Jordan Climbing Trip

"Shurkran habibi" said Andrew with a grin. The taxi driver had accepted to drive us from the airport into the desert some 4 hours drive away. I had just landed in Amman Airport at 3am Sunday morning and was greeted by a happy Andrew who had arrived half an hour earlier. We set off towards Wadi Rum, a little beduin village on the border to the desert in the South of Jordan. The drivess would take 4 hours and we'd arrive as the sun would rise in Rum. Andrew had got his hands on blankets and pillows from his flight and we cuddled up in the back of the car to sleep most of the way.

Arriving with not much sleep we went straight to "Wadi Restaurant", a weathered old building with a few tables outside. We immediately bumbed into some of the local friends of Andrew's: Erga, an 71 year old American woman turned Bedouin and Atech the son of the local Bedouin Master (not quite a sheik I think), We also met the chef of the restaurant Abu Ali who would turn out to become a good friend over the next days. Abu Ali had been in Jordan for a year or so, having escaped Iraq leaving his wife, kids, dogs, house, fields and work (he was a lawyer). It was quite eye-opening to listen to his stories in the evening and discuss politics and wars with someone who was really affected by it. It must be truly desperate to have to leave your wife and kids indefinitely.

Once fed with tea and a good breakfast (omelet, pita-bread and jam) we checked out our possibilities for accommodation which was either a grim looking Abi Ghrail type prison block or an excellent looking open air penthouse flat (basically the roof of Abu Ali’s restaurant) we decided on the later leaving Abu Ghrail to Andrew’s Swiss friends who was arriving the following day.

Being fairly knackered from not having must sleep in the taxi we considered two options: take a nap and take it easy or go climb a rock, we were surrounded by it on all sides. No place for the weak, and the boys wanted to rock and roll, so we geared up and headed off in the sand towards the nearest crag some 10 minutes walk from Wadi Rum, some 500 meters high! We (or Andrew really, the guide for the week) chose a route called Mumkin that would take us half way up the magnificent rock and our descent would be by abseil. Since I had no idea how the grading was I trusted Andrew to having picked something suitable easy to easy us and especially me into the climbing – I hadn’t climbed any real rock for a long time, and my ambitious training regime had consisted of the run to catch the bus to the airport 24 hours earlier. So it was not without trepidation that I got my shoes and harness on and tied into the ropes, luckily Andrew had offered to lead the first pitch so I still had time to … well to get more scared.

It turned out to be an excellent climb with my pitch being really exposed but on good and solid rock with plenty of challenges to keep me focused. I found it pretty hard and Andrew kindly agreed that it was a bit hard for the grade after he had swum up it to meet me at the stance. It was a pretty exciting first climb.

The descent was equally exciting if not downright scary. Apparently this is a regular trademark of Wadi Rum climbing: scary and nasty rope-eating abseils. The problem is really in the rock that is so shard and flaky that the rope is more or less certain to catch and jam if you are not both careful as well as lucky. We managed to get the rope completely stuck in one place and Andrew had to climb up in a rather exposed fashion to retrieve the jammed rope. If you can’t get the rope back (which in many situations is very likely), there’s really not any alternative than to sit tight and wait for rescue. This can be a very long wait in certain places out in the desert. So it’s a real nail-biting experience to “pull the ropes” on these long abseils. Andrew did get our rope freed and we managed the rest of the week, by being careful and lucky, not to get the rope stuck again.

After an excellent afternoon on rock we returned to the village to the local Refreshment Tent and re-hydrated the best we could in the local (quite expensive) Golden Throat Charmer. After a quick meal at Abu Ali’s (chicken and rise) we headed off to the penthouse for a long and nice sleep. Andrew, being a seriously experienced and up to date traveler, had even brought earplugs for the both of us, so that we could sleep all the way until the late morning ignoring the 5am prayer, the local dog barks, and the general noise of an open air penthouse. Good job.
Monday

Next morning (Monday) we met the Swiss who’d arrived the previous evening and after much greeting and eating we stocked up, packed our gear and headed out in a 4wd (with driver) to the desert to stay three days. This was something I really looked forward to and I was not disappointed. Andrew knew an excellent camp spot and knew all the climbs in the area and it was really just a matter of picking and choosing between the numerous challenges out there. Monday afternoon was spent climbing “Sunkiss” while the Swiss did the neighboring route called … . A most excellent route again, with a finish that one hardly forgets. A full rope length of an exposed traverse (not trivial) with pretty must 1 perhaps 2 pieces of protection. The traverse teaches you a good lesson about Wadi Rum: you probably don’t want to fall off this stuff.

We returned to the camp in the evening and had our pita-bread with various toppings, refreshments, and numerous cups of tea. Sitting around the fireplace in the desert is a great experience. It almost reminded me of the happy days being a scout. Maybe also because of Andrew had announced himself the Scout Master (with a cane and all) and that I was on a good path to take my Tea-making badge, my Bedouin Climbing Badge, etc.
Tuesday

Next day’s objective was a suggestion to climb “Snow in the Desert” a hard and awfully intimidating looking 11 pitch route that it bang in the sun for the most of the day. Does look like a super climb, but as we approached the shadow of this towering sea of rock we quite quickly came up with several excuses why this climb would have to wait for another day. Instead we looked across to the other side of the valley and spotted “Ocean Slabs” which was a long “Bedouin” type route up a genuine sea of slabs taking the commuted team all the way to the summit. This fitted the bill and we set off to do this instead.

It was quite and undertaking and we had a full day probably even more in the sun, but with more easy climbing and lots of it. It was pretty scary stuff though and although we climbed without ropes we tended to swap leads once the leader was drained mentally. This solo-climbing is very much a mental game and although it really is easy climbing, one can suddenly freeze half way up a 100 meters slab and think: “Will this go”, “how the hell do we get down” etc. Our route-finding (a major issue on these long climbs), was pretty spot on and although we had a couple of moments where we seemed to have lost the “bottle” (or the YOOOR!), we managed to pull it through and got up to the final barrier before the summit. We couldn’t figure out how to get over the last bit though, and after several brave attempts from Andrew, and with a fairly worried “how do we get down” Mathias, then we decided that the actual summit could wait for another day and we started heading down. Andrew had an inspirational suggestion that we should go down another way than we came up and although this can sometimes get you into some serious trouble, this was a good decision as we quickly found some old abseil thread here and there and started a quick and enjoyable descent all the way down to the desert floor.

We arrived at the camp before the Swiss team and having been in the sun all day we felt pretty exhausted and therefore started the refreshment phase early.
Wednesday

Next day was booked for doing “Merlins Wand”, a classic of the area. A awe-inspiring crack splitting one of the steep rock faces in the Barra Canyon Valley. We invited JM along from the Swiss team, and climbed the beauty as a pleasant team of three. We took our time and enjoyed it all. I led the “crux” pitch and was really pleased that I still have it in me and can climb stuff in the extreme end of the grade. It’s a top climb that everyone visiting the area should do.

Returning the the camp in good time we packed everything and spent the rest of the afternoon bouldering on the beautiful boulders that was scattered around our pickup point.

