IMC Roll of Honour 2005

Master of Ceremonies: Peter Krug

Well folks it’s that time of year once again. You’ve wined and dined and some poor bastard has to sing for his supper and this year the dubious honour as ‘raconteur’ has fallen on me.

Firstly you may have noticed but largely ignored my appeal asking for notable achievements by IMC members and the response was deafening silence. No reports of young Bluebottle having climbing E12 although there are reports of Steve Gray aiding and nearly leading an E2 in the Lakes (more about that later). Furthermore, Steve Gray and Clare Lambert took the honours at this year’s Felixstowe Half Marathon and there was mention somewhere about Simon Chandler and a brush with the law (now what’s all that about?).

Your raconteur was scratching his head – but wait – at the end of November two IMCers have received their acceptances for the 2006 London Marathon ! Now you might say what’s the achievement in that? But after five attempts for Mervyn and four for myself to get in via the ballot I consider that an achievement! And I see that you are in training Mervyn … “Slainte mhath!”

Now getting back to more pressing matters it is good to see that there were some aeronautical experiences from new and unexpected sources this year. This certainly shows the depth of talent and ability at the disposal of this fine club of ours. However, not to be outdone by the ‘new kids on the block’ (err cough) there was aerial activity from some rather more familiar and indeed more experienced sources who should know better! Naturally, Mervyn – and what would be a LOTY without some mention of this much-honoured member of the Pilot License Club? – saw some activity at the beginners meet and later on at Wintours Leap in the Wye Valley.

Nearer to home the raconteur himself probably started proceedings off with an unscheduled loss of contact with terra firma, albeit of the white variety, in the Cairngorms when climbing a Grade1 or is it Grade 2 ice-climb called “The Slant”. If you haven’t already read about this please refer to Johnboy Buchan’s rather fine article entitled “Pulled off by El Pres” on the website. I could also refer to another more serious departure from the rock which occurred in Northumberland when Team Wuckfit were reunited for the first since climbing in the snow at Stanage last November which resulted in the raconteur hitting the ground, getting a limp, and rather more seriously nearly destroying his indestructible “terra pants!” The things I do to avoid getting another Lob of the Year

In June a ‘splitter’s’ group of Norman Smith, Adrian Fagg, John Sellars and Martin Stevens went to the Peak in search of easier limestone at Harborough Rocks. A short while after arriving Adrian decided he could tackle Overhanging Chimney Direct, S 4a and instead took a flying lesson of his own, falling from above his gear having passed the crux. He paused in his inverted descent only to hit his belayer before coming to rest scant inches above the floor, inverted. A short time was spent in recovery but no physical harm seems to have been the result although the clash of (helmeted) heads may explain away headaches on Saturday morning.

Norman Smith arrived little too late to witness the excitement of the first-ever-leader-fall by Adrian but not to be outdone Norman decided that ‘The Blaster’ at HVS 5b was very protectable and eminently ‘do-able’. The climbing was fine, but hanging about to place gear proved too much and Adrian was able to show movie-footage at the September slide show of a certain Mr. Smith proving he can’t fly. Footage was filmed in spite of the cameraman being harassed by the lobbist’s loyal pooch who was attacking him as he filmed his master’s fall from grace as it were!

A lob that may be worthy of consideration occurred in the lakes on the August BH trip. A damp Friday morning saw Adrian and Kearton heading up the valley to Raven Crag. Adrian’s usual navigational skills deserted him and they arrived directly at the base of their intended climb – Corvus. With both climbers sharing the lead on this justly celebrated climb Kearton joined Adrian at the base of the much-vaunted hand-traverse and was persuaded that this was really much easier than it looked. Kearton either knows no fear or is very gullible, for he shortly set out confidently to the right hand end of the traverse.

As he stepped out onto the face, the weather, sensing the occasion, proceeded to dump a heavy burst of rain onto the party. Nevertheless, Kearton made his way to the central platform, placing a friend and a hex in the horizontal crack, clipped in and with Adrian in position to criticize his every move, reached out and down with his foot, slipped, threw his weight back onto his arms, recovered, and got his breath back. Adrian pointed out that you need to keep your feet high as the low footholds gave very little grip when streaming with water. I think this advice would have been easier to follow if there had been any higher footholds than the big smooth tempting one down and just out of reach on the left. He set out from the mid-traverse having a second time kept his feet high for one step, then with Adrian saying “No, don’t reach for it yet.” he promptly reached out and down with his left foot and promptly fell off. The fact that the rock was wet probably saved him from any grazing as he slithered down and across, thankfully not hitting the sloping wall on the right with any force. To his credit, Kearton seemed quite prepared to have another go, but Adrian rather selfishly announced that he would lead it anyway as another club member had famously slipped at the end of the traverse. They did, as was customary, manage to delay their return to the campsite until after dark, mainly to keep the others guessing.

