June Trip Part 2

After 3 perfect days the Welsh weather reverted back to its usual miserable standards, forcing us to come up with some rain friendly alternatives for the rest of the trip. I'd borrowed a brand new demo jacket from work and promised them a review, so in a way this was a good thing. A very small, very insignificant way, but there you go. With Luke and other Dave, Pat and I hiked up to Idwal slabs and skidded up the big easy trough that runs through the middle. From the top Luke led a random traverse pitch across slimy walls and steep grass to get off the slab and onto the approach to Glyder Fawr. Pat drew the short straw and came over last, facing large slide potential on the downward mud traverse, and also having to wrestle out the wires we'd all aided on.

The Daves at the base of Idwal slab

It took about half an hour to gain the base of 'Central Arête', a long alpine-style ridge leading up to the Glyder summit plateau. Despite the rain getting heavier, Pat and I opted to short rope the whole thing in hiking boots. This was terrifying. The climbing was hard for VDiff, lots of small foot edges that would've been fine in rock shoes; instead I clung white knuckled to the flaky rock and re-evaluated my life choices. Not only was it hard going, there was bugger all gear on the main pitch, absolutely fuck nothing. Pat and I climbed with about 10m of rope flapping uselessly between us, knowing that one mistake would send us both tumbling to the bottom of the mountain. After a rising traverse of a thin slab I finally reached a boot sized ledge and a solid nut placement and brought Pat up hand over hand. We were both a bit shell-shocked, but above the going looked easier so we carried on moving together. Luke and Dave climbed the hard section in one long pitch just behind us.

The 300 odd quid jacket just about managed to deal with my intense "I'm going to die" terror sweats

 

Upon reaching the summit plateau we skirted round and descended via the first gully we came across, which fortunately wasn't too steep. After a welcome beer in Pete's Eats, we headed back into the slate quarries and bivvied in an old hut, which was surprisingly pleasant. Even Pat's usual nasal symphony couldn't stop me getting a good night's sleep.

As dawn's mist rolls across the quarries, strange creatures emerge from the darkness...

  

It was pissing it down in the morning so we decided to have a bash at 'Snakes and Ladders (and Tunnels)', a nightmare expedition of caves, treachery, rusted ironmongery, gloomy pits, and the loosest rock I have ever encountered. For hours we thrashed our way around the place, climbing ladders and chains up vertical slate walls, ladders attached by nothing but spit and a prayer. The worst of them was hanging off a knackered old bit of pipe, itself secured by a haphazard pile of rocks.

Aid climbing the chain pitch

From the ladders we made a series of abseils and downclimbs into The Lost World, an aptly named tropical jungle; the rock walls were dotted with obscure flora, bright colours, a stream ran from a clear blue pool, even a neglected old emergency shelter. We ate lunch and wondered if we were about to be attacked by an experiment gone wrong. From this bizarre place there was one last haul up shite ladders to reach Mordor (no, really), and a grassy plateau overlooking a crowd of bemused tourists, pointing at us like we'd just emerged from decade-old aircraft wreckage. The whole thing felt like being in an episode of Lost. Now we had two options; walk around a ravine of slate via a nice path, or cross it over a twisted, derelict train track suspended in space, fixed by comedy bolts at either end and chuff all else. Luke and Dave wanted nothing to do with it, Pat said he'd wait and see if I was killed before deciding. It swayed and moaned in the wind like a thing dying.

Oh god what the HELL AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?!?

Luke gave me a belay that might at least prevent my corpse from rolling all the way to Llanberis high street, then it was time to get going. I teetered and inched my way across, sort of humping the rails and getting rusty crap all over my trousers. The bridge and I swayed with every blasted gust. My innards oscillated with terror, limbs a-tremble, one abstract voice in my head telling me I would momentarily be receiving a loud and messy death, and didn't I just bloody well deserve it? I clenched my arse cheeks tighter and pulled myself to the nominal haven of a sleeper. But the next gap was even bigger, a chasm, an impossible gulf; I pictured the whole sorry lot come tumbling down, my mangled body bouncing merrily astride it. Squawking with fear I performed an ungainly pirouette and started dragging myself back towards safety, weeping softly as my hands clutched at terra firma.

We took the path instead. 

