“Thy love of Nature, quiet contemplation,
In meadows where the world was left behind,
Still seeking with a blameless recreation,
In troubled times, to keep a quiet mind;
This, with thy simple utterance, imparts
A pleasure ever new to musing hearts”
Bernard Barton
It is Easter 1982, and I decide that I need to get away for a few weeks climbing as life is beginning to stifle my senses. After some deliberation, I settle on driving to Skye for a return visit but rather than go to the Cuillins to climb, I decide to go to Staffin where I knew there was great potential for much climbing.
Planning takes all of half an hour as I throw everything I think I will need for the fortnight, into the back and boot of the car before leaving home to drive north. The suspension springs are at full stretch and the tyres appear half inflated despite how much air is pumped into them. Turn left at the drive, on through Edinburgh city, bustling with ants hurrying and scurrying about their business, faces set in concrete as they live their lives within a well framed lifestyle of worrying about their mortgage, the cranky boss at work, mundane financial matters, what excuse to use this time for arriving at the office late again, and so on. I drive past without a care in the world knowing that two weeks well-earned holiday on the island of Skye, offers me so much rock to touch and get acquainted with. What a mind blowing thought.
As I drive through Edinburgh, the only two thoughts in my head are, would the trusty old banger make it there, and, would it make the return journey? Nothing else matters, not the weather, not the midges, not even the time of year, April, could dampen my spirits.
After a long but pleasant drive, I arrive at the Kyle of Lochalsh but having missed the last ferry for the night, settle down to sleep in the front seat which was not all that easy given the amount of climbing gear I had thrown on the back seats. I try as best I can to get comfortable in a small space under the steering wheel, but whichever position I get into, the damn thing just sticks out preventing me from doing so. I try sleeping in a sitting position but as the seat would not go back due to the gear stuffed behind it, I just toss and turn, huffing and puffing and moaning to myself as the slow passing of the night crawls agonisingly past.
Dawn finally starts to arrive as I wake from a half sleep, but am dismayed that it is another two hours before the first morning ferry is operational. ‘God I wish they would build a bloody bridge across’ I muse to myself, as I try once again to get comfortable in a space even a contortionist would find difficult. As the full morning sun finally pokes its nose above the murky horizon in a clear blue sky, the sound of the ferry, its diesel engine chugging merrily along, calls out to me: ‘I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming’. Eventually it enters the small harbour, and the steel ramp scrapes along the concrete slope as if to say ‘I have arrived’.
At last, I am crossing over the sea to Skye, jubilation, excitement all mixed up with the weariness and aching bones, but at least I was moving. The shore gets closer and so the engine is revved in anticipation which does little to make the last few yards go any faster. Bump, the ferry slides into the far shore ramp and within seconds I am off down the road with the wind at my back.
The ten odd cars that accompanied me across, jockey for first pole position down the narrow road and I am no different. Race after the car in front. Overtake. Get overtaken. Drive faster to overtake the car that has just overtaken me and so the game of leap frog goes on until I get tired of it all and slow down enough to allow them to disappear into the distance, leaving me an empty road. Sods law was only taking a short nap, for when I rounded a sharp bend, there in front was a slow moving lorry.
Braking hard I become frustrated because the road is full of bends for the next few miles or so. A car comes up behind me, close, too close so I tap my brakes to give him a fright hoping that it will make him back off a bit but it doesn’t, it just makes him more determined to overtake me and the lorry at the first opportunity that is presented. Suddenly a straight stretch of road appears and so I signal to pull out, but the car behind has other ideas as he pulls out without signalling and forces his way past me and the lorry waving with two fingers as he passes.
I ignore his gesture and stop at Portree for breakfast before driving on to park in the lay by beside the Old Man of Storr, a magnificent obelisk of rock that stands proud inviting those interested, to come close to its base and admire the conical shape of the rugosities that adorn the surface. Standing around are an array of other odd shaped pinnacles, rugged, weathered and just as magnificent, pleasing to the eye and touch.
I put on my running shoes and with my soft soled climbing shoes slung around my neck, I trot over to the base of the Old Man eager to feel its surface under my fingers.
I remembered that Harold Raeburn a noted Scottish climber and mountaineer visited the Old Man back in 1898 with A. W. Russell who noted at the time, that “we will not venture to assert that the Old Man will never be ascended, but we were quite content to look at him without making an attempt”.
It was not until 1955 when three climbers, that the legendary Don Whillans with George Sutton and John Barber made the first recorded ascent of the Old Man, although it rarely gets repeated ascents due to its suspect rock and the difficulty of finding good protection. However, for the solo climber it is ideal and I was in no mood for thinking otherwise.
As I stand at its base, some 40 feet in diameter, I crane my neck upwards following its shape to the overhanging summit some 160 foot above, being thankful for the light warm breeze that caressed the air making the atmosphere both pleasant and reassuring to me. Donning my climbing shoes, I deliberate on where to start climbing. Should I follow the first ascent line carried out by Whillans, Sutton and Barber assuming I could find it, or should I seek out a route of my own? I chose the latter.
Finding some good hand holds just above head height, I place my right toe gently yet with conviction onto the rock surface and pull up. My fingers are soon playing sweet music on the many protruding rugosities that covered the rock keyboard and my feet dance gracefully to the tune of the tiny holds. Climbing is both ecstatic and friendly in its harmonious contact with me and I truly feel life is indeed, full of bliss and rewards. As soon as my fingers touch the rounded globules and intrusions, my feet follow contentedly, gripping snugly to the same holds that earlier had caressed my fingers.
Movement is ballerina like, tempered with the approach of a fine arts restorer repairing a priceless china vase, delicate, with precision and all with a flowing purpose to please.
My mind is devoid of all thoughts as I allow my senses to become one with the rock itself. Life in every sense of the word, at least right then and there at that moment in time had meaning but impossible to verbally describe. As I move across the angulated rock surface, I sense I was not climbing alone and at one point I was convinced I felt someone’s breath on my naked arms. However, I dismiss this as possibly being a gust of wind until I thought I felt their body touching mine, and so I suddenly stop moving for no apparent reason. I still feel safe so smile contentedly to myself and ‘welcome’ whoever or whatever it was and carry on my ever upwards flowing movement.
Up and up I climb until suddenly I become aware that the holds begin to become intrusive as fingers ache with the roughness of the rock. As I halt my upwards movement, I instinctively look down which is when I realize how far above the ground I am and that a slip would likely result in serious injury or death. In an instant, I relinquish the urge to continue upwards and start to climb back down the odd fifty feet I had gained.
Like Bentley Beetham, I am an ardent advocate of descending a climb, or down climbing as it is often referred to, believing that you should not climb anything you are not prepared to climb down, especially when soloing.
Once back on the ground, I move over to a smaller finger of rock, often referred to as The Old Women, and climb it several times by different routes. Clearly my body is receptive to climbing and so I indulged myself once more back on the Old Man by climbing up and around the circumference in an upwards spiral for approximately sixty feet, then back down using the same strategy.
After playing on some of the other rock pinnacles, I run back down to the car enjoying the tingling sensation in my toes that race upwards flooding all my body senses. I know that the rest of the holiday will be even better.
I had booked a small self-catering cottage in the tiny hamlet of Staffin, but lose no time once I had dumped all my gear inside, to set off to explore the Trotternish peninsula before the sun gave way to the rising moon which had already put in an appearance.
Over the next few days I thrill myself by making acquaintance with many of the odd looking rock pinnacles that surround the upper peninsula area. First there was the Needle, a 100ft pinnacle where I just could not resist the invitation to join the surface all the way to the top. Feeling fit and good with myself, I amble over to the Prison and found an exciting route to the top only to surprise a few local sheep busy munching the sweet green grass that adorn the top ledges. Later, I meet up with the Central Gully to make a hairy ascent inside its dark and dank interior, exiting onto a platform of crumbly schist.
Frank Grant: 2016- Previously unpublished.
