Great Escape. Nick Bullock.

 Half-a-sleep, driving through the early morning drizzle, Llanberis is gloomy and cold. I slow and pass the Victoria Hotel on the right, and then the Snowdon Railway Station with its deserted car park and wet wooden benches on the left. I drive a little farther before turning toward the centre of town. Nearing the pebble-dash council house estate, a Youth, who looks about 16 years-old, maybe 17, walks along the wet pavement. He follows other youths. All of them wear black uniform trousers and uniform blazers with Snowdon Railway badges sewn to the chest pocket. All of them are working seasonal, going no-where jobs. They look like the pictures I’ve seen of workers walking along the cobbled streets and red brick alleyways of 1960’s Manchester. The youth at the back, uniform hanging from a bowed frame, removes, in a cupped hand, a cigarette from his mouth. Smoke billows about a young face. The youth reminds me, of me, from a long time ago, from the time I worked a dead-end, seasonal job, but from a time when life was fresh and work was grown-up and the world was big and there was so much time it didn’t matter if the work I was doing wasted a week or a year or four years. Life disappeared into forever then, life disappeared into tomorrow, into next month, next year, life was just another day away. I yearn for the innocence of those days, the days of fumbles with girls in the dark and punk rock and dreams of what life would become.

Climbing, the walk to the crag, wondering and dreaming and imagining, not quite knowing how it’s all going to turn-out  – climbing gives me a similar innocent excitement to the feelings I had back then – it gives me the same sort of excitement I had as a sixteen-year-old when I took-out a £150 loan and bought a 50cc motorbike. Each time I stamped down on the kick start and the engine screamed and my nose filled with 2-stroke exhaust fumes, I was in charge of my own destiny… anything could happen.

Sliding down the road, tearing clothes and ripping lumps out of my legs and arms, I fell off that motorbike several times. But several times I picked myself up and got back on and kicked down on the starter and still I got a buzz from the freedom it gave.

I’ve fallen-off and torn quite a few lumps while climbing, but I always manage to pick myself up and get back on and I always get a buzz from being out there and never quite knowing what’s going to happen.

Kick starting a route, stood beneath a dark and foreboding sea cliff, the sea washing the base of the crag, gulls crying and the wind screaming, it takes me back every time … it takes me to the smell of 2-stroke and the smell of sweat-stale empty gymnasiums, it takes me back to dusty hayfields, the churn of the bailer and the smell of wet welsh pine-trees mixed with cigarette smoke as I shelter and smoke roll-ups. The nerves and tension and tingle I get when I step from the ground on another climb, brings back the time I watched the Sex Pistols on Top of the Pops, or the first time I listened to the Buzzcocks, it takes me back to inexperienced fumbles with a girl in the dark.

When you kick down on that starter, you never quite know, but if you don’t kick, how can you tell.

The 2Rays, aka, Ray Wood and Ray Saunders have put together a short film of The Trumpet Slappers climb.

Trumpet Slappers Vid by the Two Rays.

I’ve never been the best rock climber, I never have enough time to reach a high level of fitness before heading-off on expedition, ice climbing or winter climbing and in doing so lose any gains made through summer, but I do love climbing routes that test nerve, body, stamina and most of all, mind.

The Trumpet Slappers was the culmination of several top-rope sessions, which on the first and second, I couldn’t work out how to do the moves on the traverse left from the crux of The 39 Slaps, or what moves would actually work to get me out there. In fact, climbing the 39 Slaps on the first two visits, a climb I led two years ago, felt desperate. I had to rest on the rope two or three times just to reach the Trumpet Slappers traverse.

By visit three and four, The 39 Slaps was feeling, kind of ok, although the big move up before starting on the left traverse still felt a million miles away. Eventually I found a sequence on the traverse which worked, but at the end of the traverse, way above the final peg on The 39 Slaps, the crux move, a feet bunched, powerful right arm cross-over, terrified me and in the same time excited me. It was a move that would be at my limit and had monster sideways lob potential with possibility of a massive rock spike enema. ‘Great!’

Visit five was a revelation, as it was the first time I managed to climb the whole route clean on a top-rope. No excuse then. But even walking up the hill beneath Scimitar on THE visit I was sure I would fall off on the hardest move…

People have said to me that climbing the 39 Slaps was like a sport route anyway as it’s on pegs. I’m not so sure, as climbing hard moves above pegs that someone else has sawn-off and placed, doesn’t feel like bolt clipping to me. Heading off on the traverse placing a skyhook in a shallow pocket before burling at my limit, and then pulling a 6c move, unable to place the two wires until after the crux, definitely stimulates, gets you going, and certainly gave me the mind and body work-out I was hunting. It definately didn’t feel like a clip-up! In the vidio clip what I’m shouting down to Jonny Ratcliffe after reaching the top is how I nearly didnt go for it as I felt pretty pumped, and then before backing out, I thought ‘Get on with it, just go and give it everything.’ This is what I mean by saying, for me, bolt clipping doesn’t give you this internal battle as bolts are 99.99 percent safe, skyhooks and monster sideways lobs are not and this kind of mental strengthening can only come from climbing routes like this and in doing so prepare me for trying hard climbs on-sight? 

Finally for those who for whatever reason dont think throwing up a toppy on a route that is too hard for me to try and on-sight and use this method to get fit is not sporting, I’d say, no probs, the Trumpet Slappers is waiting its first on-sight, and to my knowledge, the 39 Slaps has only been on-sighted once, maybe twice, so its up for grabs… 😉  

Cheers to Ray Wood for the fiming and Ray Saunders for the great edit and to Jonny Ratcliffe for the belay…

Craig Dorys, Craig Dorys, Craig Dorys… Like a chant for the doomed, six words that bring terror into the eyes of adults. Dorys – a powerful word from within the Welsh climbing scene. Dorys – a word to induce collywobbles even amongst the strong.