Ataech picked us up in the afternoon and we headed back thirsty and dirty to Wadi Rum. In the evening we managed to get Abu Ali to extend his menu from Chicken and Rise to include “A Jebel (mountain) of Chips”, which went down really well. We also met all the local young Bedouin hotshot guides which was quite entertaining. They also thought it was quite a laugh waiving their hands under the chin to illustrate a head-chopping session, suggesting that I would not live to see another day (because of the Muhammed Drawings), and Andrew quickly established that he was indeed English and planned to sleep in our open access penthouse with his passport taped to his throat – just in case they came to us that night. I didn’t sleep much that night.
Thursday

Next morning was layed out as a bit of a rest day and Andrew and I took it easy and enjoyed being in Abu Ali’s restaurant and company and only around 11am did we start thinking about doing something or the other this for me last day in Wadi Rum. We lazily looked left to Jebel … and right to Jebel Rum, the second highest mountain in Jordan. Suddenly we forgot all about rest days and decided: let’s climb the bugger. We geared up in 5 minutes, grabbed some water and headed off to what is usually a two day climb (one day up, camp, and one day down). Without any mistakes (route finding wise, a major challenge), we should be able to pull it off in time for refreshments in the evening.

The pace was set (quick walking) and we spent the next 7-8 hours non-stop climbing up rock for miles and miles. It was a truly excellent climb and only possible because of Andrew now totally transformation into a Beduin Guide. He wasn’t taking any prisoners, and all I could do was to follow and politely mention when the stuff was a bit dangerous. We got to the summit and enjoyed the views and again headed down a different route. This descent route Andrew knew though and that made it straight forward, although not easy. We were particularly cribbled a bit only having brought one rope and we did have a few scary abseils to mid-way point on big walls where we had to set up our own abseils on creative bits of sandy rock. It went fine though and we were actually a bit chuffed getting down to the village again even before the Swiss had returned from their full day venture. An excellent tick.


Friday

I was due back to Copenhagen from Amman Sunday, and decided to visit Petra on the way. So I left a full blood Beduin Andrew Friday morning, and headed off to Petra with a couple of other travelers in the local bus. It was well weird suddenly to be on your own (I’d had Andrew taking care of me the whole week), but it was also really enjoyable to set off into new land on a popular tourist path to see some culture and history of Jordan. Petra was excellent a really interesting place (huge). We (the people I had met and was now traveling with) all stayed at a most excellent youth hostel with an inclusive dinner, which I salvaged in the evening. I had only tasted chicken, rise and pita-bread (and a chip), so the lavish Arabian buffet that evening was an overwhelming site and it was really really excellent stuff. There were many other travelers gathering around on the tables and we all had quite an enjoyable evening telling stories etc.
Saturday

Next day I decided to head to Amman to spent a bit of time in the regular city and to experience a bit of the atmosphere of the Arabian Mad City life that I have enjoyed before in Cairo. I wasn’t disappointed and I actually really liked Amman – it’s less crazy than Cairo and it’s actually really pleasant to walk around. You practically don’t get hassled but if you ask someone they are still well on for haggling over the prices etc. They have all the exotic shops and some fine restaurants, barber shops, fruit markets and spice shops all over the place. There isn’t must history to see, which is why there aren’t many tourists I suppose, so a day or two is probably enough, but definitely worth it. I had a good laugh meeting local nutters on the street, overcharging taxi drivers and enthusiastic shopkeepers. Another thing that’s nice in Amman is that you see women, both with vail, without and with the burka, whereas in Wadi Rum they are practically hidden.

I ate in some westernly looking place in the evening and slept on a fairly rough hotel. Next morning I got the 7am bus to Amman Airport (2 hours drive, price: 1 pound). I had a long and fairly tedious flight back (connecting in Vienna with a long and boring Transit wait) and arrived back in Copenhagen Sunday night.

It was an excellent trip, especially because of Andrews local knowledge and all his double racks of useful items. The climbing is world class and Wadi Rum and the desert is quite a unique place. Petra is a world class tourist attraction and Amman an interesting stop on the way. The people are really friendly and come from all over the Middle East. Since many of them are immigrants and since Jordan is a fairly new country you don’t feel that much of a stranger.

Mathias

Scialet du Pot 2

The speleoteam was in good shape after the highly successful untick of A2 by Martin and myself, and we were fired up after successful bottoming of this highly recommendable set of shafts. So our attention turned towards a long sought objective: Scialet Pot 2.

Ever since the first opening the pages of the Speleo Vercors volume 2, I had been fired up to do this baby. But since we had ventured into the depths of the Vercors it was clear that an attempt on descending Pot 2 would require an absolute well oiled machine of speleology and I think Martin and I was pretty fired up by having Tim unboard completing a normally pretty strong team. We had set the clocks for a morning 6'o'clock start and Martin was packing his bags the night before. Tim and I packed our back the next morning and retrospectively this is where the first screw up could be identified. Since we were packing individually and without the usual "get all the gear out on the floor and lets pack together" we didn't really know what each other was bringing and was therefore individually assuming that the other ones had taken bits of critical gear. Not good when the cave is a 1 hour drive and 3 hours hard walk from our basecamp.

We set off in moderate spirits as the weather was quite horrific - stormy and occasional showers. After about an hour drive we reached the end of the forest road and started racking up. It was here we realized a grim fact: we had not brought any food (except 3 croissants and 1.5 bar of chocolate) and maybe even worse we had not brought the guidebook or the fine copies we'd made the day before. Not a well oiled machine at all. Had we not been under a time pressure (which we were because of evening commitments) we would of course have gone back to get the critical bits needed for an successful descent. Since we were already in principal running late there was no alternative but to push on and try to locate the pothole in one of the most difficult to reach places of the Vercors. I had brought a map and a compass and Martin and Tim had their altimeters.

After about 3 hours of extreme hiking mostly following an excellently marked hunting boundary (red paint on trees and rock) deep in the forest we reached the limestone slabs underneath Pass Morta - a very remote and somewhat hostile environment unless you are a speleologist. For the speleologist this place is like a little piece of heaven - a place littered with potholes and since the weather had improved a little - the wind had died down and the rain was infrequent we were all pretty excited to be up there. We fired up the radios (which had proven extremely valuable on the hike already) and split out in search of Pot 2. Without the guide book this was going to take some time, although luckily I had meticulously marked the cave on the map we had brought with us. This proved the key to success. After a good deal of spotholing and finding many interesting sites we reassembled for our croissant and Martin (who had found the A2 two days earlier in a stroke of pure inspiration) sat down, to a careful look at the map and he headed of in the direction he thought it would be most likely to be in. Some 10 minutes later Tim and I heard it on the radio: "I've got it, I can see a spit and Pot 2 written on the face of the rock". Brilliant. We got our sacks from basecamp and moved over to what was unmistakably the Pot 2 some of us had been dreaming about for a long time. An excellent looking spot underneath some big pine trees and with marks of previous speleological presence on the ground.

If we hadn't had the time pressure I'm convinced we would have bottomed this baby. Even with the lack of food I think we all felt down for it and was ready to go on reserves and beyond, for it is not everyday that you get a chance of descending a straight minus 320 meter shaft created by mother nature herself - how, nobody really knows for sure.

We did however have time running against us and therefore had to accept the fact already at the surface, that we couldn't get to the bottom and up in time, and therefore decided to get to at least scratch the surface, and get to a point of around -90 meters. Martin headed down in determined style while Tim and I got a fire going in the camp. We soon heard on the radio that the shaft was already rigged which came as a huge surprise and was unfortunately not ideal, although it didn't really pose a problem as such. We would just rig on top these ghost speleologist, and this was what was done.
Tim went second and after putting a good number of logs on the fire I followed.

