oppressive, a muted dawn light picking out a grey forlorn landscape. The moor had proved snuff dry, evidence of the weeks of drought. Any burns we had to cross were dried-out creeks, our Walsh trainers padding the peaty ground in comfort. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Only the mist remained drifting above in the gloom to threaten bad things and, had we known it, a preponderance of large black slugs on the grass and scree boded the worst too. They know when it's going to rain. Then, on the summit, everything changed. The mist thickened and it wasn't until the wind banged us together like snooker balls that we realised its strength. We were standing on an eminence nearly 3000 feet above the Atlantic, being pelted with rain, strafed by a gale and it showed. Great rifts fell away down into the boiling vapour, each a source of spiralling gusts. As we fumbled into extra clothing and wind-proofs, it was impossible not to feel afraid. The scale of everything suddenly looked so big and of an infinitely more serious nature than the last time when I had stood here those twenty-six years previously. We were on the point of going back down when the wind dropped as quickly as it had come. Things picked up. We decided to start out. "If things become grim we can always descend," I said. "But if the weather clears what a great route it'll be to steal . . ." At first we couldn't go wrong even if we had wanted to. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The ridge began as a knifeblade and, other than stepping off its edge into thin air on either side, there was no other way to negotiate it. But then the problems began. Great gaps would suddenly appear underneath our feet as if some giant madman with an axe had lopped into its crest from all angles and quite at random. In each case we had to scramble down steep scree and traverse slippery ledges to one side or the other before resuming our ascent on the far side of the gap where the skyline continued into the cloud once more. The further we went, the more difficult it became to piece together these obstacles with map and route card. It was as if we were on some fiendish assault course. And with the rain now starting to pour down in ever-increasing bucketfuls, the mist appeared to turn as black as the densest smoke from burning rubber. Nor do compasses always work on the ridge owing to an abundance of iron ore in the rock. The red needles whirled round uselessly, but then we had thought this might happen and brought them along anyway as each contained a large magnifying glass that made map reading all the easier. We realised we were helplessly lost when James saw me begin to go back the other way he had been coming — towards him and without realising I had made a complete turnabout. </span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Arguing the toss was pointless, standing still in that weather was an endurance test in itself. We were in a do-or-die situation on the finest mountaineering trip in Britain and if we didn't resolve things quickly the question of who was right and who was wrong would cease to matter. We had patently failed. Now we had to get out of it alive. Though neither of us said so, we both recognised the circumstances as those of the Killer Peak syndrome which make newspaper headlines about mountain tragedies. Movement was the only way to keep the circulation going. Furthermore, I knew that our chilled fingers, despite being inside gloves, would make a meal of unbuckling a rucksack or opening a vacuum flask without some semblance of cover. To heighten our fear of premature death we did actually seem to be ageing. Worry and strain both did their part. The cosmetic powder of hoary droplets beading our persons did the rest, whitening eyelashes, sideburns and hair. The overall effect was a numbing of the mental powers, an inability to think straight. It was clear that we would have to go down. On which side of the ridge we actually made our descent no longer mattered so long as we lost height safely.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9YnNtwKfk4/X_M9r3UIXJI/AAAAAAAAHPA/94II-OZn0zs-fh9-Q6klu6lJyT50KQ8WwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/slig%2Bhotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="743" data-original-width="1024" height="290" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i9YnNtwKfk4/X_M9r3UIXJI/AAAAAAAAHPA/94II-OZn0zs-fh9-Q6klu6lJyT50KQ8WwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h290/slig%2Bhotel.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">Early image of the Sligachan Inn</span> <p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And that was the rub. On either side of our high-wire in the heavens, boulder fields tilted down to the very brink of crags apparently so huge — as glimpsed through windows in the mist — as to defy imagination. Boulders the size of indoor climbing walls threatened to tip and roll at the slightest disturbance — and flatten you.Three times we arrived at the edge of outer space — the summit rim of one or another of those great cliffs below — and had to flounder back to the ridge's crest. Here, once again, it was a case of probing exhaustedly on still further for yet another line of merciful release. Mercifully indeed, within an hour we were besides the raging waters of Alta a' Chaoich (The Mad Burn) which plunges seawards from the skyline down to the Atlantic in a series of wild, leaping cataracts as white as milk. Although we had indeed descended on the "wrong" side of the ridge we could at last see through the mist and wind and our bodies were beginning to feel some semblance of warmth once more. But the resulting hike back the long way round and via the coastline path — and now having to ford burns which although dry when we had crossed them previously in the day were now fast-racing torrents — was the stuff of another ordeal. By the time we reached the Glen Brittle hut we had been on the go for almost sixteen hours, and lucky with it. People have died for less. It must be a hellish way to go.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Tony Greenbank</b>:<span style="font-family: courier;"> First published in Climber 1988</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vY-xa0bTRQo/X_M98OASYTI/AAAAAAAAHPI/mrwH83cn40MZUW4hq0BmgKJzKSuOhm8kACLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vY-xa0bTRQo/X_M98OASYTI/AAAAAAAAHPI/mrwH83cn40MZUW4hq0BmgKJzKSuOhm8kACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-9246547561182784692020-11-25T10:51:00.000+00:002020-11-25T10:51:15.670+00:00Allan Austin Interview<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p6Ab1M9x7Xw/X74u-W6aLLI/AAAAAAAAHN4/i3vE_CWDcmQTvLt3Xq0f3XJvcVbCE9TagCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/Allan%2BAustin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="803" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p6Ab1M9x7Xw/X74u-W6aLLI/AAAAAAAAHN4/i3vE_CWDcmQTvLt3Xq0f3XJvcVbCE9TagCLcBGAsYHQ/w314-h400/Allan%2BAustin.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier;">I conducted this interview for the Leeds
University Union Climbing</span></span><span style="font-family: courier;"> <span style="font-weight: normal;">Club
Journal of 1973, the editor of which was Bernard Newman.</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span><span style="font-family: courier;">It
is fair to say at that date Allan was a (the?) leading pioneer of
Yorkshire and Lakeland climbing.</span></span></span>
<p></p><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dennis
Gray: Do you have any fondness for such interviews? ‘Allan Austin
tells all!’ Do you think they serve any useful purpose?</span></span>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Allan
Austin: No I don’t think they serve any useful purpose whatsoever.
