I've climbed at Avon Gorge a fair bit, but until now never on the Suspension Bridge Buttress. It's a lot steeper than the rest of the gorge, natural rather than quarried, and filled with interesting pocket features which provide great holds and, wait for it, gear! Actual gear placements, rather than just shite old pegs from the dark ages that you have to rely on to prevent a ground fall from some horrible polished crux move. So I was pretty keen to try a couple of routes on it, and after a several recent trad and sport sessions I felt confident to start pushing my grade back up again.
First up was a classic line called Suspension Bridge Arete, a mostly easy amble up the left edge of the crag, with one or two tricky moves getting into and up a chimney. It was basically a path, bomber threads wherever you needed them. So I decided to try the next route along, Suspense, which shared the same start and finish but took a steeper line up the wall in the middle. And this was where it all started to go tits up. I didn't bother to read the guide properly and just climbed rightwards to an obvious pockety-groove sort of thing. That had to be the route, right?
Wrong.
Clinging on to an undercut pocket, I fumbled at the rock above me not finding very much. With a small nut and a thread in I eventually went for a committing high step into a super thin layaway edge, a finger-tip only job. I slapped my way up a series of rubbish holds with my feet on chuff all. Pumped stupid, barely hanging on, I made a last desperate lunge for what looked like a jug but actually wasn't. This really wasn't going very well. Runners way below me, I knew I'd go miles if I fell off now, a final slippy-slappy sequence led me panting and sobbing to a thank god rest at a huge pocket.
I yelled something like "That's fucking nails I thought I was going to die" down to John, who'd probably just endured the most harrowing 'what will I tell his parents' belay of his life.
Eventually the burning in my forearms subsided, I continued up the steep but easier upper wall, and basically fell into the easy finishing corner of Suspension Bridge Arete. Having looked at the guidebook and various photos it turns out I climbed most of an E1 called Baby Duck, before joining the route I was meant to be on at the big pocket. No wonder it felt so hard for HVS.
John and I then swung leads up a horrendously polished Main Wall classic called Piton Route (guess what the gear was, bet you can't...), before finishing off on the extremely run-out but fun Dawn Walk. The first pitch was particularly harrowing, one bit of gear and vegetation for footholds, and it was a great effort from John to lead it. I then led the big traverse across the Morning Slab, which was a wonderful bit of unprotected mincing along a narrow footledge.
We abseiled off a tree just as the sun was setting over the gorge. It's good to be out on the rock again.
Thursday, 20 March 2014
Thursday, 30 January 2014
January Trip (or trying to climb things in shite weather)
So one dark, wet, mid January evening me and my mate Staples began the long drive up to Scotland to climb...something...somewhere...probably. At some point around the eternal smog cloud of despair that is Birmingham we decided that the Cairngorms were the best option. It was Staples' first ever winter trip, so the accessible and relatively small crags of the Northern Corries seemed ideal. We arrived in Aviemore after a sleepless night of driving, grabbed a few bits of gear, and began hiking into Coire an t'Sneachda to check out the conditions. There was a lot of snow about but a local guide told us the more popular routes were pretty well dug out, and in decent nick. Alrighty-then.
The next day we climbed a route called Hidden Chimney. The first couple of pitches were piss easy snow plodding, which led us to the chimney itself. It was well named - the fucking thing was pretty much completely hidden by a huge amount of unconsolidated powdery toss. Apparently it was normally full of useful things like chokestones, axe placements, and gear; well not today. I swam up steepening ground, got one or two decent hexes in, then flailed my way into the chimney itself.
The climbing was easy but felt constantly insecure on the crap snow. I bridged and wedged and shuffled my way higher, looking for gear placements I knew deep down I would never find. There was a sort of bulging step towards the top that I suppose was the crux, before the angle eased off again, and I burrowed my way through a gap in the cornice to reach the plateau. Staples did a good job following the pitch, and we slunk back to the car feeling tired but reasonably satisfied.
The weekend came with horrendous weather so we went out on the piss instead. We got drinking at the Glenmore Lodge bar with a couple of guys who were keen to hit Aviemore ('Saturday night boys, be loads ay ski fanny oot the toon'), and we went along with them and got lashed, which was great fun. On monday we headed back into the corrie. There was avalanche debris all over the place, some of the blocks were the size of fridges. We dug a few pits to test the snowpack and found a very thin frozen crust over poorly bonded mushy shite. Fantastic. I didn't fancy risking the loaded slopes that led up to the crags, so instead we ambled up a steep, icy boulderfield on the other side of the corrie and pissed about on the Fiacaill Ridge. This was a bit of a laugh and a nice oppourtunity for Staples to get a bit of short-roping experience. It was very windy so we didn't bother topping out on the plateau, instead descending the ridge back down again.
