Dreams of Blue Skies and Shorts

The dull grip of January has passed and teasing February has come. February is cruel. It offers a sun warming day, then a promise of ice and snow but in reality it’s just persistent Bristol drizzle dead grey days.

I want summer rock. I’ve packed away the crampons now. I’ve done my stint of hacking away in the cold – luxurious Italian valleys and a seized opportunity in a frozen South Wales has left me with the ‘done that’ feeling, and I’m ready for blue skies and shorts. So they’re packed in my bag, along with the ticket for Alicante and the Costa Blanca guide book.

I’m assuming a Spanish February will be uncomplicated – direct and honest. Mild, maybe wet sometimes, but offering a tantalising taste of summer (UK summer that is). I’m not assuming I’ll be climbing like a stone monkey. Injury time-out over the winter makes that a fantasy, but if the mountain gods are feeling good and if the warm sun melts away aches and pains, I will make my merry way up the Puig Campana: 13 pitches of perfectly possible climbing.

It’s always best to sneak up on an ambition: you’re less likely to experience disappointment that way. I don’t have a climbing tick list of routes. It’s the adventure that comes first and I dream of an adventure in a drier and sunnier environment than Snowdonia or Scotland; where the rock doesn’t weep and where I can dispense with the thermal underwear. I may have to confine my adventure to Sella, Toix, the ridges of Costa Blanca or even the local bars, but I’ll go with the flow, pretend it’s summer and enjoy.

 

 

Ice Climbing Take 2

It was a good start, despite the 12 months gap. Blue blue skies, deep deep snow and a wall of glacier hanging from the white peaks at the far end of the valley – It all looked exactly the same as last January.

Did I get the’ layering’ right?  Did I pack the rucksack with all the right stuff?  Did I remember how to swing a tool? Did I remember the sound of the blade soundly entering the thick ice?

Yes, I did.

And the hot chocolate was as good as I remembered too.

That was day one.

On day two  we did a spot of reconnaissance involving struggling up a steep deep snow filled slope to find the start of a route, and then checked out the rest of the valley to assess the ‘fatness’ of the routes Baz had a mind to  lead. We earmarked a grade 4+ for next day. Last year’s thin pillar was now a chunky steep block of encouraging looking ice.

Bit of trial on the third day. The third pitch chunky pillar of 90 degree hard- as- nails ice fractured and splintered. The first two pitches hadn’t inspired me and this third pitch left me speechless. I fought my way inelegantly: sliding off, bashing ineptly, crampons and axes flailing. Had I remembered the ice being this hard?  Had I had such trouble finding a place to swing my axe into? Had it my hands and arms hurt this much?

No.

At the end of the day I felt as if I’d been tortured on the rack. Thank God for anti -inflammatories.

The sun god was smiling on us – and laughing too. Warm January sunshine at midday is luxurious, but it melts all that’s frozen. The cold nights weren’t that painful sort of cold when you know everything that moves will freeze, so over the next few days the ice thinned as well as turned into armour coating the rock.

The following day we said we’d have a short day. The ‘short’ walk-in didn’t feel that short, and the first pitch was hollow sounding. We were probably tired and emotional but the sun definitely felt like a laser beam on the belay on the first pitch and I was sure the whole world was melting (including me) …so we retreated to cappuccino and more hot chocolate.

Had I remembered it was possible to get so painfully cold and then so suffocatingly hot?

No.

The next two days seemed a bit relentless. Long walk ins; overwhelmingly irritating struggles with small motor functions wearing 2 pairs of gloves; hard, hard glacier mint ice. Physical discomforts seemed to outweigh the enjoyable challenge of ascending curtains of ice. A touch of ‘type 3’ fun. The environment seemed to be turning more hostile, and by Friday afternoon I stood and watched large pieces of ice slide off the sides of mountains while I belayed.  I experienced new sounds – the ‘whump’ of a large lump as it landed about 5 metres away, and the thud of large sections of waterfalls disintegrating somewhere further up the valley.

‘We should get out of here quickly’, stated Baz.

I couldn’t have agreed more.

 

 

Ice Crystals

Relentless

People were staring. I felt guilt; shame. Could I really go through with this?

A dull dreary damp grey Christmas Eve. Not much good for anything but oddly perfect for relentless rehab exercises. I’m almost there, almost mended, but the ice carrot is dangling very near. I have promised faithfully to the lovely Lisa that I will do everything in my power to ensure my shoulders are as strong as they possibly can be before I start hacking and hanging on vertical frozen waterfalls.

I’m allowed to move on from the relentless boredom of exercises in the morning and evening gloom with an acrid rubber band to movement on a wall adorned with holds. And on a dull day like today the bouldering centre is just the place to practice the art of ‘setting my shoulders’.