June Trip Part 1

Pat and I were like kids in a sweet shop when we got to North Wales. Sunny weather, brilliant forecast, dry rock everywhere. Day One say us hiking up towards Dinas Mot to get some multi-pitch cragging done. Up first was a HS called 'The Cracks', a mostly easy ramble up the side of the buttress, but with one hard boulder problem right at the top to gain a ledge, slapping off crimps for an insanely chalked up sloper. Warmed up, we abbed down a manky gully with about 485629 spikes all waiting to snag ropes, and decided to do something a bit more challenging. We chose 'West Rib', a fairly bold HVS. Pat took the initial pitch and placed one bit of gear. The guidebook said of pitch 2; 'there is a good runner at 9m'. Well that's alright then.

I teetered my way up on small edges then handed the lead back over to Pat for the final 4c crack. Bloody hell it was hard. He actually fell off at one point but managed to catch himself with a plummeting death grip. It was a fantastic effort from someone with relatively little trad leading experience. I gracefully lobbed off the start of the crack and smacked my ankles on the waiting ledge, just to make Pat feel better about himself. Obviously. Descending, the ropes got stuck again in the bastard gully. I just about managed to lead the sustained Lorraine Direct in one massive 60m pitch before the light got bad and we couldn't resist the siren call of the pub any longer.

Tip-toeing up Lorraine Direct (HVS)

 

The next day we parked at the Cromlech lay-by and slogged up past Pen-y-Pass towards the towering cliff of Lliwedd, Wales' biggest mountain crag according to our guidebook. We climbed a combination of several classic routes, 12 pitches in all. It was great fun, easy but fairly serious, with maybe 2 or 3 bits of gear per pitch. Things got a bit harder towards the top with the crux slab coming right at the end in full view of loads of hikers. I hauled myself up like a sack of mouldy spuds, anxious not to fall of and make an arse of myself. From the top of Lliwedd we then walked up to the manically busy Snowdon café. You couldn't get near the actual summit, there were too many people packed on it like sardines eating their sandwiches. Pat and I slunk off down the Miner's Track, wondering why we bothered.

Lliwedd is the obvious crag on the far left

 

The forecast was less good for the Pass the next day so we drove over to Tremadog and ambled up a few routes in glorious sunshine. I made a misguided attempt on an E1 and fell off a lot before giving up. The highlight was the mega exposed classic 'One Step in the Clouds', which wins the award for the most hidden jugs/gear placements I've ever seen.

Bringing Pat up Christmas Curry (S)

In the evening we headed back to the slate quarries where Luke persuaded us to have a crack at 'Looning the Tube'. This interesting route took a bold traverse from a ledge to a bit of rusty chain fixed in the rock, then finished up a long drainpipe feature to the top. My rack consisted of 2 quickdraws, a cam, and a sling. Despite that, the runouts never felt that bad, and I cruised over the positive edges with ease. I was prepared for a fight at the crux, but it was protected by a bolt and basically a piece of piss.

Pat facing his demons on 'Looning the Tube' (HVS/E1)

Poor old Pat didn't find it so. More a jug-campuser than a slab crawler like me, he struggled on the small holds, but still summoned the will power to drag himself through each runout to the next gear placement. He eventually called it quits at the cam and lowered off, very impressive nonetheless. Now he's got no choice but to get back on it and face those runouts again...

South West Tripping

Dartmoor was bloody good fun, eh, bruises fading, cuts healing, be good to check out some more south west crags. Avon Gorge then, sounds cool. Steep limestone, polished to buggery, compact rock protected mostly by crap old pegs. Alright then. Warm up VS, fuck me, this is a bit spicy. I’m slapping on glass, shit gear, shitting myself. Reach pull reach pull. Thank god a tree belay. That was interesting. Let’s do a bigger one. Called Gronk or something weird like that. First pitch is nails. I lead the crux, just mantle onto the ledge, wish it was that easy. The holds are terrible. Legs are frantically scissoring in the air, chin used as point of contact. Grovelling is what I do best.

So we jog up the remaining 4 pitches, some pretty funky traverses going on, mega exposure. Great route. Where do we go tomorrow? Fuck it, Fairy Cave Quarry will do, always good for amassing a ton of undeserved E-points.
 