The forecast remained terrible, and with continuing strong winds and precipitation, the windslab accumulation was only going to get worse. So we cut our losses and drove down to the Peak to get on some grit. This turned out to be soaking wet but we managed to knock off a few easy routes on Stanage and Burbage North. I was a bit out of practice on rock and was appalled by just how hard VDiff jamming cracks can be. We both minced about a lot, climbing in awful style, lost some skin, but it was all a bit of a jolly compared to the blizzards and avalanches of the Cairngorms. Maybe the weather will settle a bit in February, we'll see...
The next day we climbed a route called Hidden Chimney. The first couple of pitches were piss easy snow plodding, which led us to the chimney itself. It was well named - the fucking thing was pretty much completely hidden by a huge amount of unconsolidated powdery toss. Apparently it was normally full of useful things like chokestones, axe placements, and gear; well not today. I swam up steepening ground, got one or two decent hexes in, then flailed my way into the chimney itself.
The climbing was easy but felt constantly insecure on the crap snow. I bridged and wedged and shuffled my way higher, looking for gear placements I knew deep down I would never find. There was a sort of bulging step towards the top that I suppose was the crux, before the angle eased off again, and I burrowed my way through a gap in the cornice to reach the plateau. Staples did a good job following the pitch, and we slunk back to the car feeling tired but reasonably satisfied.
The weekend came with horrendous weather so we went out on the piss instead. We got drinking at the Glenmore Lodge bar with a couple of guys who were keen to hit Aviemore ('Saturday night boys, be loads ay ski fanny oot the toon'), and we went along with them and got lashed, which was great fun. On monday we headed back into the corrie. There was avalanche debris all over the place, some of the blocks were the size of fridges. We dug a few pits to test the snowpack and found a very thin frozen crust over poorly bonded mushy shite. Fantastic. I didn't fancy risking the loaded slopes that led up to the crags, so instead we ambled up a steep, icy boulderfield on the other side of the corrie and pissed about on the Fiacaill Ridge. This was a bit of a laugh and a nice oppourtunity for Staples to get a bit of short-roping experience. It was very windy so we didn't bother topping out on the plateau, instead descending the ridge back down again.
The forecast remained terrible, and with continuing strong winds and precipitation, the windslab accumulation was only going to get worse. So we cut our losses and drove down to the Peak to get on some grit. This turned out to be soaking wet but we managed to knock off a few easy routes on Stanage and Burbage North. I was a bit out of practice on rock and was appalled by just how hard VDiff jamming cracks can be. We both minced about a lot, climbing in awful style, lost some skin, but it was all a bit of a jolly compared to the blizzards and avalanches of the Cairngorms. Maybe the weather will settle a bit in February, we'll see...
Wednesday, 8 January 2014
Pinnacle Ridge
On the icy summit of St Sunday Crag
My last route of 2013 was a scramble called Pinnacle Ridge, up St Sunday Crag in the Lake District. I climbed it 'alpine style' with my Dad, moving together on a short rope, lassoing various spikes and blocks for running belays. It was great fun. We tackled all the tricky sections head on; including the soaking wet crux corner, which succumbed to some good old fashioned hand and boot jamming. I hadn't done a route with Dad for ages and it was great getting back out into the hills with him again.
The ridge ended all too soon, and we kicked our way up a slope of hard neve snow, glad that we decided to bring ice axes along. The summit plateau was very icy, so we put on crampons to complete the short hike to the top. We had amazing views across the entire Helvellyn range. It was a fantastic day out.
Here's to 2014...
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
The Ariege
I've always thought I was crap at sport climbing. And my first ever sport climbing trip has done absolutely nothing to change my mind.
A massive group of us headed out to the eastern foothills of the Pyrenees to get boozed up, eat lots of interesting cheese, and maybe do a bit of climbing as well. I was keen to get on some big multipitches seeing as I can get my arse kicked on single pitch routes at Portland if I want. My partner in crime for the trip, Rich, had similar plans, so we trawled the guidebooks for the biggest stuff we could find. We also said many foolish things, like 'we won't need a headtorch', and 'there's a couple of 6a pitches but I'm sure we'll be fine'.