As I mentioned above one of our more senior members took multiple smallish lobs from the crux overlap of Spring Bank (on Glimmer), E2 5c and eventually had to be rescued by top-rope by the reporter. Carol then followed the pitch without appearing to spot the difficulty at all. Steve went back later in the summer and got the route done, but rumour has it that the tiniest of pulls on gear might have been involved. The same correspondent reported further tales on Left Hand Route, Ravens tor, Dovedale, E1 5b in July that involved a spectacular lob witnessed from across the river. Some fairly frantic scrabbling at the crux resulted in a 10 – 15 ft lob and the belayer herself parted company with the ground.

Guy Reid has been very busy lobbing during the summer. There are preposterous tales of him lobbing from Preposterous Tales at Pembroke where Guy took a small but highly exciting lob while seconding the traverse pitch in the dark section (not the first IMC member to do so). He was left hanging in space above the crashing sea contemplating a 10ft prussic to safety. Simon and Martin were safely ensconced on the next stance, out of sight round the corner, trying to communicate with Guy during lulls in the waves. Famous last words: Martin says to Simon. “Does Guy know how to prussic??” – He does.

Further rope weighting activity occurred on the Peapod at Curbar, HVS 5b, in July which Guy chose to lead in spite of an aversion to jamming and he’s never having “backed and footed” up a chimney before in his life. Peapod is not really the climb on which to learn either of these skills. Several occurrences of “weighting the gear” was the inevitable result, but eventually the “pod” succumbed.

There were several bouts of airtime for Guy at Hen Cloud in July most memorably on Hen Cloud Eliminate where Guy’s aversion to jamming was in evidence again. Even Guy’s renowned arm strength was insufficient to permit lay backing this superb but flared jamming crack. Again, after several “lobettes” Guy succeeded on the route, forcing the “nipple-eroding” final groove with great ease, it has to be said.

Did I mention Martin Hore’s allegedly “minuscule lobette” from Avalanche Wall (Curbar) that he blamed on a slippery jam? And then there was the extra-ordinary concept of young Mick Enright lobbing three feet and breaking his ankle, which off course ruled him out the running! Selfish bastard! Mind you who am I to talk?

All in all this year has proven from the quantity of falls that have been recounted within this oration that there is plenty of talent within the club although you may ask where is the young talent as all the contenders are the senior side of forty? Who says “there’s no such thing as old bold climbers?” After much soul-searching and deliberation the jury has decided that in view of the comedy value and indeed the tone lowering possibilities offered by a clash of helmets to bestow the honour of Belayer of the Year “for his willingness to sacrifice his helmet for his leader” and Lob of the Year for 2005 “for being prepared to risk everything, even his helmet, for the sake of the climb” to Martin Stevens and Adrian Fagg respectively for their antics on Overhanging Chimney at Harborough Rocks!

By Adam Fletcher – December 2005

A couple of things from the Brummy division of the club…

For those of the Club who are not aware, there is now a wet weather
retreat for when you have been blown or rained off the peak crags:
it is of course my new home, Creation. We are a wall of over 800m2
(Stow is about 180m2) and have almost everything you can want
(including a bar) on site. I would like to thank all of the club
members for their advice (and ear bashings over grades, Mr
Gilbert!) while I was at Stowmarket: it gave me a huge number of
starting points for the team at Creation (www.creationwall.co.uk).

Now on to the epic:

I have had the privilege of climbing in Croatia twice this year;
the first trip in May gave me my first taste of new routing, whilst
the second took me into ‘epic’ territory.

On the first trip in May we found a limestone crag (with lots of
loose stuff to try to miss my belayer with) where we had a very
successful time putting up two new routes, one at HVDiff and a VS
4a, and we didn’t come away with any injuries. We called the HVDiff
“Yellow spider” as apparently I had one chasing me up half the
route, and the VS got called “Scorpion” as we saw one nearby.

The second trip in late October (I went with a colleague from
Creation, Roni) on the other had did not go nearly as smoothly.

Day One: We fought our way to the crag through trees and brambles,
and then spent the next half an hour finding the bottom of the good
looking crack that we had spied from the car. Having cleared
enough foliage to scramble up the first 30 feet we made a belay
point and then we are off and climbing! About 30 feet up this
wonderful looking crack we hit a loose boulder; no way round it, no
way over it . . . ok hold it (gingerly!). Roni got some gear in
just below it and decided to back off at this point. So, Adam’s
attempt – I got up to the boulder, proved it was loose and backed
off-to the pub! We left the gear in the rock for the following
morning.