Passing through towns and hamlet, driving alongside rolling hills, the journey to the Lleyn Peninsular is pleasant. Birds twitter in hedgerow, cats amble across the road and old men with walking sticks totter along pavement. Reaching Abersoch, tourists with happy holiday faces carrying ice cream, guys with biceps and tattoos, girls with bronzed legs and short skirts, teenagers with baggy shorts, it’s a nice holiday atmosphere, but its only five minutes away from the crag and the cold sweats have begun.

Parking in the farmyard on-top of the headland, the panic fully sets in, delaying tactics are necessary. Gear is thrown onto the floor to mingle with farm machinery, mowing machines, muck spreaders and the like, but eventually the rack is sorted and it’s time to walk. The walk to the headland across the meadow is slow, this is the walk of the condemned. The Hippy is my usual climbing partner for Dorys and slowing his normal slow is slow, but eventually, after passing the sheep who have the size of genitalia you need for climbing here, we reach the top of the crag. There is often a gentle breeze flowing over the top of the crag, and in the breeze are the wails of the insane.

Maybe Boots the chemists can develop some kind of tablet that will off-set the Dorys-nausea, something like a travel sickness pill. ‘Going to Dorys? Try our new extra strength anti-dorys-nausea-tabs, they work wonders, take two, one-hour before climbing for the sickness and two one hour after climbing to alleviate the madness. Wash down with copious amounts of alcohol.

Last week was early for Dorys, North Wales monsoon has not hit yet, which is generally the only reason you end up there. I was questioning our rational.

“It feels early for this Hippy

“Yes.”

Talk was at a minimum, we both had horror on our mind.

Dorys comes in different scales of badness depending on which facet of the crag you require to climb. Stigmata is bad, in fact stigmata is more bad than the baddest bad out there, but the lines are strong and as long as your will is as strong as the lines you may stand a chance. Moving along the crag, The Upper Facet is actually very solid, the surface of the rock is a skin of quartz with pockets and breaks and gear and pegs. The Upper Facet is very steep and the rock is nearly conventional. There is a chance the crag will get steeper with time as the whole rock face is a ginormous flake resembling a climbing wall that can be set at different angles, which is all well and good until the day the whole thing falls down.

Walking the sea washed boulders, Byzantium Wall, a reasonably solid and impending 40 metre wall of breaks and crimps is next, and around the corner is the orange sheet of The Golden Wall, a slightly snappy, slightly run-out, slightly beautiful in a femme fatal kind of way, vertical slab of quartz and sand. This was where the Hippy and I were aiming.

On the left side of Golden Wall there are a couple of E1’s, which take soaring corner lines which would be all time classics if anywhere other than Dorys. The Hippy grunted and pulled off a V5 hand-jamming-grovel to get off the ground and proceeded to grovel and thrutch, using his knees and stomach to spread the load for another 30 metres. I belayed and dodged the shower of rock while ducking and hiding and laughing.

Warm up done, this was a day for the Hippy who for some reason had his sideways shuffling head attached. He wanted me to climb the first pitch of Knowing Her – which i did -an E2 that has a belay one third of the way up and on the right side of The Golden Wall, before he set-off in a sideways mince, plugging-in a double set of cams along the first of two HVS’s, Scintillating Stitches, the second one, which I climbed, being Fascinating Witches before topping out on the E2.

While mincing and hanging around I couldn’t help but look up… And there they were, another two rod straight traverse lines that to my knowledge had not been climbed.

We finished the first Dorys day of the season with The Mermaid who shed her glove which I led into Direct Hit. I pushed down on holds and thought light thoughts until the top was reached and we ran away feeling happy but mostly feeling happy to be alive.

Returning a few days later, in amongst some other stuff, we climbed the traverse breaks giving a couple of new routes and a new direct line between Dorys Day and Absent Friends on the Upper Facet

[Orange Blossom Special. E1 5b *. 30m. The horizontal break above Scintillating Witches on Golden Wall.

From a belay in the corner of Faltering Hand follow the third break up on The Golden Wall moving from left to right before exiting via Knowing Her. A pleasant pitch that is very well protected by cams.

Walk The Line. E4 5c. * 30m The horizontal break approximately 2 metres above Orange Blossom Special.

Climb  Knowing Her until a reasonable small ledge is reached at approximately three quarters height, belay just below the fourth break up. Follow the break in its entirety with footholds in Orange Blossom Special. Good gear at the start fizzles out to give a stimulating exercise in crab like mind control before a cluster of gear which is mainly poor except for one very good small cam, convinces you that maybe you can continue the shuffle. Continue while being careful with the snappy sidepulls, especially as your rope now resembles an uninterrupted washing line, before another very good, but very very small cam gives respite. Once more run it out mincing left until the break leads to the corner of The Faltering Hand belay. Climb out via Faltering Hand.]

Futterwacken. E5 6a. ** 25m. A direct line Between Dorys Day and Absent Friends on the Upper Facet.

Start as for Dorys Day and Absent Friends. Climb to the overhang and where Dorys Day moves left and Absent Friends moves right and climb direct through the overhang to a peg. Climb direct up the wall (crux) until the holds get bigger, but the gear gets sparcer, until a short stimulating left traverse leads to the right hand side of the large ledge of Dorys Day. Sort out some gear and step off the right side of the ledge onto a big foothold on the right arete. Good solid crimps lead steeply to finish right, directly above the arete.    

On another day, in a more solid world, but not a million miles away, Baby Dave Rudkin and I decided Gogarth was the primo destination in the heat-wave that was hitting North Wales. Wen Zawn was the first choice, but it looked and felt like a cauldron of intense, so we opted for a more shaded venue close by. Dave wanted to have a go at the Boston Struggler, a three pitch George Smith upside down bit of madness next to Spiders Web, I didn’t, but climbing is about give and take and as long as I don’t suffer too much in the endeavours of others I don’t mind.

“How about warming up on that.” I said pointing at a cave-chimney-overhanging slime jamming fest E2 which had all the hallmarks of epic spanking. “Ok”, said Dave.          

