County Climber Winter 2013

NMC County Climber Autumn 2013 page 2 of 25

About the Northumbrian Mountaineering Club (NMC) The NMC is a meeting point for climbers, fell walkers and mountaineers of all abilities. Our activities centre on rock-climbing in the summer and snow and ice climbing in the winter. Meets are held regularly throughout the year. The NMC is not, however, a commercial organization and does NOT provide instructional courses.

NMC Meets The NMC Members’ handbook (available to all members) and the NMC website list the dates and locations of all meets. This magazine lists the meets arranged for the next few months. Non-members: Are always welcome to attend meets. Note: Winter indoor (wall) meets require a minimum of prospective membership (see below) due to venue requirements for third party insurance.

Membership Details Members are Prospective until they fulfill the conditions for Full Membership (see membership form.) Full membership is valid for one year from the end of February. Prospective membership expires at the end of March each year. Membership gets you:

Copy of the quarterly magazine.

BMC Public Liability Insurance for climbing incidents.

Discounted NMC guide books.

Discounted entry at certain indoor climbing walls and shops.

Access to the extensive NMC library.

Access to huts of affiliated clubs

Join the NMC Download a Membership form from: www.thenmc.org.uk Send the signed and completed membership form with a cheque made out to the NMC for the membership fee (see below) to the Membership Secretary at the address shown on the membership form. Membership Fees •Full £23 •Under 18 or in full-time education £15.00 (pending AGM ratification)

Magazine articles This is YOUR magazine so please keep it running by writing about your own climbing experiences. Even beginners have something to write about. Send contributions to: [email protected]

Black & White Photos? If you received this magazine as a paper copy, then you are missing part of the picture as the download version of the magazine is in colour. To arrange for email notification that the latest issue of the magazine is ready for you to download, contact the membership secretary at: [email protected]

Photos

Unless otherwise stated all photos are taken by the author of the article.

Committee 2013/2014 President – John Dalrymple Vice Pres. – vacant Secretary – Andrew Shanks Treasurer – Eva Diran Membership – Adrian Wilson Magazine Editor – John Spencer Social – Sarah Follmann Librarian – Eva Diran Web – Ian Birtwistle General: John Mountain, Pete Flegg, Ian Ross, Ed Sciberras, John Vaughan

Copyright The contents of this magazine are copyright and may not be reproduced without permission of the NMC. The views expressed in the magazine are not necessarily those of the Editor or the NMC.

Cover Shot Al Horsfield on Ritchie’s Gully (IV/4), Creag Meagaidh (Horsfield Collection)

As an affiliate to the BMC, the NMC endorses the following participation statement: The BMC recognises that climbing, hill walking and mountaineering are activities with a danger of personal injury or death. Participants in these activities should be aware of and accept these risks and be responsible for their own actions and involvement.

NMC County Climber Autumn 2013 page 3 of 25

What’s in this issue?

Editorial p4

Cairngorm Four Thousanders (Martin Cooper) p5

Forty at 40 (Al Horsfield) p6

B Gully (Geoff Dutton) p12

Dreaming of Wild Turkeys (Bryn Roberts) p16

A Short Walk to a Long Wedding in Paradise (Lewis Preston) p19

Club Business p24

Evening Meets Hadrian Leisure Centre, Burnside Community College, until the end of March, every Wednesday from

17.45 to 21.45. We’re officially supposed to show proof of membership, £5 entrance fee. Adjourn to the pub

afterwards for banter.

Dates for Your Diary NMC Annual General Meeting – 8.15pm, Wednesday January 22

nd, 2014, Burnside – see p24 for draft

agenda

Winter talk by Steve ‘Kiwi Steve’ Bate – Wednesday January 19th

., 2014, Burnside

Steve has a congenital eye disease which is slowly rendering him blind. Undaunted he spent last winter in

training in preparation for tackling Zodiac on El Capitan which he finally nailed (both literally and

figuratively!) in the early summer, with the support of Andy Kirkpatrick. He is now in training for the Rio

Paralympics as a tandem cyclist! He’ll be talking about both of these adventures.

Winter Weekend Meets Below are listed this season’s official Club meets, with name and contact phone number/email of the meet

leader. Although some meets are, at the time of publication, full or nearly full, people do drop out so it is still

worth contacting the meet lead to get your name down n reserve.

10-12th

January, Mill Cottage, Feshibridge, Adrian Wilson (07970823483) – this meet is full

31st January – 2

nd February, Raeburn Cottage, Laggan, Ed Scibberas (07789280847) – 1 place left

14th

– 16th

February, Muir Cottage, Braemar, Carolyn Horrocks

([email protected])

7th

– 9th

March, Lagangarbh Cottage, Glencoe, Eva Diran (07824627772)

21st – 23

rd March, CIC Hut, Ben Nevis, John Spencer (07813129065) – this meet is full

Please let the leader know as soon as possible if you are unable to attend a meet then your place can

possibly be reallocated. If you cancel after booking a place, and your place cannot be filled you will

still have to pay the cost of the hut.

Tatras panorama – see page 19 for more! (Lewis Preston)

NMC County Climber Winter 2013 page 4 of 25

Editorial John Spencer

Hot on the heels of the

(later than intended) Autumn

issue comes this Winter

offering, reaching you just in

time for leisurely

consumption over the

Christmas break! This time

last year I had already

enjoyed (in that perverse way

that defines our sport) a

couple of outings in the

Highlands in deep powder

snow and bitter cold, 4 new

Munros under the belt and

crampons and axes wielded

in anger. The early snow and

Arctic temperatures was, of

course, a prelude to what

turned out to be the best

winter season

for……however many

decades, and weren’t we all

rubbing our hands in glee at

the prospect of another even

better one as the tabloids

screamed headlines warning

us we were heading for the

mother of all freeze-ups?.

Well, a few weeks on,

following a big thaw and with

temperatures in double

figures (just) it all seems a bit

unlikely. The tenor of the

‘conditions’ threads on UKC

has moved from gleeful hand

rubbing as the first snow fell

last month to plaintive

musings on whether or not

winter was over before it

started……Ah, well.

Anyway there’s a

distinctive theme of

adventure and exploration in

the articles in this issue,

along with a couple of narrow

escapes.

Martin Cooper kicks off

with his tale of a stravaig

across the Cairngorm plateau

in pursuit of as yet ‘unticked’

4000 thousand foot summits.

He got what he was after but

asks whether it really make

sense to climb a hill just

because of its height –

answers, please, on a

postcard!

Al Horsfield tells a

Treeemendous yarn about his

40 days on the white stuff last

winter – yes, forty days. I

had four weekends in

Scotland nicking half a dozen

decent lines, and 8 days in

Cogne and thought I was

doing well! Al takes us on an

Epic-tastic journey from

Lake District esoteria in less-

than-ideal conditions, via

cascading on perfect ice

under a blue sky in the

Ecrins, to a 23 hour round

trip to climb Orion Face

Direct on the Ben without a

route description…..oh, and

the odd near miss. Plus a new

baby…

The Doctor Stories, the

‘preposterous but just

possible’ adventures of The

Doctor and his two

companions The Apprentice

and the (anonymous)

narrator, were written by the

late Geoff Dutton, climber,

scientist, poet and write. He

edited the Scottish

Mountaineering Club Journal

between 1960 and 1971, and

it was in that august organ

that some of the stories first

appeared, later in magazines

such as Climber and Rambler

(as it was) and Mountain,

even Cold Climbs. They were

eventually published as a

collection in The Complete

Doctor Stories (comprising

The Ridiculous Mountains

and Nothing So Simple As

Climbing, Baton Wicks

Publishers). They are

fictional, of course, but

capture just about all the

stereotypes and situations you

may encounter in the

(Scottish) mountains. Dutton,

who died in 2010, wrote with

an affectionate, off-beat

humorous style, crafting

closely observed pieces

describing adventures and

(invariably) mishaps that we

can all relate to. With the

kind permission of Baton

Wicks, to continue the wintry

theme, we are able to give

you the story of ‘B Gully’.

