Kirkus Route Circus - Jim Gregson
By Jim Gregson
Climbers of a certain generation like myself, who are also lovers of true mountain crags, may have developed an admiration and affection for the splendid range of climbs pioneered by Cohn Kirkus during the late 1920's and 1930's.
Fine lines with fine climbing in fine surroundings characterise these routes. Jaded indeed would be the mountaineer who would not enjoy ascents of the Great Slabs of Cwm Silyn or Cloggy, the soaring lines of Lot's Wife and Lot's Groove on Glyder Fach, the exposure of Pinnacle Wall on Craig yr Ysfa. Kirkus's own accounts of these climbs and others can be read in his own delightful book of 1941 "Let's Go Climbing" or learn more from Steve Dean's 1993 biography "Hands of a Climber".
But, a cautionary note - don't be dismissive of these routes as belonging to history and therefore a little overrated. Hence to my "Circus": Karabiner MC friends may know of my penchant for obscure Welsh crags and a flick through the pages of Les Holliwell's 1975 Carneddau guidebook led my eye to alight on Craig Lloer, nestling unseen from casual view behind Pen yr Ole Wen. And what was this? A Kirkus's Route, given only Severe - must be worth a look, and only an hour from the bustle of Tryfan and Ogwen. In mid-July 1979, Sandy and I left the A5 at Glan Dena and wound our warm way up into the cwm.
The approach is very pleasant, as Kirkus described it "...a crag above Ffynnon Lloer, a lonely little lake set deep in the wild hollows of Carnedd Dafydd ...steepest of the three sections of the cliff ...about 200 feet high and had never been climbed". It was obvious what Cohn had spotted - "...a sinister-looking crack, some 80 feet up ...about 40 feet high and overhung at the top. It looked very difficult". But - only given Severe by Les Holliwell, and looking very inviting.
An added bonus, nobody else about, so Sandy and I could relax, so we thought, in summer solitude. Eventually we were roped and geared up. A 90 foot pitch took us towards the crack and a closer view showed a leftwards lean as well as the overhung top. Onward by a steep rib then a really awkward mantelshelf to gain a sloping ledge at the base of the crack. Nowadays this would be called 40 feet of off-width but then it was "This looks like a thrutch and a half!" A long pause for breath and then into battle - my hat was already in the circus ring.
Height was gained at great expense of effort, security of tight wedging having to be eased for the increasingly precarious business of moving up. A chockstone high in the crack promised a runner, but threading it one - handed and clipping it with both ropes ate deeply into my reserves of strength. Dry-mouthed but sweating everywhere else I squinted up the top part of the crack leaning out over me; it now both felt and looked hard. I unwedged myself and wriggled upwards, feeling more and more insecure as the "grip factor" took hold of me. Now in a cold sweat I buried my right arm, shoulder, knee and foot in the crack, desperate to stay there. My resolve for the thing evaporated. I was too scared to try to climb down, felt I couldn't climb any further up without falling backwards into the air, didn't really believe the threaded chockstone would save me. Crisis.
Younger generation climbers would, I suppose, simply have flopped onto the runner and lowered off if it had held - but true to my time the fear of falling was too ingrained. Patient Sandy, belayed 40 long feet below eventually asked "What are you going to do now?" Unable to go up, too terrified to climb down, I racked my brain for a solution. As my heart - rate subsided I remembered we had two ropes. Maybe Sandy could descend the first pitch, scramble up to the top of the crag then lower me a top rope 30 I could climb out in safety - would that work? She was willing to give it a try.
Left-handed I fumbled to untie the knot at my harness on one of the ropes and let it slither down away from me, through the runner and below to Sandy on her ledge. "Off you go, lass", I said, hopefully with the instructions firmly imprinted on her brain - "Find a really good belay point to anchor yourself to then throw the knotted rope-end and karabiner to me in as direct a line as possible". Once clipped on I might then struggle up the rest of the crack to peace of mind. Naturally all of this took a little time, mean while I welded myself harder into the leaning crack.