Setting off into this E2 (It was definitely into and not up.) the air was dank and the light was gloomy. I suddenly wondered what had changed me from being a nice two dimensional climber of clean vertical walls into a sick puppy of thrutch. Not that this means I’m any good at it, it just means I get some kind of sick pleasure from a thrash. Its possibly something similar to folk who suddenly decide that normal sex is not racy enough and then include whips and chains and PVC and the like.

Utching-pressing-slipping-sliming-jamming… I knee barred, arm barred, back and footed, slippered and slippered and slimed … getting hot and hotter, but managing to place several large cams and feel reasonably happy and not too pumped. ‘God, what a legend I am, I’m a so rounded a climber.’Pulling out of the cave it all started to go a tad wrong. Jamming, jamming, jamming, knee bar, no hands rest, jamming, it took me up, but up into a feeling of pump. I focused totally on the wide crack, and jammed until I could jam no more. “Ahhhhhhhh”, my knee bar slipped and so did I, straight out of the crack, but I had placed so much gear, quite embarrassingly, I fell up! Hanging I asked Dave to lower me as I thought I was about to vomit.

Dave, the little bast*#d, then set-too climbing the crack on my gear and in seconds and using holds outside of the crack, holds that in my endeavour to be a jamming guru (!) I missed, styled his way to the belay. “Well done Dave, good effort, oh, nice job… Wan*#r!”

So having placed all of the gear in the first pitch, I now had to remove it all and lead the top pitch… ‘Deep joy.’  

The top pitch of this E2 was supposedly 5a and it had the word easy in the description. But as holds flaked and boomed and the crappy gear ran out, I thought, ‘WTF. The baby one looked on and laughed knowing that this was obviously his day, while I teetered and swung around above him on some death arête which boomed and creaked and had all of my gear ensconced in it. Finally, after a fall when a hold ripped, I committed to the overhanging arête, threw-in a heel-hook and laid-one-on for the top of the crag. ‘Yeah, typical E2 moves those… Easy.’

Sitting in the grass, back at the bags, the sea shimmered and sparked. Seagulls floated. My left arm was cramping and my body was pummelled. “What do you fancy next?” I asked the Baby one hoping he would say ice-cream and a cold beer, and just for a second I thought yes, its beer, its beer, but instead of beer he went wrong and said Boston Struggler. Who is the baby now? I wanted my dummy!

The Boston Struggler is three pitches. Two 5c burl, sandwiched with 6b upsidedown mentalness. I opted for the two 5c pitches!

Laybacking and cramping and slippering in the grey slime, I eventually got us to the belay on the left of the huge dark cave that has the Joe Brown route of much madness, Spiders Web. (What was Joe thinking, downward cave climbing way above the sea in some year before Christ and the invention of cams!) Baby Dave set off and in just two moves his body was horizontal. Up, down, up, down, up, down… “Sorry Nick.” I didn’t mind at all, I needed as much time as possible to get some feeling in my left arm. Up, down, another move along, a cam was placed, and down and rest. And then as I checked the belay for the umpteenth time, Dave launched. Feet level with his hands, body in a planche position, strain-shaking. Bosh, like a kung foo master, the Baby one jabs a hand jam, and mother of mercy… cuts loose with both feet. Just as I thought the situation could not get any crazier, he lifts a leg way above his head and heel-toes a crack. Hanging upside down, way above the crashing sea in the middle of no-mans, or no baby’s land and all without a comfort blanket Dave slaps and gurns, fighting-slipping, fighting-pulling, gasping-crying, he falls… ‘Jesus!’

“Do you want a go Nick?”

“No.”

After a rest, round two prevails… More grunt, more burl, swinging, thrutching, slapping, he cuts-loose, toe-heels, slaps, slaps, slaps, cuts-loose and then he’s up…

 ‘Oh bugger, now I have to go out there.’

On the car stereo, boom-chikka-boom, Johnny Cash sang in his freight train bass about his burning ring of fire, but there was certainly no ring of fire this Saturday morning in Wales. And as we crossed from the mainland to the Island of Anglesey, the Menai Straights slewed swollen green turbulent beneath Stevenson’s stone bridge. Rain slapped the car windscreen. The Hippy and I were on a mission to Rhoscolyn, hopes high that dry rock could be found.

Pulling-up in-front of the solidly built Rhoscolyn church we packed bags, but just as the lid shut tight, the rain, a cloud of drizzly wind-blown schmee, buffeted in on a westerly.  

What to do, what to do?

Earlier that morning, before setting off, an impromptu gathering at the hippy’s place found four of us, Hippy, Geordie Gary, Dave Simpson and I drinking coffee. “I paddled past an interesting looking zawn, somewhat reminiscent of Mousetrap Zawn the other day Nick, just your kind of thing I reckon.” Dave said.

“Where was that then?”

It turned out that this mini Mousetrap was on the north coast of Anglesey and had one established route which was a route called The Lost Pillar of Scheiser. Now call me quirky and weird, but this was actually a route I knew about. To this day, I can’t remember what had originally drawn me to this climb, but words like decomposing, rotting-quartz-vein, George Smith and XS were all words that had been used and these are words I find appealing.

Though, only just warmed up for summer, and still in the month of July, a month too early for choss shuffling as the bird bans don’t come off until August, the Hippy and I decided to ‘Go have a look.’

It was raining quite heavy now, so this was definitely only going to be a look, even though bird bans were not applicable to the north coast and the Hippy had a glint in his, let’s be mellow-man, eyes. With anything but ‘mellow man driving, the Hippy took us in his usual, somewhat aggressive and erratic style, navigating and swerving the grass growing in the middle of the single-track lanes. I was ready to barf, but within about the same time it took the man in black to sing A Boy Named Sue and the Folsom Prison Blues we were there.

The waves crashed, gulls screamed and the sun shone as we walked down the short, sheep nuzzled grass, of the headland.  Scrambling kelp covered rock and timing the scuttle between waves, we stopped beneath an overhanging tottering quartz pillar that cut the only semi-solid path through guano and mud and sand. Behind, a sea arch and a pebble beach would have made this an idyllic spot but I was starting to sense enthusiasm sprouting from beneath thinning hair held in place by a red bandanna. Sitting on a rock wanting to chunder, the tune, Don’t bring your guns to town weaselled its way into my sub-conscious.  