Day Two: After an early start (midday) we found ourselves at the
bottom of the crack again, me to start this time. At the boulder
the decision was made to try to shift it off the crag and then
mosey on up: forty minutes of lassoing and shoving the boulder
finally saw it bouncing downward . . . straight at the hire car.
Luckily it missed! Breathing a sigh of relief we were off again .
. .or so we thought. Another 10 feet and I am stuck – I now
officially don’t like laying back on overhanging cracks. Roni’s
turn: but yes, you’ve got it, by now the beer had started to call
so we decide to get the gear back – nip up the HVDiff from May and
abseil down-and then head for an hostelry. We got to the top and
fought through the shrubbery for about 40 minutes, dropped the
ropes where we thought we should be and . . . night fell – like a
lead balloon! Plan B: leave the gear, abseil off (leaving the ropes
because they were jammed) and get the beer! (But only after another
thirty minutes in the brambles and shrubs at the bottom!).

Day Three: The end of the trip is in sight so we needed to retrieve
everything. Another early start – 1pm. We soloed up a Diff with
more trees in it than rock, found the ropes (so far, so good) and
after fighting through the trees again (anyone got a chainsaw)
dropped them over the cliff: this time over the gear (woo hoo!!)
Abseiling down we find what would have been in store for us had we
ventured much further above the boulder- twenty feet of blank wall,
unless you climb British 6c that is. Back on the ground we
collected up our ropes and gear and what was left of our sanity and
headed down to the sea for a swim.

This unfinished project is tentatively called “Lizard” as there was
one watching, and probably laughing at, our struggles.

I would recommend Croatia to anyone who wants a laid-back holiday,
Dubrovnik is stunning though a bit full of tourists; get out onto
the islands, however and there is very little in the form of
organised entertainment so a good book is needed, but it’s great
for just chilling. The food is good, the local beer not bad (avoid
the home brew grappa-the back of my throat never made it to the
plane) and the locals very friendly (they start learning English at
7). Turn up, have fun and get a tan!

Anyone interested in new routing in Croatia is more that welcome to
contact me (rockorang@gmail.com)

Guy, our newsletter editor, was desperate for copy so when he heard that
Margaret and I had just returned from Thailand he saw an opportunity to
fill some of the void by getting us to write a short article about the
trip. “But Guy, apart from a couple of mildly adventurous episodes our
trip, though very enjoyable to us, was too touristy to be of interest to an
IMC audience used to a diet of wild places and death defying acts of
derring-do”. “Oh don’t worry about that, just tell us the exciting bits”
came the reply. So here goes.

The idea to visit Thailand came from a pub chat with Nick Willis, who
has travelled widely in SE Asia, at the Wye valley meet in July. Nick (and
his wife New) followed this up with many interesting suggestions of things
to see and do in Thailand. So our outline plan was to spend a few days in
each of Bangkok and the northern city of Chiang Mai, and then to hire a car
and spend 12 days wandering around Northern Thailand as the fancy took
us.

I’ll skip the Bangkok bit for now (but see later for some pics) and go
straight to Chiang Mai, a moated and walled city dating back to the
13^th century, popular for its architecture (some 120 Wats
(Buddhist temples) and as a centre for adventure activities (trekking,
rafting, caving etc). But the biggest visitor attraction is the enormous
market known as the Night Bazaar and in the centre of this is, somewhat
incongruously, Southeast Asia’s largest outdoor climbing wall (15m high,
16m wide) built to international climbing standards and with an overhanging
section that would severely test IMC’s finest. Having no kit and no
(climbing) partner a wall session didn’t seem a good idea but the office
managing the wall was advertising day trips to a local crag called the
Crazy Horse buttress which included transport, kit hire, and a Thai meal on
the way back, all for the bargain price of 1500 Baht (about £23)… now that
was a good idea! A day’s pass was quickly negotiated with Margaret and all
was set for the following day.

The Crazy Horse buttress is an impressive limestone crag about 30 km north of Chiang
Mai. It has about 90 routes, spread over 13 areas, with an average grade of
6b+ and average height 70 feet. Check it out for yourself at http://www.thecrag.com

The Crazy Horse buttress – see why? (click on any picture for image in Flickr)

Our party, consisting of 4 clients and 2 guides from Peak-Rock, was a
bit of a mixed bunch. The clients were Claude (a French alpine ski/climbing
instructor), Martin (an English fireman), Brian (an Irish ‘traveller’), and
me. Claude and Martin were in Chiang Mai on a Thai massage course and had
been out with Peak-Rock before so were able to start climbing right away. I
had to demonstrate that I knew how to top out and lower off before I was
allowed to lead. After these formalities I teamed up with Brian (who hadn’t
climbed outside before) but before I started climbing there was something I
just had to know….what about the snakes?? According to Lonely Planet
there are 6 species of poisonous snake in Thailand, and I didn’t like the
thought of shoving my hand in a crack and disturbing a cobra! “Don’t worry,
we hardly ever see snakes here” said Nye our guide. “… but in the wet
season we do a 3 day climbing trip to a crag where we climb from a raft in
the river, and there it is quite common to see boas on the ledges and it
is a matter of routine to tap the rock before placing your hand in large
holes. But the worse thing is the monkeys who hurl sticks and stones down
on the climbers”. I bet they don’t tell their clients that before taking
the money … but I was reasonably reassured about our present location so I
set about leading some pleasant 5a/b routes, such as this one …

a nice 5b warm up

Claude was a very strong climber, as his day job would suggest, so there
were plenty of opportunities to follow (or at least try to) more
challenging 6a/b/c stuff like this one…

Claude leading a 6b into the cave at the Crazy Horse

The weather was hot, the rock impeccable, and the routes of a
uniformly high quality with much less polish than I was expecting. And, to
cap an excellent day, we were treated to a meal at a roadside restaurant on
the way back to Chiang Mai.