They merely provide an easy way to collect a load of print for a
magazine.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Much of my early climbing was undertaken with the now legendary
‘Bradford Lads’, who were at the forefront of British climbing in
the late 1940’s and early 1950’s. I once made out a ‘family
tree’ and was surprised at the links, some tenuous, but some close
between that group and most of the leading climbers who followed on
over the next decade. I believe your early climbing was done with one
of the ‘Lads’ – Mike Dixon?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
No, I used to climb with Brian Evans and Mike was a friend of his.
The first time I actually climbed was with Ashley Petts, and the next
on a Mountaineering Association beginners-course in Llanberis. This
was organised by Robin Collomb-and that would be at Christmas 1955.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
You were very lucky in having Brian Evans as a partner in those early
days. In my opinion he was one of the steadiest and most under-rated
climbers of his generation. When
I first met you in 1956, I thought this guy will, either win fame of
end up lame! Your climbing was characterised by strength,
determination and drive, which often led you out of your depth!</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
There is a fair amount of truth in that! We used to climb as a team
of three; we needed the third man to rescue the leader after he had
run out of strength. We recruited Doug Verity-a big bloke, who could
stretch out his hands flat, so I could stand with all my weight on
them!</span></span><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I
climbed with Brian because he was of my age group. I had transport
and I was keen, and he was a good climber with no transport. Brian’s
idea was to climb at Very Severe, and he was the only bloke in the
club (The Yorkshire Mountaineering Club), besides Ashley who
consistently led at that standard. They were not really hard you
know, but with the aid of my transport we had a lot more
opportunities, and therefore we became very good as a result.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
So initially you feel that Brian Evans was the driving force of your
group?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Definitely: Brian would say ‘We’ll do this route’ or ‘We’ll
try up there’. The first big route we pioneered was Stickle Groove
on Pavey Ark. Brian had said to me in the club hut at Ilkley, ‘We’ll
go to the Lakes and repeat Dolphin’s climb Chequer Buttress’. It
had not then been repeated. And then once there, he noticed a big gap
near to this, and so we filled in this gap and also climbed Chequer
Buttress.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
In the late 1950’s you pioneered many outcrop climbs, but just like
many others before, and since, you used aid which has been shown to
be superfluous. I am thinking of climbs at Brimham such as Hatter’s
Groove and the first pitch of Minion’s Way where you stood on your
second’s shoulders!</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
No I didn’t. We had spent a month trying it like that, but in the
end we climbed it free.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Well, that is as maybe, but today you are feared by young climbers
who do make similar errors, for you will, and rightly so in my
opinion speak out against such mistakes. But is this not a case of
‘the kettle calling the pot black?’</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Everybody makes mistakes, and I think I have fewer pitons per foot
climbed of any climber of my own time. Up to 1960 we had pioneered
two hundred or so new routes, and I don’t think we used aid on any
route on gritstone, except for Hatter’s Groove, and in the Lake
District, out of a hundred new climbs-only half a dozen pitons. I am
not proud of using these, for I am weak like everyone else; but
having said that I will stand back and realise that utilising them
was a mistake. I for one do not try to back my ‘blunders’ up.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Having read the recently published, Fell and Rock New Climbs booklet,
I was surprised at the amount of aid the new generation of pioneers
are allowing themselves to use in the Lake District. Do you think
that some climbs are being forced today that should be left until
standards rise further in order that they can be climbed without such
methods? </span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Oh, hell aye! The prime example of this is Peccadillo. This had been
tried by-Geoff Oliver, Les Brown, and several other outstanding,
leaders; and they had all failed to solve this problem. But along
comes a modern team, who also could not climb this route, and so they
abseiled down and fixed an in situ sling, which they then used to get
them over the difficult section.</span></span>
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
reckon this sling, marks the point at which they failed, and it has
solved nothing. It was not a legitimate ascent and it should not be
recognised. Climbers now seem to be picking a line up a cliff and
using just enough aid to make sure they are successful in climbing
it, without really considering if the climb would be possible without
this. I am not in a position anymore to change things. Once I might
have climbed such routes without resorting to aid, but I cannot
anymore. Shouting is not enough; it really needs some very good
climbers to be active in the Lake District again. An example needs to
be set. If three or four of the areas leading climbers are using a
lot of aid then other people are bound to follow their example.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Don’t you think in some of these cases a stronger line should be
take by the Guidebook editors?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Yes I do. In the new Langdale guide, I have been fairly courageous
and have cut out three routes, which had utilised excessive aid. If
the artificial section of a climb is the main part, then we have not
included it. For example-The Pod on Pavey Ark, that was ascended by
John Barraclough, using seven pitons for aid. It has subsequently
been repeated using only two. In general there is too much of a rush
to climb a new route and then get it into print. This is a very bad
thing for the sport.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Do you think the magazines, are to blame for this?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
In part, the system of first ascent lists at the back of a
guidebook is also to blame. I much prefer Dolphin’s system of a
paragraph about each crag, picking out the historical highlights.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
I can’t say that I agree with you there. You mentioned Dolphin; you
never knew him but you have repeated many of his hardest climbs. In
the early 1950’s there was nonsense abroad about Joe Brown having
created a ‘new standard’ in rock climbing, a ‘breakthrough’.
