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.

IMC Roll of Honour 2004Master of Ceremonies: Martin Hore

“Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for “Lob of the Year 2004.

“Those of you with long memories, and given to more than average sobriety, may still remember last year’s ‘Lob of the Year’ presentation. Young Mervyn Lamacraft was cruelly denied his rightful claim to the title following a very late and, if I may say so, scarcely noteworthy entry into contention by yours truly, compounded by some highly dubious decision making by one of the most biased juries ever to deliberate on behalf of the IMC.

“In revenge it falls this year to me to take on the mantel of judge, jury, chief prosecutor, private investigator and raconteur.

“My spies report that a spectacularly early entry into the 2004 ‘Lobbers Diary’ occurred on the 2nd of January. Under crisp and clear skies an assorted party of IMCers were spotted toiling up the slopes from Wasdale Head to the Shamrock face of Scafell. With crampons fixed and axes to hand, fast progress was made up the initial snow slopes. Just as the slope steepened a cry of ‘expletive deleted’ emanated from our esteemed president as his supply of insulin and assorted needles cartwheeled down the snow slope below. Fortunately, after a hasty search and rescue operation by the assembled club members, young Peter was reunited with his fix of the day and a memorable ascent to the summit of Scafell was completed without further incident.

“Barely a month later, after a swift flight from Stansted, further winter action was in prospect in the Cairngorms. The ensuing events were recorded by John Buchan in that masterpiece of classic English literature ’39 Steps to Ice Climbing’. I hope John will permit me to quote, somewhat loosely, from his abridged version which appeared in the IMC journal under the title ‘The True Story of Jacob’s Ladder and the Missing Ice Hammer’.

‘Right then the sun broke through the cloud and lit up the most stunning ice and snow covered vista of the weekend. With grins as wide as the corrie we geared up in a flash. The going was steep. Shaft plunging was the order of the day until a very ‘boney’ rock outcrop about 20 feet up was reached. Very careful pick placements were required as we were soloing for speed and it was a flippin’ long way down. The last 20 or so feet were slightly overhanging rock with a very thin plastering of ice. No way without protection. The alternate exit was a very steep mix of snow and rock, horrendously exposed. As we had no gear this was soloed as well. A stunning climb with a real sting in the tail.

‘Now all that was left was to get off the top, exhausted and with no visibility. What could possibly go wrong? Phil giving me the compass, that’s what. Luckily the sun reappeared briefly and Phil performed a fast but well-controlled glissade down the headwall of Corrie Cas. I followed, gaining speed rapidly, until my heals suddenly dug into the snow, throwing me into a series of dramatic somersaults and cartwheels. Eventually I managed to get my weight onto the axe and arrest the fall. The rest of the walk out was uneventful, until we reached the bar and I realised that in the tumble I’d lost Mike Hams’ ice hammer. I was so upset I had to drink beer.’

“March passed, April too, and no further action to report……. except, yes, a terribly minor indiscretion by your raconteur himself, taking place so far from the prying eyes of the IMC paparazzi that if it were not for his renowned honesty it would doubtless never have come to light. It’s the Easter weekend. Sundry ‘duties in law’ have drawn me across the Atlantic to Boston, and then a few hours north to an obscure bolted outcrop overlooking the village of Rumney, New Hampshire. Four bolts up, a tiny slip leads to a minuscule ‘lobette’, remarkable only for the fact that my companion, no lesser person than the president of the Boston Chapter of the Appalachian Mountain Club, succeeds in simultaneously photographing and belaying my fall. Who says Americans can’t walk and chew gum!

“Back to a familiar haunt for the May Bank Holiday weekend – Pembrokeshire. where a gullible Mike Bayley, on his second outing of the year, is well and truly sandbagged into attempting “Chieftain” (VS 4b – going on 5a) at St Govan’s Head. A slip from the polished starting holds is the inevitable consequence, but the resulting damaged ankle and two month lay-off disqualify Mike from contention for “Lob of the Year”, which, may I remind listeners, can only be awarded for incidents in which no injury is incurred, other than to pride and reputation.

“Meanwhile, over at Mother Carey’s Kitchen, young Steve Culverhouse is doing battle with ‘Rock Idol’ one of the most unlikely lines to go at E1 anywhere in Britain, taking, as it does, a soaring corner line whose apex overhangs its base by several metres. (As an aside, Rock Idol’s companion route is named, with typical climbers’ humour, ‘Bone Idle’).

