Stupenda: Italian for marvellous, wonderful, stupendous, wondrous, terrific, stunning.

I was acting like a truculent teenager. ‘We should be on The Dru. We should be on The Grande Jorasses. The weather is perfect; we should not be climbing a three hundred-metre day route called Stupenda. And what the hell is a Stupenda anyway?’

I sat on the wall by the Midi Téléphérique Station, while Jack Geldard, my partner for this climbing outing had gone in search of boulangerie goods. Warmed by the afternoon sun, basking, the Chamonix hubbub was going on behind – revving cars, clacking ski boots, clacking pole tips, barking dogs - and I could not help but try and  remember how many other times I had done this, how many other times had I sat and waited for a téléphérique to take me climbing and I couldn’t help but think how some of the innocent magic had disappeared. Life can be a bit of a runaway – one moment its the jitters and nervous anticipation and excitement, its the first swig of beer, fumbles in the dark, into the unknown and then, its routine, run-of-the-mill, the usual, casual, comfortable.

I watched a couple of workers chipping and spreading salt on an patch of ice that looked like the outline of an island – hard, pocked, brown, jagged around the edge, shrivelled, shrinking, cracked, withered – water trickled away from the ice patch and disappeared into a crack between slabs.  

Jack and I, laden with heavy climbing sacks, skied the deserted top half of the Valley Blanche. We skied past the Super Couloir with its thread of grey and then on through the blue Séracs du Géant before turning right and skinning in the sun,along the Leschaux Glacier, heading for the silver metal hut that I had stayed many times and with many different friends.

Following ski tracks, the only sound a swish and click and heavy breathing and the rumble of rocks loosened by the sun. On my left I passed a single ski tip sticking out of the snow. I skied to it and checked to see if it was an Atomic, one of the set I lost when airlifted with a broken ankle from the Petites Jorasses in 2004. It wasn’t.

Jack Geldard skinning the Leschaux Glacier heading for the hut.

The Grande Jorasses was to my right, massive and austere, so big it looks like an optical illusion, a gateway to Italy that closed the door to the Leschaux Glacier making this a cul-de-sac. But there was no red T-sign here in this dead end, no semi-detached, suburban living.

I was always impressed by the Grande Jorasses, the ice and spurs, the castellated skyline. Looking at this mountain took me back years, it took me back to reading books by John Barry and Desmaison and Bonington and epic accounts of The Colton/Macintyre. It took me to my first Alpine trip, The Croz Spur and The Shroud with Owain Jones and it was easy to remember that night of being inside a bivvy bag with no sleeping bag or sleeping mat and bouncing all night like a big green kidney bean because we had not been able to find the hut. I can still feel the intimidation and excitement and the cold oozing from those high walls, I could still sense younger exuberance and I missed it.  

Jack and I climbed the ladders and traversed the snow slope and settled in for a night in the hut. We shared the small box with an Italian who was taking pictures and film of Tom Ballard soloing the Colton/Macintyre and some friendly Polish guys who had white sun-creamed smothered faces. At 4am we rose and ate dried Pain au chocolat, washed down by instant espresso coffee that came from a small paper tube before leaving the hut at 5am.

The first two pitches were avoided as the ice was not at home, leaving me to begin pitch three of the final five pitches, the meat of the route. Pic credit Jack Geldard.

I removed the gloves which were stuffed down my front and swung the rack of gear, clipped to a sling around my neck, to the side – unfortunately the food in my chest pockets and the bundles of blue, 4mm tat, still bulged like a paunch and my jacket dragged and caught as I pushed and squirmed, pressed tight inside the granite chimney.

Jack and I had climbed and down-climbed a snow ledge to the right to avoid the first two easy ice pitches of Stupenda because they were not there, or at least the ice wasn’t and neither was the styrofoam we had read about in Philippe Batoux’s, The finest climbs in the Mont Blanc Range, book. Stuck to the dark, beneath the numerous overhangs, when we were lucky, was clotted meringue, but most of all it was sugar that dissolved when stirred.

The day before, on the approach from The Midi, I rejoiced in the quiet, because on many occasions through the winter, this high mountain wilderness can be a circus of groups being led on a guided conveyor. I use the téléphériques, and most handy they are, but at times I wonder if the mountains above Chamonix would be better without them and only then would the most determined enter – but I also know the lifts give employment and bring wealth and I know how much I enjoy them when knackered and even when I’m not, so maybe it is just a problem I need to deal and on the occasion when the hills are quiet, celebrate.

I feel climbing has become a similar conveyor, due mainly to the internet. People ask for condition reports and only experience when they know a climb – especially a climb with a certain reputation – is in exceptional condition. The modern Alpinist appears less concerned about an unknown experience, it appears unimportant to sample goods untested and like many of the skiers, who are happy to form queues, and sit in groups rubbing shoulders with literally hundreds of other people on the Valley Blanche, many Alpinists today appear to place the experience of solitude and the feeling of being out-on-a-limb, way down the list of importance. Alpinists of today appear happy to live exactly the same experience as many others simply to guarantee a tick. I find this hunger for knowledge and information before experiencing a climb, difficult to understand as for me, popping my head above an overhang, not sure of what I’m getting is very important, but as my friend said a few days ago, “Nick, you’re a dinosaur.”

Jack Geldard feeling blurred while contemplating the chimney of pitch three.

Jack in a chimney. Pitch three of Stupenda.

Stupenda is given a grade, V A2 M5+ WI6, I’m not sure what this means as grades in the mountains, I think, are superfluous and most of the time not relevant, and as I climbed higher, passing overhangs so steep that my legs dangled and I locked at the shoulder like being in the gym, so sure I had just free climbed the crux I shouted down to Jack, “Hashtag, first free ascent. @HERO.COM” But as I pulled into a crack, hardly wide enough to fit, and looked up and saw flared and overhanging off-width with smooth walls on either side and a rounded mouth and sugar in its gullet, my hashtag hubris kicked me in the balls and the rising bile burnt my @ego.

Setting off on the crux pitch four. #no free ascent!

Myself on pitch four, “It cant get much steeper than this can it?” … Yes! pic credit Jack Geldard.

On the right wall were two bolts, this I imagined was the A2 section and the bolts had been used for aid. I squirmed and began arm barring and leg barring and body barring until I could bar no more. I remembered climbing with my friend Dan McMannus one wet weekend in North Wales as he prepared to travel to Yosemite and we tackled every off-width test piece The Llanberis Pass had to offer. A desperate body eating crack called Fear of Infection had me vomiting as I slithered in the rain with Dan laughing above me and pulling hard on the ropes. The walls either side of this Stupenda were smooth and Fear of Infection came back to me in a rush but this time I was wearing crampons, had axes, several layers of clothing and gloves and the rain was substituted with cold but the nausea was very similar.

Jack Geldard seconding the crux pitch.

My torso was above the highest bolt and I was still free. Over and over and over I attempted to stick a clear slither of ice, welded to the back of the off-width with a pick, but each time, only a tooth snagged. I needed to escape the constriction, I had to lean out to make upward, but my left foot, shin, thigh, failed to find purchase and repeatedly I slithered back to the one foothold inside the crack. ‘You can do this. You. Can. Fucking. Do. This.’ Suddenly I realised how important free climbing this stupid Stupenda had become and my determination scared me. Up again and once again I grabbed the axe which was stuck to a few millimetres of clear ice. Breathing, thrutching, panting, sweating, I made a few centimetres and fished with the left axe for something solid. I hung there wedged, breathing deep, sucking, panting and stuck in place by means of a twisted thigh and upper body tension pressed to the inside of the crack, but no matter, I could not hook anything other than sugar with the left axe. Looking at the bolt level with my right foot – it had a carabineer clipped, – it looked so tempting for a front point, but I couldn’t, I just had to give everything because the personal reward in climbing this aid pitch free suddenly meant so much. I matched the axe with its pick in the clear ice with both hands and pulled and squirmed and made millimetres. The right leg flailed and then caught and a few more millimetres were made and as I pulled higher the axe blew with spiralling  glass shards and I expolded, and as I flew, being scared did not enter into my head, but for a second, just one quick plummeting second, being disappointed, being not good enough did. But the disappointment was only for a second, and it was  in that same second that I flew twenty-five feet, but then pulled back up by using the rope, and this time, by using a front point neatly placed into the karabiner, I managed to find something to hook with the left axe and pulled and began squirming and instead of falling, this time I continued and eventually caught hold of the belay.

