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I'm guessing that a lot of people on here have some great climbing-related stories - I would love to hear them! I'm thinking 'epics', funny stories, best climbs/days....basically anything and everything!
I would start it off but sadly I have nothing to tell.....early days I guess!
I would start it off but sadly I have nothing to tell.....early days I guess!
1
In reply to ClimberGirl:
Not sure it is the best, but a reasonably good one (I have probably also posted it here before) :
I was climbing the Zmuttgrat on the Matterhorn, fairly pumped up if a bit overawed by the mountain and the route. We were crossing under the North Face, on a narrow snow bridge linking 2 levels of glacier terrace to get to the base of the face proper. It was 2 in the morning, pitch black, and I wasn't at all sure of where I was in relation to the North Face and how far right we had to go to the start of the Zmutt.
As I stood on the snow bridge, a head torch with Spaniard attached lumbered up to join me on this bridge, whose strength I was far from comfortable about. Clearly assuming I would speak English he asked : "Is this the face?"
Me : "Er, yes"
Spaniard : "The NORTH face?"
Me : "Er, yes"
Spaniard : "The North face of the Matterhorn?"
Me : "Er, yes"
Spaniard : "On the Matterhorn?"
When a question is asked often enough, despite you knowing perfectly well what the answer is, doubt can creep into your mind :
"Well, I think so ..."
Spaniard : "So where is the route?"
Me : "Well our route goes off to the right"
Spaniard : "Where is the route?"
Then his hand dives into his breast,searches beneath half a dozen layers of clothing and finally emerges triumphantly with A POSTCARD! This apparently constituted his guidebook and sole source of knowledge about the most famous mountain in the world.
"Where is the route?"
I was standing in the small hours of the morning, on a narrow 50 degree ice bridge being weakened quite unnecessarily by it being shared with an apparent lunatic who didn't even know which mountain he was on, my torch was showing signs of fading, the mountain dropped away beneath me in the darkness to unguessed depths. I stared at his post card, and finally said :
"Go to where it says 'come to sunny Zermatt', then turn right past the Alpenhorn, straight up from there, can't go wrong!"
Not sure it is the best, but a reasonably good one (I have probably also posted it here before) :
I was climbing the Zmuttgrat on the Matterhorn, fairly pumped up if a bit overawed by the mountain and the route. We were crossing under the North Face, on a narrow snow bridge linking 2 levels of glacier terrace to get to the base of the face proper. It was 2 in the morning, pitch black, and I wasn't at all sure of where I was in relation to the North Face and how far right we had to go to the start of the Zmutt.
As I stood on the snow bridge, a head torch with Spaniard attached lumbered up to join me on this bridge, whose strength I was far from comfortable about. Clearly assuming I would speak English he asked : "Is this the face?"
Me : "Er, yes"
Spaniard : "The NORTH face?"
Me : "Er, yes"
Spaniard : "The North face of the Matterhorn?"
Me : "Er, yes"
Spaniard : "On the Matterhorn?"
When a question is asked often enough, despite you knowing perfectly well what the answer is, doubt can creep into your mind :
"Well, I think so ..."
Spaniard : "So where is the route?"
Me : "Well our route goes off to the right"
Spaniard : "Where is the route?"
Then his hand dives into his breast,searches beneath half a dozen layers of clothing and finally emerges triumphantly with A POSTCARD! This apparently constituted his guidebook and sole source of knowledge about the most famous mountain in the world.
"Where is the route?"
I was standing in the small hours of the morning, on a narrow 50 degree ice bridge being weakened quite unnecessarily by it being shared with an apparent lunatic who didn't even know which mountain he was on, my torch was showing signs of fading, the mountain dropped away beneath me in the darkness to unguessed depths. I stared at his post card, and finally said :
"Go to where it says 'come to sunny Zermatt', then turn right past the Alpenhorn, straight up from there, can't go wrong!"
10
2
4
In reply to ClimberGirl:
Not sure about best but one of my most common ones is a cautionary tale (i.e. catalogue of errors) about why deciding to climb the longest extreme rock climb in North Wales at gone 6.30pm on a late August evening was not my best idea...
Anyway for reasons I won't bore you with, my partner and I set off up White Slab on Cloggy which is probably about as far removed from a sensible evening cragging choice as it is possible to get.
All was going well until the second pitch. My lead. I headed up the arete and made thr awkward step right and continued upwards. Then things got interesting.
And thin.
And lichenous.
And precarious.
However, I had a Wild Country Zero in on two cams so it wasn't technically unprotected.
I crimped, teetered, inched and finally lunged to better holds and then the belay.
My partner joined me and a long and effusive discussion ensued. Sandbag grading, lack of traffic and a whole host of rationales were given for why Cloggy 5a had felt desperate but the clear conclusion was that we might have a problem. At this point for those who don't know the route, I will quote the description for the next pitch:
5c 21m Move back onto the arete and make bold moves rightwards into the groove. Alternatively lasso the infamous spike first. This does take the sting out of the situation, although it's not as easy as it sounds.
My partner was adamant he wasn't leading the next pitch, or any pitch, and was in favour of retreat. I was equally adamant that I wasn't going to come back and lead that pitch again, so we were damn well finishing it. The argument got more heated as:
- we failed to lasso the spike.
- we worked out we had less than an hour of daylight left and four pitches to climb.
- we failed again and again to lasso the spike.
- we remembered our head torches were in the rucsacs at the base of the route.
- we still failed to lasso the spike.
- we saw it really was approaching dusk.
Thankfully, the rope finally lodged, somehow, on the spike. I set off. I climbed. I climbed quickly. I ran it out. I ran it out some more. And some more. And again for two pitches together this time, and again...
Somehow near 100 metres of climbing flashed by; 3 pitches, 4 runners, 20minutes. Reckless is probably a generous description.
Reaching our rucsacs just as dusk was fading away completely we relaxed, thankful we had a avoided a major epic and reassured that no one would be sitting back in Llanberis worrying about us being benighted or having to call out Mountain Rescue.
That wasn't entirely the case...
A couple of passing mountain bikers who had seen us cragfast in the dying daylight had thoughtfully asked my girl friend waiting for us down at the normal parking spot if she was "waiting for the climbers having an epic on Cloggy". That was a LONG time before we finally showed up.
We are still together and she has still not forgiven me (or at least she still reminds me about it).
Epilogue:
The next morning, looking through the definitive Clogwyn Du'r Arddu guide (lacking in pretty pictures but full of absolute gems of the guidebook writer's art) following the main description of White Slab I read:
**3b Redhead's Direct 45m. E4 6a. From the spike at 20 metres, step right and climb directly up the centre of the Slab (thin, sustained, and poorly protected) to reach the security of the lasso spike - an oft-attempted pitch, mainly by off-route leaders.
Not sure about best but one of my most common ones is a cautionary tale (i.e. catalogue of errors) about why deciding to climb the longest extreme rock climb in North Wales at gone 6.30pm on a late August evening was not my best idea...
Anyway for reasons I won't bore you with, my partner and I set off up White Slab on Cloggy which is probably about as far removed from a sensible evening cragging choice as it is possible to get.
All was going well until the second pitch. My lead. I headed up the arete and made thr awkward step right and continued upwards. Then things got interesting.
And thin.
And lichenous.
And precarious.
However, I had a Wild Country Zero in on two cams so it wasn't technically unprotected.
I crimped, teetered, inched and finally lunged to better holds and then the belay.
My partner joined me and a long and effusive discussion ensued. Sandbag grading, lack of traffic and a whole host of rationales were given for why Cloggy 5a had felt desperate but the clear conclusion was that we might have a problem. At this point for those who don't know the route, I will quote the description for the next pitch:
5c 21m Move back onto the arete and make bold moves rightwards into the groove. Alternatively lasso the infamous spike first. This does take the sting out of the situation, although it's not as easy as it sounds.
My partner was adamant he wasn't leading the next pitch, or any pitch, and was in favour of retreat. I was equally adamant that I wasn't going to come back and lead that pitch again, so we were damn well finishing it. The argument got more heated as:
- we failed to lasso the spike.