Travel sickness is a sod. Once I start to feel nauseous, lethargy, tiredness and general unwillingness to do anything consume, so for once I was happy just to look around and chill, but I could sense trouble on the horizon. ‘Well, bugger that, the Hippy could take on this overhanging tottering pile if he must and I for once would take the soft option of the second.’  

“Shall we do it then?” I asked with trepidation not wanting to sound like a lightweight and hoping the Hippy would see sense.

“We might as well as we are here.” Red bandanna enthusiasm spurted knowing he had a get out clause.

“Who’s going to do it then?” Big trepidation knowing I didn’t have a get out clause.

“I’ll give it a go.” Big red bandanna enthusiasm with a touch of blissful ignorance.

“Ok.” Big relief … easy ride up some chossy horror show … great, brill, super-duper…    

Try as much as I could the feeling of doubt wriggled from the back of my mind and reared its ugly slimy head until a line from Who Killed Bambi, a  Sex Pistols song came to mind…’Never trust a hippy’. Ropes were laid out on the big flat boulder beneath this pillar of uncertainty, and all I could envisage was the Hippy getting a little way up, filling the climb full of my gear and then deciding it wasn’t for him leaving me, in my delicate state of barfdom, to take on the choss.

Shaking my head clear of this pessimistic scenario, I settled in for a relaxing belay. The hippy said a prayer and pootled off … five feet high and rising and quite nonchalantly he walked the line pulling his white jeaned, red bandanna form upward. ‘My, what bravery, what bottle … what foolishness.’ A foothold snapped leaving him hanging from one arm but still he continued in the direction of doom … “Great, keep going Hippy.” ‘Amazing’, I thought, this is actually going to happen. For once I was on the sensible end of the rope while the nutter above skittered and pulled lumps and looked at ground fall while exploding gear ricocheting all around… ‘So this is what it’s like?’

Another pull, another pull, a lump flew, a foot skittered, and then it happened… For the first time since starting on this teetering journey of quartz uncertainty, the Hippy started to thump the rock to test, and for the first time he came out from his summer of love bubble and realised that the whole pillar was detached and hollow… “Shit, that hold I just banged above my head caused the rock I’m stood on to vibrate!” At this point I would have offered the usual and immortal words of encouragement, SCS, (work it out for yourself children!) but still feeling like I was going to barf and not feeling mentally prepared to take on this horror, I offered kind words of encouragement, the words your belayer often offers when they don’t want to try… “Go on Hippy, you’re doing great, keep it going, I’m with you all the way.” Which I wasn’t of course and I didn’t really care if he was doing well or not, or even if he landed in a bloody twisted mess of cheesecloth at my feet, I just didn’t want him to realise his mistake and back off.

The hippy reversed and slowed, and pulled up and tested, and reversed and slowed, and pulled up and tested, and reversed and slowed and pulled up and tested, and at last pulled up one more move while smearing as much of his body on as much decomposing rock as possible … “Ahhh, ooooh, ahhhhhhh, ooooh… this whole pillar is moving, its loose blocks piled on loose blocks, piled on loose blocks piled on loose blocks and my gear is in it… I don’t like this anymore…”

And with that the wan*#r reversed and lowered off…

“Your turn.”

Scimitar Ridge, is a wave of corrugated cardboard  cut-out from the heather-hillside high on the northside of the Llanberis Pass. Scimitar is for me, THE chosen venue.

The wind often cuts through the scree beneath Scimitar’s dagger-overhangs. The sun shines in the morning, shadow fingers delve deep into the cool dark corners of the Rhyolite-fold, but then, as the sun moves down the Pass, the shade generally gives sharp fresh temperatures in which to climb. Ash tree’s spindle limbs waver in the breeze. Sheep wander the steep hill and grind grass between brown molars. A small trickle of fresh water drips from the rock step green with algae. Ticks scuttle and midges, when the wind drops, bite annoyingly. Shaking legs, pumped forearms, frayed nerves, eyes on stalks… The Ridge gives.      

Returning from an expedition leaves muscle weak and nerves shaky, but the enthusiasm to get strong and fit and then launch into hard run-out sequence is just too tempting for someone who places the psychological way above the physical.

And so the question, how to get into a strong head-space quickly, this for me is the most important question as every summer my time is limited by going on expedition.

There are a few climbs on Scimitar that I will never be good enough to climb on-sight, or even ground-up, so for me the best way to go about ticking these brilliant climbs, and in the journey to doing this, to get into a strong head-space, is to work them, and then lead them. Sport climbing will certainly get my arms fit for pulling but what it does not do is get my head strong… In fact, in my opinion, sport climbing actually weakens the mind if the intended path is for on-sight, run-out trad on suspect rock.  

And so, back to Scimitar Ridge, the best and most neglected crag in the Llanberis Pass…

“Jonny, can we top-rope your climb please?” Was how it all started two years ago after I had lead Romany Soup with the usual suspects, Streaky and Tim Neill. Jonny Dawes was also on the ridge that day, the first ascensionist of the 39 Slaps, (the climb we wanted to top-rope). “Yes, certainly.” came the reply.  “I’m chuffed you want to try my route… in fact, do you mind if I join you?”

Jonny climbed The 39 Slaps way back when, and in doing so placed five pegs to protect it. (The rock on Scimitar is very compact.) And he enthused about wanting to make something that people would want to climb, something safe and fun… I’m not sure he succeeded though as all of the pegs he had placed were sawn-off.

A very pleasant afternoon/evening followed with much slapping and frivolity and banter. The most vivid memory I have from that afternoon/eve, was watching Jonny climb his own route, with that very quirky-jerky-slappy natural style that he has made his own. The second recollection from the evening was everyone going quiet and then heckling as I, much to every-one’s surprise and disappointment (on a top-rope of course) proceeded to do quite well on my first go.   