Myself climbing the easy and pleasant pitch five. Jack did climb the first 30m then belayed when it became steep and scary. Pic credit Jack Geldard.

Jack making amends on pitch six after jibbing from the pitch before.

Just when you think you deserve some easy, you get run-out and desperate. Pic credit Jack Geldard.

Three more bold and demanding pitches followed, this Stupenda did not give up, and as I eventually stood in the brèche, encompassed by dark and completely exhausted, I knew I could not have given more, but this is what I had wanted wasn’t it? Had I wanted the same experience as the queues that this route will undoubtedly see when it becomes an ice romp, I would have waited, but crowds are not my thing and a different experience is more important.


I lay on a wooden bench looking at the stars. Jack lay on a second bench doing the same. There were millions of them, absolutely bloody millions but each star was different. It was half past midnight and we had skied the bottom section of the VB and walked the steep snow slope leading through the woods to the small wooden hut at the start of the narrow and zigzagged James Bond Track. The track would lead us back to Chamonix centre. I sat up and looked across the orange glow and the moving white headlights of Chamonix and on to the snow slopes of Brèvent and Flégère on the opposite side of the valley. The piste bashers were out like some alien, War of the Worlds invasion – flashing yellow lights and powerful white beams smoothing and grooming snow and moving around the steep valley sides.

“How you feeling?” Jack asked.

“I’m totally knackered.” I replied, while not taking my eyes from the moving lights of the piste bashers that were now blurred by the cloud of condensation escaping my mouth. Then continued, “Bloody love this shit, this feeling, this life, never want it to end.”

But of course it will because I was stood in the same queue as everyone else, and this thought almost made me weep.

Back on the glacier.

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Shine On.


At the base of Crack Baby in less than perfect conditions. Pic credit, Andy Houseman.

 I walked through the front door of my home for the winter, a modern two bedroom apartment in the centre of Chamonix. Neil Brodie and Kenton Cool were waiting. “Come on, pack your stuff.” They were about to whisk me away to Kandersteg in Switzerland to climb a 340m icefall called Crack Baby.

I had just returned to the apartment from two nights out climbing the Ginat on the north face of the Droits with Ross Hewitt. My left wrist, the one I was refusing to believe was broken, throbbed and had taken-on a red, angry appearance. “Don’t think I’m going to make it, my wrist is killing and I’ve run out of Voltarol.” Gutted didn’t cover it, but after one thousand metres, with, what I later found out was a break running horizontally across the head of the Radius, I had maxed out on tolerance to pain.

Brodie and Kenton left the apartment immediately and returned the following evening happy and buzzing – the climb that I wanted to climb as much as either of them had lived up to reputation for quality and experience.

Nearly every year since the broken wrist winter, I’ve been lusting for a chance to get to grips with Crack Baby but it has never happened, which for anyone who knows me will understand this is not a good situation to be around and this winter was shaping up for much of the same and I was beginning to resemble a cabin fever suffering Delbert Grady from Stanley Kubrick’s, The Shining. It was a good job I didn’t have a wife and children!  

Now, call me, up-my-own-arse, which is fine, but I have never envisaged having a problem in the actual physical climbing aspect of Crack Baby, no, this has never even entered into my small brain and as long as I get to the base of the route I have always been pretty assured that it will not be a problem, but there are other, more subtle glitches ready and waiting to stop the would be suitor than the actual climbing and the guide book tip, “Bring nerves of steel,” possibly rings true if  fresh snow is encountered.   

About six days ago on a clear and bright, perfect blue-sky morning I paid my first visit to Breitwangflue, the massive and imposing walls and home to Crack Baby, but I was partnered by The Catalogue MOG, Adam George, who had already climbed my long lusted climb, so we were there to try Alpha Säule, a 250m flow to the left. We had driven from Chamonix that morning, leaving at 3.45 am, and as we passed beneath the weaving ice-flow of Crack Baby, I attempted to ignore, but in my mind’s eye the image of throwing myself into the snow and refusing to move any farther until Adam agreed to climb the route was strong. Adam being so MOG would have just picked me up and slapped me, so my teenage strop didn’t occur and by midday we were successfully back and basking in the heavily tracked snow at the base of the climb feeling content. Well, I say content, I was certainly very happy to have climbed a great climb with Adam, but I had a niggle and as we walked away on one of the most perfect weather and conditions days ever, that niggle, niggled quite a lot. I jokingly suggested maybe would had time to throw a quick lap on Crack Baby but that probably would have been greedy and Adam had just bought a new hoover which I’m certain he was itching to try.


Adam, Catalogue MOG, George walking in to Alpha Säule, the flow directly above him with Crack Baby to his right.

Adam on pitch one of Alpha Säule.

Adam climbing one of the more meaty pitches of Alpha Säule no-doubt getting excited with the thought of using his newly acquired hoover.

A shining Catalogue MOG and some other bloke beneath Alpha Säule on a perfect weather day.

Roll forward about six days and here I was again in Kandersteg but this could have been a parallel life, in a parallel universe to my previous visit.

The Gemmi Lodge, Kandersteg.

Andy Houseman and I had driven from Chamonix and arrived in Kandersteg at 11am and after booking into the Gemmi Lodge – a large gothic hotel that had big rooms and empty corridors and old decor and reminded me of the Overlook Hotel from The Shining – we went out to get some mileage nearby as this would be the first icefall climbing Andy had done since 2009, not the perfect preparation for a 340m WI6, but hey, this was Houseman, the most talented off the couch climber I know.

“What the hell, it’s like Scotland.” We had parked at The Ermitage Hotel and walked to the nearby Oeschinenwald and in that time it had begun to rain and the rain was persistent and the temperature rose and the ice gushed tears of despair.

I was not really bothered about climbing ice that was melting and ice I had climbed before and I didn’t need a warm up or a cold shower, but panic was setting in as the fir trees on the hillside above the town were white and the slopes above Crack Baby are notorious for being avalanche prone.

“Bugger this, let’s go for a beer.”  

The money on this two day sortie was beginning to rack up – the fuel from and too Chamonix, the train through the tunnel at Goppenstein, room 237 at The Gemmi Lodge, beers, the parking by the Ermitage Hotel – and none of this concerned me – it really didn’t as long as we climbed Crack Baby –  but as the streets down the centre of Kandersteg became a slushy-slew reminding me of Fort William high street on the West Coast of Scotland and the heavy rain fell even heavier, and the trees up high became even whiter, inside I was panicking and my mind was shouting and it was shouting, “EXPENSIVE FAIL.”

‘No, no, no, this can’t be happening.’ It was 4am and I had sliced open the pad of hard skin at the base of my middle finger on my left hand while cutting a stale baguette-nubbin. The welt, like a flapping piece of pig flesh, immediately oozed deep red. I giddily stood back and watched a little boy trundle down a corridor on a tricycle – I didn’t think the morning could have gotten any worse as we had paid for a breakfast that we could not eat because we were leaving before 7am, but here I was with a deep cut in my hand and blood soaking into my only piece of bread with images of madness running through my mind.      

