By John Sellars – December 2005

Well, a certain event in my life has ensured I have the time to write
this. The event concerns lines; two lines in particular. The first is
the graph of age against weight and the second is the graph of age
against muscle quality, particularly lower stomach wall muscle. Aging
climbers beware. At the crossing point of these two lines lurks the
beast of bi-lateral inguinal hernia or, as Spike Milligan would call
it, nothing, because he’s dead, you know …

Sub-plot over, down to the main story line.

In August 2005 I was supposed to be going to Scotland with two friends
for to shelter in our tents from the rain and wind for seven days but
one “friend” used up all his holiday going walking with his mum and the
other unpardonably pulled out just because he was moving house.

Faced with the option of going anywhere that my limited bank balance
would allow I chose economy destination number one: Iceland. After
slightly over a whole week of approaching seven days, each of about
twenty four hours, all of similar lengths, of Chris Bonington-type
expedition planning using the very latest technology:

Saturday: Buy “Rough Guide to Iceland”.

Sunday to Wednesday: Go through emotional turmoil at the expense and
finally book ticket after half a bottle of wine.

Saturday: Buy new walking boots, pack.

Sunday: Reykjavik.

I had sussed out where to go, which involved laborious hours of looking
up “hiking” in my rough guide and reading “Thorsmork (Thor’s wood) is
the best area for hiking in Iceland” and thinking “I’ll go there”.

Sunday saw me (I tried to hide from him, but to no avail) wandering
around Reykjavik and staying at the city campsite. Bought a map of
Thorsmork that proved to be slightly useful as most of the mountains
were still in the same places. Reykjavik was interesting, but it is a
city and I was itching to get to somewhere wild.

At the campsite I chatted with a collection of transients (no, not Ford
vans or blokes dressed as girls) who each told me their life story in
the first five minutes. I then retired to my leaky antique tent.

Monday saw me too, but I saw her (I am so PC I could get a job with
social services) first. I was on a coach for the four-hour journey to
Thorsmork. The first half was in a normal National Express type vehicle
and then we transferred to the submarine terror-bus, a four wheel drive
Mercedes with a top speed of about 40 when not submerged. The track got
slowly worse (or better) and then came the first river crossing, with
water coming in the doors and out of my urinary tract. At the next stop
I elected (out of cynicism, not fear of the biggest river crossing
still to come, as the stop was owned by the bus company and had a cafe
where a cup of tea cost about £300 (the moral high ground is easy to
take in certain situations, like governments taxing beer and fags)) to
walk the 4km to the campsite rather than wait an hour for the bus to
leave and drive the long way round.

The campsite was (and, hopefully, still is) idyllic, set in a small
stream valley and surrounded by mountains, with a wide alluvial river
valley about a hundred metres away. I put my tent up and then went for
an exploratory wander to get my bearings (I have absolutely no natural
sense of direction and would surely be dead by now were it not for the
invention of the Earth’s magnetic field and the discovery of the
compass-needle tree) and spent an awe-struck hour or so atop the hill
by the campsite, Valahnukur, it was such different scenery from
anything I had seen before and I felt really alive.

Had a chat with the hut warden to see where was best to walk and got
some ideas, then retired to my marquee to cook, eat and fester.

On the subject of food, having heard how much it cost I took enough
with me for the week. Cous-cous and Bean Feasts for dinner, cereal
bars, scotch pancakes (hunners of the bleeders), cheese and chocolate
for lunch and 2kg of muesli with dried milk for breakfast. This would
have been enough but for the fact that, after Bean Feast and cous-cous
every night, emotional issues occurred, resulting in spending £13 on a
one-portion pack of noodles, a head of garlic, a packet of biscuits and
four yoghurts. This was repeated later in the week in Reykjavik with a
£3 loaf of bread, a 95p (very reasonable I thought – getting into it
now) tin of beans, a £6 jar of peanut butter (but what lovely peanut
butter it was) and a £4 bag of wine gums. If you are scuzzy and tight
enough (I am) there is a stock of leftovers at Reykjavik campsite to
supplement this. The amazing thing is that Icelanders seem to afford to
drink loads. A half litre of beer is around £7.

Maps are best stolen as they start at about £10. They are more
artistic interpretations than factual representations.

Bus tickets are expensive too and I re-discovered hitching later in the
week. Rough Guide said that the first car would probably stop. They
lied. It took me nearly thirty six seconds to get a lift as it was the
second one and I had nearly got to the lay-by where I was going to
hitch from. Brilliant, puts my all-time record of a night and six hours
and about seven thousand cars near Manchester to shame. On this subject
one of the most heartening things about Iceland is the importance given
to pedestrians over car users. In Reykjavik cars will stop at busy
junctions to wave you across, even if you have been a prat and got
stranded in the middle by crossing the first half of the junction when
the pedestrian lights were on red.

Hmmmm, my first novel, by John Sellars, age 41 5/8

Next day I went for a walk up a hill / mountain (Rjupnafell, 600m ish)
on the same side of the river as the campsite. After about an hour I
came across a group of people going the same way as me, but they soon
turned off (they had little knobs that went ‘click’ as you turned them
anti-clockwise) and I didn’t see anyone until I got back to the
campsite about six hours later, and this is acknowledged as the best
walking area in Iceland! The walk, the silence and the views from the
top of the hill were just amazing. I managed to find a path (the whole
walk was on paths of varying obviousness) that returned a different way
and I arrived back at the campsite at peace with the world after one of
the best day’s walking in my life.

The weather while I was there varied from very light drizzle to hot
sunshine and I was plenty warm enough in a 2-season bag.

The following day I crossed the river by the dodgy wooden bridge and
walked about 12km up a long distance path (Thorsmork is in the middle
of a four-day path with huts and everyone else at the campsite that I
spoke to was doing this) to about 1300m where two glaciers poke their
tongues at you by an eerie lake. The scenery was almost monochrome,
with pure white snow against black volcanic sand and ash. I waited
until the noisy French party had left and I had it to myself and spent
ages just wandering around the lake and taking it in. One of the
advantages of being so near the Arctic Circle in the summer is that you
don’t have to worry about getting back, if you have enough cereal bars
and scotch pancakes, as it never gets too dark to see.

I did leave when the thunderstorm hit, though. Walking back across the
1km wide billiard table plateau with lightning in the sky (it goes
sideways in Iceland. I thought that was the Chinese?) was slightly
worrying, but I was so chilled that I didn’t really care if I was
vaporised. It rained in Scottish for the next four hours that it took
me to get back to the campsite and I discovered that my ancient
Karrimor cag is not only not very breathable, and not very waterproof
either. I adopted the Ray Meers Philosophy and enjoyed being part of my
environment, rather than isolating myself from it and had a really (I
do actually mean it) enjoyable walk back.

The next day I left Thorsmork and it was a bit of a disaster as I
didn’t find the area I was looking for. I ended up in Reykjavik and did
the puffins and whales thing – saw a humpback whale jump out of the
water in front of the boat, do a somersault and crash back into the
water again, which was pretty spectacular.

The following day I went back to the right place (Hveragerdi,
pronounced Kkkkerakkherrrthi like a grizzly bear chewing gravel) and
wandered around sulphurous pits, bubbling pools and belching holes in
the ground. This was my first experience of volcanic activity, other
than curry, and I was awe-struck.

