Great Escape. Nick Bullock.

Al Lee e-mailed me the other day asking if I would give his and Dave Reeves new film a shout, so here is the shout. I can’t give the film a thumbs up or even a thumbs down as I haven’t seen it, but it does have two blond people looking very blond and no-doubt counting calories endeavoring to climb very hard and be the fittest and the quickest on the planet.

On the darker and more intelligent side, the DVD does have a really cool extra, (although it wasnt cool it was sunny) with a really hunky person climbing a new amazing rock route without any suffering, calorie counting or use of a porta-ledge.

The DVD can be obtained from here Posing Productions

Early in the summer I wrote and published something here. I admit to rushing the essay and posting it without taking time to cool down and reflect, but still I stand by much of what I wrote. Many people commented on this piece and it was linked to a forum on UKC. In that forum I was called amongst other things, an elitist  tramp. If  you have time, read the original essay and the comments, including my own, before reading this article, written for, and published by Summit as a direct result to the first essay, please do.  

At the end of the essay below I have published a letter that was posted to Summit by Mr Wilson in response to my article and I have posted my reply.  

Please feel free to comment but if it is a personal attack on anyone it will not be published. All I ask is read the essay, but read it properly and carefully and think about it before commenting.  

Conquering Capitalism

“I’ve decided something: Commercial things really do stink. As soon as it becomes commercial for a mass market it really stinks.” – Andy Warhol

We live in a consumer society. Supply and demand, demand and supply. This is our world, and it is spreading rapidly from West to East. And in this burgeoning capitalist world, increasing numbers of people believe that it’s their right to consume: money can buy whatever you want. Yes. I prefer to live in a capitalist society but I am appalled by the current belief that money can buy mountain dreams, bypassing the long learning curve required to climb with self-reliance in the greater ranges. The greatest assets a person can own are their experiences – it is the hard-won memories from these experiences that are our lasting rewards.  

The damage inflicted on mountaineering by the present fast-track-summit-fever is deep rooted. The environmental damage caused by the high numbers of people – clients, porters, Sherpas and support staff – who are involved in large group commercial mountaineering is well documented. But there are other, more subtle but just as devastating, knock-on effects.

There is the creeping monopolisation of certain mountains, where individual, self-reliant climbers are increasingly seen as an unwelcome hazard. I have actually heard commercial expedition leaders claim that independent unguided climbers – using no oxygen, climbing without fixed ropes or Sherpa support – are “jeopardising the chances of their paying clients reaching summits”. Will there come a time when alpine-style climbers are forbidden to climb mountains in the greater ranges on the grounds of their style being reckless, or simply unprofitable? We need to consider that question very seriously: consumerism is frighteningly powerful at appropriating, that is what it does best.

Another, less understood, by-product of the modern adventure tourist trade is the cheapening of something that remains profoundly important to dedicated climbers. I’m regularly told (by non-climbers) that Everest is no longer difficult to climb and, in settled weather, I’d have to agree. It’s a great shame that this mountain has been reduced to a holiday destination. But take away the fixed rope, the ladders, the oxygen and Sherpa support, and Everest will once again become a real challenge; the only people summiting will be true climbers.

Mountaineering must be one of the few sports cultures in which people are threatened by standards progressing, a culture where people scream of elitism when the standard improves to a level they are not willing to aspire to. Reinhold Messner climbed Everest twice without supplementary oxygen: first in 1978 and in then 1980 (this time solo and without pre-placed camps). Robert Schauer and Wojciech Kurtyka’s 1985 pure alpine style ascent of Gasherbrum IV’s West Face set new standards and proved what’s possible when two people trust each other. In 1986, Erhard Loretan climbed Everest in 43 hours, moving through the night and without the use of supplementary oxygen. With all that for us to be proud of, why is mountaineering culture still advocating a style of ascent that is thirty years out-of-date, the old style of siege and oxygen, literally lowering the level of the challenge until it’s achievable by anyone?

In Britain, ethics and good style in rock climbing are not frowned upon, in fact they are revered. So why is maintaining good style in the mountains any different? If I took performance-enhancing drugs and then chipped, bolted and aided my way up a classic rock climb like Cenotaph Corner then I would be castigated as a cheat and a vandal, and rightly so. There will be a good many honest climbers who will never climb Cenotaph Corner, it will remain beyond their ability, but they will not cry elitism and demand fixed ropes because they feel that it’s they deserve to stand at the top. True climbers desire only to earn the right.

This is where our western way – of wanting what others have, but not being prepared to put in the time and effort – really fails. Despite the actual dangers that exist for everyone, mountains are now believed by many to be mere commodities. There is the absurd belief that you can ‘pay safe’. Mountains are now sold to highest bidders who, in many cases, have no understanding of what and who came before them, no hard-won experience through which to meet the mountains they wish to ‘conquer’. And it still amazes me that there are people who actually believe that they can conquer billions of tons of mountain, that it’s a trophy to be put on a mantelpiece and bragged about, a mere rung on their career ladder.

