Grumpy Old Men's Climbing Club 2024
To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobble streets silent and the hunched, courters’ and rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.
Under Milk Wood. Dylan Thomas
Our website is looking a bit sad and depleated. So here are a few filler2-in for starters. Hi-light is the new Stoney caf, which is a bit upmarket from the old one and soggy chips, stewed luke-warm tea and snotty eggs don't appear on the menu.
1-6
- Yes, I know we had snow, which lasted about 12 hours. This was our garden
- The new Stoney caf, The Cupola.
- Inside The Cupola.
- Hazel flower. These are the females that become nuts unless the squirrels spot them first.
- Jew's Ear fungus on dead Elderberry bush.
- Scarlet Elf cups
February. Richard Hasko has come to the rescue of our sad-looking Grumpies page with a stirring historic account of stack climbing in Scotland. Read on.
STACKS TO DO
It was April 1996 and my climbing year had been going surprisingly well. A few days earlier I’d been to Wales with Joe and we’d done a winter ascent of Western Gully on the Black Ladders, a hard route at the best of times and in fairly lean condition being so late in the year. Somewhat to my surprise I’d found myself leading the crux pitch – a very steep, snowy slab with no possibility of retreat once committed and no protection, a position which I’d studiously avoided for many years. By way of a total contrast the next day Joe led on Left Wall, one of the best rock routes in Britain. We were in the pub for one of our regular snooker sessions when Joe said “Right, Richard, I bet you a pound we can do all three in a weekend.” John Stevenson and I looked at Joe with incredulity. The three in question were the classic Scottish sea stacks: Old Man of Hoy, Old Man of Stoer and Am Buachille. Joe had been muttering about doing the Old Man of Hoy for some time and both John and I agreed that it would indeed be a fine thing do. But three in one weekend? Hoy alone was normally a three day trip: ferry from Scrabster to Stromness on Orkney, another ferry to the island of Hoy then a taxi ride across this to the stack. “It would have to be a long weekend I’ll grant you, but it’s definitely possible.” My doubts about Joe’s sanity were only increased by this so I happily took the bet on, completely confident that I would be able to relieve him of some more of the proceeds of his scribblings.
With that we got down to some serious planning. “I think we’d need to get Bruce as well, two ropes of two will be better than one of three and he’s got a company car” Joe offered. Bruce French was a man we all knew and liked so we were happy with that. He’d been a wicketkeeper for Nottingham and England as well as a keen climber and now retired from cricket could devote a lot more time to climbing. We’d got to know him through Steve Bancroft who’d hero-worshipped Bruce as a cricketer while at the same time Bruce was hero-worshipping Steve as a climber. Neither of them knew each other until Bruce stopped playing professionally and got in touch with Steve.
Three weeks later our team assembled at Joe’s house on a warm, early May evening. Bruce hadn’t needed any persuading to join the adventure and had even volunteered to sort out the ferry timetables for us. “If we take two hour stints each we can drive through the night” John opined. “Excellent plan, John”, Bruce replied. But the insurance only covers me.” This was rather unfortunate as it was something like 500 miles to the ferry port at Scrabster but Bruce seemed unfazed so we loaded the car and set off. Stopping only for a pint in Lockerbie we got to within 20 miles of Scrabster when we pulled into a layby at 3a.m., spread out our sleeping bags and had a couple of hours sleep before the midges roused us for breakfast (theirs!)
Our planning hadn’t gone as far as organising any food for the trip and we were relying on finding a shop somewhere. Our optimism paid off and, somewhat fortuitously, we came across an early-opening supermarket. Aware that time was short before the ferry departure we rushed around with a couple of trollies and loaded up with supplies: a throwaway barbecue set, two packets of sausages and four crates of extra strong lager!
It was a beautiful, clear morning and driving down into the tiny port we could make out the distant outline of Hoy on the horizon. Unfortunately our expansive panorama did not include a ship. “Bruce”, I enquired, “What time is our ferry supposed to be?” “Er, seven o’clock. But I think I must have misread the timetable” Bruce muttered. Checking with the port office we found this was indeed the case and there wouldn’t be a ferry for another five hours. Our ill-thought plans were now in tatters. This led to a frank and open exchange of views at some point in which John came up with the idea of hiring a fishing boat to get us across to Hoy. With this extraordinary moment of lateral thinking our hopes rose and we set about trying to realize this concept.