The good old Rough Guide said that it was vital to stick to the paths
as blah, blah, zzzzzz. At the sight of the first bit of steam coming
out of the ground I was off, didn’t follow a path for the next six or
eight hours and the facial plastic surgery has been a success. Anyway,
to avoid erosion never stick to the path – it would work. I even
managed to fit in a 500m hill, Tjarnarhnukur, which had been active not
too long ago and I walked up unstable lava-flow slabs to get to the
top. There are dodgy rock cornices (or, as Gary Glitter would say
(recurring IMC newsletter theme, eh Pete?): “Corrr! Nieces!”)
overhanging the valleys in Iceland, where lava has cooled and the soft,
ashy stuff underneath has been eroded away. The rock that these
cornices are made from is as friable as ginger nuts post-dunking and
best avoided as it hurts your teeth and makes your tea taste horrible.
The maps actually show the lava flows and the year of their occurrence,
but unfortunately they only go back in time. Back to our hero: At the
top of the hill there was no sign of human visitation, just a few
pellets from birds of prey (big boogers, by ‘eck). I thought back to
crowded weekends on Tryfan…

On the way down I inadvertently jumped up and down really hard lots of
times in one place without realising I was right by a seismic
monitoring probe buried in the ground. What are the chances of that?

Back to Reykjavik for a five course slap-up meal, twenty pints of lager
and then home.

My payment for all of this enjoyment was a few weeks of life seeming
dull and monotonous and a need to do more of the same, which has faded
until the next time…

If you are put off by the cost of going to Iceland you should turn on
the telly, increase your pension contributions and look forward to
discussing your ailments at every opportunity.

In case you were wondering, my boots were perfect, no blisters or
rubbing at all. Buy ’em the day before you go, take my advice.

Editor’s addition: If hut accommodation is more your choice John
included this to whet your appetite.

By Peter Krug – September 2005

Some of you may have noticed that there was a proposed trip to Skye planned for June
which proved a no-goer for me as I was somewhat hamstrung by injury inflicted by a
fall in Northumberland. Nonetheless, undeterred and with great fore-planning (we
decided on the destination on the day before we left) Louise and I decided to go to
Outer Hebrides.

We set off from Ipswich just before 7.00 pm. Louise stormed up the A1 and I took over
at Washington Services having been forced (much to my shame) to pay for Esso petrol
and drove the remainder of the way via Edinburgh and Inverness. We parked up at
Ullapool at 4.15 am, had a wee, and my head hit steering wheel at 4.20 am.

We caught the Saturday Ullapool to Stornaway ferry and arrived on the Isle of Lewis at
about 2.00 pm having been treated to some splendid sights as we sailed over. We had
great views of the West Coast Mountains; some of Scottish Islands and sea-life
including seals, dolphins playing in the ship’s wake (much to Louise’s excitement),
birds and jellyfish.

On arrival in Stornaway we visited The Tourist Office to get information on what we
could do on the Islands (remember we had only decided on Thursday) and headed south to
Harris (this calls itself a different island, but is joined very solidly to Lewis)
where the best walking was and there was a rumour of a wild camping spot near some
toilets in a bay overlooking Taransay (remember Castaway 2000). Rumours were founded
as we pitched at a lovely spot overlooking a sandy beach. The weather was cloudy and
breezy and still knackered from the overnight drive we retired early.

We woke up on Sunday morning much refreshed though it was still cloudy and breezy
outside, and had breakfast. Having eaten we noticed that the cloud had lifted slightly
on the mountains where we were thinking of walking. Louise had details of a walk which
was gentle-ish and indeed details of easier walks which weren’t on the maps we had,
but the chances of buying anything on the islands on a Sunday is zilch (they keep the
Sabbath and nothing is open). We headed for this area along single-track roads that
Louise found interesting! Even more interesting was a tennis court in the middle of
nowhere and what we think was a Fish eagle that swooped down very near to us. We found
a parking spot and headed off into the hills. Nice walking through some bogs and then
along a valley to a col where we lunched and then we headed into an adjoining valley
and climbed to another col. Along the way we saw a couple of deer nearby, some nice
plants and we believe that we saw an extremely rare corncrake. From the second col we
climbed the ridge and summited Tiga Mor (alt 672m?) which did involve some scrambling
(if you wanted) near the summit on a reasonably exposed ridge with a stiff crosswind!
Perfectly reasonable visibility until we got to the summit!

All downhill from here and it was. I was delicately descending due to my knee when I
had the tiniest slip and everything went wobbly in the knee and was in some pain! I
needed some Ibuprofen and snatched Louise’s walking pole. A slow descent but we
eventually made it back to car inside the book time! Very pleasant walking indeed and
we returned to camp, cooked dinner inside tent as it was cool and windy (this became a
theme for the holiday) and drank there too (no sign of a pub).

Monday morning dawned and there was rain in the early morning and cloud levels were
lower. We chose to cycle around Harris as my knee was well fornicated and a pleasant
ride (I use the term advisedly – fellow tone-lowerers). It was nice contrasting the
sandy beaches on the west coast with the rocky inlets and bays of the east.

We saw a colony of seals in one such bay!

Small hamlets were dotted along the road and the weird rocky landscape (someone
described it has lunar but not having been to the moon I could not comment) was quite
captivating. We learnt a bit about the local history at St Clements church at Rodal.
The road was undulating (Louise says hilly) and it was quite breezy and in our faces
at the start and end and right behind us most of the way in the middle. It rained as
we headed up towards the pass near the end and Louise was knackered as we approached
campsite after cycling 53 k. Dinner and Beer ensued.

On Tuesday morning it was again windy and rainy so we slept late abandoning the
possible cycle backpacking concept for Uist. Once it stopped raining we packed up and
headed around Harris retracing much of the previous day’s route to take pictures as we
had forgotten the camera the day before (it was quite bright now) and then headed
north to Lewis. On the way we found a nice cafe and art gallery (Skoon Art Gallery).
We stopped en route to get some exercise and have a quick cycle ride to Bernesay
during which we met a couple of chaps fishing on what they called “The Bridge over the
Atlantic”.

After chatting for a while we carried on but before long Louise found that her rear
brake was jammed on. No wonder it had all been such hard work! We could not mend it so
undid the brake and gingerly headed back to the cars (round trip of 21 k). That night
we stayed on the official campsite at Siabost (Shawbost) and cooked dinner. Today was
the longest day and we headed for a little walk to the beach and saw a splendid
sunset.

Wednesday morning and the weather was shite – very windy and wet – so we headed for
Stornaway to get Louise’s brakes fixed and she also got some cycle shorts as she was
feeling the effects of over 7 hours in the saddle! Today was car tourist day as we
went to the standing stones at Callanish where we saw the chaps that we had seen
fishing the previous day.

During the day visited a blackhouse village and an extremely impressive fortified
dwelling known as a broch which had dry stone walls some 13m tall. This all gave us a
bit more of a feeling about local history and crofting. Evening dinner was at the pub
(yes we finally found one). The food was good but not so the beer.

We felt we had too much of the frenzy of life in the North so on Thursday we upped
anchor and headed south but only after visiting the Butt of Lewis (it had to be done)
and going for a three hour walk along the coast and beaches (saw a very impressive
kiddies park at Europie).

We caught the ferry to Uist after a two-hour drive down the Islands of Lewis and
Harris. Having arriving there early evening and furthermore no idea where to camp we
headed along the west coast looking for somewhere and eventually found a beach or
‘machair’ as the land just above the beach was known and put up our tent. Louise
convinced me that we had enough water! No toilet or running water except the sea – 20
metres away!

On Friday we packed up and headed for Lochmaddy tourist office to ask for camping
sites and were given a list of public conveniences on the island which, apparently, is
normal practise! The idea being that you can wild-camp near one of these. Time for
another cycle ride around another Island (North Uist)! It was still breezy which made
it hard going for about one third of the 56-kilometre route. We visited a smokehouse
and purchased some salmon, had lunch in a cafe (part of which was a nursery, part
government offices, part shop, part training centre, part everything else!), saw great
scenery of a good variety (gentle hills, beaches, offshore Islands and lochs) and were
held up by two red deer that were on the road. Near the end of the ride Louise was
getting knackered as she has never cycled this distance before although she maintained
she was deliberately going slow to prevent me ‘overdoing’ it with my sore knee!