Path to Kallas Monastery. (Tibet): Nicholas Roerich 1932
The wise find pleasure in waters, the virtuous in mountains: Kong Zi (Confucius)
The painting of mountains and or climbing action is now an activity with a long history, but it is a difficult discipline to embrace in order to achieve a meaningful result for a studious beholder, and more so for the artist involved. In recent years there has been several such artists within the British climbing world; John Redhead, Tim Pollard, Bill Peascod, Tom Price, Julian Cooper, Jim Curran etc but they were I believe working within a sub section of landscape painting , which has its historical origins in China. A form of art which has always encompassed a spiritual element, drawing on Daoism, but which only became explicit in the west with romanticism.
The earliest landscape painting with no human figures depicted has its origins in frescoes in Minoan Greece, (circa 1500 BCE) but by the 10th/11th century during the Chinese Song dynasty a form of painting, shan shui (mountain water) with brush and ink, had been perfected to the highest standards. Mountains had long been considered sacred places in China, and surprisingly plain dwelling literati painted vertiginous peaks such as Kuo Hsi’s ‘Clearing autumn skies over mountains and valleys’; these works included human figures set in the vastness of nature, with a Daoist emphasis on the insignificance of the human presence in a scene depicting mountains, waterfalls and rivers.
These works (often in scroll form) do not try to represent an exact image of what the painter sees in nature, but what they thought about this. It is not important whether the painted colours or shapes look exactly like the real object; the intent is to capture on paper an awareness of inner reality and wholeness. Shan shui painters use the same materials and techniques as shufu (calligraphy), and they are judged by the same criteria, including a philosophy which regards painting and shufu as a form of meditation, influenced by Chan (Zen) Buddhism.
David Friedrich Casper's 'Wanderer above a Sea of Fog'
During the renaissance the development of a thorough system of graphical perspective in Italy, quickly became standard throughout Europe, and later in the USA, and eventually to an ever wider geographic area. This allowed large and complex views to be painted, which had a dramatic effect in the working of outdoor studies. Some of the most outstanding artists of the 18th and 19th centuries painted mountain scenes, and crucial in this development was David Friedrich Casper’s ‘Wanderers Above The Sea of Fog’ of 1818 which had a major influence on the romantic movement, along with Gainsborough’s ‘Mountain Landscape With Shepherd’ of 1783.Subsequently in the US during the 19th century, there was the White Mountain School, which included Albert Bierstadt an outstanding painter of Rocky Mountain Landscapes, and later still from the Hudson River School, Thomas Hill a recorder of views in Yosemite.
By this date mountain studies were appearing as far apart as Duncan Darroch in New Zealand(Mount Cook), Svetlana Kanyo in the Canadian Rockies, Sergio Lopez painting Zion and the Sierras and Ivan Aivazvosky, the Caucasus . Mountain paintings are such that they either compliment ones taste and approval or not, but for myself I have two favourite mountain painters, the English born Edward Theodore Compton (1849-1921) and the Russian, Nicholas Roerich (1874-1947).
I was first intrigued by Compton’s paintings when along with Ian Howell I was invited to give a talk in 1965 at the Alpenverienhaus in Innsbruck about our 1964 attempt on Gauri Sankar. Around the walls of some of the rooms were the most impressive mountain paintings I had then seen. I was even more intrigued about their provenance when I was informed they were the work of an English artist, E. T. Compton.
Edward Theodore Compton : Zermatt
Compton I later found out had been born into a devout Quaker family in Stoke Newington in 1849, and exhibited from an early age an outstanding ability at drawing and sketching. His parents recognising his unique talent moved their family to Germany in order for him to study and develop his abilities, first in Darmstadt and then Munich. On a family holiday to the Bernese Oberland, he saw for the first time Alpine mountains and decided he would paint them. It was whilst living in Germany he began to climb, and over the next five decades he made over 300 ascents including 27 firsts, with some of the outstanding mountaineers of that era, Ludwig Purtscheller, Emil Zsigmondy and Karl Blodig. The latter was the first to ascend all the 4000 metre peaks in the Alps, and with whom Compton made the first guideless climb in 1905 of the Aiguille Blanche de Peuterey, and the first ascent of the Torre Di Brenta and the South Face of the Cima di Brenta . In a German publication Berg, he is described as being strong physically, and an excellent technical climber.
Compton became well known as an illustrator for the German and Austrian Alpine Clubs, and was the artist who provided the plates for two of the most iconic mountain books of that period, ‘In the High Mountains’ by Zsigmondy (1889) and ‘Mountaineering in pictures’ by Alfred Steinitzer (1913). In 1880 he was elected to the Royal Academy, and he was a member of the Alpine Club and the DAV (German/Austrian Alpine Clubs). When he was 70 he ascended the Gross Glockner, but his climbing achievements pale once you are confronted by his canvases. For myself, his paintings of the Alps (he also visited North Africa, Scandinavia, the Andes and the UK etc); including the Matterhorn, Mont Blanc, and the Dolomites are memorable but his study of the North Face of the Grandes Jorasses is peerless.
This was exhibited in Chamonix last year, and all those who viewed this (many thousands) were impressed by its detail and accuracy, but nevertheless he can be regarded as an expressionist. He died in 1921 and a hut in the Carinthian Alps bears his name, but his real memorial, are his paintings. It has taken many years for his true technical and artistic ability to be recognised, but if you want to own one you now need deep pockets.
Nicholas Konstantinovich Roerich, little known in Britain, is a man for whom the designation polymath is hardly adequate. There are two museums extant at present which illustrate his achievements as a painter, archaeologist, designer, writer, architect, philosopher, musician, and spiritualist. There is one museum in New York and another in Moscow which aim to illustrate the full range of Roerich’s accomplishments, the most lauded of which are his paintings, particularly of Himalayan Mountains and the peoples of those regions. The totality of his canvases spread amongst different collections around the world amount to a staggering 7000 plus paintings.
He was born in St Petersburg to a well to do notary public, and studied law to please his father and art to please himself; graduating at both the University and the Imperial art school with outstanding grades. An early interest in archaeology and history, caused him to undertake a long journey around Russia and from this, subsequently, once a member of the artistic community in the Russia of that era, he drafted a story, ‘The Rites of Spring’, the music for which was composed by Stravinsky. Diaghilev had been a fellow law student with Roerich, and he invited him to design sets for ‘The Ballet Russes’ which was to cause such a sensation in Paris before the first war. Roerich’s designs for Borodin’s ‘Prince Igor’ (1909) and ‘The Rites of Spring’ cemented his reputation in that field.
Nicholas Roerich
At the Russian Revolution of 1917, which he supported, along with Maxim Gorky he was trusted with the role of setting up an arts commission by the Soviet, but sickened by the killing and persecutions which followed the revolution, Roerich migrated with his wife and two young boys first to Finland, then to England, invited by Thomas Beecham to design sets for him at Covent Garden. In England he met with H.G.Wells, George Bernard Shaw and Rabindranath Tagore, the Nobel prize- winning Indian poet, whose niece his youngest son Svetoslav married in 1945; the legendary Bollywood actress Devika Rani.
During the first decade of the 1900’s, largely due to his wife Helena, Roerich developed an interest in Eastern religions, which would shape the rest of his life; the influence of Theosophy, Vedanta, Zen Buddhism and other mystical concepts can be detected not only in his paintings, but in the many stories and poems he wrote and illustrated. His wife was related to Mussorgsky, and another connection was with Rimsky-Korsakov, and because of this he was invited to the USA where he designed the sets for that composers opera ‘The Snow Maiden’. They settled in New York and founded there an Institute for the Arts, an art school with an extensive and versatile curriculum, including architecture. Roerich’s acclaimed publication on this subject ’Architectural Studies’ (1904/5) had become a standard text by that date.
They also set up the Agni Yoga Society, whilst -meanwhile an exhibition of his paintings toured the country and a book of his poetry, translated by Mary Siegrist , was published at that time. They stayed in the US until 1923, but then travelled out to Darjeeling, encouraged to move there to be near the Himalaya, which was where they felt their spiritual journey was leading them. Two of his paintings of Kanchenjunga from this date, have subsequently sold at auction for over one million pounds each, I have a framed print of one of these on my living room wall.