Why shouldn’t the wild mountains remain as sanctuary for those who are willing, with reverence, to sacrifice and commit? Why shouldn’t the mountains be preserved as a remote arena where people who want to improve on previous standards can be free to try? Why should the mountains become the domain for the select few who can pay? Someone, please answer these questions, have a go at answering them with integrity.

In the past, I’ve been accused of ‘elitism’ because I voice my opinions and climb to the very best of my abilities. But the Oxford Dictionary defines elitism as ‘reliance on the leadership or dominance of a select group’.  I do not rely on the ‘dominance of a select group’, nor do I put myself forward as a ‘dominant leader’, I go in to the mountains on my own or as an equal to my partner.

‘Elite’ (without the ‘ism’) is very a different word. It means ‘the best’. In that sense, true mountaineering – depending on ultimate experience and skills – is inherently elite. All walks of life have elites. I don’t expect to be able to drive a bus, manage a bank or perform an operation on a patient. So why do some people climb into some of the most hostile environments in the world, with poor skills and little experience, and then accuse the people who question this foolishness as being elitist?

Mountain Guides are an elite. They are professional, well-trained people but caught in a storm high on a Himalayan hill it is impossible to guide in the true sense. It’s grossly irresponsible to take people with limited experience above 8,000m. In a high Himalayan storm, death or survival quickly become the only options, it cannot be anything other than each for themselves, and only those with enough personal experience stand any chance of escaping alive.

This raises the profound ethical and moral issues involved with ascents that utilise the services of indigenous people. Nepal is a Third World country. Most people’s lives are simply about basic survival and the few Sherpas who are employed for their services do make good money for their families, so who can begrudge them? For me, the most important moral question is: are the clients of the commercial outfits happy to ignore the dangerous, and often lethal circumstances, in which these people work for their livelihoods? Fixing rope on avalanche-prone slopes and repeated carries through dangerous icefalls is not something ‘pay-safe’ Westerners are prepared to do – why do they expect another person to do it for them? Personally, I would never forgive myself if someone died to satisfy my desire to ‘conquer’ a hill.

An inexperienced client who utilises the services of Sherpas also brings about a situation of ignorant dependence: they are placing their life in the hands of a stranger. Occasionally, individual Sherpas will not live up to their collective reputation and the client will scream about being let down, even conned. As in all walks of life, you will get some good, some bad, some indifferent, some excellent, some experienced and some green. It takes experience to recognise that.  

Sherpas are human. They are prone to becoming frightened and confused like any other human. Their flesh will freeze and their bones will break as easily as yours or mine. They cry, sweat and fall ill. They suffer with altitude sickness and they think of their loved ones; they are afraid to die. So I have a message to any disgruntled Sherpa client out there: if you feel let down by someone you’ve paid, because in the end they refuse to risk their life for you, then I suggest you learn more, practice hard and get some self-reliance.

The people most respected in life are the ones prepared to sacrifice for their passion and beliefs. I believe you should chase the mountain dream for the good reasons: the love of the special environment; the passion and the challenge; the opportunity to really see yourself, your weakness and strength, and what you could be; and the intensity of experience: the hurt, discomfort, bewilderment, hope, frustration, terror, elation and awe. Mountains are to be dreamed and fantasised about. Sometimes the dream will materialise, often it will not. Each mountain experience should be for individuals, each experience should differ and the outcome should always be uncertain.

My viewpoint is not popular these days. The masses and the mass media do not see or understand the truth of commitment and hard-won skills; the masses see the oldest, the youngest, the quickest, they consume reality TV, and support ‘charity events’. This circus is what most of the general public think mountaineering is, and when this show runs into trouble they scream for government control, rules and regulation. The insurance companies love this; they are waiting, hoping.

True mountaineering can survive, but only with a continual questioning of style, performance and motivation. To truly meet the mountain, you have to cut to the quick and always ruthlessly question your motivations. Don’t try and deceive yourself; for a mountaineer, integrity is paramount.

So let us take down all of the fixed rope, the rubbish, the camps, the ladders and the bolts. Let’s show the world what we think of our mountain environment and how we care about it. Let us not employ people to climb the mountain for us. Let us meet the mountain and climb it by fair means, learn about ourselves and celebrate our achievement when we find success. And, when it’s just too difficult to climb the mountain in good style, let us be humble and accept in life that there will always be places we are not good or experienced enough to reach. Yet we know, with celebration, that it is those impossible places that inspire us to strive.

Naked arrogance, in reply to the essay above by Mr Rod Wilson.

The naked arrogance and selfishness of the elite sportsman was on full display in Nick Bullock’s article, Mountains for Sale, in Summit 63. His blinkered viewpoint was as narrow as a laser beam, like the superstar in his Ferrari who thinks that others should be removed from the road so that only he can have fun.