“At half-height the route steepens alarmingly. Placing a high runner, young Steve moves up left, cunningly avoiding the huge jugs on the right. Steve insists that what followed does not constitute a lob, but as yours truly was lifted off the ground, the verdict must be that weighting of the rope took place.

“And so fast-forward to the Spring Bank holiday in Langdale. Carol Fowles and Steve Gray are gearing up beneath the first pitch of Gimmer Crack. Luckily this was a warm day, for this is indeed the same Carol Fowles who, according to one of my more reliable sources, had been heard to remark earlier in the year on a cold day at Bamford Edge ‘I think I’ve picked the wrong day to wear a thong!’

“Apparently the rumours that Carol and Steve were able to make use of the fixed ropes and bivouac gear abandoned by the same pair on Gimmer Crack two years previously are entirely without foundation. This time progress is fast. Their line soon deviates to the right up Gimmer String, and then still further to the right as Steve heads off route across the traverse of Kipling Groove. He completes Kipling’s crux moves around the front of the buttress just in time to obtain a grandstand view of the next entry into the 2004 lobbing annals.

“It’s Mr Culverhouse again, (audience interjection – ‘Dr Culverhouse’) on the appropriately named ‘Spring Bank’, determined this time to put down a proper marker in this year’s lobbing stakes. He floats up the initial steep slab and fixes bomber gear at the crucial overlap. So far so good. He stretches up for a slanting flake, and up again for a shallow finger pocket. Feet skating on the lip, he falls. A second attempt follows, and a third. The outcome is the same. Thoroughly frustrated he asks to be lowered off, a manoeuvre not without incident, as he is already way out beyond 25m on a 50m rope.

“And so it falls to yours truly to complete the route. Even with a free ride to the crux it proves a tough task. ‘Spring Bank’ ultimately succumbs to a team effort, but moral victory belongs once more to the rock in the long-running contest between E2 and the senior members of the IMC.

“There now ensued a layoff in reported lobbing over the high summer months, broken only by a further episode in the ongoing disagreement between Simon Chandler and the crux move on the Left Unconquerable. He assures us he’s now got it wired for next time.

“Come September, however, there followed a veritable spate of lobbing activity.

“First on the scene is Mervyn, back in full swing and up to his old tricks after an enforced early season layoff. The Crag is Black Rocks, the route ‘Birch Tree Variant’, and the lob fairly standard fare for one of our most seasoned exponents of the art.

“Next, however, something altogether more spectacular. The venue is again the Unconquerables at Stanage. The challenge on this occasion is the right hand crack, one of the most recognisable and photogenic climbs in Britain. The challenger, our very own president, Mr Peter Krug. I’m reliably informed that what followed developed into an adversarial contest of truly epic proportions, best described as ‘The Unprintable versus the Unconquerable’. According to my source, the lobs were many and spectacular, with air time accompanied by wild flapping of arms in a vain attempt to maintain altitude. Truly, let it be recorded, our man does not give up easily. Top marks for determination, technical merit and artistic impression.

“Finally, September saw a series of attempts to break into parts of the grading system never before visited by members of the IMC. Seldom far from the lobbing action since his introduction to climbing a mere four years ago, the chief protagonist was, of course, Mr Chris Harbottle. Much of the action took place under the cover of darkness, or in the small hours of the morning, so verification is hard to come by, but evidence of airtime was produced in the form of a mangled Friend 6. Rumours surfaced of attempts at E4, even E5, but allegedly the most spectacular lob took place on a mere E2, none other than the scene of last year’s winning entry, Regent Street at Millstone. Apparently the ascent was almost complete when gale force winds intervened (this man climbs in all conditions). I understand I have to be particularly careful with the phraseology at this point, but I believe a certain section of the club would appreciate confirmation that young Chris was indeed …… (the next bit is censored as unsuitable for reproduction in a family publication, ed.)

“And so through October and November – no further lobbing. Surely the diary can be closed, but no. With the verdict virtually decided, Simon Chandler re-enters the fray on a crisp December Sunday at Stanage, with a final fling on Little Flake Crack. Only an adroit ducking of the head at the vital moment saves yours truly from the scars of an aerial collision with the flying Chandler.

“But now, finally, to the verdict of the jury.

“First a new departure for the IMC, an inaugural ‘lifetime achievement award’.

“A strong contender earlier in the year was young Mervyn Lamacraft who for a short while faced the possibility that he might have made his last entry into the lobbing hall of fame. However, as we have heard, he has since “bounced back” and with good fortune has many lifetimes of achievement still ahead.

