Great Escape. Nick Bullock.

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 😉 

Life flows. Places, time, people.

Groundhog Day or déjà vu? Similar experiences, memories flood. Have I been here before? Will I be here again?

Sitting outside terminal 4, Heathrow Airport, the spring sun warms the paving flags beneath my bare feet. Daffodils in raised beds sway. The sun has power; it reflects through the massive canopy covering the terminal entrance, the warmth from the sun brings hope for the season ahead. People – some relaxed, some excited, some angry, some smoking, some not smoking – move around me. I wait for Houseman, who was somewhere underground on a train.

Turning my face toward the light, I recall exactly six months before, sitting in the same place, but that time, it was the autumn sun I was savouring. David Reeves waits inside the terminal fending off PR people, and Michelle, Pete and Matt are still to arrive. We were about to leave for an expedition to Annapurna III and at that time, the same as this time, the same as every time I set out for an expedition, I reflect on life and the lives’ of the people I see around me.

Leaving one life, to enter another life, which in turn leads to leaving and entering, leaving and entering, meeting friends, leaving friends, meeting friends, leaving friends… gives a different perspective, a wider view of what is important and what is not. Some things have changed on return, but generally they are similar. Some people have changed, but mostly they have not. Life is being lived with comfort or with hardship, with worry or fear, concern or contentment, but mostly it is similar to before.

Kyashar will be expedition number 18 since my first expedition in 1997. That first expedition was to the Sharks Fin, on Meru Central in India with Owain Jones, Jamie Fisher and Jules Cartwright. The feelings and experiences from that trip remain fresh and invigorating as do many of the experiences from the other sixteen expeditions. And in all of these years, and in all of these trips, I have grown, but never as much as in the last seven and a half years of climbing full time and living life with uncertainty. I would be lying if I said, at times, I do not have concern and worry, but in comparison to my previous life and the life of many of the people I see in the towns and cities on my travels in the west, the life I choose is fulfilling and exciting. This life is certainly not for everyone but Groundhog Day is no longer a part of me and I don’t intend it to be for a long time to come.

Today, all of the baggage, the food, the tents, climbing gear, boots, sleeping bags, coffee pot, et al are heading toward Lukla and tomorrow we follow the gear. The Hinku valley, a valley I have travelled through twice before, will be similar, but the experience will be different. The mountain we are hoping to attempt will certainly be different, as are all climbs of this type and like my life, it’s impossible to say what will happen, today, tomorrow or next month, and this in itself is one of the great joys of doing this kind of thing and living this way. I’m sure that everyone in the west can experience this type life on some level, be it on a rock climb or an expedition, whether stepping off the ground to climb onto a plane or to climb onto rock or maybe those first kicks into névé at the base of a two thousand metre climb, or that first day of freedom from a shitty job. On some level we are all capable to live a different life if we are not happy with the present. It takes risk and commitment but the rewards will be great.

Throughout our stay at BC, beneath the soaring Kyashar cliffs, we will send text messages to Duncan Machin at Mountain Equipment who will then post updates on their site and this blog, maybe it will inspire you to attempt to take on that dream? Maybe not? 

Finally thanks to all of the people,
The MEF, the BMC, The Nick Estcourt Award, The Welsh Sports Council and Samsung  who, in some way or another have made this trip happen and thanks to my other sponsors DMM and Boreal who continue to support me in my endeavour to live life with adventure and uncertainty.

As ever, thanks to Loben for all of the hard work with permits, gear, flights BC stuff, etc, and on and on…

The run up to going on an expedition can be fraught. In fact, it is fraught, especially if the sun is shining and mates are calling to go rock climbing.

Fortunately, this time, it wasn’t sunny, it was raining when I left wales, but that in-itself caused annoyance. Living the dream can feel nothing like living the dream when going away and trying to pack several bags and boxes into the van, especially when the rain is pouring …

… running, stuffing, throwing, getting wet, grab more bags, more boxes, running, stuffing, tripping, sweating, swearing, getting wet, and getting wetter, drives me wild. My bed in the back of the van also gets wet which I find extremely upsetting. Why does it always rain when I’m packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking, unpacking, packing?