Oh how wrong we were.
Day One saw us all pile into the hire cars and head for a crag called Calames. Rich and I warmed up on a jolly nice, untaxing 3 pitch 5+, which rather lulled us into a false sense of security. So we decided to get on the classic of the crag next, a big 6a+ jobby called Piler des Cathares. It all went fine until about a third of the way up pitch 2, when some bastard pushed a button and all hell broke loose. Suddenly the holds rotated on unseen mechanisms, became horrible sloping undercuts, with all the friction of one of those soaking wet spinning pole things you get on TV shows like Total Wipeout. We'd been warned about the area's sandbag reputation but nothing prepared me for this. I made a series of frenzied moves up a groove, taunted by dozens of bolts all cruelly out of reach to the right. Slip went my feet, slap went my hands, until I finally reached the respite of a belay and struggled to contain a nervous breakdown. The stance was perched beneath two massive, ominous overhangs, and it was clear things were only going to get worse. Consoled by the thought it would be Rich's problem, I brought him up into the unfolding nightmare.
The only bolt visible without NASA scale magnification was some meters up and right, in a narrow and grotty looking break between the two overhangs. Rich gamely struck out towards it on rubbish slopers. He placed a 'slow you down a bit' nut before finally reaching the bolt, and celebrating by slumping onto it. Moves of ever increasing difficulty eventually forced him to aid his way onto the slab above on trad gear. I found it desperate to follow, and it was only when we checked the guide at the belay that we realised good old Rich had strayed onto a 6b by accident. God knows where the 5 went. Probably direct through one of the huge unprotected overhangs.
Regardless, we toiled upwards, finally reached the summit in pissing rain, and slunk back down the ankle destroying path to find the others. Good start, then.
Having learnt nothing, the next day we thought it a great idea to attempt an 11 pitch 6b called L'Integrale d'Anais on a big crag called Sinsat. This was essentially a link up of several routes up three disconnected tiers; two triangular slabs and a magnificent tooth shaped buttress of golden rock to reach the top. I'll split it into the three sections...
Horror Show 1 - I led the crux 6a first pitch and to no one's surprise had to aid most of it, spending long periods of time hanging from the bolts and quietly gibbering to myself. The subsequent 5+ pitches were absolutely fine. I'm buggered if I know how Ariege grading works.
Horror Show 2 - Undergraded at 6a+, it was in fact at least 9c++++++++++. Rich backed off the lead, the bastard, leaving me to grovel up in a fashion that could be best described as 'desperation aid'. Alas, you couldn't always reach the next bolt while standing in a sling attached to the one below. And there were literally no holds. Not one. Just a merciless sweep of featureless limestone smirking at my feeble attempts to find purchase. Rich led through on what was probably the second hardest pitch in the world, after the one I'd just done, of course. A completely piss 5+ bit led us to the next section of bushwhacking, and the summit tower.
Horror Show 3 - Fantastic climbing up a Swanage-esque corner at last brought us to what we'd been dreading; the final, hardest pitch. Well, we both gave it a somewhat pathetic go, but daylight was fading fast, we'd no headtorches, and the route had to be abseiled even if we did get up the fucking thing. Not forgetting the fact we were both shit at climbing as well. So we courageously threw in the towel and began the first of 10 abseils to get back to the bottom of the crag.
By this point it was dark, and no doubt the others were getting annoying with waiting for us in the car park. We grabbed our bags and started legging it back down the track. How I wish it could've ended there. But in our haste we overshot a turn and hurtled off the path and into the most dense forest in the known universe. Jagged brambles hung from the canopy, ensnaring our limbs, threatening to drag us wriggling into the treetops to be devoured by whatever slavering creatures dwelt there. Rich battled a way through to the edge of the woods, where we made a precarious step over an electric fence, and tip-toed alongside it in the fading hope of finding civilisation.
Then the dreaded moment happened; Rich reached an impasse and said 'We have to cross back over again'.
Gulp.
The fence was higher at this point, and hummed menacingly in the still twilight. I balanced on a fallen log to gain the necessary extra clearance to swing my leg over. Halfway through this manoeuvre the log disintegrated. I plummeted downwards, legs wide open, straight onto the buzzing wires. An explosion of blue light, about 18 trillion volts of electricity cascaded through my knackers. I shrieked in agony, skeleton flashing beneath my skin like a cartoon character, hands fusing to the metal as I tried to lever myself off. After suffering enough electrocution to wipe out an entire death row I pitched sideways off the fence and lay entwined and sobbing in thorns and nettles; a blackened, smoking ruin, lamenting the Gainor dynasty that would now never be.
