I'm bigtime

I'm bigtime

Chasing an indian summer or post monsoon season window of climbing opportunity plans were made for the South West.

Targets hatched. An unstoppable team assembled. Routes quite literally crumbled before us.

Staggering under the weight of a million small wires, a rigging rope, 100 meters of static, two 8mm half ropes and other gear we gained the top of Dyres Lookout.

I was psyched. This feature was epic, Once Upon a Time in the West, The Walk of Life and The Earth Sea Trilogy part 1. All amazing lines. All climbable by the strong and the talented. The Earth Sea Trilogy possibly climbable by me.

I was going to stack the odds in my favour. The new job and house renovation had led to the quietest spell in my climbing since 2003 so I needed all the help I could get. I abseiled in for a quick look.

Don't be mistaken. I was ticking holds, ticking gear placements, pulling on and trying moves. Onsite this was not. I unlocked moves downwards, penduling  across the slab to clip directional runners then nothing.......

Blank rock. I pondered. This looked hard and bold. I swung across to the walk of life for a comparison, it had holds and gear. Swinging back I continued downwards passing a hold. I pulled on and the hold came off. Then I got to the bottom third, there was holds and gear a plenty. It looked piss. Reeve and I sat at the bottom comparing topo photos and route descriptions.

The middle had fallen down. The Earth Sea Trilogy part 1 was no more.

In consolation next time someone asks:

"So you go climbing do you?"

"er yes"

"do you go abseiling as well?"

"hell yes, I've abseiled the hardest trad route in the country, I'm bigtime."

Ten years later

I cadged a light off the group sitting under Fandago wall. As we huddled into the strip of dry we caressed the crimps whilst talking bollocks. Someone mentioned they were moving to Bangor in a couple of months, my ears perked up.

“So am I”

A short blond lad, eyebrows almost as fair as his face was leering at me. We’ll have to climb some stuff then.

The uni club seemed like a waste of time. We met under the SU in the drizzle. Gortex clad wanabies milled whilst veterans of a year at university tried it on at being in charge. I’d seen the Orme in the sun from my halls so was unimpressed with their plan of a walk in the rain.

“fuck this shit”

An hour or so later we were cranking out our first 7a’s at LPT. Alex could crimp like a fucking lunatic and I just tried hard.

We rampaged. Library tours were sacked off and seminars missed. We had next to no gear and no fucking idea. At first we fell off eight meters up everything we tried, the height of Harrison’s Rocks. We climbed the corner of the Cromlech placing about five runners as we only had five quickdraws. We thought we were bigtime.

We knew though that Slate was where it was at. We were unfit and even thought the walk in to the Serengeti was a long way but we could both pull on tiny holds. We moved from shitting ourselves on E1s to shitting ourselves on E4s. We failed to notice the accumulating near misses. Ground sweeping falls on the Never Never Land slab, decking gently with an unzipped rack and a general lack of judgement. I had been raised on a diet of Hard Grit, Deep Play & tales of the Redhead. I thought the reason I fell off was because it was too safe and I did not care enough.

If Slate was where it was at, Rainbow Slab was the main deal. We had climbed the easy routes but knew the real deal were the proper routes. Raped By Affection, Cystitis by Proxy & Naked Before the Beast.

Poetry Pink looked like the soft option. Reputably it was safe where hard, and easy where dangerous, and if equipped with Linford Christy on belay, not too bad. (I suppose now, one would rather Usain Bolt)

I left the ground with a few quickdraws and a handful of wires. I pissed the opening slab to a faint break. Sacking off the potential gear I shook out, buoyed up by the adrenaline displacing the traces of hangover. Further moves gained the first bolt. Hard finger searing moves led up right of the bolt. Further pulls lead higher above the bolt until fingertips grasp the good edges.

I pause.

If I fell off here, arms at full stretch I would probably stop just above the floor. Above me was a bolt; between me and the bolt was an easy mantle. Well, a comparatively easy mantel. Once, however I start the moves I know I’ll hit the floor if I fell. That extra height and the bunched position would add additional rope into the system. Alex is light and slow. Not as fast as Linford anyway. I’m about fourteen meters up and begin to sweat despite the chill late October day.