Bryn Roberts, ‘surely-he’s-

not-that-old’ pensioner that

he now is, describes a road

trip in the western US of A in

the esteemed company of

Kenny Summers and Sarah

Überschnell Follmann.

Despite injury, illness,

apocalyptic floods and

closure of national parks,

they managed to have a great

time and knocked off some

impressive routes on granite

domes and desert towers.

What he took to trigger his

dream of wild turkeys he

doesn’t actually say – maybe

just the beer (see back page),,

maybe not….

Finally, the ever-intrepid

Lewis Preston, the NMC’s

answer to Bill Tilman,

describes his short(ish) walk

through the Tatra mountains

from Poland to Slovakia to

get to Adrian and Martina’s

wedding. This time he had a

map, but in every other

respect, he tells us (apart

from his unbounded

enthusiasm), he was woefully

unprepared. Thankfully he

made it in one piece, and in

good time to join the merry

throng assembling for the

wedding,

Read on….


Cairngorm Four

Thousanders

Martin Cooper

The cloud had lifted. Late

afternoon sunshine lit up Ben

Macdui. Suddenly I was

where I wanted to be. I was

where I had wanted to be for

a long time, high above the

An Garbh Choire between

Braeriach and Cairn Toul.

The low rays of a September

sun shone across granite

boulders, granite scree,

illuminated each of the

myriad pools of water, the

wet stones, the straggly

yellow grass that struggles to

grow. I had reached the

summit of Braeriach at four

o’clock. It would be dark by

eight. I needed somewhere to

camp but not high up here on

the plateau. A cold wind was

blowing in from the east.

The Cairngorm mountains

are unique amongst Britain’s

upland regions. Nowhere else

can you stay high above a

thousand metres for so long.

Nowhere else can the eye

take in such distant views

across rounded granite peaks.

Nowhere else is the scale of

these mountains matched.

Most of my Cairngorm trips

have been limited to winter

escapades in Coire an

Lochain and Coire an t-

Sneachda, added to a couple

of trips to Ben Macdui, some

climbing on Hell’s Lum Crag

and two days walking over

Ben Avon and Beinn

a’Bhuird. My objective on

this trip was to link up as

many of the Cairngorm four

thousand feet peaks as I could

manage in a couple of days.

I had first climbed

Cairngorm and Braeraich in

1986. There were perfect

winter conditions on an

Easter NMC Meet, snow

covered peaks, nevé like

toughened glass, blue sky and

sunshine glinting from the

snow crystals in every

direction. My brother, Niall,

and I camped at Loch

Morlich, scraping frost from

the inside of the tent each

morning. We climbed The

Couloir in Coire an Lochan,

the Fiachaill Ridge, and

Braeriach. On our second day

we topped out on Coire nan

Lochan, thinking we might

walk to Ben Macdui. The

cloud had dropped and we

were walking into a ferocious

gale. After twenty minutes

we looked at each other. No

words were needed. There

was no way we could make it

to Ben Macdui, never mind

coming back. It was a good

lesson learned early. The

Cairngorms in winter should

be treated with respect.

It was only the third

weekend in September this

year but already snow had

fallen in the corries and small

patches were to be found high

in Coire Brochain. Looking

down into the steep gullies of

Braeriach, damp, black and

mossy, it was hard to imagine

the desire to climb, but the

grandeur of the place is

impressive and the

remoteness of the location

inspiring. Now I headed

around the lip of the great

corrie, crossing above the

Falls of Dee, enormous views

to east and west, with the

whole landscape almost to

myself. Earlier plans to

traverse Cairn Toul had been

abandoned and I dropped off

the plateau to the south east

to find a sheltered valley and

stream for my campsite. It

was a chilly night. I was glad

I was carrying too much.

The cloud had dropped

overnight but, undeterred, I

climbed to the top of The

Angel’s Peak and peered

down the line of the north

east ridge. More boulder

hopping was needed to attain

the summit of Cairn Toul,

still with no views. I was

definitely carrying too much

and moving too slowly and it

took until after one thirty to

reach the Corrour Bothy. A

return over Ben Macdui was

out of the question but I had

now at least finished my

ascent of the four thousand

feet peaks, twenty seven

years after starting.

It looked a long way along

the Lairig Ghru but I was

pretty keen to get back to my

car before nightfall and

pushed myself hard, albeit

still going slowly. At the

Pools of Dee I was stopped

by two German backpackers

who wanted to know how

much further to

Rothiemurchus Forest. When

I told them about five miles

they decided to put up their

tent.

“And you..” they asked,

“..where are you heading

for?”

“Oh, just through the

Chalamain Gap,” I replied. “I

can do the last bit with my

headtorch.”

But could I? Pretty

knackered by now, I

estimated that I needed to be

at the Chalamain Gap by

seven thirty to have enough

light left to scramble over the

boulders. A sound like a dog

barking surprised me. No

dog. In the dusk, just across

the other side of the burn, a

stag was lolloping over the

heather in pursuit of a hind,

completely unaware of my

presence. He seemed to be


enjoying himself. I pressed

on.

It was dark and I needed to

switch on my headtorch as I

climbed up from the burn to

the Chalamain Gap. My

watch said eight thirty. A

strong wind was blowing

straight through the gap, my

legs were tired and my pack

felt heavier than ever.

Perhaps I wouldn’t make it.

The lights of Aviemore were

mocking me. Dreams of a

cold pint of beer receded. I

didn’t want to break my ankle

scrambling over boulders in

the dark. But there was

nowhere to pitch my tent up

here.

Have you ever had to run

into a river, at ten o’clock, in

the dark to retrieve your tent

before it’s properly pitched?

Only the outside was

completely wet. I couldn’t

find any rocks to weight it

down once I had got the thing

pitched but at least the

ground by the river was flat

and I had packed enough

food for a second night out.

The end of a long day.

I reached Aviemore by

lunchtime the next day and

treated myself to a huge

breakfast at the Mountain

Cafe, my favourite place to

sit and admire the northern

panorama of the Cairngorms.

It was a good feeling. Now

there’s just Bynack More,

Beinn Mheadhoin, Derry

Cairngorm and The Devil’s

Peak. Does it really make

sense to climb mountains just

because they are a certain

height?

Forty at 40

Al Horsfield

A soggy summer gave way

to a soaking September. My

40th birthday in the Lakes

ended with mountain biking

in a monsoon. A traditional

end to the year. The Lakes

was where I was headed now,

but this time the sky was

blue, it was cold and a mid-

week day’s soloing on

Helvellyn was a December

treat. Always tricky, the first

day out of winter; no sticky

rubber and chalk, lots of

spikes to tangle and catch,

numb hands, and the remains

of last year’s snacks in

rucksack pockets. All went

well, chipping up three lines,

avoiding the inevitable

Helvellyn party of three

novices armed with a pile of

superfluous ice screws.

Ambling back to the car I

wondered if perhaps this year

would be good.

Next outing was the

traditional Alpine cascading

trip. Working Christmas

ensured a free New Year


week and myself, Katherine

and four friends hit the steep

blue ice of the Ecrins. There

is a certain schadenfreude in

thudding up blue ice in

minus-10 while friends back

home text, complaining about

their New Year’s day

hangovers. Five days of

Ecrins fun; annoying

Frenchmen, being loud,

trying to order a beer in

French and driving on

compacted snow.

The rat was fed for a week

or two, but soon thoughts

always turn to ice. Constant

forecast-watching, sneaky

conditions-checking on-line

at work, working out

snowfall and freeze-thaw

cycles.