- we worked out we had less than an hour of daylight left and four pitches to climb.
- we failed again and again to lasso the spike.
- we remembered our head torches were in the rucsacs at the base of the route.
- we still failed to lasso the spike.
- we saw it really was approaching dusk.
Thankfully, the rope finally lodged, somehow, on the spike. I set off. I climbed. I climbed quickly. I ran it out. I ran it out some more. And some more. And again for two pitches together this time, and again...
Somehow near 100 metres of climbing flashed by; 3 pitches, 4 runners, 20minutes. Reckless is probably a generous description.
Reaching our rucsacs just as dusk was fading away completely we relaxed, thankful we had a avoided a major epic and reassured that no one would be sitting back in Llanberis worrying about us being benighted or having to call out Mountain Rescue.
That wasn't entirely the case...
A couple of passing mountain bikers who had seen us cragfast in the dying daylight had thoughtfully asked my girl friend waiting for us down at the normal parking spot if she was "waiting for the climbers having an epic on Cloggy". That was a LONG time before we finally showed up.
We are still together and she has still not forgiven me (or at least she still reminds me about it).
Epilogue:
The next morning, looking through the definitive Clogwyn Du'r Arddu guide (lacking in pretty pictures but full of absolute gems of the guidebook writer's art) following the main description of White Slab I read:
**3b Redhead's Direct 45m. E4 6a. From the spike at 20 metres, step right and climb directly up the centre of the Slab (thin, sustained, and poorly protected) to reach the security of the lasso spike - an oft-attempted pitch, mainly by off-route leaders.
Post edited at 19:07
16
In reply to ClimberGirl:
Papa Prusiks had a friend who had perhaps the best story I've heard...
He was soloing a long ice climb all going well until he reached the the very top of the route to find 10ft of completely clean shear rock. Unable to turn back he attempted the rock and fell from the very top. This resulted in a 600ft fall on to a snow slope, watched by two horrified walkers.
The first thing he shouted as he poked his head out of the snow was "Oi! Rescue me you bastards!". Got him in the local paper that did.
Papa Prusiks had a friend who had perhaps the best story I've heard...
He was soloing a long ice climb all going well until he reached the the very top of the route to find 10ft of completely clean shear rock. Unable to turn back he attempted the rock and fell from the very top. This resulted in a 600ft fall on to a snow slope, watched by two horrified walkers.
The first thing he shouted as he poked his head out of the snow was "Oi! Rescue me you bastards!". Got him in the local paper that did.
3
1
In reply to The Ex-Engineer:
I too failed to lasso that spike and after 30/40 attempts I let the party behind us have a go. Tut Braithwaite got it second throw. We followed somewhat chasened but like you gallopped up the remaining pitches to wittness a lovely sunset!
I too failed to lasso that spike and after 30/40 attempts I let the party behind us have a go. Tut Braithwaite got it second throw. We followed somewhat chasened but like you gallopped up the remaining pitches to wittness a lovely sunset!
In reply to ClimberGirl:
I was once hunted by the police whilst climbing Giant's Cave Buttress in the Avon Gorge. I'll try and write it up tomorrow if I can.
T.
I was once hunted by the police whilst climbing Giant's Cave Buttress in the Avon Gorge. I'll try and write it up tomorrow if I can.
T.
2
In reply to ClimberGirl:
I have numerous of course, but this one gives you an idea.
'Al Evans recalls a new route ...
"My scariest ever climbing moments were on a route called Pathos on Cilan Head. Myself and Rod Haslam had spotted a parallel line running above Jack Streets route Lime Street and decided to give it a go. Now, Lime Street follows a big horizontal line about 15ft above a huge roof which is itself about 40ft above the sea. Our line was about 15ft above that. I started off up what looked like a fairly solid corner and indeed turned to be ok, but no runners. After about 40ft I placed an 'ok' peg and set off to traverse the break. The further I went the worse the rock got. No real handholds and eventually I was just kicking footholds in this strange rock like badly stuck together pineapple chunks. Finally I got to the ledge we had been aiming for completely gripped and emotionally drained. Now things started to turn serious. No belay. Well I got 2 knife blades about three quarters of an inch upwards into a thin crack in the roof above the ledge. Well there was no way I was going back along that traverse so I shouted to Rod that I would just jump off into the sea. You can tell how gripped I was.
Rod would have none of it and insisted he would come up and join me. He got to the peg unclipped it and we now had 40ft of rope out with no runners between us, an imaginary belay, and Rod about to climb the loosest traverse I'd ever done to join me. As he climbed towards me I watched in horror as the rock showered down from under his feet. Rod just coolly complained about the state of the gardening I'd done. When he saw the belay I could tell from his face that until then he hadnt believed how bad it was.I was totally gripped. We were in the middle of this huge unclimbed face about 70ft above the sea, no real belay, no way were either of us going back along the traverse and not knowing if we could climb out of the thing. Plus side was the rock had got better!
I hatched a plan, "Rod, this is what we do, I'll lower you down to Lime Street where we know there are good pegs. You belay and take in the rope, brace yourself and I'll jump off, then prussik up to you and we'll escape up Lime Street."
"Al, you've gone mad."
So plan B, Rod continues along the traverse for about 15ft. Whoops of joy as he finds a crack that takes a Leeper up to the hilt. Above is a long corner leading to a tree. Rod sets of up this, complaining about the lack of pro, so he is slow and careful. I see him finally arrive at the tree and put a sling round it, I'm happy now but Rod is still strangely quiet. He traverses about 15 ft left and finds a good crack in a corner which takes a big Hex belay. Fab.
By now its rapidly going dark so throwing caution to the wind with the big tree runner directly above me I blast up the crack. Its about 35 ft and probably only 4c but with no runners and considering the position it was a bloody good lead. Seeing me nearly fall off a couple of times through the carelessness of speed. Rod implores me to be careful. I arrive at the 'tree', its the biggest sea cabbage plant I've ever seen and might have just about held a squirrel monkey!! I traverse across to Rod. I look happily at Rod's stonking belay and we've only got about 25ft of perfect layback crack to the top and safety. For the first time in several hours I begin to see survival as a real option. I set off up the layback crack happily and its only as I get halfway up do I realise that what was a parallel crack when I set off is now distinctly wider towards the top.Just as I'm about to think hand jamming might be a better option Chris Jackson and Jack Street appear at the top of the crag and suss out that flake I'm climbing up is about to head for a dip. They brace themselves and grab hold of the flake holding onto the crag until I make the top. Anyway its a great route, Pathos HVS 4c 200ft, get out there and do it!"
top
Apparently you can't, its fallen down
I have numerous of course, but this one gives you an idea.
'Al Evans recalls a new route ...
"My scariest ever climbing moments were on a route called Pathos on Cilan Head. Myself and Rod Haslam had spotted a parallel line running above Jack Streets route Lime Street and decided to give it a go. Now, Lime Street follows a big horizontal line about 15ft above a huge roof which is itself about 40ft above the sea. Our line was about 15ft above that. I started off up what looked like a fairly solid corner and indeed turned to be ok, but no runners. After about 40ft I placed an 'ok' peg and set off to traverse the break. The further I went the worse the rock got. No real handholds and eventually I was just kicking footholds in this strange rock like badly stuck together pineapple chunks. Finally I got to the ledge we had been aiming for completely gripped and emotionally drained. Now things started to turn serious. No belay. Well I got 2 knife blades about three quarters of an inch upwards into a thin crack in the roof above the ledge. Well there was no way I was going back along that traverse so I shouted to Rod that I would just jump off into the sea. You can tell how gripped I was.