Weather-wise this was the nicest day of the week and on return to the car headed for
one of the aforementioned waterholes on Berneray to get some water and then found a
lovely site, possibly the nicest of the lot, a few miles away. Another grassy machair
just above the beach and proceeded to finish our food and drink.

Sadly on Saturday morning we had to leave these lovely Isles, departing early to catch
the ferry to Uig on the Isle of Skye. I must admit I fell in love with the Islands
finding the pace of life enchanting. It was a place I could really chill out in. They
kept the Sabbath, of which I approved: and by the end of the week I was looking for
local insurance offices and houses! The weather whilst generally cool and breezy was
ok if you were active. It did rain but mainly whilst we were asleep (apart from
Wednesday). A wonderful place well worth a visit (hence the title)!

By Mick Enwright

Hi Folks

Before any of the scurrilous rumours or downright untruths assail your
collective delicate ears, what follows is the plain unvarnished truth……Pay
no heed to any other reports of the incident!!!!

Martin S and I set off at some unearthly hour on Thursday 24th heading for
the Great Beyond … well Hathersage for starters, where we planned to meet up
with Norman at Outside…I have to admit that leaving early does have it’s
merits, for we arrived after a trouble free…speed observed (Hmmm) journey,
arriving at 09.55 outside Outside, and after the usual round of gear fondling,
tea drinking, and generally lusting after kit we didn’t really want, couldn’t
really afford, etc. (recognise yourselves, anyone)??? set off for “popular end” of
Stanage, and spent a nice productive day soloing V Diffs, climbing, leading,
seconding and generally enjoying the scenery, before setting off for Castleton
YHA.

There seemed to be a mite of confusion on the part of the reception staff on
our arrival, as to who was bunking with whom and where, which was eventually
sorted out. So then it was off to the “self catering kitchen” to prepare our
respective tucker, which in all cases was accompanied by various beverages,
having seen off some small Stellas, a couple of very nice bottles of red, and
taking up later, Tony’s offer to help lower the contents of his wine box, ’twas
all in all, a merry evening.

Now being of a less robust constitution that in earlier days, I decided to
leave the others to their wines, jokes and general frivolity and went off to
bed, to some of the most wonderful sleep I’d had in a while, until summoned in
the early hours by Martin practising his own particular “Coughing for Britain”
routine, which after a while he’d perfected, and we all finally settled until
some unearthly hour, when aroused again by Tony, bearing gifts of hot
tea (Sorry, that should be roused, but then, who knows what other effects tea
can have).

After a hearty breakfast, and the most minimal faffing (largely by me)
leaving just on 9.a.m. we set off for The Roaches, parked up, met Caroline G,
geared up and set off for Upper Tier, where we off-loaded the rucksacks, and
strolled in a leisurely fashion along the face, checking out potential routes,
and waiting for the rock to dry. Norman and I set off to do Maud’s Garden for
starters, which although still wet and somewhat green was a “pussycat” of a
climb, which we enjoyed immensely. The others, going off to do their
thing. Ask Martin S sometime about Jeffcoat’s Chimney; he does have a
descriptive turn of phrase.

Other climbs came and went and then I mentioned to Norman that there were 3
or so climbs just across the wall left of “Right Route” which seemed to be worth
a look, which for me was all they were, I just lost any bottle, retreating in
ignominious fashion, and apologising to Norman who happily was quite relaxed
about the whole sorry business…

Then it was time for lunch. Which came and went, With Mike B and Caroline setting up to do “Pedestal
Route”, Tony R and Martin setting up to do “Right Route” and Norman and myself
looking lovingly at a climb which I could not put a label to, just to the right
of “Right Route” which had my name on it. I went up had a look at it, perching
on a fine thin ledge without too much difficulty, comfortable and satisfied that
it was do-able, came down re-checked the gear, tied in and set off once again,
don’t know at this stage why it didn’t seem quite the same, and tried to alter
my stance, but suddenly I was plummeting all of 3 feet to the ground, where
rather unfortunately somebody had left this flat rock upon which the front half
of my right foot landed (ouch)!

Apparently on landing one footed I was heard to yelp rather loudly, and
mutter in unseemly fashion. “Oh dear” I said “I think I have hurt my foot” (or something similar), all
the time fighting off the sudden feeling of faintness and nausea. Willing hands
helped me down, somebody finding a bivi-bag to lay me on, and folks on hand to
generally render such help as might be needed. Including a guy from the local
mountain rescue team offering to turn out his group if needed be. Could I ever
live that down?

Opinion was however that in fact it might have just been a bad sprain, with
Kearton applying bandages and Ibuprofen, and generally making me comfy.
Apparently there are ‘photos …

Everybody was able to finish his or her climbs (Tony R leading an absolutely
stonking good “Right Route” which I could watch from my resting place)

Some years ago I was more than a little derisory of walking poles, but had, as I
got that little bit older, come to appreciate their merits and none more so than
this day! Martin set out the plan of action to get me off the hill, fashioning
for starters a carry seat from my walking poles and some tat. Sending Kearton
off to recce the best way down, avoiding those wonderful stairs!!!…. They then
took all of the gear back to the cars, while Caroline stayed to mop my fevered
brow and keep me amused ’til the lads returned.

The next bit was something of a tour de force, with various methods of carrying
and lifting a body across some pretty rough ground (again, photos exist) to get
me back to the road.

Norman then ferried me off to Buxton minor injuries dept, where after checking
and X-raying, they found I had indeed broken a bone, provided me with a soft
cast and picks to take to the fracture clinic.

I know why it is that I joined the IMC. What a swell group of guys and gals you
all are! Special thanks to Martin, Tony R, Norman, Mike B, Caroline, Adrian and
Kearton for all of their combined efforts to get me safely off the hill. It
was no picnic!

Prognosis. Likely to be in plaster 4 to 6 weeks, will I dance again? I doubt
it – couldn’t dance before. Will I climb? You bet I damn well will !!!! And
I can’t complain, having climbed for about 12 years without mishap. So take
care out there folks, and thanks once again to all those mentioned above.

Working Title “I’m The Only Gay In The Village”

By Peter Krug

A late arrival at the Dolgam campsite near Capel Curig (tent up 12.55) meant
a slightly tardy departure but nonetheless on the hill by about 10.45 to climb
‘er Henry or “Yr Elen” as it is known in these parts which I think was possibly
the only Welsh 3000r which I definitely have not done. Actually 10.45 was an
early start for me and Louise after the long drive the previous evening.

Headed off the Bethesda and headed off into the hills. We must have been
particularly unlucky because it was a cloudy morning in Snowdonia as we headed
up the valley. We spent a bit of time trying to get across a river because Lou
made several refusals owing to lack of a (walking) pole and previous dunking
experiences until we eventually we found a suitable spot! Crossed the river and
made our way up the shoulder and onto the ridge that approached Yr Elen from the
North West and were soon immersed in the mist as we found the summit with
unerring navigation.

We carried on along the tops noting steep drops to our left as we headed in
the mist to Carnedd Llewelyn and onto the next summit Foel Grach and then
descended to a col and headed left (North-west) for some time. After this good
navigation we lost the plot somewhat on the descent and ended up on the wrong
side of the hill and descending into the wrong valley. Doh! Lou made the
correction and soon we were back on track and reached the car as dusk set in!
Lesson of the day being that it is always good to keep concentrating even when
you think that the hard work has been done and never assume that the cloud level
was going to remain at the same level (even in North Wales). We could see our
route off the hill when we were walking up the valley during the morning but by
the time we were on our way down visibility had dropped a hundred or so metres.
Evening meal in campsite and then the call of the pub was answered!

Shockingly, Saturday morning in North Wales came up rather damp and dreary.
Another tardy start – “why bother” we thought. Nevertheless we kept to the plan
to climb Snowdon from the sarf! By the time we found our parking place not far
from Beddgelert, we realised we were too late to go for the summit. It was also
drizzling heavily as we left the car but we thought we might as well take a
stroll. We were glad we did because it was, in spite of the unusual wet weather,
a beautiful area (much nicer than Pen-y-Pass). The Autumnal colours of the
forests on the lower slopes were glorious. The rivers were in spate and the
waterfalls were mighty impressive as we made of way up the well maintained
track.