Guaranteed, five days before departure a filling will drop out and the normal scenario is continued chomping until, crunch, crack a few more teeth on the filling. My dentist is in Leicester, so that’s a day on the way south if they can fit me in. Big stress.

On this occasion, before leaving Llanberis, I travelled to Cardiff for a Welsh sports Council grant interview – five thirty in the morning to seven thirty in the evening, ten hours on a train for a fifteen minute meeting. (Worth it though, £900 from the Welsh Sports Council, cheers, much needed :-)).

There are the usual, take along items that need to be bought, Marmite, batteries, mozzie spray, Crampex tablets, cous cous, second hand novels.

There are folk to visit, friends to visit, bags to pack, people to e-mail, tickets to print, gear to collect, gear to order, sponsors to meet, grants to chase up, funding to chase up, gear to collect (from Streaky’s loft), gear to collect from the hut, gear to collect from DMM and all while still having to fit in running, circuit training and visiting the climbing wall.

Having arrived at my sister’s house in Wheathampsted, the day before flying, there is the whole big pack, generally while panicking that something may still be in Wales. This includes lugging gear from Wales and placing it up the ladder in the attic, collect gear from the attic, answer e-mails asking for pictures and route descriptions, write, edit, write, answer e-mails, answer phone calls, answer texts, talk to Houseman to make sure we have not forgotten anything, answer Loben’s e-mails, send e-mails, “Yes we need 2kg of coffee, no we don’t need a bus, yes we need mosquito coils, yes we need chairs, no we don’t need a climbing Sherpa!

Go running… Is my back about to blow-out, is my knee tweaking, is my calf is about to tear…

Running along the old railway line…thinking, thinking, thinking… what have I forgotten to pack… Ski poles, head torch, saloppettes, hard shell, soft shell, Duvet, gloves, gloves, gloves, mitts, ear plugs, sun glasses, camera, mp3, sleeping bag for BC, sleeping bag for route, alternative sleeping bag for route, Bivvy-bag, t-shirt, shorts, boots, rock boots, chalk bag … Oh no, some old silver top has just ran past me… never do, never do… run faster, catching him, faster, catching him… oh no, my back, my calf, my knee… slow down … slow down.

Catch the bus today to take me to the airport … Bags too heavy, bags too heavy… going to get hit by excess baggage…

Reach the airport… weigh the bag, re-pack the bag, stuff gear into hand luggage, weigh the bag, unpack the bag, stuff more gear into hand luggage… weigh the bag… a kg over… it’ll do.

Through the gate, get stopped, pull everything out of my hand luggage…re-pack, forget something while putting my shoes and belt back on, go back to the gate, attempt to escape the security… nearly, nearly, nearly…

And relax.

And is it all worth the hassle, the stress, the trouble?

Sitting on that plane, kick back with a glass of wine, think of that hill, the line, meeting friends in Kathmandu, having a laugh with the locals, the adventure, the excitement, the nervous anticipation, the memories and the experience…

Damn right it’s worth it.

Next rushed report will be from Kathmandu.

The shock-tang smell of freshly cut grass brings anticipation and expectation for the season ahead. Swallows with tired wings, hunting sluggish flies, flit on thermals above the bright red cliffs of Rhoscolyn. Seagulls lay claim to ledge and chuckle. The rough surface of rock is warm. Un-gloved fingertips touch; Pocket. Crozzle. Crimp … There is connection. Satisfaction bites deep into soft winter skin. The sea laps.

Later, running past melting snow patches high in the hills, memories of damp and frost and dark are stored.     

The new season gives reflection…

An Arctic blast hits North Wales. The Llanberis Pass, the heart of Snowdonia, looks like a Norwegian valley. Drips of ice hang from cliff and ledge and cover crozzle and crimp. A Buzzard floats, fat flakes flick from wide spread finger feathers. The bird lands on a branch in the skeletal tree and shakes. The branch wobbles, sheds white.