I spent the rest of the trip pissing sparks.
After such misadventures the next few days were something of an anti-climax. We did another big route on Calames in baking heat, then explored an awesome granite crag called Auzat. After mincing around on polished bloody limestone, the friction was a revelation. Sadly, our plans to finish on the 1000-odd meter Dent d'Orlu were scuppered by illness and bad weather. Rich and 3 others made a valiant attempt on the 26 pitch monster le Piler Sud, but retreated due to soaking wet conditions. Happily another team managed to reach the summit via a route on the east face. I spent the last 2 days in the foetal position with stomach cramps, but there you go. At least we have an excuse to go back again, because the Ariege is an awesome place to climb.
A massive group of us headed out to the eastern foothills of the Pyrenees to get boozed up, eat lots of interesting cheese, and maybe do a bit of climbing as well. I was keen to get on some big multipitches seeing as I can get my arse kicked on single pitch routes at Portland if I want. My partner in crime for the trip, Rich, had similar plans, so we trawled the guidebooks for the biggest stuff we could find. We also said many foolish things, like 'we won't need a headtorch', and 'there's a couple of 6a pitches but I'm sure we'll be fine'.
Oh how wrong we were.
Day One saw us all pile into the hire cars and head for a crag called Calames. Rich and I warmed up on a jolly nice, untaxing 3 pitch 5+, which rather lulled us into a false sense of security. So we decided to get on the classic of the crag next, a big 6a+ jobby called Piler des Cathares. It all went fine until about a third of the way up pitch 2, when some bastard pushed a button and all hell broke loose. Suddenly the holds rotated on unseen mechanisms, became horrible sloping undercuts, with all the friction of one of those soaking wet spinning pole things you get on TV shows like Total Wipeout. We'd been warned about the area's sandbag reputation but nothing prepared me for this. I made a series of frenzied moves up a groove, taunted by dozens of bolts all cruelly out of reach to the right. Slip went my feet, slap went my hands, until I finally reached the respite of a belay and struggled to contain a nervous breakdown. The stance was perched beneath two massive, ominous overhangs, and it was clear things were only going to get worse. Consoled by the thought it would be Rich's problem, I brought him up into the unfolding nightmare.
The only bolt visible without NASA scale magnification was some meters up and right, in a narrow and grotty looking break between the two overhangs. Rich gamely struck out towards it on rubbish slopers. He placed a 'slow you down a bit' nut before finally reaching the bolt, and celebrating by slumping onto it. Moves of ever increasing difficulty eventually forced him to aid his way onto the slab above on trad gear. I found it desperate to follow, and it was only when we checked the guide at the belay that we realised good old Rich had strayed onto a 6b by accident. God knows where the 5 went. Probably direct through one of the huge unprotected overhangs.
Regardless, we toiled upwards, finally reached the summit in pissing rain, and slunk back down the ankle destroying path to find the others. Good start, then.
Having learnt nothing, the next day we thought it a great idea to attempt an 11 pitch 6b called L'Integrale d'Anais on a big crag called Sinsat. This was essentially a link up of several routes up three disconnected tiers; two triangular slabs and a magnificent tooth shaped buttress of golden rock to reach the top. I'll split it into the three sections...
Horror Show 1 - I led the crux 6a first pitch and to no one's surprise had to aid most of it, spending long periods of time hanging from the bolts and quietly gibbering to myself. The subsequent 5+ pitches were absolutely fine. I'm buggered if I know how Ariege grading works.
Horror Show 2 - Undergraded at 6a+, it was in fact at least 9c++++++++++. Rich backed off the lead, the bastard, leaving me to grovel up in a fashion that could be best described as 'desperation aid'. Alas, you couldn't always reach the next bolt while standing in a sling attached to the one below. And there were literally no holds. Not one. Just a merciless sweep of featureless limestone smirking at my feeble attempts to find purchase. Rich led through on what was probably the second hardest pitch in the world, after the one I'd just done, of course. A completely piss 5+ bit led us to the next section of bushwhacking, and the summit tower.