We stepped off the Watkin Path and carried on up the right hand side of the
Afon Cwm Llan. This area was dominated by the mass of Y Lliwedd to the
north-east which occasionally showed its summit through the cloud. It would also
have been dominated by Yr Wyddfa to the north-west except that that was
completely shrouded in the mist! How could that be – Yr Wyddfa in the cloud –
there must be some mistake! At least we couldn’t see the restaurant!

We made it up to a col (Bwlch Cwm Llan) and decided to head back down because
whilst we were enjoying ourselves you can have too much of a good thing (rain!).
Incidentally, there is much in the way of quarrying in this neck of the woods
and there were many derelict buildings and a particularly impressive incline
where the quarried rock was carted down off the mountain.

Next up was some mild gear-fondling in Llanberis where the weather was much
worse and a pint (of tea/coffee) in Pete’s Eats and went to Plas-y-Brenin and
then back to camp – cooked dinner and then the pub beckoned (again) and
naturally we relented especially as there were clothes to dry! The smell of my
socks melting on the heater was particularly noxious but we won’t go there! I
was shocked when the barlady advised me that Capel Curig was the wettest place
in England and Wales and needed several pints to recover.

Sunday morning was nicer so we could eat “al fresco” on the patio of my tent
and then we decamped and went to Llyn Ogwen. Here weather was again shockingly,
shite and cloud level was low (just above the Lake). We must have been really
unlucky with the weather. Nonetheless we went for a short walk up to Llyn
Bochlwyd and across to Llyn Idwal. Mindful of our navigational cock up two days
previously we used the rare opportunity of navigating in poor visibility in
North Wales to good effect! Having arrived safely at Llyn Idwal I introduced
Louise to the “Slabs” where believe it or not there was a group being taught to
climb on Ordinary Route. If they weren’t being put off by the, albeit unlikely,
inclement weather in Wales (in early November) then they must be keen!

We then headed off back to the car and home. Despite the surprisingly wet
weather we both enjoyed ourselves and I have just managed to dry my boots out.

By Fraser Hale

• Q: How do make the Greater Crested Rock Climber (usually tough & sinewy) more tender?
• A: Hang in a harness for two days and dress with screwgates and slings.

The result is a very tender climber that can get itself and its mates out of any
kind of trouble that doesn’t involve impregnation or the duty solicitor.

Christina starts the Spring Cleaning; These damned cobwebs

Next time you’re at the wall or the crag you may spot an IMCer or two who
appears to be, well, hidden. Camouflaged under the largest collection of
karabiners, slings and Prusik loops to be seen anywhere outside of Action
Outdoors (Dave, make the cheque out to…..).

Far from needing your sympathy, or the number of a good counsellor, these
bedecked individuals are worthy of your respect and admiration (well, you should
at least refrain from taking the p**s too much) for they have completed the
Advanced Ropework for Climbers course at PYB!

Subtitled “101 Things to do with 18 inches of String” the course covers
belaying, abseiling and self rescue techniques for climbers of all grades (even
me) and is a glorification of the humble Prusik Loop! Seriously, there is no
situation, however bad, that cannot be made at least a little better with a
Prusik. Never leave home without one. If Custer had had a Prusik in his pocket
he would probably have stood again somewhere. Had Edward Smith not left home
without a Loop the Titanic would probably have steamed safely in to New York
harbour. Sadly for both these individuals, Dr. Karl Prusik didn’t invent the
thing until 1931, until which time the world had to make do with repeating
rifles and Morse keys to deal with emergencies – what chance did they have?

Huss Hangs Tough (ish)

Anyway, in the hands of a trained expert the combination of a climbing rope,
Prusik loops, and a handful of slings and krabs can produce safety and rescue
systems that are not only practical but things of modest beauty. In the hands of
your humble author, however, these same ingredients quickly took on the
appearance of a nursery school macramé project! Saint-like patience on the part
of our excellent instructors, and perseverance from the participants soon
yielded results, though, and by the end of the weekend we were all far more
knowledgeable and confident about what to do if something were to go a bit pear-shaped
out on the crag.

Despite the slightly grim weather the course was very well organised and the
facilities at Plas Y Brenin meant that we were able to spend every available
minute doing something constructive and interesting. Sunday afternoon finally
blessed us with sunshine and we got to try out our new found skills on some
“weel wock”. The weekend was further enhanced by having to camp in the shadow of
Snowdon, being forced to subsist on Castle Eden and Welsh Lamb and to spend long
hours in the company of The Illustrious Order of Tone Lowerers. Still; no pain,
no gain.

We all agree that we need to practice what we’ve learnt, to turn the new
techniques into habits before we pretend that we’re experts, but as a grounding
in the art of getting out of the s**t, I can only recommend the course as a
weekend very well spent.

So, when El Pres strolls past you on his way to Right Unconquerable, looking
like a sandwich board for “Slings R Us”, and offers to belay you up that bold E1
you’ve been considering – run like hell!

By Mike Hams – March 2005

Saturday we arrived mid-afternoon to glorious clear sky and a lot of white stuff
covering the tops from about 400m upwards. Much excitement from the assembled
throng (six stalwarts from East Anglia), muttering of if this holds out we’ll
get a grade III done by the end of the trip! Cars were collected and after a
minor faff in the car park it was off to Aviemore for shopping, essential beer
and food supplies only. The decision of us all was that we would cook communally
and all vegetarian to make things easy. The snow continued to fall well into the
evening it was looking good.

Sunday the crack(ed)-team was in position for the avalanche course by 8:40am! A
miracle of communal cooking and minimal gear faffing (walking gear only).
Unfortunately the snow that fell the previous evening was thawing quickly and
the hills were more brown than white. A slight disadvantage when you want to
learn about avalanche behaviour of snow. There were a lot of different snow
types to learn about. It also behaves in strange ways once it’s on the ground
depending on air temperature and wind speed. A morning of theory passed quickly
and then we had a play with the avalanche transceivers. Hide and seek in the
snow with the instruction to make sure the hidden box was set to transmit before
we hid it! .

After a quick bite to eat we were off up to Coire Cas for some practice in snow
spotting. We bimbled (instructors technical term) up to just below the
Firchaille where there was a healthy deposit of wind blown snow (2m+ of depth!)
to look at the layering effects and to conduct some walking rutsche block tests
etc. We pretty much trashed the top surface of the snow bank with our pits and
block testing. As we set off back to the car park it was beginning to get
breezy. (This mountaineer, a notably lightweight fellow, was being blown along
in the gusts). Lower down the rain was also present and our great winter weather
was changing to storm.

It was during the evening that a terrible accident befell the author. The cheap
tin-opener/bottle opener slipped whilst opening a bottle of Timothy Taylor’s
finest and an index finger sustained a deep cut to the second knuckle. Blood and
lots of it flowed, plaster 1 soaked through instantly, plaster 2 stopped the
bleeding by dint of being waterproof. This was at 7pm. After dinner and
washing-up we adjourned for some gear packing and fettling expecting to find
some boney gullies to go at in the morning. At this time the blood started to
flow again (10pm) so a trip to casualty was in order for patching. The Raigmore
is a very nice hospital but it is in Inverness! Jim volunteered to drive in the
driving rain and howling gale and after a quick clean and patch with
steri-strips and tubi-grip I was back in bed by 2am. The lovely nurses
instructions were to keep it dry for 2 days and then remove the dressing.
B*gger, that’s floundering in snow out then and I’ll need some mittens.