We left the Lodge and immediately it became apparent how much snow had fallen. Twice before I had climbed in Kandersteg, the second time had been with Steve House – yes, that Steve House – and when I told Steve about Crack Baby he said shall we go and do it? The snow on that occasion was possibly heavier than now, but not much and I steadfastly refused because of the avalanche risk and as I drove my little red van through the yellow lamp-lit, snow covered streets in the centre of town, my head was once again shouting but this time it was shouting “REDRUM.”

The parking spot was covered in fresh deep snow, no surprise there then and the road that Adam and I had romped on compact snow and tarmac was a foot under fresh powder.

Reaching the meadow beneath the 300m, golden brown wall with blurred silver-streaks in the half light of dawn, it was obvious by the waist deep snow there was quite a lot of fresh to be had and after gearing up I swam to the start of the climb and led a 100m pitch such was my enthusiasm to get off the easier angle that would be pummelled by an avalanche. My flapping welt was bleeding beneath the glove and sticking but that was of little concern now. Houseman joined me in my safe cave by the first of several steep sections. “Do you know what’s above this climb?” “No.” I lied trying not to think of freshly loaded slopes. ‘All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.’

Three steep and twisting pitches later I stood belaying inside another cave. Above my head large icicles sharply pointed down and all around spindrift whispered, washing waves of white. A large rumble filled the valley and over to my right I watched a large avalanche pour directly down the line of Alpha Säule, the climb Adam and I had climbed six days ago. I imagined a cascade of blood gushing from an elevator door.  At this point the most obvious reaction would be retreat, but the thought that ran through my mind was, ‘I really hope Andy had not noticed’ and as I took in the rope I worked out every argument in the book for continuing but could not come up with any that sounded reasonable, so I continued in my illusion that the larger than average slough may not have been noticed.


“Right, let’s get the fuck out.”

Looking down the line I first saw a swinging axe, quickly followed by a wide eyed Houseman. “Right, that’s it; let’s get the fuck out of here.”  I guess he had noticed the avalanche! “Why?” I tried to remain calm and sensible looking but feared if the icicles above my head were any lower I would be chopping a hole and shouting, “HERE’S JOHNNY!”


“Strong slough, surely.”

“That was not a strong slough, that WAS an avalanche.”

It was a good job the ledge we were stood was big because it was at this point I took the only option available and dropped to my knees and held up my hands in a praying action and began wailing, “PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESE CAN WE CARRY ON, TWO PITCHES, TWO PITCHES, THAT’S ALL, TWO PITCHES, I’LL LEAD THEM, YOU CAN STAY HERE SAFE AND SOUND – I’LL LEAD THEM – PLEEEEEEEEEEEESE?”


Andy suddenly realising that avalanches were the least of his worries as he was a long way up on a deserted cliff with a madman holding two very sharp implements eventually he gave in.

I speedily set-off before Andy changed his mind while manically grinning trying to restore faith that I wasn’t really crazy, but failed, and within a reasonably quick period, with a lot of looking up, I was at the belay below the final pitch. Andy reached me and apologised for being spooked and I apologised for being obsessed and the world was once again fluffy, although we still had 60m of exposed steep to be climbed which Andy opted for and within a short time we both stood at the top of the climb feeling happy and relieved. I’m sure my relief was more than Andy’s as I began to slide downwards, down toward the next obsession, down towards the depths of my madness, down towards the next shining.    

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All About the Hashtag.


#Adam George Climbing Inachevée Conception in Cogne last week with his hands and feet and axes and crampons and using the rope purely for safety SHOCKER! #Amazing #History in the making #Unbelievable #Important #Not as big as the Shard.


Its 8am and I’m sitting on my bed, leaning against the wall, eating breakfast and listening to the Today Programme on Radio 4. The cream coloured duvet is rucked and crumpled; a few crumbs of toast lay scattered. In a flash my mind highlights, ‘these crumbs will cause me grief later’ and then it locks on to something else, John Humphrys has just mentioned rock climbing – he did, he really did. I quickly put down my mug of coffee before I choke. Throwing coffee over my bed will be a load more annoying than crumbs.

The news item that is being talked about on Radio 4 is Tommy Caldwell and Kevin Jorgeson’s ascent of #TheDawnWall in Yosemite. After only a few seconds the age old cliché and massively over worked word, ‘conquered’ is used, and its followed with the usual platitudes and ignorance and damaging condescending jokey banter which interviewers generally revert to when talking about something they do not understand or see value in.

This is surely a dream. More coffee. I risk taking another sip but as I do, John Long, yes, THE, John Long, a climber whom I respect as much for his writing as his climbing enters into #TheDawnWall spray, “This is incredible, amazing, its history in the making.” I choked. Coffee sprayed across the room. Guess my duvet cover was doomed from the word go.

In society and media today, I know there is fascination with the lives of others, reality TV and general pap, its abundant and devoured and it could be said that two very driven and accomplished rock climbers successfully climbing a cutting edge new route is refreshing and I would agree. Also in the news this week was The Charlie Hebdo murders, Boko Haram had murdered two thousand people in Nigeria, innocent people with families and friends held hostage by Islamic State, were beheaded, two young girls had been used by men to act as suicide bombers and murdered at least nineteen people and of course had blown themselves to bits and here I was listening to a report on Radio 4, supposedly a serious news outlet, telling me how amazing and important and history making it was that two climbers had reached the top of a rock climb in Yosemite and as usual when climbing hits mainstream it wasn’t even reported correctly, “The first time El Cap has been free climbed.” No it isn’t.  

I am a climber… in fact; I am quite a dedicated climber, someone who can see the personal value in climbing for the individual at all levels and within all genres. As a personal achievement, Tommy Caldwell and Kevin Jorgeson’s ascent of #TheDawnWall is exceptional and I whole heartedly commend them. They are both very skilled, grass roots climbers and have worked exceptionally hard, the vision to climb #The DawWall is inspirational and I do not intend in any way to be insulting or derogatory to their ascent. In light of much that is reported under the heading ‘Climbing’ #TheDawnWall is at least grass roots and worthy, it’s actually a new line and climbed in good style and for once it isn’t the oldest, the youngest or the quickest and they have not attempted to disguise or hide the actual facts about the style of ascent, they did not use oxygen, so good on them.

In the very small pond, which is climbing, although growing bigger by the day since #TheDawnWall mainstream mega spray, #TheDawnWall ascent is history, but, and I say this as a person who values climbing and what it gives to those taking part, it is not “world history in the making”, and even within climbing, to sell this ascent as the most difficult climb in the world is hype and incorrect and devalues many other ground breaking climbs. Not for one moment do I think Tommy Caldwell or Kevin Jorgeson had anything to do with the majority of what was put out, but this is the problem when you give news of your dream climb to a media company, or leave it in the hands of an over-zealous sponsor.     

The mainstream reporting of #TheDawnWall is just another example of how headlines within the mainstream media industry need to be quantifiable, understandable and this is part of the problem, because the majority do not, and never will understand climbing. So they – the masses – will be spoon-fed platitudes, clichés, comparisons, trite jokes and dumbed-down. “They are climbing with only their hands and feet,”(Really!) And this ignorant reporting damages and belittles and actually makes climbers sound like ignorant obsessed fools who have no regard for what is actually real history in the making and truly important world events that affect humanity as a whole.