Life slows. The snow blankets the boulders. Gerry’s has a drift beneath it. Listen, you can hear ice growing. Water trapped beneath a thick skin gurgles. Boulders rise, volcanoes from the frozen stream. In the morning, a mist clings to the bottom of the valley. And at night, a full moon reflects through icicles hanging from the hut gutter.

Llech Ddu, on the shortest day of the year, gives, but only with reluctance. Finishing the climb in the dark, constant heavy snow has fallen throughout the day; we stand thigh-deep in fresh snow and coil rope. In my mind’s eye, I see the sheep from the walk-in. A torch beam illuminates big dark eyes beneath the large Rhyolite boulders. Black faces frozen white. Snow clotted wool. They move with difficulty leaving a greasy furrow.  

The journey north on the last week of my winter was long. “Well we are going.” Was all the incentive I needed to drive five hundred miles. And, as the white lines, blue road signs, green road signs, brown road signs passed, the sun turned to  rain, to sun, to rain, to snow, and memories flood. This is as much a reason for the drive.

Loch Carron and Eilean Donan Castle and the Bealach na Bà remind me of childhood and a two week camping trip to Applecross with my mum and dad and sister …

… Rain for thirteen days. Toscaig Peer, wild and barren and windy. Sea otters and seals. Rusting fishing boats. Twisted nets and orange floats. Hand-lining for crab with mussel bait. Swinging the heavy lead-weight in a faster and faster circle before letting it arc to sea. The Golden Lab attempts to snaffle muscles skewered by the savage hook. It’s too much a temptation, that stinking slippery fish goo swinging past her nose. We land more than expected when she snaps a muscle. But, patiently, and without grumbling, she allows us to remove the barb from her mouth. The rain pours at Toscaig and the smell of kelp is strong. Mum stays in the Maxi listening to the radio. She doesn’t do fishing.

Dad loved driving the Bealach na Bà, a steep twisting single lane with passing places,  although being English we call it The Pass a Cattle. Dad thought he was Graham Hill. He didn’t think much of James Hunt. And my mum preferred Alain Prost …  

… Thirty years later, parked in the layby at the start of the Bealach na Bà, the memories from long ago are vivid. Time stops for no-one. The journey is short.

The Long Road… from nick bullock on Vimeo.

(Above is Kyashar and the South Pillar. Credit Andy Houseman.)

On the 6th of April, Andy Houseman and I fly from Heathrow to Kathmandu. After a couple of days in Kath, it’s the death flight into Lukla, followed by the steep walk over the Zatra La and down, and down, into the beautiful Hinku Valley. Day three of the walk-in will be through the pine forest and along the track running by the side of the deep flowing river until we reach the village of Kotte. On day four, we will arrive at our final destination, the small village of Tagnag. Tagnag is a few stone and wood and blue tin roof lodges perched above the sweeping river bed and boulder fields. The ice streaked north face of Mera overlooks the village and behind, Kusum Kanguru and Kyashar make the formidable boundary between the Hinku and the Khumbu.

Tagnag is my favourite place in the Hinku, although that is not saying much as I think the environment and the nature of the people in Hinku has been ruined by the hundreds of commercial expeditions, whom as far as I can see make large profits and put nothing back to off-set the environmental damage their expeditions cause. Also, due to the commercial trips prices are inflated to the point that in the future, small non-commercial trips will not be able to afford to visit the Hinku. The litter and waste management was also a major concern with none of the litter bins or waste management schemes of the Khumbu.

This will be the third time that Andy and I have been to the Hinku, although it will only be the second time together. On our previous visit we were attempting a new route on a mountain called Peak 41(6575m). Peak 41 is off the radar and away from the hundreds of folk being led to the crowded trekking peak Mera. As for many of my trips, we were doing it on the cheap, no BC support, no pre-arranged porters, no cook, no LO, just the two of us camped in a secluded moraine valley about 45 minutes’ walk from Khare, the final dismal stop for the poor souls that have paid over the odds for adventure and found cattle market mountaineering.

We had acclimatised, and were ready for our attempt on a never climbed, deep fault line on Peak 41, but first we decided to spend a few days down the valley in the relatively oxygen-rich luxury of Tagnag. After our two day sabbatical we returned to find the whole of our BC had been robbed. Game over and £10 000 worth of gear lighter. Immediately and miserable we began the walk-out.