Monday: Team A went for a walk around the Ryovan Bothy and back to Glenmore via
the 800m hill behind the bothy. A sound choice as Team B went up to Coire an
Sneach’tda and got nothing done, prevented by the wind. Monday evening with the
weather worsening we decided on Kinlochleven because we’re weather forecast
suggested 90mph winds on the tops and no freezing below 5000 feet. With a
Dachstein Mitt on the bad finger I managed a couple of climbs before the
constant knuckle impacts sent me back to the camera to stop the wound opening
again. Jim went for a walk back to Fort William along the West Highland way,
where we collected him at 4pm (22km+ in a shade over 5 hours).

Wednesday we went back to the Ice Factor admiring all the fine work that nature
had carried out since the previous day. The path along the loch outside Fort
William had been washed out and there was beach all over the road in low-lying
spots! We hadn’t booked for Wednesday and this was a mistake as Plas y Brenin
had got the first 4 hours of the day sewn up. We had to wait for another party
to finish after them so some weary people left Kinlochleven at 7pm that evening.
Jim and John climbed themselves silly on an extremely well thought out climbing
wall. We had dropped Phil off at the bottom of Ben Nevis where he was going for
a walk up with the summit an outside chance given the weather. He summitted in
31/2 hours and was back down in a further 2 hours with pictorial proof. I
picked him up from the youth hostel in Glen Nevis at 5pm and we then collected
the climbers from the Ice Factor. Dinner was in the Grog and Gruel in Fort
William and then a drive home through the driving snow!!

Thursday dawned with the conditions perfect! We weren’t unhappy (say it often
enough it will be believed). Toys and dummies were thrown from prams at the
capricious nature of the weather. Flying from Inverness it is not possible to do
anything before catching the plane despite our best planning attempts. Start
times of 3am and later were all explored but there was not enough light to do
anything before we had to set off from Aviemore. A fine experience and worth it
just for the avalanche knowledge alone.

By John Penny – March 2005

In the Summer of 2004 I decided to take a trip to Peru with `High Places` for
three weeks of mountaineering in the Cordillera Blanca followed by a week’s
extension to do the Inca Trail and a visit to Machu Picchu. The targets were 5
5,000+ metre peaks.

After the long and tiring flight via Amsterdam and Bonaire in the Dutch Antilles
we reached Lima 18 hours after leaving Heathrow. The initial scramble at the
airport was not as bad as I had been led to believe; and Nesta, the local guide,
and his team met us efficiently. Initial impressions were difficult in the
dark but the usual teeming urban sprawl of large South American cities was much
in evidence.

After a surprisingly good night’s sleep we were away early the following
morning. The vaguely threatening aura in Lima of the previous night had
changed to early morning bustle. I can’t say Lima looked like a place I’d like
to spend much time in. The drive to Huaraz in the Cordillera Blanca took about
8 hours. At first following the coast north and then turning inland for a
spectacular 4,000 metre climb with many zig-zags over the Cordillera Negra and
then down to Huaraz at 3,050m in the valley between the Cordilleras Negra and
Blanca. The altitude clearly had kicked in by this stage; our hotel, the
Alpino (Swiss run) was excellent, but was out of the centre, so the re-ascent
after visiting the centre was quite taxing the first couple of times.

After a couple of acclimatisation walks to lakes we established our first base
camp in the floor of Quebrada (valley) Quilcayhuanca. The first target, after
further acclimatisation was Huapi (5420m). The itinerary suggested this was a
straightforward ridge. However, this turned out not quite to be the case! By
the time we reached the glacier edge, most of the party were feeling the
altitude quite badly. Three of the clients (including myself) decided we would
carry on. The snow conditions turned out to be very bad – thigh deep soft snow
that made the going very slow for the Peruvian guides who were leading. The
original route was completely out of the question so we had to take a much
longer route traversing round the mountain and over the main ridge to continue
up on the other side. After one rather exposed ice bridge over an enormous
crevasse, I sensed unease creeping in as it was getting very late. Eventually
Giles, on my rope, succumbed to the altitude and (not feeling brilliant myself)
we wisely aborted about 150m from the summit. Garry (the English leader) and
Alex made it just about to the summit, which was not quite achievable due to
another large crevasse. We eventually returned to camp just over 12 hours
after starting out.

The following day we walked round into another Quebrada (the main one bifurcates
at the head) to establish camp for an attempt on Maparaju (5326m). After the
usual early morning departure at 4.00 a.m. we made good time after a certain
amount of thrashing around in the undergrowth having lost the path. We had all
just reached the glacier and were resting prior to putting on harnesses,
crampons etc., when I happened to look up. It was a brilliantly clear morning
but this large white cloud appeared to be moving quite quickly, only when Garry
yelled for everyone to run, did I realise that a large serac way above us was
collapsing! I think even Linford Christie would have had trouble keeping up
with me in the high altitude 100m sprint. Fortunately we were close to a large
rock band and no one was hurt seriously except for a cut hand on the rocks.
The spray from the ice debris hissed over us but that was all. Later when the
guides went back to fetch the rucksacks and gear, they said everything was
covered in small shards of ice and that a couple of larger blocks had clearly
gone past where we had been. The main fall had occurred about 100 yards away.
Inevitably most people were pretty shaken up at this. It was very odd that I
felt quite serene after the initial panic was over. I was still up for
climbing Maparaju as the route did not need to go near these seracs and looked
relatively straightforward. In fact a party of Germans who were ahead of us
carried on as if nothing had happened. I was, however, very much in the
minority and in the end we aborted and descended.

The following day we returned down the valley and eventually to Huaraz. I was
feeling slightly disappointed at this stage not to have summitted either of the
first two peaks and was determined, after a rest day, to give the last three my
best shot.

After quite a long drive we headed off up the Ishinca valley – much more wooded
than the previous one. At the head of the valley there is an alpine style hut,
one of only three in Peru. Further huts have been banned due to their effects
on the local porters and muleteers economy. A good thing I feel to support the
local way of life. The following morning we headed up Urus Este. This turned
out to be a long steep climb up moraine, with a smallish snowfield near the
summit, followed by a clamber up the summit rocks. The views were sensational
of Huascaran, Hualcan and Tocllaraju. All but one of the party made the summit
on a glorious day. The descent was absolutely knee-jarring all the way down
but a feeling of satisfaction was clearly present.

At this point it was becoming clear that all the mountains were suffering from
the glaciers receding, due to decreased snow falling in the wet season. This
was making mountains often harder than previously. Also another thing that had
become clear was that Pyramid Adventures (the local Peruvian company High Places
were using, run by the five Morales brothers) had been the company used in the
making of Joe Simpson’s film of Touching the Void. This meant that all the
camp equipment was pretty new. We even had seats in the mess tent that had backs
to lean on – a real luxury!

The evening after the ascent of Urus Este it became clear that only Neil and I
were up for the ascent of Ishinca the following day and its usual 4.00 a.m.
departure. Nesta was, I think, relieved he could remain in camp and allow the
younger guides to take the two of us plus Garry up Ishinca. I’m really glad I
made the effort, despite having to push myself to keep going early on. The path
was nowhere near as brutal as on Urus Este, and the glacier ascent was easy.
Another great panorama awaited us on the summit although the lowering bulk of
Ranrapalca was quite close. We decided to traverse the mountain despite the
presence of crevasses on our descent route and this made the whole day extremely
satisfying with superb ice scenery on the descent. It was, from my point of
view, the most enjoyable of all the ascents.

From Ishinca valley we drove further up the main valley past Yungay where the
terrible tragedy of 1970 took place. This was where a small earthquake
triggered rockfall into a moraine lake on Huascaran. This in turn meant the
moraine gave way, releasing a tidal wave of water, rocks and mud onto the town
below. The cemetery, which is situated on a hill, was the only thing not
destroyed – it has now become a shrine to the thousands who died. Quite a
sobering thought on the power of nature.