I am 73 years old, a climber with almost 60 years active experience (past President of Manchester University Mountaineering Club, an early leader of Cenotaph Corner in the 1950s, first ascencionist of The Troach on Cloggy with Hugh Banner, and Crucible on Cwm Silyn with Barry Ingle, and several successful Alpine seasons).  I live in the Peak District and still climb gritstone 5a and alpine D/AD – for all the same reasons, and to experience all the same sensations, as Mr Bullock, and I wish to continue to do so, despite the inevitable decline of my ageing body.

In his article, Mr Bullock says “I believe you should chase the mountain dream for the good reasons,” as if he is sole arbiter of your motives. He also says ‘”Let us not employ people to climb the mountain for us.” Do we sit at base camp waiting for our guides to bring us the summit?).

In July 2011, despite a week of awful weather, I climbed five routes in the Alps in six days, all AD or D- on peaks of 3,600 to 4,000m, whilst many climbers were securely ensconsced in the bars of Chamonix or Zermatt. To paraphrase Mr Bullock, “I chased the mountain dream,” so that I could again experience the silent beauty and isolation of the high mountains, and feel the exhilarating insecurity of an exposed alpine ridge.  But, to allow my ageing body to do so, I climbed with a guide. Jacques navigated through the thickening clouds and blustery snowstorms, provided companionship and encouragement on frozen slopes with wind chill at -20, and gave me the freedom to use my fitness and all my old skills to reach the summits and savour the wild mountain environment. If this was tramping on the pastures of the elite, I offer no apologies.  Were the mountains beyond my ability?  Should I be at home in my carpet slippers?  Was climbing with a guide, cheating?

I am simply grateful that Mountain Guides can provide me with the wherewithall to continue my alpine career into my twilight years.  40 or 50 years ago, I too was outspoken: condemning the ‘whack and dangle’ men who pegged their way up pioneering unclimbed Peakland limestone, but now I have a broader and more eclectic viewpoint.  I will not be around when Mr Bullock enters his seventies, but I warrant that, by then, his hymnsheet will contain some very different words.

In reply to Mr Wilson: I am most disappointed that he has not actually read what I wrote. At no time have I ever made an argument against mountain guides working in the Alps. I respect all good mountain guides and their highly professional attitude, and again, I have never said that people should not make use of their services in the Alps. If Mr Wilson had read my article, read it properly, paused to think about my arguments, then hopefully he would’ve realised that I am not selfish and arrogant, but instead deeply concerned about what I feel is an abuse of environment, climbing ethics, and local cultures in the GREATER RANGES. Many of my friends and climbing partners are mountain guides, and because of the integrity of their profession are in full support of what I wrote in my article. Mr Wilson’s very serious failure to properly read and understand my argument, and his knee-jerking personal attack on me illustrates perfectly what I meant when I say people accuse me of being elitist whilst … and at times it seems almost wilfully … they misinterpret what I say. I wish Mr Wilson the best of luck with all his Alpine endeavours. To be climbing as he does at his age has my full respect.

Nick Bullock.

And more info here

The last two years of full time climbing have been good and bad, exciting and fun, full of high, low, dangerous, safe, wet, dry, warm and cold. The Kendal lecture will hopefully reflect all of the above but hopefully it will show that no matter what the outcome of a climbing trip, fun and experience, personal growth, friends and people are the most important factors.

The lecture will include several short clips of footage filmed and produced by Ray Saunders, Alastair Lee, Ray Wood, Lukasz Warzecha and Dave Reeves which have not been seen before and pics from three expeditions to Nepal, New routing in winter Lofoten, New routing in the French Alps, New routing in Scotland, New routing in Wales and on and on and on, blah, blah, blah… More important, I’ve also included some music from The Prodigy, Jose Gonzalez and The Chemical Brothers and as it’s on Sunday afternoon so I may even be sober and able to answer questions, although the answer you get may not be serious or the one you want!

 For more info click here

It’s a pleasant home. I’d forgotten what life is like with comfort – Chris Moyles, breakfast TV, internet, film on 4, Radcliffe and Marconie, Twitter, FB, The Guardian online and a fridge with food that belongs only to me – but comfortable is stationary – fixed, still, static – comfortable is the death of anticipation and the excitement of not knowing – not knowing where-next, who-with, how-long and sometimes even why. Comfortable is, nice parties, full plates, shitting while sitting,walking streets knowing what is around the next corner. Comfortable is routine and routine scares me.     