This interest in the Himalayan region led on to the Roerich’s setting forth with their son George, a brilliant linguist who was later to publish the first Tibetan/English/Russian language dictionary, and six friends to travel these regions for five years. They started in Sikkim, then moved on to Punjab, Kashmir, Ladakh, the Karakoram, Hotan, Kashgar, Urumqi, Iyrtish, the Altai mountains, the Oyrot region of Mongolia, the central Gobi, Gansu, Tsaidam and finally Tibet. Where they received an icy reception, being stopped on the high Tibetan plateau and forced to live in tents in sub-zero conditions, and to exist on subsistence meagre rations for several months, during which five members of their party died. Finally they were allowed to leave Tibet in March 1928, from whence they retreated back to India.
Returning first to Darjeeling; Roerich wrote several books about his experiences from this incredible journey, much of it on foot, two of which ‘Altai-Himalaya’ and ‘Shambala’ were translated and published in the USA. He had also painted many outstanding studies of the mountains he had viewed, including the Mustagh Tower, whilst traversing the Himalaya. In 1929 Roerich was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by the University of Paris. His concern for peace resulted in his creation of the Pax Cultura, the ‘Red Cross’ of art and culture. His work for this cause resulted in the USA and the twenty other nations of the Pan-American Union, signing the Roerich pact on April 15th 1935 at the White House under President Roosevelt. This was an early international instrument attempting to protect cultural property.
Pictures of Roerich at this time, illustrate a tall, bearded, erect personality, who might have emerged out of the pages of a Tolstoy story. In 1935 on behalf of the US Department of Agriculture, accompanied by two of their scientists MacMillan and Stephens, Roerich led an expedition to Inner Mongolia and Manchuria. The expedition’s purpose was to collect the seeds of plants which prevent the destruction of benign layers of soil.
During his journeying in the Himalaya, Roerich decided on the need for a Himalayan Institute and in January 1929, he and his family moved to the Punjab’s, Kulu Valley. A site he had noted on his previous travels, and there by the village of Naggar , he bought the Hall estate from the Rajah of Mandi. His son, Svetoslav who is now revered in India as one of its most famous artists, who studied painting with his father from a young age, declared ‘I have seen many countries, but I have not discovered a more beautiful place as the Kulu Valley’. There they set up the Himalayan Research Institute, ‘Urusvati’ a name which in Sanskrit means ‘The light of the morning star’. From this base they set out on journeys into Lahul, Spiti, and Ladakh , and back at the Institute they studied local cultures, language, the natural sciences and much more.
Both Nicholas and Svetoslav painted local peoples and scenery, whilst their eldest son, George a Philologist, who had studied at University College London, Harvard, and the Sorbonne and was fluent in Sanskrit, Pali, Hindi,Chinese and Tibetan studied local dialects and language. The Roerichs continued their intense work in the Kulu valley until Nicholas died in 1947. Whilst living at Naggar, Roerich was visited by both Nehru and Indira Gandhi and subsequently his son Svetoslav painted their portraits, which along with that of a former President, Radhakrishan, also by him adorn the central Parliament Hall in Delhi.
Nicholas Roerich was a mystic, and an altruistic philosopher dedicated to the Himalaya and its peoples, he painted them as no one else has. He was a symbolist, and prior to his Indian sojourn, many of his paintings are of Slavic history and legend which some find ‘disturbing’. H.P. Lovecraft the cult horror story writer referred several times to the ‘strange and disturbing’ paintings of Nicholas Roerich, especially in his Antarctic novel of 1936,’At the mountains of madness’. Nevertheless one of these ‘strange’ paintings, the Madonna Laboris sold for 12 million dollars at Bonham’s in 2013! So to own one of these you would need even deeper pockets than to purchase a Compton.
There have been so many books now about the Roerich’s that it is hard to understand why so few people have heard about them in the UK? There are several biographies, and one about Nicholas and his wife Helena ‘The Spiritual Journey of two great artists’ by Ruth Drayer was published in 2014, and another ‘Nicholas Roerich- Inspired by the Himalaya’ by Ashok Dilwali appeared in 2013 and several of his own books are still in a revised recently published form. There are even music compositions such as the ‘Roerich Suite’ by Juan Carlos Garcia available as an MP3 download. Besides the two museums dedicated to his works in New York and Moscow, there are Roerich Institutes in Mexico and Brasil.
Krishna (Spring in Kulu): Nicholas Roerich
It is obvious now that Roerich was ahead of his time, his spirituality, his interest in Eastern religions and their philosophies detailing a way of living, perhaps anticipated the ‘beat’ movement and its Zen Buddhist* disciples of the 1960’s? But few have been able to bridge the gap in thought and interpretation as he did. He was also such a ferocious worker; to carry on with all the creative activity he undertook year in year out is truly impressive. Inevitably within his huge oeuvre there are works which are sub-standard, especially within some of his writings, but at his best, he was I believe an outstanding artist of the highest ability.
*Zen Buddhism is a fusion of Daoist and Buddhist beliefs. Daoism is the only religion to emerge from China, but Zen is a Chinese construct from the Tang dynasty 618-907), known as Chan in that country, and Zen in Japan and the West.
Dennis Gray: 2016........(Previously unpublished)
Written in 1974, Chris Brasher's article originally published in the BMC's Mountain Life magazine, tapped into the widespread public concern that was being expressed at the time, in relation to a series of mountain tragedies and close shaves involving parties of young people taking part in mountain expeditions organised by schools and outdoor education centres. Hard to imagine now in an age when schools, outdoor centres and those involved in outdoor education have become paranoid about public liability and fear of litigation, back in those far off days,rules and regulations which governed the actions of organisations and individuals taking youngsters on outdoor activity courses, was of course, far more relaxed. 'Abandoning' youngsters in a mountain environment and leaving them to survive and return through their own skills without interference from instructors, was an integral part of a centre's survival and navigation course experiences.
Ironically,the increased regulation and tightening up of outdoor education in the UK has led to massive decrease in the number of youngsters now experiencing outdoor activities. With many LEA outdoor centres since the 1970's now closed down and sold off, and outdoor charities forced to likewise cease their activities, there are many who would argue that the initially well intentioned actions of the state, has had a serious detrimental effect on outdoor education in the UK.
Everyone of us who has ever been in charge of a party of boys or girls on a mountain expedition must fear the thought of the moment when we have to call out the search parties. On Sunday March 17th that moment came to Chris Abel, the master in charge of adventure training at Bredon School, Tewkesbury. The fear is of the hullabaloo that follows every major search for a party of kids — the enquiries by news reporters and television teams, the criticism of other climbers and the tut-tutting of the public. But, that fear can, and must, never interfere with one's responsibility to call for help as soon as it is needed. I myself have known this fear when three different parties of boys were late at their camp site on an exercise that I had set.An exercise which I know now had too many boys in it and was too arduous. Luckily they were all rounded up — after a vast expenditure of my energy — before dark. And I have been on the other end, quizzing masters in charge of parties that have involved massive searches and then writing about it in the press. So now I examine myself before putting pen to paper and I employ one criterion: would publicity help enlighten others and perhaps — just perhaps — help prevent the same sort of thing happening again?
One has to be careful about being too pompous. There is after all no such thing as a safe mountain. With our unpredictable British weather almost any mountain, however apparently welcoming, and at any time of the year, can be dangerous to people without the complete skills and judgement of the mountaineer. So accidents will happen. Having said that, the case of the Bredon schoolboys and Chris Abel, the master in charge, does warrant examination because, in my opinion, there are one or two factors which resemble the case of the massive search for the Hertfordshire schoolboys on the Carneddau last Easter. Bredon School have a cottage called Dorwen (OS sheet 153, G.R. 772 148). On Saturday March 16th, after a morning of instruction in climbing and abseiling, six boys from the school, aged between 13 and 15, set out in two parties of three — one party at 13.50 hrs. and the other at 14.10 hrs. Their route was via the Trig point 1547 and then to Bwlch y Giedd (2,400 feet), on the shoulder of Bannau Brycheiniog, and then by a very steep sheep track (not marked on the map) which leads past the southern end of Lyn y Fan-Fawr to a rendezvous on a minor road at GR 852214 (OS sheet 140). The distance; according to the school, is nine or ten miles and they were supposed to rendezvous with Chris Abel at 17.30 — approximately three and a half hours after they set out.