I reached the bottom of the initial 15 meter shaft where the entrance to the 300 meter straight shaft starts. I radioed Martin to hear what was going on since it seemed there was a halt in the progress and Tim was hanging on a y-hang some 50 meters below. I couldn't quite figure out what was going on since communications to the surface was for some reason sparse but it sounded like Martin was contemplating bolting a y-hang somewhere down there on a shelf he had svung into. This sounded odd to me and I was anxious to go down and have a look at things. I many times considered going down on the second rope already in place, but I thought I better keep my place in the line. Eventually Martin put a spit in on the ledge on which he was standing, and we could all have a look at the affair.
It was obvious that there was something wrong in the rig. Martin had swung in on this ledge which seemed like quite a deviation from the straight line which, guidebook or no guidebook, just couldn't be right. It was obvious to me that one had to go straight down and perhaps search for a y-hang on the main wall of the shaft. This sometimes means going all the way to the end of the rope which is pretty mentally demanding - especially in a shaft the size of p2. But for some reason Martin seem fixed on this ledge, and anyway, since we had decided on the surface, that we were not going to go any further down, and we now had a new spit insitu there was one only thing to do. Get back up. Going further down establishing a new route would be rather pointless as we would essentially just create a "false line" which would serve no purpose.

After a bit of discussion we decided to leave the cave for another day, and we started the ascent and got up and then down (the hill), back with the car in perfect time for celebrating Martin's birthday. Céline had with usual splendor fired up some French dishes and everybody in the hut had been busy making the evening special. We had a great evening in the cozy hut singing birthday songs and drinking champagne all the while the Vercors was thundering and lighting outside almost in a triumph of another straight win to this fascinating place.

We will be back 

Scialet A2 - Double Black Helmet

It was not the best of days for a descent : it was raining gently, but we just went for it.
Finding A2 was not exactly easy. Portering in 250m of rope was as tedious as ever, but at the end we had the added hassle of trying to locate a cave in a dense pine forest with a not completely accurate description. Mathias firstly located Scialet P2. This was somewhat uninspiring : we knew we were on for something more significant.

20 minutes of ferreting around between limestone pavements, shakeholes and other general speleological features saw me at the gaping edge of what was unmistakably a hole of major speleological significance. It was quite apparent to me that whether this was A2 or not, this was the hole that we were going down today. More out of politeness than anything else, I radioed to Mathias on the talkie walkie to come on down (I was so awestruck).

After a somewhat arduous walk-in, it was good to be racking up at the top of what appeared to be a bottomless shaft deep in the Vercors forest with a steady rain dripping around us. Mathias's 3 month abesence from the monsters of the deep meant that he was more than un for leading the descent of the first pitch (i.e. it didn't take much persausion from me for Mathias to agree to the lead).

The first pitch down the shaft was masterful : one tree and a single deviation 3m down led to a glorious 40m drop to a small snow pile at the base of the shaft. The walls were perfectly smooth in the lower section, the water had etched out the fossils in the bedrock to yield a display of unparalleled beauty.

The next two shafts were shorter, but of similar aesthetic quality : magnificently shaped shafts just yearning to be bolted (which Mathias was forced to do on the second shaft : though we loved the glorious limestone, we felt that a deviation to avoid catastrophic rope rub could only add to the zen of the situation).

We found ourselves looking down a classic Mendip-like vertical squeeze (this was the worst section of the cave). I tried to broddle a sling into a thread to help protect this descent. When I seemed to be getting nowhere, Mathias appeared and in a moment of inspiration, he had threaded this tight little hole. It was at this moment that I realised that Mathias was operating on another plane from me. This was further confirmed when I attempted the downward squeeze and was repulsed only to find Mathias later dropping this squeeze like a log from a .... (well, suffice to say, it was shear elegance).
At the bottom of the squeeze, Mathias was looking nervously up at the E15 - "tres delicate" which looked to me more like an E22 gurt hard. I was right, the climb (that Mathias led) was gurt hard. I do not wish to undersell what Mathias did on this E22 : Mathias's ascent of this climb was the single most inspirational piece of outdoor action I have ever witnessed. The climbing was steep and technical (4c : that is technical for a 22m climb in a cave) : there was always the danger of loose rock and the prospect of a fall was unconscienseable [sp?]). Given the nature of the obstacle, this was likely to be an early repeat of the feature. Mathias's effort went beyond boldness : this was pure bravery - an inspiration to us all.

I met Mathias at the top of the the climb, belayed to a couple of uncannily new bolts. I offered my congratulations and the ropebags. He gracefully accepted the congratulations, but initially declined the ropebags claiming that he was mentally drained. I could well understand his mental exhaustion : as I jumared Mathias's climb, things looked well wild. However, I knew that I didn't have the mental strength to face leading to the base of the shaft having witnessed Mathias's heroic efforts minutes beforehand. I concocted a story that the lower pitches would require drilling and that Mathias had clearly mastered the art. Mathias fell for the excuse hook, line and sinker and reluctantly accepted the bags.

The 71m (actually 85m) pitch was an absolutely huge pitch. It started as a sloping shaft with a crucial deviation in the sidewall (which later required a rope protector in case of failure) and was followed by a couple more deviations before the floor of the shaft was reached 85m below (not bad for a 71m pitch!). I followed in absolute awe of "The Master" in top form. Even when Mathias offered me the lead of the bottom pitch, it seemed almost unethical to deny The Master the descent of the final pitch: a descent that was executed in a single stylish slippery drop.


It would be almost churlish to describe the ascent in great detail : lest it detracted from the heroics that Mathias displayed on the E22. The (sic) 71m pitch seemed huge (and fine training for Pot 2). I was amazed when I descended the E22 : it seemed impossible to climb : I said to Mathias that his ascent of this was pure brilliance (and I totally meant it). Half way up the P14, we could see daylight and we knew we were almost there. There was no time for rushing now and we were able to savour the majesty of the entrance shaft (a grand version of Jingling Pot).

We got out of the cave at around 8:30pm. As we changed, we retold our stories of a brilliant cave : a cave of beautiful shafts and formidable obstacles. I realised at the exit of this cave that Mathias had almost transcended his status as an elite speleologist : he was at another level.

The walk back was arduous yet amenable. I really felt for Mathias as he dragged his weary body backed to the La Moliere car park : he is clearly more akin to the Vercors's depths than its heights.

Caturgeas, La Grave. 600m W4.

Ice climbing Epic:

The winter 2003 as a really good season for ice. It had been cold, there had been loads of snow, and just a week or two before Sean was arriving for a weekend of ice climbing, the snow stopped and we had perfect cold and sunny weather right up until Sean arrived. The weather forecast was good, so we couldn't ask for better conditions for this weekend of ice monstrosity. We headed into the La Grave valley Thursday evening with the intention of getting an early start and upon arrival we decided to aim for Caturgeas thenext morning at around 8'o'clock.

Everything was looking promising and we packed our bags ready to roll next morning. We also managed to get a few obligatory beers in, in the local pub in downtown La Grave.

Next morning was a perfect day: sunny, cold, not a wind and with a stable feeling in the air. Excellent. Obviously the weather plays a major role in ice climbing and with all these good signs we felt really fired up for the task of Caturgeas which is a 280 meter grade III/IV, 8 pitch ice climb. The 280 meters is only midway though and although many (or most) people abseil off from here the climb does continue for another 400 meter to the summit of "plateau d'En Paris" 700 meter above La Grave. As we started the first pitch we had both options open (abseil midway or climb the lot).

