Sitting in the passenger seat of the Hippy’s new prized possession – a VW T-5 with a conversion to make it into something like a living room – Ballycastle high street, County Antrim, resembled the town I grew up – small shops, busy pavements, a square with a stone monument and pubs – loads of pubs!

Being Ireland the pubs had that that very distinct frontal –  generally small windows with painted frames and a single colour for the stone façade – yellow, green, black, and a large name written above the door in scrolling gothic font running the width of the pub, O’Donoghue’s, House of McDonnell, Mulligan’s…

Reaching the end of the high street – the beach, and views across the sea to Rathlin Island and the Mull of Kintyre and Jura, but nearer, turning the fortified bend in the headland was Fair Head, that massive stone monument glinting in the fading sunlight.

I’d been invited across to give a talk on the Saturday evening of the annual Fair Head meet by Paul Swail and Mountaineering Ireland who were covering the travel. (The talk was typically exotic, in a cow shed, starting at 11pm and the crowd, about 100-200 folk and several sheep were up for it!)  Having never visited Fair Head, it was too good an opportunity to miss, so after snapping up the offer here I was.

I really can’t be bothered to write all of the gubbins about climbs, moves, gear, logistics, grades, etc –  that stuff bores me more than reality TV and reality TV really bores me, but if you’ve heard any of the hype regarding the climbing style and the quality of the climbs at Fair Head, believe it!

Thuggy jamming, burl, beefy, power, under-graded, sandbags, tranquillity, friendly, seldom travelled, I can’t really include enough adjectives to describe the place. A few shots may capture the essence though. And Sean the farmer who’s land Fair Head is on, what a star… the night he walked over to the Hippy’s travelling residence with two wafer ice creams melting and running through his massive fingers was one of the most friendly gestures ever and then he capped it by saying I could use the shower in his house!

Nick Bullock climbing Primal Scream. Graham Desroy.

Equinox. A 60m *** E2 that felt a tad harder than the grade suggests. It could have been the damp dark conditions after impatience got the better, or it could be that its hard! Nick Bullock.

Face Value. a brilliant *** E4. Nick Bullock.

Graham Desroy eventually getting his ride up Wall of Prey after missing out thirty five years previously when he opted to take pics! Nick Bullock

The Clean Hand Gang on their visit to Fair Head in 1979 taken from Mountain 72 and Graham Desroys article. From left to right: Graham Desroy, Arni Strapcans, Gordon Jenkins, Martin Barrett and Nick Buckley.

Nick Bullock on the crux of Wall of Prey. Graham Desroy

The Hippy feeling the pace thirty five years after his previous visit. The accomodation is slightly better this time … Oh, the luxury!!! Nick Bullock.

Paul Swail after seconding a 57m E3 *** finger/hand crack called Jolley Roger. It may have gotten a larger grade if in Wales, but maybe I’m not so good and finger locking day five on with not so much for feet! Nick Bullock

Spring, a time in-between. A waking. Fresh growth. Sticky green glistening buds.  

Lambs balance on legs, legs not used to routine. See through plastic wrap around jackets to save them dying in the winter’s cold – gone.  Playing, growing, spirited. Standing on mothers back as she sleeps.

Fingers wrap around rock, tendons not conditioned to pull. The rock holds the winter within its core. The wind flows from the North. Numb fingers thread a hand through clothes to warm while hanging.

A pair of Oystercatchers skim the blue sea – boomerang wings beating with a blurred white stripe. A million mirror flashes. Great Black Backed Gulls repeatedly smash crab legs against rock. Gobble greedily. Herring Gulls cackle. Blackbirds sing a four thirty alarm. Pheasants ‘cock-cock’.  

I feel no loss with winters end. Do I ever? Life for me at the moment is between North Wales and The North Lakes. The anticipation of the summer ahead gives rise to personal expectation.

Last year was long and cold – Scotland, Canada, Alaska, Nepal, Scotland, America, Scotland. And with prolonged cold comes warm-expectation. Creased hands engrained with chalk. Shorts. Suntan. Wine in the evening. This is the year? This is always the year though isn’t it? But this is, THE year. For only the second time in sixteen years I’m not going on an expedition to the greater ranges. The thought of Alpinism and rock climbing continuously run through my mind.

****

A Blackbird balances on the stone wall surrounding The Old School House in Grange, Borrowdale. And beneath the twigs of Blackbird feet, a vertebrate of rocks along the top of the wall; their outline mirrors the skyline of the fells. The rocks are matted by moss – moss glued to the rough surface – inseparable, connected, a symbiosis. Life and reason. Existence. Climbing gives reason.  There is more reason than,

supposedly,

as a species, we strive? 

Clear beads on the Blackbirds feathers. Cold rain soaks into the moss. Drips and trickles of water thread between stone. The mature hardwoods surrounding the hut sway – old men, latter life. Blue Tits and Chaffinches flit from dripping swaying branch to dripping swaying branch.

The farmer collects the thick legged Herdwick sheep that have made the grass around the hut their preferred meal. The farmer whistles commands to the collie. Creases from the corner of his eyes deepen with each instruction to the dog.  

Dusk – The fragile deer, limbs as thin as kindling walked the white-line in the middle of the road. Ears erect, shocked slender legs folded at right angle beneath thin body. The stone wall is cleared with ease. The dark woods embrace.

 Spirit bursts as spring wakes the forest. Misbehaviour and disorder, rules not played elsewhere.        

**** 

Weather – an influence. But, like no spring before, with the exception of one, I feel relaxed. Though relaxed can be trying. Relaxed doesn’t get things done. But there are times when relaxed is needed for recovery and reflection and contemplation. Do we climb for the immediate or reflection?

****  

Spring a time in-between, a time for planning, recuperation, reflection and growth. Or just a season, a season the same as those other seasons – summer, autumn and winter – seasons that follow patterns, the same patterns that birds, plants, weather, water courses and people follow?

****

Familiarity.

Pungent coconut from the flowering Gorse on the walk to Rhoscolyn. The breeze stirs yellow. Pieces of rock with familiar moves to gauge early season fitness. Warpath, the Savage Sunbird, Centrefold, Dreams and Screams, Skinhead Moonstomp, Godzilla, Viper, ME, Magellan’s Wall, The Sun, Mask of the Red Death. Unlocking the forgotten secrets of sequence.  

