Reflections on a Great Day in the Alps

Dave and Ant, Fluchtkogel (3500m), Otztal Alps

Well weather wise it was not the best of seasons in the Alps.  Not that I am any kind of expert.  It was the first time I had ever been there to walk and climb, my previous single visit having been on a skiing trip half a dozen years earlier.

One of the risks of long awaited, and long anticipated holidays, is the potential let down caused by poor weather that risks scuppering great plans and good intentions.  When this happens I face a battle of the mindsets – one telling me to get on and enjoy it regardless, and the other loudly complaining about the injustice of nature, and uttering phrases such as "damn the unreliability of the Azores High Pressure Belt".  Yes, I know that last bit suggests I am a bit Skod*, but then that’s what comes from studying a compulsory meteorology module at university.

*My 'Skod' was first diagnosed by Mrs Fellbound who is actually Dr Mrs Fellbound. It is a medical term meaning 'Some Kind of Disorder'.

Superb first week weather
On the Kesselwandferner Glacier
Brandenburger Hut in background

                                                    

Fortunately, with a group of great companions who were ever optimistic, the rather indifferent Alpine weather in the Austrian Otztal Alps this summer was seen as a series of opportunities.  When it was poor, which was especially true of our second week, it gave us the chance to indulge in hut bound dossing.  This comprises brewing tea, lying for hours in sleeping bags, joking, listening to Steve D’s endless optimism (“it’s breaking up out there, I reckon there will be blue sky in a few minutes”), and scrounging left over food from rich Germans and Austrians who were based in the more luxurious rooms, whilst we filled the “Matratzenlager” up in the gods near the water tank.  And at our most energetic, Steve, Foxy, the lovely and sadly late John B. and I even managed to find the energy to practice building snow holes in the clag just a few dozen metres from the hut.

John breaks through to my snowhole

                                         

Snowholing at the Ramol Hause
Steve, John and Dave

                            

But the weather on my birthday, in the first week of our trip in August, was set fair.  There were 11 of us in total in our party from the Aberystwyth University Mountaineering Club, sleeping initially at the Breslauer Hut, which is above the village of Vent at 2840m.  We tended to split into a couple of groups, either going out on day climbs or heading off to other huts for a couple of nights, crossing glaciers and climbing various easy peaks on the way.

So, on the morning of my 20^th birthday we emerged from the pits of our sleeping bags at a horrible, unearthly hour, my first  “Alpine start”.  This was to make the best of the day before the sun made the crust of the snow too soft to walk on, leading to a thigh deep wade through a white morass.  Muesli at 4.00 a.m., with water rather than milk, a slab of Christmas Cake courtesy of Cathy B., and a mug of luke warm black tea.  I threw most of it up.  Nerves, or just the indecently early morning attempt to hold down the inedible?  And then we were off.

Now for an average Alpinist this would not be a tough day.  But for a fell walker with a slight nervousness of undue exposure, and virtually no real climbing experience, a longish Alpine Grade 2 ridge sounded a tough call.  The south-east ridge of the Wildspitze, which at 3768m is the second highest mountain in the Austrian Alps.  We had decided not to go by the tourist route over the glacier and relatively easy snow slopes, but by a real mixed mountaineering route, albeit a very easy one.  Not the stuff of Bonington and Scott, even though (The) Pete Boardman was one of our number**.

And so, for me, it did indeed prove to be tough.  As we scrambled over the easy ground near the hut someone realised we were a rope short.  It was the rope that I was supposed to bring.  Nerves again or stupidity?  I set off back to the hut, with the friendly encouragement of the others ringing in my ears.  You know, supportive stuff.  Things like “tosser” and “call yourself a Viking?” and “dick head!”.  Well my excuse was it would give them all the chance to sit and get their breath back after the initial exertions.

Then it was on with the scrambling, steeper, higher and ever increasing exposure , crossing first the Urkundkolm (3140m), then the Otztaler Urkund (3556m), the ridge becoming more pronounced, the drops seemingly ever higher and steeper.  Most of my mates moved elegantly, smoothly and with calm confidence founded on their experience of much steeper rock and ice, and the innate abilities they seemed to possess by the rucksack full.  I moved hesitantly, breathlessly, heart racing, mouth dry, conscious of the looseness of the rock, the unfamiliarity of the steep snow and the seemingly endless drops on either side of the ridge.  Ant J, the natural leader of the party, and Steve and Colin M, all accomplished climbers to my mind, rigged up rope handrails for us on some of the more exposed sections, and belayed one or two of us at other places, kindly and patiently hiding their exasperation with the muppet who was not able to solo up what, to them, was quite easy ground and who was slowing them down.