The 39 slaps was just about everything I want from a route. It had style, technicalities, power, grace, and burl… Throw in uncertainty of rock, a stomach churning mistrust of the in-situ protection, which if you have limited imagination you can fool yourself the pegs are good and hey presto, the perfect get fit route… I led The 39 slaps later that summer with The Pimp, aka, Ian Hey belaying and The Hobbit aka, Jonny Ratcliffe and Andy Scott watching. Eventually, later in that summer, this ascent gave me the courage to ground-up the climb I was aiming, a Paul Pritchard scary classic called Surgical Lust. Job done. Theory proven.      

Two years down the line and here I am again needing a get fit, get into a strong head-space climb…

“To Scimitar!”

Unfortunately my original plan went adrift.

Throwing a rope down Adam Wainright’s climb, The Trumpet Blowers, didn’t give me the work-out I wanted, I couldn’t touch the crux sequence… ‘Bugger’! But then I remembered the Trumpet Slappers, a combo of the 39 Slaps and the Trumpet Blowers… ‘Climb a brilliant climb I’ve done before and then extend it into a brilliant climb above the hard bit I haven’t done before… Perfect’. And to top it all, The Trumpet Slappers is a Jack Geldard route so that would mean it was a soft touch. (Sorry Jack, I couldn’t resist ;-)) (Side-note; I did talk to Adam about the Trumpet Blowers and his response was quality, “Yes, that will certainly get you fit, it’s a boulder problem in the sky”! Which I then had to tell him that actually as I’m pathetic at bouldering it wouldn’t get me fit as it was too hard for me to even work.) (Note to myself, get stronger and lighter).

And so, two days ago, the getting fit, getting into a strong head space project for summer 2011 finally culminated in me climbing the second ascent of The Trumpet Slappers, ‘let’s give the weak boy a cigar!’ What a brilliant route, well done Jonny, well Done Adam, well done Jack. And thanks to The Hobbit for the belay and to Ray Wood for filming the action. Hopefully Ray filmed it with the camera the right way, unlike the Hobbit, who unbeknown to me filmed my original ascent of the 39 Slaps on his phone holding it the wrong way!

The Trumpet slappers is a super sustained E76c burl which climbs all of the hard stuff on the 39 Slaps before moving left and finishing up the final section of the Trumpet Blowers. Jack Geldard thought a French grade would be 7c, I’m not sure about that, but it is sustained, especially for the weak, e.g. me. There is no rest on the whole route, not in the lower section, the middle or the upper… especially the upper, where actually, if there was a rest to shake out and contemplate how far you are going to fall onto the top peg of the 39 Slaps should you muff the crux move, this would possibly not be conducive of successfully completing the climb. The big spike of rock which points the way up the route from the base was mentioned regularly by the crew who shared my slapping obsession and I do recall having dreams or should I say nightmares of falling and receiving a forceful Rhyolite enema.  

Even though I worked the route, personally I don’t think this makes it a formality to lead as the monster lob potential from way out left of the peg should the sky hook blow is not good for an active imagination. But for anyone out there that thinks they can do better, I’m more than willing to hold your ropes and place an outsized surgical rubber glove on that prominent and prostrate, tear-inducing finger spike!

And in my, let’s get into a strong head space plan; several others who have joined me have now got the slapping bug… Only time will tell to see if they can convert the physical into the mental and lead the climb!  

Picture a land in the grip of pestilence. The once pleasant, green and rolling countryside turned to misery. No longer can the people wander freely through the wide-open spaces. No longer animals aimlessly cavorting in the meadows, gambolling on the Fells. Lorry’s rumbled through the lanes, hooves pointing skyward. Pyres burnt through the night. The evening news broadcast shouted of doom and despair; a grisly reminder to one’s own mortality. Foot and Mouth was ravaging Britain. Everyone was affected, traumatised … Distraught .

“Damned inconsiderate! Do these agricultural jonnies not realise I only have a couple of months to rockclimb before setting out on another mountaineering adventure,” growled Biffa, strutting back and forth gesticulating wildly …

The words written above are the beginning of an essay I wrote in 2004. At this time my writing was on a steep learning curve and experimental. This account is very tongue in cheek and an attempt to make light of myself. 

It would be interesting if anyone reading this could comment on whether they enjoyed it or not. Does it work? Is it too long and too in-depth? Is it funny?  Here is a link and if this does not work just go to the writing section beneath the header and click on Into the Never Never. Cheers, Nick. http://nickbullock-climber.co.uk/writing/into-the-never-never/

I Met Steve Mcclure a few weeks ago and it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to discussing the different aspects of climbing. The usual was covered, nuances between sport climbing and trad climbing, “Nick, it’ll help your climbing no-end if you do some sport climbing.”  “That may be so Steve, but it won’t feed my soul!” Then the conversation went on to how bouldering and training will affect and improve my climbing, “You should boulder and train more, and it will help your climbing.” “That may be so Steve, but it will make me too strong and I’ll rip the holds off most of the routes I aspire to climb!”  

One, most interesting aspect of the conversation, was a fact both Steve and I agreed, which was climbing needs characters. This led to the question, has climbing become too clean and conservative and lost its characters and character?

Personally I think it has … Well, it’s certainly getting there anyway. And the question I had to ask myself is does it matter and are climbers today bothered?

After deciding it matters to me, I have chosen to write down a few reasons why I think climbing is on a slippery slope to mediocrity and what, in my opinion, is to be done to cure this fungus of bland spreading all over our precious climbing cake.