January in the Lakes,

heading for Central Icefall

(III/IV), Spout Head. My

love of the esoteric makes

friends laugh, a semi-in-

condition route in the Lakes

means more than any foreign

ice. We surveyed the cliff, no

ice fall cascaded down the

central portion. Katherine

chatted to a chilly sheep,

equipment on and ready, but

would it be another day

chopping at damp turf sods?

A brief exploration revealed a

hidden gully. Filled with ice.

Esoteric-tastic!

Off we went, climbing half

decent ice, guessing the route

at bifurcations. A long run-

out, was this right? A dodgy,

half-in screw spurting brown

water stood between me and

the now distant chilly sheep.

Up a bit, a bit more….then

salvation, the sentinel marker

of any winter route; a half-in ,

bent, rusty peg. ‘Superb!’ I

shouted. The sheep and

Katherine looked up, similar

expressions on their faces.

We finished up Skew Gill

Central and skipped down to

the car. Next day was a trip to

Angle Tarn Ice Falls, a mini

ice park, pick your line and

go. Easterly winds howled

and water flowed behind

clear ice walls. Try it

sometime….

Still in January, a plod up

Sleet Cove to Hutaple Crag.

Knee deep snow, alpine

conditions. East Hutaple

Groove (III), proved as good

as the write-up. Great ice and

mixed climbing, with typical

deteriorating weather.

Greenhow End is tricky to get

off in poor weather, even the

guide book says so. ‘No

worries‘ I reassured

Katherine, reaching into my

sack for the compass, and

emerging with a banana skin.

‘Sure it’s here…’ Navigating

with fruit was not an option

so we headed down a steep

gully on the flank of the crag.

‘Gets less steep here …’ as I

down-climbed a vertical

green chimney. We made it,

but not without a few of the

long silences you only know

if you’re married.

Back that week for a

variation on the same route

and East Hutaple Gully (II)

with a friend. The latter not

hard, but a superb ice pitch

made it worthwhile.

Returning home, extolling its

virtues, reliving the moves in

the car, the Brampton speed

camera caught me. It was

worth the points.

Al on an ice pillar, Crevoux, Ecrins


The cold spell lasted, and a

mid-week solo on Great End

Central Left, Window and

variation, so now the ‘Holy

Trinity’? South East Gully is

less often in good nick.

Wading up the initial pitches

to the steep crux,

unconsolidated snow was a

bad omen. Enough ice was

there,

just

need

the

right

bits.

Come

on, I’d

done

this

enough

times

before.

But I’d

never,

ever,

fallen

off any

winter

route.

Soloing

alone

was not

the time

to try.

One

hand

pinged,

left foot

off,

right

foot,

one

hand

held me

to my

favourite icy

playground. Phew….then it

went. It’s amazing how far

you can fall, bouncing down

a chimney without realising

it, time and distance

unrelated. Then I stopped, a

foot jamming on ice and an

axe in a crack. My shoulder,

it must be dislocated. How

many of those had I put back

at work? Mostly with

morphine…..It turned out

OK, and after 20 minutes of

fainting nausea I down

climbed mixed ground. Don’t

solo dodgy ground….ever

again.

A return the next week saw

the Holy Trinity completed in

better condition, and a

further solo trip to Link Cove

to climb Runnel and Step

Gully, retrieving lost ice

screws and clips: ‘Petrol

money.’

The next weekend with Tim

Catterall and Katherine. A

trio of routes on Helvellyn,

the best being Blade Runner

(IV). Katherine refused to

descend the steep snow of the

Grade I route, fear and anger

welling

irrationally, this would

usually be no problem .A

snow bucket belay fixed the

problem, and Tim waited

patiently. We discovered later

she was pregnant, hormones

and nature are reassuringly

Al on Dancing Falls (WI5+), Ecrins


powerful in a world of

absolutes and exactitudes.

Half term, late February,

and equivocal conditions. A

safer option was a return to

the Ecrins, courtesy of

Easyjet. Vallee Du Fournel,

Freissinieres and other

locations.This time

conditions were fantastic.

Every day the ‘Guess the

Temperature‘ game on the

car read-out

was won by

predicting

minus double

figures.

Shoulders

and arms

ached in the

vertical blue

world .Fairy

tale ice caves

provided mid

climb

sanctuary,

overhanging

moves to

gain vertical

walls of ice.

Ice screws

perfect once

chandeliers

of ice, as

brittle in

mood as the

French teams

we

encountered,

were

smashed to provide clean

placements. One memorable

pitch was truly overhanging

(Dancing Falls, 5+ or

Scottish 6) where repeated

newly formed ice layers

overlay the older inner layers,

axe hooking easy but screws

hard to place.

Early March was not

promising, and a day or two

on the rock interloped with

two more days on Great End

and a fine trip to Raven Crag,

Borrowdale. Somehow we

managed a first look at Raven

Crag Gully (III/IV, see Cold

Climbs) despite a lie-in back

in Newcastle! The interesting

lower pitches ended in the

magnificent final ice-fest,

topped by a huge ice

umbrella formed by

unrelenting easterly winds.

My sack hit part of it, sending

large fragments down to miss

Katherine by a foot. A larger

bit actually lodged in my

webbing, pulling me back

with every upward

movement. I finished with

this frozen trophy, realising it

was twenty odd years since

my last ascent.

Several more days in the

Lakes climbing old favourites

preceded the first Scottish

trip of the year. Creag

Meagaidh was the target.

Constant east winds blew for

a month and central and

western Scotland became

unusually reliable. The usual

knackered drive north after

work, a few hours in a

bunkhouse and a solo day to

suss out conditions. South

Post Direct, or almost direct,

avoiding the steep final pitch

fearful of a 1500 foot plunge.

The grade III escape was

scary enough: unconsolidated

snow over steep-ish ice. The

final 150 ft took as long as

the preceding 1300.Every

placement had to

count…what had I said about

soloing?

As I drove my brother from

Inverness airport we

discussed plans; nothing

desperate, this was our annual

climbing meet and Giles’

only ice for two or more

years. We stomped in the

next day, his 25 year old

picks clanking. South Pipe

Direct (IV) , rarely in good

nick, with a fine ice cave near

the top. It all went well but

tomorrow an easier day was

Moving off from the frozen jellyfish, The Wand (V/5), Meagaidh


needed, Gi decided. I

capitulated and suggested a

nice Grade III.

By mid morning the next

day we were making a belay

at the base of the Wand.

‘Looks steep for a III’ said

my long-suffering brother.

‘Weeell.... III/IV maybe` I

replied.The second of the

team in front looked down

‘This is great!. Gi looked

enthused. the climber edged

upwards...‘Yea, great

conditions, doesn’t seem like

a grade V!‘

What Gi said is best left

between siblings. ‘You

always do this, you……!’.

I pushed upwards in a

vertical fantasy world of ice

tufas and chandeliers, taking

a belay under a huge ice

umbrella. Its domed blue top

curved round and down, to

end in a fringe of deadly

looking daggers. Gi joined

me; `Not bad that….and

you’ve belayed under a

frozen jelly fish.’ Three more

pitches and we walked off the

benign looking but deadly

plateau, keeping clear of the

huge curving cornices, a

specialty of Meagaidh.

The next day we really did

climb a Grade III, Eastern

Corner, the lowest route in

the corrie. The wind was up

and the mist was down, so a

wise choice. An often

overlooked route, it provided

fine sport to the invisible

plateau. We paced our

bearings to hit the knife edge

arête which was the portal to

a long but easy plod down.

Visibility was just beyond

feet, the wind drove snow

into our faces, turning eye

sockets into useless frozen

cataracts. Suddenly there was

the edge of a cornice, inches

away. Controlled fear surged;

‘OK, we paced well, bearings

good, I must have cocked up

our top out point.‘ Working

out where we must be, we

back-traced our position on

the map, corrected ourselves

and eventually hit the posts

heralding the arête. ‘Should

have kept a rope on…‘ That

was too close. It really is true,

most accidents happen in

descent.