… ‘The bus pulled into the curb. It was day. Just. And the eight-hour travellers left the bus with the legs of the infirm. Snow-covered-mountains surrounded Huaraz and bicycles with trailers, or flatbed-fronts, pushed by men wearing dress-trousers looking as fatigued as our legs, milled in the cold three-thousand metre air. Through megaphones fastened to the side of the bikes, tinny-voices screeched in Quechua and women hiding beneath broad brimmed felt hats stood next to carts lined with bottles that contained day-glow green and fluorescent blue and shocking pomegranate pink. Colour, to be added to agua caliente, bubbling and steaming in a scorched-black kettle. Dogs picked food-bits from between cobbles. Pigs squealed. And cockerels crowed a welcome for the westerner who had escaped… Escaped for the time being anyway’…

Between writing words I train, between the sentences I train, between the paragraphs I train … and I train and over-train … And when I train I see snowed up rock, icefall and the wan red-light of early morning breaking between mountains. Between star jumps I feel the sting of sleep deprivation. Between press ups, I feel the hotaches. And between pull-ups the altitude blisters lung skin…

… Early morning. Wrapped in a duvet jacket, sitting in the gymnasium office, I nurtured a cup of coffee. I listened to the muffled rattle of the food trolleys being trundled along cold corridors. Thirty minutes left. Counting.

The first class, Monday Wednesday and Friday, was running. Over the years the prisoners in the running class had learnt to understand my early morning idiosyncrasies, and I had learnt to understand theirs. Three miles around an oval cinder track that bordered the muddy football pitch. The track was surrounded by a tall fence, and beyond that, the prison’s wall. Thirteen laps run with the strategy and cunning of an espionage plot. The speed would increase with every lap while we pretended not to be concerned, while we pretended to look at the ground and not to have noticed the opposition. When Terry first came to Gartree he was slightly chubby, but now he was lean and fit, he pushed the pace. Gary pushed also. But Gary was only there for himself and his ghosts. Barry was the real competition, Barry loved the competition. And so did I.

Lap thirteen. By this time a lung-bursting crescendo had been reached. The last lap was always a sprint while spitting lung skin. But no matter what the result, we returned to the prison laughing and joking.

The second class of the day, Circuit training. Machismo-fuelled competition. Brutality in the guise of getting fit. The Prodigy, Chemical Brothers, heavy House music shook the steel walls and bounced off the cavernous roof of the sports hall. Strip lights lit the way for me and twenty or so inmates to beast ourselves with frenetic and competitive insistence. Star jumps, press ups, burpees, squat jumps, shuttle runs, sideways ski jumps over benches, sprinted laps of the hall, and double bench step ups. We were nearly fighting each other to get past. 

Sweat sprayed. Eyes darted from side to side to check out cheating. The plastic floor beneath our pounding feet became sticky. The air thick with hot body odour. “You didn’t do all your star jumps… cheating wanker.” “Fuck you.” …

While I bask in comfort and write, my friends climb routes in the Alps, in perfect weather and my aching over-training body complains – shoulders, ankle, calf – “I’ve got the poison, I’ve got the remedy, I got the pulsating rhythmical remedy” – But nothing aches as much as those imagined moves – moves taking me over rock and snow and ice. Nothing aches as much as the imagined anticipation on a walk-in and the imagined swing of an ice axe – pick-steel sliding into compressed cornice snow. The Mountains call, and soon the comfort and the routine and the words will have had the required effect. Chris M will talk in the morning, blah, blah, blah, twitter will tweet and the internet with churn its diatribe and I won’t be here, I will have left my comfort, my prison cell, because I will have succumbed and then the frustration will be my friend.

The book word-count hit 78358, this morning; it’s a satisfying number, it spells the death of comfort.

After the brief Indian summer a week ago, October in Wales is damp novelty. Novelty… because this is the first autumn in a long time I haven’t been on an expedition. Writing a book and putting together a powerpoint presentation for Kendal Film Festival takes time, so much time, so not being away on expedition is a bonus, that’s what I tell myself anyway. Although not being away and sitting in front of a computer while friends are in Nepal and the Alps is a tad frustrating, but running and the odd day of rock climbing and training at the Beacon Climbing Centre and dry tooling at White Goods between tapping the keys and inserting slides keeps me sane. The thought of actually being fit coming into winter instead of the worn out wreck that usually returns from the Himalayas is a nice thought also.

As the winter approaches and the word count increases, being in front of the screen also increases my determination. The plan for the winter is a good one, Wales and Scotland and the Alps for December/January including the BMC Scottish International meet as long as I pass the requirements needed to be involved! Not too sure about one of the questions on the form I filled to be considered for a host, the question asked something along the lines of, can you navigate… !

Early February will be Scotland and mid to late Feb is hopefully into the far north of Norway with Andy Turner to try a new route.

March is a three or four week trip to Canada… and hopefully a few seldom climbed big mixed lines.

On the Canada trip I’m going with super keen loud young youth Rob Greenwood, and I sent him a few links with picks of a few things I would like to try http://whitespider.net/climbs.html … he texted me later to say he needed to pull over into a layby, he was so excited. Unfortunately by the third email he had passed the layby and the van was a mess and by the fourth and fifth he was exhausted and out of tissue. Youngsters really need to learn control! Here’s to Rob breaking a trail to Patterson, The Ghost and The Stanley Headwall.