I guess there were 3 or 4 hours of this. The ridge after the Otztaler Urkund became very narrow and pinnacled.  I felt abject terror for much of this time, which I think I largely managed to hide, despite the struggle in my head.  And a constant feeling that I would never, ever, do this sort of thing again.  And then as time passed I experienced the increasing realisation that I was doing it, that I hadn’t bottled it, that actually the situation was just f***ing amazing, and, bloody hell, these views are just incredible, and I am so glad that we didn’t opt for the “tourist” route and follow up all those guided parties in a roped line across the ice and snow.

The ridge ended at a snow col, and we moved on to what I could grandly call a face, but it was really just a fairly steep slope of mixed snow, ice and rock, and it wasn’t really very difficult, even for me.  But by now I was moving more confidently, the drop was behind me and between my legs, rather than to both sides and my morale was now sky high.  We continued upwards largely unroped.  I now felt fit and at ease.  Overconfidence led to carelessness and I kicked a large, loose rock, setting it off to land on Steve’s hand, a few metres below me.  It must have hurt a lot.  He didn’t swear, well not much.  He said it was ok and not to worry about it and he just carried on.  Hero!  The guidebook had warned us that the greatest objective danger on this final section of the climb was being “struck by a sardine tin thrown from the summit by an unsuspecting climber from the tourist route unaware of the proximity of another route below them”.

Then we emerged onto the ridge of the south summit and bounded up to the large metal cross at the top for photos.  Large smiles all round, if not large drinks.

Wildspitze South Summit

It would be inaccurate to use the old cliché and say that the rest of the day was an anticlimax.  Freed of tension (always dangerous on a mountain) we headed down the “easy” tourist route, across the Mittekarferner glacier and back to the hut for early afternoon, full of the climb and what we had achieved.  We stuffed the rest of our gear into our rucksacks then hurtled down the path, below the snowline now, to Vent.  Tents up.  Bar spotted.  Beers purchased.  More beers purchased.  A celebration fit for a Viking’s birthday.  I can’t remember if we sang or not.  We usually did if we were anywhere near a bar.  Steve and John B. would normally start.  In tune.  Colin, Ant and I would always join in.  Out of tune.  But as the beer flowed, we would never hit a wrong note.  Or so we believed.  Manchester Rambler.  Wild Rover.  Sweet Mountain Thyme.  Bread of Heaven.  Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls.  Lancashire, Wales, Scotland.  Whatever.  They all resonated and symbolised our love of the hills and the purity of the special inebriation that can only come from sharp, crystal clear mountain air and snow bounced sunlight. 

The Wildspitze
Dave, John and Ant

                                             

As you will have guessed from the photographs this was long ago.  1977.  Just yesterday really.  It was a great day in the Alps, part of a superb summer.  Whatever the weather.  I can no longer recall each detail.  But I can sense every feeling, and every experience, all heightened by their newness and the adventurous spirit of youth.  And my mind still lives those friendships, irrespective of years and distance.

**  Pete Boardman was one of the great mountaineers of the 1970s.  He joined the legendary duo of Chris Bonington and Doug Scott on a number of expeditions, including the magnificent triumph of the SW Face of Everest in 1975.  After many other expeditions and superb achievements he tragically died whilst attempting  the NE Ridge of Everest in 1982.  Our Pete Boardman was not quite the same person, but he always insisted, rightly in my view, that he was a true original, and always signed the hut books as “(The) Pete Boardman”.  Well it always set the German climbers gaping and whispering, and gave our party that added bit of kudos and credibility. (The) Pete Boardman now runs a chip shop in Kirkby Stephen.

  

An Off Day in Keswick

Various domestic commitments this morning meant that, for me, there was no chance of going on the hills today.  In any case,  the weather deteriorated rapidly, with the wind rising almost as fast as the heavens were opening.  So I decided to spend the afternoon of my off day in Keswick.