Horror Show 3 - Fantastic climbing up a Swanage-esque corner at last brought us to what we'd been dreading; the final, hardest pitch. Well, we both gave it a somewhat pathetic go, but daylight was fading fast, we'd no headtorches, and the route had to be abseiled even if we did get up the fucking thing. Not forgetting the fact we were both shit at climbing as well. So we courageously threw in the towel and began the first of 10 abseils to get back to the bottom of the crag.
By this point it was dark, and no doubt the others were getting annoying with waiting for us in the car park. We grabbed our bags and started legging it back down the track. How I wish it could've ended there. But in our haste we overshot a turn and hurtled off the path and into the most dense forest in the known universe. Jagged brambles hung from the canopy, ensnaring our limbs, threatening to drag us wriggling into the treetops to be devoured by whatever slavering creatures dwelt there. Rich battled a way through to the edge of the woods, where we made a precarious step over an electric fence, and tip-toed alongside it in the fading hope of finding civilisation.
Then the dreaded moment happened; Rich reached an impasse and said 'We have to cross back over again'.
Gulp.
The fence was higher at this point, and hummed menacingly in the still twilight. I balanced on a fallen log to gain the necessary extra clearance to swing my leg over. Halfway through this manoeuvre the log disintegrated. I plummeted downwards, legs wide open, straight onto the buzzing wires. An explosion of blue light, about 18 trillion volts of electricity cascaded through my knackers. I shrieked in agony, skeleton flashing beneath my skin like a cartoon character, hands fusing to the metal as I tried to lever myself off. After suffering enough electrocution to wipe out an entire death row I pitched sideways off the fence and lay entwined and sobbing in thorns and nettles; a blackened, smoking ruin, lamenting the Gainor dynasty that would now never be.
I spent the rest of the trip pissing sparks.
After such misadventures the next few days were something of an anti-climax. We did another big route on Calames in baking heat, then explored an awesome granite crag called Auzat. After mincing around on polished bloody limestone, the friction was a revelation. Sadly, our plans to finish on the 1000-odd meter Dent d'Orlu were scuppered by illness and bad weather. Rich and 3 others made a valiant attempt on the 26 pitch monster le Piler Sud, but retreated due to soaking wet conditions. Happily another team managed to reach the summit via a route on the east face. I spent the last 2 days in the foetal position with stomach cramps, but there you go. At least we have an excuse to go back again, because the Ariege is an awesome place to climb.
Sunday, 15 September 2013
Grit Trip
After coming back from a frustrating and ultimately disappointing trip to the Alps, I decided I wanted to focus on pure rock climbing for a while. Not only trad, but sport as well, something I'd neglected to the probable detriment of my overall ability and fitness. I was fed up with fannying around on routes whenever they got steep, placing too much gear and always getting pumped to buggery. It felt like I'd been stuck on a plateau for too long, it was time to sort myself out and get better. Maybe get steady leading E1 if I could.
So with a really positive attitude I went out and climbed a shitload. First time out since the Alps I went to Boulder Ruckle and cruised up a couple of routes I would've struggled on before. Then I did a few sport sessions at Winspit and Portland, building strength and confidence. Suddenly everything was feeling easy. I tested this on a couple of 'Hard Very Swanage' routes, normally the stuff of my nightmares, and was almost offended by how straightforward they were. Jug after jug after jug.
Then I got the chance to spend a couple of days climbing in the Peak District with a guy called Adam from UKC. I'd shamefully never done anything on grit before, and couldn't wait to get up there and have a go.
Day 1 saw us ticking off tons of classics at Stanage Popular. The friction was amazing, even the slopers felt like jugs. After getting started on some easy stuff, I had a go at a HVS called Queersville. Some thin and balancy moves up an arête then across to a ledge led me to the crux; a steep wall with a long reach around an overlap to a flat block. It flowed perfectly. Match hands on flat edge, high foot smears, layaway on pocket, step up, drop knee to pull into wall, and at the same time reach through to just grab the top of the block. An incredible, effortless 5a sequence. The mantelshelf wasn't quite so elegant but there you go. I couldn't remember ever doing moves so good on limestone.
We did a few more classics, the best of which was Manchester Buttress, with the most hilarious being Verandah Buttress. The latter route was given the insane grade of HVD 5b so of course I had to have a go. It was exactly what you might expect; an insanely hard move to get off the ground followed by an easy plod to the top. Adam showed me his method, a kind of hand jam layback to finger crack thing, but it wasn't for me. Instead I cranked on a sloper out right and slapped up an even more sloping arete before sort of falling onto the ledge like a sack of wet shit. Utter madness.