Over breakfast in the Seamens Mission (a very fine establishment should you ever find yourself at a loose end in Scrabster) we got a phone number for someone “who might be able to help youse boys.” We rang the number and spoke to a man named Clair who was, justifiably, concerned that we might be a bunch of idiots who hadn’t a clue what we were doing and would end up in serious trouble. Convincing him that he was only partially correct he agreed to meet us at the dock. “It’ll be a hundred pounds, is that alright?” he asked when we met 25 minutes later. “Absolutely” we answered, very pleased that this was half the price of the ferry. “Where can you take us to?” “Och, I’ll drop you at the bottom of it.” We were gobsmacked. It meant the plan might actually be do-able.
It was a four hour journey to the Old Man and the sea was glassy smooth. Clair told us something of himself while a friend of his steered the boat. He was a fascinating man and it turned out he’d been a racing driver in his youth and had retired to live up here and take people out fishing. He’d had quite an adventurous life and that was what attracted him to our quest.
The journey passed very pleasantly, except for Bruce who turned out to be a poor sailor and spent the whole time standing in the bow with a face matching the colour of the water. As we neared the Old Man it began to look truly spectacular, towering nearly 400 feet above us. We came around the base in our and slowed to a stop about 75 yards offshore. “I’ll row you across from here” Clair said, throwing a rubber dinghy over the side. We looked at each other with a mixture of excitement and mild anxiety. He took us across two at a time and very soon we were assembled on the boulders at the base of the stack. It was two in the afternoon and we about to climb the Old Man of Hoy. “ I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock “Clair yelled as he rowed back to the Karen, our trusty vessel.
Joe was soon leading the first pitch, steep but easy up an obvious broken pillar to a large ledge. “There’s a dirty great Fulmar here” he shouted down, a note of concern in his voice knowing that Fulmars have an unfortunate habit of emptying the contents of their stomach over intruders. “Talk nicely to it “John replied helpfully. Bruce followed quickly and John led off to join them on the ledge. When I arrived Bruce had disappeared round the corner onto the landward face. John, Joe and I tried to keep out of the fulmar’s way while Bruce worked his unseen way up the big pitch, occasional muttered comments about sand and overhangs floating down to us. He was soon shouting for Joe to climb and when he’d gone I peered round the corner for a look at what I would have to lead, nearly falling off our shared perch when I saw what awaited me. Joe was working his way across a vertical wall trying to brush sand off the holds. He grinned weakly at me: “You’re not going to like this Richard.” I quickly suggested to John that a faint black line on the horizon might indicate a fierce storm about to break and we’d better retreat while we still could but he would have none of it. “You could always lead it John, I don’t mind” I volunteered bravely. “No, no. You’ve been climbing a lot more than me lately, just get on with it.”
A few steps down led to the start of a traverse line into the foot of a large, overhanging chimney. The moves across were balancy and very sandy but took me to protection in a crack from where I could step out onto an arete. Looking up I could see Joe grappling with the crux overhang of the pitch. He appeared to have his right foot inserted into his left ear and was describing the moves in a particularly colourful fashion. With increasing trepidation I climbed up to a niche where there were some old slings attached to wooden wedges left over from the first ascent. Aha, I thought, I can belay here and let John enjoy the roof. This suggestion elicited ripostes that I felt did not befit my status of team respected-elder so I had little choice but to continue.
The roof was as bad as Joe had made it look but it succumbed to a move involving a one-handed mantle on a small hold at the same time as turning through 180 degrees. Bizarre, but effective. Excellent bridging then led to a good stance at the end of a fine but harder than expected pitch. The next two were a bit scrappy but the last was a gem. John cruised up it, a vertical open book corner on immaculate rock in a superb position. I followed, slightly worried with the insubstantial nature of the stack as I could see right the way through the corner to the sea on the other side. Joe and Bruce passed us on their way down, resisting blandishments to wait so we could have a team summit photo. I thought that was a little churlish until I got there and found it to be windy, sloping and rubble-strewn. I grabbed a quick picture and we set off down.
The abseils caused no real problems, Joe and Bruce having left a fixed rope so we could make the diagonal one back to the top of the first pitch. We’d spotted the Karen coming to pick us up right on schedule, which was a relief, but couldn’t help noticing that it was bobbing up and down rather alarmingly on a sea that was no longer smooth but white-capped.