After a while a thin voice from high above told me to expect the rope. Of course, in devising the solution I had forgotten the overhang of the top part of the crack so even when at last a cast of the rope fell correctly in line with me, it hung tauntingly out in space way beyond my flailing grasp. Several more goes didn't swing it any nearer. Heart-rate back up and brow deeply furrowed I clung limpet-like to the rock, churning the grey matter. A little later a lamp lit up among the brain cells - an idea - but could I sell it to Sandy?
"Anchor one end of the rope to the belay, abseil down on a single strand so you can be sure to reach safe ground, going past me swinging so I can grab the rope with the one hand I dare release. Then I in turn can attach myself and abseil off too". "Are you sure it will work?" "Got any other ideas?" Time passed some more. The rope hung out from the top of the crack. Movement in the strand heralded the arrival of feet then a body - "Swing in to me, you're an angel". At last I could grip the bowstring-taut cord, 9 millimetre perlon looking awfully thin, clamping it tight in my fist. Once Sandy was safe I ever-so-carefully threaded myself onto the abseil lifeline, double-checked, and relinquished my contact with the walls of the crack and heart-in - mouth spun out into the air to slide down to firm ground for a lie-down.
As we later walked down to the road I couldn't believe even Les Holliwell thought that was only a Severe. Next day we sought out a crag where the rock leaned away from us but the pleasures of the Idwal Slabs were spoiled by a photographer's fumble which sent my expensive camera from top to bottom in only three bounces, each one launching fragments of glass and metal showering down the crag. So, a memorable weekend, but not really for the right sort of reasons.
The epic failure on this particular Kirkus's Route rankled with me for a year or two. What I needed was a good crack climber to go back with so I could second the pitch knowing I wouldn't fly off it. It so happened that in August 1981 I was at Ty Powdwr, the Karabiner MC hut, sharing a bottle of wine with Bowden Black and relating to him the tale of my attempt. Now Bowden was a great gritstone climber, well-versed in the hand jam, probably around at its invention, so when he said "Sounds interesting. Fancy going back tomorrow? The weather's set fair", I thought "Why not? This might be my best chance".
Bank Holiday Monday saw us roping up at the foot of Craig Lloer and off I went up the first pitch. Bowden followed and at the belay asked "How does it go from here?" "Up the rib, Bow, then a tricky mantelshelf to the base of the crack, then you'll be in your element". "Hmm" he said, "mantelshelves have always really freaked me out". "Come on, man, I need you now". Three goes at the mantelshelf were nemesis for Bowden and he slowly fixed himself to the base of the crack, then declared he didn't want to try leading the impending monster. "You have another go, Jim, after all you nearly made it all the way last time and I won't drop you!"
I tried very hard to push the memory of my previous struggle to the very back of my mind as I climbed up to Bowden and faced once more my leaning tormentor. "Just believe" Bow breathed at me encouragingly. Wedge, wriggle, fist jam, arm bar, pull, buttock-crush - here I was by the chockstone again, striving to thread and clip the only runner I remember. "Watch me, Bow - this is a once-only try!" Eyes riveted to the top edge of the crack, praying for it to be a jug, I fought my way upwards focussed as never before. Long reach, fingers curling over sharp edge, match hands and heave! Both feet loose then stab right one back into the top of the crack, forcing body and centre of gravity over it, holding breath and pulling out onto a slab. Yes! Relief surging round my veins; "Well done, Jim" wafts up from below.
The rest was much easier, the Craig Lloer Kirkus was in the bag. Bowden in turn was impressed with the crack - "How anyone can give that Severe beats me". Later on I re-read the passage in "Let's Go Climbing" where Kirkus describes and acknowledges his own solo epic and close shave on the "sinister crack" with the pleasurable feeling of a now-successful joust with such a pitch.
Just about ten years further on, the guidebook team working on Ogwen and the Carneddau appealed for photographs and comments. Remembering Holliwell's frightening Severe assessment I wrote in to suggest a revision and sent some photographs. In 1993 a complimentary copy of the new guide came my way; I turned the pages to see my photo of Lot's Wife, then looked for Craig Lloer in the Carneddau section. Smiling, I read "One of the best routes on the crag, worthy of its originator...Pitch 2...Thrutch up the obvious crack, 50 feet, 5a." And clearly labelled Very Severe.
Jim Gregson 2003