I move.

A moment later I’m stood on the good holds fumbling the rope into the quickdraw on the bolt. Fingers which had been crimping hard discover I’m in balance and relax. Now it’s just a case of not fluffing the 6b crux above the bolt.

The edges of my shoes stick and my hands grasp the rainbow, calf’s burning I rock up gaining better holds. The climbing eases as I run it out above the gear, panting with muscles feeling the twinges of lactic acid working against them. I gain the cracks and slam in wires, my legs shaking, cramping, then onwards. From above the gear looks shite and the moves feel awkward. I consider retreat but can smell the safety of the belay. Reaching right I gain the base of the groove. Matching and reaching up will gain jugs. Instead I’m off.

Accelerating downwards I rip the few wires I’ve placed and stop thirty four meters later in a crumpled heap on the floor.

I hit the floor, moan a little and then convulse. I’ve broken my arm, the outrageous angle and bone protruding are obvious diagnostic aids. My leg was is also an awkward unnatural angle.

Alex delves in and retrieves my tongue and broken teeth from my throat. Airways clear I begin to breath again.

Next I say fuck.

Fuck

Fuck

Duvet jackets are pilled on top of me.

Three days later I wake in hospital.

The Nebbifield Nose - Foula - Shetland

The Island of Foula lies twenty miles west of the main Shetland Islands in the North Atlantic. It is the most remote permanently inhabited island in the British Isles. The population of 30 crofters are separated from the delights of mainland Britain by a three hour boat crossing to Walls and a further twelve hour ferry journey from Lerwick to Aberdeen.

What Foula may lack in accessibility it makes up for in huge cliffs.

The epic challenge of Foula first muscled its way into my consciousness in the form of Johnny Dawes. At a small art gallery opening in Llanberis, I mentioned my recent climb up St Johns Head on the Isle of Hoy to him. His eyes lit up and he began eulogising about an island he’d once visited. There were tales of immense cliffs at the edge of the world with eccentric locals and wild climbing.

“If you liked St John’s Head, you want to get yourself there” said Johnny

The idea was incubated throughout a three-month trip to the west coast of the States. Having tasted the exotic drug of Scottish Sea Cliff (mini) Big Wall Climbing I found I craved more. Other venues just couldn’t provide the same kick. The Black Canyon of the Gunnison, famed for its ticks, poison ivy, loose rock and epics failed to subdue the subtle yearn for the Scottish wilds.

The biggest problem with a venture such as Foula was always going to be finding someone else who wanted to go. I gave my friends the hard sell but they knew me too well; had been dragged to enough of my favourite crags to consider risking two weeks of their holiday on a wild goose chase to the edge of the world. Fortuitously I ran into Reeve, he seemed interested and could climb. With those two boxes ticked he could have had three heads for all I cared. Not only was he strong and psyched but was also a mental health nurse. This proved to be a bonus as most people consider a trip to Foula as sectionable behaviour. We agreed to climb the Nebbifield on Foula the following year. I headed off to Huceo Tanks, Texas, figuring a winter bouldering was the best training for three hundred meter sea cliffs.

The Nebbifield is probably the most impressive cliff in Scotland. It rises almost vertically, terminating abruptly three hundred meters above the crashing Atlantic waves. Its neighbour The Kame although a sixty five meters higher, provides a far less appealing climbing target being vegetated, slabby, and broken at half height. The Nebbifield cliff however swooped up from the comparatively small (150m) cliffs of the Waster Hovedi to form a clean prow facing west. The arête of this cliff formed the line of The Nose, first climbed by Dave Turnball and C. Jones in 2001.

Our research had informed us that a two hundred meter free-hanging abseil gained a narrow grassy rake at one-third height. A second, hundred meter abseil gained the beach. Alternatively we could swim in. One look at the swell dispelled this notion.