The next day we wandered across the top to High Neb and did a few routes there. I started out on the classic 'High Neb Buttress', a fairly steady romp up sloping breaks, then Adam led a fantastic route called Inaccessible Crack. After that I was psyched to get on something harder, and decided to try Kelly's Overhang (HVS 5b or E1 5c, take your pick...).
My god it was nails.
It followed an easy corner to a mid height break, before traversing steeply rightwards to an undercut pedestal block. From here you had to pull up and right onto the wall above, and follow easier ground to finish. At the top of the corner there was a flat hand rail between me and the block, but the wall beneath it overhung and was completely smooth. Rather than do some idiotic dyno lunge, I cut loose onto the rail, heel hooked, and traversed to the block with some degree of style. It was one of those irritating places where you're sure you can engineer a rest but can't quite manage it. Hanging off my arms, I slung the block and moved rightwards around it, into a reasonable knee bar that just about stopped me getting more pumped.
The next bit was ridiculous. I somehow had to make a rockover onto a foot ledge way out right with my only handhold level with my feet, the rock pushing me outwards. There was a tiny sloping layaway on the wall above and nothing else. Gibbering away, I managed to establish myself on the ledge, all my weight on my completely bent right leg. Cheek flush to the steep wall I palmed nothing and smeared my left toes against whatever the fuck. Feeling like even breathing would send me into space I inched myself upwards, weight shifting gram by gram, until somehow I was stood up on the foothold and gasping for breath. Then I hurried up the unprotected groove to the top before I could think too much about it. I was elated to get the route onsight, and I'll stick my neck out and say easy E1 but definitely 5c, and a really hard move to read from a pumpy position.
I could've happily left it at that, but the weather held, so we did a cool slab called Tango Buttress and then ambled over to Stanage Plantation. Here I found the amazing line of Goliath's Groove, and couldn't resist getting on it. The start was brutal; a horrible thrutch up a flared off-width, and I slithered out of a knee jam on my first attempt and didn't have the energy to prevent a slide onto the gear. So I lowered off, punched the rock a few times, and got back on it. This time, a bit more focused, I made it to the top of the off-width and pulled through a bulge on bomber fingerlocks to a resting ledge. After the desperate struggle below, the upper section felt easy, and I laybacked stylishly on brilliant holds up the steep groove to the top. Adam then rounded off an awesome couple of days with his first HVS lead, up a tricky route called Lancashire Wall. A well deserved reward after patiently belaying me on Kelly's and Goliath's and giving me the perfect intro to the magic of grit.
So now, when anyone asks the typical question 'what have you done on grit?', I'll be able to answer, with pride, 'some routes'.
Sunday, 18 August 2013
The Alps Part 2 - Zermatt
I had three options. I could go home with Pat there and then, stay in Cham and wait for another partner (I'd been in touch with someone from UKC but this would mean hanging around for nearly 2 weeks), or move on to another area. It came down to what I was happy soloing. Everything that interested me in Cham was either too hard or required glacier travel. In the end I decided to go to Zermatt and try one of the peaks there. The obvious one was the Matterhorn, of which the Hornli Ridge route featured no glaciers at all. Before long the idea was fixed in my mind. I said bye to Pat and got on a train to Switzerland.
However, the recent bad weather had plastered all the high peaks with snow, and it would take a few days to clear. In the meantime I lazed around in the sun, read lots, and hiked up a 3000-odd m peak called the Wisshorn as fast as possible to gauge my fitness. The office in town said when the local guides were going for the mountain, and I decided to make my attempt then. The morning before I took the cable car up to Schwarzee and walked up to the Hornli hut. After pitching my tent and resting awhile, I made a quick recce of the ridge, climbing the first 300m or so to memorise the route. Not only that, I wanted to get an idea what it would feel like to be soloing on the Matterhorn; it was OK. As long as the rock was clear of ice I reckoned I'd be alright.
The next morning I left my tent just after 3am and was the first person on the ridge. There was a team of 3 just behind me. I pushed on in front but soon reached a confusing section negotiating a couloir. It turned out there was another group already out, somewhere up the loose couloir, completely off route. The team of 3 pointed me in the right direction and I didn't see anyone for a couple of hours after that. Easy climbing on or just next to the crest led me to somewhere near where the route traverses onto the east face. I spent a few minutes assessing my options, unsure of what to do and not wanting to commit myself to bad terrain. Then suddenly a load of lights appeared behind me and I was swept up in the long chain of guides and clients from the hut.