First climb of the day, why not an E2? That can only end well. I’m a gibbering a mess from the first move. Feet skidding, where are the holds, why are there no fucking holds? Cause it’s an E2 you cretin. Sapling runner growing out of a crack, give it a pull, brilliant, it’s shit. Smearing onwards, rubbish micros, I really don’t want to be here. Sketchy downclimb assisted by the sapling which eventually flies off into the early morning murk. Oh well. Luke has a go, gets higher. Massive calf-pump fiddling with gear, he lowers off too. Ok then.

We stuff the fucking thing with gear and headpoint it. It’s hard. I really shouldn’t try to onsight 5c.

Nevermind, nevermind, we do a load more routes in the sunshine. Good times. Next crag, Chudleigh Rocks with a mate from work. Supposed to be polished but we’ll be OK. How bad can it-

OH MY FUCK THE POLISH I CAN SEE MY FUCKING FACE IN IT MY EYES MY EYES THEY BURN

Breathe, relax, it’s not the polish that gets you, it’s bad footwork. That’s a relief. Get climbing. Wait a minute, my footwork sucks...oh god I’m slipping, I’m coming off, jug, give me a jug. How the fuck can a handhold be polished as well? Argh, I hate this place already. Top out with zero elegance, already a gibbering mess. That was only a HS for god’s sake.

Still, may as well do a classic while we’re here. Great Western. 4 pitches, lots of stars, that sounds good. Alt-leading, I get the first pitch, crikey this is a bit full on for 4b. You’ve read the guidebook wrong you idiot says Gary. I monkey swing onto the belay, fighting back tears. His pitch is OK, the bastard, the next one looks horrendous. 5a, up a steep wall, then launch round a roof onto a flat ledge. Niiiiice.

Oh my god it’s pumpy, the holds are crap and coated in WD40. Elvis leg as I place a wire under the roof. Extended so far I’ll still probably break something when I come off...no if, if I come off, pull yourself together you sack of shit. You sure you don’t want this pitch mate? Sure? Positive? Damn it. I fumble at disappointing edges, slippy slappy feet, lurch at the flat ledge, there’s nothing, chuff all, maybe a fingerlock. I stuff digits in. I set off the knee alarm, don’t really give a toss, stand up expecting relief but the rock bulges outwards and I’m still on my arms and getting pumped.

Oh bollocks.

Nest of gear, quickly now, I place half my rack and swing for glory leftwards on the best jug in the world. Awesome moves up a steep wall, this is ace. What a route. We finish on easy stuff and leave satisfied.

Well, the weather looks a bit on-off, where’s best to go. Sod it, Avon Gorge again. I’m with Pat this time, he hasn’t climbed trad in ages, better jump on a big fuck off scary HVS then. Three star classic, one for every time I shit myself maybe. Insecure frog traverse under a roof, pegs for gear. Big crux pulling through the roof, desperate heaving, rest on a footledge. No more gear till the belay and it looks hard. Several years pass until I finally commit to the steep rib. Ah, so this is why Rockfax gave it a sloper symbol...

The belay is awful. I will Pat not to fall.

He racks up for pitch 2, hard 4c, a good effort. We climb on, gaining multipitch mileage before the Alps this summer. Day two sees us thrashing up choss and brambles towards Giant’s Cave Buttress. Loads of people watching from the suspension bridge, I really hope I don’t make a tit of myself. Tough moves, thin and spicy, but I’m doing OK. The crux involves shagging a big polished block on an arête. Getting a bit kinky now. At last, at last, gear that isn't a peg or useless or both. Stylish moves on mega jugs, this rules, why aren’t all climbs like this? We do loads more and it’s awesome.

Finally back to Swanage, back to the Ruckle. I second Luke up a VS and oh my days it feels nails. Barndooring off the crux. That was really hard so I’d better lead a HVS. Spectacular logic fail. The climbing’s alright though, HVS for the run outs. I can deal with that. VS, it’s just a VS, get a move on.
 

I commit.

Hang on a minute, VS? Swanage VS? Like Tatra? Only with no buggershitfucking gear?

I have made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Dartmoor Trip

Taking advantage of coinciding days off and a brilliant weather forecast, minion Lurch and I spontaneously headed over to Dartmoor to spend a few hours bleeding all over the sharp granite tors. I hadn’t been climbing in ages and was desperate to get some routes done and build up a bit of trad momentum. Since a promising start, where I picked up a few soft E points at Fairy Cave Quarry and even managed some Hard Very Swanage thuggery without being killed, 2013 had sort of fizzled out into a blur of crap weather and endless shifts in the Cotswold deathstar. Time to get going again.