The shock of new life in the hedgerows. Is it a shock? It probably is shocking that as people, some maintain the same patterns as the natural world around us when we have choice not to. People move from day to day, week to week, season to season, year to year, moving but not moving. Technology improves, communication becomes suffocating.  There are days where it needs to be given away.  Space and freedom, the wild within reduces, pressures, real or perceived bear down on backs bent with the modern. Climbing can give reason if the head allows. Every day is important.

Spring, a time in-between.

Keep moving, keep moving… To slow and stop gives time to reflect and like the sea-sun-mirrors flashing a million lighthouse warnings, reflections can save, but at times, slowing can break the mind on the rocks of sensibility.   

Spring a time in-between, a time for reflection.

The Keswick Mountain Festival will be the final time I give The Echoes and Beyond talk… (I can hear folk cheering as I type!)  Below is a link to the time and cost and where this will be.

http://www.keswickmountainfestival.co.uk/speakers/nick-bullock?/speakers/nick-bullock/index.html

The lecture will cover a little about writing Echoes and a story from it, then move on to more up to date stuff, climbing in Canada and The Slovak Direct on Denali.

Nick Bullock climbing one of the steep ice pitches, day two of the Slovak. Andy Houseman.

Pete Harrison on the first pitch of the Great Corner, Llech Ddu. Nick Bullock

Winter climbing for me came to an end on Monday 8^th with the ascent of Nevermore on Lochnagar. Nevermore is a summer E2 and in the aftermath, as I prepare for rock climbing in the rain of North Wales, I suppose this is as good a time as any to reflect on an issue and a blog post I was pointed at a few weeks ago.   

I often read John Appleby’s well written blog To Hatch a Crow and enjoy doing so, but recently John has taken to shouting rather loud about winter climbing in North Wales. Some of the issues John raises are valid and I agree, but on occasion I feel he lets himself and his usual excellent standard of writing down.

As far as I know John Appleby does not mix climb to a high standard, I’m not sure he winter climbs at all and at times he appears to confuse himself. In one post, written in December, a post about winter climbing in unfrozen conditions and damaging the flora and fauna, I shared a similar feeling, but then in a separate post, he states it is fine to rip loads of vegetation from the cliff so it can be cleaned for rock climbing. Both obviously damage so why is one more acceptable than the other? And the only answer I can come to is it’s because one is for rock climbing, something John understands and participates and the other is about winter climbing, something he does not participate in,(?) and given some of his recent comments, he does not understand.  

He is obviously very passionate about climbing in Wales, but his passion sometimes appears to cloud and his viewpoint comes across as ranting and ignorant and arrogant. His writing, normally balanced and intelligent, has the feel of uncontrolled anger and includes derogatory terms and hyperbole.

“With autumn tumbling into winter, the work was done. Just a wait for spring to arrive in a few months before it could be re-climbed in pristine conditions. And then the winter warriors arrived A friend who was aware of these events commented glumly ‘probably scratched to buggery now!’ Who knows? However, given the lack of vegetation and the line the routes takes, it’s a fair bet that it could only be climbed by almost dry tooling it. It’s an oft debated issue on the climbing forums. The point when winter snow & ice climb becomes a dry tooling ascent.” John Appleby.

‘Winter warriors’ I am not a warrior Mr Appleby, I climb for the challenge certainly and on occasion the fight, although the fight is generally with myself, but I also climb for the friendship and connection with those I climb alongside, for the joy of the environment and the mountains and the history which is captured within these climbs. I climb in spring, summer, autumn and winter and I have done so for nearly twenty years, and in that twenty years I have possibly climbed two lifetimes worth of rock, ice, snow and big mountains. Please try to take this into consideration when you make sweeping and ignorant comments about the style in which I climb.

John, your friend should go and climb The Great Corner and then report how scratched it is, because I think she/he will find there is very little damage, maybe even none at all and certainly in our ascent there was nothing like the environmental damage caused by the savage gardening I know took place as your friend who cleaned this climb is also my friend. It is a surprise to find that someone like yourself, who obviously has intelligence, would so readily reduce to speculation and assumption without any evidence.  

A few years ago I was involved in a meeting arranged by Simon Panton and Baggy, as was Pete Harrison my partner on The Great Corner. The sole aim of the meeting was to thrash-out some of the more delicate issues surrounding winter climbing in North Wales; what is deemed fair game, what is out of bounds for winter climbing, ethics etc. I don’t remember you being there John, but maybe I’m mistaken. In that meeting certain climbs and crags were deemed not for winter and personally I would have added more. Certain rock routes on the Glyders, routes that have pristine rock and very little vegetation, would in my mind, be out – but they are not – and that’s what the majority has decided so that is what I will accept as climbing is for everyone.

The Great Corner is one of the most obvious winter climbs I have climbed in Wales, it truly equals some of the great Scottish winter climbs. This very rarely climbed summer route made a magnificent winter climb and in my mind makes a much better winter climb than it does a summer one – speculation I know as I have not climbed The Great Corner in summer, but speculation appears abundant around this topic. (If the weather is kind this summer I will endeavour to change this.)

I came to the conclusion a few years back that a climb like many on Clogwyn Du and even the crag itself have more to offer in way of the winter climber than the summer only activist, this is shown by the large amount people who climb in winter on Clogwyn Du in comparison to the one or two who climb on the crag in summer. When this is the case the crag or the climb should be recognised as such and valued for what it is and how much joy it gives in its winter garb.  

John uses some quite confrontational and derogatory language in his post,

“It’s a shame really as there is certainly a death or glory mentality amongst winter warriors who prefer to see their name in lights than effect good practice in climbing.”

Who is this aimed and what is the evidence? Have I missed several deaths this winter while the ‘warriors’ have been attacking the cliffs in Wales? Or is it once again ignorant speculation and hyperbole? I certainly do not have a death or glory approach to my own winter climbing. The skill needed to climb top-end winter routes is high, and if Mr Appleby had any depth of knowledge about the topic he would know that routes above a certain standard are not ‘peddled’ they have to be climbed precise and very much in control.

I will agree that on Clogwyn Du the scratches and the scars made by crampons on El Mancho really did shock me. I found it difficult to believe that such damage could occur as the placements for the picks were so positive. If the leader is well prepared in both techniques and fitness to attempt a climb of this standard there should be hardly any peddling.