This explained why we were slogging up to the cliff top on the Wednesday morning with three hundred and fifty meters of static rope. Our hearts sank somewhat when we reached the cliff edge. We knew that Dave had abseiled from a prominent grassy niche and had naively assumed it would have gear to rig our abseil from. We scrambled up and down the back wall of the niche. All that confronted us was blank rotting sandstone. Reluctantly we examined some large rocks embedded in the scree that flowed towards the edge of the cliff. Initially we had dismissed these potential anchor points as a joke. After an hour digging with our bare hands we had three passable attachment points. The fifty-meter rope was used to equalise these somewhat pathetic offerings to produce a single “good” anchor.

The following day saw us portering an enormous rack of cams back up to the cliff top. After a brief bite to eat I was first over the edge, rigging rope protectors as I went. My mind brooded on the idea of the rope sawing across an edge. I feared a forced retreat, epic failure or accident, compelling us, or one of us to jummar back up this fragile rope in the dark. Dave had said that having left the ropes in situ one night they returned to find them half cut through.

Hanging free I discovered that using a 9mm rope with an old Petzl Stop was an un-nerving experience. Using a caving decender had seemed more sensible than abseiling 300m using a belay plate. However, Pezil Stops are designed for use with 10mm ropes and provide much less friction when used with thinner ropes. The weight of 200m of rope hanging below stretched the rope even thinner. This stretching combined with the worn out Stop turned it into a “for fuck sake stop”. With the rope wrapped around me as well as through the descender, I slid down in the manner of a classic abseil, controlling the speed with my legs.

Passing the knot I stopped to photograph the situation. Behind me lay a 100m gently overhanging wall, reminiscent of Honeycomb Wall at High Rocks. A myriad of tiny pockets led up the wall, possibly providing enough purchase for fingers but not for gear. It would take an incredibly bold climber to take on that challenge.

We stopped on the beach to compose ourselves a little. Above us rose the cliff. It was ten am. It got too dark to climb at about eleven thirty pm. We had thirteen and a half hours to climb 11 pitches. Our bivy kit consisted solely of one balaclava so benightment was not to be considered. By taking one balaclava I reasoned that if the worst came to the worst, we would keep warm by fighting over who got to wear it.

The first few pitches were on loan from the shale cliffs of the Culm Coast. Exfoliating, sloping ledges, with creaking holds were teetered across before better rock was gained.

We measured our progress by looking across at the Hovedi, watching anxiously as we gained height. I had cunningly offered to lead the first pitch, ensuring Reeve would have to lead pitch 7, The Crux. He deviously retaliated by running two pitches together, leaving me out-manoeuvred. A shale band blocked progress onto the steep upper wall but some cracks led through it, offering gear and encouragement. We realised that we had perhaps taken a little too much comfort in this gear, as we heard much of this pitch tumbling into the sea in the subsequent half-hour. The offwidth crux followed shortly after, a crack widening into a squeeze chimney that terminated at a roof. The massive cams we had brought with us especially for this pitch slotted in and buoyed me upwards until I found myself gazing down at the last size 6 from the depths of the squeeze chimney. At least I was wedged in so tight that I could not have fallen out.

Reeve demonstrated the awesome power of his biceps whilst seconding, pulling off a large flake. He offers his apologies to future teams because it provided excellent holds and gear! Its presence will be sorely missed.

Above this pitch we basked on the belay in the late afternoon sun, swinging from creaking flakes and cams and almost enjoying ourselves. Two pitches later I was worried. The behaviour of the birds had changed. They were defiantly starting to come in to roost. The sun was dropping and it was colder. Reeve was somewhere up above, and in my mind the rope was inching out terribly slowly. I began to time the intervals between his movements, counting the seconds in my mind. Eventually after an eternity the ropes were taken in and I followed.