Talking about keen young loud youth, he dragged me away from the computer last weekend… or was it the weekend before? I’m not sure, they all merge into Times New Roman, CASTELLA, or AR BLANCA. But away from the computer I was dragged and the steep hill up to the Cromlech we went. Rob wanted to climb Lord of the Flies. Arriving at the crag in the Indian summer, hot and slathering, we were shocked to find the crag awash with people. “What do you want to do?” We were asked as slippery sliding up the polished step to reach the ledge beneath Cenotaph. “Left Wall and Lord.” “Oh, that’s OK then.”

Anyway, to cut a story of biblical length into just novel size, we geared up and as we did, one chap let go from the start of Right Wall hitting the belay ledge a mighty thump. A body staggered around from Ivy Sepulchre covered in blood and the leader of the team now on Left Wall turned it into A2… For the first time in my life while rock climbing I felt unsettled, I had to sit down before someone knocked me off the ledge and I wasn’t even going to lead Lord! Keen Loud Young Youth, unperturbed by the mayhem got on and continued regardless, thrusting his way up the climb with confidence, well, until he had the finishing holds grasped tight in his sweaty mitts somewhere near the very tippy top and then, oh no, he decided to let go… Doh! I, full of sympathy called him a wa*#er, which, considering his layby antics from above, he obviously is … but it would have been out of place to have actually climbed something on the crag that day, so we ran away and returned on Sunday for a smooth ascent and no blood, no aid, no air… Hmm, well I say no air but that’s not true is it Andy 😉

Anyway, back to the writing, back to the powerpoint!

 ( Pebble boulders and quartz  … Credit Ray Wood)

Looking Through Anothers Eyes.

Sun haze, blurred coastline. St Davids in the distance across the shimmering Irish Sea. He had walked from the farm – through the small camp site and through the field where sheep and cattle graze. Seagulls flew overhead – and now he stood at the crag top. A single gannet circles, wings outstretched. Black pointed tips cut salt air. Grey seal skin silver-sparkles, breaks the sea-surface. Silver sparkles. Porpoise fins cut waves, cut waves and cut waves. The gannet dives.

The waves roll … in sets. They roll, rumbling the smooth grey pebble boulders. Thin quartz rings circle the pebble-boulders’ circumferences. Craig Dorys, a crumbling sea crag washed up on the Lleyn Peninsular offers hope to the traveller in search of more…

… than just a number.

The sun’s heat cracks the earth. Rusty barbs and wool-wrapped netting held-up by old wooden posts creak in the wind. Clay bands between crumble-rock are sticky. The sun moves and warms the cliff. Joyous with the return of the sun the rock lightens and the clay turns dust and the dust catches in the breeze and in the breeze the dust finds freedom.  

Already it’s too late. Too warm. Forty metres is such a small distance, but forty metres is so far it could be a life time.

He dreams of cutting loose, lifting feet, clinging to crunchy-flakes, picking quartz scabs, probing creaking orange crimps and fingering collapsing pockets. Movement. He dreams upward. But down is what his imagination sees. 

Leaving, he decides on an early start for tomorrow.

Driving away from the farm the squashed fox in the hedgerow floods the car with its pungent rotting musk. This will be another night alone with only images and emotions for comfort, but that’s OK. There have been many nights and a hundred training runs, a thousand jogged steps, a thousand setting suns and two thousand tides since starting on this road. The grey pebble boulders have become a little smaller with the brush of the sea and the thin quartz rings have become a little more polished. One more night is fine.  

But why did he start? But he knows why. But how far is far enough? And how far is … too late?

I look through the eyes of another.

Sun haze, blurred coastline. St Davids in the distance across the shimmering …   

[A work in progress, just something different to keep me going in between writing a book and putting together a powerpoint presentation for Kendal.]

In between shopping, running, climbing, driving to and from London, climbing. running and eating, I managed to sign a contract with Vertebrate publishing the other day.

The book has been a long time coming, but will be published around September next year.

Although I have already written a book of essays which has not been published, this one will cover the first thirty-seven years, mainly focusing on my time in the prison service and the climbing throughout that period. The book will end in 2003 when I left the prison service to become a full time climber and writer.

I would hope to write something fresh and different than ‘Just another book about climbing.’ time will tell I suppose.

But whatever, at the moment i’m writing for five hours a day, nearly everyday, and as The Hippy has just loaned me his house for a month while he does what I normally do at this time of the year and goes to the Himalayas, how can I fail?

Here is another piece about the book by Ray Wood on the DMM site and a bit more on the ME site

Thanks to the Vertebrate team for having the confidence and faith.

“What if your fears and dreams existed in the same place?

What if to get to heaven you had to brave hell?

What if everything you ever wanted cost you everything you ever achieved

Would you still go there?”

I had only been climbing for three years when I heard of a chop route, a term which had be used to describe a climb called The Bells, The Bells!. At the time I didn’t know what a chop route was, but interest piqued, I looked up the climb, read the history and the seed was set.