Too many people now enter into the arena from a climbing wall background, which is a safe, controlled, ruled and regulated environment. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve spent hours in climbing walls and love them and I think they are a great training facility, but that is what they are, training, not climbing and this should never be forgotten. Venturing outside after the very controlled, inside environment – no weather, no view, no risk, no question of where the next hold is, no question of how to get to the route or how to get off the route – must have an effect on the persons attitude… doesn’t it? Going outside for the first time after learning to climb in a wall must be terrifying, “Oh, must wear a helmet, must follow all of the safety precautions, must look for the blue hold, red hold, green hold… Make decisions … (scary). Move up to what may be a hold, but it may not be a hold … (very scary). Move up without clipping a bolt … (very very scary).” And on and on and on… What ever happened to the let’s get out and have it? What about let’s explore the rock and explore our own imagination; let’s have a scare and a mini adventure?  This ‘proper’ climbing experience in my mind should be the first step not the last?

I find myself laughing and on occasion despairing when I read the continuing threads on UKC that are usually entitled something like ‘Helmets’. The thread normally has someone preaching how foolish it is not to wear a helmet, “Oh, how foolish, they could injure themselves and cost the country thousands in medical costs.” Bloody hell, and I though climbers were free spirits and rad-man, and you know, you know… wild! “Oh, that Nick Bullock, what a fool, he doesn’t wear a helmet when rock climbing.” Right I don’t… I wear one for most of the winter – I’ve regularly slept wearing a helmet (I mean on a mountain, not in a bed… now that would be weird!) and I hate the bloody things and if I don’t want to wear a helmet in the summer when I rock climb, I won’t. Radical I know, and yes, I appreciate I could be injured. I don’t make judgement on anyone who wants to wear a helmet and I can see the benefits, but when I last looked, rock climbing was for free thinking and folk who can make their own decisions and it can even be adventurous and dangerous.

I now don’t smoke, I wear a seat belt when I drive, I eat healthy, go running, take vitamins… is it going to be law soon to wear a helmet or have your gear inspected once a year and if you injure yourself while not wearing a helmet will your insurance be invalid? Maybe it should be made illegal to climb loose rock, wet rock, or attempt new routes that have not been tested by a qualified person or to climb to the first bolt without stick clipping it, or heaven forbid, boulder without a pad. Climbers just don’t appear to be questioning or dangerous or anti-authority any more, we conform and are politically correct and join in with the castigation when someone doesn’t toe the line. People like Patey and Whillans and Perrin and Drummond – Brown, Macintyre and Pritchard, would surely be castigated by the crowds today who don’t appear to understand that climbing needs to be avant-garde? 

I think Climbing has become too serious. There are too many folk chasing numbers and to do this it is deemed an advantage if you diet, diet, not drink, diet, train, diet, train, train, diet, train, not drink, not drink, not party, not go out and have a crack, not go on big trips, not climb in winter, not go more than a week away from the gym and certainly not go out and shuffle along ledges on adventure trad climbs. And it is in my honest opinion not doing all of the above makes Jonny a very dull boy/girl!

Life in Britain is making climbers and climbing sensible. Britain is a nanny state, a cotton wool country. It’s cheaper for the government if we are all squeaky clean and we all have mortgages to become beholden to the powers that be and live in fear.

Climbing has become mainstream, it’s too popular, and it sucks, because then it becomes regulated and the masses without much appreciation of what climbing should be about make ignorant decisions. I blame Coca cola and Silvester Stallone, and Red Bull and Clint Eastwood and the internet… Definitely the internet… How many times do you read, ‘What are the conditions like on this crag, or that crag, or this hill, or this climb?’… Where has all of the adventure and imagination gone? How about finding out for yourself and taking a chance that the climb may be in. But then again, that could be a waste of valuable time and as everyone works so hard and time is so precious we don’t want to do that. Climbers today need certainty and certainty spells the death of adventure and the death of adventure spells no character and no characters.

How about this, let’s make a law that will force folk to climb outside, WITHOUT an instructor and on gritstone. Let them build their own belays and place their own wobbly gear and shake their way up a climb… And then, before they can be allowed into a climbing wall, they have to do the theory exam and answer questions like, is it compulsory to clip the first bolt on a sport route? And the final part of the theory would be to watch Seb Grieve climbing Parthian Shot in Hard Grit or Ricky Bell in On-Sight lobbing off his route at Fairhead.

Finally to give us all hope, here are a few of my top characters who are still around and if you look carefully, you may see out somewhere, somewhere that may be dangerous  and risky and they may be doing something very silly, maybe even without wearing a helmet! But be quick, they are officially on the protected list!

Last night I watched Morrissey on the i-player singing live at Glastonbury Festival. My first thought was, ‘My, doesn’t Morrissey look like Tom Briggs’.

And later, while watching a u-tube clip of The Smiths on Top of the Pops from 1984 singing What Difference Does it Make, my second thought was, ‘My, doesn’t Morrissey looks like Blair Fyffe’.

My third thought as I dived into renaissance, swinging my arms and wishing I had a bunch of flowers was, ‘Where the hell did the last twenty seven years go’?

Mozzer gently shuffled around the stage, his shirt buttons tested to the limit by a paunch… then, a bit of a shuffle… an occasional arm swing… another shuffle, a slight glisten of perspiration popped out of his prison pallor skin… another shuffle… a flick of his grey, coiffured hair, which is supported by well trimmed grey sideboards… then a shuffle and a careful hip gyration… and as the song ends, Mozzer bows and offers a gracious thank you.

His voice and presence was still electrifying even after all of this time, but my, how time stops for no-one, not you, me, Mozzer , Tom Briggs or even Blair Fyffe.

The music of the Smiths vividly takes me back in time… back to an attitude of, what difference does it make and panic at the disco. (In fact, I think if I ended up in a disco now the panic would need chemicals to control!  “Oh, how old is he, he called it a disco.” ) Vividly, the music of The Smiths takes me back to meeting a girl, who I only knew for a short while but like the Smiths and their lyrics, what vitality and energy and intelligence and what an impression she made. I wonder where she is now and how many children she has and if she still has the spark or has life beaten her down into grey and dull and stale? I hope not.

Mozzer at Glastonbury was poignant and invigorating – he was sad and sweet and bitter and tender, while still managing to be dangerous… but only just! Watching made me think that for just a short time you are there, in your prime, a handsome devil, smooth taught skin, hollow cheeks, bendy limbs and strong muscle… Just for a short time you won’t and don’t care about the world, well, the world outside your world, and you think there is a light that never goes out.