My fears evaporated as I got the lead. The route led diagonally upwards and I climbed in a cavalier manner, using the ‘one good point of contact’ philosophy. Having the ledge you’re standing on fall off was ok, provided your hand hold held and there was something within campusing distance. I tested this philosophy on numerous occasions during the final pitch. Rocks rained down and I proceeded up, slowing as rope drag took its toll on my mobility. I was almost forced to halt below the final boulder problem roof, unable to climb against the rope but my desire to top out was overriding. Straining against the drag I got within a meter of the top. Here the ropes would let me go no further. Close enough. I set up a final belay leaving Reeve the final mantle onto the grass cliff top.

We lazed around for most of the following day before deciding to recover our gear. Reeve lost again at paper-scissor-stone so would be going down the first abseil to pull the bottom rope up. I took photos as he jummared back up.

Despite the huge quantities of unclimbed cliffs on the island we climbed nothing else. We were absolutely shattered. The apparent ease of our success hid the huge mental and physical effort we had put in. If anything had gone wrong we were a long way from an efficient mountain rescue team.

We hadn’t been entirely without back up; Magnus the Laird of Foula had offered some emergency services.

“If you get stuck on a ledge you can trust us. We know what to do. Occasionally our sheep get stuck on ledges. We’ll use a 22 rifle to put you out of your misery. It’ll be more humane than letting you stave”      

Stack Attack

Rusna Stacks – Shetland Mainland



The day’s jaunt began with two extremely psyched climbers wandering along the headland, regretting our lack of stakes & sledge-hammer. Had we had them of course, we would have spent the five mile slog from Walls Pier bemoaning their existence. As we closely hugged the cliff edge we periodically stopped to peer downwards at steeply undercut walls. Possible lines of weakness, cracks suitable for human fingers to gain purchase, guided the eye back upwards. Lines traced from rocky foreshore to grassy topout.

Every rise promised more, until we summited another hillock to find Rusna Stacks laid out below. They clustered below us, a collection of sharks fins rising from the briny depths. Each stack displaying a clean slabby sweep of rock rising to a crenulated ridge. Here at last was our days’ climbing.

First we circled, scrambling to gain different viewpoints, with each subtle change of vantage bringing new features to the fore. Crack systems separated by blank sections of rock, roofs jutting out above cracks, & the occasional ledge. We tried to reconcile potential plans to the gear and time we had available. Abseiling down the cliff then leaving the rope in place before swimming resulted in wet clothes and gear due to our lack of drybag. Pulling the abseil rope to use as a Tyrolean across the waves would entail in a final, horrific looking, loose scramble to regain the clifftop at the end of the venture.



Finally, lateral thinking prevailed. We outflanked the tottering cliffs with a sea level traverse. Our ambitions by this point had been reined in slightly. Rather than the blank looking slab, we proposed to tackle the precipitous ridge bristling with gendarmes rising up from our proposed landing spot.

One of us was going to have to get wet. It was the only way to get the rope in place for the Tyrolean traverse, the fragile rope bridge allowing safe dry passage across the waves. The rope would form an umbilical cord to the mainland allowing safe retreat in the face of high seas. In such situations there is only one course of action open, sudden death paper-scissor-stone.

My stone lost to Reeves paper so I stripped off before nakedly plunging into the sea. I tied the rope around a convenient spike and sat back to shiver whilst Reeve tensioned the rope and readied himself.

“I’ve forgotten my lid, I’ll be back in a moment” floated across the gap as I saw him bugger off back the way we came.

Some time latter he returned and queried the tension of the line, “I’m sure it’ll be fine” I replied, my judgement clouded by shivering and goose bumps.

A rapid decent down the Tyrolean deposited Reeve in the sea; this led him to loudly question my professional opinion on matters of rope work.

At this point we painted an amazing picture of incompetence. One naked man, helpless with the combined debilitating effects of nudity, shivering and uncontrollable mirth was sitting on a rock surrounded by the waves whilst a fully dressed man wearing a rucksack floundered in the sea. At this point a fishing boat turned up to assist me in laughing at Reeve. I gave them my most winning smile and grinned as much as possible to ensure they knew we were having FUN, and that this was all part of the PLAN, to prevent them feeling compelled to attempt rescue.

