1. The Lakes
2. Christmas Day the Worsfold Way
3. Steep Ice and Potatoes Lyonaise
4. Clues your climbing partner might be dangerous:
The Lakes
Some people complained that my last article was too long. I really don't understand why. So to keep those of you who did complain happy, I have tried my best to keep this one a bit shorter.
William and Andrew...the story so far (we climb together that's all)
In typical fashion, our next adventure was decided with amazingly short notice (new years day, the day before we left). Saying that, we had not yet decided a destination as William was still blind drunk from the previous night, whilst I, being able to hold my drink, was sober as a fish.
So, gear shoved in packs, we headed for the hills of the wet country. On arrival, it was cold, crisp and dry, so naturally we (William) decided to stay at the YHA hostel in Ambleside. Not much to report there except go somewhere else for breakfast ('Apple Pie Cafe' in Ambleside village centre is best)!
Day 1: Get out of bed and wake everyone else up who is in the same room. Have plastic breakfast and get in car. Go to shop to buy water that was forgotten in the hostel. Drive on, recognise place we are driving through as place previously climbed at. Park, get out of car and strip of half (o.k. completely) naked in car park to get changed much to the amusement of the old lady. Put rucksacks on, start walking. After long walk, start climbing steeper stuff, after longer walk start climbing even steeper stuff. Ground levels out, downhill, then uphill begins again. Walk uphill into cloud and wind. Continue uphill. Get vaguely lost in mist, check GPS, turns out we are not lost, but follow GPS anyway. Walk to false summit of Scaffel Pike, nearly get blown off the top. Put on waterproofs to stop the wind from freezing us to death, continue uphill holding on to rocks tighter than before. Reach summit, climb windbreak, nearly get blown off the top again whilst having photo taken. Eat food quickly, put gloves back on, fingers hurt due to cold, continue downhill. uphill, downhill. Walk past small frozen Lochan and throw snowball at ice. Snowball misses. Start moving quicker as old people from near frozen Lochan appear not too happy at being snowballed. Walk downhill, continue downhill, reach bottom, walk along path at bottom for an eternity trying to catch up with a walker in front who always appears to keep a 10 metre lead on us however quick we walk. Reach pub, walker who had 10 metre lead goes into his house next to pub, realisation dawns that he walks this path often. Go to pub, have drink just to annoy William who has made a new years resolution to give up for a month. Throw gear in car, get in car go to hostel, clean up, go to pub for meal.
Day 2: Get up late, go into Ambleside, purchase the new SMC guide book for Ben Nevis and look at pages 104 and 335 to see my fame. Decide on climb, drive up steep hill, forward momentum decreases, sliding backwards momentum takes over. Ice on road dawns to us as Audi coming down the hill slides into dry stone wall. Laugh. Attempt longer route, arrive at car park, kit up, begin uphill climb. Get to gully, faff. Begin climbing gully realising that there is not yet enough ice, making the grade 2 more like a grade 3. Struggle up gully emerging at top. Walk over frozen Lochan and take fake ice climbing pictures whilst trying not to fall through into cold water. Begin descent, continue descent. Reach bottom. Chuck gear in car, drive to hostel. Clean up, go to locals bar in Ambleside, get stared at for 20 minutes, leave. Go to normal pub, eat. Walk back to hostel, sleep.
Day 3: If I ever catch those other guys in the room that woke us up early by turning the light on, smacking the door against Williams bunk and talking in normal non-volume adjusted voices, then I will personally drop their belay devices from a large cliff. Get up late, miss breakfast, think about anger management therapy, decide to begin homeward journey, leave, drive. Arrive home.
Well, you wanted shorter?
Andrew
Christmas Day the Worsfold Way
After 29 years of Christmas Days at home with my family it felt like time for a change. Mum had said over the years that she would understand if I chose to spend Christmas elsewhere but I’m not sure that climbing in the Lake District was quite what she had in mind. Stuart on the other hand us a veteran of Lake District Christmases and managed to entice me with tales of deserted hills, towns lit up for Christmas and long evenings in front of an open fire. He made it sound so idyllic I quite forgot the fact that it would probably rain and I would have to sleep in a bunk bed (well at least we weren’t camping).