After hiring a car we left Chiang Mai and headed northwest into the
rugged hill country of Mae Hong Son province (75% mountain and forest)
making for Cave Lodge, a ‘must do’ recommendation from Nick & New. A
quick shower stop …

Cooling down under the Mokfa waterfall

… and then a relentless low gear slog
up the narrow and twisting road to Pai and beyond. As we approach the turn
off to Cave Lodge there is clear evidence of serious recent flooding (land
slides, bridges swept away, riverbeds strewn with trees).

When we reached Cave Lodge our first impression can be best summed
up as “hmm…it’s certainly different”. The lodge is owned by John, a
larger-than-life aussie, who spent his early years in that part of Thailand
exploring its many cave systems and researching the culture of the many
hill tribes living there. He designed and built the lodge himself in the
style and materials used in hill tribe villages. The lodge consists of a
central ‘community’ hall on 3 levels with open frontage overlooking the Nam
Lang river, and surrounded by small bungalows for guests, all set on a
pleasant wooded slope.

The Lodge is an excellent base for all manner of adventure activities,
two of which appealed to us (well, the second one only to me):

trek through the forest to a Karen hill tribe village, hitch a lift on
an elephant to the river, and then return to the lodge on a bamboo raft

a ‘full on’ caving day visiting 3 caves in the area

John provided his ‘Girl Friday’ Put as our guide for the trek. Put
turned out to know everyone in, and everything about, the area. We started
by visiting a Shan hut where the extended family were sitting around what
appeared to be a gigantic wasps nest. The nest had been steamed and the
larvae were being removed to sell as a sought after local delicacy…and
quite tasty too. After a few hours of easy paced walking through the forest
we came to the Karen hill tribe village where time really has stood
still.

Karen hill tribe village

The village was incredibly quiet as most people were out harvesting
rice, or so we assumed. We stopped to admire some textiles made in the
village that were lying unattended on a wooden platform and within minutes
women were coming from all directions carrying bundles of stuff they had
made…crikey, what have we started now. So a few quick purchases and then a
hasty retreat to find an elephant. Now, getting on and off an elephant is a
bit tricky, requiring a few exposed and unprotected 4a moves. Once
on board however the ride, though slow and bumpy, is immensely secure
as the elephant is amazingly sure footed over all manner of terrain. After
about an hours travelling we’re somewhat glad to reach the raft on the Nam
Lang river. Bamboo rafts are rudimentary in the extreme, consisting of a
platform of bamboo poles lashed together, a handrail sticking up in the
middle to hold on to, and two poles used for steering. The Nam Lang can
hardly be classed as ‘white water’ in the section we were on, but it
certainly has its quick bits so correct positioning and frantic punting at
the right time by the raft-men ensured a pleasant journey of about 40
minutes back to Cave Lodge. The raft-men then had to haul the raft all the
way back to the starting point against the current. A tough job for tough
guys!

…. get a move on

As it was approaching dusk we were just in time to see one of the most
spectacular sights in the area. Cave Lodge is near to Tham Lot, one of the
longest known caves in mainland Southeast Asia, which has a stream running
through it. Where the stream exits the cave literally thousands of swifts
can be seen entering the cave at dusk to roost, and hordes of bats can be
seen going the other way to feed. Not surprisingly the cave floor near the
exit was ankle deep in guano. Put had a torch so while there we decided to
enter the cave and have a look at some of the side chambers that can be
reached by ladders and are sheltered from the drop zone. Our exploration
was curtailed however when this chap appeared in front of us …

Snake in Tham Lot

The next day was my ‘full on’ cave exploration with a local guide, Mr
Wot. Before leaving Cave Lodge John was uncharacteristically serious and at
pains to point out that, to his knowledge, the 3 caves we were visiting had
not been entered since the recent floods so their condition was unknown. In
John’s view the recent floods had been the worst since biblical times as
they had swept away structures in other caves that were thousands of years
old. Bolstered by that encouraging news we set out and were soon trekking
through the forest at a much quicker pace than the day before. After about
2 hours we came to rise in the forest and Wot said ‘coffin cave’. Where? I
couldn’t see any cave. We put on our helmets and cave lights, climbed a
bank and there hidden behind trees and bushes was a small cave entrance.
Wot pulled out his bush knife and very cautiously entered the cave shining
his light into all the dark corners and recesses looking for snakes.
Satisfied all was clear we entered the main chamber. This cave was
interesting, not for its formations but for its contents: coffins. These
caves, of which about 30 have been found, are known as ‘spirit caves’ by
the Thais and contain very old wooden coffins carved from tree logs. The
cave we were in contained just one coffin and a few human remains like
teeth and bones. Similar caves in the area have been found with multiple
coffins mounted on trestles and bound with ceremonial tassels. Before we
left the cave Wot shone his torch around the walls and there resting on a
ledge above us was a cobra…but thankfully too high to cause us any
grief.