Rod would have none of it and insisted he would come up and join me. He got to the peg unclipped it and we now had 40ft of rope out with no runners between us, an imaginary belay, and Rod about to climb the loosest traverse I'd ever done to join me. As he climbed towards me I watched in horror as the rock showered down from under his feet. Rod just coolly complained about the state of the gardening I'd done. When he saw the belay I could tell from his face that until then he hadnt believed how bad it was.I was totally gripped. We were in the middle of this huge unclimbed face about 70ft above the sea, no real belay, no way were either of us going back along the traverse and not knowing if we could climb out of the thing. Plus side was the rock had got better!
I hatched a plan, "Rod, this is what we do, I'll lower you down to Lime Street where we know there are good pegs. You belay and take in the rope, brace yourself and I'll jump off, then prussik up to you and we'll escape up Lime Street."
"Al, you've gone mad."
So plan B, Rod continues along the traverse for about 15ft. Whoops of joy as he finds a crack that takes a Leeper up to the hilt. Above is a long corner leading to a tree. Rod sets of up this, complaining about the lack of pro, so he is slow and careful. I see him finally arrive at the tree and put a sling round it, I'm happy now but Rod is still strangely quiet. He traverses about 15 ft left and finds a good crack in a corner which takes a big Hex belay. Fab.
By now its rapidly going dark so throwing caution to the wind with the big tree runner directly above me I blast up the crack. Its about 35 ft and probably only 4c but with no runners and considering the position it was a bloody good lead. Seeing me nearly fall off a couple of times through the carelessness of speed. Rod implores me to be careful. I arrive at the 'tree', its the biggest sea cabbage plant I've ever seen and might have just about held a squirrel monkey!! I traverse across to Rod. I look happily at Rod's stonking belay and we've only got about 25ft of perfect layback crack to the top and safety. For the first time in several hours I begin to see survival as a real option. I set off up the layback crack happily and its only as I get halfway up do I realise that what was a parallel crack when I set off is now distinctly wider towards the top.Just as I'm about to think hand jamming might be a better option Chris Jackson and Jack Street appear at the top of the crag and suss out that flake I'm climbing up is about to head for a dip. They brace themselves and grab hold of the flake holding onto the crag until I make the top. Anyway its a great route, Pathos HVS 4c 200ft, get out there and do it!"
top
Apparently you can't, its fallen down
10
In reply to Greasy Prusiks:
I was once climbing a very soggy and disintegrating ice route on Creag Meagaidh, before I had learnt that the appropriate response to such conditions was to run away, very scared and go to the pub.
I was most of a rope length above my 2 companions, with a few ice screws pushed in by my fingers for decorative purposes, when my always tenuous connection to the slope, and it to itself, gave way leaving me in free fall. I finished up more or less the same distance below my 2 fellows as I had been above, having as chance would have it, hit a soft snow slope at a decreasing angle, which had stopped my fall very gently, with one of the 2 belay pegs dangling musically on the rope.
I looked up quite a long way to 2 frightened faces and announced :
"I don't fancy trying that again, does anyone else want a go?"
Surprisingly there were no takers, but they did award me points for 3 double somersaults, a pike and a complete twist during the fall.
On returning to the car, I discovered that the cap on my thermos flask was broken, this being the main casualty of the episode. I wrote to the manufacturer in the strongest terms to complain about such shoddy finishing on their products. On enquiring, and being supplied with the circumstances, they declined to replace the cap, calling the damage "fair wear and tear". Most unreasonable I thought.
> This resulted in a 600ft fall on to a snow slope, watched by two horrified walkers.
> The first thing he shouted as he poked his head out of the snow was "Oi! Rescue me you bastards!".
I was once climbing a very soggy and disintegrating ice route on Creag Meagaidh, before I had learnt that the appropriate response to such conditions was to run away, very scared and go to the pub.
I was most of a rope length above my 2 companions, with a few ice screws pushed in by my fingers for decorative purposes, when my always tenuous connection to the slope, and it to itself, gave way leaving me in free fall. I finished up more or less the same distance below my 2 fellows as I had been above, having as chance would have it, hit a soft snow slope at a decreasing angle, which had stopped my fall very gently, with one of the 2 belay pegs dangling musically on the rope.
I looked up quite a long way to 2 frightened faces and announced :
"I don't fancy trying that again, does anyone else want a go?"
Surprisingly there were no takers, but they did award me points for 3 double somersaults, a pike and a complete twist during the fall.
On returning to the car, I discovered that the cap on my thermos flask was broken, this being the main casualty of the episode. I wrote to the manufacturer in the strongest terms to complain about such shoddy finishing on their products. On enquiring, and being supplied with the circumstances, they declined to replace the cap, calling the damage "fair wear and tear". Most unreasonable I thought.
Post edited at 20:03
9
In reply to Simon4:
Cracking story that, thanks for posting it. "I don't fancy trying that again, does anyone else want a go?" is definitely the best way I've heard of breaking the post-accident silence!
Cracking story that, thanks for posting it. "I don't fancy trying that again, does anyone else want a go?" is definitely the best way I've heard of breaking the post-accident silence!
3
In reply to ClimberGirl:
The best stories of course follow the "Banana skin law". You know, the one that says "any banana skin, no matter how far away it is initially, nor how effectively covered by other material it is, will inevitably connect with stout-hearted heroes foot and result in said hero being flat on face or back as a consequence".
In the spirit of the Banana Skin law, I offer the following, unashamedly lifted from the Lauteraarhorn thread :
I shared a yarn, or rather tale of Alpine climbing terror with the girl I climbed the Brunegghorn North face with. With a patronising patience born of years of calming mental health patients, she smiled sweetly and said "that's a nice story - I've only heard that one 3 times. So much fresher than the ones I've heard 8 or 9 times". I decided it was more useful to give her the benefit of my climbing wisdom, so regaled her with various wise aphorisms and lessons.
Her eyes started to flicker shut, clearly because we had got up so early that morning to climb the face - obviously this could not be because my nuggets of priceless experience were not QUITE as fascinating as any normal observer would assume.
In order to spare her from the misfortune of missing any of these pearls, I started to speak progressively more LOUDLY and EMPHATICALLY. The intense effort of concentrating on my words so as not to lose even a drop of the precious insight seemed to distort her face into a grimace, almost as though she were in pain. Finally I thundered :
"Never, ever relax on an Alpine route - until you are sitting on the terrace of the hut, with a beer in your hand".
Coincidentally, even as I spoke, I was sitting at a hut terrace table, with 2 beer glasses in front of me. The beer having been already drunk, their presence was by then rather redundant, except to illustrate the point. Being a generous soul, I decided to return them inside to help the staff, not noticing my own rucksack in front of my feet, with its straps rather chaotically spread out in front. I stood up with the 2 glasses, then with perfect but unfortunately entirely inadvertent comic timing, my feet wrapped themselves around the straps and I fell painfully full length on the hard flagstones, shattering both glasses and nearly putting out my eyes on them in the process.
She regarded the scene with some alarm, giving a sharp intake of breath and paused for a moment of shocked silence. Then she realised I had not actually impaled my eyes, and relaxed somewhat.
I lay there flat on my face in no inconsiderable amount of pain, with the sound of loud, uncontrollable peals of unceasing laughter echoing in my ears.
The best stories of course follow the "Banana skin law". You know, the one that says "any banana skin, no matter how far away it is initially, nor how effectively covered by other material it is, will inevitably connect with stout-hearted heroes foot and result in said hero being flat on face or back as a consequence".
In the spirit of the Banana Skin law, I offer the following, unashamedly lifted from the Lauteraarhorn thread :
I shared a yarn, or rather tale of Alpine climbing terror with the girl I climbed the Brunegghorn North face with. With a patronising patience born of years of calming mental health patients, she smiled sweetly and said "that's a nice story - I've only heard that one 3 times. So much fresher than the ones I've heard 8 or 9 times". I decided it was more useful to give her the benefit of my climbing wisdom, so regaled her with various wise aphorisms and lessons.
Her eyes started to flicker shut, clearly because we had got up so early that morning to climb the face - obviously this could not be because my nuggets of priceless experience were not QUITE as fascinating as any normal observer would assume.