They carried two emergency rucksacks between the six of them. Each sack contained one tent, one sleeping bag, a plastic bag holding spare clothing, and a one man 24-hour food pack plus one pound of chocolate. Each sack weighed about 24 pounds when dry, perhaps 30 pounds when wet. Each boy had an anorak, a nylon cagoule and corduroy or cavalry-twill trousers. None of them had waterproof trousers and some were without a woollen cap or gloves because the weather was good when they set out. The boys reached the Bwlch at 16.35 hrs by which time, the mist had come down and the wind had risen. In unpleasant conditions -strong wind, cloud and a hint of hail — conditions with which they were not familiar- they could not find the sheep track and rather than face the steep slope down to the llyn they decided to turn back. For some reason (perhaps fear of the steep escarpment on the East) they did not attempt their planned alternative route of coming down the SSE ridge of the mountain (a gentle ridge) until meeting the main road at Gwyn Arms. (This ridge, incidentally, is part of the proposed Cambrian Way)
They camped before dark -sunset on that Saturday was just after 18.00 hours- beside a stream at the estimated position 816214. When they did not turn up at the rendezvous point, Mr. Abel and two others started looking for them. Two of the searchers reached the Bwlch at 18.30 and blew their whistles. The boys who were no more than three quarters of a mile away, heard the whistles but the searches did not hear the boys' reply; perhaps because of the wind? Next morning, Sunday March 17th, Chris Abel walked up from Dorwen cottage to Trig point 1547. Visibility was good and the Bwlch was clear. He scanned the whole area with his binoculars and could see no sign of movement. He then went back to the cottage and called out the search teams. That Sunday afternoon more than 100 people searched the area and found nothing. One of the boys was feeling ill and this seems to have spread a certain amount of lethargy amongst the rest of the team. At one time during the day they left their camp standing and went up the Bwlch to try to cross it but were again turned back. They were not found and they settled down to another uncomfortable night, during which there was a slight snowfall.
Next morning, Monday March 18th, they struck camp and set off back to the cottage. They were sighted and rescued by an R.A.F. helicopter at about 0900 hours when they were less than one and a half miles south of their camp site and three and a half miles from the cottage. Chris Abel says that similar parties from the school have regularly done this trip on many occasions before in both directions. Experience, he says, shows that 3-1/2 hours is a reasonable time for it. He himself has been organising this type of expedition for the school for 10 years and before that he was at the Devon Outward Bound School. (Some instructors will no doubt comment that the law of averages had to catch up with him sometimes). He did not set the boys off at an earlier hour because they were involved in climbing and abseiling instruction and because he wanted them to be well briefed and to have a good lunch. The trouble arose, he feels, because one of the party was not feeling well and because the cloud came down half an hour earlier — and it came 1,000 feet lower — than had been forecast.
Now for our comments:
1. The distance by the best route on the map is 8 miles. The height gained is 1700 feet. Two boys out of the six were loaded and the speed of any party is the speed of the slowest. Using the R.A.F. formula for a loaded party of 2-1/2 miles per hour plus one hour for every 1,500 feet gained, the formula time for the expedition is 4 hour 20 minutes. This would put the boys at the rendezvous point at 18.20 hours — after sunset. We realise that formulae are no substitute for experience and Chris Abel has far more experience of this area than we do. Nevertheless, is this not another typical instance of that terrible British habit (of which we ourselves have been guilty many times) of setting out late in the day and not allowing an ample margin of time before dusk. Should not we aim to be at our terminal point by mid-afternoon — or earlier — thus allowing plenty of time for wrong route finding, not feeling well, dawdling over lunch or any of the other diversions that seem to spring up in the hills?
It is worth recalling that the Cairngorm party did not set out until well past mid-day and that the Hertfordshire boys were still at the stream in Cwm Eigiau at 16.00 hours when they were supposed to rendezvous on the summit of Foel Gras at 17.30 hours.
2. Again there is a similarity with the Carneddau incident in that the crux of the Bredon schoolboys' expedition — the crossing of the Bwlch — came near the end of the expedition when there was much less than two hours to darkness. Should not the crux of any "adventure training" expedition come early in the day when the boys are fresh? It then gives them a tremendous glow of achievement to speed their way for the rest of the day.
3. This business of staying put. Many experienced mountaineers felt that all the praise lavished on the Hertfordshire schoolboys (including a Mayoral reception!) for their "sense" in staying put would only lead to other parties of schoolboys bedding down for the night at the first sign of trouble and then waiting to be rescued. If this sounds harsh, then please remember that the Hertfordshire boys were "found" by a couple from Cambridge after they had been "lost" for over 18 hours but they did not want to go down to the Conway Valley with the Cambridge couple because it was in the opposite direction to their rendezvous. And what, may we ask, were the "well- trained" Bredon schoolboys doing throughout Sunday when conditions were such that their master could see the whole route up to the Bwlch.
The pendulum of human experience as tends to swing in an exaggerated way. Before we knew about Mountain Hypothermia, lives were lost because parties and individuals would press on when conditions got bad, the body got wet and exhaustion approached. So out went the call "to stay put and keep warm". And very good advice it is. But it does not mean staying put for two or three nights when conditions are such that escape is more than feasible. Because if this goes on then the fears of those people after the Carneddau incident — fears that our lives would be spent looking for "stay put" parties — may well turn out to be only too true.
Perhaps it all comes down to this one to truth: that a party is only ‘well-equipped’ in and ‘well-trained’ if it is able to cope with the worst conditions that are liable to be encountered on any expedition. We confess that if that ‘truth’ was always rigidly applied then many famous climbs, many famous expeditions, would never have taken place. But we put it to all our readers that there is a world of difference between an expedition undertaken by — as the phrase goes — ‘consenting adults’ and those set by a school, education authority or outdoor pursuits centre when those in charge are "in loco parentis" to the boys or girls who are setting out on the expedition. Chris Brasher: Mountain Life-April/May 1974
First published in by Diadem in 1989 and edited by the late Ken Wilson, Chris Bonington-Mountaineer, charted the remarkable climbing career of someone,who even 30 years ago, was THE public face of British mountaineering. Since then, his fame and influence has only continued to grow to the extent that the genial knight of the realm is recognised and respected wherever people climb mountains. Chris Bonington Mountaineer originally set out to detail through words and images, his outdoor life, from youthful early days wandering in Somerset’s Quantock hills, to later military style expeditions in the Greater Ranges, where his organisational skills came into their own.
The book was no searing, in depth autobiography but a simple coffee table tome which set out to record his global and domestic campaigns in a photo-journalistic style. The substance and strength of the book was in its photographs with the matter of fact text simply outlining what was going on at the time when the image was recorded. Fast forward almost 30 years and the fifty something action man has become an 80 something grizzled veteran and survivor. Where many have fallen, Chris has overcome triumph and tragedy and remained in the saddle to reach an age when many of his generation who have come this far, have fallen into decrepitude. By contrast, ‘rage,raging against the dying of the light’, he remains ever the activist. Climbing The Old Man of Hoy with young whippersnapper, Leo Holding in his 80th year! Good fortune or simply living a healthy life? Whatever the reasons for his continued rude health, his exploits in the great outdoors continue to delight and astound the mountain community.
Atop the Old Man of Hoy with Leo Holding:Photo Berghaus
Vertebrate’s 2016 re-issue takes to story forward to the present day. Still chock full of those classic early photographs of people and places,including iconic figure like Don Whillans and Nick Escourt, his post 89 adventures have been brought in to bring his mountain life up to date. Further expeditions to the greater ranges of course, but also recent excursions in Morocco, The USA and Greenland with lifelong friends. Climbing simply for the sheer pleasure of it rather than as part of a sponsored siege of an unclimbed peak.