By seven o’clock we were all back at the base, exactly 24 hours after leaving Sheffield! Huddling together on a boulder Clair approached in the dinghy. He was struggling to maintain position and shouted out to us “I’ll come in on a wave and you’ll have to jump in.” This terrifying prospect was slightly less bad than the thought of being left behind so with a strangled cry of “I’ll go first” I leapt, with all the grace of a thousand startled wildebeest, and landed in a jumbled pile of nuts and ropes. John followed on the next wave and Clair began rowing towards the Karen which was by now rolling so far over most of it’s hull was exposed. My earlier terror rose to new heights.
The dinghy and Karen performed an intricate dance for 10 minutes as the two boats were manoeuvred into a position from which it was possible to approach. “When she rolls towards us grab the rail and pull yourself out” Clair instructed. I stood up and prepared to meet Neptune, now beyond fear and into a weary acceptance that a watery end was inevitable. The Karen rolled toward me. I grabbed the rail and, as she rolled away, I was hauled violently out of the dinghy. Throwing a leg over the rail I landed on the deck, giggling hysterically with relief. Moments later John arrived in much the same state. This seriously character enlarging exercise was repeated until we were all safely aboard and the Karen pointed towards the mainland.
It was a totally different voyage to that of the morning, the small boat pitching and rolling so much I thought we would inevitably be thrown overboard. “ Och no” Clair said as I begged him to make it stop “ It's just a moderate swell. Here, this will help.” He poured us a very large measure of Scotland’s finest export, which certainly did help for a while as I synchronised my rolling with that of the boat. It wasn’t too long, however before I had to go and lie down in the wheelhouse while John and Joe, completely unaffected, played chess. Bruce knelt in the bow, communing with the creatures of the deep until we were back in Scrabster where we immediately sought out the nearest hostelry to celebrate being alive. Sadly our attempt at a celebration was cut short by falling asleep in our beer and suffering the ignominy of asking to be let out of a lock-in. Somehow we managed to put tents up and fell into exhausted sleep.
The next day dawned fine and we realized the master plan might actually now be attainable. This could cost me a pound I thought as we drove across to the Old Man of Stoer, Bruce entertaining us with tales from his days as wicket keeper for England. We soon found the stack and swung across the Tyrolean Traverse rope already in place. John and I elected to climb the ordinary route, a three pitch VS in the sun while Joe and Bruce went up a shadowed E2. It was a glorious climb on perfect gritstone-like rock above a twinkling sea, the presence of several other climbers giving it a party atmosphere. It was to be all very different in the morning.
The sun had gone, to be replaced by cloud and wind and we were in a rather more sombre mood as we drove from our campsite at Sheigra to seek out Am Buachille. It didn’t take long to locate the descent gully and we were soon on the rock platforms at the bottom. Am Buachille looked formidable - much bigger than it’s 130 feet, covered in guano and blasted by the wind. It stood on a plinth of rock separated from us by a 40 foot wide channel of black, foamy water. We had four hours to get across, climb it, get down and get back across to the mainland before being cut off by the next high tide. This was the time to unleash our secret weapon-a childrens’ rubber boat!
We inflated the boat and tied a rope to it. There was just room for Joe and Bruce to kneel down in it and they began to paddle across. On reaching the plinth Bruce leapt out. Unfortunately he hadn’t timed his leap very well and, instead of landing on a ledge, he finished up clinging on to a barnacle-encrusted boulder, his feet dangling in the water. The reduced weight in the boat now enabled the wind to push it along the channel and towards the open sea, despite Joe’s frantic efforts. John and I were, by now, convulsed with helpless laughter and it was some minutes before we could get a grip on the situation. With Joe landed, Bruce retrieved John and I could make the crossing, but only after wrestling the boat back on to the ground after it became an airborne flailing demon when relieved of it’s passengers.
Joe led off up vertical but juggy rock, quickly at first but soon slowing to a crawl. He seemed to take an age to make some moves to reach a ledge in a corner at the top of the pitch. All attempts at communication were lost in the gale but he eventually made it, still trying to tell us something but what it was we had no idea. Bruce followed and then I set off, soon reaching the point where Joe had had so much trouble. It was immediately obvious why: there was no protection worth the name, it was hard to stay on the holds in the wind and a fall and undoubted injury would have been extremely serious in this very remote location. There was nothing for it: Throw me a rope” I screamed. “That’s what I was trying to tell you” Joe informed me as I made the very balancy moves onto the ledge and clipped into the several pieces of tat that comprised the apology for a belay.