I led the first pitch and was sincerely enjoying being here in La Grave with one of my best climbing partners (certainly one of the maddest!), on a climb that I had always wanted to do. Sean joined me at the first stance some 40 meters of the deck and I was curious to how he felt about the whole thing (it all looks quite daunting from below). He had never really climbed water-ice as such before although he had done plenty of winter stuff in Scotland, The Alps and Greenland. When he joined me he was just one big grinning smile and I knew we were in business! I led the second and the third pitch as well since Sean needed a bit more time to get used to it all and get the systems going. I was up for leading the whole climb if needed but Sean joined me at the third pitch and told me "I'll lead the next one if you like". I was very pleased (and impressed) because this meant that we would tick this baby in the most efficient way, as it is much quicker not having to sort out gear and rope at each stance. It would also later turn out that I would seriously appreciate the shared mental work load of what ended up being quite a full day out.

As Sean took over the lead on the fourth pitch going up to an prominent rock overhang (where the ice splits in two - we went left) I enjoyed the back seat view, but less so the constant chunks of ice pouring down right to where I was belayed. Ice coming both from Sean (impossible to avoid), but also from two parties far above us (some real early birds). This scenario would repeat itself for the duration of the climb - half the time with me trying to hit Sean with blocks of ice (some which would have taken him out for good) and the rest of the time with Sean trying to aim for really painful and exposed spots on me - often hitting the helmet full on, and fortunately only once or twice hitting the arms or legs luckily not causing any major damage. It is really ugly this ice bombardment business and is not enjoyable at all, but often it just can't be avoided. Luckily we escaped completely unharmed with a few near misses (I dislodged a real nastily big chunk of ice that was going straight for Sean who couldn't do anything but crimp together and hope for the best, and I saw it smashing right next to him, jumping over him and carrying on downwards towards the valley floor).

Back to the climb: I seconded Sean on the fourth pitch and checked his placements as I went up (as he had requested) - absolutely tip top and I was getting really fired up seeing this quality climbing from Sean. I arrived at a rather manky stance which I wasn't particularly impressed about though; little did I know, that I would later dream about a stance as good as this one!

I lead the 5th pitch which looked pretty wild going out on the left from this overhanging rock which Sean was safely covered by. This pitch was our first real encounter with the violent torrent that was the Source of all of this kingdom of ice and was still happily thundering down underneath all the accumulated ice. The water had broken through this bit and I was forced to climb right next to a genuine water-fall. This could seem like a bit over the top (we would get totally soaked), but after having seen a couple of French guys returning to the bar in La Grave absolutely soaked from top to toe last year, I thought this probably was de rigeur for this level of climbing. So I committed and swung out into a quite exposed and very wet and very exciting pitch of, probably at that point, some of the wildest ice climbing I had ever done. I felt totally in control and was thoroughly enjoying the fullness of it all. We were in perfect harmony with the climb and was in The Yoor Zone. I found a belay shortly after and Sean followed, again impressing me by a completely "just do it" attitude which Sean has always had on everything we have done together.

Sean led the 6th pitch, I led the 7th, and Sean led a suprinsingly exposed finish of the regular climb on the 8th pitch and he belayed to a couple of good trees on an obvious finish on the top of the main steep section of the total waterfall.

We were now roughly 300 meters above the valley floor, the time was around 15.30 in the afternoon and we were feeling strong as oxes and absolutely on for anything. We were faced with the important decision whether to call it a day and find the abseil anchors (not on the route), or to continue the climb. According to the guidebook continuing would mean "a bit more than 300 meters of easy snow gully". And then instead of abseiling we would walk out on the plateau above it all and have a pleasant 2 hour walk back down to La Grave just in time for dinner. We discussed the two options for about 5 seconds and were not in doubt for any of those seconds: we wanted more, and would love 300 meters of easy finish and a nice walk down, rather than a 280 meter unknown abseil. So after a bite to eat and a bit of water, I led off "alpine style" up the promising looking gully. We probably "short roped" for about 70 meters (still climbing on pure ice) before I made a belay and got Sean up to me again. We had reached a steepened section and we had better climb this in normal style. I led up it and was a bit worried that the pitch had to go without any protection, the ice was getting thinner and thinner, and the torrent more and more visible. I tried making a stance with what I had after running out the full 50 meters of rope. I started getting a bit worried that we maybe was biting of a bit more than we could chew as it hadn't been "easy snowfilled gully" yet.

Sean came up and we assesed the situation. The ice wasn't turning into easy angled snow as far as we could see, and we had no idea for how long this would continue, or if there would be ice all the way to the summit. There wasn't really anything to discuss though, so we just carried on (Sean leading). We were fully committed to finishing the climb since we there was no way to abseil back to the midway point as we had no rock gear, no bolts or anything like that. And the rock was totally shite anyway, so it never really became a consideration.

I joined Sean and carried on. It looked like it was gonna go on forever and although the ice definitely was getting more and more delicate (with the ever thundering water just below) I was really enjoying (or at least forcing myself to enjoy) the excellent stretches of superb ice we still encountered. This was truly amazing - we had already done over 300 meters of pure ice and it was still on for it! Unbelievable. Sean came up and he's attitude was exactly like mine - we were enjoying it all!

We're probably talking about 6pm when the sun had positively gone. I think we had both silently hoped that we would be out of this thing before the sun disappeared, although we were in pretty good shape for a nocturnal outing - we had three headtorches (including my latest customized Petzl Zoom with a super strong halogen beam) and we still had a good bit of food and water and I even had my down jacket stashed away in the shared rucksack that Sean The Mule was carrying for the cold belays (we never used it). On top of this when we drove in the previous night the moon had been full and it was now already starting to illuminate the opposite North Face of La Meije and its lesser peaks, and we were hoping that we could be lucky enough for the moon to turn towards us at some point and show us the way.

Just before it got time to fetch out the headtorches (the moon wouldn't really come to our assistance until a good few hours later) I was leading a really ugly pieces of ice shield. I had looked at it from Seans stance below and It was like a shield of ice forming a tube with the water flowing violently inside, breaking through here and there. Mostly one could avoid climbing directly on this relatively thin ice but once in a while you would have to accept and commit. This section had a huge open at the base and then the tube formed above it. I got myself balanced delicately and carefully on the tube trying to distribute the pressure as much as possible. The absolute last thing you would want would be for the roof of the ice tube to collapse with you on top of it, sending you straight into a almost certain death in the icy cold water. A top climbed apparently died like this last year, somebody told me earlier this year and this kept going through my mind when we were climbing these sections - which most of the remaining climb actually was. By the way since we had left the midway point we had slowly and silently accepted the total lack of protection on the climb and had to make do with only the stances as relative safety. So falling off was never an option.
Anyway, back to the shield. I was balancing on the ice only tapping my axes which went all the way through the maybe half an inch think ice. the tubes was probably 1-2 meters in diameter so they were quite spectacular pieces of ice work.