So we slept in the car park and got going ridiculously early in the morning, heading round Haytor to find the wild overhang of Outward Bound. It was a route I’d wanted to do for ages, looked awesome, crazy steep moves on massive jugs. What could possibly go wrong? We shivered as mist and wind blew across the moor and racked up. It would’ve been sensible to warm up first but I just couldn’t resist getting on Outward Bound straight away.

This was a terrible mistake.

With freezing numb fingers I clawed my way up the easy lower wall and gazed out in horror at the succession of overhanging blocks leapfrogging each other into space. Chuffing hell, I thought, it didn’t look this steep from the ground. Climbs never bloody do. I plugged in a cam and a pretty decent nut and swung out onto the beckoning jugs. Totally committed, I lunged for the next block and squawked in terror as my feet pinged off and I cut loose onto my arms. Scrabbling and slapping for footholds, instantly pumped, I grabbed at a promising hold with the wrong hand and hung in utter desperation for long moments wondering what to do.

I nearly fell off. I tried to swap my hands around. I nearly fell off some more.

Finally I managed to do something useful with my feet and gibbered into a position of vague balance. No gear. Sobbing quietly I hauled on clumps of heather and grass towards the mid height ledge, and curled into the foetal position as painful hot aches spasmed through my fingers. Fortunately the rest of the route was straightforward. Warmed up/completely fucked already, I seconded Lurch up a couple of easier routes. He even took a fairly decent lob off an old school thrutching crack, getting straight back on it and leaving a trail of blood and muttered obscenities to the summit.

Next we ambled round the other side to check out a ‘3 star classic’ called Vandal and Ann, basically a couple of separate HVS pitches strung together. The first was a steep, sloper ridden slab, the second a moss covered crack groove thing. Lovely.

 The start was a 5b boulder problem, desperate smearing up to the first break. Here I placed an OK nut and made some more tricky moves to the next break. No obvious gear so I scuttled up to another on distressingly un-positive holds. Here I spent several minutes trying to place wires in a flared horizontal crack, ending up with 3 of the buggers in, none of which I would lower off let alone fall onto. This was all a bit full on. Nevermind, a final hard move, small foot edges and hands palming nothing, I eventually reached the belay.

“Scary biscuits, mate”, I told Lurch. “Nails biscuits”, he said seconding. I thought it very hard for HVS, probably E1 without small cams or offsets for the last break.

The second pitch, Ann, was 5a, completely overgrown. I made a tough pull through a bulge to enter the groove and was horrified by what awaited me. A green off-width crack snaked upwards, no discernible holds, sloping everything, moss everywhere. Thankfully there was some alright gear. I teetered and balanced my way higher, gardening for footholds as I went. Midway up I squirmed into a semi-restful thigh jam and tried to figure out what to do next.

“You alright?” said Lurch, perhaps concerned about my lack of progress.

“Well I’m not getting pumped,” I replied, “You need holds to get pumped on. There are none.”

Moving my feet up would’ve pushed me out the crack and off, I just needed something positive, anything. Then I noticed a tiny footledge on the slab to the left. Another bout of moss pruning and it was good to go. I worked my foot onto it, hands doing sod all, and executed an unnervingly tenuous rockover onto the slab. No going back now. I smeared higher, slipping on more bloody moss, aiming for a rounded knob that was the only feature I could see. I lunged for it, not great but good enough, and managed to pull myself beached whale style onto the easy finishing slabs. For some minutes I lay there and wondered how the hell such a monstrosity got 3 stars in the guidebook.

Lurch actually found the pitch alright, the bastard, probably because his freakish height allowed him to reach holds that I had otherwise been forced to grovel for. At least I told myself that.

We spent the rest of the day messing about on easy stuff in the sun, although I still managed to lose most of the skin off my arms in some godforsaken VDiff jamming crack. Nonetheless, it was two very satisfied red raw husks who staggered off into the sunset, leaving behind a legacy of blood splatters and picnicking children traumatised by gratuitous swearing and unearthly death shrieks.

How to Winter Climb

The following guide contains everything you need to know to be as good at winter climbing as I am.