Bruce set off on the next pitch. We tried to squeeze ourselves into the back of the corner to get some relief from the blasting wind. “This has all the makings of a major epic” John shouted into my ear when he arrived to join the huddle. It certainly began to feel that way as to the rope slowed then stopped altogether for a long time. Bruce could not tell us what was happening and we began to get very worried as the climbing was only supposed to be VS and Bruce is a bold leader but after 15 minutes of occasional jerky movements the rope ran out more quickly and shortly three tugs indicated he was safe and ready.
It had been a good lead. There had been no worthwhile protection and once again a leader fall was out of the question. Even following the pitch was a nightmare. The holds went straight up but the rope from Bruce pulled me up and right while the rope to John, blown into a tight arc pulled me down and right. All the while the gale shrieked and I have rarely been so glad to reach the top of a climb. “VS?’” Bruce yelled. “Not in these bloody conditions it isn’t.”
We’d got to the top. All that remained now was to get off the wretched thing and back across to the mainland. The tide was very obviously coming in fast and we had visions of the abseil rope wrapping itself around the stack, trapping us here. But it was almost as if the gods had tired of playing with us. The ropes didn’t get snagged anywhere, the abseils went smoothly after we’d nearly come to blows arguing over who was going to escape first, and we got back across the channel just as the waves started to crash over the plinth.
Our celebrations that night were long and liquid and I was very happy indeed to hand Joe his pound.
April 8-15th Chris and Sue in the Yorkshire Dales.
I suppose that under different circumstances we would probably have changed our minds and crawled back into our metaphorical shells. However, we had paid a non-refundable campsite fee and so we felt somewhat committed; the weather forecast was grim and we packed the campervan with everything we might need for a prolonged session of hunkering and set off for the delights of Ingleton. Not quite Ingleton but Thornton in Lonsdale which is about 1 mile to the west of it and famed for the Marton Arms Hotel, and rightly so, if only for the quality and range of its real ales. The campsite was on the posh side, not cheap and was by online booking only. No reception, the gate opened on recognising our number plate and signs directed us to our allotted pitch. Ooo!
The jouney from Sheffield was not exactly smooth and thanks to Kate our satnav we became ensnared in Eid-al-Fatr celebrations, road works and a farmer's market as we edged our way very slowly around the Bradford bypass. Eventually we broke free and did not return by that route, despite indignant squeaks from Kate.
Monday morning dawned threatening but dry and we decided to check out the Ingleton Waterfall Trail as there was probably plenty of water available and neither of us had explored it. £10 seemed a lot but on reflection there were a lot of steps and walkways requiring constant maintainance so it was probably not unreallistic. The walk actually exceded expectations, two gorges, 4.5 miles which when combined with walking too and from our campsite and getting lost once probably totalled 7 miles.
The first set of waterfalls are on the river Twiss, which starts off as Kingsdale Beck.
- Money Tree
- Primroses
- Pecca Falls
- Hollybush Spout
- Thornton Force
After leaving the river Twiss the route treks across country to Beezley farm. The track splits here, left takes one down to some slippery stepping stones (wrong way!) right into the Doe gorge.
- The wrong way
- Beezley Falls
- Snow Falls
- Baxenghyll Gorge
Inspired by our success on the waterfall route, we planned something a bit more ambitious for the following day which had a half promising weather forecast. Our route was to take us over Ingleborough from Ingleton, then down the north side to Chapel-le-Dale, up to Ellerbeck, over Scales Moor then across the Twiss and back to Thornton in Lonsdale. Looks a long way said Suzy, "nonesense" I replied "an easy 10miles". Turned out to be nearer 16.
The long haul from Ingleton past Crina Bottom was soon in the cloud and the summit was in cloud+driving drizzle+hurricane force winds otherwise it was very pleasant up there huddling in the shelter. The summit of Ingleborough is nearly flat and our route off the summit was on compass bearing for fear of ending up in Clapham or somewhere unexpected. The north side descent was in thick cloud, streaming with water and quite steep in places until we were almost at the limestone pavements os Southerscales, fortunately mutch of the upper descent was flagged and stepped. Chapel-le-dale was very nice but the 3 mile, gently uphill and boggy bridleway littered with false summits from Ellerfield to Ewes Top was less so. Nice sinkholes though.