But I believe that Dolphin had already achieved this on outcrops, as
also had Peter Harding before Brown and Whillans.</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
You are right, but it was only for a short period. When Joe started
pioneering his new routes in Wales, Dolphin’s routes in the Lake
District were of the same standard. But by 1953 Brown’s routes such
as Surplomb and Black Cleft were of a new grade, but not his earlier
climbs such as Cenotaph Corner and Hangover, which were only as hard
as routes like ‘Do Not’ in Langdale.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Dolphin was improving every year though, and for example he had
climbed a long way up Delphinus and examined many new possibilities
on the East Buttress of Scafell before his death. But returning to
your early career, you were amongst the first to try to prick the
‘Rock and Ice’ ‘Bubble’. I do remember your article, ‘The
White Rose on Gritstone!’</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Ken Wilson, the editor of Mountain Magazine, described it as one of
the most biased articles he had ever read!</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
You were a little carried away in your attempt to break down the
myths. I can remember you standing on Joe Brown’s shoulders when
you got into trouble on the ‘Dead Bay Crack!’ This attitude did
tend to grind a little with we Rock and Ice members after witnessing
such a performance.</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Well, Joe Brown had pointed Mortimer Smith and myself at this climb
and then sat back and watched whilst we failed on it. He had to
rescue both of us from the crux but I was the one who led it in the
end. It took me four hours!</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
I led this climb a short while later and found it reasonable. Was it
that you were psychologically embezzled?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
No, it was the fact that it was at the limit of my climbing ability
at that date (1956). The same day Mortimer and I had failed on
Peapod.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Do you accept though, that some of your statements in that article
were a little outrageous?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
The article was written to be provocative. I decided years ago that
if you were not opinionated in an article, then it was not worth
reading, so I deliberately intended to annoy the reader. It seems I
did not succeed in this, but I certainly did provoke some people! To
be honest though; at that date there was no one to approach the Rock
and Ice on gritstone. There were odd climbers like Pete Biven, Pete
Hassell and myself who were trying their easier routes, but the
climbs that they considered hard such as The Right Eliminate, we did
not even look at. It took us a full year or more to catch up, and to
develop the necessary techniques and standards, but in 1956, we were
lucky if we managed to climb any of Joe Brown’s or Don Whillan’s
routes!</span></span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DNT2ifjeb7E/X74xc0DSSCI/AAAAAAAAHOM/c9U8-lvKDqU6nA8qJM9OoeE374J2WHj9gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1002/Austin%2Bclimbing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1002" height="288" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DNT2ifjeb7E/X74xc0DSSCI/AAAAAAAAHOM/c9U8-lvKDqU6nA8qJM9OoeE374J2WHj9gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h288/Austin%2Bclimbing.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
It seems to me now looking back over these years, that contemporary
climbing historians have a wrong view of events in Wales towards the
end of this decade of the 1950’s. A recently published book has it
that in North Wales in 1957, only one climber not a member of The
Rock and Ice Club was climbing the hard, major Cloggy routes. I am
sure you will recall Metcalf repeating some of these big climbs in
1956, and you yourself were making early repeats in 1957. Why do you
think these reports are so inaccurate?</span></span>
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Because they were so parochial, I can remember John Disley telling me
that when you had four climbers, leading Very Severes, in the
Llanberis Pass, that they represented the climbing strength of
Britain. This did not include people like Dolphin and his friends
active in the Lake District, or the Creagh Dhu in Scotland who were
actually climbing at a much higher standard than Very Severe. He
could not see past Harding, Moulam, Lawton and himself. This attitude
ran on into the late 1950’s when archivists like Rodney Wilson had
prepared lists which included the first five or sixth ascents of
routes like Cenotaph Corner. He’d never heard of Metcalf or Pete
Greenwood! Rodney once informed me that I had done the second ascent
of the Black Wall, but I already knew that John Ramsden had also
repeated it four years earlier. </span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Why do you think you have always concentrated on rock climbing? You
have visited the Alps, but you now seem to confine your activities to
West Yorkshire and the Lake District. Why is this?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