In order to spare her from the misfortune of missing any of these pearls, I started to speak progressively more LOUDLY and EMPHATICALLY. The intense effort of concentrating on my words so as not to lose even a drop of the precious insight seemed to distort her face into a grimace, almost as though she were in pain. Finally I thundered :
"Never, ever relax on an Alpine route - until you are sitting on the terrace of the hut, with a beer in your hand".
Coincidentally, even as I spoke, I was sitting at a hut terrace table, with 2 beer glasses in front of me. The beer having been already drunk, their presence was by then rather redundant, except to illustrate the point. Being a generous soul, I decided to return them inside to help the staff, not noticing my own rucksack in front of my feet, with its straps rather chaotically spread out in front. I stood up with the 2 glasses, then with perfect but unfortunately entirely inadvertent comic timing, my feet wrapped themselves around the straps and I fell painfully full length on the hard flagstones, shattering both glasses and nearly putting out my eyes on them in the process.
She regarded the scene with some alarm, giving a sharp intake of breath and paused for a moment of shocked silence. Then she realised I had not actually impaled my eyes, and relaxed somewhat.
I lay there flat on my face in no inconsiderable amount of pain, with the sound of loud, uncontrollable peals of unceasing laughter echoing in my ears.
5
In reply to Skyfall:
Having listened in disapproving silence to this exchange, my large American partner spoke up in a deep voice :
"We have to go now".
So we did, never expecting to see them again (and indeed having considerable doubt if they would ever be seen by human eye again, alive at least), despite the aid provided by my unlikely directions. Strangely enough, we DID meet them again, later that day in fact.
The mountain was in a horrible state, excessively dry, so the summit snow slope was a summit rubble slope. The description of the Zmutt that I had read said that it was better if it was dry, because there would be no verglass on the teeth that follow the snow crest.
This may be true in principal, but it also meant that the long section on the West face was a nightmare of disintegrating, unstable bricks, all with no stability or bonding, waiting to go at any moment, especially when disturbed by a climbers boot. We spent several nerve-wracking hours tiptoeing up this death trap, till my partner lost his concentration for a moment and decided to fall off. Fortunately he had chosen the moment when I had just placed the only reliable piece of gear on the face, and I held him quite well.
"Don't do that again" I snapped - those may not have been my precise words.
Finally the 2 ridges got close together, we had totally failed to find Carel's gallery but were now close enough to the Italian arette to see the fixed ropes. "Sod this for a game of soldiers" I said mentally and lead off toward it, so we finished up the last part of that ridge.
One way of getting the summit of the Matterhorn to yourself is to arrive there at 5:30 pm, with an obvious thunderstorm coming in. Similarly, you can get the summit of Mont Blanc du Tacul to yourself if you arrive there at 15 minutes past midnight, when it is a cold, lonely and forbidding place. Neither of these actions is recommended in any Alpine climbing textbook to my knowledge, nor does the BMC suggest either in its "How to climb in the Alps" webpages.
Descending to the Solvay bivy hut, we were caught by the storm, fortunately far enough below the summit to not be hit by the bolts of lightning striking it repeatedly. But certainly close enough to get repeated shocks through our gloves and force us to stash all our ironmongery.
We got to the bivi hut at 7 pm, utterly shattered, to find the Spaniards in residence. Their attempt to climb the North Face had been terminated by continuous stonefall, an occurrence of no great surprise, given that even I knew perfectly well that the North Face is better climbed when snow binds it rather than when it is dry, especially as dry as it was then.
They had managed to climb off the edge of the North Face to the Hornli ridge, and then make their way somehow to the Solvay bivy. The guidebook said this was impossible, their postcard however did not, so that was what they had done, being unaware that they were fatally trapped.
> So how did it end?
Having listened in disapproving silence to this exchange, my large American partner spoke up in a deep voice :
"We have to go now".
So we did, never expecting to see them again (and indeed having considerable doubt if they would ever be seen by human eye again, alive at least), despite the aid provided by my unlikely directions. Strangely enough, we DID meet them again, later that day in fact.
The mountain was in a horrible state, excessively dry, so the summit snow slope was a summit rubble slope. The description of the Zmutt that I had read said that it was better if it was dry, because there would be no verglass on the teeth that follow the snow crest.
This may be true in principal, but it also meant that the long section on the West face was a nightmare of disintegrating, unstable bricks, all with no stability or bonding, waiting to go at any moment, especially when disturbed by a climbers boot. We spent several nerve-wracking hours tiptoeing up this death trap, till my partner lost his concentration for a moment and decided to fall off. Fortunately he had chosen the moment when I had just placed the only reliable piece of gear on the face, and I held him quite well.
"Don't do that again" I snapped - those may not have been my precise words.
Finally the 2 ridges got close together, we had totally failed to find Carel's gallery but were now close enough to the Italian arette to see the fixed ropes. "Sod this for a game of soldiers" I said mentally and lead off toward it, so we finished up the last part of that ridge.
One way of getting the summit of the Matterhorn to yourself is to arrive there at 5:30 pm, with an obvious thunderstorm coming in. Similarly, you can get the summit of Mont Blanc du Tacul to yourself if you arrive there at 15 minutes past midnight, when it is a cold, lonely and forbidding place. Neither of these actions is recommended in any Alpine climbing textbook to my knowledge, nor does the BMC suggest either in its "How to climb in the Alps" webpages.
Descending to the Solvay bivy hut, we were caught by the storm, fortunately far enough below the summit to not be hit by the bolts of lightning striking it repeatedly. But certainly close enough to get repeated shocks through our gloves and force us to stash all our ironmongery.
We got to the bivi hut at 7 pm, utterly shattered, to find the Spaniards in residence. Their attempt to climb the North Face had been terminated by continuous stonefall, an occurrence of no great surprise, given that even I knew perfectly well that the North Face is better climbed when snow binds it rather than when it is dry, especially as dry as it was then.
They had managed to climb off the edge of the North Face to the Hornli ridge, and then make their way somehow to the Solvay bivy. The guidebook said this was impossible, their postcard however did not, so that was what they had done, being unaware that they were fatally trapped.
Post edited at 21:32
5
In reply to Al Evans: I think you have undergraded it - your description makes it sound more worthy of the mighty E2 4c - a rare and distinguished grade requiring character and the ability to function without a working brain
4
In reply to Michael Hood:
Didn't Joe Brown name a route "dinosaur" because it needed a very long neck and a tiny brain?
> a rare and distinguished grade requiring character and the ability to function without a working brain
Didn't Joe Brown name a route "dinosaur" because it needed a very long neck and a tiny brain?
1
In reply to ClimberGirl:
I had just finished a day's climbing at Swanage and we were strolling back along the cliff top path to the car. It was one of those golden Swanage Autumnal evenings, the last sunlight reflected off tumbling waves as the sea and sky turned a deep mellow blue, gulls wheeled and turned in the light airs and cattle and the odd rambler wandered gently along the upper slopes.
My partner, of Polish extraction, was telling me what great mountaineers Poles were and what tremendous climbing achievements they had made, all done against official obstruction and on a shoestring budge. I enquired why they seemed to lose this quality on leaving Poland to come to the UK, and advanced one or two incidents that day and previous ones as evidence of the point. He responded with some rather pointed observations about my character, parentage and habits, with the odd obscenity added to illustrate the strength of his view. We ambled along in the eager anticipation of an evening pint and the opportunity carrying on the robust but friendly banter in a picturesque Dorset pub.
Our attention was caught by a knot of people huddled over one of the stakes topping the Boulder Ruckle. They seemed engaged in some strenuous, but not very productive, physical activity.
They called to us, asking for our help. Sure, we said, what was going on?
A member of their party had taken a 20 foot fall on Lightning Wall, twice, and they were trying to pull him up to get him safe, but the friction over the edge was frustrating them. Could we help them pull? We joined them, tied ourselves onto the stake and all pulled frantically. With 5 people pulling, the rope must have moved at least a foot or 2, this clearly was not going to work. We also had 5 people tied with various degrees of competence to a single stake on a steep, muddy, convex slope above a vertical drop. This was before Scott Titt's systematic restaking of Ruckle, assisted by me among others, so my faith that the stake could hold us all was not great. I was not at all comfortable with this, in any case, it was failing miserably.