As climbers we are fortunate, there is a light that never goes out for some of us, we have aims to aim for, we are passionate and driven, most of the time we are positive and thoughtful and forward thinking. On occasion we may think, please, please, please, let me get what I want, or, Ive started something I couldn’t finish, or, you just haven’t earned it yet baby, but that’s OK, because in the end, some girls are bigger than others and none of us are getting any younger. (The last one is mine, but I’m certain its been used before 😉 )

The west is a consumer society, our world runs on people wanting and buying, buying and wanting… I don’t have a problem with this, it’s better than communism. But what I do find difficult to accept is the, ‘I want and I want it now’; western attitude when is taken into climbing, and especially climbing in the greater ranges.

Below is a link to a piece of writing by Anselm Murphy that I was pointed to when he posted a thread on UK Climbing about his recent trip to Kanchenjunga and the rescue situation which followed after he summited.        

http://www.anselm-murphy.com/

http://www.ukclimbing.com/forums/t.php?n=461259

(Since I began to write this post UK Climbing has made this story into a news item which can be found here)

http://www.ukclimbing.com/articles/page.php?id=3785

I read his account about the rescue of a Brazilian/American team mate Cleo Weidlich getting more angry the more I read, and the more I read, the more infuriated I got about the authors lack of experience,

“After graduating from University in 2005 I set myself the goal of climbing Mount Everest.  At this point I had not done any climbing.”

which in my mind brought about this rather ignorant and haughty view-point he has written about in his blog post.

We all need to strive for personal goals and have dreams and ambition, but what I don’t understand is people who don’t want to learn about climbing (and themselves in the process) through, the usual and accepted way. Rock climb in Britain, then move on to winter climbing in Wales and Scotland. A few years of Alpine climbing. Somewhere relatively straight forward like Alaska could be experienced and then, after about 6 years, the Himalayas. In taking this approach not only is a person learning to look after themselves in the hills, gaining experience in this way also gives a greater understanding, a greater depth of knowledge and a better understanding of what rock climbing and mountaineering involves.What it does not do is put someone who does not have the skill and experience high on a Himalayan mountain totally depending on someone else. 

If someone wants to become a climber for the right reasons, e.g. they love being in the hills, the action, history, adventure, involvement, experience, frustration, friendships, I have no problem if they eventually want to climb Everest (Although I don’t understand it as Everest is now no longer a serious challenge, or an adventure, or wilderness experience for someone who is relatively fit and healthy and has the money.)

I would like to think Mr Murphy set himself these 8000 metre challenges, or as he likes to call them adventures, (Got some news for you Mr Murphy, climbing Lillaz and Patri left hand in Cogne are not really adventures! http://www.anselm-murphy.com/climbing-photos/) because he has a love of the high mountains, but I suspect he is using the mountains, as many people do nowadays, as a career move to become an adventure celebrity or hosting a reality TV programme or something else as trite. (I’ll be happy if i’m proven wrong, time will tell i suppose. )

Reading his blog it appears; please correct me if this is wrong, he has basically only climbed Island Peak, Mera Peak (both of these high altitude walks that can be done on one five week trip from Britain and without any previous climbing experience at all. I have just returned from the Mera area where clients of a large commercial company had to be shown how to attach crampons.) and Aconcagua before Cho Oyo, Everest and finally Kanchenjunga and as far as I can tell, they have all been commercial expeditions with guides. This is not exactly climbing for exploring and adventure. The first three of these mountains are walks and seriously over exploited trade routes and the second two are not technical climbs, especially when, as Mr Murphy did, you climb fixed ropes, use oxygen, have your gear and supplementary oxygen carried up for you and have a Sherpa to break trail. Kanchenjunga is slightly more technical but not when you are climbing fixed rope, using oxygen and again having everything carried and set up for you by a Sherpa.

So, the crux of this post.

After reading Mr Murphy’s report the thing I wanted to say was yes, some of the actions taken by the Sherpa’s sounded like the wrong decisions, but Sherpa’s are not machines, they are not super human, they are human beings made of flesh and blood and bone who get scared, suffer, cry, get altitude sickness, frostbite and think about their wives and children. Sherpa’s live in a third world country where education for hill people is rare so the best way to earn money is by risking their lives to fix rope, carry oxygen, carry food, carry tents and molly coddle people who want something immediately without gaining the experience to actually do it in good style, and in good style I mean without the use of Sherpas, or oxygen or fixed rope and by carrying your food and stove and gas and tent. Do you really think by paying some money to a person they should die or risk their lives more than they already have? When things go wrong like it did in this case, if Cleo Weidlich or you had gained the experience that you both should have gained in the first place, you could possibly get yourself out of trouble and then would not have to rely on other human beings to do it for you resulting in you get upset when you find out they are fallible and as scared to die as much as you.  

Another  annoying fact of this type of mountaineering is how people attempting to climb 8000 metre mountains with very little actual climbing experience (I use the term climb loosely as jumaring fixed ropes is not climbing) appear to think that handing over a load of cash will help when the crap hits the fan . No mountain guide or a Sherpa can guide an 8000 metre mountain when the weather comes in and with more experience you would know this and would not be shocked when it turns into every man and woman for themselves.   

I am pleased that Cleo Weidlich has recovered, and well done in helping her, but she was a member of your climbing party and a friend and I would expect nothing less. So maybe in the future if she returns to the mountains she will have gained more experience, so she does not have to depend on other people and hopefully Mr Murphy will do the same and his attitude about others risking their lives for him, as the Sherpas did by fixing rope, setting up camps, going to the summit, carrying oxygen and gear, will be a little more forgiving.

 Balloons, Kathmandu.

Between Thamel buildings, an early morning slice of sun reflects as shoals of silver. The smell of the night is heavy in the gutter. A woman squats. Fingers break the water’s surface. Drops flick from a blue bucket damping down dust.