Easter week, and Meagaidh

again. Tim Catterall and

myself drove north, excited

but suffering the effects of a

tough week at work. After

more beers than hours’ sleep

the alarm shouted. ‘Jubbly`,

Tim said and leapt out of bed,

I followed, neither of us

known for lack of

enthusiasm.

Smith’s Route (VI) was

given short shrift as the Allt

Coire Ardair echoed to shouts

Kat (and Megan) on top of Creag Meagaidh


of ‘Jubbly!’ and

‘Treeemendous!’. Ritchie’s

Gully (IV) followed and we

skipped down to the car with

more ice screws than we

started with!

The next day saw some

friends and myself climb

South Post Direct, this time

with ice screws to guard the

final crux pitch, and then a

rush to Aviemore station to

collect Katherine. After

losing my car keys in the

snow for half an hour, Missed

the Post (V) followed, but felt

more like VI, harder than

Last Post, with a penultimate

pitch belay of a half-in screw,

poor wire and axes. Just the

job for belaying my pregnant

wife.

Next, Centre Post Direct on

Easter Day. Rare conditions

indeed to be climbing on

Meggie in April, and the sun

had done it’s work on the

vertical crux pitch. The only

safe ice was the steepest, it

felt like cascading in the Alps

again. Katherine huffed and

puffed up the 60 metre pitch,

removing 10 screws as she

went. A party of three blokey

males threw unguarded

comments upwards as they

waited to take on this

awesome pitch. Later as we

trundled down the Coire, we

took a photo of the cliff.

Enlarging it, we saw three

tiny figures half way up the

crux pitch, one hanging on

the rope. I looked at my wife

- she was the Kat that got the

cream!

On our final day, we set out

for Diadem (IV): ‘A thin

diamond tiara or crown’.

Brown and Patey had named

it well, the initial pitch led to

a corner filled with a runnel

of the ice of your dreams,

nothing too steep, great

screws and good belays. We

walked off around the whole

Coire, passing the place

where my brother and I

nearly died, so easy in

sparkling sunshine. The fence

posts on the arête seemed

impossibly close together. A

different world. We talked as

we ambled down from frozen

white to autumn brown;

Meggie, what a great place, a

great name….what about

Megan..??*

April pushed on, the classic

time for The Ben. Short on

time but not enthusiasm, Jon

and I hatched a plan. Up to

Fort Bill, a couple of hours’

kip, and a hop up to the CIC

hut to see what took our

fancy. We had some ideas:

Minus Two? Orion Direct ?

We settled on the latter,

surveying the face from the

shelter of the hut. Plastered

with sticky snow ice, Alpine

in stature, a complex

expedition sporting the

longest route description in

the guide. Reaching into my

sack to extract mine I

removed a hat, followed by

gloves, then Merino tops and

fleeces, but no book.

‘Mmm, small problem

Jon…’

‘We could make it up as we

go.’

‘No.’

Chris Morish on The White Line (III) with blue sky Ben Nevis


Just then an old university

friend of Katherine’s

appeared; there is always

someone you know at the

CIC Hut. A brief combined

effort and we had memorised

the route. Off we went, up

1200ft of unbroken ice. I had

done most of the routes here,

Astral Highway, Slav Route,

and many others , but this

seemed more serious, not too

hard but some of the belays

were less than comforting. In

this branch of the sport you

rely on your partner more

than any other.

We met our guide book

saviours at the top car park,

their van too full to offer us a

lift down the final section,

but giving me a stitch plate

found at the base of

Boomer’s Requiem as

compensation. We arrived in

Newcastle five hours later,

happy in our shared success.

The Ben remained the

objective for Katherine and I,

and the CIC continued to

provide a meeting point for

infrequently seen climbing

friends. After a chat with Neil

(last seen in our January Alps

trip) we headed for Boomer’s

Requiem (V). The famous

crux pitch a wall of vertical

ice well seen from the walk

in to the hut, which Katherine

climbed with alarming ease. I

pretended my arms were not

aching and my hands didn’t

hurt.

The next day we did the

main cascades near the CIC

hut, early pregnancy sapping

some of Katherine’s energy.

It turned out a fine day,

fantastic late season ice

flutings, thudding ice ,

running but stable...for now.

We drove home through a

storm bustling northwards,

rain bouncing off the

windscreen, a feeling of deep

satisfaction warmed us. I

recall wondering if there

would be another day.

‘Hi Chris’

‘Hi. ‘

I had picked him up in

Edinburgh and now, with

May chasing the heels of

April, we wanted to give the

Ben a last shot . Again, late

beers seemed like a good idea

at the time, the forfeit paid

during the walk-in. We opted

for Goodeve’s Route/ The

White Line, a III combo high

in Coire na Ciste. Perfect ice ,

a quiet mountain; looking up

I saw Chris on a white wall,

sky above, a distant silent

aircraft’s vapour trail

dissecting the blue.

The next day we climbed at

Kyloe , busy and friendly ,

pale hands heated by the late

spring sunshine. Forty days

on ice, a good season, so I

guess life really does begin at

40!

(*Editor’s note: Megan

Horsfield was born on 25th

November, weighing it a

spritely 6lb 14oz –

congratulations to Kat and

Al!)

B Gully Geoff Dutton

We shall leave it as B

Gully, and not name the hill it

defaces. To say more would

endanger the innocently

curious; few people would

otherwise find it, and only the

Doctor would look for it.

What it does in summer I

don’t know, and don’t care. It

probably breeds rabbits. In

winter it drives one to

theosophy or astrophysics.

That New Year the

Apprentice, the Doctor and I

had gathered some excellent

high grades in the Western

Cairngorms. The Apprentice

found them relaxing after two

days with the Weasels,

wintering summer VS’s on

the Ben. The Doctor, no

mean performer on ice, had

led several hard pitches and

was high for the last day.

However, the night before, it

blew and snowed so

arctically that we resolved to

go home. But the morning

radio reported no road at

Dalnaspidal or anywhere

else; so we resigned

ourselves agreeably to an

extra day’s climbing. But

where?

The southeast wind had

filled all the northerly gullies

and they lay together in the

cold morning sun hatching

powder-snow avalanches,

joining wicked hands and

waiting for us. We turned to

the less intelligent hills

opposite. A huddle of bent

and balding brows.

‘That wind should have

cleaned out Beinn…..‘

pronounced the Doctor

(naming the unmentionable

hill) ‘and both its gullies. I

read somewhere that Gully B

is an easy snow walk with

fine views south. We could

have a pleasant gentlemanly

stroll up it and watch for the

ploughs coming through.’

We were not enthusiastic.

But he had been robbed of a

final good lead so we

assented. Beinn X was blunt,

bad-tempered scree, a

dreadful slagheap of

windblasted icy detritus; yet

its two distant gullies blinked

harmlessly enough. We

headed for Gully B, through


snow-dispensing Sitka

spruce. ‘Still,’ remarked the

Doctor, when we thankfully

broke clear, ‘they add a touch

of difficulty to an otherwise

easy day’ – his usual, and

usually accepted, invitation to

Fate. We wiped our necks dry

and followed a welcome path

past a shepherd’s cottage to

the hill itself.

The

gully

began

mildly

enough. Its snow was hard

and its angle slight. The

jaundiced eye did note, a

little way up, the whiter

whiteness of deep new snow.

The Doctor disagreed.

‘Never, in a wind like last

night’s. All the loose stuff’s

been blown to Lochaber.

Look how there’s none on the

scree.’ He was still enlarging

upon this certainty when he

began to diminish. He was

progressively entering his

footsteps. We waded after,

cursing his bobbing head. We

were climbing into, not up,

the gully.