I lose a bet that there will be less than 20 people there…there are 23 – and join the escapees from the consumer madness that is a UK Christmas.

The last time I was here I hung upside down, got blisters on my fingers and threw myself at the coloured holds until my shoulder hurt. Unsurprisingly I now know that that wasn’t a good idea. Today there is an entirely different agenda. ‘Training’, not fun, not proving myself or showing off. And if there is the slightest complaint from my shoulder I shall leave instantly. Honestly.

It’s radical and it makes both me and those around me uneasy. I’m aware of eyes watching me as I progress up the walls using ANY of the holds. Shocking isn’t it? I must positively avoid following a line of red, green or those nice blue and yellow swirly ones.  Instead I must use the holds as tools to recovery – to reach and ‘set’; and to make it increasingly difficult and again, to ‘set’. I use holds that fit in with what I need to do, not just because they are a particular colour. Outrageous.

Circuits prove very versatile, but I get easily confused by the need to take a circular path as well as use holds that provide a particular movement. The man waiting for his turn looks very confused too. So I give up on that idea and try a traverse using handholds by my chest and keeping myself close to the wall, while ‘setting’ at every move. It makes me sweat and grunt…so it must be good for me.

I have earned a cup of tea. Sitting there feeling slightly dazed, I look longingly at the severely overhanging wall in front of me. Perhaps I could just try a few moves and see if the training to make the ‘setting’ subconscious is working. A few moves in and I know it’s best avoided. I’ll stick to the real world. How often will I need climb upside down in any environment that isn’t contained by 4 walls?

How things have changed. I love the challenges that climbing presents, but nowadays I know it’s best to pick them rather than  square up to all of them. I can now resist the ‘child in a sweet shop’ syndrome and the tyranny of the indoor climbing wall. This way I’ll end up with teeth – and I’ll be able to revel for a week on huge towers of thick Italian ice in sunshine and blue skies away from the drabness of the UK winter.

Poppy

Crib Goch Motorway

Shoulder still whinging so it’s a no climbing trip to Snowdonia. No matter: It’s November and it’s all wet and greasy.

‘What shall we do?

Let’s wander about a bit.

What? No summit chasing and route marching? – promise?’

So Baz and I wandered about a bit above Ynys Ettws where we found a gold frog, a starry blue gentian and solitude. As we came up into Cwm Glas Bach the cloud twisted away from the summits to reveal a more populated spot. On Crib Goch ridge there was a trail of forest ants – at least thirty figures, backs bent with rucksacks, making their way across the spine.

‘Look at those clouds move
. I wouldn’t want to be up here in that wind.’

My words were tinged with jealousy though. At least they were touching rock.

Baz, with his 20 year knowledge of the place compared to my paltry 3 years, added his nugget:

‘It’s a very dangerous scramble .The world and his wife goes up there and as often as not gets into trouble. It kills people. It’s like an alpine ridge and if we were in the Alps it would be normal to rope up for it. Here, anyone can get to it and anyone goes on it, and they shit themselves. ‘

We sat and ate our sandwiches looking out to Anglesey, listening to the waterfalls and streams in the Cwm and the drifting voices from above.

Later, in the Pub, we met one of the forest ants and his tale echoed that of Baz’s.

‘There was a bloke there with his wife. She was petrified. Stuck.’

‘Why would anyone want to do that to their relationship?’  I wondered. And why take such huge risks?

Sunday brought clear skies and a walk on the Glyders with hazy mountain views for miles. Stopping for a bit of shelter from a crazy wind on the way down, we met more forest ants from the previous day. It was like Baz had ordered them as part of a menu.

‘Our book says it’s a walk, and describes it as ‘challenging in winter’.  We haven’t done anything like it before and we had to dig deep. I wasn’t happy. There was a husband there who dragged his wife over it even though she was obviously terrified. And a father and son who were also having difficulties.’

We all tutted and wondered why there was nothing anywhere to warn non-climbers about its extreme exposure.

Is it a good thing that the health-and –safety-risk-averse society we live in doesn’t nanny us in the wild places of the UK?

Or is it a bad thing that we’ve been nannied so much we are now unable to carry out our own risk assessments?

 

 

 

 

 

Denial

Head fights don’t just happen in climbing. In this case it’s not the ‘I can’t’ when I can, it’s ‘I can’, when I can’t.  I’m an expert in the art of denial.

Aches and pains are part of an active life. Aren’t they? What’s wrong with climbing on overhanging walls until it hurts? What’s wrong with having disturbed sleep because my shoulder hurts? And isn’t it painful for every woman reaching behind her back to undo her bra?

It’s been a long time coming but, like a runaway train, it had to come to a stop at some point.