On our return to Kathmandu, Andy left for Britain, but I stayed to sort out the red tape with the ministry of tourism. This was going to take a few days and while I waited I fired out a few emails. Amazingly, Dave Noddings, (Noddy) a rep at the time with DMM, replied to my e-mail suggesting he fly from Britain with a whole load of new gear and the two of us go back into the Hinku. Noddy’s experience in the big hills was a tad limited, he had climbed Point Five on Ben Nevis and bouldered-out a hefty V grade, but he promised to do his best. I thought hell, I’m here now, so why not. This second visit to the Hinku ended in me reaching approximately 300 metres beneath the summit on a solo attempt. Noddy, unfortunately, had found his first Himalayan experience a tad in his face, but considering I dragged him to high camp on Mera for an acclimatisation jaunt, and then ragged him up to the base of 41, which was a super technical approach and all in about 9 days since leaving North Wales, he did well and at the end of the trip enjoyed himself and the experience.

I spent a lot of time at Tagnag and for nearly all of that time, in between getting very disillusioned about the amount of commercial trips pushing up costs for individuals and small non-commercial expeditions, I was looking up at another mountain called Kyashar, (6770m) (aka Peak 43). And for all of that time I was thinking ‘why am I attempting 41, I should be trying Kyashar.

Kyashar has only had one ascent via its West Ridge in 2003 (Broderik/Frank/Normand). Since then it has received little attention apart from two attempts by the Czech’s (Doudlebsky/Holecek) on the South Pillar and a line by Doudlebsky and Holecek up the West Face which stopped on joining the West Ridge. You would think on a mountain so beautiful and accessible as Kyashar it would have seen more attention, but unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may be for those with imagination, this is quite usual, as in this most stunning range of a million unclimbed lines, people appear happy to be dragged up a crowded peak and lie in tents surrounded by human excrement or they are content to jug fixed ropes on the same mountains as everyone else jugging fixed ropes.

Kyashar starts with a 1000 metre rock buttress virtually from the village of Tagnag and then, after climbing the rock and reaching a snow shoulder, the mountain steepens into a dramatic 1000 metre pillar of rock and ice finishing at the pointed summit. The thought of attempting this line is compulsive, and, as I sat on the dry grass in 2008, basking in the sun sitting outside the lodge, watching the groups come in and out, without questioning where all of their garbage was been dumped, (It’s behind the boulders on the moraine) I was already planning my return.

Houseman’s second visit to the Hinku was last year with Tony Stone; this was the same time as I was attempting Annapurna III. The two of them were going to try what I have come to affectionately know as my line. (youngsters nowadays have no respect for their elders!), but, they were stopped on the snow shoulder after climbing the 1000 metre rock buttress due to Tony having difficulties acclimatising. I offered my commiserations, but not for long 😉 and thought game on. Unfortunately for me, the game was on more than I was expecting, as Houseman, annoyed with failure, but buoyed by what he had already climbed, had my name on a spring grant permit before I had left Annapurna III BC.

(Top Picture is Andy Houseman on the entry slabs. 2010 attempt. Bottom is Andy Houseman climbing one of the choss bands before hitting the snow shoulder. 2010 attempt. Both shots Tony Stone.)

Usually I spend my winters near Chamonix, and I do no plastic pulling or training for rock at all. This winter was different, being in Britain I could visit the Beacon Climbing Centre in between climbs in Wales and Scotland and for the first time in several years actually come out of winter reasonably fit for rock. But in one sweep of the grant signing application pen, bang went all of my plans, goodbye BMC International Meet, goodbye Fairhead, and hello weakness. I know I will get very annoyed once again by the commercial destruction and over population and lack of support from the big companies to help maintain the beauty of the valley but how can I ignore this stunning mountain and this great line?

And after all, it is my line?

For more info  http://andyhouseman.blogspot.com/2011/01/it-wasnt-to-be.html

And thanks for the fianancial help to The Nick Estcourt Award.   http://www.nickestcourtaward.org/index.htm

(Nick Bullock looking for Fairies. Credit Andy Houseman.) 