“So this year’s lifetime achievement award goes to a long standing club member who is sadly not with us tonight. Someone who has made his mark by serving for many years on the committee, by establishing the first club website, and by probably devoting more time to coaching beginners and newcomers into our sport than any other club member. He has now hung up his rock-boots, and we wish him well with his new wife and his narrow-boat. This year’s lifetime achievement award goes, of course, to that veritable legend on his own gear-loops, Mr Keith Lodge.

“And so to the Lob of the Year Awards themselves. This year the jury has awarded gold, silver and bronze medals, which I shall announce in reverse order.

“In third place, the lob of the year bronze medal is awarded posthumously to Mike Hams…….(that must be wrong….turns sheet over). Sorry, the lob of the year bronze medal is awarded posthumously to Mike Hams’ ice hammer, for it’s irreplaceable role in the saga of ‘Jacob’s Ladder and the missing ice hammer’.

“In second place, the lob of the year silver medal is awarded to the young climber who has who has made all the rest of us feel a little older this year with his exploits in the E grades, culminating with his experience at the top of Regent Street.

“And the winner, the gold medal for Lob of the Year 2004, goes to……..(oh sweet revenge!)……for the entertainment provided to those privileged to witness his attempts at the Right Unconquerable, and in appreciation for his work guiding the club over the last two years, the winner, and Lob of the Year 2004, is our dear and great leader, our esteemed president for life, Mr Peter Krug.”

The presentation followed, a photomontage of Pete on ‘Right Unconquerable’, photos courtesy of Caroline Goldsworthy.

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.

This was to be Simon Curtis’s first trip to climb on sea cliffs and I knew he
was looking forward to abbing in and climbing out. Cattle Troughs was the chosen
venue and since neither of us had been there before we took a lot of care making
sure we abbed in at the correct spot. We faffed a bit at the top making sure the
rope wasn’t lying on anything sharp and then I chucked it over and clipped in,
made sure me prussic loop was all attached and saying, as I usually do “I hate
bl00dy abseiling!” I set off. Halfway I looked down to see the remainder of the
rope sitting on a ledge although some had slipped off the ledge and in to the
sea. So feeling cheered that I now knew I had rope for the remainder of the
abseil I was feeling a little chirpier. I went past a section of free abseiling
and thought how much Simon was going to enjoy all of this… Got to the bottom,
unclipped and tugged at the end sitting in the sea. And tugged again. And just
for good measure tugged some more. Nope, nothing doing there. It was stuck fast.
Called to Simon that he could come down and waited for his arrival. In the
meantime I went to look for the route out. By the time Simon arrived I was able
to report that we had two problems. One, that the abseil rope was caught and,
two that I hadn’t, as yet, found the route out. First things, first though and I
clipped back on to the rope to ab down a bit lower to release the end of the
rope. I slid in to the wide crack taking care to brace my feet against the walls
either side then, whoosh!! A wave wove its way up the crack and up my bum and
all over the rack hanging from my harness. Somewhat shaken and dampened by the
experience I scrambled back up on top the ledge where Simon was standing. Sadly
the rope was still stuck. Simon decided that it was his turn. He stripped off
his many t-shirts and clad only in harness, rock boots and trousers he clipped
on to the upper part of the rope and we waited for the ‘big’ wave to come again.
And we waited and counted and waited and counted… For some time there was no
large wave and so Simon decided it was time to go. He dropped down the front of
the boulder we were standing on and made his way into the crack and started to
pull the rope, as he did so another wave, larger than the first hit him with
some considerable force. All I could see were Simon’s arms and head and white
foam. Oh and a picturesque shocked expression!! 🙂 I grabbed the rope and he
scrambled out of the sea as I pulled for all I was worth. He was totally soaked!
I did what any decent person would do in these circumstances. I laughed and once
started I couldn’t stop. Sorry Simon! 🙂

He looked so dejected – worse than a wet cat. I went to look for the route
out and turning round to see how he was getting on, saw him standing wringing
all the water out of his trousers!! Just for good measure I laughed some more.
But give the boy his due – he led the route out rather than stand at the bottom
being cold and went on to do another lead with Steve C. Well Done Simon. Hope
you enjoyed your introduction to sea cliff climbing!!!

Looking for the tops of routes

Looking for the bottoms of routes

Almost a year on and a sense of deja vu as we bundled into Fraoch
Lodge, “Aren’t they the same Geordies as last year?” Sure enough it was
the same guys and they are booked on to the same course as us. Having
decided last year that the Cairngorm plateau required some extra honing
of the navigation skills we had returned for some tuition from Andy
Bateman of Mountain Innovations.