We reached the head of the Llanganuco valley late in the day and the next day
walked up to the base camp. We know there was a party from Jagged Globe also
there, but at this stage didn’t make contact. The next day four of us ascended
with full packs to high camp on Pisco, through the jumbled chaos of the moraine.
I retreated to my tent but as the sun started to set decided to take some
pictures of Chopicalqui in the Alpen glow. To my surprise a voice boomed
across the camp site “Bloody hell! John Penny!” It turned out to be Nigel
Kettle, who I had met when in the Himalayas in 2000. More amazingly still my
tent companion on that trip, Duncan, was also with the Jagged Globe trip. To
cap it all Pete Krug emerged from a tent as well! You go all the way to Peru
and you meet a bloke from the IMC…………. After much banter it appeared
they were tackling Pisco the same day as us, as acclimatisation to greater
things – Huascaran.

Garry was determined to get away really early on Pisco and we were away from
camp just before 2.00 a.m. The initial ascent up to the col was
straightforward but it became very windy and cold and I began to regret taking a
layer off earlier on. After starting to ascent the main ridge we reached what,
in the dark, appeared to be an ice wall. I began to have serious doubts as to
the sense of carrying on. Three years ago Alex told me he had just walked up
this peak! After what seemed like ages the Peruvians ascended the ice and put
up ropes. Garry exhorted me to have a go, free climbing it next to me. It
seemed to go on for ages and my calf muscles were screaming for a lot of the
way, but I eventually made it up this steep section. The ascent from then was
not difficult but there were a lot of very large crevasses around and it seemed
as if the whole of the summit glacier was just falling apart. The weather was
cold but clear and we did not linger on the summit as we all felt vaguely
uneasy. I had made a meal of jumping a crevasse near the top and wanted to get
that over with as quickly as possible (as it turned out it was easy on the way
down). As we descended we met many others on the way up including the Jagged
Globe party who were going well. On the lower down the ice section Neil and I
made a bit of a meal of it and I managed to spike Neil with my crampon (Sorry
Neil – incompetence I’m afraid!). Looking back up what we had descended I
reckon that had I been able to see it before, I wouldn’t have attempted it.
Later Garry said he reckoned it was about 70 metres of Scottish Grade 3 winter
climb – (pace Pete who said Grade 1/2 – apparently there is no hard ice on Grade
1/2 and this was definitely hard ice!).

I was pretty chuffed I’d made it to the summit as I do not reckon myself to be a
technical climber, just a hill-walker who wants to push himself a bit. In the
end three out of five summits with one near miss was a pretty good tally.

The final section of the trip was relatively gentle. I was with a group of
Spanish lawyers (not very fit ones!) on the Inca trail, so I spent a good deal
of time on the side of the trail reading my book until they caught up. The
third day is particularly fascinating with all the various Inca sites, but by
this time I was getting fed up with so many people being around. We managed to
get to Machu Picchu very early the following morning before the crowds arrived.
Being there when the first rays of the warming sun struck from over the
surrounding mountains was quite special. You could really understand the
Incas’ veneration of the sun and its life-renewing powers. By 10 am, though,
the place was crawling with people and any magic had long gone.

After a somewhat surreal return journey to Cusco, the trip ended somewhat
unfortunately as the plane from Cusco to Lima was cancelled through high winds,
meaning missed flights back to Europe. After three extra, unplanned, days in
Cusco and Lima and a lot of money to get another flight, I was very glad to get
back to Blighty after a month away. I’m still trying to get the insurance
people to pay up.

If you fancy a challenging trip to Peru I can certainly recommend the High
Places trip, though I expect they will have to consider carefully the mountain
itinerary, given the changing state of the glaciers. It will be interesting to
see what appears in next year’s brochure.

By Fraser Hale – March 2005

Jeff Farr’s face is a picture of incredulity. His disbelief at the predicament
in which we find ourselves clearly displayed in his every feature. The
circumstances are unprecedented and, as such, more than a little unsettling.

Jeff is sat, with Mike Bayley and me, in my car. We are heading for the A14 on
the first leg of our journey to the Lake District for the weekend. The momentous
issue that is the cause of such surprise is devastatingly simple. We have set
out ON TIME exactly as we PLANNED!! No one has been delayed, got lost, forgotten
anything or found something better to do at the last minute. We have also, in a
spectacularly faff-free episode, unwittingly set the tone for our whole weekend.

Trips to the crags or the hills are usually remembered and related in terms of
the mishaps, the minor accidents, the unintended epics or the simple buggering
about that seems a natural companion to enjoying the Great Outdoors. These
stories, certainly in retrospect, usually have the attraction of acerbic humour
or outright drama to them and lend themselves to good-natured embellishment with
repeated retelling. Sometimes, however, this is not so and outings which are
beset neither by near death experiences, gargantuan lobs, perilous benightments
nor hilarious aprs-outing drinking games, digestive upsets,
run-ins-with-the-authorities tend to go unremarked. They are not, though, any
the less enjoyable for those involved and serve to highlight one of the primary
reasons why, I believe, we each do this Great Outdoors thing in the first place.

The trip to Sykeside over the 29/30th January could be very briefly summed up;
Drove up without incident, found comfortable lodgings as arranged, teamed up
with other walkers, planned and executed two walks in the local fells, travelled
home without incident.

Great huh? Well, actually, yes it was!

The weekend was blessed with some wonderful weather (organised, along with the
accommodation, by Christina) and, with little apparent effort Jeff, Mike, Ian,
Christina and I managed to agree on a couple of interesting and moderately
challenging walks to occupy us over the two days. Accompanied by the indomitable
Monty we walked a couple of circular routes, starting and finishing from the
camp-site. We visited, variously, Hart Crag, Dove Crag, High Hartsop Dodd, The
Knott and High Street. In between grunts and gasps the soundtrack to the journey
was provided by the exchanges of opinions and commentary on a multitude of
topics (Monty kept strangely silent during most of these debates, preferring to
keep his opinions to himself). In the winter sunshine the fells presented a
majestic visual backdrop whilst providing us with equally diverting physical
challenges, all of which we were able to meet without any more than the odd
stumble.

Evenings at Sykeside have to be spent in the Brotherswater Inn (really, it’s in
the contract). Huge plates of grub and half a dozen ales to choose from (a minor
faff only narrowly avoided) seemingly render it quite attractive to the camping
fraternity and it was these convivial surroundings that provided the venue for
tales of despair and daring do from “The Cyclists”.

You see, our party also included the two Steves and Carol, who disappeared each
day to ride, apparently, to Manchester and back. Their weekend ran far more like
a traditional outing. They were delayed on the journey up by a traffic jam
caused by propellers on the highway! On arrival there was a minor epic regarding
a lack of laces for cycling shoes, and another to do with hydration bladder
tubes. First day out and Steve C misplaced the key for his bike (which
apparently caused some temporary consternation) and a number of other technical
difficulties hampered early progress. Finally, Carol lost interest in cycling
and decided to go swimming instead. The venue; a shallow beck. The twist; rapid.
The result: unexpected, fully clothed entry into the water from atop a cycle
saddle. The observing judges awarded high marks for style.

All this just goes to show that we walkers simply weren’t trying hard enough.

Travelling back on Sunday I realised that what had happened was very
straightforward, and all the more powerful because of it. The companionship of
likeminded folk in surroundings for which we all share an attraction and
affinity, the shared sense of achievement provided by completing physical
challenges together and in sharing the natural beauty around us is a deeply
satisfying and life affirming thing and I can think of few better ways to use up
a weekend.

No one got lost, broke anything or got arrested, nor did we get caught in a
blizzard or become so inebriated that we collectively married a Shetland pony
called Nerys.

We just had a Great Weekend in the Great Outdoors.