I do not have any issue with climbing being reported in the correct place and to an audience that understand – climbing sites, climbing magazines – these places and the people who report for them will at least understand the intricacies of what they report, but any climber that has direct involvement with the likes of The Daily Mail and Fox News - I mean this generically as I don’t know whether Caldwell and Jorgeson did - should really question their motives and integrity. In my mind these horrible racist and acerbic right-wing media outlets should be avoided like a sexually transmitted disease.

As the morning continued I became more and more ‘amazed’ yes, to me the truly amazing thing about this was not the actual physical aspect of successfully climbing #TheDawnWall, which is a brilliant effort, but let’s face it, it was always going to happen as it involved two of the best rock climbers in the world who are fortunate and good enough to be able to dedicate several years to working the moves, so of course, at some point it was going to happen. No, the most amazing thing was how much airtime and press and how many well-known climbers were jumping aboard #TheDawnWallGravyTrain to be interviewed and appear in, and on, mainstream media and nearly without exception, every one of these experts said the same thing … “It’s amazing, history in the making, it’s a really important, hands and feet, they shit in a tube, it’s the same as winning a gold medal, bigger than The Shard, the most difficult… “

I’m sorry, the successful ascent of #TheDawnWall on the grand scheme really is not important or amazing and it’s not like winning a gold medal – climbing  #TheDawnWall is not a competition, it wasn’t and isn’t athletics, there are no losers or winners – climbing in my mind is not sport, it’s a lifestyle, it goes so much deeper than being sport, so please don’t try to compare it with a competitive sport that a crowd pay money to watch. Once again this is an attempt to make the general public appreciate how major this ascent is for climbers, but why do we need to tell people how important this is for us? I do not really understand competition climbing and I know this is my problem. I certainly do not want to see climbing in the Olympics as I think it will dilute and affect the grass roots level of the activity, but I can see that on some level, competitions and events do pave the way to acceptance for the individual and I suppose this has to be a good thing.    

Climbing #TheDawnWall was two very skilful and driven and fortunate climbers, whom I respect tremendously doing something that is important to them, but it’s not the cure for Ebola, climbing is a privileged activity that the masses think involves a bunch of skinny and ignorant and obsessed folk who are funded by Mummy and Daddy and too lazy to do a ‘proper job.’  

Personally I think the ‘expert’, climbers appearing on TV and radio lost a great opportunity to actually say something meaningful and show the world that climbers can be rounded and world-wise and conscious of world events that actually are important? Maybe somehow, they could have attempted to explain what it is about climbing that makes it such a great activity and why climbers do what they do and why at times, may appear to forsake and try to ignore some of the inhumanity and inequality and madness. Maybe I’m being unfair, maybe I missed the reports where they did say something different and meaningful or maybe they were not given the opportunity. If this is the case, I apologise but you also had the choice to say thanks, but no thanks; you could have argued that the general public do not need the same old platitudes and clichés.

As climbers do we really need to appease the masses or act like performing monkeys? If money is that tight, and I don’t begrudge at all grassroots climbers like Caldwell and Jorgeson wanting to earn a wage, but for some of the other supposedly ‘top climbers’ out there who have been involved in forms of climbing that are more stunts than actual climbing, please make sure you sell us out for a whole pot of money that will make you comfortable for the rest of your life, don’t dumb down and ruin and make a mockery of our beloved lifestyle for peanuts, because you will only prove that we really are all monkeys.

“Good on them, they are making a living and not damaging anything.” I hear this said regularly about the ‘top climbers’ that have broken into mainstream, well I actually do think they are damaging climbing and I think much of what is being done is dishonest. Honesty and integrity appear to have been forsaken in the pursuit of lying to the public, making another headline, raising a profile and increasing the bank balance or attempting to become the next Bear Grylls or Ben Fogle. 

We can all make mistakes, everyone who has dedicated their life to a passion and activity that has costs running into tens of thousands – airfare, expedition costs, peak fees, Liaison Officer bills, environmental costs, garbage deposits and freight costs can easily be tempted, it is very easy not to see the big picture and the damage that may come from letting a PR company deal with your affairs or accepting money from a company who has no connection to climbing.

Several years ago I was part of a team funded by Samsung to attempt a new route on Annapurna III and at the time I battled with the implications of being funded by an electronics company, but in the end I accepted. The person we liaised was passionate and honest and had an understanding of what we were attempting, but it soon became apparent the company in general did not and some of their marketing strategy went against what I stood for. Fortunately nothing came of the attempt and nothing came from the marketing. Soon after our failure, Samsung moved their marketing with a lot more success to a mountain the mainstream media and the general public do associate as it has a quantifiable aspect in being the highest, even bigger than The Shard I believe, and all went well in the sale of phones because of course everyone needs to tweet from 8000m.  

I now know I made a mistake becoming involved with a non-climbing company, I was greedy and I grabbed the chance to attempt a mountain I really wanted to experience – desire got the better of me. I am now older and I have experienced and learnt, I have not been involved within a climbing capacity with a non-climbing company since and I certainly will not allow any company to act on my behalf when dealing with the press, without total control of what is being said.

If you are a climber you will know that tommy Caldwell and Kevin Jorgeson have sacrificed in their endeavours and to us, ‘climbers’ this is valuable and commendable and inspirational, but once it begins to be reported in the mainstream, all of the intricacies and subtleties go out of the window.

My fear for climbing is that once we drink from the mainstream chalice, which obviously began a long time ago and has been a part of climbing ever since, we lose control. Media climbing is escalating massively given modern technology and my fear is this,  how long is it in today’s society, a society of government cuts and austerity, before the consequences of putting ourselves out into the public domain hit – how long before government takes notice and regulations begin? How long before a rope tax or a crag tax, or you have to have private health care because you are being reckless alongside those other risk takers who smoke or eat McDonalds burgers, who, dare I say, have possibly been drawn in by advertising and it is not their fault. How long before insurance companies and major conglomerates that have nothing to do with climbing, see an angle and get involved – well, of course they already have and the damage is there to be seen. How long before something that is very close to our hearts becomes commoditised and ruled by companies that have no connection or history or empathy with climbing and climbing history or climbers as individuals, companies who do not care about their effect and the damage as long as the money just keeps flowing?

Climbers appear very fond of hashtags nowadays so here are a few of my own,










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Fever Pitch.


Night Fever. M8 250m. Tour Ronde, West Wall. 8/1/15 (This is the name Matt and I will give the line if it turns out to be unclimbed)


In a week where innocent people are shot down in Paris for expressing their cartoon  feelings and then, several hours later, more killing – four innocent hostages and three fundamentalists are shot, also in Paris, it makes writing about a personal experience in the form of a climb, somewhat trite. How the hell as climbers do we continue to stick our heads in the rock and continue like nothing bad is going on out there and why do we continue to spray about something, which on the grand scheme, is pointless and serves no value?

I have never studied in-depth, the news, politics, economics, facts, figures, numbers, philosophy. I have never been able to get a grip of think tanks, meetings, suits, offices, scales, sales, shiny shoes, graphs, policy. Yes, I am ignorant. I am also a person with feeling and emotion; I am a human being and because of this I can tell when something is correct and when something is morally wrong. Is it right to kill people… and by this I mean all people, no matter their religion, nation, colour of skin, beliefs –  personally I don’t think it is. I believe the only way to move on and get somewhere is by listening, attempt at understanding, compassion, forgiveness, openness. In my mind, an eye for an eye solves nothing, it does not bring peace, it’s an out-dated philosophy.    

Since returning from a climb on the Tour Ronde, I have heard and read racism and xenophobia, its rampant. Not everyone who is Muslim and practices Islam is a terrorist or a fundamentalist, one of the two policemen protecting the cartoonists at Charlie Hebdo, Ahmed Merabet, killed at the hands of the fundamentalists, was Muslim. There is no need to call for everyone from a certain religion, faith, background, country, to be herded together and bombed and I would appreciate anyone who knows me, not to express this line – it is racist, small minded and solves nothing – what it does is escalate hate and violence and intolerance and I want no part of it.  