As I headed down the A66, with the windscreen wipers working overtime, I did spare several thoughts for Martin (@Rye1966) and Alan Sloman (@AlanSloman), whose Twitter posts had informed the world, or their followers at least, that they were wild camping somewhere near the summit of Ingleborough or Whernside or some such.  Brave men indeed.  For me the prospect of an hour or so wandering around Keswick seemed like a more enticing prospect.

A few years ago I sneered at people who would wander around a touristy town so near to the hills simply because of a bit of wind and rain.  But no longer.  Age has changed me.  To my mind, Keswick is unbeatable - in England at least. To north, to south, to west the views are magnificent.  It is not often that it can be said that the work and activities of man has improved on that of nature.  But I think in the Lakes this is indeed the case.  To stand at Friar's Crag and look down towards the Jaws of Borrowdale and beyond is enough to have you reaching for the dictionary to check that you are using the word "sublime" correctly.  Sublime, indeed, it is.  Feeling awe and wonder whilst standing there has to be the natural state of mind to anyone with a heart and soul.

As I mooched around George Fisher's, the iconic gear shop located in the former studios of the legendary Abraham brothers, the Victorian photographers and mountaineers, I overheard a conversation between a customer and one of the shop assistants.  The shop assistant, making polite conversation, mentioned that it was a "dreadful day".  "Not at all", said the customer, "it is a wonderful day, it's just that the weather is poor".  What a wonderful perspective on life that man has.

So, an off day in Keswick?  There is rarely an off day in Keswick.  It is at its best on a wet and windy day in late November.  The summer crowds have long gone.  The Christmas and New Year throngs are yet to come.  Forget the weather.  Browse the gear shops at leisure, wander down to the lake to check that water really does run off the ducks' backs (it does) , order a coffee and a toasted tea cake, and just let the stress of the last week evaporate away.  And, above all, keep raising your eyes to the fells that surround the town, and dream awhile, and remember that one day you will again be a free man on the hills*.

* With thanks to Harry Griffin and AH Sidgwick.

Let’s hear it for Alton Towers (even though I have never visited)

The summit of Bowfell, August 2010: almost the scene of a very unpleasant incident!

I often wonder whether I am alone in the completely selfish attitude I hold towards going on to the hills.  I get the impression, on the flimsiest of evidence, from comments in outdoor magazines and from blogs and tweets, that many dedicated and regular hill goers are liberal (with a small letter “L”), and incredibly tolerant of their fellow beings.  I envy this attitude but have not yet mastered it.  But perhaps many others really do share my views?

This is where I admit to my crabby, undemocratic spirit and intolerance.  I love the sense of peace and solitude that I get on many of my days on the hill.  I try to seek out areas that I believe will be empty, especially at weekends and holiday times.  Even in the Lake District there are still quiet places on summer Bank Holidays.  But with the growth in popularity in hillwalking, with better roads and more car ownership, the hills have become far more crowded in the 40 years I have been wandering them.  Solitude is harder to find for us all.  And, thus, I have to admit to a sense of hypocritical intolerance towards my fellow man when I am out doing what I enjoy most.  I am happy to pass the time of day with other solitary walkers, provided it’s not for too long and I can sit and enjoy a snack in silence.  But the presence of chattering groups pushes me to lung bursting, leg aching exertion to put distance between them and me.

It is not just the lack of solitude that inspires my Wainwrightesque attitude, although I have not yet stooped to his depths of turning round and pretending to pee to drive away those attempting polite conversation.  It’s also the erosion, the litter, the reminders of civilisation and all the thoughts that the latter brings to mind, that so disturb the sense of tranquillity.  And in this, I let myself develop an irritation when I should be seeking calm.  Being on the hills should be therapy, not an instigator of angst.

These attitudes, of course, are completely hypocritical and have grown as I have aged.  I cause as much erosion as the next man (although I like to think that competent hill walkers do not do so).  I certainly destroy the solitude for other walkers, who perhaps are viewing me with the same antagonism that I too often view them.  Perhaps the answer and the solution lie within me. I need to develop big T tolerance and not just small L liberalism.

Until I master this I will continue with my unuttered barbs and jibes, always contained, and mostly hidden behind a cheery greeting or snatched conversation.  Such as near the top of Bow Fell on a wet, cloudy day last year.

“Do you know where we are”, I was asked, "my GPS battery is dead”.

“Yes thank you”, I replied.

“Oh” said he.  “Could you show me on the map?”

“No problem – we are about here”.

“Thanks” he said.  How did you know that without a GPS?”