I was really worried that when I transferred all my weight to the shield above the hole it would all naturally just fall down taking with me it. I transferred one foot, moved the one axes a bit further op and as I was releasing the weight of my second foot the ice gave a little "cracck" and about at my hip level I saw a crack going from left on it's way to the right. Shit. As quick and quitely as possible I got my axes a bit further up in some luckily increasingly thicker ice, so in case the floor gave in on my feet hopefully my axes would hold. Desperate. The floor held though and I quickly got up above it and continued with some significant relief but also with some significant worry, because Sean would have to repeat this and I feared that the ice would give in on this second go (not mentioning what a fat bastard Sean is!) so as I was continuing the climb above it my main concern was finding a decent belay somewhere so that we would be safe. I climbed and then I climbed some more, and then I climbed some more and the ice worringly started to turn into thin snow with an ice crust. Totally useless for anything and even quite dangerous to even climb on. As I was assessing the situation and realized that I just had to continue Sean came in on the radio "I can only give you to- maybe three meter more of rope - the rope is in a complete tangle". Okay, shit. Well at least it made my options easy - I had to find a stance of some sort within a couple of meters. I spotted some saplings (small branches) sticking out from some rocks a bit off the route on the right and I decided to divert and go for this, in the hope that they would maybe be coming out from a bigger mother tree. I could only just reach it and to my despair it was only a couple of downwards pointing branches and nothing else. I had no option but to put a sling around each of them (two) and then burrow my axes in the muddy earth in front of me. On top this I burrowed my feet in the snowy patch I was standing on (this was maybe 60 degrees) and I radioed Sean "Sean, I'm safe, well sort of. I'm okay I guess. You can take me off and start climbing when you are ready. But don't fall off, and take care on that thin tube - it looked pretty dodgy". "Roger, off belay". It was a tense next half hour until Sean reached me, and I wont forget the ever horrible sound of Sean's crampons banging into the hollow ice. Sean made it though he was now wearing his headtorch) and carried on past me. It was a nervewrecking period until Sean had reached his stance further above and could only pray that it would be better than the one I had spent perched on this rocky slope. When it was time to move on, I gently removed my slings and quitely thanked each sapling for their assistance to our climb.

We continued climbing like this - compeeting making the most creative and unsafe stances along the way, once when Sean radioed down and said "I'm safe, sort of", I knew how bad it would be since Sean being educated on the rock faces of the Avon Gorge in Bristol (where protection is marginal and stances often require creativity) and only rarely would consider a stance "sort of safe".

The hours went on and I think it must be when we hit a 20 meter stretch of genuine snowslope where I could finally make a real snow belay and Sean came up to me, the moon was starting to shine its light to us and we had a feeling that the worst was over our spirits rose and we were both actually really enjoying this. Little did we know at this point that the real sting in the tail was still to come, but we were still feeling strong, in good spirits and never did we really feel cold - although in ice climbing you always go between sweating like a horse (when climbing) and freezing your ass off when belaying - and it must have been at least minus 10 that night although we didn't really feel it (probably because there was no wind what-so-ever - thank god).

Sean carried on above my good snow anchor - over an incredible gnarly looking section which when I seconded it was nearly swiming up forever trying to get purchase with my axes and crampons in some ugly ice cube ice surrounding the torrent. Good effort from Sean I thought as I somehow managed to get through it. I joined Sean on the stance cursing whether this stuff would ever end, and also more seriously we tried to underplay the ever lurking fact that we suddenly could be face with a section of no ice at all and only water which would be pretty much the end of the road for us. I looked at the watch and on the altimeter - it was half past nice in the evening and we had and estimated 155 meters to go. We'd been climbing for over 10 hours solid with just one rest for the bit of food and water. We were hoping that we were nearer the end than the altimeter suggested but it looked like from what we could make out in the moonlight that we were soon to enter some sort of amphi-theatre with some very steep and long sections before what then had to be the real summit. I started off again and led the next pitch with Sean on his "sort of safe" belay.
Meanwhile at down in the village of La Grave...

Sebastian and Sonja, the owners of the chalet we had booked ourselves into and also good friends of mine, was getting increasingly worried as we didn't show up for dinner in the evening as they thought we would and that we had also originally intended. As the clock approached midnight the couldn't face the worry much longer. They knew we were out ice climbing but didn't know where. It was then they decided to phone the Gendarmeri - the local police of La Grave. While the police was discussing matters, Sebastian and local ice guru and shop owner Thierry went out on the road to try and locate what climb we might be on to try and help us. They located my car standing lonely at the bottom of the layby which was normally full of cars during the day. Sebastian spotted the discrete DK sticker on the side and knew it had to be mine. Thierry, being the real expert of ice here, reasoned that we had gone beyond the 300 meter point and carried up all the way to the top, and judging from the time that we started (which Sebastian roughly knew), he was pretty sure that we either was stuck on the climb or probably more likely had just about reached the summit and was preparing the (long but safe in this moonlight) walk down to La Grave. After looking for headtorches and shouting a bit they went back to their respective beds.

The police in the meantime - being police - was preparing a rescue attempt of some sort which they lauched sometime during the night. They never found any traces of us, and must have gone home fairly disappointed.

The next morning they decided to send the helicopters out to look for us, but again they found nothing. They also had been at the car investigating "the scene" and was probably expecting the worst.

Back to Sean and me

I was just preparing myself for the continuation at Seans "sort of safe" stance. The coming section didn't look clever at all. I had often considered if we should leave the waterfall and continue up the actual rock face. But carrying no rock gear and leaving our only real sureness of direction, this just wasn't an option and we were forced to stay in the waterfall for as long as it would keep us. But this next section looked like I would have to divert. It was bascially the full on waterfall probably just under two meters wide with a bit of ice - maybe 20 centimeters - accumulated on each side above a maybe 1 meter deep vertical water fall. I would have to choose either left of right - but the right side was really just a vertical/overhaning blank face of rock - so I went for the left side which looked like it would go - vertical rock for about two-three meters with a bit of this snow with icecrust on top and with steps here and there. Above it was pure rock but on an easier angle with boulders spread our here and there. If I could make it above the vertical bit I was convinced that we would be home free. I ended up "dry tooling" this bit - carefully like never before placing my mono-points on little positive holds on the rock and half using my axes and half my gloved hands trying to pull myself slowly up and upwards. If I fell off I would fall into the waterfall. This would be a bad job. The technique seemed to work well and I managed to pull myself up it, up to the gentler slope but on the constant lookout for any gear placements. I slinged yet another little sapling, and went back into the ice fall which was now getting more solid again. Eventually I reached a steep ice pinnacle which looked like it would take a good ice screw and with that and my axes used as anchors I called Sean up. I was hoping he could get up this section since he didn't have monopoints like I do, which would make the rock climbing a bit more difficult. He came through and somehow managed to gnarl his way up it. Without much talk he carried on up the steep ice. We were later amazed - we were nearing the end of the ice and we would have ended up climbing 600 meters of pure ice all the way! That's a lot of ice! Anyway, Sean led, I was right underneath him trying to cover myself from all the iceblocks but I was totally exposed to it all and got a few nasty hits on my arms and plenty on my helmet. It seemed to go on forever but finally it stopped and a while after the "I'm safe" on the radio came and I prepared going up to Sean. Sean had actually diverted completely from the icefall now and chosen a less steep looking contributor on the left, which just seemed more like the way. I climbed up and joined Sean in the amphi-theatre that we had seen from below and - thank god - Sean was belayed to a thick genuine tree and I clipped into the belay with a relief. It seemed like we were nearing the end now. We still had at least 100 meters vertical left. We shared some food and water and I prepared to carry on. At this point it would be rather random were we chose to go (since we didn't have the main waterfall to follow anymore), so I got a real boost of confidence when I by accident saw some fresh foot prints going away from our tree: somebody had done this before us, and judging from the prints quite recently. Excellent!!! We had to be on route.

I followed the foot prints tracking them carefully and they took me a full 50 meters rope lenght up to a little bush. Pfeew, this was really promising. Sean joined, carried on, and after another full 50 I joined him at a big block of rock where he was sitting with an even bigger smile on his face than what he usually has. We're there dude. Another 150 meters vertical or so of screeslope and after that, a genuine snowslope we arrived at the summit of the plateau (quite hard work). We took off the rope after 15 hours of climbing and had a break and the last bit of our saussage and cheese. We were so pleased. Now we just needed to traverse the plateau (2h), get to the nearest village (Chazelet) and from there it would be a bit more than 1 hour walk on roads down to La Grave and to our beds in Au Vieux Guide. We arrived back at 3am exhausted, hungry and went straight to bed.