‘Don’t’ worry. A softish

patch. A mere Aeolian

aberration – due to that big

rock –‘ and he waved his axe

towards the uniform scree

slope on our right, which

faced the equally uniform one

on our left. ‘We’ll soon strike

bottom again.’

And he ploughed on,

treadmilling determinedly.

No bottom could we strike. It

was wrapped in eiderdown.

We climbed through an

endless sleeping bag. The

floor could be stamped to

some quiver of stability; front

and sides fled from our grasp,

and fell in again behind.

Loyally, we underwent an

hour or so of this. The

Doctor, ahead in the burrow,

kept promising an eventual

excellent view of the

snowploughs; an inducement

we considered insufficient

and, increasingly,

improbable.

Then a mist came up from

the strath; and our

floundering lost any trace of

relevance. We were isolated

in space, each performing a

private

inexplicable penance. Up,

down, up, down. Down, up,

down, up. Om mane padme

hum.

Nothing could we see but

occasional toiling pieces of

ourselves. The environment

had abdicated. Its ghost hung

around in a thick flannel of

expectancy. No doubt some

Beatitude was preparing.

Sensory deprivation is,

however, unsuited to the

impure, and our unemployed


reflexes became restive. We

spoke to them severely. But

they prevailed. Nirvana

would have to wait.

‘I’ve had enough of this

bloody place’ roared the

head, shoulders and one arm

of the Apprentice. Another

arm, ectoplasmically dim,

floated above him in vague

Blavatskian deprecation; it

repeated the Doctor’s familiar

assurances that rock would

soon appear and that the view

would be good. It withdrew

and faded, exorcised by

pulverising oaths from a

demi-head sable, couped at

the neck, issuant from an

infinite field of argent.

Beinn X is only two and a

half thousand feet at the

worst, but to continue would

disperse ourselves further

into a dubiously-heraldic

spirit world. B Gully under

these conditions – probably

under any conditions – is not

the Eightfold Noble Path. It

was not any sort of path; and

to descend proved as baffling

as trying to go up. Merely to

stand still in suich a whiteout

entails much geometric

unhappiness; the dimensions

crowd round and leer

unpredictably. They push

back from in front and shove

from behind. You inevitably

fall. Our drunken progress

down a thousand odd feet of

this non-Euclidian picketing

may be imagined.

We tried occasionally to

escape from the side. During

one of these time-consuming

excursions the Doctor sang

triumphantly ‘A rock! A

rock! At last! We’re there!’

And he carefully stepped on a

small black triangle and

pushed himself upwards.

Then we knelt and pulled him

out. He had stood on his own

glove, dropped the moment

before. The glove had, of

course, vanished for ever into

nether whiteness. We spat out

snow and continued. B Gully

had no sides any more; they

had slipped, like the rest of

our once so solid and

Newtonian Beinn X, into a

boundless continuum of

uncertainty.

It was, in fact, impossible to

measure in advance in any

direction. We began to

sympathise with Einstein.

The compass, and the

Doctor’s much-consulted but

equally equivocal

clinometers, tended to believe

we were going down; yet

small objects (borrowed from

one’s companion), when

thrown ahead to prove this,

would stick in mid-air; or

annihilate themselves

suddenly and permanently

despite apologies. The Doctor

aimed bearings from behind;

but they never reached us. He

blamed the Heisenberg

principle. We suffered, in

fact, most of the New

Cosmology. Only a Black

Hole was missing. It came

later.

We swore we were going

down. The air felt more still,

and last night’s snow-

meringues loomed

increasingly confectious. We

became convinced we were

descending a steep, sheltered

and previously unseen branch

of B Gully. Such unexpected

fluvio-glacial gorges ferret

these lower hills. We roped

up and followed the

Apprentice’s erratic thread

through piled hallucinations.

The Doctor, at times

disconcertingly below us,

acted as anchor; he was our

longest peg. But no steep

pitch fell away beneath;

whenever we imagined one,

the Apprentice’s torso would

surmount it into space, a

rising kite tight in our fingers.

It grew dark; but still no

communication from

Scotland. We leant against

each other. We were light-

headed from weltering in

abstraction; our hemispheres

had drifted up. We argued

about the existence of

torches; each assumed

somebody else had brought

one (only a gentlemanly

stroll....). We would have to

bivouac until this hopeless

mist cleared up. The

Apprentice, cursing dully,

plunged his fist into the wall

of snow before him to test its

howff-forming potentiality.

His howls and fragmentary

dance testified the negative.

Solid. Obviously ice. We had

struck it al last. We were in a

gorge. At a steep part. The

ice appeared to rise above us;

therefore it presumably

stretched below. We

collected ourselves. We smelt

avalanches. I gathered the

rope, and the Doctor,

hovering beyond my

shoulder, divested himself of

legs and dug in. The

Apprentice leant forward,

sniffing cautiously, tapping

with the point of his axe.

Suddenly there was a thump

and a dull crack, and a black

line appeared across part of

the wall; a fringe of dislodged

snow trickled down it.

Windslab! Windslab and

powder snow.......This, then,

was it.

‘She’s going!’ croaked the

Apprentice, snatching back

his axe. The Doctor drove

himself in, together with his

comment, up to the hilt, and

vanished from sight. I hauled

on the rope and fell back into

feathers, feet plunging. The


Apprentice, as he later

described it, was plucked

from his steps and flung

outwards and upwards.

We wrestled, clutching the

rope, our only reality. It

clutched back. Blows

demolished my breath – we

were over the wall –

or was it the Doctor’s

boots? A rush of

silence.....I imagined

myself falling, falling,

in the caress of a

powder-snow

avalanche, towards

rocks or suffocation.

Then it seemed as if

I awoke. ‘Good Lord’

said the Doctor, just

above my ear. I

clawed away snow. I

felt myself carefully.

Surprisingly I could

sit up, though it was

painful. We must have

stopped; but we might

never have moved. In

front was an

apparently identical

ice wall, again with a

black split across it.

But the creaking and

tearing was louder this

time, and the split

widened, jerk after

jerk. We heard

tinkling, as of ice, into

the abyss beyond. We

were about to be

swept down the next

step of this appalling

stairway. We grabbed

the rope again; and

waited.

But the split grew wider,

until it was almost a regular

square. A black square. Our

long-bleached eyes drank it

with fascination. Black.

Square. Hypnotised, we

wrapped the rope round our

arms.

And them, incredibly, the

square slowly filled itself;

and presented us – with a

Human Head. A large human

– hairy and whiskered – head

gazed at us from the square.

Its eyes glinted in the half-

light.

I groaned. This was

Concussion; or worse.

Maybe, The Other Side.

Letting go the rope with one

hand, I rubbed snow round

my eyes. It was still there.

‘Good Lord....’ repeated the

Doctor, perhaps

appropriately.

The head spoke. With

deliberation.

‘Ye’ll be the fellies that

went up the hill the day?’

Silence. ‘Aah’ replied the

Doctor, the only one with a

biddable larynx.

‘Well, then; jist ye come

roon to the door; an I’ll let ye

in. It’s awfy deep, like; oot

there at the back. Wait now;

til I pit on the licht.’

The head withdrew. And

almost at once the square

blazed forth. Fiat lux. It was

Jim Rigg wading up his own version of ‘B Gully’ (top of Deep Cut Chimney, IV/4, Glencoe)

(John Spencer)


not St Peter. It was not The

Gate. It was not even a Black

Hole. It was somebody in a

cottage. The cottage was

snowed up at the back, it was

whitewashed and, as the

Apprentice had painfully

demonstrated, it was built of

sound local granite. There

had been no avalanche, and

we had fallen only in our own

estimation.

We rose and followed the

rope to the Apprentice, who

had been buried and been half

strangled by our earlier

presence of mind; pulled him

up, brushed him down, stifled

his questions and propelled

him towards the approaching

torch.