Fortunately we do not have crag police and a climbing proficiency test to pass before we are allowed onto the winter or summer cliffs and so people will push there grade, all be it on some occasion a little too soon and damage will happen, but who has the right to say what is correct and what is wrong? Well, I suppose everybody and nobody. Is there a way to solve the problem, if it is a problem as climbing is different things for all of us – well possibly by talking cohesive and been informative and making people think more about their preparation and the consequences of their actions will help, but damming rebuke that offends, attempts to belittle and alienates in my mind just doesn’t cut it.           

Cold Revenge. Slime Wall Buachaille Etive Mor.

The black and white picture showed. A face. Weary acceptance of what? Did he know? A dark turbulent quiff. Creased eye skin. Face skin scuffed with life’s challenge.

Killed at thirty-six abseiling from a sea stack called The Maiden. The Maiden called … As many maidens do. And Tom Patey gave.

Everything.

Leaving  The Kingshouse, nearly eleven pm, I stared at the picture. Connection?

Would I put myself into the same league as Patey … No?  

I walked from the pub into a snow squall. Flakes caught my brown hair and withered. The orange glow of the hotel lights illuminated a million never to be repeated, gusted like a white sail across bleak Rannoch.

Guy Robertson followed me into the night. We retired to our vehicles for broken sleep.

At four, we woke and by six twenty we stood beneath Buachaille Etive Mor, beneath Slime Wall, Ravens Gully and beneath echoes …echoes of more recent and echoes of past triumph and suffering.

Ravens Gully was a deep chimney formed by Slime wall on the left and Cuniform buttress on the right. First climbed in the summer of 1937 it remained the hardest climb in Glen Coe for nearly ten years. In my minds-eye, I had images of Bonington and McIness on the first ascent in 53. The two spent the night just meters from the top of the gully.

A stance kicked in deep snow. Robbo and I pulled gear from rucksacks. And as I pulled clothes, gloves, hardware… I knew I had forgotten to pack my harness and belay plate. How do I break this to Robertson, a man who has one day a week to climb?

“I forgot my harness.”

That’ll do it.

Robbo looked crestfallen. Another squall of heavy snow swept across Rannoch. Or was this in my imagination?

“It’s OK, we’ll work it out.”

“If there is any suffering to be had Nicholas, you’ll be the one having it.”

I didn’t think this was a good time to tell Robbo that on Sunday I had walked into Great Gable in the Lakes, also without a harness. Fortunately on that occasion we hadn’t even unpacked as the wind was strong and standing upright was the crux of that day.

After much pontificating we decided on Bludger’s Revelation a HVS on the left side of the wall which had never had a winter ascent.

I looked across the steep folds of Slime Wall, across at that other HVS to the right, Gurdon Grooves. Gurdon Grooves had always spoken to me and still I find it difficult to believe Robbo, Bayard Russel and me had made the second winter ascent last year, twenty-eight years after the first winter ascent.

To the right again I looked at Cuneiform Buttress and traced the line of Ravens Edge, a climb Michael Tweedley and I had climbed the third winter ascent back in 2003.

Connection.

I climbed the first easy entry pitch just to see if my ‘harness’ a tangle of two four foot slings cupped around thighs and clipped by snap-gates to an eight foot sling tied around my waste would work. I reached the belay and clipped in … “safe.” It had worked, but I wasn’t sure how safe or for how long it would continue to work for what was to come above.

Robbo climbed the next two pitches of Bludger’s, the first, a steep corner groove with perfect hooks and even better gear and the second a serious and committing test of nerve, pick friction and a detached block he became intimate.

It is at this point pitch four of Bludger’s goes right to follow steep slabs around the corner. I took a look and thought, ‘bugger that’ and ran up some very nice flakes to the left. Just the type of pitch for someone sporting a harness made of thin slings and held together by snap gate karabiners.

Unfortunately I was now belayed beneath a forty metre pitch of E1 5b called Bloody Crack and as we were climbing in blocks this would also be my lead unless I could convince Robbo he needed to do this pitch.

“I think this pitch has your name on it Guy.”

“I think this pitch is your second lead Nicholas.”

Rumbled!

As I pulled the steep start to the climb it soon became apparent that Bloody crack was not really a crack of true crack character. It was more a thin shallow groove system with small edges to place picks and lay-back. Good footholds were the salvation which kept me moving up, but at about half way the impostor crack turned into exactly what it looked like from below, a steep groove with not a lot of positive – no positive footholds, no positive gear placements and no positive pick placements. Connection.

I placed my head against snowed up rock. I smelt earth, rock, the metallic tang of closeness. I saw Stag deer in the van headlights at the roadside – peeling antler felt, yellow eyes, a beating heart pumping rich oxygenated blood. I smelled fear. I saw seriousness. ‘Why did winter appear to be going on forever this year?’   

My four foot slings clipped to my eight foot sling tied around my waste suddenly felt insubstantial.            

Several creeping moves higher, the gear as marginal as the pick placements I felt a sling fall down my thigh and all I could think about was falling thirty foot and castrating myself. This climb had become very serious, and just because I was called Bullock did not mean I had to literally live up to the title.

For one of the first times in my life I actually took the time to dig and try to find some gear that would hold a fall and stop me from unofficially ending the chance of having children. Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t want to be a father, but I really didn’t want to do birth control by testicular strangulation via four foot sling with Guy Robertson as my savour. The pain would be horrific, but the thought of Robbo doing a check for injury was terrifying.  

After about thirty minutes of scraping, a perfect wire placement appeared which had me throwing a party in celebration of staying in contact with my gonads.

The final section of the groove was much as it looked, unprotected and technical and the final mantel onto the ledge required a match in a patch of millimetre thick moss with a sideways pick used as an under-cling.

Robbo reached my stance and climbed direct to the top via a satisfying grade V/5 pitch which was new and felt deserved.

****

Guy was in-front down climbing the gully. The setting sun cast hues on the snow covered hills and I felt truly connected.  

Cold Revenge IX/8  Six pitches, Guy Robertson, Nick Bullock, 27/3/13 – a combination of the first three pitches of Bludger’s Revelation followed by an easy link pitch to beneath Bloody Crack, which is climbed and followed by a new fifty metre pitch to the large ledge below the summit.   

Nick Bullock climbing the first pitch of Bludger’s Revelation. Guy Robertson.