The next morning we're woken up by a very relieved Sonja and Sebastian who could tell that La Grave had been pretty worried about us that night. Damn. I was very sorry for this, since I've tried this worrying business a few times now and it's not any bit of fun. They also told us the Gendarmes had been involved, which surprised us since we hadn't seen anyone anywhere for the whole night.

Sebastian gave me a lift to pick up the car and when I got back Sean and I realized that the trunk was empty. All Seans belongings and my video camera and camera was gone! Bummer big time. The freeze had made the lock not lock, so somebody had been in there. First thing we did was to go to the police station and low and behold, there was all of our stuff! They'd searched the car in the night and found it open and decided to take everything! Interesting work model, but certainly better than anyone else taken our stuff, so we thanked them a lot. They told us about their rescue missions during the night and in the morning which we could only appreciate, but in the same sentence had to make clear had been unnecessary. It took some arguing back and forth (they were trying to get us to pay for the chopper) and I think they wanted to know if we were really competent. They asked us where we had rented all of our gear and after I explained that it was all ours and we did this as a hobby and we enjoyed it and we'd done it before (well this sort of thing) I think they were happy and we left after a crazy 24 hours in La Grave! What a trip, and what a tick. We both felt we couldn't really top this effort and decided to get some good lunch and do some leisurely boarding which we did the day after in excellent Villard de Lans (Vercors).

Things to learn from a trip like this

• bring emergency rockets next time in case of an accident. We had no way of bringing attention to ourselves had there been a problem.
• if somebody knows roughly what you are doing, then let them know not to worry and tell them that you'll take care of yourself.
• when indulging in a really long route maybe ask around if possible in advance to hear if conditions are okay all the way up. (we didn't have a chance to do this, since we needed to start very early)
• even very thin ice can be climbed

Things that worked extremely well on this weekend

• our climbing and total execution was flawless
• the chalet owner's worry and subsequent actions were flawless
• the ice expert's assessment of the situation was flawless (he was spot on)
• the gendarmes involvement was straight by book

Things that would have avoided a helicopter call out

• if the people in the village had left a note on the door of the dormitory saying "we are looking for you, please let us know when you get back" we would have known that they were, and would have taken immediate action (at 3am) and this would obviously have called off any further actions.

Trou du Diable

I was completely fired up this weekend by the successful UK campaign and just had to have more unrock. It seems people are getting more interested down here and I might be able to recruit some porters if I play the cards right.

Under the cover of a hike I managed to persuade Céline for a two day hike into Trou du Diable. I brought *all* the gear - camping gear, caving gear, tent, stove, food, 100 m rope, drilling kit and bolts. Boy was I racked up. I had to wear the ropebag on the front and stodge all the rest in a bag from hell on the bag. Céline took her share which was good.

Excellent camp in the middle of f*cking nowhere and with absolutely fantastic weather. Crisp (minus 10) clear starry night (superb) and excellent campfire. All this was right down Célines street.
Next morning stodged along to finally reach the Trou du Diable - saw an excellent deer on the way - big motherf*cker with horns and everything - you probably saw quite a few in Disneyland Unstone. This one was the real stuff though - only made eye contact like 300ft away, but even so it was awesome. Just adds to the wilderness feel of this amazing place.

The caving campaign was not a complete success. The original goal was as you know to create a new line in through the rift I'd discovered on our last trip up here. Slightly more nervous than on the last trip I descended to the rift entrance - after having informed Céline what to do if something went wrong. It doesn't "feel" very clever to go down alone, but as the other speleologist can't do much anyway in case of accident there shouldn't really be that big a difference. Theoretically.

The rift looked tighter than last time, and was filled with flies and spiders and spiderweb (like Disneyland?), which made it quite unpleasant. I tried squeezing through the rift but it wouldn't go. I took off all the srt gear and it still wouldn't go. It just didn't feel right. I less convinced that this route is a good idea now. (Note: I did get through it in the spring. Maybe the earth had shrinked a bit due to the cold?!)
I pulled the handle and went out into the open shaft again and decided to try and do some more decent bolting that the lack of bolting that was already not there (!). This actually turned out to be an excellent learning exercise in choosing the right place to spit and to get into a conformable position for the hammering. This is not piss easy. I'm adding a sky hook to the caving rack from now on.
I think I managed to do quite an improvement to the line - I setup a nice y hang which takes you straight down to the place where Martins bolt ripped 6 months earlier. I didn't continue down the line, this is still down for grabs and should be done by installing a traverse line.

After a bit more than an hour in the shaft, a few nasty blisters on the hammering hand (hard work - bring leather workman glove next time), I surfaced to a happy Céline who had painted the whole area on her watercolour thingy while also brewing nice hot tea from the available snowpatches. Good job.
A fast two hours walk back to the car (which wasn't parked at the car park of course - there is solid ice on a lot of the road up there), I was well pleased about the weekend untick. And it was good portage training if anything. I was (and am now) completely knackered.
The cave is now ready for a full on AHPES campaign. The bottom awaits.

Extreme Narrowboating

From Bristol to Bath and back in flood conditions

Captain: Mathias
Crew: Henriette, Theresa and Frederik
Waterlevel: High, very high
Area: The River Avon, South West England

Our sister Henriette had decided to pay a visit for an extended weekend in late May 2000. The plan was some of the usual caving, climbing and sightseeing in the Bristol area. Also Henriette had not seen the boat on which I live, and was keen to see what this was all about. She got more than her moneys worth of boat activity and the end of that weekend.

The weather had turned for the worse so climbing was unfortunately out of the question. We gave caving a quick shot Friday afternoon, but Henriette - like many others - quickly decided that this wasn't for her.

So Saturday morning Fred, Theresa, Henriette and myself was sitting at Fred's place at 2 Pro Cathedral Cave wondering what our options were. It looked like the weather was going to be really bad all weekend, so it seemed a bit pointless to head of to places like Cornwall which is 4-5 hours drive only to be sitting in a tent/pub with rain pouring down outside. In retrospect this would have been a great way of spending the weekend.

Spontaneously I suggested: "Hey! We could go to Bath in the boat", and -plim- this sounded pretty good at the time to all of us, so we decided to give it a go. It sounded nice: staying in Bath for the night and returning back to Bristol next morning. We quickly sorted out the few logistics and "set sail" towards Bath at 15h00. It was raining.



On the way up towards Bath

It was constantly pissing down with rain


I had been on the river once before in serious flood conditions and I was not going to repeat that experience. So at the end of the safety of Bristol Floating Harbour, we looked at the conditions, compared it to the last flood and decided "Hey that looks alright". It did look alright. Honest. Nothing like the last time.

Although we were going upstream we made fairly steady progress and the team mood was high and everybody was excited about this spontaneous expedition to Bath.

Around 21h00 - 6 hours after departure - we were getting within reach of Bath. It had been raining increasingly but it didn't seem to have too much of an effect on the waterflow which was still strong and steady but okay. At 21h30 we went through the last lock and the tick was more or less in the bag. Now we "just" needed to get into the centre, moor up and get to the pub. Half an hour later and struggling against a now increasing current and a serious rainy weather we managed to get to the centre. The mooring spots looked fine and was clear of any water and we tied onto the bollards on the ground. Yoor! We made it to Bath and we made it to the pub.

Night fell and the Captain and Crew went to bed.