Another brisk walk through the forest and out into what appeared to be
cultivated land brought us to a fast flowing brown stream strewn with
bamboo flotsam swept down by the floods and which seemed to disappear into
the hillside. “Waterfall cave” said Wot and promptly lay down to look into
the tiny hole through which the stream was pouring. I could tell he wasn’t
happy. I got down and had a look, and it seemed as though the channel was
completely blocked with branches and stuff. After a few minutes of
reflection he stripped off most of his clothes, put on helmet and lamp, got
down into the stream and ventured in. Of course, what he knew that I didn’t
is that the cave opens out after the initial few metres of low tunnel entry
so if the tunnel can be cleared then access to the cave, or at least the
first chamber, is possible. Then it was my turn. Now I’m not very big by
British standards, but quite a bit bigger than Wot so whereas he managed to
keep his face above the water mine is in it up to my chin and my helmet
banging against the tunnel roof. The entry tunnel gave way to a large
chamber with the stream rushing through it. We followed the stream through
a series of low tunnels linking the inner chambers as we progressed further
into the cave. I couldn’t help thinking what would happen if there was a
really heavy downpour outside (after all it was officially still the rainy
season) as the linking tunnels barely allowed a helmeted head depth between
water and ceiling. The noise inside the cave was intensifying as we moved
along the stream and as we emerged into the last chamber the stream could
be seen rushing over the top of a waterfall. We carefully edged along the
rocky bank of the stream, leaned on to a firm rock and peered over the
edge. A 30m drop into a black abyss. Awesome!

I’d noticed a funny thing on the journey in and out of the waterfall
cave. Despite the noise of the rushing water I was sure I could hear
something more melodic. Eventually I worked out what it was: Wot was
singing all the time we were in the cave. How odd I thought.

We were soon dried by the hot sun when we emerged from the cave, and
then on to the third cave. This time the walk, mostly through cultivated
land, was relatively short. After about 45 minutes or so we came upon an
enormous rectangular ‘hole’ in the ground about 3m deep. I could see Wot
was very surprised by this discovery and it turned out to have been the
result of a massive landslip caused by the recent flood, but where had all
that earth gone? Close to the hole in the ground was the entrance to our
third cave: the fossil cave. As we entered the cave it became abundantly
clear where all the earth had gone..’.it had been washed through the cave by
flood waters because all the walls and rocks inside the cave were covered
in a layer of mud and silt. Yuk!

We slipped and slithered deeper into the cave until we came upon rocks
that were covered with fossils. No palaeontologist me, but these looked
like crustaceans so the area must have been under water at some time. At
the end of the cave we could look down through wide cracks and see a large
underground river far below, the Styx maybe!

We emerged from the cave absolutely filthy to begin the long trek back
to Cave Lodge. In the evening, while relaxing with a beer and discussing
the day with John, I mentioned hearing Wot singing in the waterfall cave.
“Really?” said John, “Well Wot is a Shan and they’re very superstitious so
he may have been trying to ward off the evil spirits”. “Evil spirits?” I
asked. “Oh yes, didn’t I tell you? One of the first people to enter the
cave fell down the waterfall and was killed” came the reply. I’m glad I
didn’t know that!

Cave Lodge is a brilliant place and I would strongly recommend anyone
visiting North Thailand who wants to try something a bit different to stay
there for a while.

These episodes are just fragments from an enjoyable and varied visit to
the Land of Smiles. Anyone who has got this far may be interested to see a
few more pics.

First, a test for the culture vultures. Which big artist painted
this post-impressionist masterpiece, seen in Chiang Mai? (answer given later …)

Post impressionist masterpiece

Bangkok may be hot, humid, grid locked, polluted and frantic but it also
has its architectural treasures like the magnificent temple of the Emerald
Buddha

Wat Phra Kaew

Not far from Bangkok is Kanchanaburi, home of the infamous Death Railway
bridge over the River Kwai.

Saphan Mae Nam Khwae

Chiang Mai is dominated by mount Doi Suthep on top of which is the
beautiful Phra That Doi Suthep temple where the Buddhist monks
don’t mess about when driving out those impious thoughts.