This type of climbing where a person is prepared take themselves into a very serious situation was something that fascinated me and several years passed, until eventually, I climbed The Bells. Along the way the dreams and emotions took me to depths of despair, into highs of imagined sequence, into tunnel carpal syndrome and tennis elbow and into the horror that is chance. Chance, because the rock on North Stack is friable and snappy and so, no matter how much physical training you do, and how many solid climbs you have climbed, this element of chance, or luck, will always be with you and the crux of this type of climb will always be the first move stepping from the ground. This type of climbing, a psychological outing, the sort of thing that even if you were one of the best climbers in the country you still wouldn’t attempt, has always appealed to me.  

In recent years I have climbed many routes of this ilk and in various styles, some hard, some easy, some fun, some not so fun, but always it comes back to one or two routes in a summer that grab my imagination more than the rest. Last year, by accident, I found another of these routes.

I went to Craig Dorys on the Lleyn Peninsular with the Hippy to have a look at Bam Bam, a route I had seconded James McHaffie on the previous year. I wanted the holds chalked, having holds chalked on Stigmata Buttress makes a big difference as the rock is so poor and generally a chalked hold means it has been pulled and it is more trustworthy than an un-chalked hold, but the steepness and the roofs of Bam Bam made abseiling the line to have a look and chalk a few holds really difficult and in the end I couldn’t be bothered.

On the day of Bam Bam, Caff had mentioned that a route to the right, also a Stevie Haston line, was supposedly so serious, Haston had told Caff never to try and on-sight it, but it did look easier to check out on a rope. At that time I didn’t know the name of the climb, the grade or even where it went, all I knew was, Caff said that if the climb had been a sport route it would have been given a grade of 7b+. Having climbed a lot of the other routes on Stigmata Buttress, Bobok, Rust Never Sleeps and The Gross Clinic to name a few, the thought of a route blasting straight up the very overhanging cliff and not following a feature was mind blowing. Being someone who classes himself as an average type of rock climber, whose grades fluctuate depending on how many expeditions I have been on that year, I had no worries about throwing a rope down for a play and at no time did I think it would be anything other than a look at something way beyond realms of possibility for me.

In the first third there are three rusty pegs and a very small cam which can be placed next to the highest peg, but reaching the top peg I had to nearly cut loose on two occasions, this was certainly not normal Dorys technique. Leaving the top peg the holds are smaller and the climbing technical and there is no gear for about twenty feet. This is insomnia inducing climbing sequence.  

At its steepest, the climb now enters a small overhanging corner, which is so steep it’s very easy to fall out of. Fortunately there were a few cams here to ease the madness, although, just as the holds on Dorys are a little temperamental, so is the strength of the gear placements.

A very controlled hyperventilating squirm up the overhanging corner, reaches a ledge, that in an article written by Stevie Haston, (OTE 141) he calls commodious and describes pulling onto the ledge absolutely wasted and staying there for half an hour.

Leaving the ledge takes a lot of will power as it feels very safe even though you are never sure the whole thing wont collapse.

A very small cam and a hand placed peg next to each other are now the only gear worth calling for what feels like a lifetime. A skyhook and a small tri-cam in a shallow pocket higher up give you something to look down on but nothing to feel happy about and creaking holds, small pockets, a flag-a pop-a crimp, all take the mind to a new level.

Tell yourself this is a sport climb and try to relax, but actually, this is Dorys, and look down if you dare, the ropes arc and bow and the ground looks a long way away but not far enough!

At last, a break is reached where good cams can be placed and an arm can be hooked. Gasping and sweating and stressing, ‘something will blow, something will blow’ a few more moves leave you stranded beneath the summit with a hard, direct move between you and near certain salvation. 

As I said, when I first stumbled upon this route last year, I knew nothing about it, it was only later I found out it was called Melody and originally given the grade HXS. Digging deeper, I found Haston’s timeline published on UKC which gave Melody E9 6b/c. But there was still very little info about the line or the climbing and so just beneath the top of the crag faced with this hard, on off move, but presented with a line of holds a metre and a half out right I plumed for the line of holds. This line, still no giveaway, was more controlled and the thought of blowing the route on the direct finish, after all that you have done below, is enough to put you in an institution.

Unfortunately at the end of that first day I knew I was hooked, it was The Bells, the bells all over again. This climb, that I didn’t know the name or the grade was absolutely brilliantly in a crazy, deadly, lunatic-laughing-sort-of-way. The thought of the emotions that would be running through my mind on the lead were addictive.

After a second day on the route and a few nights in the dark with a bottle of red wine, the time came for an attempt at the lead, but to make this climb, in my mind, justifiable, I backed up the first three pegs with my own pegs. I placed my pegs immediately alongside the original pegs, and if anything the first and the third were not as good as the originals would have been when first placed, but at least I had placed them and they were not rusty. At the time I thought this was acceptable and all said and done the pegs only protected the first twenty feet of climbing and would not stop a ground fall if a hold blew before placing the cam in the base of the corner at the sixty foot point.   