Nick Bullock seconding the second pitch of Bludger’s Revelation. Guy Robertson.

Guy Robertson treading where he didn’t really want to tread. Nick Bullock

“I don’t really want to go out there.” Guy Robertson not liking what he’s finding on pitch 3 of Bludger’s. Nick Bullock.

Guy Robertson seconding pitch 4, the connecting pitch from Bludger’s to Bloody! Nick Bullock

Nick Bullock on the start of Bloody Crack. Pitch 5. Guy Robertson.

Nick Bullock on Bloody Crack. Guy Robertson.

Nick Bullock on Bloody Crack. This was the point I started to think that modern methods of contraception were very favourable from the method I was looking at taking! Guy Robertson.

Guy Robertson happy to have climbed. Nick Bullock happy to still have gonads intact! Nick Bullock

Guy Robertson on the way down. Nick Bullock

Lochnagar sunrise. Nick Bullock

The hare, white fur with flecks of brown, stood still balancing on the crest of a snowdrift at the side of the road. “Don’t do it”

The breeze caught, ruffling soft fur. The hares run was perfect. Perfect that is for ending it all. Large dark eyes, long limbs, long ears like a victory sign. Bump. A loud thud resonated through the floor of my van. One less life. I continued to drive the Lecht road but felt sad. The moon grabbed angular man-made shapes built along the roadside – signs, gates, fences, white and orange snow-wands - lengthy shadows pointed the way across the moor. Mysterious. Dark. Barren?

Who decides when that’s it, time to die, game over? It certainly shouldn’t be someone in a red van!

Life is for the taking and having worked for most of January I was taking – but as always it was the sights, sounds, people, the mysteries and the experience that made climbing liberating, life-enhancing. It was the space and the never quite knowing, it was these peripheral things, the things that some people maybe can’t quite see, or maybe they just have not quite arrived yet?

Maybe I was just getting old and sentimental?

Two days ago – this time driving from Roy Bridge to Lochnagar, the snow fell heavy – so heavy as to close the road over the Lecht. White out was caught in the yellow cone of my headlamps. Ten-miles-an-hour – sideways Past Glenlivet distillery – sideways through Dufftown, my mind was sideways with concentration. I stopped and chained up in the sodium light. Granite buildings making-up the high street funneled the falling snow, which took no notice of the give way signs or the red traffic lights. Fat snowflakes settled on my shoulders, the heat in my body grabbed the crystals and melted. Fingers, wet and dirty from fiddling with snow chains, froze. Blood clotted on the back of my hand where I caught it on the wheel arch.

Why?

Why exactly. But I knew why.

Image surrounds us, engulfs us, but how much do we actually take in, how much do we see. Some people go through life not seeing. Arrogant of me to say this – certainly – but true I fear? Prove me wrong … please.

A bunch of classics, Vanishing Gully and Two Step on the Ben, Crowberry Gully on The Buachaille and Smiths Gully on Meggy. The sun shone – Scotland was almost Alpine. I had climbed Vanishing Gully nearly seventeen years before and Smiths sixteen years ago, but climbing them again with someone who enjoyed them for the first time, someone who looked through fresh bright eyes, opened my mind to the on-going wonder of the hills in winter.

Katy following the second pitch of Smiths Gully, Craig Meggy. Nick Bullock

A front-point placed precise on a ripple of rock is a window to intense and through the glass the dark creeps close. Watching the first tooth of a pick wobble on a rock crystal while pulling past it – face so close, eyes wide and focused, the mind like burning magnesium. I felt like a hare. Pushing down, higher above the teetering pick, fishing for a crack high above, while waiting for the pick to rip and my wasted body to rag. Hunting for something to pull-up-on in the frozen white water stuck to the crag. Fishing, but catching nothing except disappointment.

Robbo, Pete and I were trying their last great problem on the Gar. At that point I had only had four-hours sleep in thirty-five. Dark was threatening and my mind raced. Three pitches up, after several walk-in’s and two proper attempts over the last two years this was the first time they had stood where we now stood and with all of the climbing beneath us and the climbing  completed clean. One pitch remained between us and success but the light was fading and the stars were threatening and across the rounded snow covered hills, the light was red, time was crimson clock hands.

The walk in to Lochnagar. Nick Bullock

The Lecht road had re-opened, it was eleven pm and once again I was passing the tumbling moorlands. Fighting sleep deprivation, the cramps and failure ran through my body and my mind. In the dark we had abseiled off the new route with the final hard pitch still unclimbed. I watched the hares skittering on the snow at the side of the road… ‘Don’t do it, it’s not worth it, life is for living.

In the last twenty-four hours I had watched the sun rising and setting. Witnessed Tawny Owls silently flop and twist through skeletal silver birch. Seen scallops of snow carved sastrugi stretch across the Lochnagar plateau. Watched the clouds cut the horizon while snow storms tracked the Scottish hills and I had been surprised and thrilled with the exploding black Ptarmigan skimming the blue-white hillside. We had failed on the new route… but had we really failed?    

Tough Brown Face, Lochnagar. Nick Bullock

Pete Benson battling pitch two. Nick Bullock

Pete having lowered off pitch two feeling worked. Nick Bullock

Robbo pulling the roof of pitch two. Nick Bullock

Guy Robertson. The great man himself. Nick Bullock

Pete Benson on pitch three. Nick Bullock

Robbo setting off on pitch four… The red hands of time were turning. Nick Bullock

 Peter Beaumont’s article written for The Guardian website last weekend about climbing supremo Adam Ondra is well worth a read. It does open with one of my pet-hates, the word ‘conquering’ when related to climbing, but I suppose in this case it can be justified, Ondra does appear to slay all he attempts, although this still makes me ask the question can a piece of rock really be slayed or conquered?

Anyway, it’s not Beaumont’s article that is the thrust of this piece, it is, as usual, the comments following the piece that grabbed me and in particular, it was one comment by someone, who – also usual for this type of thing – prefers to hide behind a pseudonym, SquidwardTenticles. Given the strength of their comment, this hiding their true identity surprises me, as their passion in hating something – something which is very close to my heart and something that has become my life – is obvious, so you would think someone with such strong views would also be strong enough to be open with their identity?