My holidays have always been short, a fortnight at the most, and
working on a Saturday morning meant that I had to get time off to
travel to Wales. Hence nearer climbing areas were of necessity my
goal. One holiday I took in the Alps it rained and snowed for two
weeks and I did not get up a single route. So we travelled on to the
Dolomites, where a break in the weather would also because of that
mean there would be no climbing for several days.</span></span>
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At
one time however, it did seem that we concentrated and only climbed
in the Lake District. But for a five year period before that we
alternated weekends between there and Wales, and in fact I had
managed all but two of the routes in Don Roscoe’s guide to the
Llanberis Pass.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
You never managed many new routes in Wales, but you were always out
in the front as a pioneer in the Lake District.</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
I thought that the Lake District needed a spur to bring it up to the
standard of Welsh climbing, and so I was prepared to sacrifice myself
for that cause. We only travelled down to Wales to attempt Joe
Brown’s routes. It seemed to me then, that there were bigger and
harder routes in Wales, and so we concentrated on the Lake District
to try to develop the same there. At that date, 1959, there were ten
extreme climbs in Wales for every single one in the Lakes.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Did you manage to carry this policy out?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Yes, we pioneered some hard climbs but none as big as the famous
Welsh routes. Unfortunately we never found any ‘Cloggy’s’.</span></span>
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All
we discovered were climbs like those in the Llanberis Pass, so all
the major classics in Wales are unmatched in the Lake District.</span></span></span></p><span style="color: red;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There
cannot be a dozen climbs in the Lakes, which compare to the top 60 in
Wales.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Can you still do one arm, pull-ups?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
No. I could only ever do those at all on the door of the Ilkley hut,
which was at such a height that I could start with my arm slightly
bent.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G
In the last few years there has been a tremendous increase in the use
of indoor climbing walls. I have visited the Leeds University wall in
the past and last year I became a regular visitor, but this year it
bores me. Perhaps it is because I cannot compete against the youths
one now finds there, climbers like John Syrett, John Stainforth, and
that, long-haired yob Bernard Newman! The last time I saw you there,
you were not exactly ‘number one.’ Do you mind being burnt off by
the younger generation, or will you keep on going until you draw your
old age pension?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
No I do not mind them burning me off. I go to the wall mainly for the
social side, to meet other climbers: they are not such a bad lot-
really. I went there once on my own and spent twenty minutes before
going home because I was bored. It is the people who go there, which
make the wall an interesting venue, but it also might be the
competitive element as well.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Climbing in this country is very parochial and I think West
Yorkshire climbers are as guilty of this as any, including the Scots. Why
do you think these attitudes exist- Lakes versus Wales, Yorkshire
versus Derbyshire?</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
It is just nationalism I suppose. Everyone likes to believe that they
come from a special area. When I first started climbing I did not
care two hoots whether it was the Lakes or Wales, that was until I
met Joe Brown. His remarks about Yorkshire and the Lakes tended to
get my back up, and I guess it all stemmed from that.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Do you think that was a deliberate tactic on his part?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Oh, hell aye! Joe has spent his life knocking others; he never stops
doing this. One-upmanship is Joe’s life.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G
Do you think this is because Brown has a superiority complex?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
No, I think he just likes to set people up. It is his form of humour.
He hasn’t got a superiority complex and he is not an inverted snob
like some of the other members of the Rock and Ice. A
typical remark to me after I had failed on a route would be: ‘I
always said you were the best climber to come out of Yorkshire, but
really there never much good are they?’</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G
Of all the routes which you have pioneered, which gave you the most
pleasure and which do you think was the hardest to complete?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
The Wall of Horrors gave me the most pleasure. It had been a
long-standing problem and the scene of many previous attempts.