By Martin Stevens – March 2005

Far too early on Mon Dec 27th I dragged myself from bed, prepped and hurtled (as
much as one can on a 125cc bike with both me and an overfilled rucksack on it,
anyway) to SW London to meet Chris. This bit of the journey was easy, traffic
was scarce and it was only the salt spray that made things difficult. Having
found my way to Chris’ parents house I switched from motorbike to Chris’ car and
we headed towards the Lake District. Getting out of London proved again that the
only time to travel is when the rest of the world is asleep as there was dense
traffic as far as Preston. Eventually, however, we found the traffic lightening
and our average speed increasing, and it didn’t seem like too long before we
arrived at our destination in Aspatria, just NW of the lakes…near enough to be
handy for the NW Lakes, but far enough out to be very affordable for a weeks
stay – friends in the right places, even if part of the condition of staying is
walking Kielda the dog each day. We found the supermarket and a takeaway to
provide for that nights supper. The rain blatted down, not good signs for the
following day.

Tuesday dawned dry but mild with low cloud and no sign of the hoped for snow or
ice. In the search for an easier day we’d chosen a couple of lesser peaks –
Great Calva, and Great and Little Cockup, walking in from Bassenthwaite and
along part of the Cumbria Way. The early ground was straightforward although
very muddy before becoming a good metalled track. A while later, as we gently
gained height the track became a path and by the time we got up to a small
waterfall at Whitewater Dash it was a small track. Shortly after this the cloud
got very wet and the wind picked up so waterproofs were brought to the fore, and
with excellent timing Chris announced that, ‘there isn’t really a path so we go
up there’ and pointed up a very steep, deep heather and scree slope. So up we
went, not quite the ‘easy intro’ I had in mind for Day 1 and wishing that
waterproofs were just a bit more ventable. In due time and with much less
stopping on my part than I’d anticipated we found ourselves on the summit
plateau of Little Calva in quite dense cloud. Some compass work and pacing saw
us to the Little Calva summit and then on to Great Calva. Backtracking a little
we headed across the high moor, marshy and wet, and more compass and pacing,
skirting a pair of high tarns before a steep descent and climb to the Cockups.
An easy descent and back to Bassenthwaite before dark. All in all it wasn’t such
an arduous day, and a good ‘wake up’ to the legs for the week to come.

Wednesday – Weather forecast was poor so we decided on a lower-level walk with
plenty of options should the weather be better than the forecast. We drove down
Borrowdale, heading for Seathwaite. For reasons unknown to both Chris and me we
parked too soon, in Seatoller. Once we’d parked, put on boots and braced
ourselves for the day to come we realised that we’d parked in the wrong place.
Unperturbed we rerouted to walk along part of the Allerdale Ramble which, like
Tuesday’s section, was very muddy, certainly as far as Seathwaite. Once we
reached our desired starting point we followed alongside Grains Gill to Stockley
Bridge before turning away and starting to climb. As we walked up to the cloud
layer the rain started and a pause for rain jackets was taken at Greenhow Knott.
We then followed along Styhead Gill to the eponymous tarn and continued to Sty
Head where sandwiches and hot drinks were taken. We made our way to Sprinkling
Tarn and then descended besides Grains Gill heading back to Seathwaite. Great
dismay when we found the cafŽ closed! Rather than face the muddy horrors of the
Allerdale Ramble again we decided a bit of road walking would be fine to get us
back to Seatoller – and it was.

Thursday had a better, although not fantastic, forecast and we set off in hope
for Thornthwaite Forest at an early hour. We picked our way through the pine
forest and up Grisedale Pike, a steady uphill trudge once we were clear of the
trees, the wind strength increasing as we gained height, breaking up the cloud
layer. We paused for a photograph only for Chris to find that the battery in his
camera was discharged. Once on the summit the forecast came good with patchy
cloud at around summit height. In the frequent patches of sunshine we were
treated to lots of brockenspectres, the first time either Chris or I had ever
seen such things and we idled away a few minutes here before heading west to
Hopegill Head and then Whiteside. Refreshments were enjoyed in the lee of the
ridge and ‘spectres were seen in plenty to the point that it became, ‘oh, just
another brockenspectre’.

We headed back to Hopegill Head enjoying the most scenic views of the trip so
far and made our way North to Ladyside Pike before descending back into the
forest and making our way back to the car along the firebreak paths. In the
evening we were lucky enough to have access to a private spa and pool – just the
thing to easy away the soreness in the limbs.

Friday – Apathy abounded after such a relaxing finish to the previous day. We
managed a very late start before heading out to the beach at Allonby, on the
Solway Firth, to walk the dog. The hills of Scotland were visible across the
water and seemed to have dusting of the white stuff. After a decent walk along
the beach in the strong wind, and watching some board-sailors enjoying the surf
we headed back for lunch, then headed out to Keswick in search of much cheapness
and bargains. Mostly disappointed.

Saturday, New Years Day – An early start as the forecast was for the weather to
deteriorate as the day went on, although all day would be windy. We parked at
Mirehouse in Dodd Wood, the second car in the parking space and made our way
through the woods towards Skiddaw. Path closures for logging work sent us a
longer way around than we’d anticipated but we were soon on yet another section
of the Allerdale Ramble and heading up to White Stones and the long grind up to
Carl Side, the wind increasing steadily. A brief pause was taken at Carl Side
tarn for a bit of chocolate-bar and a drink and then the long, steep haul up to
the Skiddaw plateau. It was incredibly windy on the plateau and we were glad to
drop into the stone shelter for a minute; we decided that that dog had to be on
a lead to prevent her being gusted away. As it was we started the 300m or so
walk to the summit proper and Chris was picked up and dropped by the wind. At
this point the decision was made to retire – all three of us had been to the
summit before and certainly Chris and I felt there was little to gain by walking
the 300m to not have a view. Kielda just didn’t contribute an opinion at this
point. We made our way back down to the car, getting there just as it started to
rain at 1pm. We congratulated ourselves on a wise decision not to push on to the
Skiddaw summit proper – the time take would have seen us doing a bit of walking
in the heavy rain we’d thus managed to avoid, and headed for Ambleside in search
of bargain goodies and much cheapness. Almost successful but the sales weren’t
nearly as good as in previous years we thought.

Sunday – After the strong winds of Saturday, we looked very carefully at the
Metcheck and TV forecasts only to find more, and stronger winds forecast.
Discretion being the better part of valour (or so we told ourselves anyway) we
chose an easy day and took the dog to the beach for a couple of hours. Given the
strength of the wind and the size of the waves at the beach we had no doubt we’d
made the right choice not to go up into the hills although the hills across in
Scotland did look very tempting indeed. Perhaps next year.

Monday – Travelled home, leaving only an hour later than we’d planned, but
traffic was light most of the way back to London and we made good time.

By Nick Willis

Mount Kailas (click on any picture for larger image)

“Kang Rinpoche…” The weary Tibetan mumbled as he pointed across the plains
to a snow capped range a kilometre or so ahead. The man was huddled in his
distinctive chuba, a long sleeved sheepskin coat and a clumsy fur hat that
looked as if it could have originated from Siberia. I was desperately cold and
being jolted across West Tibet in the back of a Chinese-made flatbed truck, one
of two foreigners amongst a throng of Tibetan pilgrims. I was semi-squatting,
unable to get my backside right on the vehicle floor, despite pushing and
re-arranging myself. My fellow passengers were making their journey for slightly
more religious reasons than me, and I watched them chatter and share dried yak
meat as we neared our destination.

The Tibetan plateau is a barren land rich in legends, myths and beliefs, many
of which stem from the fascinating and little known Bon religion. But
historically, Buddhism was the spiritual champion in the ancient kingdom, with
Tibetans following the words of the Lamas and ultimately the Dalai Lama, their
guiding spiritual leader.

Unfortunately, the mid-twentieth century dragged Tibet out of its reclusive
existence, in the shape of an armed invasion by The People’s Republic of China.
In turn, most would agree the entire fabric of Tibetan society has been diluted,
in an attempt to integrate the people with the Chinese motherland. The side
effects of this modernisation have been well documented elsewhere, and foreign
visitors will witness the Chinese grip on Tibetan affairs. However, visitors
will also note an almost unrivalled passion for the belief in Buddhism
throughout the land, despite the control of ruling communist China. This belief
is particularly evident in the remote and difficult to reach region of Western
Tibet, home of sacred Mt. Kailash, magnet to the waves of visiting pilgrims.