To order, the temperature plummeted overnight and the area received a
good covering of the white stuff. Things were almost going to plan, well
apart from having spent most of the previous week in bed with the
flu.

Day One: This was to be at low level in the area adjacent to the
Ryvoan Bothy. We started off gently, practicing pacing and timing legs
along a well maintained path to the bothy. I usually prefer to use
1:25000 maps in the hills, but Andy’s preference is for 1:50000, arguing
(correctly I think) that in winter many of the features marked on the
larger scale map are obscured and that its easier to display the whole
days route on the 1:50000. Slowly but surely we begin to interpret more
and more of the subtle information contained on the map.

The bothy turned out to be full of smoke and alcohol so we remained in
the open air for a short sandwich break. “Right, get me to this point”,
and so the heather bashing began, No pacing, no compass, just
interpretation of the map. This pattern continued for the rest of the
afternoon, with occasional blizzard conditions to add that extra bit of
spice.

Dinner was up to the usual excellent standard that we’d began to
expect from Rebecca, the other half of MI. Homework too! Planning the
next day trip, breaking it down into manageable chunks, looking for
feature, to guide us on the way.

Sunday arrived and we headed to the ski car park. We were greeted by a
flock of snow bunting, -5C temperature and plenty of snow. The target for
the day was to navigate to Ben McDui, returning across the Cairngorm
plateau. Once again Andy stretched our interpretation skills, a Ptarmigan
was flushed and soon we were heading into the cloud. Slowly but surely we
worked our way to our main objective for the day, using increasingly
subtle changes in slope aspect and fall to cross-check our route finding.
With the snow becoming deeper the less fit amongst us (me) were beginning
to flag, Platypus hoses frozen solid and the bladders full of slush were
not helping. The promised break in the weather did not materialise and
there we were, on top of the Cairngorm in close to white out conditions.
By this stage the previous weeks cold was taking its toil and Andy
supplied me with some vile glucose syrup to keep me going. The conditions
were starting to slow more people down, particular one of the Geordies
called Shaun. We stopped to examine a snow bridge across a stream and
pushed on following a bearing and noting the changes in slope aspect. As
we descended into Coire Domhain Shaun was starting to look in a bad way,
he stumbled and the next thing I know is that his fallen in front of me.
Things were looking a bit serious. Andy B and Ant quickly carried Shaun
into the Coire trying to escape the worst of the wind. Shaun was covered
with a duvet and a large bothy appeared. Once we were ensconced out of
the wind Shaun was fed malt loaf and warm drinks. Amazingly quickly, he
started to resemble a human being again, and the as the rest of us fed
and watered the spirits began to rise. Suddenly things didn’t seem so
serious, rather this was a bit of a adventure. Aware of the short days we
broke camp and continued on, several of the gusts almost taking us from
our feet. The final top of the day was reached, and as we slowly worked
our way back down the ridge we dropped below the cloud and back into
reality. A few slips, slides and flailing axes and the car park was in
sight.

The course was over, but we wanted to continue the practice the
following day, Ant was keen on a Munro, the rest of us had to admit
defeat, so we spent the following day exploring the amazing valley,
Lairig Ghru. Ant reckons that next year he’ll have to take us on a car
tour and ensure the tartan blanket is covering our knees….I think the
alternative of snow holing or winter climbing might win the day.

I think we all came away much better equipped to navigate in hostile
conditions on what we had previously considered featureless terrain. I
must admit at times I questioned why I was struggling through such
difficult conditions, but would I have missed it…..not likely.

A few years ago, on holiday near some mountains, they called to me and I managed
to get in a day’s walking in the hills. Despite the fact that I hadn’t been let
loose in the hills since being a student in Wales over twenty years previously, I
had a really good day. Ten hours worth of sunburn and aching legs from ten hours of
walking after twenty years of inactivity didn’t detract from my happy mood.

So I was hooked again. Hill walking was now my thing and over the next few years
I managed to get the occasional day in the hills, mainly on holiday when I could
get away with leaving my girlfriend browsing the shops or whatever it is they
do.

Time went by as it does, until one October weekend a year and a half ago, when I
decided to do a leisurely Welsh 3000’s over three days. This inevitably meant that
I had to do a bit of scrambling: Tryfan’s North Ridge being the first, then the
Crib Goch traverse. The latter was a somewhat slow and careful traverse on my part.
As the rest of the party disappeared into the cloud and rain, I picked my way
carefully, noticing how the little spikes on the crest of the ridge were loose, and
struggling to find the sparse and slippery footholds that were somewhere below and
mainly out of sight due to my fervently hugging the rock in front of me.