Maybe the questions I raised at the start of this piece are worth reconsidering; maybe climbing and climbers are a small voice of obsessive sanity amongst all of the madness. Maybe the world should begin climbing and then, maybe we will have arguments about bolts and ethics and style, but no one will be shot and racism and xenophobia will be a thing of the past?


On Thursday 8th of January, the day after the Charlie Hebdo attack, Matt Helliker and I stood beneath the West Wall of the Tour Ronde. The glacier was silent. Peaceful. The West Wall – giant brown granite flakes and pillars stood proud and upright, an erect middle finger, a massive up-yours to all of the craziness and racism and for once I didn’t feel guilt. Separation from everything going on out there, gave me faith in my difference. Being in a wonderful white land, surrounded by mountains that were neither racist, xenophobic, hateful or calling for retribution, gave me hope. Each to their own as long as no-one is hurt, but people are being hurt, the world at this present time to me appeared mad –  long live personal challenge, the challenge of human spirit and the fight against gravity - climbing had suddenly become sanity.

Tim Neill and I had attempted this line earlier in the winter but after three pitches we bailed – the climbing had been difficult and committing, there was a certain amount of loose rock and there appeared to be much more difficult climbing above our high point. I would not say I was obsessed by the climb – which after study, does not fit into any description of established climbs on the West Wall and is possibly new – but the soaring overhanging corner promised a commitment of a certain kind and because of this it very much appealed.

Matt set off climbing the first two ‘warm up’ pitches and rapidly established us in the centre of the wall. I climbed the third, difficult pitch, – overhanging, tenuous, technical, something similar to the pod and crux of the E4, Void at Tremadog, with the odd loose block thrown in. Having climbed the pitch, I hang from the belay, still in place from Tim and my the previous high point, and look above, my guesstimate of two more pitches and not as difficult may have been naive, but like most things in my life, I preferred hopeless optimism over gloom and despair, it is this optimism that has seen me step from the ground on many climbs.

The second attempt at the climb had hit a few hold-ups, today was Wednesday, Matt and I were hoping to have attempted the climb on Monday, but Helliker had hit melt down and when he had messaged me at 11pm Sunday evening, vomiting and wasted, we  had to hit the pause. Today was Thursday and now I had a recurrence of a chest infection, but I have never been good at sitting and waiting and even the night before, lying in a sweat filled bed, I knew no-matter, opportunities had to be grasped.

Matt climbed a short overhanging chimney and belayed to the side of an overhanging corner sprouting loose granite needles. As I set off to climb an off-width, which sliced  a steep slab to avoid the sea urchin bristling from the corner, Matt suggested taking the clean wall above and to the right, but this I’m sure is where the established rock climb goes and all said and done, the line was the corner; anything else was copout.

The fierce light of the sun hit the wall, but it was shown short-thrift by the bank of cloud clinging to the summit of Mont Blanc. I hung from picks hooked behind wobbling blocks and hoped they didn’t prize free – there would be no redemption should anything rip – and with each cautious hook, strenuous pull and forced inhalation of breath, breath held inside burning lungs, the death and destruction happing elsewhere in the world was put on hold. I fully embraced, but beneath the surface was the same old guilt, why me, why this life, why not starving, poverty, an office, a factory, a prison cell, a doorway, mental illness. I suppose we all have our crosses?  

Matt climbed the continuation of the corner for fifty metres and it was as technical and difficult and as committing as the two previous pitches. I stood belaying in a small cave, blocks wedged into the corner were suspect and I was in the fall line. Behind me snow ravaged the Grand Pilier d’Angle and Mont Maudit had disappeared behind a wall of cloud that was driven by strong winds. When we next met,  Matt was hanging beneath a roof at the top of the corner, it was dark and snowing – the wind gusted and I felt wasted. “Are you ok to lead on?” Matt asked. I felt like saying, ‘No, of course I’m not,’ but grabbed the gear and set off sensing the end was close.

An hour later, standing together on the crest of the West Wall, the climb was done but the wind was gusting as if we had offended. Snow curled in a speeding cloud of spindrift that whipped over the whale-back ridge and it lashed soft skin and scraped eyes. I felt as blind as some of the people whose comments I had read on Facebook before starting this climb.

At 10pm, after abseiling into a maelstrom, we reached our skis and at midnight Matt and I staggered into Refuge Torino after being beaten by gales and snow and whiteout. When I told Jon Griffith I wanted to attempt this climb on the Tour Ronde, he hit me with an amusing comment and now that comment fizzed  in my brain like Coca Cola, “Nick, why do you want to go to the Tour Ronde, the Tour Ronde is for a Conville Course.” I had never attended a Conville Course, but if this is what they involved, it was obvious I had missed out – sign me up please.

When I woke and staggered from the bedroom at 8am, I was surprised to find the refuge buzzing with people – it turned out E.N.S.A. had based themselves at the hut on the ski test for aspirant guides and as I walked to the toilet I was asked where I had been climbing. I replied The Tour Ronde. “You need to go downstairs and inform the hut warden you are safe, a rescue has been called for you.”  I was shocked and still very asleep and I didn’t immediately move and replied, “Well we didn’t ask for a rescue.” I was told with short thrift that if I had needed a rescue, I would have been quite pleased to have received one, which I suppose was fair, although given the weather it was pretty obvious there were not going to be any rescues happening too quickly. It turned out that Patrick Gabarrou who had been climbing in the cirque had seen our torches high on the Ronde and given the weather, thought it advisable to inform the rescue that they might be needed. Fortunately they weren’t. Its always good to meet one of your hero’s and find he is caring.

Fear appears to be a large part of society today in Europe, fear of missing out, fear of not having the latest electronic item, fear of being unemployed, fear of cultures that are different from our own, fear of being different, fear of actually living. In these mad times climbing, something pretty pointless, gives distraction and purpose and helps me, as an individual, actually put things in perspective, it helps me look from a different perspective. The world has always had something mad going on and will continue to do so and I’m sure once the shock of this latest atrocity has passed, the majority who are fortunate and privileged will get through and continue with life, a life that should be for living and loving, not fearing and hating.


Night Fever. M8, 250m., Tour Rond West Wall. 8/1/15 (This is the name Matt and I will give the line if it turns out to be unclimbed)

  1. 50m. Start a little left of the lowest part of the buttress and climb a rising diagonal, left to right, aiming for the snow field beneath the obvious massive flake/corner in the middle of the face.
  2. 30m. From the apex of the snow field, climb steep cracks until a belay on the left.
  3. 40m. A continuation of the groove line leading to an overhanging pod which is climbed by back and footing to a big spike. From the spike hard moves right establish you beneath a small roof which is climbed using cracks on the right. Continue up the overhanging chimney and corner to belay after approximately 10m.
  4. 15m. follow the overhanging chimney and belay on a ledge beneath an off-width in a clean slab. (It is possible and probably better to climb this pitch together with pitch 3)
  5. 30m. Climb the off-width and at the top hand traverse left (this was climbed to avoid the spikes sprouting from the corner.) until beneath the overhanging corner. Climb the corner until reaching a pedestal and small cave.
  6. 50m. Climb the corner while trying to avoid killing your belayer.
  7. 35m. Climb left onto a snow ledge. A rising traverse to the left leads to an overhanging blocky groove in the back of the bay. Climb this and the continuation until the crest.