When the going is good, it’s generally only a matter of time before shit happens. Call me a cynic, but this is what I believe. (Well, unless you are Matt Helliker, then no matter what, you come out smelling of freshly baked bread.) So for us normal folk, you realise this and accept, when the going has been too good for too long, you are about to be dealt a muck cart piled high. If you cant deal with this you just have to roll over and give up or take up sport climbing.

Climbing Godzilla on Beinn Bhàn was definitely good… so, as I’m running at one new route per trip north, I should have gladly accepted this and driven south. Another fact of life is climbers are greedy. I’m especially greedy. I’m a glutton for experience and adventure, but of course, this leads to the inevitable, good-shit, bad-shit scenario…

Andy Houseman and I walked in to Beinn Eighe on Thursday to climb Blood Sweat and Frozen Tears. Pumped on success and the thought that I was actually going to get two climbs in on one trip, I merrily ignored the above mentioned rule. Mistake!

Standing opposite the climb, balanced on the craggy dinosaur spine of the central buttress, looking down into a Huntsmans Leap type cleft, it’s not that obvious where Blood Sweat and Frozen Tears actually goes. The wall is steep and overhanging and a series of grooves and corners and overlaps make spotting the line difficult. The wind buffeted, snow poured down the face. Eventually, we decided where the top of the climb was and carefully kicked around the ice and the snow curling the top of West Central Gully until we stood, all geared up and ready to go.

Finding some tat wrapped around a huge thread well back from the top of the cliff, the voice in my head shouted, ‘overhanging cliff, traversing climb, overhangs, abseil point well back – bad shit scenario – change the abseil station to nearer the edge of the cliff’. But did I do this, no, of course not.

I scuttled over the edge of the cliff. The wind blew, the snow stung, big burly cumulous clouds scudded and as I lowered over the edge, I felt a weight. The bad shit scenario fairy fluttered and with glee settled on my shoulder. I looked down into a maze of corners and cracks and thought, ‘Ah well, there will be something obvious.’ There wasn’t of course and sixty metres down, I had been drawn toward the big girdle ledge and a stuck wire in a groove just above it. We certainly needed to be directly beneath the ropes as they would never pull from the side, surely there will be some gear placements to construct an abseil point? The fairy on my shoulder sniggered and egged me on. Landing on the snowy ledge it soon came apparent that this was the wrong place and actually there was nothing to abseil from. “Bugger.”

After crawling around, I spotted some tat about ten metres to my right, but the ledge I was now slithering narrowed into a tight horizontal chimney and no way was I going to solo-squirm along this to reach what I now concluded was the line of Blood Sweat and Frozen Tears.

I shouted to Houseman and asked him to go to the top of the Central Buttress to check out the line before coming down. The bad shit scenario fairy was dancing a Michael Flaherty jig along the ledge and kicking off loose blocks while river dancing

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‘Ok, no problem’, my mind concluded, running through the scenario – Houseman abseils to the correct station – pulls the ropes – abseils again – picks me up on the way – simple.

The fairy shook her head in a, ‘No-it-isn’t dickwad,’ kind of way, and continued with her jig.

Having checked the correct line, Andy launched over the cliff and found the abseil point about fifteen metres above me and hidden in a large corner to the right. Out of sight, he now began to pull the ropes… “It’s pulling, its pulling, its pulling… Bollocks, it’s not pulling…”

I held my breath and began to think of get out of jail scenarios. I imagined soloing the rubble strewn ledge into West Central Gully to my left… then after clenching my buttocks, I thought no more.

“Shit, the ropes are stuck and the other end is now out of reach.”

‘Hmm, not good’, two folk in different places on big bad winter cliff in middle of no-where, without ropes… Not good at all … Not good at all.

The bad shit scenario fairy fluttered around my snowy ledge. A big cheesy grin spread long across her smug face. I tried to swat her but she buzzed around and gave me the finger.

Much tugging and pulling and swearing and huffing and puffing went on above my lonely ledge and never did the joyous shout of liberation come. After a while it became apparent the only option was to cut the rope.