The comment by SquidwardTenticles has received quite a comprehensive and well thought out reply from someone else who also uses a pseudonym, onefatankle, but there are several points which, for me, are worth exploring and reiterating,

“Firstly, this ‘ethic’ is a form of elitism designed to deter ‘the masses’ from climbing. This is directly related to the limited amount of accessible, climbable rock in the UK, with many climbers fretting about the way once popular areas, such as the limestone of Stoney Middleton in the Peak district, have become so polished by use that they are now like glass. The situation is rather different in a country such as France which has so much more climbable rock that few feel precious about the placement of protective bolts and a generally more egalitarian ethos sees climbing as been the ideal sport for all, including schoolkids and women.” SquidwardTenticles.

This ‘ethic’ as described above by SquidwardTenticles was not designed, to deter the masses, it was ‘designed’ or more correctly, invented, I think, by pioneers of rock climbing through the necessity to protect rock climbs by the placing of gear in the natural weakness of the rock. Rock climbing for a hobby/activity began in Britain before the invention of the bolt and as climbs became more technically difficult, the need to protect the climber increased. Natural protection of rock climbs in the UK has never been to limit the number of people, in fact the increase of people who climb outdoors proves this and it certainly has not limited the inclusion of children or women and to suggest as much is preposterous.

The situation as SquidwardTenticles points out correctly is quite different in France but I’m pretty sure that this was not brought about by a less precious feeling for the rock but more from the later development of rock climbing and at a time when bolts existed. It was also brought about by the drive of climbers to safely be able to practice and increase the technical difficulty of individual moves of rock climbs on the predominant rock type in France, limestone, which by its nature is very difficult to protect using natural gear placements.

Recently there has been an interesting development, well interesting to me anyway, that some bolt protected climbs in Europe have now been led by climbers of that country on natural gear. This was no-doubt done for various reasons, but maybe it was also done to experience what is was like to hang-in and have the skill, strength, courage and commitment to protect the climb with natural, less certain protection, which definitely adds another more psychological element to rock climbing.

It is this psychological element that I would not expect many people in today’s health and safety, cotton wool society to understand, but it is this element that is the main reason I, and many people like me prefer to rock climb in Britain or on traditionally protected climbs abroad. SquidwardTenticles actually does understand the feeling of what it is like to lead a traditionally protected climb as they said, at one time in their life they bought into the trad thing, but obviously they discovered that the historically chosen and preferred way to rock climb by the majority in the UK is not for them. Is this what caused this attack? Is this person someone who struggles with their lack of ability to commit and finds it difficult to accept?

“As a ‘climber’ I too was once guilty of buying into the macho crap that dominates the UK climbing scene. Today I think that the following, written by one Sally Haycock and published in issue 111 of On the Edge magazine is much closer to the truth than most climbers would like to admit.”  SquidwardTenticles.

‘Climbers aren’t happy, and they certainly aren’t normal… I know it for a fact. You are all maladjusted weirdoes… You tell everyone you’re risk takers, adrenaline athletes, vertical ballerinas. Quest-seekers, the last great adventurers in a technological age. Meanwhile you come to blows over arbitrary, illogical, irrelevant ethics fervently praying that the real world blows over and leaves you alone. I really did make an effort: I went climbing a few times… But the effort can’t all be one way – how many times can you watch ‘Hard Grit’ without thinking ‘what a complete waste of time’. Sally Haycock          

There is certainly a small amount of ‘macho crap’ involved within climbing I will admit, but I would also guess this misunderstanding of what rock climbing is really about is often displayed by the inexperienced, un – rock climbing – educated, ignorant and in-it-for-the-wrong-reason type. To be brutally honest, many people including myself, when first encountering rock climbing and mountaineering possibly do and did share the ignorant belief that climbing was about being hard and brave, but given time and understanding and experience this passes and the actual deeper more truthful, satisfying and life enhancing reasons to engage in British traditional rock climbing become apparent.

Pushing ones mental barriers is for me the most satisfying thing about climbing in the UK and for this reason alone, I think it is worth the time and effort to write this reply to someone who obviously only wants the physical aspects of climbing and is not prepared to see this is what makes British climbing extremely special and different than climbing at a wall or safely moving up a piece of rock that requires little courage or mental strength or psychological training.

I could use the same argument as SquidwardTenticles and suggest that Adam Ondra’s climbs, which are too difficult for me, are elitist and it is my right as a person to climb that piece of rock, so I could suggest every climb that is too difficult for me should have steps cut into the rock face?

Why does climbing continue to generate people who cry of elitism – people who appear to think it is their right to climb a piece of rock or a mountain they are not capable of climbing and then when they fail or give up because it is too difficult they scream of elitism?   

In the On the Edge quote above by Sally Haycock and commented on in SquidwardTenticles reply, Haycock says, ‘Climbers aren’t happy, they certainly aren’t normal I know it for a fact. You are all maladjusted weirdos.’ Wow, what a massive generalisation, many of my friends are exceptionally happy and well-adjusted people, climbing, for them, has given a positive approach to many aspects of their lives. Climbers are just people, climbing does not make people maladjusted weirdo’s. Certainly there are climbers who are not ‘normal’ but I would suggest that to have this very cynical attitude is not normal in itself and to call people ‘maladjusted weirdo’s is showing a distinct lack of understanding and consideration. In life there are not many people who actually are ‘normal’. Writers, poets, cyclists, actors, news presenters, people who suffer with depression, doctors, scientists, artists, marathon runners, Olympic athletes, professional gamblers, fishermen/women, Kayakers, deep sea divers, surfers, base jumpers, skiers, alcoholics, drug addicts, obese people, inmates, city workers, refuse collectors, firemen/women, policemen/women, people who commute every day, bankers, footballers, people who continue to live life unhappy … What is ‘normal’ ?

“Many routes can be climbed without even causing the damage caused by the placement of cams and nuts if a top rope is set up, but this practice is probably the most hated in British climbing, again largely because it makes climbing so accessible to all those unwilling to risk death or injury.” SquidwardTenticles.

Actually top roping is not the most hated form of climbing in the UK, (Who actually goes around thinking there is a sliding scale of the most hated forms of climbing?) top roping is accepted on any climb anyone wants to place a top rope, what needs to be understood though is repeatedly top roping a climb does cause damage especially if climbed all day long by a large group of beginners who are often not good on their feet. A climb top roped in this fashion by a group on a section of rock more suited to this type of thing is no cause for concern at all, nor is a climb that someone wants to practice before leading, or a climb used for the odd spot of training, but what it does not address is the psychological essence of crossing the boundaries in a person’s mind.