After reaching the crest we down climbed snow to the left, (facing out) and abseiled the spur on the left (facing out) of the line of ascent where we found two in-situ anchors.       

Matt Helliker taking us to beneath the corner on pitch two. .

Myself hanging out on the top of the spike before hard moves right and becoming established in the massive corner/flake

Difficult moves right to the bottom of the flake/crack.

Matt Helliker before entering the Void like pod on pitch three.

Matt seconding the technical moves, moving around the roof and entering the flake/crack.

The easy short pitch 4 of the flake/crack.

Climbing the corner (obviously!) of pitch 5.

Looking down to Matt climbing the off-width of pitch 5 before traversing left above the Sea Urchin and climbing the corner.

Pitch 6, Fortunately Matt climbed this really technical 50m pitch while there was still daylight. Unfortunately I did not!

10pm, and glad to be back at the skis.

Midnight after a slightly harrowing and challenging skin to the Torino. Maybe I should have done a Conville course to prepare me for this experience!

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Road Kill.

Reflections. Looking out, looking in… Refuge Torino Bar.


When I was a teenager I kept ferrets and to feed them, I would pick up road kill or hunt rabbits or shoot starlings with an air rifle. At fourteen years old, Starlings were scrawny scavengers with no beautiful song, Starlings were ferret food.

I’m forty nine years old now, it’s four days after my birthday, the 29th of December 2014, and half an hour before I leave to go to the church for my Mum’s funeral.

I stand in the kitchen of my sister and her partner, David’s house. Its quiet and I lean over the sink washing a white cereal bowl while looking through the window to a frost covered garden. Suspended by a thread, fastened to an ornate, imitation iron pole, a Starling hangs from a half coconut shell. The bird’s chest is shining black plumes smattered with white flecks. The Starlings chest is an oil slick of green, blue, red, purple and in that puffed chest, the white flecks are stars and planets and satellites that flicker and move in a black solar system and as I place the cereal bowl on the draining rack I’m transported…

The cold, thin air burnt infected lungs. My breathing was laboured. Tim Neill was up front and on occasion I saw his headtorch shine my way. We had left the Refuge Torino at six thirty heading into Cirque Maudit with the intention to climb Fantasia per a Ghiacciatore, an enclosed ice and mixed line I had climbed previously. My lungs sucked and I wondered if this was the same strain of infection that my Mum had caught, the same strain that had killed her? In my mind’s eye, I saw Mum lying on a trolley in a hospital corridor tended by ambulance men. Lesley, my sister had been with her, she said they were in the corridor for three hours before being taken to the intensive care unit. My skis cut the snow and my breathing hurt and in the dark, all around I could see my Mum lying on a trolley in a corridor.

Choughs circled, their wings spread wide to catch the breeze. It was light now and in the distilled red and blue striped horizon were jagged mountains. The holes in the snow at my feet filled with powder. Tim and I geared up, the same as I had geared up a million times before, the same as I had geared up beneath this climb a few years earlier.

Mum was tall and slim with dark Mediterranean features but in that frame was strength and determination. I sat on my rucksack fitting crampons to my orange ski boots and I could see the deep scar in Mum’s leg where as a child I had opened all of the draws of a steel filing cabinet and as it toppled forward, she jumped in-front taking the force of the falling cabinet and supporting it as it pinned her on the floor with me still below until someone came and lifted it from us. SNAP, the crampon locked to the orange boot. Once, arriving home from school I found Mum covered in oil under her blue Hillman Minx changing the starter-motor.  It was  a time when diesel cars were not popular and an old diesel engine had been fitted to the Hillman and the starter motor was big and heavy, “Pass me that spanner love, I’ll get some tea on in a bit …”

Tim set-off, wading deep snow and crossing the bergschrund beneath the jet stream of ice clinging to corners and dripping from overhangs until the ice hit the col beneath the summit of Mont Maudit. I followed in his steps and clipped to a belay the big guy had built by the side of the first steepening.  

There were many times I thought I would not outlive my Mum, I thought she would be in that unenviable situation which, I’m sure, most parents dread, of outliving one of their children. I was wrong and as Tim and I climbed higher and the wind on the col increased, throwing spindrift and the odd rock down the line, the situation felt different this time and I realised for the first time in my climbing, if I died, there of course would be sadness and upset from friends and family, but the one person who would have been devastated was now gone. Mum always took a delight and interest in whatever activities my sister and I were into, to the point that when I became interested in mountaineering and climbing, within months she could name mountains, mountaineers, Scottish winter climbs, summer rock climbs, Alpine climbs, Himalayan climbs, South American climbs – the lot, and she could enter into conversation about the subject with confidence. This of course was not always the best, as pulling the wool over Mum’s eyes about some of the climbs I attempted was now impossible.  I’m glad she never found out about my fascination with The Bells, the bells! That would have worried her.

Leaving the sun, climbing into the shadow, into the confined icy corner – images and memories flow with every drag of the pick, every kick and swing and pull… I could see Mum now, totally worn-out, falling asleep in a comfy chair with a half filled mug of strong coffee balanced by her side, sometimes, so tiered, the mug fell from her hand. Strong, instant coffee was certainly a big part of Mum’s life and she was seldom without one and it was generally partnered with a super long cigarette. It says something to her drive and determination, that after nearly fifty years of smoking, one day she decided to give up…

… up, up above, spindrift rips into the blue sky, it swirls… clouds like kettle steam, like Starling murmuration, like cigarette smoke,

like ashes…

… Stoke Bruerne in Northamptonshire feels fitting as I stand in the damp cold with my nephew Jake, Kyle, my niece’s husband and Farmer Tim, my sisters long-time friend and wait for the hearse.

Mum retired in her early sixties, and still full of zest for life, decided with Dad to sell-up and live a nomadic lifestyle on the canals. They had their first narrowboat commissioned and called her Emma after her grandfather, Captain Barrett’s ship, which had been shipwrecked off the coast of Flamborough head and they both travelled extensively around the English canals. Always ready for a challenge they tackled the tidal Thames on numerous occasions and then decided it would be ‘more fun’ to have a larger boat and bought Jasper, a 70ft traditional narrow boat. They continued to travel around the canals with Mum jumping on and off the boat to open all of the locks until old age caught up and eventually they moored up at stoke Bruerne and didn’t move again.  

The skeletal trees stand either side of the wooden church gates and in the branches above are Starlings, such beautiful intelligent birds, certainly not ferret food and like the rest of us, deserving of life .

The crux of Fantasia per a Ghiacciatore. Credit Tim Neill.

Climbing into the shadow.

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The Day Before the Solstice.

Skis cut a twin track, a track pointing toward Tour Ronde’s West Wall. Scalloped sastrugi, fill with powder driven on the wind. The winter sun dapples soft shadows across the glacier. Ice edges, sharp and blue and severe. Exfoliating ice crystals carry on the wind. Plumes of snow lift from corniced ridge. Brown, pink, grey, stark and sharp – granite spires from another time stab into the blue balloon sky. Whispering powder settles in steep couloirs. Steep empty graves with white. Snow to snow. The day before, when we skied and looked, the great big wide sky was latticed with white bread clouds. Clouds threaded with shapes of animals and people and countries and seas and friends and family. No flowers, no soil, no grass, no trees. Just white and cold and ice. Dust to dust. Beautiful isolation. Cold inanimate rock.  Tim cries, literally cries as his heart pulses blood to fingers. The promise of warmth delivered by the sun is false promise, like life’s false promise for many. Tim and I hang beneath an off-width with wind pelting for company. Cirque Maudite – deserted, lonely, cold. Dark on this day, the day before the solstice, comes quick. Like death. 

Until time runs out,  until the next time.

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The Countdown.