Climbing a route with such a long history is always satisfying, even
more so than discovering a new line. I had been trying it for a
couple of years. Nowadays one might resort to using aid, a peg or a
sling, in case someone else came along and bagged it before you.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
I remember Dolphin telling me as a boy, of his top-roped ascent of
the Wall of Horrors. And he had decided to leave it to be led on
sight by the next generation. He sensed that there was a change in
climbing ethics, and considered that on-sight leads should be
encouraged for first ascents. I personally was upset when you
continually top-roped the route prior to leading it. I think it would
have been better if you had led it on-sight. Do you still think that
you were justified in your methods when Dolphin had already shown it
was feasible?</span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0oKgtIqNQP0/X74xzGKgAPI/AAAAAAAAHOY/RNCbVA3VB9QcNkudNKIErdApmqPH5zKZgCLcBGAsYHQ/s883/John%2BSyrett%2BWall%2Bof%2BHorrors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="883" data-original-width="580" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0oKgtIqNQP0/X74xzGKgAPI/AAAAAAAAHOY/RNCbVA3VB9QcNkudNKIErdApmqPH5zKZgCLcBGAsYHQ/w263-h400/John%2BSyrett%2BWall%2Bof%2BHorrors.jpg" width="263" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">John Syrett on Allan Austin's 'Wall of Horrors'</span><br /> </span></span>
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
A top rope ascent does not show that the route is possible, and
anyway in that era most of the hardest gritstone routes had been top
rope inspected before their first ascent. I once saw John Gosling
leading a new route at the Roaches in Staffordshire. He was able to
clip into a piton, which had been pre-placed on an abseil rope
without even looking for it. He made the route look easy! I agree
that sight leading is the most satisfying way to climb, but on
outcrops where standards have always been pushed, I do not think that
top-roping will ever be abandoned.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
You have climbed at Harrison’s Rocks in Kent, do you think that the
routes there should be led as a matter of course, instead of being
top-roped.</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Yes, climbing at Harrison’s should employ the same technique as any
other outcrop, for example Almscliff. The rock is generally quite
sound enough.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Several of your friends have been killed whilst climbing. Do you
think that such is worth the sacrifice?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Climbing is not worth getting killed for, but without some spur you
just would not try. The reward in climbing is the intense personal
satisfaction of having overcome a challenge with a certain level of
danger involved. Without that danger there would be no point in going
climbing, you might just as well be in a gymnasium or on a climbing
wall! The only reason you go out onto a mountain is because it is
such an unfriendly place, and you overcome the difficulties. Nowadays
we make up a lot of rules, put them into a straight jacket, and call
them climbs.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
I have found that one, of the best aspects of climbing is the
Friendships that you might make.</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
If you climb a lot you meet other people who climb a lot and who have
the same attitudes as you. Under stress, even if it is voluntarily
induced, you find a lot out about people and if what you discover is
good, then they, become a friend.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Do you reckon this is why women have not so far fitted into climbing
circles, because they are not in a position to strike up these kind
of friendships?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Basically I think women are motivated differently, for they have no
need to try. Man’s role has always in the past been the
breadwinner, and up until recently women have never been in a
competitive situation. I cannot think of another reason why women are
not interested in climbing; they are only interested in the blokes,
not even in the other women. The proportion of women who climb for
‘climbing’s sake’ is small.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G
What is your opinion of solo climbing? I refer to the sight soloing
of hard routes, because your maxim has been, ‘sane men only lead on
sight where there is some protection’.</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
I would like to be able to solo, really hard routes. If it gives a
climber a kick to solo a climb, then I have nothing against it,
because we go to the mountains basically to enjoy ourselves.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Who-do you think has been the most outstanding climber of your
aquaintence?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
The most impressive climbers I have ever climbed with were Joe Brown,
Pat Walsh and Don Whillans. Of them all, I think Whillans impressed
me the most. I could not understand how Joe climbed, but Whillans
climbed like myself only better. I do not know what made Walsh climb,
but he also climbed better than-me, although he did not have any
sense of dedication as far as I could see. He did not seem to have
any drive, his techniques were not marshalled, he-just walked up to
the foot of a rock face and ascended it. Whillans climbed just like I
did, he thought about a route and arranged protection like I did,
only better. Joe’s style was completely different; he never climbed
like anyone else I have ever seen. He had a style all of his own and
I could not assess how he achieved this.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
I think this was the basis of Joe’s ability to psychologically
embezzle the people he climbed with. Moseley failed to follow him on
the first ascent of the Boulder, which Ron himself was capable of
leading quite easily. </span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
True, Brown broke almost all the men he climbed with as regular
partners. When you think of how good they were when they first
started climbing with Joe, they were almost without exception
climbing worse when he stopped climbing with them. The only climber
who did not was Whillans, presumably he was good at the beginning of
their partnership, and he ‘grew up’ with Brown.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
To switch to a lighter tone, the subject of climbing names has always
fascinated me. It has been a social commentary almost on the
development of our sport. I think you have been one of the climbers
who has continually managed to produce excellent names. I am thinking
of such as the ‘Ragman’s Trumpet’ and ‘Man of Straw’. How
do you keep coming up with names like that?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Well, generally I am told by other climbers that my names are poor.
The people who climb with me generally title the routes; they do not
accept my names.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
So someone else deserves all the credit?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Ragman’s Trumpet was a particular line on Bowfell. The Tomlin team
rolled up one day and they declared, ‘We will climb that one day,
by God, and we’ll call it the Ragman’s Trumpet!’ They were
getting at me I suppose. The Man of Straw was myself; I just did not
like placing that peg. I have done the route since without it and
there is not much difference in standard.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Mass circulation climbing magazines are here to stay, and their
Circulation’s continue to rise. In my opinion you are no mean
writer, some of your articles over the years must be amongst the
finest to appear in climbing journals. Why is that you have never
contributed to any of the mass circulation climbing magazines?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
The effect that these magazines have on climbing is a bad one. They
foster the desire to get into print to the detriment of the sport.
For example, if you cannot get up a climb then overcome this by using
a piton for aid because you do not get your name into the magazines
by failing. The other thing is that it takes me so much effort to
write an article, I would rather it went into a journal, where it is
kept historically, than a magazine which is thrown away! As for the
money they offer, which is not much, I might just as well offer my
articles to club journals. I am not interested in forwarding the
interests of these magazines; any contribution I can give to climbing
is free. The only proviso is that I direct where the article goes-and
it must not go to these periodicals.</span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
I must disagree, for I feel that a good climbing magazine can fill a
very useful purpose. Getting
back to your climbing, do you consider that your hard routes of today
compare with the climbs you were pioneering ten or fifteen years ago?