Leading a climb, on-sight or ground-up does address this issue and forms the very basis of what, I think, climbing is about and in doing so brings about a massive feeling of self-worth, success and personal achievement for the individual. If this is wrong and not healthy I will readily admit I am not ‘normal’, not normal the same as any student who feels success and self-worth and personal achievement after passing an exam, after sitting through hours of lessons, having spent hours of learning and revision, or a musician who can play a piece of music without a single mistake after hours and hours of practice.

 The final paragraph from SquidwardTenticles is possibly the most telling – this person has obviously had a really bad experience and is now unable to reflect, digest, be honest with themselves and be open minded – maybe it is too painful to actually look at their own faults and it is easier to go on this ignorant crusade.

“Because at the end of the day climbing, like running or swimming, is a physical activity that can be practised and performed. It is not a noble art giving the artist enlightenment and superiority over other mortals. It is a hobby. Why can you not see that?”

I think most climbers can see climbing for what it is and what it means for the individual – something that may be very different for each individual. This attack by SquidwardTenticles has proven that it is they that are ignorant and selfish, or maybe just scared, maybe they are the one suffering with what they accuse climbers.

Yes climbing is an activity but it is certainly not purely activity, training, exercise, something to do to lose weight. Climbing reaches so deep that ‘normal’ people will make their lives revolve around climbing, they will live in areas near rocks and the mountains, they will holiday, take sabbaticals, structure lives, structure careers, write about and yes, even complain about it on national newspaper websites, this is the power and the strength of climbing, something that is more than just an activity and a hobby for many.

The crazyness that is THE PENDULUM. Cathedral.NH.

This picture was taken in my first few days, we should have had it then as the ice was somewhat reduced when we made our attempt. Nick Bullock

Squalls of fat snowflakes were blowing between the trees, shimmering like fish swimming down the road. I sat alongside Ben Gilmore driving Doug’s scooby. Ben and I were heading toward Frankenstein for my penultimate day of New England climbing. I felt content. My behind was warm, got to love those heated seats – and today, after all of the thin and run-out ice, I was going to climb something fat and easy to protect, something classic – Dropline, WI5, a ribbon of yellow bubbles flowing over steep rock nestled deep in the woods high above Conway.

I was feeling strong and capable – able to lock with confidence. The muscles in my arms were taking shape and I felt ready for an immediate drive North to Scotland on my return to Britain in four days.

Yesterday, climbing at Cathedral, was different, it was certainly different than the day I was expecting to have at Frankenstein.

The start of the third pitch which was as spectacular climbing as you could ask for. If it had been covered in snow it would have been sustained Scottish VII/8. Bayard Russell.

Bayard near the top of pitch three. Really thin and steep ice. Nick Bullock

Will Carey, another MOG and an oyster farmer, Bayard and I, headed to Cathedral at 10 am to look at Pendulum. Ever since my second day here in New England Bayard had been whittering on about a route called Pendulum.

Pendulum was a corner/groove/slab/roof system running the full length of Mordor Wall, the largest section of the crag. To make it even longer, it traversed, down climbed and generally minced all over seeking out sections of weakness. First climbed in summer 1967 by Steve Arsenault and Paul Doyle and first free climbed in 76 by Ed Webster and Ajax Greene, Pendulum is described as one of the first true big wall climbs of the East Coast. The Ice Climbers Guide to New England describes Pendulum Route as IV 5.8 A2 (5.11) 5, whatever that means, and the description for this eight pitch route is ‘A long and intricate winter climb with an ice curtain hanging down off the roof. FWA Chris Hassig and Mark Whiton 1977′

I don’t think I had ever down-climbed or traversed as much on a winter climb and this description appears somewhat lacking of information for eight, very technical pitches, but we were with the font of all Cathedral knowledge, Bayard, so what could go wrong.

The route has hardly had any winter ascents or even attempts and if successful, Bayard thought, we may actually be climbing the second winter ascent. The route certainly has not had a free winter ascent.

Bayard set off up the bolt ladder which was installed after the original start of front pointing a tree went out of fashion – the tree fell down. This maybe gives you an inkling of what was about to be unleashed. Instead of pulling on the bolts Bayard attempted to free climb, (The yellow star in the topo at the top of the page) which he gave a good go, but after a few attempts he succumbed to one or two hangs before continuing via brilliant free crack climbing through an overhanging v-notch.

Will climbed the second pitch – a difficult under-cling crack, (The green star) which didn’t have a bit of ice or many footholds – without gloves -Will refused to use his axes as it didn’t seem right, but Will not only looked strong, he was strong, he had climbed the equivalent of 8b on gear. I would have been surprised before my trip here, but now, having spent some time among the locals, I wasn’t surprised at all. In my two weeks I had encountered super driven; super strong and very friendly, and this appeared the norm for this close knit climbing community.

I looked up from the belay after the crack, “That’s your pitch Nick, it looks great doesn’t it?” Bayard was right, it did look great, and it also looked steep and hard. “Go get at it, the odyssey begins.” (Blue circle)

“It’ll have loads of fixed pins.” Both Bayard and Will said, but forty metres later, after steep, secure laybacking with tiny edges for feet, I gently tapped an overhanging ice sheen dribbling down a corner (Red square) to reach the belay ledge, and I hadn’t seen a single peg. I shouted down “Have you guys actually done this route, your beta is useless?” They both laughed and had a conversation about not remembering anything. I told myself to ignore anything either of them said for the rest of this madness.

Nick Bullock starting the most insecure steep slab pitch ever. “match on the crystal.” “WHAT BLOODY CHRYSTAL!” Brilliant job by Bayard, all though the 15-foot of, on-top-rope climbing, made this better to lead than second I think

The really ridiculous now began. (Yellow Hexagonal) Bayard left the ledge by down-climbing a torque crack for fifteen feet – all, I may add, while on a top rope – before a step into the unknown across a smooth slab. He was manically laughing. ‘Yeah’, I thought, ‘so would I with the rope guarding every move!’ His picks appeared to balance his body, but for the life of me, I couldn’t see what they were hooking. I convinced myself that without glasses I couldn’t see the obvious positive edge but his axes shook – he was putting a lot of tension through them.  