"How did the rope get to him, if he had 2 20 foot falls?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Oh, he wasn't leading, he was seconding, but I was belaying him round the waist and not paying as much attention as I should"
"Or putting in any gear in on the traverse? Hang on, you said he fell TWICE, 20', seconding???"
"Er, yes"
"Is he injured?" I enquired. "No, he is OK."
"Well then can't he prussick out?
"He doesn't have any prussick loops."
"Then we should drop him some."
"He doesn't know how to prussik, he is a beginner."
A beginner who doesn't know how to prussick, on the ,most of a ropelength high, plumb vertical, very dramatically exposed, Lightning Wall? This did not however seem like the best moment or situation to mention the quite unambiguous instruction in the Swanage guide that all those venturing onto the Boulder Ruckle must carry prussiks or similar and know how to use them competently, also that it is a serious cliff, only for the experienced. So I simply observed that we should lower him to the sea-washed bouldery platform below, set up a rope down the normal abseil route, someone had to descend to him with 2 pairs of prussic loops and show him how to use them, while the rest of us also held the novice on a top-rope as he prussiked.
"Also," I observed, "the person going down had better take 2 headtorches as it is starting to get dark."
"Good idea mate", then an embarrassed pause : "do you have any headtorches?"
Biting back another sharp response as being unhelpful and not appropriate to the circumstances, we produced ours and rescuer was duly sent down to do his duty. Eventually those of us on the cliff top managing the ropes saw 2 lights rising closer and beginner duly scrambled to flat ground. To our amazement, he did not immediately deck his "leader" and beat him to a pulp as was so richly deserved, nor was he jibbering in terror. Clearly a potential Alpinist or Winter climber! Or caver or Kamikazi pilot possibly.
"What lamp had destiny to guide,
Her little children stumbling in the dark?"
On this occasion for the 6 of us, on a muddy path above a sheer drop, destiny, or rather me and my Polish mate, had only supplied 2 headtorches, so we set off in a precarious column, one torch at the front and one at the back.
Finally we got to the carpark, where we were asked "are you lads driving out of Swanage?"
"Yes", we admitted we were, slightly cautiously.
"Would you mind driving with us, cos we're a bit low on petrol and think we might run out?"
Although my mate's English was for all normal purposes perfect, as he had grown up here, he still occasionally expressed his feelings in Polish, normally when he felt compelled to make a comment that was incomprehensible to its target, but he felt that it still had to be said. He did that now, in consonant riddled and rather emphatic tones. Neither I nor the party we had rescued spoke Polish, but we all got the feeling that this comment was both forceful and not terribly complementary to the other party.
Sure enough, they did run out. I drove one of them to a petrol station and back with a can. Surprisingly they did NOT put diesel in a petrol car, and it duly started, after some turning over of the engine. We got back in our car and I started to move off.
"Simon, I think they want to talk to us about something".
I had a fairly powerful and flashy car in those days. The next thing to be heard was a wild mechanical scream from 3 litres and 24 valves as I floored the accelerator and redlined the rev counter, in a desperate and finally successful attempt to get us as far away from them as possible, as fast as possible. This was followed by a series of graphic and heartfelt oaths in Polish, as he had been thrown back hard against his seat by the sudden and sustained acceleration.
Later in the pub however, he agreed that it was the only thing to do. We had rescued them from the cliff, our duty to these Jonahs was then over, before they dragged us into whatever next catastrophe was about to strike them.
I had just finished a day's climbing at Swanage and we were strolling back along the cliff top path to the car. It was one of those golden Swanage Autumnal evenings, the last sunlight reflected off tumbling waves as the sea and sky turned a deep mellow blue, gulls wheeled and turned in the light airs and cattle and the odd rambler wandered gently along the upper slopes.
My partner, of Polish extraction, was telling me what great mountaineers Poles were and what tremendous climbing achievements they had made, all done against official obstruction and on a shoestring budge. I enquired why they seemed to lose this quality on leaving Poland to come to the UK, and advanced one or two incidents that day and previous ones as evidence of the point. He responded with some rather pointed observations about my character, parentage and habits, with the odd obscenity added to illustrate the strength of his view. We ambled along in the eager anticipation of an evening pint and the opportunity carrying on the robust but friendly banter in a picturesque Dorset pub.
Our attention was caught by a knot of people huddled over one of the stakes topping the Boulder Ruckle. They seemed engaged in some strenuous, but not very productive, physical activity.
They called to us, asking for our help. Sure, we said, what was going on?
A member of their party had taken a 20 foot fall on Lightning Wall, twice, and they were trying to pull him up to get him safe, but the friction over the edge was frustrating them. Could we help them pull? We joined them, tied ourselves onto the stake and all pulled frantically. With 5 people pulling, the rope must have moved at least a foot or 2, this clearly was not going to work. We also had 5 people tied with various degrees of competence to a single stake on a steep, muddy, convex slope above a vertical drop. This was before Scott Titt's systematic restaking of Ruckle, assisted by me among others, so my faith that the stake could hold us all was not great. I was not at all comfortable with this, in any case, it was failing miserably.
"How did the rope get to him, if he had 2 20 foot falls?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Oh, he wasn't leading, he was seconding, but I was belaying him round the waist and not paying as much attention as I should"
"Or putting in any gear in on the traverse? Hang on, you said he fell TWICE, 20', seconding???"
"Er, yes"
"Is he injured?" I enquired. "No, he is OK."
"Well then can't he prussick out?
"He doesn't have any prussick loops."
"Then we should drop him some."
"He doesn't know how to prussik, he is a beginner."
A beginner who doesn't know how to prussick, on the ,most of a ropelength high, plumb vertical, very dramatically exposed, Lightning Wall? This did not however seem like the best moment or situation to mention the quite unambiguous instruction in the Swanage guide that all those venturing onto the Boulder Ruckle must carry prussiks or similar and know how to use them competently, also that it is a serious cliff, only for the experienced. So I simply observed that we should lower him to the sea-washed bouldery platform below, set up a rope down the normal abseil route, someone had to descend to him with 2 pairs of prussic loops and show him how to use them, while the rest of us also held the novice on a top-rope as he prussiked.
"Also," I observed, "the person going down had better take 2 headtorches as it is starting to get dark."
"Good idea mate", then an embarrassed pause : "do you have any headtorches?"
Biting back another sharp response as being unhelpful and not appropriate to the circumstances, we produced ours and rescuer was duly sent down to do his duty. Eventually those of us on the cliff top managing the ropes saw 2 lights rising closer and beginner duly scrambled to flat ground. To our amazement, he did not immediately deck his "leader" and beat him to a pulp as was so richly deserved, nor was he jibbering in terror. Clearly a potential Alpinist or Winter climber! Or caver or Kamikazi pilot possibly.
"What lamp had destiny to guide,
Her little children stumbling in the dark?"
On this occasion for the 6 of us, on a muddy path above a sheer drop, destiny, or rather me and my Polish mate, had only supplied 2 headtorches, so we set off in a precarious column, one torch at the front and one at the back.
Finally we got to the carpark, where we were asked "are you lads driving out of Swanage?"
"Yes", we admitted we were, slightly cautiously.
"Would you mind driving with us, cos we're a bit low on petrol and think we might run out?"
Although my mate's English was for all normal purposes perfect, as he had grown up here, he still occasionally expressed his feelings in Polish, normally when he felt compelled to make a comment that was incomprehensible to its target, but he felt that it still had to be said. He did that now, in consonant riddled and rather emphatic tones. Neither I nor the party we had rescued spoke Polish, but we all got the feeling that this comment was both forceful and not terribly complementary to the other party.
Sure enough, they did run out. I drove one of them to a petrol station and back with a can. Surprisingly they did NOT put diesel in a petrol car, and it duly started, after some turning over of the engine. We got back in our car and I started to move off.