Time again passed by, during which the ordeal of my traverse of Crib Goch had
expanded into an epic tale of one man’s struggle to overcome all adversities and
difficulties to eventually triumph… The next summer, I went back to do a
scrambling weekend, led by the same guide as before (let’s call him Ian, as that’s
his name). First I went back over the Crib Goch traverse on my own. I’d like to say
that what had looked difficult before now looked easy, but I can’t, as it was both
raining hard and blowing the best part of a gale. I did the whole of the ridge
without seeing another soul and spent most of the time wishing that I were
somewhere else. Anyway, we then went on to do three days of scrambling in mostly
nice weather and I have to say that it was fun. I was now hooked on scrambling. At
one point, we returned over Crib Goch, having done the Clogwyn Y Person Arete and I
couldn’t help noticing how enormous the ledges and steps were or how little the
sense of exposure really was. Oh well, another epic tale diminished!

Over the next while, I did more scrambling, got a bit better, got to lead a
grade three scramble under supervision this last April and generally got to know my
way around the rocks and ropes. Having said which, I haven’t found it that easy to
make rope work second nature or to think of putting protection in at the right time
and think of all those things that have to be right or you die. I am, I think,
getting better.

At any time so far, when asked or for that matter not when asked, I always made
a point of saying that I’m not at all interested in rock climbing, it’s just not my
thing. In any case, I always knew that in truth I wouldn’t be any good at it.

So that brings us to the month of June. A friend, called for reason’s that will
remain unexplained ‘Boz’ and who had been dabbling in rock-climbing, arranged with
the aforementioned Ian to meet us at Ogwen at 9.00 one morning, which we did. Ian
brought a spare pair of rather old rock boots, which were only one size too large
for me but I was grateful nevertheless.

So we set off up the path, hoping to do one of the classic easy routes on
Tryfan’s east face. As luck and the fact that it was a Wednesday morning would have
it, Grooved Arete was left carelessly unattended, so we stopped at the base of it.

As I tried to work out which way up my harness went and for once got it right
first time, I looked up at the start of the route. Now, I reckon that for most of
you climbers, the start of Grooved Arete is about as intimidating as a fluffy
kitten. To me however, it looked hard, like a scramble that had all the footholds
removed and had been tilted up by some unexpected movement of the mountain.

Ian attached himself to two ropes, with us tied to the other ends and set off up
the first crack. I realised from his effortless progress that it was all an
illusion; it was all really easy. Once he’d belayed and we’d exchanged the usual
shouts of ‘That’s Me!’ and so on, as us experienced climbers do, Boz set off. After
a minute or two of grunting and struggling from Boz, I realised that it wasn’t
going to be all that easy after all.

In fact, the only real difficulty that I experienced on that first pitch was
getting my left foot jammed in that first crack about six feet from the start. Our
shouted climbing exchanges now included ‘Hang on’ and ‘I may be some time’. Apart
from that, things went well, with me pulling back to get as much weight as possible
onto my feet, probably giving me about three times the grip that I really needed.
Anyway, ‘exhilarating’ is the word that’s needed here.

At this point, Ian very kindly offered me the lead on the second pitch, a chance
at which I grabbed with enthusiasm: “Err, I suppose so, err, all right then.” With
Ian watching over me like a man on an abseil rope, I set off up the second
pitch.

Anyone familiar with Grooved Arete will know that the second pitch is the
easiest on the whole route, as I later realised. It’s also one that Ian could
abseil directly down alongside; he obviously didn’t intend to let one of his
charges climb into trouble. The only real difficulty was that Ian insisted on me
putting in just about all the protection that he’d loaded me up with at the start,
at intervals of about six inches (or so it seemed, standing on tip toes wanting to
make one last desperate effort to reach the belay point). In reality, like all the
pitches, the right word was ‘exhilarating’. I managed to set up a belay and bring
Boz up on two ropes without apparently making any mistakes, not that I can remember
much of it.

After that, Ian led us up the remaining six pitches. I recall that somewhere in
the middle where there’s a short scramble between pitches we stopped for a bite to
eat. I said that what I really dreaded was open exposed slabs, which seemed to
cause some amusement on the part of Ian.

A little later, as my head appeared above the edge of what looked suspiciously
like an open exposed slab, Ian told me that this was called the Knight’s Slab, the
route having been likened to that of a knight’s movement across a chessboard. ‘Oh
really!’ I said, stepping up onto it. In fact this turned out to be quite easy but
it certainly looked good. I think the hardest bit was actually a bit below there,
although for me, when we got near the end of the last pitch, I managed to make
strenuous work of what was probably quite easy, so I was blowing hard when I
finally got to the end.