All of my fears came home when Will, seconding the slab move, pinged off and flew. Bayard laughed even more manically. These guys are sick I thought; get me out of here before the madness rubs off.

I reached the slab after down climbing and all of my fears were confirmed, there was nothing to hook. Bayard yelled instructions in between bouts of laughter, “Hook the crystal.” “What fuc*#ing crystal!”

Somehow I managed to levitate across and climb up to the belay in time to hear Will say, “I’m going to pass the next pitch over, I’m not brave enough for that.” And this was coming from the biggest strongest looking MOG I had encountered on this trip so far. And then I hear Bayard say, “That’s OK, Nick loves that kind of shit.” In dread I glanced across at what I was supposed to love and began sweating. It was not the warm type of sweat either, it was cold and clammy. A thin sheen of unprotected ice led up. ‘Why couldn’t I have the down-climbing fifteen foot top rope pitch?” Maybe I should suggest Bayard continue as he had hardly done any climbing on his short shuffle? Yes, that’s what I will do, but before I suggested it I found myself taking thee quickdraws for the belay, it was pointless taking anything else. (Red multi-pointed star)

Tapping, tapping, tapping… “There is a bit of grass,” Bayard helpfully pointed out. I wanted to scream, “What fuc*#ing good is a piece of grass.” But I didn’t and said “Oh yeah, nice.” Tapping, tapping…

… looking over to my left, in a groove, salvation shone in the form of fixed gear, it looked like a bashed in nut, so I stretched and I clipped and the sun shone and I was now invincible.

At the belay when we all met up again, Will told me my piece of bomber gear was actually a bashy – a small brass blob hammered onto the surface of the rock use for progression only on an aid climb. I felt queasy and thanked my stars I didn’t do aid.

This was Will’s pitch but he kindly handed it over. “Thats OK Will” said Bayard, “Nick loves this kind of shit.” I’m not so sure I do! Bayard Russell.

Higher on the death ice pitch. Bayard Russell.

Will was feeling guilty having handed over the death ice pitch so took the next one – a crawl traverse along a ledge, which turned into a drop down with no footholds, until more down climbing on a top rope following ice. (Light blue egg) I screamed like a spoilt child, “I want down-climb, I want top-rope.”  But skittering and nearly falling from the off-balanced ledge I was pretty chuffed I hadn’t led this one. 

Will feeling guilty takes pitch six, The crawling ledge, downward on-top-rope pitch.

Will on the slightly more standard part of pitch six. Nick Bullock

Will after the downclimbing on pitch six. Nick Bullock

Bayard Russell seconding pitch six on the transfer from crawling to standing. Nick Bullock

Finally we were looking up at success, just one pitch, in fact just one hard move to get established above a roof that was covered in ice, just one move before a constant flow of fat cold patina. How hard can it be, we were hero’s, it will be easy! Bayard set off and pulled into a corner near the ice fringe that was drooling from the roof, (Green circle) he climbed slightly higher and then made an error, he let the ice know he was there. He hit the fringe and it groaned, slumped and dropped. It dropped like a bag of potatoes, smashing and crashing before hitting the deep snow at the bottom of the crag. “Well that’s it then.” And that was certainly it, but at the time I didn’t quite appreciate how much.

Bayard on what would have been the final hard pitch… All he had to do was step across and swing but he made the mistake of testing the ice! Nick Bullock

Now you see it, now you don’t… game over! Nick Bullock

 Below is a short clip of film of some highlights put together by Bayard Russell. 

****

Leaving Ben, I cleared the fresh snow from a turf corner before climbing a thin sheet of ice at the start of Dropline. Placing a stubby screw, one of the first screws I had placed on the whole trip, confidence flowed. The ice was thick and in comparison to all of the other madness over the last two weeks, easy.

Swing-test-match-move left – swing-test-match-move left – Swing-test-match, and as I moved left, I watched my axe slip straight from the deep ice pocket. I flew down the cliff. Yellow blurred bubbles, rock, turf – the rope started to come tight on the stubby but not before I landed like an elephant with both feet flat on a ledge. My body concertinaed and I felt something in my ribs give.

That was Monday, today is Wednesday and what I thought was a broken rib is possibly torn intercostal muscles, which is quite entertaining as my whole ribcage clunks as things move around. I fly to Britain on Friday and I’m not so bothered any more about the conditions up North, oh well, the pendulum of time swings and hopefully recovery won’t take too long.

Finally, I must say, this fantastic trip to New England was only made possible due to the kindness and generosity of several people and it has been so enjoyable because of the locals and their very friendly nature and humour. (You are nearly British ) So a massive thanks to my friends Anne and Bayard Russell who have put me up in their wooden cottage in the country without question or complaint. To John Branagan from Sterling Rope who paid for my flight. To Ben Gilmore who’s sofa was utilised for three days when Anne and Bayard needed a rest . To Doug Madara for the use of the Scooby and to the Mount Washington Icefest for inviting me over.

And to all of the following for being friendly and helpful and good fun and great to get to know: Matt, Naomi, Kevin and Claire, Sasha, Michael, Freddie, Janet, Scott, Sue, Will, Erik, Ashley, Kyle and Jewel, Caroline and Adam, Pete and Majka, Elliot, Ray, Pete, Rick and Celia, Henry Barber and Mark and everyone else who I’ve forgotten. Thanks it’s been a blast.   

Some of the folk at the brilliant Mount Washington Valley Ice festival. Littleoutdoorgiants

Yep, no gonads on this one!

From dry to not so dry! North Conway high street. Nick Bullock

Early morning on the highway. Trees. Cold. Salt white roads. Rolling mountain outlines silhouetted by the red rising sun.  I was by myself in Doug Madara’s Suburu. Doug is a local from around these parts and a star. Let’s face it, he had loaned his Suburu Forrester to a Lymey and hadn’t even hit me with the usual, “You do know we drive on the right… Right?”

Doug had explained which was the brake pedal, the clutch and the accelerator though. I didn’t have the heart to explain that most folk drive stick change cars in the UK and they were in the same order even for right hand drive. On saying this, I did go to change gear with my left hand several times!

After I left Doug obviously had a panic attack when he realised who was now in possession of his Scooby and called Bayard’s wife, Anne. “Hey Anne, Doug here, erm, you don’t suppose Nick drives like he climbs do you?”

