OFF THE WALL

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Old Friends

I returned to my roots. I had been feeling out of sorts with this strange vertically placed activity. The fact I was seeing it as ‘strange’ indicated all was not well. For some months now the fun seemed to have taken second place to the need to progress, and progress had involved being outside my comfort zone more than was comfortable. Climbing had become something I ‘do’ rather than something I wanted to do. I knew this was a temporary estrangement – that the addiction still ran deep- so what to do? How to regain the love?

‘Where shall we go?’ texted Rob. ‘I’d like to go somewhere pretty, and do some routes I know I like', I replied. 'Let’s go to Symonds Yat’.

It was a good choice. The August rush never seems to reach to the Wye Valley. The sunny interval Sunday morning had a smattering of chilled-out tourists looking at the views of the curling river and steep sided wooded valley, and a clutch of climbers picking their way up the warm coloured limestone cliffs emerging from the densetree canopy.

We repeated climbs –shocking, and flying in the face of that one dimensional single-mindedness that demands new achievements on every climbing trip. Starting with a nice warm up on the 3 pitch (if you can find the last one) ‘Snoozin Susie’ (VD), and finishing on ‘Homeopath’(S)(which we’d both done the easy way previously, but this time strategically put in some very determined gear above the first move ). We were tempted by one new route, but mainly because we’d avoided it on a previous trip and by then the love was rekindled enough for me to think ‘I can do that’ without a question mark after it. A bit of advice from a couple of cheerful blokes about gear made ‘Nansen Corner’ (S) more than possible.

While I was sitting perched uncomfortably on the cliff belaying Rob up, it struck me that one of things I enjoy most about climbing was precisely this – the view that climbers are privileged to share with the birds. In this most precarious of places I feel safe; the cantankerous world becomes less intrusive, and I can wallow in the environment. I remember sitting in this valley a year ago and watching 7 white butterflies chase each other over the tops of the trees; I remember a sunny Sunday in Pembroke wondering which would be better- being in the serene yacht on the blue sea or on the cliff watching it; I remember spotting the speck of my blue tent far below me on Grooved Arête on Tryfan; and I’ll never forget the empty snowy horizon from Bristly Ridge where the only movement was clouds and their shadows.

It was a good choice – like meeting old friends again and finding you can carry on just where you left off. The reasons for climbing are multifarious and some of the better ones can get lost. Luckily I know where to look.

Posted by fishinwater

Dante’s Inferno

I’ve lost my Alpine virginity. I wanted to know what the fuss was about; I wanted to be one of the grown ups but I was too immature last year. This year I was ready... and I made it there and back again.

Sitting in the Albert Premier hut I stared into my white bowl of black tea and tried to imagine the day ahead. The glacier would eat me up and altitude would make a sloth of me. At 4am positive thoughts don’t come easily.

We shuffled around in the dusty light of low wattage bulbs among the other white European men – other members my own sex were scarce. Rucksack contents were carefully assessed once again and wearing harnesses over carefully chosen layers of clothing we emerged into a mild night. 4 of us to cross the glacier together and then 2 pairs to go up the couloir at the back of the gentle sounding mountain, ‘le Tour’.

As I took a deep breath at the edge of the glacier, the sky lightened making a blue rinsed landscape of snow and rock. Roped up I stepped on the fresh snow behind Dave and entered a different world: a huge world where we were a pulled thread of black against a vast blanket of white; where the silence was heavy, thick and dead; where snow ripples hid a mile deep split in the ice.

We slow-plodded a thin track for a long while and watched the sun stain everything pink. In the distance other threads of alpinists were just small scratches in the snow plain. In case we were finding it too easy there was fresh snow to haul through to the bottom of the gully, where we stopped to let a keener pair pass so they could do the hard work of one step up and two slipped steps down.

We rearranged ropes and with axes ready started the assault. Half way up the soft sticky snow turned to almost nevé and it made me long for good thick ice to enjoy the sound of a blade going in deep. Towards the top it steepened and exposed rocks that would entail for the hideous sound of crampon claws on rock. It seemed a long time since I had had to do this.

I was to get used to that noise. It was 10.30am and feeling like 2pm in my body, and we still had the ridge to ‘scramble’ over to get to the summit. At least that’s what the guide book said. The word ‘scramble’ was misplaced. I looked ahead and saw a messy knife edge of flakes and narrow blocks mostly covered by snow. I also saw through the shifting cloud, a view of the world below us ... and it was such a long, long way away. We decided we had to pitch the reidge, and there ensued several hours of crampon claw sounds as well as my grunting and groaning. Just as I was losing my sense of humour, a wooden cross appeared in the cloud– the summit? No. It was just there to lull us into a false sense of security. There were another 2 pitches beyond that- one involving an interesting manoeuvre where I had to remove my rucksack and push it and then me through a small hole between blocks balanced on a tiny ledge. My sense of humour fell down to the glacier far below.

By now it was hot and I could hear shifting, sighing and sloughing of snow as it fell off the surrounding steep peaks. I stopped being fascinated how it could snow and be hot at the same time and became focussed on what was under my feet – I became rapidly aware that rapidly melting snow won’t hold much weight. I felt we were seriously outstaying our welcome. In fact I don’t think we were ever welcome, just tolerated for a short while.

Ingrained in my mind were doom and gloom warnings of the folly of crossing a glacier in the afternoon - the jaws of the crevasses would be open and hungry. I threw myself into the last few scratches and thugs up to the real summit as anxiety turned into anger-fear. I shoved hamster food into my mouth as the obligatory summit photos were taken and without a pause we started on the ‘easy’ descent, which thankfully it was.

Stumbling hurriedly across the glacier back to the hut, the place
resembled a scene from Dante’s Inferno. Despite the ice hundreds of feet thick under my feet it was a sweaty sauna hell and I was acutely conscious of the sound of slipping snow from all directions. All I could see was white and white and more white. The cloud squatting over the glacier then decided to snow in the heat making it all even whiter. The strangeness of the environment was now intimidating rather than challenging.

‘Avalanche’ and crevasse became writ in neon across my eyes, and tiredness became immaterial. We stepped up the pace and skipped frantically towards the hut. 11 hours after we set out I looked into another bowl of rust coloured tea and felt I’d grown up. The glacier hadn’t eaten me and altitude hadn’t been the millstone I’d expected. So I survived to see another day and I know now what the other alpine climbers know. I made me feel both stronger and smaller.

PS. credit given where credit is due: to Mr Barry Obi Wan Kanobi Donavan for tutoring me in the dark arts of ice and snow which kept me alive to write another blog.

Posted by fishinwater