We shot up a few hundred meters in this ghastly human centipede fashion. The moment my foot left a hold the guy behind me would grab it. Guides tugged their charges on very short ropes, dragging them up the mountain. At one point the person in front of me halted, forcing me to stop as well.
I don't know the name of the guide who was behind me, but I'll take an educated guess and assume it was 'Stupid Cunt'. The moment I paused Stupid Cunt started punching me in the back and saying "go go go". By this point the person who'd stopped was just getting moving again, fumbling for handholds. Stupid Cunt kept hitting me. I turned and said "I can only move at the pace of the line", something I thought very obvious and reasonable. But Stupid Cunt just didn't understand. "Go go go or go away" he shrieked like a petulant child. I found myself wishing he'd 'go go go' the quick way back down to the bottom.
We were moving freely again but my heart wasn't in it anymore. After a couple minutes I waited on a ledge and let them all by, the Stupid Cunts leading the Ignorant Cunts; all fixed together with their heads jammed up the arse of the one in front, a Cuntish line of utter Cuntishness.
This is a disgrace to mountaineering in my opinion. In fact, to even call it such is an insult to mountaineering. And it isn't really the guides' fault, either. It's a very dangerous job, they have to rope up on a difficult mountain with any old Ignorant Cunt who comes along waving fistfuls of Swiss Francs and begging to be taken to the summit. No, the fault lies entirely with those who create the demand; the clients.
Here's a thought. Why not actually earn the right to climb the Matterhorn? Go out climbing, work your way up, gain experience and confidence on lesser peaks before attempting the big one. This process will be far more enjoyable than just being dragged up by some irate Swiss in a huge conga line. If you are not good enough to do it under your own steam then you should not be doing it at all. Mountaineering is nothing if not an exercise in competence and responsibility.
Thoughts such as these were swirling round my mind as I worked my way up the East face. The climbing was very straightforward but I was noticing more and more ice on the rock. Often I was climbing over it, following lines of shallow boot marks where my feet skidded unnervingly. These were just about OK to climb up, but going down? Without a rope? It just seemed too risky for my liking. And it was only going to get worse higher up as well. At around 4000m, with the Solvay Hut in sight, I turned around and started back down. As I'd suspected, the icy sections were extremely awkward to descend, and I often had to make detours onto steeper, looser rock to avoid them. Eventually I regained the crest of the ridge and was back at my tent in less than an hour. All told I was 4 hours tent to tent, having covered some 800m of the 1200m route.
My enthusiasm was gone now. There were no other peaks I was interested in climbing that didn't have glacier approaches. I had no desire to wait a few more days and see if the Matterhorn would get any better, and in any case my money was running out faster than I thought. So I hiked back down into Zermatt, and then headed home, left to wonder what might've been.
The Alps Part 1 - Chamonix
Pat and I arrived in Cham, dumped the car, and headed straight up to the Tour Glacier. Once again the target was the Aiguille du Chardonnet. We'd wanted to do it for a few years now but conditions were never right. However this time the guardian at the Albert Premier hut said everything was all good; not only that but we had a perfect 3 day weather window that allowed for acclimatisation and the best forecast for our projected summit day. It seemed we'd never get a chance like this again.
We got up early the next morning to have a nose about on the glacier, acclimatise, and maybe look at a route on Aiguille du Tour if we could be bothered. A couple hours in we realised we were still knackered from the overnight drive, so we just plodded about a bit (taking our gear for a walk) then descended. After sleeping the rest of the day we both felt pretty fired up for an early start on the Chardonnet. It started badly, when for some reason we couldn't find the path down to the glacier and I had a bit of a 'teddy out the pram' moment. But we got there in the end. The approach took around 2 hours, traversing around the left bank of the glacier and underneath the north face of the mountain.
The Forbes Arête route climbed straight up a steep hanging glacier, via a ridge of ice, to reach the long, pinnacle-ridden summit ridge. The first section was pretty easy with 2 axes but crossed over several worrying snow bridges. A couple of them partially disintegrated while we stood on them. After negotiating the glacier, the steeper but sound ice was a relief, and we soon reached the security of rock on the ridge. Keeping crampons on we moved together through the pinnacles, sometimes climbing them directly, sometimes traversing below them on the north face. There was nothing too hard, and the snow was just about OK but declining fast as the day went on. We avoided a particularly bad looking and unprotected traverse by climbing a steep pinnacle then abseiling off the other side. It cost us a few minutes but was definitely the safer option.