"Simon, I think they want to talk to us about something".
I had a fairly powerful and flashy car in those days. The next thing to be heard was a wild mechanical scream from 3 litres and 24 valves as I floored the accelerator and redlined the rev counter, in a desperate and finally successful attempt to get us as far away from them as possible, as fast as possible. This was followed by a series of graphic and heartfelt oaths in Polish, as he had been thrown back hard against his seat by the sudden and sustained acceleration.
Later in the pub however, he agreed that it was the only thing to do. We had rescued them from the cliff, our duty to these Jonahs was then over, before they dragged us into whatever next catastrophe was about to strike them.
Post edited at 18:16
6
1
In reply to Simon4:
We all make mistakes but characters such as these do indeed stumble from one catastrophe to the next, with little or no learning along the way. They probably shook themselves down afterwards, rationalised things, concluded, "Well that was OK, wasn't it?"
Sadly, in climbing, death tends to intervene - often very quickly indeed.
Mick
> Later in the pub however, he agreed that it was the only thing to do. We had rescued them from the cliff, our duty to these Jonahs was then over, before they dragged us into whatever next catastrophe was about to strike them.
We all make mistakes but characters such as these do indeed stumble from one catastrophe to the next, with little or no learning along the way. They probably shook themselves down afterwards, rationalised things, concluded, "Well that was OK, wasn't it?"
Sadly, in climbing, death tends to intervene - often very quickly indeed.
Mick
2
In reply to ClimberGirl:
I wrote an email to a friend who had enquired about how a day trip to Swanage had gone. The Email spread a bit, and I was asked to turn it into an article for the club magazine:
-------------------------------
You know how it is than most climbing clubs always have someone who is always available to go climbing? The only way you get to find out why is to go climbing with them, once. A few years ago, just after the foot and mouth outbreak, I went back down to Swanage after a long absence. Shortly afterwards, a 'wanted' ad ran in the club magazine:
'Portable, electric winch required. Must be suitable for marine use. Small petrol models also considered. Must exceed 12 feet per hour. Call 0800 DANGLE'
He and I dithered and went in search of adventure at Swanage, instead of relaxed fun at Portland. We started with Calcitron, E2 5b. For 'sustained' read 'unrelentingly strenuous'; for 'in situ threads (3)' read 'rotting tat'. He made 'heavy' work of it. Mind you, he had being doing 6a (at the wall) and felt well up for something harder. Then another E2 5b - JJ Burnell King of the Bass. I reckon a big piece was missing, because blind layback moves off a small downward pointing spike over a four foot roof is not my idea of E2 5b, not with one shaky wire at 15 feet, 30 feet above a rock platform it isn't. So that'll be a complete failure then.
Let£s try the one next to it - E3 5c and 7 staples. 15 minutes later, blood and snot everywhere and we've clipped the first bolt. Haven't got past the roof and off the ground though. So that'll be another complete failure.
Looking really good so far. All we've got to do is get out. Davy Jones' Locker that way and E6 as far as the eye can see the other. Best start walking. Aha! A result! A three bolt HVS 5a. A bit steep and strenuous for HVS, mind you, but perfect rock (seriously!) That'll be you off then, matey.
Well we're out now, even if our heads are down. Where next - Winspit? No - he wants to go to Boulder Ruckle. Now I hadn't been to Boulder Ruckle for twenty-two years, but it is not the sort of place you forget. He felt well up for an E1, and even suggested one that he had done. 'No, how about this one', I say, Billy Pig E1 5b *** 'a good introduction to the mysteries of the Swanage roof'. Good gear, fabulous pitch over a big roof, nice E1. Good belay 20 feet above the roof on the ledge. He moves up slowly towards the roof. Very slowly. And out of sight. People below assure me that he is alright. Then 'Ping', there he is, hurling out into space, swinging around on the end of the rope. Now you see him, now you don't. And there he was - gone! He has a Ropeman, I saw it in his rucksack - which is where it still is. No matter, matey, you have many soft long slings, with which you can prusik. Half an hour later - no he can't. He cannot tie a suitable prusik knot. Can he lift himself on one rope, while I pull and take in on the other?
No.
Am I going to lower him down?
Am I hell - because I don't fancy being marooned on this stinking ledge, and there's also a small matter of all the gear under the roof. So, laddie, you are coming up whether you like it or not. So one rope got tied off, (which allowed normal breathing to resume). A loop of the other was lowered down for him to clip into his harness and we had a three in one hoist (less the mechanical loss caused by the many intricate twists and loops which he engineered into his end). So he pulled down and I pulled up, and up he came. And then pay out on the other rope which disappeared back under the roof. And haul and heave and haul and heave and pay out and haul and heave and haul and heave until he could grab something and climb up (about 10 feet away from the true line) to join me. Did I mention it was cold by now? No, but that just added to the fun. Of course, the ropes were now in a splendid tangle (or a 'fankle' if you're a Scot). Very apt, because this tangle was definitely was an 'F' word.
Now he was not going even to consider the second pitch (all 4c of it) and stuff his obligations as a second for the gear below the roof. Incidentally, the #3 Friend was his - a very useful bargaining tool. So change over and reverse the top third of the first pitch. Stop at the lip, tight rope, and hang upside down and try and get the gear out. Now, messing about hanging upside down in a harness at a climbing wall can be jolly good fun - but fifty feet above Swanage boulders is subtly different. One Friend out, two wires lost, and I'm out of here and sprinting to the top. Nice pitch - only two big loose blocks and the rest very solid. All in all, I'm very happy; a super three star E1. He hasn't had such a good time. I reckoned he owed me two wires. He didn't argue.
I wrote an email to a friend who had enquired about how a day trip to Swanage had gone. The Email spread a bit, and I was asked to turn it into an article for the club magazine:
-------------------------------
You know how it is than most climbing clubs always have someone who is always available to go climbing? The only way you get to find out why is to go climbing with them, once. A few years ago, just after the foot and mouth outbreak, I went back down to Swanage after a long absence. Shortly afterwards, a 'wanted' ad ran in the club magazine:
'Portable, electric winch required. Must be suitable for marine use. Small petrol models also considered. Must exceed 12 feet per hour. Call 0800 DANGLE'
He and I dithered and went in search of adventure at Swanage, instead of relaxed fun at Portland. We started with Calcitron, E2 5b. For 'sustained' read 'unrelentingly strenuous'; for 'in situ threads (3)' read 'rotting tat'. He made 'heavy' work of it. Mind you, he had being doing 6a (at the wall) and felt well up for something harder. Then another E2 5b - JJ Burnell King of the Bass. I reckon a big piece was missing, because blind layback moves off a small downward pointing spike over a four foot roof is not my idea of E2 5b, not with one shaky wire at 15 feet, 30 feet above a rock platform it isn't. So that'll be a complete failure then.
Let£s try the one next to it - E3 5c and 7 staples. 15 minutes later, blood and snot everywhere and we've clipped the first bolt. Haven't got past the roof and off the ground though. So that'll be another complete failure.
Looking really good so far. All we've got to do is get out. Davy Jones' Locker that way and E6 as far as the eye can see the other. Best start walking. Aha! A result! A three bolt HVS 5a. A bit steep and strenuous for HVS, mind you, but perfect rock (seriously!) That'll be you off then, matey.
Well we're out now, even if our heads are down. Where next - Winspit? No - he wants to go to Boulder Ruckle. Now I hadn't been to Boulder Ruckle for twenty-two years, but it is not the sort of place you forget. He felt well up for an E1, and even suggested one that he had done. 'No, how about this one', I say, Billy Pig E1 5b *** 'a good introduction to the mysteries of the Swanage roof'. Good gear, fabulous pitch over a big roof, nice E1. Good belay 20 feet above the roof on the ledge. He moves up slowly towards the roof. Very slowly. And out of sight. People below assure me that he is alright. Then 'Ping', there he is, hurling out into space, swinging around on the end of the rope. Now you see him, now you don't. And there he was - gone! He has a Ropeman, I saw it in his rucksack - which is where it still is. No matter, matey, you have many soft long slings, with which you can prusik. Half an hour later - no he can't. He cannot tie a suitable prusik knot. Can he lift himself on one rope, while I pull and take in on the other?