Given the quality of the images-and not all photographs included were taken by Chris- those interested in photography would be interested to discover what cameras were used to record what are overwhelmingly, outstanding images. Well, Chris is very much an Olympus man. In the footnotes at the back of the book he tells us that he switched to Olympus in 1974 and never changed. Attracted by the introduction of the compact SLR, he generally used Olympus cameras and lenses with Kodachrome film-25/64 above the snowline and 200 below. The Olympus addiction continued into the digital age and he continues to use the OM-D and four third system Pens. Although he confesses to increasingly use an iPhone 6 to record his adventures.
Go North Young Man:
Chris Bonington Mountaineer is out on the 7th November and available direct from Vertebrate or as they say in the trade- from all good book sellers.
John Appleby:2016
I do believe that areas like the Lleyn could represent a facet that has all but disappeared from British climbing”, Steve “the general” Mayers commenting on the on-sight ethic in the early 90s. Al had said that the crack “looked about severe”, the tide was out and we stood beached between seaweeded rocks, cannon ball shined, wet from the outgoing tide. Having descended via a grass ridge into what was later described as Three Caves Zawn, such were the obvious topographical features undercutting the cliff that towered for fifty metres or so above us. Here then beyond Rhiw's lonely village and its queer crocodilian edge, where Bardsey Sound’s tide race conducts unknown depths with awesome power round the mouth of hell, cutting off main landmass from a small mysterious island bearing its name, where in 1188, Gerald of Wales had noted, lived an order of devout coldei monks (pilgrims, I knew, still journeyed there). We set out to worship at the vertical shrine of our won cult, watching our companion figures morph over far headland as we did so. Pure in line, our route lay in devil disguised disfigurement which, austere in its fractured neutrality soon proved a tortuous path where better judgement on a different day might have countenanced retreat.
Peculiar indeed were the seldom visited regions of unsoundness for which the Lleyn retained a certain infamy amongst rock climbers. Take for instance “Craig Dorys” where Stevie Haston had told a bemused farmer working fields above the cliffs abrupt drop, “Do you realise that the best route in North Wales in on your land”. Perhaps not a consensus view, the route in question “Tonight at Noon” features a severely overhanging crack composed of exfoliating mudstone at a modest E7. Longer expeditions are to be found at what might be described as the begging of the Lleyn on the massive earthenware buttresses of Trwyn y Gorlech and Craig y Llam. On the latter anyone climbing the 600' 'Fantan b' can suck in exposure when hidden jugs above a small roof on crux pitch 5 obligates a pullout waymarked by an unbroken plumbob drop straight back to sea level.
Rock type hereabouts is granodiorite and typified by a compact lichenous nature. It makes runners and belays difficult to arrange without pegs, though it generally provides solid holds. Thus the true heart of multi pitch adventure in its most testing form requires travelling further out down the peninsula’s long arching arm. Only then can one become familiar with the great orange slopes within the vicinity of the lead itself. Cilan. “No one goes too often to totter down the nightmare slopes- recuperative periods to re-temper frayed nerves are of an almost alpine necessity”, Dave Holmes commenting on the Cilan experience after the first ascent of New Moon (a four pitch E5) in 1989 with Ray Kay.
In fact if a mention of Cilan Main did not cause momentary shudder chances are you hadn’t yet experienced the bizarreness it represented, or were trying to forget it, perhaps in general withdrawal from everyday world. Big and serious, Cilan is where grit and shale horizontal bandstakes the eye before craning neck muscles allow a gaze to take in the massive capping black roofs two hundred feet above a tiny beach at the crags undercut base. Ray Kay said “It was as if holds were colour coded there”, red / yellow suspect or snappy; black / red for solid enough, yet even with such discernment, routes might not easily succumb, especially when suspicious holds combined with poor protection induced harrowing paranoia on ground that did not lack technical difficulty.
Indeed finding himself spread-eagled in a bluish black groove on Crow's second pitch, Ray had at one point considered simply jumping off, so untenable had his situation become. John Toombs, ever level headed under pressure, once informed of this strategy, counselled “Wouldn’t do that if I were you, Raymond”. Which then allowed Kay to gather himself and complete the pitch which left a lasting impression on both climbers. A clue as to what such an excursion might be like can be found in Crow’s description where on the introductory pitch it reads: “Go round the bulges on handfuls of slate”.
First climbed in 1971, remarkably with only one aide point, by Keith Myhill, Crow attacks the wall to the left of its perhaps more well-known neighbour, Vulture and received a free ascent in 1978 from Mick Fowler and Mick Morrison, one of the very few teams to seek out the Cilan atmosphere at this time.
Mostly the work of Jack Street and Chris Jackson circa late 60s, Cilan consciousness in the form of routes like Central Pillar (a HVS with a difference), that along with Gangway no longer exists in original form, gradually confronted the handful of climbers that went to repeat them with a growing respect, “these routes on the cliffs of the Lleyn Peninsula are perhaps the loosest and most serious yet discovered in Wales”.
World Climbing, 1980
By the late 80s and into the early 90s the roll call of climbers making exploratory routes or repeats began to increase and whist the Peninsula did not experience a trendy ‘place to be’ scenario a few Llanberis based teams initially spearheaded by Ray Kay and Dave ‘skinny’ Jones in the company of John Toombes and Lee McGinley did much to arouse a curiosity in other that would increase the Lleyn resume. Pat Littlejohn with various partners had also been quietly operating in the area for some time and thus with a Culm Coast seal of approval it was clear that those entering this lonely realm would be ill advised to do so without a certain apprehension. Sparsely documented, there seemed a magnetic charm purveyed by the only guide book, a slim off yellow paperback, published by the Climbers Club in 1979 and compiled by Trevor Jones, who after editing known information into forty eight pages reminded would be acolytes that “the descriptions and in particular the grades should therefore be considered as provisional and treated with some respect”. It was good advice.
After using this tome on a number of bitter sweet occasions, we had found a number of zawns apparently untouched by previous explorers. To reach these there were a times difficult sea level traverses and unfeasibly treacherous fishermen’s paths. It was in one of these arenas that I now confronted the so called ‘severe’ looking crack in the zawn of the three caves. 'Bytilith' it was marked on OS maps, yet a most defining feature signing our approach centred on a defunct pipeline emanating from a short red brick wall atop and left of the cliffs when looking out to sea. This forgotten edifice plunged in decay down a disturbing couloir for over a hundred feet ending its fall on beach boulders, from where at low tide it was also possible to get round in to the semi cauldron zawn in which rested out point of interest, a crack line whose apparent ascetic charm was difficult to ignore.
Anyone venturing out on short climbs offered by the ‘grit stone’ edge at Rhiw might be forgiven for thinking that sea cliffs in the vicinity might display a similar, generally solid, nature. Yet, this form of false consciousness, would be, above all hope, swiftly be annulled unless concentrating solely on sea rumbled boulders. Thus the crack once engaged rendered a gear shift on my part so that the mind, hit with information, after architecture each side of the alarming fissure which saw designated footholds explode or de-laminate when nominally weighted, returned to Cilan mode. I think therefore I jamb, or, in a less than grand philosophical sense, which might nevertheless have great repercussions on a personal level, I thought how best jambs should be placed. It wasn’t that baffling technical difficulties suddenly caused a long pause in proceedings, but that typically such ascents rely on a slow probing up and down after securing, at least psychologically, any available protection. Of this, deep inside the crack’s mud butter, better crystallised rock gave home to a couple of friend placements and a big sideways hex biting the fracture’s doubtful outer edges backed them up. It was enough.
When leaders hardly move for half an hour, it might be no surprise to hear second shout in encouragement ‘go for it’ which whilst possible galvanising action in sound rock settings with bomber gear the matter in hand was more likely to succumb after a long mental war of attrition and knowing this Al, maintaining a silent vigil shuffled atop the highest boulders as turning tide began cutting off escape. Cruel were the impediments barring way to the imagined haven promised by a beckoning ledge where steepness was temporarily postponed. This was the belay out sloper, proportioned with a horizontal crumble line taking a friend and some nuts on which I overkilled the snug and braced to bring up the Ruper. A shipwrecked monk lamenting the stone boat’s sinking, no longer paying out.