After some time had elapsed, some invective muttered and the abandonment by the fisherman of their fishing ground, presumably in search of less lewd behaviour, we were both finally on the platform assessing the situation. By some unimaginable fluke, my clothes which had been in the top of the bag were dry. I was soon warm and happy. Reeve however…..

I lay back in the sun belaying. Rocks rained down into the sea, closely followed by queries regarding the parentage of the said rocks. Apparently some form of rubble filled chimney was posing interesting questions regarding the fragility of mortality. Soon it was my turn and I teetered upwards having considerations for future teams enjoyment by leaving as many of the poised blocks in position as possible. The rubble-less chimney, neutered by the provocation of a climber’s weight had shed its load and consequently I was soon up at the belay.

Together we swayed from slings as we surveyed the twenty five meters of ridge leading up to the highest point of the stack. One giant finger was raised in defiance, sticking on, literally against the forces of erosion. It supported my weight but I left it unencumbered by slings as I felt to test with a fall would be possibly more than it could stand. We paused but briefly on top to congratulate each other on our tower deflowering, as Reeve now had the uncontrollable shivering.

Some down climbing & abseiling later saw us at the bottom.

I tightened the Tyrolean and launched back across making it with minor foot splashage. Reeve followed in the sea after releasing the rope.

Original Route VS……..

Foula

The Nebbifield

Definitely the remotest inhabited place in the British Isles.

Sure there might be isolated farmsteads further from a Tescos and without a post office but all in all Foula seems quite remote. The ferry to Lerwick takes 14 hours and the ferry/small boat from Walls to Foula takes a further two.

The Diving Board above the Nebbifield

Once your there the island holds thirty locals, some ponies, some sheep, some birds and some enormous cliffs.

The Climbing is Epic

The Approach is Epic

We climbed The Nose on the Nebbifield. This is an amazing 300 m 12 pitch spectacular, climbing the soaring arete of the Nebbifield. The Nebbifield is the second highest cliff on Foula but is probably the most interesting from a climbers point of view. It runs up from the small (200m high) cliffs of the Waster Hoevada in a huge inverted amphitheatre overhanging by 60 m at its steepest point to reach a height of 300 m where it forms an amazing arete.

This arete forms roughly the line of The Nose

Pitch 9 on The Nose

We rigged the abseil the day before and had an early start. It took three hours to walk in and descend the cliff and about 11 hours to climb the route. The climbing was a complete range from conventional E4 to XS on disposable holds! We commented that climbing at Crag Doris was good training for this route.

We left most of the important holds in place and despite some minor moments of excitement nothing came off with either of us attached.

Topping out whilst looking west at the sun dropping towards the horizon, was a powerful feeling. We were not equipped for bivies and the birds coming in to roost focused the mind somewhat!

The calling of the Lime

The customary summer rains have failed and attention has shifted to long forgotten limestone crags, reputed to have been seeping for years. The green and tranquil depths of Chee Dale have once again rang with the scream of drills as routes are dragged from their slumbers, stripped of their sopping raiments by the dry weather and sieged into submission by those without the necessary finesse for the flash.

After living in Sheffield for a few years and the North'ish since 2001 I finaly made it to the Chee Dale and Water Cum Jolly Cornices. I enjoyed myself. Possibly despite myself!

Positron - Gogarth

Gearing up, we carefully cherry picked route descriptions from the two Gogarth guides taking the easiest sounding passages from each. We then played paper, scissor, stone for the first pitch. James won (or possibly lost) and began to psych himself up.

The first pitch was dispatched with ease, the size of the holds compensating for the steepness of the rock. The second was hard and a little forced, deliberately looking for and finding difficulties.

James said afterwards that he briefly considered falling off the third before remembering that: I was belaying him on an Italian Hitch, he had no prussic cord, and the rope was too short to lower him into the sea.

Instead he cruised to the belay highlighting the fine line between a successful send and a major epic.