We were lucky enough to have the Wayfarers hut in Langdale to ourselves, I think everyone else had seen the weather forecast. Thankfully the hut is well equipped with a good drying room so despite the miserable weather we managed to get a fair bit done.
After a thorough soaking walking up the Old Man of Coniston on Christmas Eve we dried off in front of the fire and poured over the guidebooks to pick our route for the next day. With the state of the weather we decided that climbing was out of the question so started looking for a suitable scramble – and that meant no gullies! We eventually decided on Pinnacle Ridge on St. Sunday Crag, a grade 3S scramble with good exposure and a nice little crux pitch near the top. It sounded interesting so we packed our rucksacks and headed down to the Sticklebarn for a celebratory tipple.
We got up early the following day, but there was no time for opening presents, we needed an early start to make the most of the daylight. The weather looked almost promising, with a few small patches of blue sky, and even a hint of sunshine, but we had only walked for about twenty minutes before the heavens opened and we had to get the waterproofs out.
After a gentle walk in along the valley we headed steeply up the side of St Sunday Crag to a grassy terrace where a clear path contoured the hill. By this time we had been overtaken by a couple of guys who seemed to be heading to the same place. This was lucky for us, as although the ridge sounded easy to find from the guidebook (apparently you couldn’t miss the cannon shaped block), once we had got to the grassy terrace we were completely in cloud and couldn’t see any ridges, let alone pick the right one. We caught them up where the path petered out at the bottom of a large scree slope. They were semi-confident that they were in the right place (they had a 50% success rate of finding it previously) so we followed them up into the cloud.
Once we reached the base of the ridge it was clear we were in the right place. I am meant to be practicing rope-work for the Alps this summer so we roped up and off we went. I chose to go first as this way Stuart has to go at my pace and I felt less like a dog on a lead! Despite the bad weather the rock was reasonable positive and the scrambling easy and enjoyable. The ridge is formed by a deep gully on the right hand side, and the best, most exposed route can be found right on the crest of the ridge. This also gave us views into the gully where patches of snow were still present with visible crampon marks – what a difference a week makes.
We continued up the ridge to the crux section just behind a large gendarme. The steep 6m wall looked very intimidating, made more so by the long drop off into the gully below, but I took a deep breath and got up it reasonably easily in the right-hand corner on large if a little slippery holds. The ridge ended over some very airy pinnacles and a short down climb and then up a rough grassy scramble to the main ridge of St. Sunday Crag. We made a quick dash for the summit and then headed down out of the howling wind and thick cloud. The weather had been pretty miserable for most of the day, but as we headed down out of the cloud we were finally rewarded with a break in the rain and beautiful views across to Ullswater. The light was just beginning to fade as we got back to the car and we drove back to the hut via a deserted Ambleside.
I had thoroughly enjoyed my alternative Christmas day but I wasn’t about to give up the traditional things that easily. So while the turkey was slowly roasting in the oven we opened our Christmas presents in front of the fire. I got a pair of crampons, if only the snow had lasted another week!
Steep Ice and Potatoes Lyonaise
“La Salade Magret et le beouf pour moi ….eh….ah….bleu, et le Côte Du Rhône maison s’il vous plaît”… and as the sun beat down while we awaited the “repas”, we checked Rich’s (from Peglers) progress on his second pitch 4+ crux. He’s a heavy bloke but the way he moves, and the way he strikes the ice tells you he knows what his is doing; he bridges out a bit, stands up straight, axes low and then hammers one in at arms reach above, matches it with the other, leans back, arms straight, no question – the axes will hold, brings the feet up and moves on. The ice was thick, maybe two feet, not a breath of wind and the sky was clear blue. “This is not like Scotland, is it?” I said, as the wine arrived.