So, I’ll have to revise my position on this topic. I now don’t want to be a rock
climber who does anything much harder than that. Perhaps a bit harder, I’ll
see.

By Peter Krug – September 2004

At 03.30 a.m. on a Sunday morning in July I was at long last, after several months of
training and preparation, on me way to Peru to hopefully break my own personal altitude
record in the year of reaching a personal significant age. Having been dropped off at
Naarwich Intercontinental Airport by Louise and saying our goodbyes I was on my way to Lima
via Amsterdam. I met up with some of the team in Amsterdam and identified the remainder
(including our leader Di Gilbert) in Bonaire where we stopped off for some fuel. I can tell
you it was an experience stomping around in the West Indies with plastic boots on! It was
scorchio!

Owing to an unplanned extension of our stay in Bonaire due to “problemos technicos” and a
long wait at Lima Airport whilst one of the team found out that his luggage was on another
continent (he was reunited with his gear about an hour before we were due to leave Huarez and start our acclimatization trek!) we made it to our hotel and barely had enough time to have a beer before going to bed.

We left gloomy Lima first thing the following morning. You might think that good old
Blighty might be cloudy most of the time but Lima has clouds almost continually – I still
remember sitting in a cafe, at the end of the trip, overlooking the almost “Stygian-like
waters” of the Pacific wallowing below me. Quite weird considering I was in the Tropics.

We made our way out of the city passing the shanty towns on the outskirts and into the
desert and then heading northwards along the Pacific Coast and then hung a right and headed
towards Huarez over a 4,000m pass. The journey took an age and wasn’t helped by the fact that
we were repeatedly stopped at various police “checkos-pointos” (you can see I was getting
used to the lingo) where the cynic in me suspects a little money might have changed hands,
and the fact that our radiator hose developed a leak.

However, eventually we found our way to Huarez and, fortunately, the next day was a rest
day to allow us to acclimatize (we were now at about 3,000m). We spent the day hanging around the hotel which was rather pleasant, souvenir hunting and in the evening went up a nearby hill to get what was claimed to be the best views of Huascaran which was the ultimate
objective of the expedition. Quite frankly most of us were rather disappointed with the
view.

The next day was when the fun was really supposed to start as we headed for our first
night of camping at Cashapampa. On the way we visited the town of Yungay which was completely wiped out by a landslide (following an earthquake) in 1970. Overall about 80,000 people died in that valley and it was a sombre reminder of what mountains can do because basically they were killed by lots of ice falling off our mountain – Huascaran. Having indulged in alpaca the previous day I fulfilled a long held ambition by dining on guinea pig (don’t tell our
guinea pig although I think he knows – he won’t look me in the eye). Early on the next day we
started on the five day acclimatization trek along the Santa Cruz trail in the Northern
Cordillera Blanca and including a couple of 4,750 m passes and was billed as ideal
preparation for Pisco and ultimately Huascaran. By the way when I say we I should point out
that there were (at this stage) seven clients being Stuart, Nigel, Duncan, Jens, Phil,
Angeleen (whose husband was on the Alpamayo team and was to join us for Huascaran) and yours truly plus the tour leader who I have already mentioned.

The first day involved a long plod up the gorge at the bottom of the River Santa Cruz
towards our camp at Laguna Ichiccocha and we were now starting to really appreciate the scale
of the mountains. This became even more apparent the next day as we made our way past yet
another beautiful lake (Laguna Jatuniccocha) to our camp at Taullipampa. We took the
opportunity to visit our Alpamayo team who were acclimatizing at base camp. I was looking
forward to seeing this beautiful mountain but it was largely shrouded in cloud and in any
case to get the classic view of its fluted face you need to reach the col camp at about 5,000
metres. However, there were many other giants in the area to entertain us including Quitaraju
(6,036) and Nevada Artesanraju (6,025). Our campsite itself was utterly dominated by
Taulliraju (5,830) and next to it was the Punta Union (4,760) which we climbed the next
day.

You could say that the ascent of the Punta Union marked the first significant milestone of
the holiday and we were chuffed to make it up without mishap, although it was a bit cloudy
and consequently the views were not up to much. We could not see much of the Hauripampa
valley into which we were now headed which involved about 1,000 metres of descent which I was not particularly looking forward to. The descent was somewhat enlivened by one of the team admitting to have suffered from a “wet fart” – yeah ok he (and it wasn’t me) followed
through, and the sight of one of the porters chasing a bolting horse. The campsite at
Hauripampa whilst being quite pretty was extremely busy and as a result there was a lot of
litter left lying around which was a shame.