‘Come awa in; come awa

in. I jist couldna get yon

windy open; an noo the gless

is creckit. Pieces aa owre the

flair. Michty; where hae ye

been? Aa snaw? Ye’ve come

doon the burn; that’s what

ye’ve done; richt aff the hill.

But; ye’d like no see the

road.’

We dripped beside a roaring

fire, clutching hot sweet tea

and new made bread. Frying

hissed wonderfully behind us.

We gathered that there were

only two places on the hill

where snow always collected,

B Gully and the burn that ran

down from it directly to the

shepherd’s cottage. The

cottage we had passed that

morning. The burn, it

seemed, was the usual place

to find the more stupid sheep

in weather like this.

‘But, I’ve niver had three

o’them at ma back windy

afore!’ exclaimed the

shepherd, genially enough,

pouring out drams for each of

us.

We thought it best not to

comment. Later, perhaps, the

Doctor might describe how

he had steered us straight to

supper. Just now, he studied

his whisky. We had begun

hesitantly to discuss the

hazards of lambing, when the

shepherd’s wife called us to

the table. Plates steamed,

chips stretched themselves

expansively on top of bacon,

sausage and egg. ‘And so it’s

Mr McPhedran you’re

knowing’ she said, naming

the shepherd who had been

our host on the Craggie

expedition. ‘He marches with

us. A great man, Erchie, a

great man.’

‘Remarkable, remarkable,

mmm, his fiddle has, mmm,

remarkable bite and drive’

agreed the Doctor, munching

affably, wielding his fork,

and conversation was

launched down the channel

so tactfully provided.

(Originally published in the

Scottish Mountaineering Club

Journal and reprinted with the

permission of Baton Wicks

Publishing.)

Dreaming of Wild

Turkeys: being a selective account of a

rock ‘n’ road tour of

the western USA

August – October

2013

Bryn Roberts

In late 2012 the idea of

returning to the amazing

landscapes of the American

West began to form. Kenny

wasn't about to wait until

retirement so took 2 months’

unpaid leave. Sarah

(Überschnell) was a late

addition to the team, joining

up with the two old men in

Denver, for three weeks’

climbing in Colorado.

It has to be said that the trip

wasn't all beer 'n skittles. An

illness for Kenny early on

had us grounded in motels in

lowland California for a

week. A pulled (torn?)

muscle in my arm, just as we

were getting into form at

Tuolomne, put me out of

serious climbing for the

middle part of the trip. When

Sarah arrived in early

September she brought with

her the '100 year rains' which

sent torrents of water down

the canyons and flooded

towns on the eastern side of

the Rockies– we holed up at

Scott's in Boulder and

eventually 'baled out' and

headed back west to the

desert. And finally – amidst

the budget crisis in early

October, the US Government,

in its wisdom, closed down

all the national parks, which

enforced another major

change of plan - stories of

armed rangers at the gates of

Zion preventing walkers and

climbers from (doing what?

enjoying themselves??!)

entering the park.

But, aside from the above

calamities, the mountains and

deserts of the western States

provided us with some

tremendous climbing,

exploration and photographic

opportunities. Three areas

stand out for me as

highlights:

Tuolomne Meadows,

California

We visited several major

venues for granite climbing

including the immaculate and

photogenic pinnacles and


domes of the Needles in the

High Sierra and the sunny,

south facing slabby walls of

Little Cottonwood Canyon

near Salt Lake City. But the

pick of the bunch for me was

the wonderful domelands of

Tuolomne Meadows in the

high country of Yosemite

National Park.

West Country (5.7) on

Stately Pleasure Dome

provided an excellent intro to

the joys of Tuolomne cracks

and run-out slabs, surpassed

two days later by South

Crack where I was satisfied I

had done the crux 5.8 crack

pitch until Kenny led

through, with one bolt for

protection, on the long and

lonely upper slab pitch. In

between these routes we

headed for The Hobbit Book

(5.7), a very prominent 4-

pitch corner/crack on

Marialloume Dome – a

windy, shady, semi-Alpine

experience high above the

surrounding domes and pine

forests. We then went for

another Tuolomne classic –

West Crack (5.9) on Daff

Dome – and as I led through

the awkward overhanging

cracks of the second pitch the

muscle in my upper

arm/shoulder pulled; Kenny

managed to rescue all the

gear and we rapped off..........

Shortly afterwards we

escaped east over the Tioga

Pass (as forest fires closed the

road west) to sample the 100

degree Fahrenheit (and

some!) delights of Death

Valley.

Moab, Utah

The high desert of the

Colorado Plateau is a magical

place. It's different to

anything we can experience

in Europe, and for me is the

stand-out area of the western

States because of the quality

of its landscape and culture.

We visited the desert town of

Moab twice, to escape firstly

the rains of Colorado and,

later on, the cold nights of

Little Cottonwood.

Wall Street, adjacent to the

Colorado River, a few miles

from Moab, is the ultimate

roadside crag. Massive walls

rear up from the roadside and

most routes are single pitch

cracks, corners and walls to

lower-offs. The grading here,

as in Tuolomne, is tough until

you get used to the style of

climbing. Kenny and Sarah

'enjoyed' days climbing on

both sides of the river then

headed for the classic desert

tower of Castleton, where, by

all accounts, the descent

provided the major epic of

the day. Meanwhile I

overnighted in the Island in

Kenny on The Hobbit Book (5.7), Tuolomne Meadows


the Sky district of

the Canyonlands,

which overlooks a

vast expanse of

desert cut into by

the Colorado and

Green Rivers.

On our second

visit to Moab we

visited the

spectacular

canyon country of

Indian Creek, an

hour or so from

Moab. There are

cracks and

corners for a

lifetime here (if

that's your bag!)

including the

classic

Supercrack of the

Desert (5.10)

which Kenny had

an admirable

attempt at, before

running out of

gear and steam!

And the camping

here was to die

for – nestled in

the shelter of

Hamburger Rock

looking out across

the desert with the

most amazing sunrises and

sunsets, and the clearest night

sky you will ever see.

Red Rocks, Nevada

Red Rocks is an extensive

area of sandstone canyons

only half an hour's drive from

the crazy environs of central

Las Vegas. Delayed by the

park closures, we finally

made it for the last 8

climbing days of the trip, and

holed up in a cheap motel

only 5 minutes from 'The

Strip'. Red Rocks is now

recognised as one of the

premier rock climbing

destinations of the States –

immaculate, hard sandstone

providing climbing in every

grade and of all lengths from

single pitch to big, alpine-

length walls.

We enjoyed the multi-pitch

classics of Frogland (5.7) and

Black Magic (5.8) and

Johnny Vegas (5.6)/

Sunflower (5.9) a

combination of wall and slab

which provided a 1200ft

route and nightmare abseil of

snagging ropes! We sport-

climbed in the wonderful

rocks of Calico Basin, and

Kenny got his 'lead of the

trip' in, on the superb wall of

Breakaway (5.10d) in Icebox

Canyon.

But on descent

of the 'wrong

gully' after

finishing

Frogland, in

Black Velvet

Canyon, we had a

great view of the

1000ft sweep of

Black Velvet

Wall and the

incredible-

looking line of

Dream of Wild

Turkeys (5.10a)

which was to

provide, for me,

the route of the

trip. The route

takes a logical

line using some

major crack and

corner features

with some

interesting link-

ups across bolted

slabs – a

masterpiece of

route finding up

the sweeping

wall. And, as

with much Red

Rocks climbing,

walls and slabs

which look blank

from afar, reveal

on closer inspection a

plethora of interesting holds

on the featured, weathered

sandstone.

We made steady progress

up the seven long pitches,

with sustained 5.8 to 5.9

slabby walls and finger-

cracks and a crux 5.10a

chimney crack with a bolt-

protected thin wall to the

belay (which I freely admit to

aiding!). But, as we lowered

down a series of long, well-

exposed abseils to reach the

base of the wall in good time

for an evening walk-out, I

realised that this was a route

which, for its situation,

Sarah at Wall St, Moab


quality and name would stay

in my memory for a lifetime.