The wind whistled around the cliff and fresh snow collected on ledges before hissing down the pink rock. I felt alone. Then i felt a wet slither down my neck. Looking up I watched the bad shit scenario fairy wet herself with laughter while hovvering directly above.

After some time, two ends of rope dropped onto the ledge to my right, swiftly followed by Houseman… He looked over and began laughing. And I lay on my ledge laughing. “Why are we both laughing, this is serious.”

Houseman pulled the piece of rope as I shuffled on my stomach inching toward him along the ledge. The bad shit scenario fairy was not looking so happy now, and she flitted in and out from the cliff throwing handfuls of snow at me. “F*#k Off” I swatted her and in doing so, nearly rolled off the ledge. Houseman laughed and I laughed and with a belay now fixed, he threw the frayed end of rope, which I caught and tied to my harness.

‘Up yours fairy!’

It became apparent that the horizontal chimney would only go in reverse, so I turned and went-at-it, feet first, under the watchful eye of Houseman who was picturing a Bullock roll, and plummet and splat. The fairy seeing this ridiculous spectacle cheered up a tad.
But eventually, with much grovelling and laughing and instruction of where to put my feet, I made it across the void to stand next to Houseman. All that remained was to fix the piece of rope and abseil into West Central Gully, down climb this, and climb up Fuselage Gully.

Blood Sweat and Frozen Tears. Beinn Eighe. Nick Bullock ledge shuffling. from nick bullock on Vimeo.

Two days later, on Saturday, I returned with Tim Neill and Keith Ball and successfully climbed Blood Sweat and Frozen Tears. This time we approached by down climbing Fuselage Gully and climbing West Central Gully. (Big hint people, certainly worth doing.)

And the bad shit scenario fairy was no-where to be seen!

Winter over…

Here comes Nepal… And hopefully no fairies.

“Now then Bullhorn are you coming climbing with us on Monday.” 

Guy Robertson’s zeal travelled across the airways and bellowed from my mobile phone, which I was now holding at a reasonable distance from my ear. He continued in some broad Scottish blather that I didn’t understand but I did catch, Godfather, Applecross, new direct, and raving English fairy.       

Two days later…

“Well we are going anyway.”

Was Pete Benson’s retort on the phone Sunday morning. My whimpering about driving all of the way on my own, from Llanberis to Applecross, for one day of climbing, before the weather yet again crapped-out was falling on deaf, un-suntanned, Scottish, ears. I could hear his jaws grinding and imagined the mastication of animal intestines. ‘Raving English fairy.’

I could say the opportunity to eventually climb on Bein Bhàn was what pushed me into the eleven hours of behind the wheel, but it wasn’t. The warm thought of placing some English blood in the middle of all of that thick testosterone rich Gaelic gop was what eventually did it. Even more, it was the thought of how I would feel should I not go and they nail some great big new route on Bein Bhàn. Yes I’ll admit, FOMO was all of the encouragement I needed to spend £120 in fuel for the round trip and survive two days of driving.

Sun-wind-rain, sun-wind-rain, cloud-rain-sleet, snow-whiteout-dark, deer-whiteout-deer, dark-wind-more wind … at last I pulled into the parking spot before the stone bridge at the start of the steep and winding Bealach na Bà road and waited.

At 10pm a car pulled up next to my van. I opened the back doors and peered. The blue Peugeot parked next to me rocked with Scottish determination…

“Ach, look, Bullhorn is all wrapped up in his festering love pit.”

“Ah, Piglet, how are you? And where is the savour of Scottish winter climbing?

At this point the Peugeot passenger door burst open and out into the barren wind-blow emptiness bounced enthusiasm and hope and success, a veritable powerball of Scottish energy that strutted around in the dark. And balanced somewhere, just above his pale un-suntanned heed was a halo made of glowing thistle. And in the dark, the halo glowed, NO-SURRENDER.    