A smear of blood on the pavement. The smell of stale piss. Sun-dried vomit. Rotting vegetables wrapped in see-through plastic.  

The pavement supports a bundle of sleeping lads. Skinny chaffinch-legs and grass-stalk arms poke from this mound of rags, boys and stray dogs.

A mop of black matted hair, punk-spiky, belongs to one boy who is striking in a grubby, town-fox kind of way.  His eyes are brooding, bloodshot, old, young. This lad never begs. He plays, he fights, he sleeps, he forages for food – food often found rotting wrapped in see-through plastic.  He gets high. Breathing chemicals. In and out, inflating and deflating a toxic balloon. He hides, and then shows.

He’s a child.

Returning to Kathmandu after failure on Kyashar is not easy. The ensuing questioning of my abilities, determination and drive always simmers inside me, and is especially strong in early morning. But the style of the climbing, be it successful or a failure, the style is the most important aspect. (Is it a failure if what you are searching for is experience and growth, not just a summit?) What a climber needs (or is that wants?) to ask is: why go in the first place; what have I received; are these the returns I was seeking; is my attempt worthy of those who have tried before; have I acquitted myself well; have I given the hill a chance; am I strong enough and grown up enough to accept the outcome, whatever it may be; is the style I have chosen worthy of the line; does climbing this line say something about me; am I appreciating an environment and landscape so few people experience?

As a PE Instructor I was taught that strength is admirable, but strength without skill is nothing. I take a similar philosophy to the mountains and say: to climb a mountain is admirable, but to climb a mountain using a whole host of techniques and gear and support is nothing.

The snow fell every afternoon on our attempt to climb Kyashar, and in the end the South Pillar, our objective, plastered white, was not an option. We turned to the West Ridge. A striking line, and only climbed once before, with the technical crux, a crumbling 150 metre rock pillar, in the lower half of the route.

Setting out at midnight from BC, the threatened approach was climbed without incident until we straddled the heavily snowed-up rock ridge between Kusum Kanguru and Kayashar at a height of 5800 metres. At 11 am we stood, looking up at the tottering pile of buttress which guarded the West ridge. The rock climbing was covered by snow and resembled an overhanging Scottish winter climb. There was a possibility of something easier, or at least, something more in keeping with the conditions around the corner.

Andy led a block of four pitches to by-pass the rock pillar, and in the end these pitches proved a lot more difficult than the original climb. Snow and hail poured down the face. Mist swirled. Drips of water thudded into clothing, falling from overhanging rock. The climbing proved to be tenuous and committing. There was no ice. The snow covering the rock was powder; there was not a single piece of névé anywhere. The rock was loose, so loose in-fact as to make the climbing some of the most insecure I have encountered, either in summer or winter. It was impossible to say whether the hook or torque you were pulling, (the final two pitches were vertical with overhanging steps, chimneys and cracks) was going to stay in place. At one point, leaning back onto a large person-sized spike of rock, I was horrified as it tumbled down the face leaving me tight on belay anchors. The ropes, fortunately, were still in one piece.

To say traversing out onto the West Face and looking into the deep cloud-filled valley of the Khumbu, kilometres away, felt secluded would surpass the most British of understatement. While Houseman led the final two pitches to the snowy West Ridge, I planned. I planned how to get us off this face without any person other than ourselves to help, or call, or even notice us. I planned… I planned for the time when Houseman ripped a block, which he surely would given the territory … and it would hit me, breaking or maiming. I planned for Houseman’s fall that would strip half a pitch, and I planned for the fridge-sized boulders that would follow his fall… After a while, stood belaying in the hail and the snow, I stopped planning.

Eight hours since traversing onto the West Face and nineteen hours since leaving BC , and with 1600 metres of vertical ascent into our lightweight quick-push, Houseman and I were eventually above the technical difficulties at approximately 5900 metres. At 7pm we dug into the deep snow beneath a boulder. We were travelling light remember: this was not a wear it down into submission, a pull up your porta-ledge home, slide down on fixed ropes to BC comfort kind of affair, not a climb made easy by technical advances, or local hired help to break trail. No, this was giving the hill a chance, pushing as hard as your body will allow and moving in the one direction … UP! At 7pm beneath the boulder, Houseman and I, having climbed free and with rucksacks were wasted.

The hill was winning.

But after a few hours of digging and eating: The moon’s sharp crescent gleamed, the plough’s stars flickered, and the silhouettes of the mountains surrounding our bivvy were crisp and jagged but comforting. I felt content … fortunate … privileged … 

At 3am we woke, and by 5am we began the traverse to the West Ridge. Our one day of food had been eaten. All that remained were a few gels and bars. As I waded through thigh deep snow I knew to plunge an unbroken line to the summit of Kyashar was not going to happen.

Our stall at the start had been set; we would carry on our backs what we needed for a two-day ascent and descent of this 6770 metre mountain, but we knew we taking a gamble on the snow being firm, which would make our passage quick. But the snow was anything but firm and it would’ve taken another two days at least to climb and return. And so, in the end, the decision was taken  to abseil the rock rib.  Retracing our steps beneath the South Face, we reached BC at 1pm, thirty seven hours from the start, with three thousand two hundred metres covered.

*

The street boys in Kathmandu lay baking on the pavement. As I walked in the afternoon sun, I thought about our climb, about our style of ascent … and what it all means …

(Below is a link to two short clips of film of Andy Houseman and me climbing some of the more interesting pitches on Kyashar.)

Kyashar West Ridge variation. One of the more tricky pitches. from nick bullock on Vimeo. 

Kyashar Expedition 2011. The lovely ridge between Kusum Kanguru and Kyashar. from nick bullock on Vimeo.

[Over the past couple of years, having passed through Kathmandu a number of times, I’ve been, on and off, working on the prose-poem at the start of this post, which has had various titles, and which still probably remains as an unfinished draft.] 

Thanks to Mark Goodwin. Friend, teacher, poet and at times a bloody pain in the arse 😉