I haven’t climbed now for 2 weeks and 4 days.

After a head fight when the ‘I can’t’ won – brought on by the level of pain during a simple lead at the local climbing wall – I took myself off to the physiotherapist .

Once there I listened closely: especially to the part where she said ‘you don’t need to stop climbing’ (Reality is what one pays attention to). A Rotator cuff tendon issue (a shoulder thing). I followed Lovely Lisa’s advice: I took Ibuprofen and stuck a bag of frozen peas on it again and again. And I did the boring exercises with the Theraband and restricted gym visits to a few even more boring routines.

. …And I carried on climbing.  She did say I could do easy, gentle stuff.  It’s great how words can be interpreted to mean exactly what you want- a bit like my approach to route finding.

It was a few days after the second visit to Lovely Lisa when it hit home. I’d gone to Cornwall, discovered the delights of Chair Ladder, (I won’t mention the greasy rock, bird shit and crumbly eye- filling lichen, and it was ‘easy gentle climbing’, honestly) and ended up at a less chronically tidal crag just around the corner. A few moves into a Severe lead there was a quick skirmish in my head followed quickly by a complete surrender.  The ‘slight’ wrench I had given my shoulder on the climbing wall a couple of days before strangely hadn’t helped with the recovery. Hadn’t helped at all. It was very sore, worse than before- well probably not, but I panicked.  Denial crumbled and acceptance poked me in the eye.  I knew I shouldn’t be climbing at all. ‘What’s wrong’ asked Rob. ‘You don’t look very happy’.

Even then there was a bit of fight left in me – I could have walked away from the sea cliff, but no. I watched Dave do a VS very nicely and then went up after him, telling myself it would be last one for 2 weeks. I could only cope with the idea of 2 weeks.

So it’s now 2 weeks and 4 days and on my third visit to Lovely Lisa she tells me it’s all improving but the tendon is still inflamed, and to carry on with the tedious Theraband exercises and gym visits… No climbing until it’s settled down.

It’s a matter of ‘persistence and patience’ says Lovely Lisa.  So I try not to scream an continue to  make sure I ‘set ‘my shoulders correctly, and I also set my mind on another 2 weeks. But it may be easier to extend that now:  The real incentive is now a week’s ice climbing in January – and there’ll be no room for denial then if my shoulder gives out on 90 degrees of ice.

Cross training

 

‘I did the half marathon last week…thinking of having a go at a full one this term. How you getting on with the Badminton Club?’

‘Yeah. Great.  I thought I might try the hockey team this term. And I’ll be doing the marathon again this year. My time last year wasn’t so good. I’d like to better it.’

Oh God. Active Students at the bottom of the local crag.  How come I’ve found myself rubbing shoulders with precisely the people I’d despise when I was a ‘stay in bed a lot and drink pints of larger a lot’ student?  What have I become?

I’ve become a training dairy owning person; someone who puts their daily activity before all; someone who talks about ‘rest days’.  At least I’m not as bad as Neil Gresham who says a rest day is a good day to go running. That’s mad.

All for the sake of climbing.

I run cross country. (A statement that makes me laugh at myself even now).  It’s an activity I took up to stop the sweat, puff and aching shins of mountain walk-ins. I surprised myself by liking it and rely on it to clear head muddle after an office day.

I go to the gym. (I laugh even harder).  Arthritic fingers aren’t meant to climb hard more than a couple of times a week – if I want to still be doing it in a few years time -  so to keep  hands, arms and shoulders all in good working order I subject myself to strange repetitive tasks in an airless enclosed space. I look at the masses on the treadmills and look out the window to the park beyond and just wonder ‘Why?’

The trouble is, all the previous exercise in my life has been surreptitious. I’ve not noticed it: I’ve never taken exercise for exercise sake. Gardening and labouring made me what I am and what I now want to maintain despite the fact I’m no longer a gardener and no longer have to do up a house.

This ‘exercise’ I now do isn’t part of a more fruitful activity, nor is it fun. So, what to do?

‘Cross training’ is now part of my vocabulary and I’ve found an excellent activity that is both fun and useful – Hula hooping. Great for core strength, balance and coordination. (And it increases the ability to laugh at yourself).

At the local primary school hall I spend an hour a week with Nick– a man who can twirl that thing with a passion – and a handful of snaky ladies.  Never mind wiggly hips, we whirl the thing up, down, around , above and  below the body: neck hooping is interesting and I just can’t get the hang of a hula with arms inside the hoop  (Nick says it can take months). A ‘lift’ and a ‘drop’ is now part of my repertoire after nearly breaking the hall clock and braining the nearest class member to me. These are large and dangerous tools – I end up with aching shoulders and bruised hands and back…and I’ve laughed a lot.