And I knew no matter, Monday was going to be an adventure…

Godzilla.1X/8. Beinn Bhàn. Coire Nan Fhamair. Applecross. 6 pitches, 4 new into the final 2 pitches of The Godfather. 1X/8   (Individual technical pitch grades, 8,8,8,7,8,8.)

The weather for the whole of the week we were in Lofoten was, to put it simple, rubbish. Experienced as the three of us are with battling it out in the face of crappy weather, this weather was special. Warm, wet, cold, gale, freezing, white-out, wet, warm, freezing, melting, gale, wet, gale, melting… Boring, boring, dull! How often do climbers write about the weather and conditions? At times we just need to get on with it and MTFU, (I’ll leave you to work that one out, but it does not take too much imagination).    

So as the week went on and we acclimatised to full on snowstorm, things improved and our appreciation with what was possible culminated on Saturday, with a second new route on Vargakalen.

Sweeping sheets of snow powering down the cliff, a thunder storm, sun, wind, snow, snow, snow. Did I mention the snow!  The route had everything. Steep-pulling, off-width, thin-ice, fat-ice, snow-flutings, turf, trees, and a summit in the sun overlooking glistening snow covered islands and Patagonia snow-clad mountains. (I did mention the snow didn’t I?)

Saturday was the final day of the meet, but Andy, Lukasz and I couldn’t get a flight until Monday morning. Sitting in the bar on Sunday morning eating a leisurely breakfast, Pete had left, Lindsay (Griffin) was packed and getting ready to leave, and outside, for the first time since we had arrived on the island there was calm. Seagulls could fly and a strange feeling of peace prevailed… Typical.

“What are you boys doing today?” Marius, one of the organisers of the meet asked.

“Well, we have no car, we need to move rooms, and our climbing gear is drying-out, scattered all over the floor of the apartment, so not a lot.”

Marius disappeared, then re-appeared twenty minutes later.

“Here you go.” He handed a set of keys over. “Have fun. But the car has to be back for five thirty and you need to pack all of your gear into bags so the room can be cleaned.”

Heading toward Abrahams Tind, I wondered what was about to unfold. Here we were at 11am, (on the previous attempt we had begun to walk in at 5.30am) facing a two hour walk and the climb that shut us down due to terrible weather on day one of the meet. But this climb had been niggling, and to top it off, as the week progressed, several teams had questioned us for information, then using our knowledge of the approach, the climb, the conditions and our abseil anchors, had proceeded to climb the route. Not good!

Unlike the previous wet and wild walk-in, snow now covered the forest floor and the beach which made walking easier. Knowledge of the quickest, best and safest approach also helped.

Andy and I stood beneath Abrahams just after an hour. The wind screamed over the col and spindrift scoured, but after being pummelled for seven days this felt ok. Since Mondays attempt, the rain, and snow and the wind had battered the face and it was now plastered in ice.

Gearing up, the clouds blew-in, and snow started to fall, but this was now one of those deep rooted feelings that we had done enough, we deserved this climb. It was 12.30pm, we had no lift arranged to return to Lofoten Town and needed to pack before heading to the airport at 3am Monday morning, but here we were… Sometimes you just have to go with the gut.

Crunch, the first pick sunk into firm ice, the first pull and kick of points, the first move of many, and I knew this was going to happen.

 A great big thank you to all of the folk who made this memorable week happen especially The Norsk Tindeklub, http://www.ntk.no/ who’s generosity was amazing,

and to DMM, http://www.dmmclimbing.com/

Norsk Fjellsport, http://www.norskfjellsport.no/joomla/

Mountain Equipment,  http://www.mountain-equipment.co.uk/home.asp

A link to the route description of Nothing Compares to You.

http://aaj.americanalpineclub.org/climbs-and-expeditions/europe/norway/lofoten/2009-abrahams-tin-nothing-compares-by-u-odermatt/

Driving. Headlight beams light the dark and capture nothing but white. The Cairngorm Plateau in full blizzard has hit the Lofoten roads. Once again we are hoping to climb the Odermatt/Röthlin route, Nothing compares to you, high up on Abrahams. We park the car in the empty drive of the lonely yellow house and procrastinate. Condensation runs in rivulets down the inside of the car windows. Clearing a viewing hole – driving snow, bent trees, strafing spume clouds – the conditions for climbing high, or even climbing, are not the best, but eventually we leave the car and begin to walk. The walk lasts five minutes before another heavy snow squall hits and our hill disappears behind a blanket of pain…

Back to the car.