No.
Am I going to lower him down?
Am I hell - because I don't fancy being marooned on this stinking ledge, and there's also a small matter of all the gear under the roof. So, laddie, you are coming up whether you like it or not. So one rope got tied off, (which allowed normal breathing to resume). A loop of the other was lowered down for him to clip into his harness and we had a three in one hoist (less the mechanical loss caused by the many intricate twists and loops which he engineered into his end). So he pulled down and I pulled up, and up he came. And then pay out on the other rope which disappeared back under the roof. And haul and heave and haul and heave and pay out and haul and heave and haul and heave until he could grab something and climb up (about 10 feet away from the true line) to join me. Did I mention it was cold by now? No, but that just added to the fun. Of course, the ropes were now in a splendid tangle (or a 'fankle' if you're a Scot). Very apt, because this tangle was definitely was an 'F' word.
Now he was not going even to consider the second pitch (all 4c of it) and stuff his obligations as a second for the gear below the roof. Incidentally, the #3 Friend was his - a very useful bargaining tool. So change over and reverse the top third of the first pitch. Stop at the lip, tight rope, and hang upside down and try and get the gear out. Now, messing about hanging upside down in a harness at a climbing wall can be jolly good fun - but fifty feet above Swanage boulders is subtly different. One Friend out, two wires lost, and I'm out of here and sprinting to the top. Nice pitch - only two big loose blocks and the rest very solid. All in all, I'm very happy; a super three star E1. He hasn't had such a good time. I reckoned he owed me two wires. He didn't argue.
Post edited at 21:36
In reply to ClimberGirl:
I've had to submit this in two parts - apparently it was too large to fit onto one post, so I may have been a nadge long-winded. Here's the first bit of the tale, the second will follow in the next post.
The summer of 1990 was, should you be able to recall it, a good one; sunshine, and lots of it; hot, too. Tony J and I had abandoned an attempt at King Kong at Wintour’s Leap one evening in June because the rock was too damned hot, which I suspect is not an excuse you’ll hear too often. On another evening visit that summer I’d found that I’d forgotten to put my rock boots in the rucksack as I left for work that morning, and so I seconded African Killer Bee in my work shoes; I suspect you’ll not hear that that’s happened too often either.
Some things happen in threes it seems, so perhaps we should have been expecting something else to come along. I’d arranged to meet Tony at the Avon Gorge one evening in August. He was staying over at his girlfriend’s place that evening, so didn’t want to do anything too time-consuming and we’d decided in advance to do Giant’s Cave Buttress and to meet up at the bottom of the route. I told my girlfriend that I’d be home late that evening, where I was going and which route we were going to do.
Now, a small diversion into some details which will become important later. In those days I drove a Mark One Vauxhall Cavalier; a silver hatchback (strictly, a fastback version for the classic car fans. I can still remember the registration of it, HOA 878 W). This had previously that summer proved to be rather easy to break into when some unknown scrote pinched a rucksack out of the boot when it was parked at Stanage End. As I’d been away the whole of the week before the rucksack contained a week’s worth of dirty laundry rather than anything of real value but still, it was a pain. And I liked that rucksack too.
Anyway, back at that August evening I parked my car by the side of a road that ran down a small slope on the Clifton Downs. I’d been home first to change into my climbing clothes (which in those days meant I was wearing a blue and white hooped rugby shirt) so all I had to do was get my climbing sack out of the boot, lock the car up and head down to the bottom of the Gorge to meet Tony.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, with it being a lovely summer evening, there were people already on the route so we scrambled up to the foot of the climb, waited until we were good to go and then headed off. By this time I suppose an hour had passed since I left the car but it was a nice evening on a good route in a fine position and there was no need to hurry, so we didn’t. It was while I was nearing the end of the second pitch that Tony, belayed on the ledge above me, noticed that there was a police car stopped on the road directly below us and that two policemen were looking up at the cliff. When I joined Tony I looked down and sure enough, there they were. Then one of them started pointing at us and waving. Being well-brought up chaps, we waved back. Then one of them started shouting; we could hear he was shouting, but not what he was shouting as the noise from traffic on the road that runs along the foot of the Gorge, plus a couple of hundred feet of vertical distance between us, made his words incomprehensible. Still, it seemed important so we shouted back that we couldn’t hear them; they then shouted something back at us which we couldn’t hear. This continued for a few more back-and-to’s in the manner of two deaf people trying to have a telephone call with each other. One of the policemen tried scrambling up a little way in order to shout at us, but to no avail. With all the pointing and waving and shouting it was obvious that they wanted to speak with us, and urgently. Tony and I wondered what it could be about. I confessed that I might have driven a little enthusiastically on the way to Bristol but if I had transgressed over the speed limit that I didn’t believe this was a proportional response. Neither of us could remember being involved in any major bank heists. The best we could think of was that it was my blue and white hooped rugby shirt that had caught their eye as this is, as we all know, what burglars traditionally wear whilst about their nefarious business. In the end the novelty faded and despite the apparent importance of whatever it was that the police wanted, it wasn’t as important as finishing the climb. As I started off up the third and last pitch Tony and I had a short conversation about what he should do if I were to be arrested immediately I’d finished the route, leaving him stuck below. I said I’d try and fight my way out of the clutches of the law using a number 11 hexcentric and then try and run off. If he heard a shout of ‘You’ll never take me alive, coppers!’ that would be his signal to start climbing, as quickly as he could; I would try and run away with both sufficient speed to escape, but not so quickly as to put unreasonable tension in the rope between us and stop him climbing. And with that potentially comedic scenario as our only chance of keeping ourselves at liberty, off I went.
I've had to submit this in two parts - apparently it was too large to fit onto one post, so I may have been a nadge long-winded. Here's the first bit of the tale, the second will follow in the next post.
The summer of 1990 was, should you be able to recall it, a good one; sunshine, and lots of it; hot, too. Tony J and I had abandoned an attempt at King Kong at Wintour’s Leap one evening in June because the rock was too damned hot, which I suspect is not an excuse you’ll hear too often. On another evening visit that summer I’d found that I’d forgotten to put my rock boots in the rucksack as I left for work that morning, and so I seconded African Killer Bee in my work shoes; I suspect you’ll not hear that that’s happened too often either.
Some things happen in threes it seems, so perhaps we should have been expecting something else to come along. I’d arranged to meet Tony at the Avon Gorge one evening in August. He was staying over at his girlfriend’s place that evening, so didn’t want to do anything too time-consuming and we’d decided in advance to do Giant’s Cave Buttress and to meet up at the bottom of the route. I told my girlfriend that I’d be home late that evening, where I was going and which route we were going to do.
Now, a small diversion into some details which will become important later. In those days I drove a Mark One Vauxhall Cavalier; a silver hatchback (strictly, a fastback version for the classic car fans. I can still remember the registration of it, HOA 878 W). This had previously that summer proved to be rather easy to break into when some unknown scrote pinched a rucksack out of the boot when it was parked at Stanage End. As I’d been away the whole of the week before the rucksack contained a week’s worth of dirty laundry rather than anything of real value but still, it was a pain. And I liked that rucksack too.