Or do you feel that you reached your peak with climbs like High
Street and Astra and although your new routes now might be harder,
it’s just the fact that you have become more cunning?</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
Modern protection methods enable me to still climb at a high
standard. If 1972 were 1955 I would have by now, given up all
thoughts of hard new routing. Dolphin thought he was at his peak at
27 and I agree with him. I do not think that a climber can climb past
his youthful enthusiasm without good protection on routes. It is guts
and stupidity, which makes a climber lead, hard bold routes- and you,
can only do that when you are under 30. It’s not a question of
being married with a family; it is just that after that age you start
slowing down mentally. Modern protection methods are like whiskey,
when you are going to try a hard move; you put a nut in.</span></span>
</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
would certainly not have been able to make the moves today which I
did in 1955, regardless of how hard they are. Until your middle
thirties your muscular ability is still good, but after that age,
your peak performance begins to drop off, though your stamina might
improve. Yet with the aid of the new protection devices you can still
make such hard moves, which can only mean in your earlier days you
were climbing well below your top standard. The margins of safety
then meant that one needed to rely on having good technique, and not
to be bolstered by rope work and modern protection. My climbs of
today are a lot easier to pioneer, and mentally they only take me one
tenth of the effort they once did. It has been years since I was
frightened that I was going to be killed.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
You have always been the absolute amateur, climbing mainly at
weekends and during short summer holidays. Have you ever been envious
of climbers like Bonington and Brown who have managed to spend so
much of their time climbing. Do you think that professionalism with
its inevitable train of commercialism will in the end be a very bad
thing for the future of climbing?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
I think professionalism is bad for climbing. Climbing is essentially
a pastime and not a competitive activity; hence the more that
professionalism develops the worse it is for our sport. Am I envious?
If I had my time over again I would most certainly spend four years
at a University, doing a subject that involves the minimum amount of
work, and a maximum of spare time. Expeditions-no I am not interested
in. The effort involved seems to me to be so great I do not think I
would enjoy it. The pinnacle of my desire would be a three- month
holiday in the Alps.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Do you think that you ever give up climbing?</span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A.A.
I hope that I will always climb. I cannot say whether that will
always be so. I will find it difficult to drop my standard, but I
ought to be leaving a lot of easier routes to climb in the years to
come. I think I will always climb. I hope to be like some of the old
Fell and Rock Club members, like the present President on his meet at
65 years of age. Borrowing a pair of rock boots to be taken up some
Very Severes-that is how I hope I will be at 65, borrowing somebody
else’s magic boots and being led up an Extreme climb. </span></span></span>
</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Franklin Gothic Medium, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">D.G.
Many thanks Allan. I think we need to enlighten a new generation of
climbers as to why ‘Ragman’s Trumpet’ was in your case so
apposite, for your weekdays are spent working in the family business,
as wool waste merchants (Once a traditional historical activity in
Bradford?)</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Update:
In later life Allan due to injury turned away from climbing to
sailing and his family opened an outdoor retail shop in Bradford,
using his name as the identifier. Brian Evans was a founder along
with Walt Unsworth of the Cicerone Press, which they sold on at their
retirement. </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dennis Gray: 1973 </span></span></b></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m7OUoz78Q74/X74xRMJIHnI/AAAAAAAAHOI/__ls0PDZuRI-BEjeYrh5sTCbAKonDH-1QCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m7OUoz78Q74/X74xRMJIHnI/AAAAAAAAHOI/__ls0PDZuRI-BEjeYrh5sTCbAKonDH-1QCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></b>
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154007967113282748.post-83754561056764181402020-11-18T10:37:00.000+00:002020-11-18T10:37:37.092+00:00 Robert Mads Anderson's 'Nine Lives'....reviewed<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LwCOezRGiz4/X7T21iLmT1I/AAAAAAAAHNU/GtHFEize1mgSRkFFy-2qWb_tFxDk-D_FwCLcBGAsYHQ/s614/ninelivesrobertmadsandersonofc414px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="414" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LwCOezRGiz4/X7T21iLmT1I/AAAAAAAAHNU/GtHFEize1mgSRkFFy-2qWb_tFxDk-D_FwCLcBGAsYHQ/w432-h640/ninelivesrobertmadsandersonofc414px.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><br />
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<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: courier;">‘<span style="font-size: medium;">Nine
Lives’: Robert Mads Anderson. 208 pages black and white plus 32
pages of colour photographs. Perfect Bound Paperback. £14.95.