Eventually the ridge ended and we scaled the left-hand side of a final tower to reach the summit. It was awesome finally getting there but we didn't hang around long. The descent had a reputation for being tricky and dangerous in bad conditions. We downclimbed a couloir on the mountain's west flank then made a couple of abseils down a steep dry gully. Exiting the gully required moving over a small patch of bad ice. Here Pat had a bit of a slip and almost sent us both tumbling down to the bottom. His crampons skated off and I absolutely have no idea what he arrested himself on. A ripple, some flaw in the ice, god knows. I did the best thing when faced with a person struggling in a stressful situation; I shouted at him. We continued down and gained the glacier without further incident.
After that the weather got a bit rough, but we still managed a day of multipitch sport at Les Gaillands and an ascent of the South East ridge of L'Index in the Aiguilles Rouge. We did the latter in the pissing rain and it felt just like doing some horrible Welsh VDiff.
The forecast was looking good for the next week and I couldn't wait to get one with some more routes. I hoped to do bigger rock routes until the snow conditions improved, then finish off with another big mountain. Then, rather unexpectedly, Pat came to the conclusion that his head wasn't in it this year, and decided to go home. I won't bother with any details. I guess he was right not to push alpine climbs while not feeling right, but I was absolutely gutted. What to do next?
The Aiguille du Chardonnet from our bivy. We climbed the hanging glacier left of the north face, and reached the top via the pinnacled ridge on the skyline.
We got up early the next morning to have a nose about on the glacier, acclimatise, and maybe look at a route on Aiguille du Tour if we could be bothered. A couple hours in we realised we were still knackered from the overnight drive, so we just plodded about a bit (taking our gear for a walk) then descended. After sleeping the rest of the day we both felt pretty fired up for an early start on the Chardonnet. It started badly, when for some reason we couldn't find the path down to the glacier and I had a bit of a 'teddy out the pram' moment. But we got there in the end. The approach took around 2 hours, traversing around the left bank of the glacier and underneath the north face of the mountain.
The Forbes Arête route climbed straight up a steep hanging glacier, via a ridge of ice, to reach the long, pinnacle-ridden summit ridge. The first section was pretty easy with 2 axes but crossed over several worrying snow bridges. A couple of them partially disintegrated while we stood on them. After negotiating the glacier, the steeper but sound ice was a relief, and we soon reached the security of rock on the ridge. Keeping crampons on we moved together through the pinnacles, sometimes climbing them directly, sometimes traversing below them on the north face. There was nothing too hard, and the snow was just about OK but declining fast as the day went on. We avoided a particularly bad looking and unprotected traverse by climbing a steep pinnacle then abseiling off the other side. It cost us a few minutes but was definitely the safer option.
A 3 year alpine obsession fulfilled; on the summit of the Chardonnet.
Eventually the ridge ended and we scaled the left-hand side of a final tower to reach the summit. It was awesome finally getting there but we didn't hang around long. The descent had a reputation for being tricky and dangerous in bad conditions. We downclimbed a couloir on the mountain's west flank then made a couple of abseils down a steep dry gully. Exiting the gully required moving over a small patch of bad ice. Here Pat had a bit of a slip and almost sent us both tumbling down to the bottom. His crampons skated off and I absolutely have no idea what he arrested himself on. A ripple, some flaw in the ice, god knows. I did the best thing when faced with a person struggling in a stressful situation; I shouted at him. We continued down and gained the glacier without further incident.
After that the weather got a bit rough, but we still managed a day of multipitch sport at Les Gaillands and an ascent of the South East ridge of L'Index in the Aiguilles Rouge. We did the latter in the pissing rain and it felt just like doing some horrible Welsh VDiff.
Perfect British conditions on L'Index.
The forecast was looking good for the next week and I couldn't wait to get one with some more routes. I hoped to do bigger rock routes until the snow conditions improved, then finish off with another big mountain. Then, rather unexpectedly, Pat came to the conclusion that his head wasn't in it this year, and decided to go home. I won't bother with any details. I guess he was right not to push alpine climbs while not feeling right, but I was absolutely gutted. What to do next?
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