Mines, Hylldrem & Horseshoe

After a week of training at the Foundery I took a day off to head down Derbyshire Cavern. We paid no heed to remembering the route we took in and it took us a while to escape back to daylight.

On Saturday we were misled by the met office into going to Wales. Standing outside Eric's cafe at Tremadog in the rain it became apparent that Carreg Hylldrem was the only option. Under the capping overhangs it was dryish but drainage blocked many routes. I optimistically attempted Wildebeest E4 6a selectively ignoring the drainage streaks but pumped out contemplating the dripping holds.

It turned out to be totally claimable and went second go. A great (steep) route.

Monday saw me at Horseshoe in the rain. Grim.

Thaw and damp

We attempted to find some dry rock in the peak today.

After finding Eastwood Rocks wet hopes were low and a trip to Froggatt confirmed the only dry climbing was indoors.

Welsh winter & large bruises

I climbed in the Devil's Kitchen on Saturday with John.

John and I attempted the Devil's Appendix and climbed it eventually after one fall, two lost ice tools and a large lump of ice to my shoulder.

The bruise has turned a nice colour!

Peak Esoterica Number 3 – Central Gully – Mam Tor

It’s Christmas Eave 2009. I awake fuzzy headed with a list of things that need doing. My alarm has been set unforgivably early for such a day. The lethargy provoked by the early start is compounded by the after work Christmas beers the evening before.

Mam Tor Central Gully

I’m in Sheffield, I need to get to my Nan’s house in Kent, I have no Christmas presents and Central Gully on Mam Tor is in

Dave on Mam Tor Central Gully

 The snow blanketing the Peak has pushed all other priorities aside. I try to contain my impatience as I drive through Hathersage and Castleton, repeatedly almost loosing the back end on icy corners. Shortly after I pass the turning to Winnets Pass I accept defeat and park. Shouldering my bag I trudge up the snow-clad road to the south face of Mam Tor.

Mam Tor Right Hand Gully

The south face of Mam Tor is normally a shattered shale monstrosity, sloping rubble filled shelves tier upwards to the summit crowned by the remains of an ancient fort. Clambering the gullies to the summit is possible but seldom attempted. Now, plastered with snow and frozen mud it would give good sport. Due to the mist however I was yet to see it.

 Mam Tor in summer (not snow)

I rendezvous with John at the base and we geared up strapping on crampons and extracting ice tools from bags. I then followed as John set off. We soloed Central Gully before rushing down to climb a further two or three lines. Under those conditions it all felt about Grade III, the snow was firm but not neve, the mud below, firm but not frozen totally solid.

The road back down to Castleton

Medowhall was hell and the drive home worse but conditions have to be taken as the come…..

Big John - St John's Head - Hoy

Harry was psyched. Oliver Hill who had climbed the first accent of the Longhope Route had filled his head with crazy ideas while they bouldered at Bowls Rocks. To get in training he had done laps on the Super-Low-Level-Traverse. Simon and I were along for the ride.

We’d had an exploratory recce the evening before. At 8pm the sea had been calm. John-the-Boatman had been able to get the semi inflatable rib within 6 ft of the shore. It had almost looked as if we would be able to step ashore.

John-the-Boatman's boat

At 7am the following morning the change was obvious. The sea was far rougher and John would pilot the boat no closer to the shore than 100ft due to the swell. Rocks below the water intermittently became visible as the boat rose and fell. There was a moment’s hesitation before we were all naked in the boat eying up the waves. It looked daunting. It dawned on us that we had far too much stuff for two drybags. One of us was going to have to swim it twice.

We plunged in and struck out to the shore whilst John watched. As we got closer the size of the boulders and the swell surging between them became even more apparent. Harry and Simon managed to get established on the land proper whilst I ended up perched on a boulder separated from safety by a channel of surging water. I watched the water level fluctuate from 10 ft deep to bare rock again as the waves surged in. I teetered, totally mystified as to how to proceed but before I got too concerned an enormous wave cast me off my rock, solving my dilemma. I struggled ashore.

Harry repeated the swim whilst Simon and I nakedly shouted encouragement.

John then headed off leaving us sitting on the rocky shore. It seemed an alien place, unaccustomed to human presence. Huge sea birds could be heard groaning and croaking amongst the rocks behind us. The sight of the boat leaving focused our minds on the climb above.