Options open, we drive back to Lofoten and beyond, heading toward a hill called Vargerkalen, and a corner system spotted on day one.

Vorgakallen is big but low, the sea butts against the opposite face to that which we were hoping to climb. A short approach seals the deal, we take the plunge and walk.

Spindrift pours down our corner that, after much plunging and wading and crossing of avalanche debris, has turned into a huge gorge filled with a wave of rotting ice.

Soloing over the large blocks of avalanche debris and into the bowels of Vorgakallen I have a flashback to 2003 and my first attempt to climb the southeast face of Jirishanca in Peru and of being swiped unceremoniously 400ft down the face. Would I have been climbing in conditions like this back home? I’m sure I would not!

Two pitches up, the gully filled with fresh snow spewed powder strong enough to knock me back down a bloody long way. I waited beneath a steep corner and timed it well to climb the rotten ice above, that was reminiscent of the crux of Point Five Gully on Ben Nevis, before belaying to the side.

 Climbing higher and deeper into the gully on the next pitch I began to look for safer, more interesting options and by the time the other two had pulled onto the snow step where I stood belaying, a possibility on the left face had been spotted.

The line led into the middle of a steep blank Carn Dearg type of wall with a bit of the Black Ladders and Indicator Wall thrown into the melange to keep interest high. Turf and cracks and ice looked to be in abundance, and for as far as we could see (which wasn’t far). These little islands of hope gave us the right amount of encouragement to begin moving into the unknown.

Several pitches later the three of us stood on the summit ridge of Vargerkalen, a new route bagged, an experience and adventure stored. The green sea smell wafted on the wind and the screaming call of seagulls pierced the imagination and felt out of place on this snowy ridge.

Its Friday morning, and as I sit in the apartment, the success of yesterday, the euphoria of a new route and an adventure feel good…

But… (There always has to be a but doesn’t there?)

I’m feeling mixed emotions about yesterday and today.

This morning, keen to climb, the team mobilised and breakfasted, but wet snow and sleet is falling and the wind is blowing and the temperatures are well above freezing. I have opted not to climb. Andy, Pete and Lukasz have gone for a drive to look for tomorrow’s options. I sit looking out of the snow splattered window and numerous questions run through my mind;

Does being involved in a meet of very talented, driven alpinists and winter climbers, who have pushed and won on many occasions, bring about an unhealthy and dangerous feeling of competition?

Does having the opportunity to climb, for only a short time and in a seldom visited, wild environment, that also has numerous and unbelievable opportunity for new routes and adventure, bring about pressure to climb in questionable conditions ?

Does the euphoria you experience from success in questionable conditions make it worth the risk to repeatedly go out and force it?

And does the feeling of not being up-to-it, or being a lightweight when others have gone out to climb or insist that you should be climbing in these conditions, threaten to overwhelm and actually make you think that risking your life by going to have a go is an easier option than listening to those derogatory questioning voices that shout loud with every jibe or snide comment?

For me, it doesn’t. Although sometimes, I must admit, it is difficult to resist, and there will always be occasions when someone gets their climb on a day you decided it wasn’t worth the risk. So what! Make a decision and stand by it and be happy with it.

As winter climbers, alpinists, mountaineers, it is always a fine line between pulling one out of the bag and glorious success, to that feeling of you just didn’t try hard enough. Surround yourself with some of the best and most driven and it easy to be drawn into pushing too hard when conditions are questionable. I find given the right time, partner, objective, conditions, weather, rest, and motivation, anything feels possible and then it is well worth the risk.

The secret and the skill is to recognise that time and not be drawn into some pointless worthless filler-in just because you just happen to be there, and there is nothing better to do, or someone insists, or you are suffering FOMO (Fear of Missing Out).

Weaken to pressures and it will only be a matter of time before your time runs out and that filler-in climb will be your last.