This was the ‘Pegler’s Ice Fest’ in the Ecrins Alps (12-19 Jan 03). EGCC fielded five delegates, and we shared the gite and the gear samples with twelve others. There was a friendly and co-operative atmosphere, Rich cooked and everyone else washed up. The booze was free, so almost every evening Reg fell asleep in front of the fire (we had a book running on it). This was partly also due to Reg’s day spent ripping down Alp d’Hues black runs like a ZZ Top rock vid stunt man. Reg couldn’t climb that week, apparently the dog has stopped unexpectedly for a sniff during the morning jog and wrenched his shoulder. Mmm, dogs, quite dangerous.
As we set about our main course, 10 miles up the valley at ‘La Grave’ Sarah and Darren were tackling the 50m first pitch of a local classic route (Caturgeaus -?). It really is so French, you follow a long steep sided valley go through a tunnel beneath a buttress, park the car, walk in, about the same distance as for High Sports, and there before you are six pitches of cascade ice running right up to the visible sky line and beyond. The upper pitches look very steep indeed as the ice narrows and twists forming columns and curtains across overhanging rock. We never got that high. The first pitch has it’s own problems, we found out a couple of days earlier. If you are using 50m ropes then the second has to flatten herself against the ice and get onto tip-toe to allow the shaking and bulging eyed leader to grasp the belay chain. Darren borrowed some sixties, he’s quite a bright lad.
I did want to write some lines about the ice climbing experience for my readers general education, illusive and exotic animal that it is to us southern counties rock rodents. So what is it about? - It’s about feet. Footwork is the key. You kick the mono points in - and think “that can’t hold”, so you kick them in again – and they feel looser, you can’t risk that again so you put it out of your mind thinking “it works for everyone else” and cautiously stand up. Then you are ready to reset an axe, of course it has welded itself in while you weren’t looking and you waste all the energy you had allocated to the next placement on extracting it. Then finally it surrenders it’s grip, you reach high to a promising looking spot and “smack!” you drive it in an inch deep and “boing” the ice dinner plates all around. “Will it hold?” like f*** it will and your only choice is to yank it out, smash away all the shattered ice and try again. At this stage you’ve run out about twenty feet and you’re feeling about as secure as a rat on the tilting deck of a sinking ship. So then you go to your belt, cluttered with bunches of ice screws, grab one, force it onto the ice and twist it – about 180° and then your wrist locks out on its rotational limit. It’s gone in about 5mm and you’re thinking “how do I change my grip on this thing..” - swinging as you are from the other arm - “.. without dropping the bastard?”. Finally, when you have finished the juggling and most of the scew has disappeared unconvincingly into the ice, with calf muscles screaming like a pair of strangled cats you are ready to calmly move up towards the bulge that has been terrorising you since you first looked up at the route.
The second has some odd challenges too. A good second will blow the core of ice out of the ice screw before returning it to the rack. This, of course, can be hazardous if the steel is so cold that it sticks to your lips. Reg had a good idea. Why not use a plastic mouth piece like the one on his Siberian bugle (used to retrieve the dog on winter mornings – I can only presume). This would have the added benefit of updating the waiting leader of the progress of his second as the trumpet calls sound out, growing ever closer. We liked this idea. Ag used to play the tuba you know, I am sure she could get a tune out of an ice screw. We must remember to pack one next year! (That’s not to say of course that I will get away with doing all the leading two years running. Here’s to hoping, it’s such a buzz!).
Tony the Librarian
Clues your climbing partner might be dangerous:
You often hear the faint clinking of beer bottles whenever he racks up
Complains about cigarette burns making his rope "a bitch" to abseil on
Commands such as "Slack" and "Tight" must often be prefaced with "HEY! WAKE UP!"
Always 20 minutes late because he has to unwind climbing rope from Jeep winch
On first night out in double portaledge, awakens you at 3am wondering "hypothetically" if Spectra would be damaged by spilled battery acid
Uses the words "granny knot" and "bomber" in the same sentence
After fifth pitch, asks for water to wash down the Prozac
Prefers clapping to give encouragement while belaying.