Leaving the crumbling pillar at the start of the climbing proper, it took as much mental strength as I had. Burling and locking-off and pulling, got me quite high, in fact, high enough to make my forearms feel hot and bloated and I was just beneath the moves right, to reach into the base of the overhanging corner when I caught sight of the ropes running without any gear clipped and POP, I came out of my self-induced hero-coma and my head almost imploded. I threw an arm anyway and caught a hold and fortunately the hold didn’t disintegrate. With burning arms and melting head I placed the cam into the groove and lurched pulling and shuffling into the non-resting position. The groove passed in a blur of soft rock, crumbling rock and snappy quartz and there I was at last dragging myself onto the commodious ledge.  

Climbing can be many things to many people, exercise, fun, friends, the outside, the banter, the camaraderie. That is why climbing is great. But climbing can be so much more if taken to another place, another level, a place that a few warped and wonderful will venture. Climbing then becomes an absorbing, terrifying, challenge, a place that you fears and dreams exist side by side.

Leaving the ledge, I place the double zero cam and the hand placed peg and set off. Holds creak, but I feel good although my head screams, begging for reverse with every move – a leg flag, a pop, a crimp and a powerful crossover. I reach the positive crispy-gold hold in the centre of the wall. Side by side, two very poor cams are placed,( on this occasion I didn’t use the skyhook or tri-cam). Leaving this hold takes a strong sense of belief but there is nothing else to do as reversing was not an option. Powerful moves, feet on small sloping edges, I feel good, this is going to happen … Two, maybe three moves from the sanctuary of the good break, the good gear – the ropes arc, massive space below my feet, empty air, shale, grass, the sea – my mind is strong, no room for doubt – I rock-up, a high foothold, too high though, and CRACK, the sound of gun with the barrel pushed to my temple, both handholds explode and I’m flying and screaming and falling and screaming and falling and falling…

Eventually I stop, I’m hanging half way down the lower wall, the hand placed peg and the double zero cam have held. I’d fallen fifty feet … Time to go and drink some more wine!

Returning a few days later with The Hippy and Ray wood, Ray had been with us on the previous visit and filmed the fall and fancied a bit more of this, we were shut down even before we started.

Stevie Haston was in the country and he had been visiting Dorys with Lee McGinley trying a new route. We reached the crag and found Stevie hanging half way down Melody. He was not pleased with my pegs and after running from the bottom of the crag to the top in a very quick time, (he was training for a massive endurance running race at the time and could run very quick), he gave me some words of wisdom about my pegs and the line I was taking and removed my pegs, so we decided it was best to leave the crag and forget about Melody.

A year has passed and unfortunately my mind does not let things go that easy. It would be simple to move on and forget and not face the challenge, but unfortunately I struggle with walking away. Yesterday I successfully climbed the second ascent of Melody using the original top two pegs which Stevie placed in 2005 and finishing direct as for the first ascent.

Time to go bolt clipping, time to get some sleep, time to go detox!

The Frumious Bandersnatch. E7 6c ** 30m Fallen Block Zawn Rhoscollyn Nick Bullock,Graham Desroy. 14^th Aug 2011.
 

Start below the fin as for The Jub–JubBird and follow this route up the crack and corner for approximately 5 metres until level with a down pointing fang and slab beneath the second small overhang on the right arête. Pull right into the small overhang and then right again to get established on the arête and the face to the left of Godzilla. (Three ropes were used to climb this first section before ditching one rope after placing gear on the face and clipping it to another rope) Climb the arête and face direct (Bold) between The Jub–JubBird and Godzilla, until the large flake crack of Godzilla is reached. (Phew) Follow the large flake crack of Godzilla to the jamming niche below the roof. Rest, breath deep, arrange bomb-proof gear and try not to think about where you are about to launch. (The psychological crux)

With no high runners in Godzilla, you will regret it as you do not want an ounce of rope drag for what is to come; pull left out of the niche onto the seriously overhanging wall by using those, oh-so-worrying, undercut-flakes. Clip a peg on the left. (The peg is good, although it is a small blade and doesn’treally settle the turmoil that is now threatening to explode your mind all over that lovely orange rock!). Undercut with much vigour hoping the holds don’t explode quicker than your biceps and make wild, no … make really wild moves up and left to a good rail in the middle of the face. Place gear in the slightly worrying booming rail before you reach a point of total meltdown and then layaway directly up to stand on the rail. Make a few very hard moves up by using small sloping crimps until a final dramatic throw, slightly left, for a very good hold can be made. If you are still there, and haven’t plunged into outer-space, one final hard move, with peddling feet and screaming mind, will establish you onto a more sane angle. A big breath can now be taken before you jibberwocky your way to the top of the fin.

[NB: This climb was successfully led on the second attempt. On the first attempt all gear was placed on lead and a monster lob was taken on the crux move near the top of the climb. The ropes were then pulled and after about 15 minutes I set off again without removing the gear, which was in place from the first attempt as we were on a time limit from the tide, and because the climb is so steep it is a pain to abseil and clean. Not the most perfect style but a style that is accepted.