.

A short walk to a

long wedding in

Paradise

Lewis Preston

At least I had a map before

setting off to cross the Tatras,

unlike for the crossing of the

Kaçkars in Turkey in 2011).

In all other respects,

however, I was even less

prepared this year: I didn’t

really have a clue what route

would ‘go’ for my plan to

walk from Poland to Slovakia

over the northern-most and

highest peaks of the East

European Carpathian Range.

There was really no excuse

for this hopeless degree of

disorganisation and

ineptitude; the wedding

invite, issued in February for

the August event, had given

plenty of notice. Martina and

Adrian had met in Newcastle

through the NMC and

announced they would ‘tie

the knot’ in Slovakia

(Martina’s home) before

sailing off into a Southern

Hemisphere sunset to live in

New Zealand (Adrian’s

home) via a 3 month-long

honeymoon trekking in South

America.

Other NMC invitees were

better organised and booked

plane tickets, ferries, car hire

and accommodation, months

in advance. I got a last minute

flight on the Saturday before

the wedding, bought a

camera, a Tatras guide, and a

belay device, and flew 36

hours later.

Arriving in Krakow on

Monday eve left me 3 days to

cross the mountains in time to

get to the stag/hen gathering

planned for the Thursday.

I managed to find a hostel

overlooking the magnificent

architecture of the Krakow’s

Rynek Glowny Square. On

quizzing the receptionist she

told me about a couple of

huts in the mountains, and a

ridge traverse called the

‘Orla Perć’ (the Eagle’s

Ridge). I sat up late cross-

referencing between the map

and the guide, and next

morning boarded an early

coach across southern Poland

to Zakopane.

Day One - Solo on the

Eagle’s Ridge

Late morning, and I join a

queue in the rain for a

teleferique ride into the mists

of the Tatras. The exit cafe

was swamped with a mob of

disappointed tourists queuing

to go back down to escape

the wind and rain. I shoulder

my sac and venture out, and

before long the wind blows

the mists away as I ascend

the flank, then ridge of

Świnica (2301m). From the

summit (chained) scramble,

shifting clouds reveal

glimpses south of a deep,

lake-bejewelled valley with

ridges and multiple spires

spanning the horizon.

I exchange greetings with a

party that then descend south

by a series of chained pitches

into that valley. I set off east,

suddenly very alone on the

un-chained descent to the

knife-edge ridge I presume to

be the Orla Perć. Before long

‘The calm before the storm’ Sarah and Bryn on the Flatirons above

Boulder, Colorado


I am exposed above very

steep walls on an arête of

broken and loose rock. My

sac containing both

mountaineering and wedding

attire is overbalancing me. I

realise the rock is unreliable

after some holds come off,

leaving me teetering above

the abyss on both sides.

I consult map and compass;

my bearing is correct but it is

possible I am on the

Niebieska Turnia ridge, and

the path is shown below

multiple contours too close to

register, even at 1:25000.

Turning, I retreat carefully

back to the top of the chains,

and, happy to be alive, drop

pitch after pitch quickly to a

traversing path. This has been

invisible from above, and I

can now observe the

absurdity of the saw-tooth

death-trap from which I have

escaped.

I fairly

romp

along the

traverse

and up to

Zawrat (a

col) and

consult

the guide.

This is in

fact the

real start

of the

Orla Perc.

After my

diversion

it is now

mid-

afternoon

and I hear

panting

voices:

two girls

followed

by a man,

finishing

the steep

opposite

ascent to the col and stopping

to admire the fabulous

prospect south into the

Dolina Pieciu Stawow

Polskich (the Valley of the

Five Polish Lakes). They are

Latvians and we chat before

they drop into this valley,

heading for the hut by the

fifth lake.

I head up the Eagle’s Ridge

and, owing to the late hour,

enjoy a solo, adventurous

exploration of this ‘Polish

Cuillin Ridge’. After Mount

Kozi Wierch (2228m), the

ridge drops dramatically with

an impossible looking wall

beyond a huge gap reached

by chains and iron ladder to

the col of Zmarzła Przełęcz

with a precarious perched

boulder on a wildly sloping

slab, Poland’s Cioch (see

sketch). Interesting route

finding follows, scrambling

across and up chained walls

and chimneys, I maintain a

self-imposed ethic to rock

climb properly upwards and

only use chains for quick

descents, owing to the

advancing hour. Later, after I

have passed my last escape-

route col, I (almost) fell-run

to the summit of Kozi Wierch

(2291) just as evening mists

swirl up and engulf the ridge.

I have less than an hour of

daylight left as I locate the

track off the ridge and

descend out of the mist, two

thousand feet by scramble

and scree into the Five Lakes

valley. By 8pm, at dusk, I

approach a huge timber-

shingled hut.

There are crowds of people

enjoying the evening air and

light over the lake from the

stone terrace. On entering the

hut I am overwhelmed with

more people, sitting in the

timber-lined foyer, sitting on

the floors to the rooms above.

I climb over outstretched legs

to reach the queue at the

reception desk. ‘Have you got

a bed for the night?´ seems a

stupid question. ‘Have you

got some floor space in a

dorm?’ is my next try. Again,

a negative response. Then a

lifeline: I’m told that when

the eating is over, the dining

room will be cleared of all

tables and benches and there

will be a free-for-all for a

mat-sized ‘pitch’. I pay for

my overnight and find my

Latvian friends from the

ridge who offer to include me

in their plan for floor-space

occupation.

After Polish stew and

mulled wine, at 21.00hrs I

join a volunteer gang to clear

the furniture and then

squeeze into a cosy slot

between Latvian Kristina and

a random Pole. Over my

head, on a fixed wall-bench

‘Poland’s Cioch’ (Lewis Preston)


barely 250mm wide balances

an over-wide body, above

him a short girl has formed a

foetal position on the window

sill. The hut has

approximately 3 times its

bed-space capacity. Simple

logic: no-one gets up to go to

the loo! Deep sleep ensues.

Day Two - Across the Border

I am up at 6am and pack

while making my own

breakfast and drinks as the

hut guardians struggle to feed

the hoards. It is good to be on

the trail, climbing steeply

above the valley, lakes and

hut before dropping into the

next deep valley system to

the ‘honeypot’ of Lake

Morskie Oko, with a

magnificent, Victorian-style

hut-hotel. The guide states

‘the most beautiful lake in

Poland with views of the

highest mountain in Poland,

’. There is a gentle track

leading up from a car-access

from the lowland, and thus

the tourists swarm, eat, drink

and never move from the

terrace viewpoint.

I circle the lake and ascend,

sweating, to the upper cirque

lake under the north face of

Rysy and cool off splashing

in melt-water. I head for a

remnant glacier and gain the

ridge above. I chat with

returning climbers I had

spotted earlier abseiling down

a wall over a series of great

rock overlaps in this

expansive northern

amphitheatre of Rysy. As the

ridge steepens, chains

safeguard highly polished

rock steps and slabs. These

are unnecessary for a

scrambled ascent in fine

weather, but could be a life-

saver for a ‘walker’s’ descent

in wet or icy conditions. I

meet and solo past nervous-

looking guided groups,

including a Geordie party, the

first (almost)-English folk I

have met since leaving the

UK. My altimeter is showing

2400m as I enter the mist

enveloping the final vertical

tower; I am

singing (to

myself) Richard

Thomspon’s

‘When I Get To

The Border’!

The mists clear

momentarily to

reveal the

fabulous

exposure of this

previously

hidden place

above the world.