The holy Mt. Kailash, (Kang Rinpoche in Tibetan) is a beautiful unclimbed
peak, 6714 metres in height, to the Western end of the Gangdise Range. It’s a
politically sensitive area due to the nearby Nepalese and Indian borders, but it
hasn’t escaped the attention of Westerners. The mighty Reinhold Messner was
invited by Beijing to organise an expedition to climb the peak in the mid
1980’s, but decided not to press ahead when he realised the spiritual importance
of the mountain; “Of course I refused. It would not have been intelligent to do
otherwise”.

More recently, a Spanish expedition was organised in 2001 by Jesus Martinez
Novas. International dismay was massive, amongst critics was British climber
Doug Scott, in hoping they would think their actions through; “How will they
feel later in life about diminishing this mountain?” Messner also spoke out
again in defence of the peak; “Once that sanctity is destroyed, it will be gone
forever…I would suggest they go and climb something a little harder. Kailash
is not so high and not so hard.” A great put down with regard to the climb if
nothing else! The Spanish team fortunately quit their plans before reaching the
region. The Indian Government has since persuaded Beijing to agree that no
climbing permits will be granted in future.

Time will tell…

How can a mountain be so important? It’s spiritual importance dates back to
the Bon and Hindu religions, but it’s legendary four faces of lapis lazuli,
ruby, gold and crystal, today primarily attracts Buddhists who circumambulate
the supposed home of the Buddhist saint Milarepa in a clockwise direction (Known
as a Kora). The peak is described as the earthly manifestation of mythic Mount
Meru, the centre of the universe in Hindu, Buddhist and Jain cosmology. Hence,
all across Tibet, people will describe Kailash as the ‘navel of the world’, or
the ‘precious jewel of snow’. Its situation, towering above the nearby plains is
definitely striking. On paper, it’s not as high as peaks in the nearby Himalaya,
but its outlook is unspoilt as it dominates the surrounding range.

Tibetans take their spiritual worth seriously, so it’s probably for the best
that mountaineers have passed up the challenge thus far; Disturbing Buddhist
saints on the navel of the world shouldn’t be considered lightly. But of course
there’s no problem in joining the pilgrims and trekking around the mountain.
This was my aim and the reason for a 2100km journey from Lhasa to the Kailash
region.

It had taken me eight days and hitching on five different vehicles to reach
the area, incredibly frustrating at times. I watched endless trucks drive right
past me whilst I stood in blizzard conditions. The trucks communally used by the
pilgrims seemed to be the best option for stopping, clearly the most
compassionate! I also got involved in a very heated ‘discussion’ with a Kazakh
driver who demanded more money part way through a journey. I guessed he wasn’t
making a great deal driving through these parts of Central Asia and I had a big
rucksack, I must have appeared wealthy. It is possible to take the relative
comfort of a Toyota Landcruiser from Lhasa, but at a price. I was travelling
independently to further my meagre wallet, but this in itself is illegal in West
Tibet. I had to pay a small fine in the provincial capital, Ali, 200km from Mt.
Kailash. This enabled me to travel in the region for an unhindered 14 days.

Nick and monks

Difficulties aside, I found myself in Darchen, ready to set off on a trek
around Mt. Kailash. Plenty of pilgrims were camped around me, also preparing for
the off, whilst market stalls sold stale Chinese chocolate, fizzy green tea and
instant noodles as provisions for the kora. Actually, I had hoped for some food
with a little more substance. Some entrepreneurial Tibetans were hiring yaks out
to groups as baggage carriers. I set off at first light, travelling as light as
I could; The starting point altitude was a heady 4560m, and the first days walk
would see me gaining a further 200m in altitude. Despite being mid October,
apparently the end of the pilgrimage season, there were plenty of Tibetan folks
also setting off. Entire families were jostling along the alpine meadow, placing
stones at cairns and stopping occasionally for the obligatory yak butter tea
breaks.

Pilgrim Kids

Now, for the first time, I was seeing the devotion the people have for this
area. The ultimate kora for dedicated Tibetans is a circuit of the mountain
whilst making full prostrations. This involves lying face down on the ground,
arms outstretched in prayer, then standing, moving forward one step and
repeating the process. This is unbelievable, all the more incredible when I
realised the kora is 52km in length. It would take me two and a half days, but
for those prostrating the full distance, allow approximately three weeks!
Needless to say, very few Western folk attempt this style of Kora.

Throughout the first day, I was aware of a dull headache, but as I neared the
small isolated monastery, which would serve as my room for the night, the pain
became intense. A rising sickness was taking any pleasure out of the last few
kilometres that day and I struggled to climb the steps up to Dira Puk Gompa, the
monastery in question. The two resident monks welcomed me into the
kitchen/living space, dominated by a yak-dung burning stove, invariably the
centre of any Tibetan building. I immediately lay down, overcome by nausea,
dizziness and confusion. This was the second time I’d experienced altitude
sickness and it was an unnerving feeling, barely able to lift my head from a
pillow.

Fortunately, a Japanese trekker was also stopping over in the monastery.
Rather more organised than myself, he had cunningly brought some altitude
medication ‘Diamox’ which I proceeded to scoff with as much water as I could
drink. Whilst lazing near the warm stove, one of the monks explained that he
studied Tibetan medicine and proceeded to hold my head between his hands,
promising me this would ease the pain. I wasn’t quite sure of the reasoning
behind the technique, and ten minutes later he stopped and continued sipping his
tea, seemingly oblivious to my pain. My head was still pounding and I was glad
I’d already taken the Diamox; I’m a true believer in pharmaceutical
medicine.

A restless night led to a clear cold dawn and a direct view of the North
(Gold) face of Mt. Kailash from my window, at the top of the monastery. A photo
of the Dalai Lama (Whose image is banned by the Chinese) had helped me secure
the best space directly above the only heated room, the kitchen/living area.
Interestingly, my room doubled as a studio for the arty monks who worked on
Thangkas (Tibetan Buddhist paintings) for the region, though some of the fierce
deities painted on the wall were a little haunting. I blamed the altitude
sickness.

After Tsampa breakfast and a farewell to the monks, my head was clearing and
I set off across moraine from the Kangkyam glacier, running down from the North
face of Kailash. The target for the day was the 5630m Drolma-La Pass, and it was
upwards all the way. There were still friendly Tibetans to point the direction
if ever I was unsure, though unusual markers helped reassure me; Shiva-tsal is a
kind of viewpoint where pilgrims are meant to suffer a symbolic death. Each
person would take an item of clothing off and leave it draped across one of the
many cairns dotted around the snow-covered ground. All around me was tattered
clothing left to the frozen jumble site, each item representing a life the
Tibetans had left behind.

Steps in the Snow

I followed the steep ascent trail east over ice, snow and rock, slipping
occasionally, whilst listening to the chanting around me intensifying; ‘om mani
padme hum’ the oft repeated mantra of the Tibetan people. I felt much stronger
than the previous day and defiantly plodded ever upwards. At 5630m I thankfully
reached the Drolma-La Pass under clear sky and relatively warm sunshine. I was
greeted by a small crowd of Tibetans throwing Tsampa in the air and adding to
the largest mass of prayer flags I’d yet seen. I stomped through the fresh snow
to get some photos and enjoy views across the land of snows, although the
partying pilgrims reminded me I wasn’t alone. Unfortunately, Kailash itself is
not visible from this pass, so it’s impossible to see if the Gods really do
reside at the top. To the South East was my descent route past Lake Gouri Kund,
then another 28km and a day and a half of walking until my Kailash Kora would be
complete. But more importantly, a lifetime of sins would then be wiped away,
according to Tibetan Buddhist belief.