Three people worked the climb with me over the five visits, Graham Desroy, Callum Muskett and Dave Evans, (Cheers all three of you) all of them, at first, thought the line may feel eliminate, but after working it on a rope they decided it was anything but, and the climb and the climbing was  brilliant 🙂 ]

 
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

The hippy and I spotted this space last year. I abseiled down the fin, but, oh my God, was it steep, so steep in fact to make inspecting nearly impossible. But as I slid down into the orange dark depths, I did see holds, well, holds of a kind, they looked more like something you find in a foil packet and dip into a tub of salsa than stand and pull, but there were definitely holds. Gear… yes there was some of that also. Sliding lower, just looking gave me cramp and pumped out my forearms. The Hippy and I chose to run away.
 

Returning to reassess this year, a few weeks ago, I abseiled with my mind open and it wasn’t long before my eyes were on stalks, ‘Jesus, its steep.’ Checking out a direct line from the junction of The Jub–Jub Bird and Godzilla was interesting, but it took about three seconds to realise that this was not happening. But … oh my … following the Godzilla flake for a few moves led to some crazy looking down pointing flakes which would take the brave, or the stupid, into a whole world of craziness. A rail in the middle of the fin, then gave some kind of respite and gear, and above, there were crimps, of a kind, but bloody hell, it looked desperate, desperate anyway for a fat, non-bouldering mountaineer. In for a penny and all of that, the Hippy and I threw a rope down and we went for a look anyway.

The first soiree was fun… no, I lie, the first soiree was terrifying. Lowering down into that place of tortured souls truly felt like entering a Salvidor Dahli painting. My mind screamed and begged, but down I went, down into the fiery depths. Climbing out from the Godzilla niche, being the first to ever pull on those flakes and expecting them to burst like a boil, nearly sent me over the edge. But I pulled up and winced and immediately pumped out, but the rope pulled and I wanted to reverse, but the rope pulled, and I swung and lunged for the manky piece of tat threaded through the eye of the ancient peg in Godzilla, and the rope pulled and I hung in space, surfing-spread-eagle like Superman but not really feeling like Superman, gripping a flake in one hand and some tat in the other while being pulled up and desperately wanting down … ‘Oh lord, if I ever get out of here I promise I will be a good boy and pray every day!’“Slack, slack, slack, slack, slack…” The hippy came out of his sun induced coma above and eventually lowered me, where I stuffed a cam into the off-width crack of Godzilla and clipped in.

Eventually I manage to commit and tentatively pulled on the undercut flakes, but voices in my head screamed and wailing banshees howled and the world turned black…
Reaching the rail in the middle of the fin, try and try and try as I did, I couldn’t fathom a way to continue, and so, I eventually let go and penduled into the corner of Godzilla and scuttled to the top ready to unleash the secret technical weapon.

The hippy lowered, not looking like the secret technical weapon, he looked more like the secret technical wimp as he wittered-on about being scared, but eventually he swung into the flake of Godzilla and climbed the undercut left traverse, where he had a technical whitey and refused to go out and try to work the undercut flake moves. So, using a whole load of jiggery–pokey, the Hippy established himself above the undercut flake moves, without actually pulling on them and then set too in solving the mystery of the top, which he eventually did by using some really small things that in some life may resemble holds, but not mine! Basically it was a boulder problem – a crimp–sloper–intermediate sloper–slap for big-ish hold–pull like a train–gasp-yell-scream – sort of  finishing sequence, and all with very small footholds and way above the sea and way above the last gear … ‘Great!’

As I lowered for the second time, swinging wildly, kicking off the rock, so at the end of each swing back into the rock, I could push out again, was fun in a similar sort of way I would think it’s fun for little kids to pull the legs off Daddy Longlegs, but I survived long enough to place a cam in the base of the Godzilla flake which meant the rope would lower me directly down the line of the lower section, the unclimbed arête between the start of the Jub–Jub Bird and Godzilla.         

Slapping back up the arête I knew it was on as long as I didn’t think too much about the lack of gear and some of the suspect nature of the holds and as long as I could induce some power into my body to become a boulderer and as long as I could lose as much weight as James McHaffie had for The Big Bang. Not much to ask then!
 
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought–
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

Six visits later, with many memories, a new pair of rock shoes, the loss of skin, a monster lob and many funny comments stored, (The best being The Hippy on our second visit whimpering “I don’t want to go down there, it’s scary, no pleeeeese don’t make me go down there!”) the route, that I was now calling, The Frumious Bandersnatch, (Thanks Tim) even before I had climbed it, is now an actual thing of beauty and waiting a second ascent … Anyone?

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
 Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
 O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
 He chortled in his joy.

Thanks to Alastair Lee (http://www.posingproductions.com/homepage.php) and Dave Reeves for coming along and filming the goings-on!

And thanks to Lewis Carroll for having the foresight to write Jabberwocky to give climbers loads of options for naming routes!