Crouching and lashed in, maybe eighty feet from where the rock ended at the cave lips and their hollows underneath blew out wave wash over and over, the situation was dramatic. A grey rock pillar dominating the cliff’s upper reaches resembled in appearance Pembroke limestone yet its nature would probably diverge considerably when tested for the properties which Pems is famously known. To the left, the zawn’s concavity bent it round in windscreen flex where it rubbled in ghoul shapes and deep brown death blocks lurking and hanging like gargantuan bats roosting. It lent together in disturbing bulges threatening to drop. Al toiling with the revelation brought on by the crack’s true gravity at one point implored me to give assistance since a deeply seated friend, now inverted, required in a typical case both hand for trigger release least it ‘walk’ towards loss in the crack’s innards. With great regret it was my solemn duty to inform him that no such assistance could be advanced. I did not like to say it, ‘that the belay might pull’. Yet, not long after this heart breaking news arrived, the friend, aided by a forceful extraction pull, think Popeye opening a can of spinach, and with something like flurry of blows Al soon exchanged jambs at the crack’s finale for a creaking welcome on the shelving perch and we hurriedly plugged in the extra cam shoring up the anchors.
On the lunatic fringe of the next pitch a crack / groove took a rock four, biting in solid first go. Bridge out- lean in- left shouldering and a reach with the right gains faulty finger locks. Moving in reptile shape I make a position under an overlap, where things- as Glenn Robbins was fond of saying, and George Smith would later name his Shale City test piece- were 'getting ugly’. Some wall shadows tell the sun is losing us and I can’t pull over.A man hanging forms the gallows of his own making. This surplomb was half mud, half biscuit, half past dead Whymper.... earth, and stuck below it, excavating fragile layers with one hand sapping, exposure bites as an invisible pig suckles strength away. But here now is the animal in most savage form and with survival its only goal, half standing amidst the left arête’s museum porcelain I commit, chest first, to a gaiter roll mantle and twist body parts over drip fed Hammer House horror, emerging a white faced phantom on the uber steps as uncloaked rock grass becomes airborne, famous amongst the shearwaters.
With our compadres return there are two figures forty feet above peering over and I shout them to fix a rope for the exit shoot at the only conceivable belay, a block diagonally distanced some forty feet away, it would have to do, we have no head torches and the overlord on the incubus steps is waiting. I the kick back before the top it feels like I am tread milling a smashed escalator and with the sky empty of birds I find a grim oasis, but there is no warning and suddenly you’re dead. Double vision? No, blood, only a little, but the hard baked pudding stone had struck me a direct skull hit and its bass rhythm sent a shock wave through the jaw, attempting to dwarf me,stunned, the torso as my knees buckled and I stepped for a moment off the round world’s edge... deaf.
'Relaxing after the climb':Image-Martin Crook
But I am okay apart from rope snag on non-extended runners, causing a final crawling technique which gains relief only after clipping in under the rim on the cold cliff, as Rutger Hauer says ‘not yet, not yet’ clenching his Roy Batty fist. Alive. In sort of muck lined crevasse formed by banks, rabbit warren honey combed, I face out towards the Irish Sea, ready to bring up Al from the cirque of the unclingables, and he comes on like a medieval abbot surveying monastery ruins. Schwarzenegger big in his coat, ‘an insensitive oaf’ a girlfriend once called him, but he picks a way through the Herculean jenga pillars without causing collapse when the merest indelicate touch would have caused regret. With wind blast, hoods go tight on the draw cord and below a crusader zeal fuels the oxygen of escape as he passes over the fairy-tale roof with hands hard grasping. ‘Extremely Severe’, he would later say. But then we are there avoiding the head landers, where there are none except those captured in memory. Burdened only by the hillside’s incline we must set a zig zag course away from the pipe wall and taking a breather, become conscious of the slopers at dusk in the R. S. Thomas necroscope night. Down in the dark zawn.....at the end of Wales.
An account of The First Ascent of Headlander 100 metres XS, April 1992, Martin Crook, Alistair Hughes
Martin Crook: 2016: Previously Unpublished.
What if I live no more those kingly days?
their night sleeps with me still.
I dream my feet upon the starry way
my heart rests in the hill.
I may not grudge the little left undone;
I hold the heights - I keep the dreams I won.
G. Winthrop-Young
(Last stanza from “I have not lost the magic of long days”)
Summer 1976, a year that was purgatory for river canoeists and fishermen, but one continual party for rock climbers and crag rats, and of course, I was proud to be both so it was a great opportunity for me to indulge my passion over the long summer break, before I finished at Uni and entered the rat race.
Sandy and I decided to go to Achiltibuie for three weeks before moving north to Cape Wrath for another few weeks, where she would pursue her passion – painting and sketching, and me mine – being alone in contact with rock as I moved up and across it.
I woke on the morning of the 23rd June (my 32nd birthday) and had a great breakfast sitting outside the lodge with binoculars in hand, seeking potential sea cliff routes on the Summer Isles, and noted some possible areas in my climbing log book for another year.
We had decided the previous evening to go for a long coastal walk northwards towards a point on the map called Rhu Coigach, as we were told by the local postman that otters were frequently seen among the kelp in that area. This was ideal, as Sandy was studying them with the intention of opening an otter rescue centre somewhere in Sutherland or Wester Ross when I finished my course at Durham.
We left the lodge expecting to have a long day out, hoping to be inundated with spectacular views along the way, and of course, to see some lutra lutra*.
As we approached the small hamlet of Reiff, just along the road from where we were staying, we met the local postman again, who when we told him where we were going, replied: “Old Tam MacPhearson, a local fisherman, was in the Am Fuaran Bar, near Altandhu last night, and said he saw a large family of otters, playing in the kelp just south of Rhu Coigach around 6pm” and suggested that we should time our arrival, mid to late afternoon.
We parted, feeling good that our day would a good one.
As the day was dry with a slight warm breeze blowing, the clear blue sky with its small fluffy clouds high above, added to the pleasure we got whilst walking northwards along the coast line. The waves were big and clearly took great delight in smashing into the rocks, sounding like a full orchestra tuning its instruments before a concert, no order, no synchronicity, just a jumbled yet pleasant thunderous noise.
After fifteen to twenty minutes of ambling along, Sandy sat on some rocks whilst I inched my way out as far as I could, so that I could play dodgem with the waves as they try hard to soak me and I tried hard to prevent them from doing so; I was happy that the little child in me was still alive and well!
Looking up stopped me in my tracks, when I saw a line of sea cliffs further on some of which were of considerable height. I knew that there were no recorded climbs in this area and with my little boy to the fore, I ran back to Sandy to hurry her up so that we could get to the cliffs I had seen.
The tide had just started to turn and the first cove we passed had some unusual blocks standing guard and were obviously resting sites for cormorants, shags, and a host of other sea birds by the look of white droppings that covered the rocks. Jelly fish were in abundance in all the coves although they all looked dead, but I had no wish to test out this theory so we walked on a little further until we came to a cove which definitely had great potential. I could not resist it so climbed down to the sea line and played around on the rocks, first climbing up then down several left ward slanting grooves, then ambling over to a large cliff face which sported a nice crack before moving around the cliff arête to find my birthday present. A large wall towering out of the sea and with the tide on the way out, it looked even bigger. This was rock to climb.
I talked it over with Sandy, and despite wearing an old pair of flared corduroy trousers and well-worn trainers, we agreed that as I was climbing at my best, it was well within my limits.
As I climbed down and across to the tidal area, noticing that at least ten to fifteen feet was covered in limpets and barnacles, Sandy sat down with a view of the cliff face and agreed to take photos of the climb for posterity.
The rock was firm to the touch and although the surface was rough on the fingers, I knew it would offer my trainers superb friction. As I slowly made my way to the high tide line, I looked up at the inviting rock face, and traced in my minds’ eye, the line I was going to follow up to the skyline and sensed that this was another moment in my life that I would remember all my days.