Vertebrate Publishing. </span></span></b>
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: courier;">‘<span style="font-size: medium;">You
have done a very hard thing, but you were lucky’ Reinhold Messner
commenting on the Anderson led expedition, which climbed Everest’s
Kanshung Face in 1988.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This
book recounts nine ‘trips’ to Mount Everest by the author over a
period of eighteen years, resulting in a gripping read, full of both
triumph and tragedy. Imagine the world’s most massive pyramid, with
three faces, replete with rock, ice, snow, altitude problems and
avalanches then thinking along the most simple of lines, you would
have Chomolungma. Which to climb successfully by any route requires
the necessary technical knowledge, almost inhuman perseverance and as
Messner observes above, lots of luck, with clement weather and on
occasion grim determination.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Everest
is a mountain which when discussed by today’s mountaineers,
receives either derision by some when considering the South Col,
original 1953 route and its many thousands of commercial guided
ascents, or keen admiration for such as the ascent of the Super
Couloir on the mountain’s north face by the Swiss, Loretan and
Troillet in a single push without oxygen in 1986. And though some
climbers claim immunity from Everest’s siren call, the list of
those whom Anderson met on the mountain or actually climbed with
reads like a who’s who of high altitude climbing in the last four
or five decades.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
mountain now owns a hundred years plus of history, and so many books,
films and videos have appeared bolstering this that it would be
possible I am sure to make a good living, following on from Elizabeth
Hawley, who based in Kathmandu was a keeper of the Everest record,
but now deceased leaves the way open for a new Everest
archivist/story teller to take over. If you think on the early
attempts of the mountain by the many British pre-war expeditions,
attempting the North Ridge route and compare how Anderson approached
the climb in 1992, declaring it a magnificent and natural line, a fun
snow climb lower down leading to the North Col followed by some even
better scrambling up high, except for that rather tricky Second Step
on summit day. A great off-season or winter route (this has not yet
been achieved!) which is heavily populated in the spring season.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mallory
must be turning in his grave, but as Mummery observed it is the fate
of all such climbs to go from the hardest to an easy day over time.
And this book does chart the change from the large, extremely
expensive expeditions of the early decades post the war to two and
four climbers, making ascents in Alpine fashion. Acclimatising on
lesser peaks or frequent swift trips to altitude, with even swifter
descents, and a wait for a window opportunity and then GO. Many
equipment innovations, coupled with the ever increasing knowledge of
how best to acclimatise, to avoid Hape and Ace the two oedemas, with
a comfortable Base to retreat to in the case of bad weather. And with
improved forecasting,; this a crucial element whilst such inevitable
waiting occurs.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anderson
admits that he is obsessed with Mount Everest. I think he is the
only living mountaineer to have climbed routes on the mountains three
faces. Starting out in 1985 with an attempt on the mountains west
ridge direct, one of the most convoluted and longest ascents on the
mountain, which can be reached either from Tibet via the Central
Rongbuk glacier or from the Khumbu(Nepal)side with a 400 metre climb
up to and over the Lho La into Tibet. In Nine Lives, Anderson makes
two attempts on this ridge climb, reaching 8300m on his first with
Pete Athans and 8600m with Jay Smith on a second. This expedition was
made up of a large party including some of the big names of American
climbing of that era, climbers who had made major ascents in
Yosemite, and other USA destinations but who had little or no
Himalayan experience and Anderson concluded they really were a rag
tag bunch including himself. There was so much to learn because high
altitude Himalayan climbing required a different Mind Set. He wanted
to try out his own theories of how to approach such ascents, with a
small party of climbers, not making use of oxygen to climb which had
been the case on this first trip.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Reading
Nine Lives I had to think why I never had heard of Anderson and his
mates before, for some of them, based in Colorado are cutting edge
with new routes in Patagonia and Alaska. Somehow he manages to hold
down a business career as an advertising executive, for some time he
was based in New Zealand, followed by a sojourn in Norway with some
new routing there, then back to the Big Apple (New York). And so his
next Everest venture the Kanshung Face in 1988 was to be really
something, with just four climbers; three Americans, Paul Teare, Ed
Webster, Anderson and one Brit.... Stephen Venables. How the latter
came to be involved is surprising, in typical USA fashion Anderson
took on a Public Relations expert to help with fund raising and she
contacted John Hunt for it would be the 35</span><sup><span style="font-size: medium;">th</span></sup><span style="font-size: medium;">
anniversary of the ascent by the 1953 team, and he informed that they
who would be very supportive if they took with them a British
climber, and he then went on to suggest, Stephen Venables! It must
have been a shock to Stephen to suddenly find himself so centre
stage, but he played his part and fitted in and justified our faith
in him. The climb up the Kanshung Face from the Tibetan side,
finished at the South Col and the lower sections Venables compared to
the Eiger North Face. Unfortunately Paul Teare had to retreat with
altitude problems, but Webster and Anderson arrived with Stephen at
the Col and then set off up the classic Hilary and Tensing route to
the summit. But only the Brit made it and he became the first from
our country to do this without oxygen. I guess they thought that they
were home and dry, but the descent became a nightmare. With forced
bivouacs out in the open, frostbite, storms and spindrift avalanches,
it adds up to one of the great escape stories, and I went especially
to London to hear about it first hand, with Ed Webster (an
outstanding photographer) telling the story at an Alpine Club
evening, supported by Stephen Venables. One did not like to pry but
Ed’s damage to his hands told their own story.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Post