- Crina Bottom
- Descending the north side of Ingleborough
- Limestone pavements at Southerscales.
- Pretty sinkhole.
For the next two days we had some serious rain and we hunkered. On the friday however it sort of stopped and we packed up the campevan and drove to White Scar Caves. £18, ouch! A long cave but not the most interesting as much of the route is along a stream passaqe with a couple of bits dug out by miners to benefit the tourists and the cave owners.
- Local produce
- Cave guide waxing lyrical
- Stalactites
- Straw stalactites.
- My new t-shirt. Sue hates it but I am slowly amassing a small but discerning fan club.
On September 21st it was our golden wedding anniversary and I bought Sue a new golden tiara. Really? However, left, was at our wedding reception held in the Sir William pub in Grindleford, and sports me looking like Ken Dodd (sorry about the hair) and Sue looking like Rita Tushingham.
We were in Looe, Cornwall on our anniversary and we went for meal at a semi-posh restaurant, coincidentally called 50. After revealing our cause for celebration, they knocked £20 off the bill and supplied us with some free booze. Excellent.
That's how we were. You are probably in there somewhere.
However, sadly, this year there have been no entries for our online presence, except for me and an excellent historical article from Richard Hasko. This is despite most of us having a mobile phone with a camera where it would only take a few clicks to send something to me for our website. Consequently there will be no Man-Booby prize this year. Does this mean that the site has reached the end it's useful life. Apart from the group shot and the quiz it really hasn't been used by any of us. Facebook could easily take over?
Use it or lose it, give it some thought.
The quiz will be on-line again this year, and will be published a week before the Grumpy party. Please send in some answers, even if they are all wrong! There will be a prestigious liquid prize.
Chris
Ooo! New! Could I have pricked a few consciences?
November 7th. From Dave and Linda in Sicily
We are sat waiting for our flight home from Palermo after just over 3 weeks here.
Thanks Dave and Linda, somebody loves us.
November 8th. From Cath and John Graveling in Croatia.
From Richard Haszko.
APRIL FOOLS
‘Go on, go on.Ye-e-e-e-s’ I screamed as the re-spotted black dropped with a satisfying plop into the top left-hand pocket after my attempt at safety had gone beautifully wrong. Joe looked furious as he cast aspersions on my parentage and stomped off to the bar, shortly returning with two pints of the strongest beer the Broadfield could offer. ‘Are you working tomorrow?’ he asked as he began to set up the balls for a return match. ‘No, I’m not’ I replied’ It’s Easter so there’s no school for a couple of weeks. I’m going to go over to Wales to do some of the easy gullies. I’ve heard there are still some decent conditions there.’ ‘Oh. Are there any good hard ones?’ he replied, breaking off with a typical reckless flourish and potting two reds. ‘Yes’ I retorted through gritted teeth. ‘There’s Snowdrop on the Trinity Face of Snowdon and Western gully on the Black Ladders, a real classic. ‘The black went in followed by another red. My good mood of earlier was beginning to evaporate. ‘Western Gully? That’s in ‘Cold Climbs’ isn’t it?’ Down went the black again after an audacious double and I slumped into the corner. ‘How hard is it?’ ‘Grade four, according to my guide, eight to ten hours.’ ‘Sounds great’ he said, missing an easy red but fluking me into a snooker ‘I’ll come with you and we can do it.’
The next afternoon, Monday April 1st, saw us in Joe Brown’s shop in Capel Curig. Joe was flicking through the new Welsh winter climbs guide while I perused Jeff Lowe’s book on ice climbing in the hope I may be able to learn something useful for the morrow. ’Richard. How old is your guidebook?’ ‘Er, 1973 I think. Why?’ ‘Because it says here Western Gully is Grade Five with a 5/6 crux WHICH SOME PEOPLE DO FREE!’ ‘Oh my God,’ I thought, ‘What I have got myself into now.’