I put my left hand out and took hold of some small protruding rugosities, placed my right toe on a large barnacle and stood up. My gazelle like movement thrilled my senses as I slowly eased my body upright so as to gain a higher hold for my right hand. I braced my muscles as I brought up the other foot to meet the right one perched precariously on another small protuberance which thankfully took my weight. I stood at this position and listened to the sweet music of the waves as they met the rocks behind and below and I knew, no I believed that this was where I should be at this moment in my life. Synchronicity of life, movement, belief, desire and truth, what more could a mere insignificant human being ask for!
I searched above for the next hand hold and moved in a slow rhythmic movement in tune with my heart beat, as it pulsated nectar of life around my sinews and muscles that were being tested to their limits. I was now on clean rock, no more limpets or barnacles as footholds, just the rough texture of the rock and my own ability to remain in contact with it.
There can be no doubt that when a climber chooses to climb alone, he cannot afford to make the slightest error of judgement, for there is no climbing partner and no rope to assist or arrest any possible slip or fall, let alone have someone to offer encouragement to make a daring move when upward movement appears impossibly. In essence, the end result of such an error would almost certainly lead to severe bodily injury or even the forfeit of life itself.
I had already made the conscious decision to risk everything on this climb, and although I had no death wish, I knew I had to climb well, safe and within my own limits. The problem was, that I had no idea what those limits were, which is what made solo climbing so appealing to me in the first place - the unknown, the potential danger, the ability to experience being truly alive on all levels, physically, intellectually, and emotionally.
As I passionately and purposefully moved upwards a little further, I saw above me a small scoop which had a sloping base, narrowing at the top. I made for it not knowing where I would go from there. This was exploration at its boundary limits of my human capability and it made me realise that right here, right now, I was doing what I was born to do, at least, this is what I convinced myself as I thought about my next upwards move.
As I rested in the scoop, I heard my heart beat as it increased to the sweet familiar adrenalin rush, as it coursed faster through my body. The temple muscles throbbed a delightful tune to the music being played within my veins, and I was loving every minute of it, especially when I felt that the crashing waves of the returning tide, were playing in tune with my very senses.
Trying to get up and past this scoop was both difficult and awkward, and at one stage I was spreadeagled in the shape of a crucifix, (which is what I eventually called the route). Whilst I was fleetingly enjoying being in that position, it became all too clear that I had no idea how I was going to extricate myself from such a precarious position. It felt like many minutes had passed before I came to a decision on what to do next, but in reality, I knew that it was only a few micro seconds as over the past twenty-three years of climbing, mostly alone, I had become attuned to be as one with the rock, so that movement came naturally, quickly and automatically as it had to do when soloing.
An awkward move using a knee, allowed me to gain another fault line leading off to the left and upwards and this gave me two choices of topping out. One route went direttissima that is taking a direct line straight up to the top and the other veered leftwards to some large angled steps then a short wall to the top. Both looked inviting although the direttissima route was without a doubt, a very severe undertaking.
I weighed up both routes and settled for the direttissima route which is what I expected my decision to be. However, when I saw Sandy across the cove taking pictures, I realised that sometimes being selfish and egocentric in my decision making, was not the right thing to do and that any error leading to my possible demise was not fair on her, so elected to do the easier finish.
Movement across to the steps on the left was done in a gazelle like fashion, as all my senses and my limbs became one unified movement of beauty, whilst a cacophony of nature’s sounds tried to sing in harmony with my movements. Upwards movement again, then a little more, a few grunts and groans, and I topped out to applause from Sandy. I felt chuffed at doing what I considered to be a first ascent on what I believed to be an unknown climbing area. Both Sandy and I were confident that I was climbing well and so I continued to climb another few routes nearby.
When this was done, I climbed back down to the water line and traversed around the small jutting headland to the left. Some good friction was available and I made good progress climbing up, then back down and then traversing a little. At one point I was out of sight of Sandy, and whilst I was negotiating an awkward archway, I felt a wave of nostalgia flood over me. The wind went silent. The waves made no noise as they crashed constantly onto the rocks all around me. The hairs on my arms stood on end and my fingers tingled. I stopped moving across the rock and waited for whatever was going to happen; to happen.
Nothing happened so I tried to start climbing again, but my movement was sluggish as if some force was pulling me back and although I was in contact with the rock, I could not feel it under my finger-tips or with my toes. It felt like I was just standing there in the air, free from all contact with the rock, cocooned in a pocket of total silence.
Suddenly there was a thunderous noise as a huge wave crashed into the base of the cliff face making me leap out of my cocoon. The noise echoed, deafening me for a few seconds and without thinking, I started to climb upwards, across the arch, up a short wall and topping out. I was pleased to see Sandy sitting nearby, gave a wave and walked over to give her a long embracing cuddle.
I was taken aback when she asked where I had been for the past hour. I said I had been nowhere and had only just left her to climb down the rock face to the archway, when a huge wave crashed into the cliff so hurried up and finished the climb. Sandy assured me that I had been away for over an hour and was starting to get worried as she could not see or hear me.
As this was not the first time I had experiences such situations whilst solo climbing, I shrugged it off as just being another unexplained occurrence, and so we moved on further northwards where more rock presented itself, so much so, that I was spoilt for choice and was unable to settle on any particular cliff face. I climbed around a few more coves on our way to Rhu Coigach, but I could see that Sandy was getting bored with me going off to climb continually, so gave up and we walked together in silence to our destination where as we had a break, we peered intently into the kelp beds for signs of otters searching for crabs and fish.
Sandy did some sketching whilst I played around on the small cliffs around the headland, and whilst they were not as big as those further back the way we came, they offered me plenty of sport for which I was most grateful.
Having to walk back to the lodge past the cliffs at Reiff was purgatory for me, but the sun was now hidden behind some dark clouds and the wind had turned cold and breezy and we wanted to get back before it started to rain. I asked Sandy how many photographs she had taken and was disappointed to find that after the first climb the film ran out and we had forgotten to take a replacement. Ah well, memories remain.
* Sea Otter
Frank Grant: 2016 (Previously unpublished)
Craig yr Ysfa: John Petts engraving on wood
Of a mind to plunge my hands into Thomas Firbank's, 1940 novel- 'Bride to the Mountain'- to ooze potential clues of the events of the Giveen climbing incident in 1927 not conceded to in 'I Bought a Mountain', but almost thwarted by a holiday chlorine wash. It would take longer to reveal the three climbs, which, if accurate, could provide evidence for this local man who was perhaps privy to secret information from an adjacent Capel Curig valley resident. If the descriptions of the three climbs bore any resemblance to the Great Gully, Craig yr Ysfa, perhaps it will be prudent to consider his fictional twist with this opportunity to refresh the Giveen story.
Turning to Chapter 2 to focus on Grace, a man of modest private means of no occupation, a superb climber, delicate as a cat, strong as a bullock who travelled to the Alps or the Dolomites each year or if less fiscally flush, to Skye, the Lake District, or North Wales. Staying with his friend, Peter Prospect, son of a northern landowner, at the 'Clamberers' Climbers' Club hut in November. 'Late in the year for climbing' they were joined the next morning by a local man, Jim Dunne. Two hours walk over the 'Cader' range they reached 'Black Arete', a climb of a thousand feet, described as extremely difficult and rendered slippery by a thin drizzle. Grace's companion, as of 'novice' experience is likened to be exercised of his skill as inexperienced people are on such difficult rock-pitches by his own personal efforts.
Firbank regales why 'everything went wrong'. A late breakfast that delayed the start from the hut, an unhurried walk and a late lunch. Prospect, burdened of having a bad, off-day, held up the other two badly as he fell off twice. Soon cold and with climbing difficult the last pitch was completed in near darkness, where they collapsed, wet to the skin on the summit.
Grace had an alpine lantern and compass, necessary as the drizzle had turned to heavy rain driven by an icy wind; the night pitch black. The candle in the lantern gave out half way down but the three men 'knew the lie of the land' and stumbled on, falling over often. Unexpectedly Dunne fell into a small pond, where he splashed out to the side helped by his companions and collapsed on the grass, unconscious with Prospect little better. Grace, 'in a quandary' decided to save one and dragged Dunne to shelter behind a rock, and then half dragged, half carried Prospect down the valley. They reached the boundary fence of the valley road after midnight, with the hut still three quarters of a mile away. They struggled into the teeth of the funnel wind.