1 – Always catch a nasty bug just before leaving for the mountains. Headache, sore throat, runny nose, feverish nightmares; the more the better. Bonus point if your climbing partner gets it as well.

2 – Head up to Ben Nevis overnight with two of you sharing the driving. Make sure that the passenger still remains awake, and that neither of you gets any sleep on the journey.

3 – Get pulled over by the police 10 seconds before the turning off for the car park. Extra points if you are already wearing all your gear and as a result look fucking stupid. “Do you always drive with a balaclava and headtorch, sir?”

4 – Hike up the steep path towards the north face carrying obscenely heavy rucksacks. This is training, and will get you really fit for the days’ climb.

5 – Pitch the tent miles away from the CIC hut. After all, you don’t want it to be in a convenient position to the climbing. Why else do you think you’re enduring the misery of camping?

6 – Despite being ill and exhausted, start straight up for a big scary route like the North East Buttress, that would be near the limit of your capabilities if you were feeling good. This is mountaineering, not a bloody picnic (if you are carrying a picnic get rid of it right away; make do with a handful of unpleasant cheap muesli bars instead, or nothing).

7 – Make sure you are last in line of the big queue of climbers all going for the same route. This means you get to wait for longer at freezing belays, enjoying the stunning views of cloud and spindrift.

8 – If the first section of the route is very easy snow plodding without much gear, don’t whatever you do move together or solo it. Pitch it. This will ensure it takes four times longer than it has to, and is far more sporting.

9 – When you do finally get to the harder climbing, make sure your partner has just led off from the belay before suddenly discovering an overwhelming need to take a shit. More points according to how long it takes to clear up, how numb your arse gets, and whether you actually remembered to bring bog roll or not.

10 – Always check the security of a bit of fixed tat by hooking your axe round it and yanking hard as you can. If this doesn’t break it then nothing will.

11 – Should you find yourself leading a long run out pitch, and running out of rope, make sure you deliberately ignore any massive belay boulders you pass. These are considered cheating. Instead keep going, that way your second can dismantle the anchor and climb up after you.

12 – When moving together up steep snow and ice, NEVER COMMUNICATE.

13 – Upon finding yourself stuck on a stamped out snow ledge on a dodgy belay, waiting for hours for the people in front of you to get a move on, do not, under any circumstances, abseil off the route. It just isn’t cricket, what?

14 – Also, why not develop stage 1 hypothermia? Just lie back and enjoy that sudden sense of warmth you feel!

15 – If you say “one more pitch then we’ll see”, make sure that one pitch both fully commits you to the rest of the route and uses up all the remaining daylight.

16 – When you have finished belaying, it is always better if your screwgate jams when you try to undo it. This way you can spend many long minutes screaming with impotent frustration and smashing the fucking thing with your ice hammer.

17 – (BONUS POINT!) Try to get your phone out to call a helicopter, then realise you can’t because you’re belaying. Even better, spend ages figuring out some hugely complex and dangerous juggling system that allows you to do both, only to then realise you have no signal/phone.

18 – Make sure the pair in front top ropes you up out the last hard pitch. Mountaineering has nothing to do with self reliance or responsibility whatsoever.

19 –When you finally reach the top of the route, more exhausted than you’ve ever been in your life, realise you are on the featureless summit plateau of Ben Nevis, and therefore still have a very, very long way to go.

20 – And to really finish things off, spend the remainder of the trip shivering inside your dank, cramped tent, having developed your cold into a full on chest infection.

Congratulations, you are now a winter climber! Mind you don’t trip over all those frozen corpses.

Snowfall and Storm

Pat and I headed up to Scotland in the wake of a heavy thaw, hoping for conditions to improve. There seemed to be a lot of snow around on the drive to Fort William, and everyone we passed on the hike up to Ben Nevis said there had been a huge dump of powder on the mountain, subsequently creating a big avalanche risk. We pitched our tent below the north face, shivered, and wondered what to do. Both getting to and exiting a lot of the routes would be very dangerous indeed.

For our first route we swam up unconsolidated snow towards the Douglas Boulder, a lower pinnacle of Tower Ridge separated by a deep gully. We then soloed up easy mixed terrain into the gully itself, hoping to climb the steep wall of the boulder to South West ridge, which would lead us to the summit. Passing the easiest entry point, we climbed a short mixed ramp to a hanging spike belay underneath what looked like a good pitch, and sorted out the gear.