The next day involved possibly the worst day’s walking of the whole trip as we made our
way down through Hauripampa and then headed up a dusty road to our campsite which was
basically in the middle of nowhere. Whilst the walking was somewhat non-descript it was quite
pleasant walking through Hauripampa and looking at village life and we did get views of
Nevada Piramide (5,885) which is essentially a spike and is quite simply stunning! The next
day saw us finish trekking by going over our second high pass, the Portachuelo Llanganuco
(4,750), and thereby getting some of the finest mountain scenery imaginable. On the left we
could see both the South and North peaks of Huascaran (6,768 and 6,664 respectively), the
three peaks of the Huandoy range (all over 6,000), then our next objective Pisco which at
5,752m is somewhat dwarfed by its neighbours and the stupendous fluted face of Nevada
Chacraraju which I felt to be the equal of Alpamayo. After surveying the scenery we had
another long descent to our campsite at Cebollapampa where we were successful in tracking
down some beer – RESULT!!

The next day was a rest day beside the flowing waters of the Quedrada Demanda before the
next stage of our expedition which was the attempt on Pisco Oeste which at 5,752 metres
represented our warm up peak. I was feeling fine as we left Cebollapampa and to Pisco Base
camp which was at 4,600 metres just below one of the huge moraines left by retreating
glaciers. The next day we were now carrying all our personal gear and had to clamber up this
moraine and through some more rubble and up yet another moraine as we found our way to Camp 1 – and bloody hard work it was too with all the extra gear! However, it was not as hard work as it was for our porters, one of whom (Justino) was seen carrying five tents plus his gear –
awesome! Things were getting a little spicy as well. We were aware that there were some huge
cornices on the face above us but that morning there was an avalanche (we had heard several)
which helped to concentrate the mind somewhat!

Earlier in the trek a couple of my fellow travelers having admitted that they had been on
a trek with an IMC member and suddenly whilst finishing off me pudding at Camp 1 on Pisco I
suddenly became aware of Nigel saying that he wanted to introduce a certain individual to
someone. I looked up and saw a familiar figure striding towards me, stood up in amazement and said “f*** me, it’s John Penny!”. Now what are the chances of meeting a friend on the same
mountain, on the same camp and on the same day but on a different continent? I don’t know but this is exactly what happened on the 5 August in the year of our Lord 2004!!!!!!

The next day was Summit Day, and various people had told us that this was a fairly simple
plod up some reasonably gentle snow slopes! Was it heck! An alpine start (3.00 a.m) saw us
make steady progress up to the col between Huandoy and Pisco and then we headed up the ridge of Pisco. Whilst there was only one spot that required fixing by the guides and the slopes
for the most part were quite reasonable, we had to cross snow bridges and jump the odd
crevasse and there were quite a few cracks in the glacier to step over as well. On top of
that we were aware of the cornices and the avalanche the previous day. Fortunately, it was
quite dark and all these factors became more apparent on our descent.

As it dawned it became increasingly clear that the weather was breaking as it was cloudy
and there was a piercing breeze, but onwards and upwards – the show must go on. Having
negotiated the fixed ropes we passed John Penny’s mob who were on their way down from the
summit. As I jumped one more crevasse I realised that we were on the summit ridge and the end was nigh – I mean in sight! It was with great joy that I made it to the summit. We were the
second rope there and we all hugged and congratulated each other, and to our amazement were treated to tea which had been carried up by the ever-willing Justino.

Once the third and final rope of our party arrived, and the photos were taken with partial
but nonetheless impressive views of the mountains that surrounded us, we retreated with haste hoping to get down before the sun (what sun?) turned the snow to mush. We could see the extent of the lack of snow which meant that there was a lot of crevasses which no longer were being filled by snow and it is reckoned by the guides that Pisco might not be easily
attainable shortly unless the crevasses were filled – pah global warming! Having faffed
around for ages at the fixed rope stage and done my first ever icy abseil which I enjoyed
(NOT!) we dashed off the ice, had a meal at Camp 1 and then struggled back across the moraine
shite back to base camp full of the joys of spring.

The next day we made it back down to Cebollapampa where we were picked up and taken to new Yungay – for those who weren’t concentrating old Yungay was under a pile of rubble – for some rest and recuperation. Now rest and recuperation involved finding a flea-ridden hostel and then getting completely trashed at The Point which was a seedy discotheque and was quite
fun!