The grains in an egg timer.Dad, my niece, Cloe, Mum and my nephew Jake from a long time ago. cloe and Jake are now grown up and married.

Whispering white grasped by the wind was thrown down the granite V-groove, fortunately the grey overhang capping a dog-leg in the groove, protected me. Spindrift flowed – grains in an egg timer – the snow caught in the granite cracks that laced the steep surrounding walls and made small dunes. The sand-spindrift measured time, it marked time – grains, we are all just bloody grains – a lifetime, our time, our only time… catching the last lift was going to be close – the last lift to take us back to the valley was at 4.30pm.    

Tim Neill and I had caught the first cable car from La Palud, the small village with its stone roofs and steep narrow roads above Courmayeur in Italy to exit at Pointe Helbronner and after a look at the West Wall of The Tour Ronde, we skied to the base of Pointe Adolphe Rey and a flaring v-groove. The groove had been climbed on 23rd Oct 2014 by Jean-Marc Chanoine and Denis Trento but before this, for the first ascent, the groove was climbed by the driven and tenacious Erhard Loretan who died before his time in 2011,aged 52. The groove appeared fitting for the first climb of my alpine winter.

Tim climbed the first ice pitch and I climbed the technical V-groove capped by a roof, and as I pulled into the higher groove, the spindrift for some reason stopped until I hung from two pitons and belayed. The walls were flecked with the white of quartz and the white of snow. Looking out from the confines, out across the wastelands of the Vallee Blanche, I watched clouds – like familiar old people nearing the end of their time ,slowly creeping across the glacier before shrouding the mountains.

Tim reached me and checked his watch, it was 2pm. We had to skin back to the top lift at Punta Helbronner which, given our un-acclimatised condition, was not going to be quick. “Shall we abseil.” I suggested. “You lead it, you’ll be quick.” I grabbed the rack, Tim sorted the ropes and then I set-off using my hard won Canadian drag and hook and pull technique. The climbing was easier than the second pitch but the rock had deteriorated and being quick was made even more difficult because I didn’t fancy killing Tim today as he was belayed in the groove below and anything I set free would hit him.

Reaching the crest, dervishes of snow wound around loose blocks of granite. I rigged a belay and Tim joined me before tying tat around a large spike to begin the abseiling and the weaving sprint through the deep blue crevasses of the glacier.

“It’s quarter past four, we’re not going to make it.” Tim delivered the news but apart from being expensive, it was not really that bad, the Torino Hut was open housing the workers who were working on a new cable car station. It wouldn’t have been bad anyway; I had bivouacked in  closed for the day Téléphérique stations quite a few times before.

Inside the Torino Refuge, white painted walls with hand written chalked sentences in several languages, dull yellow light, shadows, wood beams and wood furniture, stacked bags of wood chip to feed the boilers, yellow patterned plastic tablecloths – this is the world on the summit of an alpine mountain in winter. Behind encased walls, life and the world is separated. I felt like a child, safe, protected by the family home while a storm rages outside. Sorting gear in the boot room, a cat that looked like a racoon helped. Tim and I had decided to climb the next day, what was to lose, we were already up and our acclimatisation was improving by the hour.

I received the text from my sister as I woke at 6am the following morning, “Mum admitted to emergency admission unit, we’ve been called in, it’s not looking good.” I sat in the dull yellow light of the hut – the dark outside was dense and cold and lonely.

My Mum was not going to make it through the day.

Tim and I returned to the valley, the sleety-snow stuck to the thick and warped stone roof-tiles in Courmayeur. People dressed in hefty clothes walked, heads bowed. The world was dark and cold and life to me at the moment, with a million images from the past spinning through my mind, appeared short.

My Mum died at approximately 11am that morning.


Tim Neill skinning to have a look around Cirque Maudit .

Tim Neill approaching the line.

Nick in the groove, pitch two. Credit, Tim Neill.

Tim having just pulled around the capping roof and dog-leg on pitch two..

Tim approaching the belay on pitch two.

Torino Cat helps with the rope.

Torino Cat helps with the rack.

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After the Event.

Matt Pascoe, an Australian with a particular penchant for going up at break neck (which he was very good at)… or, on a rare occasion, ejecting big time but always while wearing a smile.

The hues were golden and to the worn fingertips, the orange rock was cool. White chalk dots traced winding trails. Weeping tufas glistened in the early morning sun. The dust beneath the overhanging cliff was crushed bone and the vista, while standing and looking-out from a million year old platform of dead creatures, was autumnal – trees shone a traffic light radiance.

The climbing on, Les Bruixes, Terradets is possibly some of the most suited to my style, its physical and sustained and generally there are big holds and rests via knee bars. The climbing made me happy. On many of the climbs, the hardest move would often be at the half way point, but often there would be a sting, just one hard finale to keep you on your sticky rubber toes. Over the course of three weeks it became common to see people ejected from the very top of a climb. I let go from a few on-sight attempts while longingly looking at the chain and when this happened, I laughed and then celebrated in the effort and the battle and my exhaustion. Sometimes while being lowered I speculated if I could have tried harder, I analysed what I could have done different and how I could improve but as I hit the ground I was always smiling and enthusing… letting go meant I could do it all again.

Les Bruixes, in general, is high class and reasonably top-end and if you don’t climb 7c and above you will soon run out of objectives. Over a three week period I climbed routes graded from 7a+ to 8a and the feeling of being a climber, only of average ability, was strong. Regularly people were on-sighting 7c, 7c+ or 8a and 8a+ and 8b were grades of climbs successfully summited on, nearly, a daily basis . The crag was busy, especially at the weekend – Americans, Catalans, Canadians, Australians, Poles, Dutch, Brits, German; the craic was good, I don’t think I have ever experienced such a feeling of camaraderie and psyche for fellow climbers. I was inspired and heartened.

I’m embarrassed to say rock climbing for me was not always as enjoyable and relaxed and at times in the past I would have struggled with being average. Watching some of the people climbing on Les Bruixes, I could see a former self from about fifteen years ago, from a time when I mistakenly considered myself good because I had climbed E7 – from a time when I was not so happy in other aspects of my life and climbing, to counter the bad, was placed exceptionally high to make me feel better. This attitude was always going to lead to disappointment, because climbing, much the same as anything where so much weight is placed, will, at some point, kick you in the teeth. We are all just human and in the words of Sly Stallone, “gravity is a bitch”. In days long gone, I would quietly measure myself against others at the crag; I remember thinking, being a person who climbs harder routes would somehow improve standing, lead to popularity and acceptance, make me a better person. Failing on a climb in those days was very disappointing – I judged myself, my worthiness – I questioned if I had trained hard enough, everything was measured by how I had performed on a climb and if I was not performing to what I perceived was the best of my ability, I felt a failure. Fortunately I am reasonable strong upstairs and this feeling would not last long, I suppose deep-down, I knew that being a good climber does not mean you are a good person and I’d move on, try the next thing and celebrate in the successes. Placing so much pressure on myself, back in the day, so much pressure from something which should have been fun, made climbing at times more stressful than the stresses I was trying to escape.

Sport climbing must be one of the few activities where success and failure is so black and white – success is getting to the top without falling or hanging – failure is letting go and ejection. Sport climbing at a busy crag is spectator sport, it spotlights success, it highlights failure, that’s if you see falling as failure and not a journey, and if you push yourself and want to improve on previously climbed grades, you are going to fail and  fall and fail and fall and fail again and again but if you don’t like to fail or to be seen failing or if you judge yourself against your climbing ability, you are going to have a very mentally bruising time. Failure and accepting failure is part of pushing and learning and learning to fail with dignity and acceptance, while still in control to analyse and put into practice what you have gleened, I think, is a big part of succeeding and in the end this is what makes for a better person, accepting failure and falling with dignity and a laugh.  