Pagoda at Wat Suthep

Buddhist monk at Wat Suthep

Living dangerously with cobras at a snake farm near Chiang Mai.

Cobra baiting

Chilling out with my pipe in the Golden Triangle (where Thailand, Burma and
Laos meet at the confluence of the Nam Ruak and Mekong River) notorious for
its opium production.

Model in the Opium Museum at Sop Ruak

There are impressive water falls all over North Thailand but the
Mae Ya waterfall in the Doi Inthanon national
park with its 30+ tiers must be one of the most beautiful.

Mae Ya waterfall

And finally, did you guess the artist? This picture just goes to show
what can be done if you really really concentrate.

The Artist at work

P.S.

We arrived in Bangkok in mid October, toward the end of the rainy
season. Nothing we had been told quite prepared us for the culture shock of
this teeming frantic city: hot, humid, grid locked, noisy and polluted. But
as we acclimatised and found out how to travel cheaply and quickly around
the city (mainly by Skytrain, express boat, and tuk-tuk (a sort of
motorbike rickshaw driven by the Thai wing of the Kamikaze)) a more
favourable impression emerged: one of friendly people, street markets where
the prices are incredibly low, road side food stalls everywhere selling
tasty Thai food, magnificent Buddhist temples (Wats), numerous thai massage
parlours (stop tittering!), and so on. While in Bangkok we had a day trip
to

Well the “To Do” list got a little shorter this summer. Via Ferrata
(VF) is now among the ever-growing list of things to try to fit in
during the year. Andy Turner and I have wanted to give this a go for
several years, and this year we managed to make it happen. Jo and I
decided to take a walking holiday in the same area and Polly decided
that she’d like to have a go at the VF too.

We choose Val Gardena, better known as a downhill ski resort, as our
base. What an absolute beautiful valley, stunning scenery dominated by
Langkofel (on the right) and the Sella massif.

The Sella Massif and Langkofel from Ortisei (click on any picture for image in Flickr)

Our only oversight in planning was drastically under estimating the
travel time from Trevisio airport to our accommodation in Ortisei. Five
hours in rain and hail, in a left-hand drive hire car on Italian
mountain roads, preceded by a 3:00am start for Stanstead meant that we
slept well the first night. So well, in fact, that 10:00am was the
first we saw of the next day.

Leaving Jo to explore the village and to find some cake for our return,
we headed for Passo Gardena. We had decided that an easy warm up would
be a good idea, getting us familiar with the local rock and more
importantly the Kletterstieg kits used to attach each of us to the
fixed iron work. For those that have not tried VF, a Kletterstieg unit
looks a bit like a double cows-tail, connected to your harness via a
KISA (Kinetic Impact Shock Absorber). This is like a self- belay
device, but allows you and the equipment to take lobs with fall factor
greater than two, and live to tell the tail!

DON’T BE TEMPTED TO USE A SIMPLE SLING; THEY ARE LIKELY TO SNAP IF YOU
TAKE TOO MUCH AIR!

With only a 15-minute walk in and a grade of 2A we chose CORV2 for our
first route (See footnote1). On with the harness, add a chest harness
and larks foot on the Klettersteig unit. The first part of the route
was unprotected and the last few moves before the cable started were a
bit tricky in the now damp conditions. The route starts with a short,
slightly overhanging ladder and then moves onto a small arete. The next
section starts with a short step over a narrow gully and our first
introduction to exposure. The route then traverses a buttress
diagonally depositing you onto a wide arete. At this stage the
protection also disappears for a while, until the next vertical pitch
is encountered. This pops out leaving only a short ‘crux’ section
before the summit cross is achieved. Three adults occupy most of the
summit, and after sampling the local ham and cheese, we prepare for the
return trip. The top pitch is a little tricky in reverse but soon we’re
descending a gully back toward the car. For me this was the most
worrying section, dubious anchors and loose rock, my favourite 😉

Climbing on CORV2

The next day we were much better prepared, and up for more of a
challenge. Today we were to attempt Via Ferrata Brigata Tridentina (or
CORV4 in the book), with a book time of 5 to 7 hours. This is a 3B
route, more technical and more serious. You may however sense a theme;
the walk in is only 10 minutes. We kitted up in the car park and
traversed along a path, passing some impressively overhanging bolted
routes before arriving at the start with another group, part of which
were also beginners.

Looking up the first section of Via Ferrata Brigata Tridentina

The route splits into two major sections. The first is predominantly on
stemples (steps that look like overgrown staples epoxied into the rock)
moving up then across a fairly steep slab. By this stage the weather
has started to rain, but the rock is proving amazingly sticky for
limestone. After encountering a short ‘traffic jam’, we emerge between
two massive boulders on a very wide ledge. The next climbing is about
15 minutes walk away, and we do our best to put some distance between
ourselves and the other people.