At 03h00 I woke up with a hunch that something was not quite how it should be. I stood up and to my horror the boat was leaning inwards to the shore. This puzzled me for a moment because I thought that if the waterlevel had dropped and we somehow was stuck on the side we would be tilting the other way. 2 seconds after I realized - "Holy F*ck" the waterlevel is rising and we are tied to the ground pulling us down. No time to waste - out in underpants and wellingtons and indeed - all the ropes were tight and was pulling the side of the boat down. The whole place was flooded. I managed to loosen all the ropes and our chain. (This would not always be easy). Pfeww, a near catastrophe avoided. I loosened the ropes a lot and went to bed again. Zzz...


In the morning the water was high.


At 08h00 Fred woke up and so did I. Now instead of tilting, there was a bang'ing noise - the waterlevel had dropped again now so much that Lancer was about to rest on the side of the pavement on the shore. We quickly got up and reviewed the situation. Luckily she hadn't yet rested herself on the nasty Bath pavement and we spotted a better place to moor a bit further up, started the engines and tied her up 30 meters further upstream, right behind the big lock outlet thingy next to the big weir in Bath. We then went for breakfast and some sightseeing.

Eventually we returned to the boat and to my concern the river had now risen a bit more, but spirits was still high and we decided that we should give it a go and head down stream towards Bristol. So we prepared for departure: started the engines and released the front ropes and let the tip of the boat catch the current, keeping the back tied on. I have learned that this is the only way to turn a narrowboat in strong current so this is what we were aiming for. The problem with this approach is that it is well and truly scary when the boat hits the current on the 90 degree angle - will the boat tip? Also it is scary because if the boat gets too much force in the swing down stream, still tied on, it could smack into the pier again with unknown results. Come to think about it there are a great number of unknowns in "extreme narrowboating".


A very worried Captain checks on his crew.

Water rising rapidly in the centre of Bath


So as Lancer (the name of the boat) was catching the current and going beyond the 90 degress I let go of the back rope and fired up on all engines to try and get into the middle of the river. This is the way you would "ferry" a canoe but the problem with narrowboats are their 15 tonnes of complete inmanuverability. I quickly realized that she wouldn't make the full circle turn and we were now heading sideways down the river picking up speed going towards an old Roman bridge too narrow for the 50ft boat to pass through sideways. Absolutely no time to waste (there was maybe 20 meters (60ft) to the bridge) I went in highest gear and heading straight for the opposite shore. We hit the grassy bank with the front and Fred jumped a shore quickly securing the front rope with a metal spear (again - a critical maneuver which is not easy - if you miss, the boat pulls so hard that all things are soon over).

Lancer swung back into an upstream position now moored on the other shore, a good bit closer to the bridge. A side note: the beginning of this maritime spectacle was viewed by hundreds of spectators from the surrounding amphitheatre (River Avon is in the middle of the centre of Bath) - this made things even more palmsweating but also made me fired up to do this manuveur and to leave triumphiantly out of the old Roman Village. You could almost hear all the visiting tourists: "Look there dear, they are doing a longboat show down in that pond down there, let's take some photographs". If I had known what was waiting for us I would have declared defeat there and then. If all this had been happening in the years of youtube and instagram then I am sure we could have enjoyed various viral photage of the "nutter in a narrowboat" for years ahead. Back to Lancer, moored on the grassy banks in a unstainable position:

Fired up by an overdose of "yoor" I decided to try the same maneuvear but this time let Lancer swing all the way round before letting go of the back rope. The thing this time around was that if we swung all the way full force, we'd hit the grassy bank and not the concreted pier which gave a somewhat reassuring feeling. Had I only known. The crew got back on board and prepared for another take off.

"1 ... 2 .... 3 ... GO!", Theresa cut the front rope and we started the slowly accelerating swinging into the frothy current."Don't let go, don't let go" I was keeping repeating to myself as the forces of water started to work on the 30m2 hull of Lancer. Don't let go, keep her swinging. Please don't tip over. Nearly there. It seemed to work. We were now past the 90 degrees and Lancer was finally pointing down stream. A couple of more seconds and I'll run this baby out of here pole position and we are off! ... GO!!! ... FULL STEAM AHEAD!!! ALL ENGINES GO! ... F*ck this was looking bad - we needed more acceleration. We were going slowly but surely angled 30 degress down stream towards that bloody bridge. The bridge was a big stone arched bridge - one of the many Roman attractions in Bath. We were heading straight towards the lower side of the monument desperately trying to get Lancer into the middle of the river where the bridge was high enough to get safely through. The tourist crowds were cheering. Fred, Theresa and Henriette was shouting from the front looking at the bridge and back at me "GET HER LINED UP - WE ARE GONNA HIT!". I still needed to get her a bit further out in the river and then I was gonna swing the back agreesively to the left to make the mother of all line ups.


Front of the barge and a bit of the bridge.


The impact gave a shiver through the hull. Old limestone cut in shape by Roman slaves exploded at the impact with the solid steel roof of the fine boat Lancer. As soon as we hit I had lined her up. Come on baby, do the best you've learned - don't give up now. She lined up nicely and what could have been a complete disaster (getting the boat wedged and scraped on the arch) was avoided. As we came out on the other side of the bridge I was totally fired up with mixture of adrenaline and desperation and looked back at the row of stunned spectators on the bridge giving them the "surfs up" sign and shouting "YOOOOOR"! We were on our way and we'd won the battle with what seemed only a minor injury. Had the boat been of a wooden make, the bridge would most definitely have won and the roof would have peeled off like a wodden tin can.

We were now heading out of Bath practically surfing the waves going very fast. You have to have speed on the boat relative to the waterflow if you want to have any chance of stearing. It is a dilemma - one of many in extreme narrowboating. But still - spirits were now increasingly high after the successful victory 50 meters upstream . . . . "we willl be okay - worst must be over" . . . After what must have been around 8 seconds of peace - it comes: From one of the boats on the shore a young lad shouts: "THE BRIDGE IS TOO LOW!". Tsk, we just passed that bridge you local farmer boy. He shaked his head in dispear as we zoomed past him continuing down the river. What we did not know was that the lad was refering to the newer model railway bridge some 100 meters further down the stream around a bend or two.


After the bridge hit, going way to fast towards a low bridge.

Low bridge. VERY low bridge. We are talking inches from complete disaster.


The Captain steering Lancer under the low bridge

That's it - we are stopping until the water goes down.

The bridges in Bath changes from the centre - in the old centre it is old Roman stuff, big arches, masterpieces of a long gong era. Further out in the suberbs the bridge architecture changes to some more industrial constructions created for road and railway effeciency and not for an aestetich addition to the riverscape. Most of them are wide, steel reinforced concrete animals spanning as low as possible. It was one of those monsters we were now getting into our focus after rounding another bend full speed.

The farmer boy had spoken the truth it seemed - we were indeed approaching what appeared to be the lowest duck I had ever approached with Lancer. I had approximately 5 seconds to take a decision - should we go for it or should we try some desperate maneuver to stop the boat and get to shore. There was at that point only one real option - go for it and hope for the gods mercy on this doorstep to Valhalla. At least this would take me up there - if you go down you go down with style and you go down all the way. 2 seconds left of thinking time and I compared the bridge to the one that I had passed numerous times in Bristol harbour where the chimney needs to be taken of and it only just goes. Looked like approximately that sort of height. "WE ARE GOING FOR IT!" I shouted to Theresa to get the chimney fast and although the crew mood seemed extremely worried she obeyed instantly, got the thing off and headed down front deck. I had to aim for the slight arched middle of the ugly obstruction. This required some fairly nailbiting precision work, but if there is one thing that Lancer has, then it's a good stearing, as well as a responsive hydraulic drive shaft with minimal loss of power. A few extremely tense seconds and we were heading under. It was gonna go! We literaly had 1 inch to spare - the plant on top of the roof bend and by pure luck the rudder pin which is the last bit of the ship passed under - just. Earlier that day the water had been at least 10 inches higher. We were very lucky.