I vividly remember climbing in 2000 with Tom Briggs on a busy Blue Scar in Yorkshire. I had not long been back from Peru and my rock climbing standard was low from time spent in the hills. Tom floated up an E5 that I thought I would also like to lead but when I hit the crux, the wheels fell from my psyche-bike and I plummeted… and I plummeted repeatedly. Instead of gracefully accepting that personal climbing abilities go up and down and it doesn’t mean anything to anyone apart from yourself and instead of enjoying being out with a friend, I  became frustrated and shouted to Tom in a loud voice – loud enough so everyone could hear, how I had been to Peru and how weak I felt and how I would normally find the climb easy. In the end I gave up and was lowered and Tom re-climbed so I could second but not before he said, “Well Nick, you can be sure of one thing, everyone on the crag knows you have been to Peru and would normally easily climb E5.” I’m glad to say that it was going dark as Tom left the ground because the colour of my face resembled the setting sun. 

Climbing at Les Bruixes over the last three weeks has been fascinating, watching people and the different way individuals accept failure, or don’t, and the reasons why, in some cases, that failure has resulted in screaming and tantrums, excuses, sulking and generally attempting to blame anything apart from the obvious. I’m happy to say from our group of six, the support and encouragement for each other was fantastic and healthy, there was not a single case of the dolly being thrown or performance anxiety, perceived greatness, envy or sulking and because of this healthy and supportive atmosphere everyone had a great time and a really fun trip. Climbing will bite back, no-matter who you are and accepting this, accepting that no matter who you think you are and how good you think you climb or should climb, you will never have continually improving days, it’s an impossible scenario and it’s a fact of life that some days, for whatever reason, will be better or worse than others.  

I love climbing – I love rock climbing, ice climbing, the mountains, mixed, but it has taken a lot of self-analysis and getting my life to a reasonably happy, satisfied place and growing-up to get to this point – a point where I truly enjoy and have fun and if I fall and fail, generally I scream as I fly through the air and then as I am lowered, I laugh because its fun to try and everybody fails on occasion and no-one cares and you know what, the sooner we all learn to laugh, the sooner we will all be having fun and the sooner life will become better and when this happens the climbing will be what it should be, enjoyable.

To finish, although a very well used quote, so used it’s almost a cliché, but a quote well worth repeating and remembering is the one by Alex Lowe, “The best climber in the world is the one that has the most fun.”

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It’s All About the Number 8?

8a was a grade I wanted to climb but it was a grade that alluded due to a multitude of reasons, the main ones being my inability to remain focused on a single climb, enjoying traditional climbing more than bolt clipping and taking big breaks in rock climbing while going to the mountains or winter climbing. I also think a lack of my technical ability played a part as you just can’t throw yourself up an 8a, well, I can’t anyway.  

Over the years, especially the more recent years, I always felt 8a was a gap in my CV as it is a bench mark, it’s like Grade VIII in Scottish winter, WI 6 on ice or E7 on trad, so when I successfully clipped the chains a few days ago on my first 8a it was super satisfying. The climb which popped my 8a cherry was Bon Viatge, Les Bruixes, Terradets, it took two and a half days and approximately five attempts before, on the sixth, it went. Since climbing Bon Viatge I have thought and chatted a lot about why 8a was important to me and I concluded that 8a was always a grade and style, another planet from what I envisaged was possible for me several years ago.

But, and for me it’s a big but, I can’t get past the fact that in some ways, for some people, it appears to be more about the number, not so much about the climb, the situation, the experience, the company… or does it? Many times people have said to me, “Go to this climb, that climb, find one that suits you, this one is easy touch.” Which suggests that any 8a would do as long as I could climb it, which in turn suggests that it’s not about the climb, its more about the grade of the climb and this makes me ask, is it all just about ego which in turn led me to wonder, how much in climbing is about pushing personal boundaries and how much it is about ego and is there is much difference and this led to me wondering, why improving the grade you climb, is so important to climbers in general? This is not a go at sport climbing or people who focus on climbing harder, because this scenario can be used for any aspect of climbing – traditional climbing, ice, mixed, bouldering, mountaineering – but why is pushing the grade important and is it a bad thing?

I think the difference for me on Bon Viatge, compared to the other four 8a’s I’ve attempted in the past is, I enjoyed the moves, the style and the experience and it is in Spain not Wales where the sport climbing is mediocre and the traditional climbing is some of the best in the world and it’s certainly a fact that I have always enjoyed the psychological aspect of climbing more than the physical and doing hard moves or even stepping from the ground on something that I know will mentally test me is always going to be a more memorable and rewarding experience.

Anyway, all said and done, old punter mountaineer climbs 8a, chest puffed, ego fluffed even though I’ve missed the boat and everybody and his dog climb 8a nowadays, so all in all I guess it must nearly  be time for the mountains again and to get weak ;-)

Lucy Creamer warming up on El Latido del Miedo, certainly not her first 8a!

Lucy on El Latido del Miedo

Another day in the Terradets office.

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“We all make our own lives, right?”

“We all make our own lives, right? We have made the choices that have put us where we are today.”

While watching a trailer for The European Film Tour, the above is the comment in the opening sequence. It’s a powerful and provocative statement – not thinking about the full impact, or who it was impacting upon, I possibly would have said something similar several years ago, “We all make our own lives right? We have made the choices that have put us where we are today.”

It’s a skill being interviewed and expressing exactly what you mean and hitting the target for whom it is aimed. It’s a bigger skill saying something that resonates with everyone and it’s a truly massive skill to be able to say something that inspires at all levels and continues, through time, to inspire — think Ghandi or Martin Luther King Jr for this last one!  

I watched the European Film Tour trailer and I think I know what the person speaking was attempting to say, I think what was said is supposed to inspire but what I heard in my head was, “We all make our own lives right?”  and in my head the dialogue continued: Well, we do if we grow up with parents who love us, a safe and stable childhood, clean water, food on the table, an education, somewhere to live away from crime and drugs and abuse, good health and then, possibly we have a chance to actually make something of our lives and possibly rise above what is expected and deviate from the path, the path we have paved for us in a world where politicians and people with power want us to toe the line and walk along – that’s what he was trying to say I think and hope. But there are millions of people who don’t ” we all make our own lives right?” Certainly there are people who make it even though life has given them the shitty end of the stick and they should be given massive credit for this, these people are truly inspirational but for those who don’t, for those who end up in prison, addicted, falling ill, dying young, homeless, alcoholic, unemployed, outcast, well, I don’t think they should be made to feel even more shitty and they should be given encouragement and support. They certainly do not need ”we all make their own lives, right?” Their lives are made for them, right?

And as for “We have all made the choices that have put us where we are today.” Well, the privileged, educated, lucky, fortunate, children brought up in a safe environment, children given the correct support from young — these people possibly have “made the choices that have put them where they are today” and if they are unhappy with their lives, their choice, I agree, get out and do something about it but I’m sure children growing up on a deprived inner-city housing estate, or kids living in the slums of Lima, Delhi, Rawalpindi, Kathmandu, São Paulo, etc, etc, etc… will not have had any choice at all and if they were fortunate enough to actually see this trailer and hear this commentary, which they never will, I would imagine they may have another point of view from “we have all made the choices that have put us where we are today.”

It’s a very fine line we walk in our privileged lives when making films and writing, it’s a fine line between inspiring and insulting and sounding ignorant and it’s a line that constantly needs addressing ,because then and only then we will raise awareness and good will be done from what we do and lets not fool ourselves, what we do is privileged. .

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