From the

highest point in

Poland (2499m)

I descend

southwards then

up a short ridge

to Rysy’s second

(higher) summit

(2503m) which

is in Slovakia,

conscious that I have not only

crossed the watershed, but

also the national boundary

marking differences of

language, ethnicity and

cultural heritage, merged and

stretched incredibly across

the 101 years since the

outbreak of World War I. On

easier ground than the north

flank, I am quickly down at

the col Vaha below Vysoká, a

Slovakian ‘guided only’

peak, which thus

frustratingly, I cannot attempt

and am forced to continue on

down to the highest refuge in

the Tatras, Chata pod Rysmi

at 2250m, with daylight to

spare.

This is a brand new shiny

metal box, balanced on a

(winter) avalanche-prone

slope that has recently seen

the former traditional timber

hut swept away. The interior,

however, is a traditional

timber-lined, floored and

ceilinged space with a

gigantic log-stove the size of

a bed, with a curtained and

Looking south into the valley of the 5 Polish Lakes


mattressed bed-deck be-

topping the furnace. The

attractive 20 year-old’s

welcome is as warm as the 20

deg C differential in

temperature on stepping

inside. In contrast to the

previous night I am shown to

an empty dorm, which only

later accommodates half a

dozen others, including

friendly Monich and Tomic,

who I had met ‘on the floor’

in Poland. Few, it seems, are

crossing the border.

We enjoy a cosy evening

with fabulous Slovakian fare

washed down with beers in

the warmth of the stove and

the flickering light of Tilley

lamps. Here there is no

electricity, no water supply,

no fuel (we are way above

the treeline, and there is no

helicopter landing-pad on the

steep ground) and it’s a track-

less boulder field by head

torch for the ‘long drop’

relief before bedtime.

Day Three - Descent,

diversion and reflection en-

route to the wedding

The next morning after a

solid sleep in a comfy,

mattressed bunk I make an

early visit to the airy shack

for a ‘dump-with-a-view-to-

die-for’ (sorry, too much

information). We resume our

evening social over a

substantial ‘buffet breakfast’

before farewells. I spot an old

communist-era bus-stop sign

on the steep slope below the

hut, but not unexpectedly, the

bus never arrives. What does

arrive, however, astonishes

me and answers the question

‘Where does all the fabulous

food and drink served in the

refuge come from?’. Through

a gateway of Tibetan prayer

flags, preceded by an

enormous Alsation, plods a

white-haired old man (I guess

three-quarters of a century

old, if a day) with a Sherpa-

like load on his back, of 11

gallons (88 pints) of beer,

containers and boxes of food,

and a rucsac balanced on top!

I believe he is the refuge

guardian and appears in a

mental trance as he completes

the last steeply sloping rock

slabs to his 2,250m height

goal.

Further down on my

descent I meet a younger

bearer who is struggling

considerably more, and I fear

for his life when his load

(including a ½ cwt sack of

potatoes) almost over-

balances him on a series of

polished and outward-

slanting rock slabs with

vertical steps into the corrie

below. I down-climb the

chained sections and pass

sweating ascensionists as I

head for the junction with the

Walkers on the (chained) north ridge of Rysi


main valley below. Here I

hide my sac in bushes by a

waterfall at 1600m and head

back uphill, and, released of

my load, find myself fell-

running for pleasure to Velke

Hincovo Pleso, the largest

lake in the Slovakian Tatras,

which is surrounded on 3

sides by a serrated ridge of

conjoined peaks. The only

accessible (without a

Slovakian mountain guide)

summit is Kôprovský Štít

(2363m) which becomes my

afternoon excursion. It offers

a fun final ridge scramble and

drop-away views into three

valley systems.

I run back down the

approach valley, retrieve and

shoulder my sac, pass the

tourist honeypot trap,

Popradske Pleso (lake) and

escape up to the yew and

arolla pine grove hiding the

Symbolický cintorín, a

climbers’ cemetery. It has a

lantern-topped, shingle-

roofed chapel, carved

wooden crosses and

memorial plaques inlaid to

natural rock faces and

boulders. It is a deeply

moving place of countless

connections and memories

between families or partners

with their lost loved-ones in

these and other distant

mountain ranges across the

globe. I linger to read

plaques, reflect on why we

love to climb and explore,

often at some risk, how it

heightens one’s awareness of

life, the marvel of existence,

the beauty of the planet, the

wackiness of individuals, and

the gift (amazingly) of

relationships with another.

I jolt out of the reverie

realising the time: I have a

wedding stag and hen party to

get to tonight! I run downhill,

off-track, through forested

foothills, splashing through

rivers and bogs to emerge at

the ‘halt’ of the single-track

railway. This shortly brings a

train so crowded I must stand

all the way to the Austro-

Hungarian monarchy’s,

wooden-framed, richly

decorated town of Starý

Smokovec. An hour or so

later we have coasted

downhill to the town of

Poprad, where I change to a

train across the plains

towards Hungary. I jump out

at the nearest ‘halt’ to

Martina’s family village of

Arnutovce, finally reached by

trekking across recently

reaped fields bathed in

evening sunset light.

Arrival, welcoming arms

outstretched from the

wedding ‘couple’, guests

from around world

surrounding the fire-bowl,

sparks heaven-bound, the

week-long party is about to

begin.

88 pints of beer!


Club Business Annual General Meeting

The main item of Club Business is the Annual

General Meeting to be held on Wednesday 22nd

January 2014 at 8.15 in the Lecture Room at

Burnside College.

AGENDA

1. Apologies

2. Approval of the minutes of the

January 2013 AGM3.

3. Matters arising

4. Secretary’s Report

5. Treasurer’s Report

6. Hut Coordinator’s Report

7. Guidebook Editor’s Report

8. Change to the Constitution & Rules

Rule 6 be changed to:

9. The Annual Subscription of the

Club shall be £23 for Full Members.

Members aged under 18 and

students in full time education will

pay a reduced rate of £15.

(Note, the sentence about the first 2

years covered by first year’s subs

for under 23s is removed)

10. Election of Officers

a. President (elect): Ian

Birtwistle

b. Vice-President (elect): John

Dalrymple

c. Membership Secretary:

Adrian Wilson

d. General Secretary: Andrew

Shanks

e. Treasurer: Eva Diran

f. County Climber Editor: John

Spencer

11. Election of Committee Members

Remaining on the Committee for a

second year:

Ian Birtwistle

Ian Ross

Ed Scibberas

Peter Flegg

Seeking re-election:

Gareth Crapper

Seeking election for the first time:

Jim Aiken

Note two places remain to be filled

12. Vote of thanks

13. Any Other Business

Full agenda papers will be circulated to

Members in the New Year

.

Mr Vaughan in training; who needs ‘The Works’?!

(John Spencer)


Indoor climbing: £1 off the standard entry price at:

Sunderland Wall.

Durham Wall.

Newcastle Climbing Centre (‘Byker church’)

Climb Newcastle (‘Byker pool’) - Wednesday. nights only.

Morpeth Bouldering Wall.

Also winter season Wednesday nights at Burnside College, £5 entrance fee, open to NMC members only.

NMC Website The NMC has a very informative website www.thenmc.org.uk

The website includes various discussion forums, a photo-archive for members’ climbing photos, and online guides for most Northumberland crags.

NMC Guidebooks NMC members pay a discounted price for any guidebook published by the NMC. Currently available are the following guides:

Northumberland Climbing Guide

Definitive Guide to climbing in Northumberland. £12.50 to members (RRP £18.95)

Northumberland Bouldering Guide

The 2nd edition, £12.50 to members (RRP £19.95) For the above 2 guides add £2 P&P if required. Contact John Earl on 0191 236 5922

No Nobler County A history of the NMC and climbing in Northumberland. Now ONLY £2.00 Hurry while stocks Last!!! Contact Martin Cooper on 0191 252 5707

T-shirts Various styles of T-shirt with printed NMC designs and logo are available. Order direct by contacting Ian Birtwistle 07828 123 143.

Documents

County Climber Winter 2013