That evening found us in the pub. I stared out of the window, desperately trying to conjure up some life threatening illness so we could call the whole thing off. Joe flicked eagerly through Lowe’s book. ‘There’s an interesting technique here for climbing narrow bits of ice’ he said. ‘What’s that?’ I replied absently. ‘It’s frozen water that’s not very wide” he retorted with a wide grin, obviously delighted to throw back at me some of my own ridiculously childish sense of humour. ‘You get one tool in then hook the other one over it’s head. Then you can pull up and get a placement higher up.’ I gulped, trying to imagine what desperate set of circumstances would necessitate such a blatantly ridiculous manoeuver.
Being April there was no need to make an Alpine start so it was 9 o’clock before we left the car. The weather forecast had promised a cold, clear morning so, unsurprisingly, it was mild with very low cloud. Undeterred, we started walking, enjoying jovial banter until we entered the confines of Cwm Llafar.
Mist wreathed the cliffs, drifting slowly across and occasionally revealing thin streaks of ice disappearing vertically into the cloud. Our earlier lighthearted mood gave way to a much more somber one. ‘How are we supposed to find the start of the route in this’ I muttered as Joe stomped purposefully uphill to the foot of the crag, trying to create the impression of someone who knows what he’s doing. Suddenly the clouds parted. Up and to our left were two figures obviously gearing up. They could only be after the same route and I felt a pang of disappointment but the mist soon swallowed them up and when we arrived at the large snowpatch where I’d spotted them they were nowhere to be seen.
While Joe sorted the gear I wandered off to the side and sat on a rock. I wanted to know how I felt about the route, away from the pressure of Joe’s enthusiasm. To my astonishment I felt completely relaxed about it. This came as something of a shock: normally I could make a jellyfish look as if it had a rod of steel down it’s back. My reverie was broken by a shout from Joe ‘Come on Grandad, it’s time to go’.
I quickly donned balaclava, thick gloves, helmet-all the paraphernalia of winter climbing-and set off. Within 50 feet I felt as if I was in a sauna, hands sliding around in my gloves and sweat dripping down my nose. Hmmm, I thought. It’s a bit warm. We were soloing up soft neve and sundry vegetation and I passed on my thoughts to Joe. ‘Stop trying to get out of it’ he replied ‘I’m not having any of your excuses. Up we will be going.’ More soft snow and short rocky steps led to a steep section. Joe went up first, kicking off most of the remaining snow, and soon reaching a stance from where he dropped me a rope. I didn’t argue and quickly got to the belay, taking the rack from a well-ensconced Joe. ‘You can lead this, it’ll enlarge your character ‘. Gee thanks, I thought looking up and feeling as little like a lean, mean ice machine as it is possible to get.
Looking up I could see a figure spreadeagled across a groove. It was making scratching and cursing noises and sending down a rain of lumps of ice and snow. ‘Leave some for us ‘ I yelled up, quickly dodging out of the line of fire. 30 feet of steady Grade III climbing brought me to a welcome peg which settled my nerves for a couple of shaky moves left on poor ice into the main corner line. There was no protection available so I kept going, placements just good enough not to instill too much terror. After another 30 feet there was a peg then a good nut 20 feet higher before a very steep bit led to a small cave with a great boss of pure water ice down one side. I buried two good screws into it, stamped out a good foot ledge and leant back to enjoy the view, now opening out as warm spring sunshine lit up the valley.
When Joe arrived he looked dubiously at my belay and then up at the next pitch. The ice boss ran up to the right of the cave roof from where it had melted away somewhat leaving some scalloped holes. Joe’s usual exuberance seemed to desert him as he made the first moves with. Hooking in the holes he balanced up to the roof, clipped a peg and moved round and out of sight. ‘Good nut here’ he called down. “Good. What’s it like above?’ “Hard. There’s not much ice’. There was a bit of grunting, a “watch me’ and the rope inched upwards until there was a shout: ‘YES. IT WORKS’. ‘Good’ I replied. ‘What does?’ ‘That idea of hooking one tool over the other. There’s no choice just here. It’s brilliant.’ Hmm, I thought, that sounds a bit advanced for Grade IV. He moved on. There was some grunting, then some scraping sounds. Lumps of snow fell past in space. ‘Watch me. Watch me. Uh, uh, watch that rope, this is bloody desperate. There’s no gear. I think I’m coming off.’