the Kanshung Face climb the author could rightly have rested on his
Himalayan laurels, but no once into the 1990’s each year for half a
decade, he went back to Everest. In 1990 the Super Couloir, in 1991 a
new route, on the same North Face as the previous, but climbed solo
and now known as the Anderson Couloir. In 1992 the North Ridge route,
in 1993 the Great Couloir route, another climb on the North Face and
in 1995 another attempt on this route. On none of these climbs did he
and his partners summit, but they often finished at a point where
they joined up with a traditional existing route and on one attempt
on the Great Couloir, climbing solo he reached 8,400metres. Stephen
Venables has noted about the authors optimistic outlook on life and
this must have been tested to its limit in the winter of 1999.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">His
hope was to be either the last person up Everest in that century or
the first in the new. For this he chose the North Ridge route, a one
man expedition which in the conditions he did well to even reach the
mountain. Stymied by high winds and deep snow he made it as far as
The North Col! Truly a remarkable achievement in temperatures that
the loss of say a pair of gloves could have spelt disaster; the
coldest temperature ever recorded near the summit of Everest in
winter is almost off the scale at minus 70C, which might be a good
temperature to store vaccines, but not to try to climb in.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
writing in this book is of a high quality and there is a spirit of
fun and chutzpah throughout. There is however some truly sad events
recounted such as the death of a Catalan Doctor, swept to his death
in an avalanche on a nearby peak. One that Anderson had climbed just
a few days earlier whist acclimatising. He and his climbing partner
set out to scour the avalanche debris near the foot of the mountain,
and they did find his body. The writing about this and the burial
ceremony attended by the climber’s teammates and the author plus
partner did bring a lump in the throat. The list of Anderson’s
friends and acquaintances met during his nine trips to Everest are
listed in an addendum in the rear of his book, which besides
reminding me of so many friendships but also some of those who like
the Catalan died whilst climbing. One was Hans Christian Doseth,
someone who Anderson met and climbed with on his sojourn in Norway;
and who I also knew from him visiting the UK on a BMC organised
visit. I climbed with him at Almscliff, Malham and the Roaches,
seconding him up the Sloth. He died after completing a new route on
the Trango Towers in the Karakoram on the descent. Anderson writes of
bouldering with him in the fjords and pioneering new routes in the
Romsdal Valley together. As fluid and enthusiastic as anyone he had
ever climbed with. Sentiments I can only echo.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">
</span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
story finishes with the author agreeing, against expectations to
guide a group of clients for the British tour company, Jagged Globe
up the South Col route, during its fiftieth anniversary year 2003.
This with all the trappings of a large support team of Sherpas and
with another British guide David Hamilton alongside him on the summit
day; but even the South Col route can be serious despite all, and
having reached the top in glorious still weather, with fabulous views
to Shishapangma , far out in the distance, and Cho Oyu, Pumori closer
by an epic was about to develop. One of their party; he had stopped a
little before the summit complaining of sight problems, and on
descending to him the two guides became stunned to find he had
developed blindness and could not see. From there on the descent back
to the South Col was a nightmare, with one guide behind him and the
other in front placing his feet, hold by hold as they descended. This
ended successfully back at the Col, but hours later in the dark and
as near to disaster as could be. And Everest never gives up being a
challenge, for on the descent first the authors party was held up in
the ice fall, by a group of Indian climbers, aided by Sherpas towing
a body bag through this most difficult of challenges, for they were
carrying one of their party who had died in a crevasse fall, and then
they watched transfixed as a large Russian made helicopter crashed
below them near to their Base Camp. It rolled over and its whirling
blades shot off and killed two people nearby. Thankfully the
temporarily blind client partially recovered his sight as they
descended, but as Anderson notes he was down to the last of his ‘Nine
Lives!’</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AkB3seHSoKY/X7T3vkzdaFI/AAAAAAAAHNc/t785HUM2urAGk7it-8ALBNJpS8-wJVFSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s680/mads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="680" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AkB3seHSoKY/X7T3vkzdaFI/AAAAAAAAHNc/t785HUM2urAGk7it-8ALBNJpS8-wJVFSQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/mads.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Image: Robert Mads Anderson</span> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
author has continued with his Everest love affair, returning again to
guide the South Col route in 2010. In between times he has climbed
many other mountains including the now well known challenge of the 7
Summits, the highest mountains on each continent, except that he
managed to do this solo and it is the subject of another of his
books. One that I am now enthusiastic to read, for Nine Lives is by a
writer with a rare talent for telling it as it really is! The
Foreword is by one of Anderson’s closest friends, Peter Edmund
Hillary and in that we learn to our surprise that the author is a
dedicated family man, and together with both of their families they
have trekked to the Everest Base camp. The book is all we have come
to expect from Vertebrate Publishers, and it is one to savour and I
will read it again....soon. </span></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dennis Gray: 2020 </span></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cy26R4lrVDI/X7T4GcgbRoI/AAAAAAAAHNk/ZUJi-WkOWF88nh9w0AY1JYr9oXaS7Cm0wCLcBGAsYHQ/s48/crow5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="48" data-original-width="48" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cy26R4lrVDI/X7T4GcgbRoI/AAAAAAAAHNk/ZUJi-WkOWF88nh9w0AY1JYr9oXaS7Cm0wCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/crow5.png" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></b>
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<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com