The next section is about 300m of ascent and includes a full gambit of
wire, stemples and ladders. The rain redoubled its efforts but we were
not to be deterred, but were slightly cautious in case the dreaded
lightening made an appearance. The climbing was varied and absorbing,
with some pitches verging on VD. We were tracked by a couple of old
hands one of whom was using a single krab to clip in. (The Klettersteig
units include two krabs so that you can leap frog any anchors, leaving
you with at least one krab connected at all times.) Fortunately /
unfortunately (delete as appropriate) the cloud somewhat truncated the
views, but just occasionally the whole route appeared below, with the
valley floor 600m, or so, below. Exposure by the bucket load.

Andy on the Bridge

Style wasn’t high on the agenda and all thoughts of a pure rock bound
ascent were forgotten, wet limestone and walking boots do that for you.
The arms and legs were certainly starting to feel it when at last the
final part of the route appeared: a short suspension bridge surrounded
by cloud and little else. The cloud somewhat spoilt the view, but have
a look in the September 2005 issue of Trail (pg 129) if you want to see
what it should have looked like. The ironwear stopped and 15 minutes
later we are purchasing hot chocolate in the Pisciadu hut. Very welcome
as we all sat there steaming.

Only the descent to go: it was with a bit of trepidation on my part
that we set off to find the route down: a 650m gully. As it turned out
the descent was pretty good. The steep upper section was well
protected. Although many of the Europeans weren’t bothering to use the
ironwork, they did go very quite at the crux! The protection stopped
just as the angle eased a little, and whilst there was a lot of scree
to descend, the path was fairly good (although apparently it can be
vague early in the season).

Andy, Polly and Mark preparing to descend from the Pisciadu hut

What a superb day: great climbing, good company, but shame about the
views. This route has something for everyone. In fact you could go one
better and combine this route with the complete traverse of the Sella
massif, next time perhaps.

Descending on Via Ferrata Brigata Tridentina

If you’ve been thinking of giving Via Ferrata a go, then do it, it’s
superb fun. There are plenty of cheap flights to that part of Italy,
but don’t underestimate the travel time on the Italian roads. Whilst on
suggestions, if you have a go yourself we all recommend the Salewa
Klettersteig kit, the special karabiners are so much easier to use than
twist lock and safer than simple snap gates. You’ll appreciate this
most of all when the climbing gets tricky. Also make sure you get some
suitable gloves, the cable does get frayed and is pretty sharp.

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)!

Before:

Watch me

Tight rope

Take in

I’m going

Got me?

Coming off

After:

Oops

Crumbs

I wasn’t expecting that

Geronimo

And of course *^*^*^*^*^*^*!

Not so long ago I read an article in which a chap went on a course run by, I think, Neil Gresham and the first thing that they did was set up a top-rope and, by creating some slack, practised falling. Practised falling? Well yes-and I seem to have spent the last few weeks doing just that. Over the last month or so I have “enjoyed” “air-time” whilst both leading and seconding, over a range of grades and in a variety of settings. I can also remember a time a while back doing a bit of “fall-practising” at an indoor wall with an IMC bod.

And now comes the proof of the pudding-what has it all meant? I am still assimilating some of the lessons.

If you can’t trust your gear you might as well be soloing.

If you only think you can’t trust your gear you are effectively soloing with the head-games that that entails.

If you think you can trust your gear but really can’t then you are soloing but don’t know it.

So I suppose for me it all boils down to well-placed gear with the accent on “well” and “placed” and “gear”: there should be sound gear with reasonable spacing.

I have proven to myself that I can place gear that will hold a fall though this does not necessarily mean that all my gear will always hold all my falls. I have shown that I can space placements such that they prevent me from falling too far though this does not mean that I always find all placements so therefore sometimes I might inadvertently run things out a bit with the attendant possibilities.

These are just random thoughts as I had a little spare time today what with Grandma being away and with us out of eggs anyway.

I am not glorifying falling nor, necessarily, encouraging practising doing it; but if some thought and discussion about gear placement and falling ensues then the blood and skin I shed will not have been in vain.

I would like to express my thanks to my attentive belayers.

Any views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and may not be meaningful anyway

Oh, just one more thing – don’t ignore a “bomber” placement.

Way, way back in the middle of 2004, I was invited to see in the New Year at
Black Sail youth hostel in the Lake District. Pushing all thoughts about the
lack of winter walking equipment to the back of my mind, I accepted. Anyway, I
was assured I could borrow all the items of kit I’d be likely to need.

For those who don’t know Black Sail, it is a converted shepherd’s bothy located
at the head of Ennerdale and is one of the remotest YH’s, only being accessible
on foot. It lies on the route of the coast-to-coast walk and is surrounded by the
fells of Great Gable, Pillar, Green Gable and Haystacks. Fortunately, we are
allowed to take 1 vehicle to within 500 metres for transporting the heavier
items.