I led the pitch, up a series of steep walls and cracks broken by narrow ledges of snow. It was the first properly technical mixed climbing I’d ever done. Hooking my axes into seams and edges, torquing on blocks and handholds, crampons balancing, teetering, I clawed my way upwards, not finding as much gear as I wanted. The crux was a committing bridge around a protruding block into a thin crack, and the pitch was sustained until the last pull onto the crest of the South West ridge. There was one nut I thought maybe good enough to hold a fall.

I brought Pat up, and we swung leads to the top of the Boulder. Pat did a great job on the final crux, a desperate, grovelling pull up a corner with no feet to reach the summit. All in all we climbed four pitches, and I’d guess the route with our alternative start was around grade IV. In worsening weather and billowing spindrift we abseiled into the gap formed by the gully and downclimbed steep, rubbish snow to get off the face.

It snowed all evening and all through the night, increasing the avalanche risk even higher, so we waited a day before attempting another route, hoping a cold snap would sort it all out again. We then got up really early to try the classic North East Buttress. However, as we climbed steepening snow and rocks to a ramp leading onto the face of the buttress, the snow conditions just got worse and worse. I broke off mini windslabs with every step, and could see fresh slide scars on the slopes around me. We had a quick discussion then turned back for the tent, packed up, and headed off the mountain with the intention of moving over to the Cairngorms. On the hike down we met another climber who luckily avoided injury falling 30m or so off Point Five Gully when the ice he was climbing sheared off.

We got one day of perfect weather on Coire an t’Sneachda, and set off hoping to climb a classic route called Fingers Ridge. However, we started too far right, and ended up on terrain we couldn’t identify in the guidebook. Pat led a rising traverse up a brittle icefall to a belay in a gully. Ignoring the obvious line, I climbed a steep rib just right of the gully, past a very hard move up a wide crack. I committed, was hanging off one tool and crap feet placements when I realised the leash of my other tool had got tangled in the last bit of gear. Thrashing around, fingers uncurling from the axe handle, I tried to uncoil the mess, and only just freed the tool in time to sink it and avoid falling off. Another hard step led to much easier, turfy ground, and finally a good belay ledge at the end of the difficulties. We have since checked, and believe this pitch could be a new variation to the adjacent route, Goat Track Gully.

Two scrappy pitches up snow and turf, a traverse left onto an exposed ridge to avoid the risky exit slope, and a final tricky tower, led us to the summit plateau of the crag. In blue sky, sunshine, and ferocious wind, we walked back down the ski pistes of Cairngorm Mountain. Then a howling blizzard rolled in, raged throughout the night, and the road to the ski station was closed the following morning. We once again had to beat a retreat off the mountain, aware that the avalanche risk was simply too great. I decided against staying up by myself, due to having no definite partner to climb with and not wanting to solo anything in such dangerous conditions (or alternatively go mad with cold alone in a tent). Hopefully I’ll be able to get back up there in a week or so.

(In the extremely unlikely event that the variation we climbed was a first ascent, we will name it Ringer's Fridge (get it?), grade III 4.)

Alps Photos Part 2

 

Hiking through spectacular scenery towards the Rimpfischhorn.

 

 

The view of the Matterhorn (4478m) from our base camp.

 

 

The Rimpfischhorn (4198m). All the main difficulties of the route lie in surmounting the tooth shaped summit buttress.

 

 

Our surprisingly comfy bivy at the start of the route. The big peak in the background is the Weisshorn (4506m).

 

 

Traversing Point 4001m, all the hard stuff still ahead.

 

 

Jordan leading up the final tower to the summit.

 

 

The view from the top.

 

 

After several attempts in 2010, I finally stand on the summit of the Rimpfischhorn.

 

 

Descending the ice couloir, which was in terrible condition, with the Monte Rosa massif in the background.

 

 

An atmospheric Matterhorn the evening before our attempt.

 

 

Me arsing around on one of the numerous fixed ropes on the Hornli Ridge.

 

 

 

Not this time!

 

 

Back down safe as the weather deteriorates. Not exactly sure what I'm doing with my hand...

 

 

And finally, me, in my pants, pointing at the Matterhorn.