The key to the hut, usually hidden under under a stone, was not readily found by Grace in the wild blackness and he smashed the window, gained entry and then dragged his companion inside. He lit a fire, wrapped Prospect in blankets before the stove, while both drank some brandy, kept in the hut for emergencies. Grace changed his clothes whilst Prospect slept and went into the night to find Dunne's car, which eventually started. It was not until near dawn that he drew upon help when they returned to the valley, on the way knocking on the doors of three farms leaving word for men to follow for help. Dunne's body was found lying at the edge of the lake where he had fallen, the inquest on the next day credited Grace’s actions but for a short lecture on the impropriety of rock climbing in the winter.
One of the climb descriptions begins in Chapter 3. 'Craig Ddu', which started by a fairly direct route. To the west of the highest point a V-shaped nick 'Hollt Y Cawr' (Giant's cut), an eastward course was taken to reach the crest as the map revealed that the ridge, which ran back to from one wall of the 'Hanging Valley', was more accessible from that side. At the foot of the precipitous mountain, the slope, almost all of firm rock at an angle of fifty degrees or so, striated horizontally to give excellent holds. The ascent, no more difficult than a staircase was easy and the terraces were wider than they looked from below. It took two hours to climb the two thousand feet from the 'Marchlyn Valley' to the 'Craig Ddu' ridge. The next ascent was that to Craig yr Ogof, which started with a field of boulders at its foot. The next stretch was eight hundred feet of unbroken climbing, the top nearly sheer,at eighty degrees.
The cave was found via a chimney, eight hundred feet above a turf ledge, where a rest was taken and then a slab afterwards to a Rowan tree. About eighty feet of good holds, then a traverse to the right. A nice arete, an easier angle and maybe another hundred feet, and an easy lot of slabs afterwards with plenty of quartz. Large holds then grass afterwards, within a hundred feet of the cave at the end of the grass. The foot of the climb was split by a great fissure. The chimney was not wide- two to three feet . The climber wedged himself inside and wriggled up and sometimes the chimney narrowed so much that he came right to the outside and used holds on the jagged edge. Out of the fissure on to a steep-sloping shelf had proved hard work.
Although much steeper the slab strata ran easily with moves afforded on three holds. A shelf was reached and with an arm on a Rowan tree a rest taken before the next long Arete. Here the cliff folded and left a sharp angle with a void beneath and also to right and left. The rock was sound, the holds sufficient in size and frequency. The entrance to the cave had to be approached to the east or above the bulge in the cliff which appeared to form a broad ledge until it merged into the floor of Hollt y Cawr. There was a stretch of three hundred and fifty feet, which lay back at an easier angle with areas ingrained with quartz and others of turf that overlaid the rock.
A crack then fifty feet up, only two or three feet wide, possibly good for hand holds which passes the end of ledge and by the side of the cave with no way across.
The only way forward was on up the crack until above the cave where the slope eased off and was easily scrambled down. The last pitch proved far different with holds far apart and small. A crevice to take the first joints of the little fingers, a wrinkle of the rock that gave a friction hold for the side of his stockinged foot and but too rarely forming solid rock for a healthy grip. The crack led westwards and upwards at an angle of forty five degrees across the vertical face with no footholds beneath. Almost a hand-traverse. There was little chance to relieve the weight with the feet. Level with the cave with twenty feet to go to the ledge the crack petered out and recommenced after an interval of two or three feet. Somewhere above the cave, pressed hard to the face just to the left there was a small niche, which allowed the toes to be inserted and a stretch across the blank space to where the crack opened again to fall onto the ledge in front of Ogof y Cawr.
In Chapter 7 another 'Craig Ddu' climb is described, that of the 'Great Wall'. Eight hundred feet climbing a huge rock slab, reached by a ridge between a great cleft and the peak, broken but twice by large terraces. The first eighty foot pitch- the steepest of the climb- ended on a ledge. The initial part of the next pitch- an awkward place at the continuation of the slab- fifty feet up, the few holds petered out with only a vertical chute on the right, as if a giant had sliced a 'ten-yard sliver of rock with a semi-circular chisel'. A smooth, shallow gully known as the Slide. Ahead was the smallest of rock areas, large enough only to take the toe of one shoe and giving time only to secure a handhold. The distance across the Slide precluded a tentative essay with the foot and once launched, there was no going back onto the opposite foothold. A second or two of balancing and a grab for the handhold followed by the short climb up to the terrace . The next long pitch, with no secure place to stop and belay, needed the full run of the hundred foot rope between each climber.
A stop was needed at a point half way up the great slab between the terraces, standing in a small projection whilst the next climber's rope was belayed over a blunt spike of rock, between the knob and the slab. A long chimney above with a fold in the face like a partly opened book, had so obtuse an angle as to allow the back to be wedged against one wall and the feet against the other. In the very angle of the groove the rock was spilt, a thin crack ran right the way up where the chimney gave on to a long, easy-sloping slab studded with white quatrz.
In places the crack in the corner allowed the toe of a shoe, in others a stone jammed provided a hand hold. The walls of the chimney, smooth, with occasional footholds and not difficult, gazed over a void below. At the quartz area a firm rock knob allowed a rope tie. Enough to belay a man around his own body and call for another to come along. The first of the next two easy pitches of the Black Slab was studded with quartz, which provided gargantuan holds, and part of striated rock. The last pitch, difficult initially but straightforward to within twenty feet of the crest of the ridge, followed by a bulge in the rock, which made a very slight overhang. Standing on a small foothold below the bulge, a hand slid over to seek a hold above it. Careful not to lose balance in the attempt. Pressed tight to the face and straightening up in small increments and then boldly to capture the hold above.
The 'Black Arête' climb of Chapter 12 associated with the accident earlier in the book is on the north side of the 'Caders'. Of one thousand feet it started in a dark, wet gully, steep enough in places to be called a chimney, lined with loose stones and patches of turf. The gully took up nearly half the climb before being forced on to the face. The steep arête, sometimes not far off the vertical then appeared for some three hundred feet. The climb on the apex of the angle with three parts very thin. The arête eventually got very smooth with work needed to work back into the three or four feet wide gully. The only way up was the ‘chimney’ by using feet on one side and the back of the neck of the other up a gap of about four feet. Forty feet later the top of the pitch led to a ledge, a foot traverse outwards to work out above the gully and a look down the way already climbed as if you’re seeing through the wrong end of a telescope. The ledge led to the mountain ridge between 'Cader Gwynt' and 'Cader Fronwen'.
Firbank's account of this 'accident climb' begins with Grace the leader who worked his way up the right wall of the gully close to its floor, which lay at seventy degrees. Several holds were cleared of earth or moss by him and a belay reached at eighty feet. The next pitch, a ‘beastly greasy wall' was ascended as if it were a staircase and then off again on a hundred foot lead where he belayed and then led upwards. There was a repeat of things for the rest of the gully part until they reached foot of the Black Arete. Here the gully had become a rock chute with damp sheer sides. There was no way forward but by climbing out on to the Arete. About five hundred feet up the ground at the foot of the climb fell away so sharply that looking outwards did not 'light on level ground' for perhaps fifteen hundred feet. The Arete was thin, steep, the rock beautifully sound, horribly smooth and an exposed place because when they moved out from the gully there was an overhang below the point where the Arete was joined with a clear view between the legs into clear space. The area subject to the full force of the wind.
A rope was looped over a little spike on the edge of the Arete, the belay not much more than a matter of form and it was dusk as they reached the last pitch. They worked their way back into the gully from the great wide chimney pitch. There was a grass ledge at the base of the chimney and Dunne backed his way up six feet, then horizontally he lay across the chimney and moved one boot at a time, no more than a few inches. With his feet a little higher than his head he pushed behind his back with his hands until his head was above his feet and then he reached the top. There was only the foot traverse left and the turf of the hillside sloped to meet the end of it in no more than twenty feet.
Mark Hughes:2016
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