Above us towered the cliff, damp in the early morning dew.

After drying out and warming up, we traversed left to the base of the grass slab.

The guide described the grass slab as being 145 meters long but looking up from below we glibly assured ourselves it could probably be done in two long pitches. Our brains had yet to convince our eyes it was really that big.

It took four 60 meter pitches.

St John's Head looming above the grass slab

The slab was still festooned with the rope left by Roland Edwards but this appeared to be only held in place by the grass. The pegs which once attached it to the rock dangled forlornly, dripping rust. Fulmars emerged from holes to projectile vomit at us. We climbed in approach shoes reasoning that it was easier to climb English 4b moves in trainers than wet grass in rock boots.

As we got onto the rock the climbing improved and several pitches led us to ledges at the base of a fantastic overhanging flake. This flake led up to a ledge on the arête and beyond this the unknown. It was Harry’s lead but he did not look massively confident.

After he’d had a couple of abortive starts Simon was forced to offer to lead the pitch for him. This had the desired effect goading Harry upwards. The thought of being upstaged by his little brother sending him laybacking and heelhooking his way to glory. As the flake opened up he was able to attain a sitting position in the groove, shaking out both hands whilst hanging on with his thighs.

The overhanging flakes

Another good pitch led up to the ledge on the arête where darkness overtook us and we stopped for the night. The ledge was just about big enough, we were tired, it did not rain and was not windy so the night was not too horrific. I had a balaclava for bivying in and snored enthusiastically.

In the cold grey flat light of dawn, enthusiasm was hard to find. I think it was the lure of movement generated warmth that spurred us upwards. Glancing over our shoulders a low sea mist was flowing out from Scapa Flow to our north and Ratwick Bay to the south. Passing the technical crux involved me at the belay belaying, Harry belayed higher spotting and Simon pulling hard on small holds. After bouldering through a roof, small wires were fiddled into small cracks and further hard moves gained the top. We followed on tight ropes!

We found ourselves in the most amazing feature, a horizontal chimney cleaving the cliff. This four foot high slot cut into the cliff about six to ten feet. Its base was made up of loose boulders slowly flowing outwards, whilst its roof, a sold slab of sandstone, jutted outwards beyond the cliff below. We crawled and squirmed along towards some massive fallen boulders where a line of weakness offered a chance to breach the blank overhang above.

The slot ledge

By this time we were running low on food and water. Our water bottles which we had filled at a spring at the base were worryingly empty. We instituted a policy of monitoring water usage, categorizing sips, swigs, gulps and swiggy gulps. We paranoidly watched each others throats, monitoring the movement of the adams apple for signs of multiple illicit gulps. As it was my turn to lead and I was embarking on The Pitch I was allowed a swiggy gulp.

The Pitch was the pitch which had been worrying us the whole time. This is the pitch which had required a point of aid and two pegs on the first accent. Although it had since been climbed free, we were daunted. Twenty years was a long time for a peg on a sea cliff. Our imaginations ran riot as we imagined rotting horrors protecting boulder problem moves between breaks. Actually we weren’t daunted, we were bricking it.

Reality did not disappoint. A peg leered down from above the overhang, a snaplink gently swinging from its corroded metal eye. The snaplink was devoid of its gate; presumably the anode like behaviour of the two different metals had accelerated its rusting. This had not saved the peg which looked equally knackered. I clipped it anyway. Clipping it couldn’t hurt. When I finally got to a crack I unloaded my entire rack into it, leading to an involuntary splitting of the pitch at a hanging stance shortly after. Simon had the privilege of climbing upwards past the second peg. This had lost its eye completely.

The release of tension climbing the crux afforded was massive. Up until this point we had been concerned that we might not make it. The cloud rolled in and we pushed onwards to the top. I relished the thought of the supplies we would find waiting for us.

Emelda met us at the top with Harry’s bicycle and some supplies. Food never tasted so good. We got back to the hut at midnight and washed the fulmar vomit off by swimming in the sea. Skinny dipping at midnight seemed far more sensible than having a fishy sleeping bag from now until eternity.

Looking across at the upper section from the cliff top

Fully committed to the crux pitch

St John's Head with The Old Man in the background