Anyway, back at that August evening I parked my car by the side of a road that ran down a small slope on the Clifton Downs. I’d been home first to change into my climbing clothes (which in those days meant I was wearing a blue and white hooped rugby shirt) so all I had to do was get my climbing sack out of the boot, lock the car up and head down to the bottom of the Gorge to meet Tony.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, with it being a lovely summer evening, there were people already on the route so we scrambled up to the foot of the climb, waited until we were good to go and then headed off. By this time I suppose an hour had passed since I left the car but it was a nice evening on a good route in a fine position and there was no need to hurry, so we didn’t. It was while I was nearing the end of the second pitch that Tony, belayed on the ledge above me, noticed that there was a police car stopped on the road directly below us and that two policemen were looking up at the cliff. When I joined Tony I looked down and sure enough, there they were. Then one of them started pointing at us and waving. Being well-brought up chaps, we waved back. Then one of them started shouting; we could hear he was shouting, but not what he was shouting as the noise from traffic on the road that runs along the foot of the Gorge, plus a couple of hundred feet of vertical distance between us, made his words incomprehensible. Still, it seemed important so we shouted back that we couldn’t hear them; they then shouted something back at us which we couldn’t hear. This continued for a few more back-and-to’s in the manner of two deaf people trying to have a telephone call with each other. One of the policemen tried scrambling up a little way in order to shout at us, but to no avail. With all the pointing and waving and shouting it was obvious that they wanted to speak with us, and urgently. Tony and I wondered what it could be about. I confessed that I might have driven a little enthusiastically on the way to Bristol but if I had transgressed over the speed limit that I didn’t believe this was a proportional response. Neither of us could remember being involved in any major bank heists. The best we could think of was that it was my blue and white hooped rugby shirt that had caught their eye as this is, as we all know, what burglars traditionally wear whilst about their nefarious business. In the end the novelty faded and despite the apparent importance of whatever it was that the police wanted, it wasn’t as important as finishing the climb. As I started off up the third and last pitch Tony and I had a short conversation about what he should do if I were to be arrested immediately I’d finished the route, leaving him stuck below. I said I’d try and fight my way out of the clutches of the law using a number 11 hexcentric and then try and run off. If he heard a shout of ‘You’ll never take me alive, coppers!’ that would be his signal to start climbing, as quickly as he could; I would try and run away with both sufficient speed to escape, but not so quickly as to put unreasonable tension in the rope between us and stop him climbing. And with that potentially comedic scenario as our only chance of keeping ourselves at liberty, off I went.
In reply to ClimberGirl: Part two.
It was with only a small sense of disappointment that I finished the route to find no-one waiting to clap me in irons. Tony came up behind at a relaxed pace and we went our separate ways, he to the arms of his soon-to-be-wife, me to my car.
I was in a pleasant, slightly amused frame of mind as I walked back down roads bathed in summer evening sunlight to where I’d parked. Once I got to the right road, there was one of those quick series’ of connected thoughts that went something like ‘someone’s left a car parked in a hedge...it looks like my car...it is my car!’, which was in turn followed by the peace of the evening being broken by a very loud curse and me running to see just what had happened.
When I got there everything seemed puzzlingly normal apart from two things; the first was that the driver’s door was unlocked, and the second, of course, was that my car was parked in a hedge, not on the other side of the road and back up the small slope where I’d left it. I checked that nothing was broken, and it all seemed okay. No-one passing seemed to want to talk to me about it, or even find it strange (I’ve always admired the tolerance of Bristol people to the curious, unusual or just downright odd). So both confused about what had gone on in my absence, and relieved that whatever it was hadn’t caused any damage, I got in the car and when I pushed the key in the ignition, I found that the steering wheel was turned to the right, not straight on as I’d left it, the steering lock was on, really quite firmly on, and the handbrake was off. That explained things, a little. Someone had broken into the car, taken the handbrake off, turned the steering wheel which engaged the steering lock, rolled down and across the road and ended up in a hedge and then legged it. Why they hadn’t done anything else I didn’t know. I was grateful that they hadn’t though and when I started the car and reversed out of the hedge - perfectly normal, nothing to see here - and drove away, everything worked as it should. And with that, I drove home.
I’d been in the house long enough to put my rucksack down and turn the kettle on when the phone rang; the police, unsurprisingly. Had I parked my car in a hedge deliberately? No, officer, I had not, I parked it on the other side of the road in a perfectly law-abiding way while I went climbing. Was I wearing a blue and white shirt? Yes, I was. Did I not hear two police officers shouting at me earlier? Yes, I did, but I was half way up a cliff so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Why did I not come down to talk to them? I explained the problems of coming down when half way up a cliff. There then followed a brief discussion about the need to pay more attention when officers wished to speak to me and the need to pay more attention to where I parked, with interjections from me on the difficulties of both stopping people breaking into your car and of hearing what people are shouting at you when you’re 200 feet away from them up a cliff. The call ended with some bemusement on my part and, I think, a little annoyance on the other end of the line.
It only occurred to me to wonder how they knew what I was wearing some time after I’d put the phone down. That mystery was solved a little later when my girlfriend came home. The police had called, she said, to ask if the owner of my car lived at this address and when that was confirmed, to ask whether she thought I had deliberately parked my car blocking a pavement with its bonnet in a hedge somewhere in Clifton. She said she thought that unlikely - nice understatement, I thought - but that I’d be climbing in the Avon Gorge so they could ask me themselves, and told them what I looked like and what I would be wearing. So, mystery solved.
I sold the car later that year; I also stopped wearing that blue and white shirt. I haven’t been chased up a rock face since . . .
T.
It was with only a small sense of disappointment that I finished the route to find no-one waiting to clap me in irons. Tony came up behind at a relaxed pace and we went our separate ways, he to the arms of his soon-to-be-wife, me to my car.
I was in a pleasant, slightly amused frame of mind as I walked back down roads bathed in summer evening sunlight to where I’d parked. Once I got to the right road, there was one of those quick series’ of connected thoughts that went something like ‘someone’s left a car parked in a hedge...it looks like my car...it is my car!’, which was in turn followed by the peace of the evening being broken by a very loud curse and me running to see just what had happened.
When I got there everything seemed puzzlingly normal apart from two things; the first was that the driver’s door was unlocked, and the second, of course, was that my car was parked in a hedge, not on the other side of the road and back up the small slope where I’d left it. I checked that nothing was broken, and it all seemed okay. No-one passing seemed to want to talk to me about it, or even find it strange (I’ve always admired the tolerance of Bristol people to the curious, unusual or just downright odd). So both confused about what had gone on in my absence, and relieved that whatever it was hadn’t caused any damage, I got in the car and when I pushed the key in the ignition, I found that the steering wheel was turned to the right, not straight on as I’d left it, the steering lock was on, really quite firmly on, and the handbrake was off. That explained things, a little. Someone had broken into the car, taken the handbrake off, turned the steering wheel which engaged the steering lock, rolled down and across the road and ended up in a hedge and then legged it. Why they hadn’t done anything else I didn’t know. I was grateful that they hadn’t though and when I started the car and reversed out of the hedge - perfectly normal, nothing to see here - and drove away, everything worked as it should. And with that, I drove home.
I’d been in the house long enough to put my rucksack down and turn the kettle on when the phone rang; the police, unsurprisingly. Had I parked my car in a hedge deliberately? No, officer, I had not, I parked it on the other side of the road in a perfectly law-abiding way while I went climbing. Was I wearing a blue and white shirt? Yes, I was. Did I not hear two police officers shouting at me earlier? Yes, I did, but I was half way up a cliff so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Why did I not come down to talk to them? I explained the problems of coming down when half way up a cliff. There then followed a brief discussion about the need to pay more attention when officers wished to speak to me and the need to pay more attention to where I parked, with interjections from me on the difficulties of both stopping people breaking into your car and of hearing what people are shouting at you when you’re 200 feet away from them up a cliff. The call ended with some bemusement on my part and, I think, a little annoyance on the other end of the line.
It only occurred to me to wonder how they knew what I was wearing some time after I’d put the phone down. That mystery was solved a little later when my girlfriend came home. The police had called, she said, to ask if the owner of my car lived at this address and when that was confirmed, to ask whether she thought I had deliberately parked my car blocking a pavement with its bonnet in a hedge somewhere in Clifton. She said she thought that unlikely - nice understatement, I thought - but that I’d be climbing in the Avon Gorge so they could ask me themselves, and told them what I looked like and what I would be wearing. So, mystery solved.
I sold the car later that year; I also stopped wearing that blue and white shirt. I haven’t been chased up a rock face since . . .
T.
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