THE FINAL MOVE? - Tony Gask
By Tony Gask
Just one more move. My arms were already aching. A bit of Skye wedged under my chin. I was going to make it, wasn't I? Yes. No, no, no. Everything seemed to explode, then it was all crashing, tumbling, bouncing downwards. After a mighty oath, I started checking for damage, but slipped into a deep chasm of reminiscence.
The Cwm Silyn (no underpants) affair...
After climbing at Cym Silyn on a hot day, a dip in the lake seemed a good idea, but sadly left my wet undies there. Ironically all my spare clothes had been stolen from the car, when it was broken into. I was still upset when I went to Caernarfon police station, wearing just a sweaty tee shirt and a scruffy pair of trousers, but Lester Payne told me not to get my knickers in a twist. Chance would have been a fine thing. Moral: dim parcio or should it be dim pantio?
...and other hot stuff.
I still lick my lips at memories of the Dubh slabs, on Skye, a superb scramble, with valcro like friction, well worth the long hot walk in. It was a real heat wave then, so much so that we (with Dave Wylie, Mark Garrodd ) had to rest in the scanty shade of the overlaps, with my water rationed to 1 cm per hour from my bottle. The same year, Chris Thickett, John Thorley and myself lugged all our gear up to Coira Ghrunnda, only to fall asleep at the bottom of some climb, we couldn't find. When we awoke we all admitted that we never wanted to climb in the first place! So we hid our rucksack, then stormed up to the ridge; and I swam in the lochan, which was very refreshing.
...and really cool...
Winter climbing in Scotland still gives me shivers. The ascent of Tower Ridge on the Ben was however magnificent, and memorable, but in some way a nightmare, as I had no sleep at all after a very long drive up from Manchester. That was with Gavin Anderson and ANO, who fell off, I was told later, but I was asleep at the time.
...like the man with one crampon.
Curved Ridge in winter is usually straight forward and pleasant, unless your second (Mr X) insists on taking a different line, ending up 40 metres horizontally from an iffy belay, and then decides he only needs one crampon! Not for the first time too. And my nerves were not improved by 'never mind, I'll just 'op along on one foot'
Get knotted...
In the Lakes: Pillar, Dow Crag, Gimmer, Gillecombe all spring to mind, as does a near epic on Raven Crag (Borrowdale) which was plain daft. Still under the influence of an annual dinner, Gavin and I chose a very easy climb, but which we struggled on. A runner after 10 shaky metres seemed be in the spirit of the occasion, but where was the rope? Answer on a ledge. Gavin croaked 'You must remember to tie the knot'
...or get stuffed...
We had done a grand traverse on Bernina and Piz Palu. My knees were aching, but Alan Barber declined to fork out for the cable car down. However what we had saved was blown on £20 worth of cakes in St Moritz. After that I knackered and stuffed.
In contrast to that, how about bivying in the Alps with Joe Flynn, in the Bregalia area, when for our tea we had a half cooked 'sweaty vest' meal, due to each other thinking they had the spare Gaz. For breakfast, apple flakes, semi-hydrated in icy cold glacier water, and a mangy slab of chocolate.
Also in the Alps, I still rate my ascent of Mt Pelvoux with Pete Walker very highly. The real thing. Finding the route into the valley was however tricky, due to massive rock fall, and some how I ended up doing a hairy unroped traverse, followed by about ten other lost souls. Talk about the blind leading the blind. It was quite educational, how, in four languages, one can ask 'Do you really know what you are doing?' I hope my reply in colloquial English was equally educational, 'Get stuffed!'
...with more cake...
Once in Scotland, in perfect conditions (seriously!) with Brian Taylor we swooshed down, on our metal edged cross-country skiis, by chance joining a group of telemarkers. It was all a bit too much for the Ben Lawyers hotel when 12 hungry skiers suddenly appeared. They soon ran out of crisps, sandwiches etc. and we heard the old lady running the bar complaining to the manager, who responded ' Let them eat cake'. Stale Jaffa cakes were duly produced.
...harder than a rock.
Our regular base in Skye was the Glen Brittle hut, with memories of whisky drinking (Messages from the Scotch Office), Bob Anderson's jokes (Ayrshire bacon still makes me chuckle) vegetable charades (until banned by the Taoiseach) and my boat bread. It was a bit hard, and 'tis said that a rock broke when it fell onto a chunk of it.
Sounding off about Wales...
Tryfan is always a good course, though, to be frank, I've only once jumped from Adam to Eve. Snowdon in winter (or summer) should be on everyone's menu especially if combined with an ascent of one of the side ridges or gullies, like many of us did last New Year. I was brought up in a corner of Shropshire, where it was easy to get to North Wales, and early on started hill walking with my father, so Snowdonia has always been special for me.
...the place for a good Dhu...
Tremadoc's a great place, I like the café. Creagh Dhu Wall, is one of my favourites, with dinosaur proof protection at the crux, to stopping one from having a mishap.
...and a good bash.
Tyr Powdyr has always featured large in my life, hells bells I helped convert large bits of it (including the septic tank!) It's almost been a second home at times, and the scene of some great bashes, with lots of food and drink.
But beware of 'easy' climbs...
I have mentioned some above. Then there is Stanage - need I say more? That's where I managed my first VS (Inverted V) without a great epic, but failed on some so called V.Dif. In the Peak, I like Froggat the best, maybe Green Gut is one of my favourites.
Cresta Climb on the Ben is meant to be easy, but delayed by several vertical ice pitches, with Mick Green, we had to bivy on the top in a very cold January. Our teeth rattled like machine guns all night. I would have had a hot drink from some guys with a stove, but I knocked the pan over.
...on the road to ruin.
On the subject of epics I will say that the hairiest moments of my life have been on the roads, such as the M60 in thick fog, or hitting black ice on the road to Braemar. By chance we found Lester Payne and Brian Taylor drinking whisky, at the Spittal of Glenshee Hotel, having come off the road in exactly the same place as ourselves, half an hour earlier.
A good crack...
Nowadays I can go hill walking when I want, especially in the Lakes if it looks fine. Then there is cycling, sailing, swimming, dry stone walling and hedge laying, to stop me converting all those jam sandwiches into large overhangs around my middle person. It's a good crack having early retirement; compared with working it sure is a step up.
...and the final move?
Coming out of my daydream, I gazed at the pile of guidebooks scattered down the stairs. As I hadn't been climbing recently I decided to move them upstairs, to a cupboard in the back bedroom. I had foolishly tried to carry the lot in one go, but they had all slipped, fortunately without damage. But will they be used again? Or have they made their final move? Will my old rope be uncoiled at the bottom of some rocky cliff? Not when Neville's around, he would have a fit. It was easy to blame work, foot and mouth or whatever but the truth is that it is nearly two years since I wanted to climb seriously. Gulp.
The excuse for 3 pages (at pitch 9) of nostalgia? Nearly 30 full years with the KMC, great times on and off the hill. But why are so many memories based on near epics, and/or food and drink? Good wishes to all present, and past. And I do go on the occasional event, so see you.