Black Sail youth hostel (click on any picture for image in Flickr)

So, the months rolled by with vague mutterings about carrying in a couple of barrels of beer and dividing up the food responsibilities. With a week to go, organiser Andy has two firkins of beer (Nelson’s Revenge and Roaring Meg), cooked breakfasts for all 4 mornings and food for 3 evening meals in hand. I volunteer to bring red wine, Port, chocolates and fireworks. Well, there are going to be 16 of us there for 4 nights and it wouldn’t do to go thirsty or hungry. Finally it’s all coming together, except that I haven’t been able to borrow any boots. Lee tentatively offers a pair in size 43; if only. A swift post work trip to Field and Trek sees me flexing the plastic and walking out with a pair of suitably stiff boots. Hopefully not so stiff that they rub my heels but only time will tell.

By the time we meet in Ennerdale Bridge, make our way to the car parks to re-distribute kit and supplies, it’s dark, lashing with rain and there is a strong wind blowing up the valley. During a lull in proceedings, two of us decide that the quickest way to the hut will be to shoulder our packs and walk up. As soon as we leave the lights of the cars and buildings, our worlds are defined by the area illuminated by our head torches. I find the wind swirling the rain in the light of the head torches quite bizarre and somewhat claustrophobic.

The walk in is only about 4 miles but carrying a load and being predominantly uphill it seems to take an age but eventually we arrive at the hut. By this time the car with the supplies has arrived and we trudge back down the path and start moving its contents. I lose count of how many times I did this but it was bloody hard work; the track dips and rises and twists and turns and with the rain it is running like a stream in places. Payback comes a little later: kicking back in front of a roaring fire, pint in one hand and ginger wine in the other.

We awoke on New Years Eve to grey skies and the tops in cloud. After much faffing, a group of 6 of us leave just before Noon intending to walk up Black Sail Pass, onto Pillar via the scramble of Pisgah then off the other side into Wasdale for a pint in the Wasdale Head Inn before returning over Black Sail Pass. It takes a couple of hours to get onto the top of Pillar but after some dodgy route finding coming off the top and some prolonged lurching down a scree slope it’s fairly evident that making it into Wasdale just isn’t going to happen. By the time we’ve circled around the back of Pillar and made it to the top of Black Sail Pass, the light is going and the rain has started again. By the time we return to the hut, it’s virtually dark and the rain is well set in.

A splendid evening followed. There was more than enough food and drink for everybody and the alcohol fuelled post dinner game of Cranium was very entertaining. We had fireworks and champagne at midnight and then played Trivial Pursuit. I went to bed at about 3am and at that point the scene in the lounge was best described as one of carnage.

When I re-surfaced later on New Years Day, the scene outside the door was one of rain, sleet and hail. Nobody did much and my exercise for the day consisted of another trip to the car to collect more fireworks for the evening’s entertainment. We all drank rather less over dinner but the levels of pent up energy were such that our post dinner game of Diplomacy became very heated.

Overnight the rain stopped, the temperature dropped and we awoke to an icing sugar dusting of snow on the tops. Although there was an icy wind blasting up the valley it was at least dry. Lee and I set off unfeasibly early, at just after 11, for a ridge walk taking in Brandreth, Green Gable, Great Gable and Kirkfell before returning via Black Sail Pass. We gain the ridge fairly easily and take in views of both Ennerdale and Buttermere.

The head of Ennerdale with Kirkfell on the right, Great Gable in the centre then Windy Gap and Green Gable to the left

On the early parts of the ridge the wind was behind us, providing a gentle push in the back. By the time we cross Brandreth and get onto Green Gable, it’s coming from the side and on several occasions we’re nearly blown off our feet. Coming off Green Gable, Windy Gap certainly lives up to it’s name. In addition to the fresh snow, the route onto Great Gable is rimed with ice and is
treacherously slippery. Leaving the summit of Great Gable, we have the wind in our faces and it’s a struggle to avoid being blown backwards. Rather counter intuitively, I find it easier to lean forwards and keep moving rather than remain still and fight the wind. Whilst descending, we get views down Wasdale and see the sun glinting off Wastwater. No photos though; the camera was left in the hut.

Kirkfell is crossed without incident and with a sense of deja vu we reach the top of Black Sail Pass as the light is beginning to go. Another descent in the gloom and return to the hut in almost complete darkness but a grand day out.

The evening saw another heated game of Trivial Pursuit but probably the less said about rude word Scrabble the better. The following morning it was clean up and clear out time and eventually everyone was out but it was still 2pm before we hit the road out of Ennerdale.

All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable few days and certainly one of the best New Year celebrations I’ve had. The final tally on the booze front was 144 pints, 4 litres of mulled wine, 11 bottles of red wine, 4 bottles of port and 3 bottles of champagne. Which leads nicely to the first of my resolutions for 2005 – no more booze during January. And yes, the new boots did rub but, bizarrely, only my right foot.