“Because, Dumbo, I have a map, a compass, a brain, and I use all three”.

Of course the last line was not spoken, just thought.  I simply said “Oh, you know….” and smiled and waved the map and went on my way.

Later that day I met another lost group near Esk Hause.

“Is that the path down towards Borrowdale?” I was asked.

They were actually heading towards Eskdale.  It would be a 40 mile taxi ride and a £60 fare if they got it wrong.  The hidden philanthropist in me emerged.  But I was so tempted, oh so tempted, before I heroically sent them off north to Borrowdale not south to Eskdale, and my self righteous sense of goodness exploded within me, and repeatedly returned on future outings.  Until I ended up completely disoriented on Red Screes one awful claggy day this August.

So what’s so great about Alton Towers?  Well, in short, my selfish desire for solitude and the chance for enjoyment mean that I relish every television advert for Alton Towers, every leaflet I see for a National Trust House, every brown road sign pointing the way to a tourist honey pot.  Good luck to them all.  Pull in the crowds.  Pull them in by the million.  Offer all comers a fabulous experience.  I genuinely hope that all who go to them have a wonderful time and repeat their visits.  I hope they find the prospect far more enticing than grinding up a steep fell side.  You see, I do wish my fellow man well.

Love at First Sight?

The photo is a view of a misty Goldscope Valley and Newlands from Dale Head, 2010

                    

Well it wasn't quite love at first sight but pretty much so.  I had been on the occasional day trip to the Lakes whilst at primary school.  But it was my first proper visit in Easter 1973, at the age of 15, when I travelled up to what was then still Cumberland in the back of an army 4 ton truck with the school cadet force.  That is when it really happened for me.

My first memories of the area are hazy.  I recall leaning out of the back of the lorry into the nightime darkness of Borrowdale being violently sick and wanting to die.  At that time I used to get badly travel sick, but this was compounded by the diesel fumes that had been pumped in to the back of the truck through the open canvas all the way up the M6.  I suffered badly and noisily. By the time that we arrived at the Hollows Farm Camp Site I was really ill.  My mate, Rob Strachan, put up the tent for me as I stood around, feeling helpless and not helping, waiting to be able to crawl into a very grungy army issue, sleeping bag.

By the next morning I felt on top of the world.  In those days you could camp right up to the River Derwent at Hollows Farm.  Rob and I cleaned our teeth and washed in the river.  The sun rose over Grange Fell.  I was alive and in love. Never before had I been aware of such beauty.  Never before had the air seemed so clear.  Never had views been so sharp.  Never before had I sensed such contentment.

For the next seven days we walked over the fells, climbed on the crags and canoed on the rivers and lakes.  I was no stranger to hills.  I had walked and walked and walked over the hills of my native Shropshire.  Rob and I would cover long distances each weekend over the Long Mynd, the Stiperstones and the hills of the Welsh Marches.  50 miles in 20 hours was my record. Rob was always faster and stronger.

But the fells were different.  These were to be savoured, to be worshiped, to be loved  from the outset.  Almost 40 years later I can still recall so many of the views I experienced that week, the feeling of freedom, the first visits to the summits that have since become my regular companions, the same summits that can now suffer from our over familiarity, and which can can leave me feeling guilty after a day on them.  Guilty because I sometimes find myself looking forward to the end of the walk rather than savouring every moment of their company.   Guilty becasue I sometimes shun them through lack of will and effort.  Guilty at this lack of constancy from me to them despite all that they have given to me.

So I recall with all my senses the excitement and perfection of the Buttermere, Robinson, Hindscarth, Dale Head route back to Hollows Farm.  The adrenalin and fear as I did my first rock climb, Donkey's Ears on Shepherd's Crag. I still picture the vital foothold on the severe traverse of the final pitch, with my teacher, Ernie Goddard, guiding me to it with calm instructions from his relaxed stance a few feet away; I could still picture that foothold when I led that same pitch 25 years later when I took up climbing far too late in life.   I recall the excitement as a group of us canoed through the reeds of the delta where the River Derwent meets its namesake lake.  And I still recall the joy and sheer teenage exuberance as we later canoed in the glorious early evening sunshine, of that perfect Easter week, on the too shallow Derwent by the camp site.  The place from where, one day, my ashes will disperse and float downstream to settle in the shallow waters of that delta on Derwent Water.