Peter Black argues that we should show more appreciation for unaesthetically pleasing, less-than-solid crags and embrace the choss with an open mind, a delicate touch and perhaps some mild trepidation...

In those moments of boredom that are part of everyday life, how often do you imagine yourself climbing at one of the country's top crags or even at some other far away exotic location? We all know them. Pick up any climbing book, log onto YouTube or any climbing website and there they all are. Stunning photographs, videos and a full commentary on any number of the world's most desirable climbing locations.

From Malham to Margalef, Yosemite to Rocklands — they're all there vying with one another, their seductive allure never failing to gain our attention. Adding yet more to their appeal while at the same time creating a sense of being a little beyond the reach of the mere mortals, these fabulous cliffs appear to be populated by climbers whose abilities can only be described as superhuman. But in the relentless quest for ever increasing technical difficulty, are we losing sight of the essence of the sport? 

To admit to enjoying this kind of climbing carries the same social stigma as admitting to a personal hygiene problem.

Just for a moment, let's pause to reflect. If these are the very best, then what are the very worst? This might seem like a ridiculous question to ask, but the fact that definitive guide books contain both the best and the worst of an area's crags implies that the worst must have an appeal of some sort, even if it's not always entirely obvious.

Perhaps it's time to take a closer look at the opposite end of the spectrum. To move away from the 'glamour' crags that so often proliferate in climbing literature and examine what might be referred to as the 'dross', the 'choss', or rather more delicately, the suboptimal. The stuff in guidebooks relegated to the 'minor crags', the obviously inconsequential, there only to satisfy the author's need for historical accuracy. In reassessing these rarely visited backwaters, it might be possible to get a glimpse into a world lost to the modern era.

So what are the defining qualities of the truly classic 'bottom of the barrel' crag? Why would anyone choose to climb on them and what are the peculiar challenges presented by these much-maligned crags? Welcome to the world of the climbing antihero!

Is it actually a crag?

Perhaps the most obvious characteristic is that at first sight it doesn't actually appear to be a crag at all. In this scenario there is a growing realisation that the seeping, crumbling piece of choss you walked past half an hour earlier was actually the crag. 

The clue is in the name

The next characteristic is in the name of the crag. The name of the most dire crags will frequently contain the word 'Quarry'. A quarry is in fact something that owes its existence to human activity. Its creation came about through a combination of explosives and highly destructive machinery brought together in a mix of violence rarely seen outside the theatre of modern warfare. Go back a few centuries and this hole in the ground would not have existed. Where once lay tranquil countryside now resides an unholy pit, which more often than not is stuffed half full with the discarded rubbish of 20th Century living.

The UK does of course have many excellent quarries - Wilton and Millstone to name just two - but lurking beneath the radar are some real horror shows, their green slime-covered walls awaiting the attention of the true adventure climber.

Green is the colour

Quarries of course are not the only places to find adventure climbing. Nature has provided us with a wealth of choss that even the most diabolical quarry would struggle to compete with. Whether sculpted by man or nature, perhaps the most defining quality of a 'lower tier crag' is that of loose rock and vegetation.

By definition the very worst crags are almost certain to contain single use holds. Unstable rock along with a variety of vegetation form a strong attraction for the connoisseur of this underrated genre. The same route may never be climbed twice using the same holds. Climbing in such an environment demands serious attention to safety. Helmets are mandatory and body armour advisory. 

Line? What line?

One of the most obvious appeals of the glamour crags are their compelling lines. Think of the soaring crack lines of Indian Creek or the intricate corners and grooves on El Capitan. These are features that draw the eye and cry out to be climbed. The underworld crags have no such features. In fact the reverse is true.

These crags lack any distinguishing features bestowed only with a random collection of misshaped blocks, oddball cracks and slime ridden water courses. Rather than draw the eye they create feelings of sickness, nausea and quite possibly revulsion. The challenge here is to try to link these disparate features to create a route where no genuine line exists. A famous climber (I forget his name) once said, 'let a stone fall from the top and that shall be the line of my route.' In the absence of a dry water course, that's not a bad philosophy. 

The training paradox

No amount of campusing, board training, dead hangs, slack lining or slack jawing will get you up any of these routes. In fact, it may well prove counterproductive. In the arena of the sub 'D' lister the only possible training is to get out there and climb it, although those skilled in cleaning gutters with their bare hands will find they have a considerable advantage. 

Solitude

Don't expect Messrs Ondra, Megos or Sharma along with their entourage of film crew, press officers and general hangers-on to show up at any of these venues any time soon. There are no chalk trails or tick marks on any of these crags. There are no queues for any of the routes on these crags. There are no other climbers on any of these crags. In fact, other than you and your belayer, there are no other people at these crags period. 

You'll have noticed that I've avoided actually naming names in the search for the bottom tier. Just like that disgraced uncle whose name is never mentioned at family gatherings, so it is with these crags. Their names sit awkwardly in climbing conversations. When others are describing the perfectly executed redpoint of a long-standing project, what impressive feats can you offer in reply? That you slimed your way up some greaseball corner on a crag they've never even heard of, let alone had any desire to climb on?

To admit to enjoying this kind of climbing carries the same social stigma as admitting to a personal hygiene problem. And yet, in this dystopian age of celebrity, populist governments and rampant social media, these crags offer a different kind of climbing experience. An experience that rewards the soul and not the mind's craving for acceptance and gratification. 

In the mid eighties on a climbing trip to the USA I spent a couple of months climbing in Eldorado Canyon in Colorado. This is an area rich in American climbing history and blessed with many brilliant routes. At the entrance to the canyon and directly opposite the campsite was a large wall of red rock named the Rotwand Wall which (loosely) translates as 'the rotten red wall'. It was the first thing you saw on getting out of your tent every morning.

During the two months I spent climbing in the canyon working my way through all the classics, I never once saw anyone climbing on it. None of the few routes on the wall were technically that difficult, but all were 'X' rated due to the extremely unstable nature of the rock. Towards the end of my time there, curiosity finally got the better of me. With some difficulty I finally managed to find a partner for one of the routes. What followed was 100 metres of some of the most frightening climbing I've ever done. Bad rock, poor protection, I die you die belays and the ever present possibility of a gold standard death!

On getting back down to the campsite, a park ranger who'd been watching came over to us and asked: "Why on earth with all the good rock there is around here, did you choose to climb on the Rotwand?" The answer, of course, lies in the question. To truly appreciate great routes on solid rock you must also experience the exact opposite.

Looking back nearly forty years later, I can remember that route on the Rotwand more vividly than anything else I did in the canyon. In truth, very few of us would choose to climb nothing but horror show routes all the time. But try it once, maybe just once, and you might gain a better insight into what it means to climb a great route on superbly solid rock.