I was driving toward Cannon Cliff to meet Matt McCormick, also a star, it was freezing and windy and Matt was meeting me to climb a route he has climbed at least twice before, a route called Omega. I eventually reached the parking lot and stepped from the car. Jesus, it was cold. The wind ripped across my face freezing nose hair and tightening lips. Minus 20 minimum. Maybe colder. I changed clothes in the back of the car and waited for Matt.

Matt McCormick on the first pitch of Omega. Cannon. Nick Bullock

Cannon is a big cliff and one of New England’s best, but holy grizzly shit, on the hour walk-up, floundering scree, crawling, slipping sliding over the boulders and thrashing through the whippy little trees, it was frigid.

Matt won the scissor, paper, stone and took the first pitch… MISTAKE!  Thin, fragile insecure, (Yes, it’s a common theme out here) but eventually reached the belay and brought me up.

Matt McCormick on the first pitch of Omega. Nick Bullock

The second pitch, an overhanging corner of yellow blobs, good gear, and memory branding image led to the top. It even led to a bit of warmth that was provided by the sun and some shelter from the wind.

Nick Bullock on the final few moves of pitch 1 of Omega. Matt McCormick.

****

Yesterday the snow started, Ben Gilmore and myself had grand plans for a route four hours’ drive away, the snow stopped that though and we headed to Cathedral.  And just when I thought the climbing couldn’t get better, it did, in the form of a route called Diedre.

The funny thing about this climb was two friendly guys who had been finding the move pulling the roof, after the start, difficult, abseiled off saying they were looking forward to me blasting the climb. So when  I hooked a blob at the start, tested it, pulled up and proceeded to rattle back down the corner, when the block sheared, made them reconsider their initial thoughts. Fortunately the rest of the climb went well and as they say…

‘Wicked awesome.’

Nick Bullock on the first pitch of Diedre. Ben Gilmore.

Ben Gilmore seconding Diedre’s first pitch. Nick Bullock.

Nick Bullock on pitch 2 of Diedre. Ben Gilmore

Nick Bullock higher on pitch 2 of Diedre. Ben Gilmore.

Ben Gilmore tree hugging. “Nick, it’s a great shake out.”

Nick Bullock on pitch 4 of Diedre. Ben Gilmore.

Ben Gilmore after the steepness of the final pitch, pitch 4 of Diedre. In slightly more Scottish condition. Nick Bullock.

Here is a link to a short clip of film from climbing at Willoughby the other day from Matt McCormick. http://vimeo.com/59309059

The small twin prop plane dropped, recovered, dropped, swung from side-to-side, recovered and finally, finally dived for the runway. Snow splatted against the window and through it I could see thick fog and the ground and fog and the ground – and the ground was approaching fast – then I caught sight of a terrified face, eyes so extended from sockets they could have been on stilts. My face. ‘What the hell’, that’s what the locals would say, but what the hell appeared lame for my condition. I hate flying in small planes and when I booked the flight to Portland, Maine, I didn’t quite appreciate what the final stage of the journey would entail. I counted how many times I had landed and taken off from Lukla Airport in Nepal, the most dangerous airport in the world, it was fourteen and here I was in one of the most advanced countries, about to check out in a blaze of gory.

My present condition needed more than ‘what the hell’ it definitely needed expletives and loads of them. Why at times like this did I always picture being ripped apart and then my whimpering bloody pulp being fried like chicken wings.

The plane hit the runway, skidding and swerving, an animal attempting to shake the snow from its aluminium coat. Engines screamed. I nearly screamed, but it slowed and slowed and then pulled up at a gate.

The door opened and the pilot greeted the ground crew,

“Good flight?”

“Yeah, really smooth?”

“Awesome.”

I’ve now been in New Hampshire for a week. The first few days were taken up with the Mount Washington Ice Festival, a crazy thriving festival of the likeminded, but then the climbing began, and I blame that flight – nothing could be as dangerous or as scary as that could it?

Nick Bullock on Still in Saigon. Possibly the first winter ascent of a streak that runs by the side of the summer line. My first ice route in a while which was OK as i didn’t need to think of how to place gear. Kev Mahoney.

Kev Mahoney, The Origional MOG (Man of Girth) following the first pitch of Still in Siagon. Nick Bullock

Nick Bullock climbing an un-named climb first climbed by Kev Mahoney and Ben Gilmore at Cathedral. Its a bit spicey said Kev, no shit said I, as I torqued my way up the creaking expanding flake, which had the gear in its creaking mouth . Kev Mahoney.

Kev Mahoney sets off on Remission Direct. It has only had a few ascents and never in this condition. Nick Bullock

Kev Mahoney reaches the point of very little ice and very little gear. Run away! Day one on Remission Direct comes to an end. Nick Bullock.

Day two, Matt McCormick takes over after I take a thirty foot fall from above the roof. There is a bolt but on the first go I couldn’t reach it from a powerful and scary styne-pull off the overhang. Nick Bullock.

Matt backed off the direct start, (sensible) and I returned armed with a hex (not sensible) and mangaged to pull like a train with the hex as protection, and eventually clipped the bolt to sketch my way through the bulge, leading Matt to the slightly fatter second pitch of Remission. Nick Bullock

Lake Willoughby. Nick Bullock

A cold caravan park! Lake Willoughby. Nick Bullock

And I thought ice climbing was odd!

Bayard Russell on the third pitch of Astroturf after Matt McCormick had run the first and second pitch together. Nick Bullock

Whats becoming a common New Hampshire theme, even though Lake Willoughby is in Vermont. Bayard Russell on the run-out, thin-ice, third pitch of Astroturf. Nick Bullock

Nick Bullock approaching the belay on the third pitch of Astroturf. Baytard Russell.

It goes where? Matt McCormick knew what was coming as its his route. I didn’t. Bayard Russell.

After climbing to the roof directly above the belay and finding a massive ice roof where all previous ascents have not had one, I gingerly minced right, after swinging around for a while, aiming for an ice fringe. No gear, few footholds, but ice on the horizon… make a B-line! Engauge arms, dis-engauge brain! Bayard Russell.

On the fringe. Nick Bullock climbing a new variation of the crux pitch of Astroturf. Its a weak mans way but a strong head is required. Matt McCormick