Now that’s my sort of training.

Parsley

Here I am again, pressing the parsley between my fingertips and sniffing its sweet sharpness. I still don’t understand how it grows here. All summer I’ve moaned and groaned about missed opportunities and in the last gaspings of the season the flow seems to be moving again. I’m seconding hard routes like I like to – to see how much better my climbing is; to check I’m as good as I was last year; to argue with the ‘I can’t’, and to put away fears of decrepitude. No pressure then.

I’m at the bottom of Limbo (E1 5B), on the large lump of rock that holds up the Bristol Suspension Bridge. ‘Best bit of climbing in the Gorge’, declares Barry, who demonstrates this conviction by re-doing the buttress routes every year.

So here I am again, looking up at the black stains, the buttonholed quartz, and the blocky mess, remembering last years parsley and last years fall on this route. This time I want to solve the puzzle and I want to climb with absorption and delight- with none of that old fashioned doubt and anxiety.

I watch powerful and graceful Barry carefully as he steadily makes his way up. The big blank wall halfway up threw me off last time, so I’m looking for clues to beat it. Barry looks like he’s doing an absorbing job of enjoyable work. Lead climbing is one of the few times he stops talking. Then he’s gone from sight.

Time to put the new shoes on. There’s parsley under my feet for the first few metres and then I forget about it as I find a flow and rhythm. Hand and footholds arrive without a search party. My body seems to know more about how to do this than my head – a change from last year. I’m soon on the ledge, removing gear that would hold up a tank, and ready to step out and across on to the blank bit. It suddenly seems very steep and very smooth.

I get to a tiny foothold that from below had seemed huge, and looking up, see the way signposted by chalk – and the one bit of polish on the route: the only available foot (toe) hold. I’m used to the hundred and one ways to do a severe, not the 5 move wonders of an E1.Deep breathing becomes necessary while I follow the holes and edges, and although it feels precarious and although my fingers and toes don’t have much to work with, I don’t fall off this time. I avoid the seductive lure of the deep groove above, just using it for a rest before climbing out and around. Really enjoying it now, I tiptoe across the traverse and after a few thrutchy moves I’m with Barry, looking at the Avon tide flowing in over the mud.

Job done – with a remarkable absence of ‘I can’t’ and with remarkable pleasure.

Old Friends

I returned to my roots. I had been feeling out of sorts with this strange vertical activity. The fact I was seeing it as ‘strange’ indicated something was wrong.  For some months now the fun seemed to have taken second place to the need to progress, and progress had involved being outside my comfort zone more than was comfortable. Climbing had become something I ‘do’ rather than something I wanted to do. I knew this was a temporary estrangement – that the addiction still ran deep- so what to do? How to regain the love?

‘Where shall we go?’ texted Rob.  ‘I’d like to go somewhere pretty, and do some routes I know I like,’ I replied. ‘Let’s go to Symonds Yat’.

It was a good choice.  The August rush never seems to reach to the Wye Valley. The sunny interval Sunday morning had a smattering of chilled-out tourists looking at the views of the curling river and steep sided wooded valley, and a clutch of climbers picking their way up the warm coloured limestone cliffs emerging from the dense tree canopy.

We repeated routes –shocking, and flying in the face of that one dimensional single-mindedness that demands new achievements on every climbing trip. Starting with a nice warm up on the 3 pitch (if you can find the last one) ‘Snoozin Susie’ (VD),  and finishing on ‘Homeopath’(S)(which we’d both done the easy way previously, but this time strategically put in some very determined gear above the first move ).  We were tempted by one new route, but mainly because we’d avoided it on a previous trip and by then the love was rekindled enough for me to think ‘I can do that’ without a question mark after it. A bit of advice from a couple of cheerful blokes about gear made ‘Nansen Corner’ (S) more than possible.

While I was sitting perched uncomfortably on the cliff belaying Rob up, it struck me that one of things I enjoy most about climbing was precisely this – the view that climbers are privileged to share with the birds. In this most precarious of places I feel safe; the cantankerous world becomes less intrusive, and I can wallow in the environment. I remember sitting in this valley a year ago and watching 7 white butterflies chase each other over the tops of the trees; I remember a sunny Sunday in Pembroke wondering which would be better- being in the serene yacht on the blue sea or on the cliff watching it; I remember spotting the speck of my blue tent far below me on Grooved Arête on Tryfan; and I’ll never forget the empty snowy horizon from Bristly Ridge where the only movement were the clouds and their shadows.

The Wye was a good choice – like meeting old friends again and finding you can carry on just where you left off. The reasons for climbing are multifarious and some of the better ones can get lost. Luckily I know where to look.