I shrank deeper into the cave feeling more and more anxious and working out what the hell to do if (when!) he came off, assuming the belay held of course and I was still there to do something. Assorted colourful curses floated down, shortly followed by a krab on a sling, odd bits of ice and snow and a variety of whimpers and squeaks. The rope made jerky progress for another six hours (ten minutes in real time) and then ran out more quickly until a faint cry wafted down. ‘Done it. That was the living end. You’ll enjoy that.’ I very much doubt it I thought and prepared to climb.
It was the living end. The ice boss wasn’t too bad once I’d stopped shaking but when I poked my head round the roof I nearly fainted. The ice was only about a foot wide and not very good. Selecting the best looking bit I managed to get adecent placement for one tool and then had to draw on Jeff Lowe’s experience. Hooking the other tool over it’s head I pulled up. Good grief, I thought. It works. Good old Jeff. I was now just below all major difficulties. The groove above was extremely narrow with a thin sliver of snow in it’s back but bare rock everywhere else. I didn’t have a clue how I was going to climb it but with one optimistic placement in the snow and another in a crack on the right I was able to move up a bit and get a leg wedged across. I’d never tried torquing before but it seemed to work so I tried it again. This time I could get my right foot out to stick a crampon point in the crack. Pushing on this with my back on the left wall I was able to make progress but it was desperately precarious climbing and I was very glad of the rope above and very grateful I hadn’t had to try leading it. At last I reached easier ground and gibbered up to a grinning Joe ensconced in the back of a huge cave. ‘Excellent lead old chap’ I enthused. ‘You’re climbing really well so you may as well carry on and do the crux pitch.’
‘You’re not getting out of like that’ he replied. ‘Up you will be going.’ My whimpering was silenced by him throwing the rack at me and I made tentative moves towards the edge. ‘I really don’t mind, you know. This is just your sort of climbing and you’ll be much quicker than me.’ It was no good. He was having none of it. Oh well, I thought, I’ll go up a few feet then come down. If that was a Grade 4 pitch down there and this is supposed to 5 or 6 I’ve no chance. Moving to the edge of the cave I tried to find some protection but there was absolutely nothing. ‘I’m going to die and it will be your fault’ I yelled out as I stepped round a rib with a curious double foot change sort of movement. ‘That’s impressive Richard. You’ll never reverse that. You’re committed mate.’
I looked back and realised he wasn’t joking. I was standing on a narrow snow ledge with nowhere to go but up. I stuck a tool in above my head and pulled. It came straight out, along with a goodly chunk of the snow on the ‘slab’. I couldn’t quite suppress a scream and heard Joe chuckling. I looked around again for some protection, this time a little more desperately, eyes boring into the snow. There still wasn’t any so that was that and I couldn’t help recalling, somewhat hysterically, a phrase from an old piece of climbing literature: ‘To advance was impossible, to retreat unthinkable.’ So I stopped thinking and stepped very gently upwards on a paltry ribbon of snow on the left. The snow stayed where I was sincerely hoping it would so I stepped up again. It held. Scarcely able to believe I was actually making progress I just kept moving, as if treading on a minefield, until my axe went into a patch of neve with a deeply satisfying ‘schtang.’ Much happier now I quickly climbed to a large rock and tied the mountain firmly to myself, letting out a sigh of relief that could have been heard in Bangor.
Looking up I could see the angle laid back and there didn’t seem to be any further difficulties. I shouted to Joe to come on and before very long he was with me. ‘That was bold, what got into you?’ ‘Beats me’ I replied, handing him the rack. ‘Go on, let’s get off this thing. It looks quite easy from here.’ Joe clambered over an icy boulder and shot off into the upper gully, climbing very quickly. He paused briefly to belay me over the boulder when the rope came tight and then we moved together, Joe placing the odd runner, until he disappeared over the top. I found him sitting in the sun, grinning hugely. ‘Four hours’ he informed me, ‘Not bad, eh’ We shook hands. ‘Absolutely brilliant’ I replied. ‘I can’t believe I’ve finally done it. That route’s been an ambition of mine for 25 years. ‘Great, he said, ‘It’s been an ambition of mine since Sunday.’
November 9th. Ecton Hill. Mike Browell (who is not a Grumpy) and Adey Hubbard (who is) have been getting very excited about the old copper mines in Ecton Hill in the Manifold valley. Check out Mike's latest Geocross and an in-depth description of all that is Ecton and coppery.
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Nov 18th. More from Richard Haszko.
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