Sore heads prevailed the next morning as we were driven to Musho where the main event, our
ascent of Huascaran, was to begin! The first part of this involved a steady walk through
eucalyptus forests, then scrubland, some more woods to Huascaran Base Camp which was at 4,300 metres and involved a lot of steady uphill. Nonetheless, we (now ten in number as the team was augmented by Steve and Barry who had joined us from the successful Alpamayo team) made it to Base camp in reasonable condition. Now I must say that I felt completely awed by the scale of this mountain. It was immense!

From now on we were supposed to carry all our personal gear and sacrifices had to be made
so off went the walking boots and on went the plastics even though we were not yet on ice.
Part two involved walking across and off course up some slabs which were fairly easy angled
and considering we were in a glacial area surprisingly smooth (due to the fact that there
must have been a lot of water flowing under the glacier) to Moraine camp. In the evenings we
had fantastic views of the North and South peaks basking in Alpenglow.

We had a day’s rest at Moraine Camp in order to acclimatize before things really started
to err ….. heat up. The next day we finished with the slabs, donned crampons and made our
way onto the glacier. After about an hour’s struggle in the heat of the afternoon sun we
found ourselves at Camp 1 and erected our tents on the snow ledges. Most disturbing perhaps
was the fact that my tent was situated about four metres from a crevasse and I made a mental
note not to forget that fact in the event of a midnight call of nature!

Things were about to get even more exciting as the next thing we had to do was negotiate
“The Garganta” which was possibly the crux of the climb. There were tales ringing in our
heads. Firstly, we had been told that there had been 37 fatalities on Huascaran in the past
few years and, secondly, we were aware that several groups were turned back by a large
crevasse which was negotiable by an extremely dodgy snow-bridge followed by a short technical section.

We had an early start, departing camp 1 at about 6.30 a.m., and the going was hard as we
negotiated seracs and crevasses and, at times, pretty steep. And on top of that we were at
over 5,500 metres. There were a couple of places which the guides “fixed” and thank god they
did! There would have been a definite refusal from yours truly otherwise. Tottering across a
couple of yawning chasms on ropey snow bridges is not exactly my bag! Nevertheless these two
tricky spots safely negotiated we had a couple of hundred metres more ascent before we
reached Camp 2 which was on the col between the two Peaks and was at an altitude of nearly at 6,000 metres and this proved to be extremely hard work.

Unfortunately, this is where it all ended for me. I was struggling with controlling my
sugar levels (I am diabetic) which weren’t behaving as they should and were basically too
high, leaving me drained of energy. The next day at about 2.00 a.m. I decided, having waited
until the last possible minute, that it was safer for me and the team not to go for the
summit. I did not want to jeopardise any of their attempts either. I also had someone at home
who I care for a lot and I knew I would be in trouble with her if I killed myself!

However, eight of the team did make the summit (at least they made it to the lower North
Summit as the South Summit was not climbable due to the existence of a massive crevasse)
which was great, and I will admit to a pang of jealousy as they returned.

After that it was simply a case of evacuating the mountain and retracing our steps to Lima
and ultimately home which was again exciting in “The garganta” with a couple of team members falling into the crevasses (fortunately they were attached to the ropes). I particularly
enjoyed jumping backwards onto a narrow snow-bridge and then walking along it for over five
metres until I reached relative safety!

Despite not making the summit it was a great holiday filled with some good experiences. I
met some fine people and once again I’m awed by the strength and kindness of the people that
looked after us. It is quite humbling. The scenery is magnificent and there are some scenes
which are indelibly printed on my mind and I learnt something about myself in that I was able
to make the “mountaineering decision” and not go “hell for leather” for the summit regardless
of the cost.

I can’t possibly finish on such a serious note and there are a couple of incidents which
livened up proceedings. Picture the scene – team comfortably ensconced at Huascaran Base Camp enjoying a brew. There were a couple of chickens, nicknamed Casserole and Provencal which had seen better days and quite frankly weren’t going to see many more. One of them was looking extremely poorly so Nigel picked it up and put it in the shade and put a bowl of water next to it. Suddenly it went into some sort of fit and fell head first into the water before being plucked out. As it lay on its back weakly turning it’s legs our beloved leader jumped to her
feet shouting “Urgh – Walter will somebody f*****g kill it!” and one of the kitchen boys got
his chopper out and complied with her request.

Now did I mention being fed with “Bimbo” bread and “Fanny” jam at Moraine Camp on
Huascaran? A veritable banquet for a tone lowerer!