YEEEEEAAAAH!!! Excited but with no time to celebrate and a few shouting conversations with the crew which had had enough long time ago we decided to try and pull the handle. This was way way to marginal. How on earth were we going to negotiate the locks and smaller bridges further down in this white water madness. We had now gained a lot of momentum and stopping the boat and tying her up would prove another desperate bit of boat handling. But it went.

The story continues - notes of the further events
Stopped the return attempt and stayed in Bath
River still rising (it was p*ssing down)
Escaped into a side canal for the night together with some fellow boaters who unfortunately had lost all control over their senses and was in true panic.
Next morning headed down river for a second attempt. River more calm but still in serious flood.
Back rope goes into screw and stops engine on critical weir stop.
Was *this* close to going over a weir (going over a weir means the end of everything). Only due to marginal luck and true crewmanship we got the middlerope on a bollard with seconds to spare.
Had to negotiate some whitewater conditions (whitewater & narrowboats are not very compatible).
Finally Monday evening made it into the safety of the Bristol Floating Harbour with absolutely frayed nerves. I am staying on my mooring spot for a while now. That weekend trip was a bit more that I would like to have bargained for. Whitewater etc is fun when in a little kayak of raft, but when it is your houseboat with all your belongings plus your office then the consequences of tipping over is just a bit to extreme.


Crew mood at night. A bit tense.

Next day, checking fuel. Spirits are high (until we met the first lock)



The Saltford lock - completely flooded. Sickening.

1. Desperate turn 
2. Bridge hit 
3. Passing low bridge 
4. Desperate stop 
5. Desperate return and mooring - water constantly rising 
6. Escape into the canal system with panicing boaters 
7. Close to the end of it all - rope in screw, almost over a weir, Captain blows the whistle.

Goodess of Gloom

Written by Martin Beale, Bristol

I was back. Fred was there for the first time. The Great Cave of Berry Head swung before us, the roofs leaned out behind us. We started with a dainty little skip between the boulders, progressed to a worrying belly traverse and finished with a powerful traverse above the sea on great barnacle encrusted jugs. I had to hang around on the jugs for some time as a father and son team rearranged themselves on the Moonraker belay. Eventually, we were both there at the base of Moonraker. Moonraker looked really good, the queue for it looked really bad.

I have never seen anyone at Berry Head before. It seemed like a forgotten crag - away from it all. That day it was heaving. There were two parties on Moonraker and the father and son team were slowly uncoiling their ropes at the base. There was a guy hanging from a chockstone in the Moonraker crack as his leader took serial lobs from the traverse of Dreadnought. Every now and again, a party would come down into the Great Cave and traverse across the Mystery Tour or Rainbow Bridge. The father and son team on Moonraker were taking such an eternity uncoiling their ropes that we decided to partake of other fayre : Goddess of Gloom...

The tide was really low and we were able to uncoil our ropes at a friendly little ledge at sea level. We had one last look at the father and son team. Dad was pulling on gear on the initial traverse of the 'raker. It was evident that they would be some time. Fred wanted to get up in decent time so that we could go to Chudleigh and do some climbing with Theresa.

After a few stiff pulls on massive jugs, I was on the route. I bridged up the corner and placed some gear under an unfriendly roof. The roof forces you out right. This would normally be fine at Berry Head. However, the usual jugs aren't there on this section of Goddess. I pulled rightwards on jams. It was pretty strenuous - the wall beneath overhangs. By virtue of a horizontal finger jam, I was able to stretch right to a crack around the right hand end of the overhang. I reached to what was neither a hand jam, nor a jug. It didn't feel quite right. I backed down somewhat pumped to a resting position before the roof. When I summoned the courage, I launched out again. I knew it would go - I had done it before. I reached the crack beyond the overhang - half jamming, half jugging. I shuffled my feet along and then contemplated the corner above. I didn't have long. I saw a jug above and pulled on it. It hadn't looked that stout, but it did the business. I was in the corner. The corner was pretty easy. I stuffed in a load of gear and then launched rightwards out of the corner. This looks worse than it is. There are massive jugs / ledges on the right arete. It looks daunting to reach those ledges, but once you are there, everything eases. I stuffed a friend into a horizontal break and continued to the belay. By now, the father and son team were already on the 'raker belay - maybe we weren't that fast after all.
There was a good ledge and a load of horizontal breaks to belay on. The problem with the breaks were that they were slightly flaring and not particularly deep. I decided that safety in numbers would be the solution to this problem. Out came the rack and in went the friends. I was pretty pleased with two friends side by side - friends 1.5 and 2. This would be the basis of my belay. I then got a reasonable friend 3 out to the right and a reasonable quadcam 0 to the left. A rock 2 in a horizontal crack and a poor friend 2.5 and I was all set : "safe, take in". Well, I wasn't exactly sure about the safe bit. I wasn't too happy with the belay, but I felt that everything would be alright on the night.
I thought Fred followed the pitch in fine style. He took a while, but I thought that he was faster than I was. There didn't seem to be any strife as he made that daunting pull out of the corner and onto the juggy arete. Before I knew it, we were both at the belay. "I'm pumped stupid", said Fred. I thought he was exaggerating - he looked OK. We swapped gear and Fred prepared for the lead of the next pitch. "A bit of factor 2 avoidance gear would be good up there, Fred", I said (this was in retrospect something of an understatement).

Fred moved up and got some excellent looking gear in before a bulging section. A few moves later and he was on the gentle bulge. He clipped something. "in situ", he shouted. I assumed there must have been an in-situ wire. A high step and he was established around the bulge. I thought he had done the crux of the pitch. I could just see his feet over the top of the bulge.

"The holds are pretty muddy", said Fred.
"Yeah, but they're OK aren't they?", I replied.
"The holds are pretty bad".
"You'll be alright."
"I'm pumped stupid."
"Just go for it, you're nearly there".
"I'm going to come off", said Fred (he never yelled or seemed too terrified).

I was petrified - there was no way that Fred could fall off there - he was above the in situ gear and I was pretty unhappy about the belay. The shaly band of Berry Head is not the best place for woo-li - not by a long way.

"You can't fall off now".
"I'm coming off".
"Fred, don't fall now", I pleaded. I held the dead end of the rope tight. I now knew that Fred was coming off. It was unstoppable - inevitable.

He seemed to jump off. I watched him fall. In a second the rope would go tight and I would hold him. The rope went tight, I held him. I was pulled up from the belay. As the Viking was plummeting to the briny, I ascended to the heavens. I waited for the tug of the belay, but the tug never came, I was still rising. I sensed the friends ripping from the belay and could then feel them smacking against my legs. Surely, some part of the belay must have held.

We came to a stop. I didn't know what was happening. I hadn't known whether we'd come to a halt or not, but we did. I was trying to make sense of the situation.

"y-o-u-r b-e-l-a-y-'-s r-i-p-p-e-d" came a shout from the Moonraker stance (it seemed like everything was happening in slow motion). I surveyed the scene. Fred was 10 feet below me hanging on the rope, looking somewhat bemused. We were hanging off the in situ gear and a couple of nuts (though our weight was clearly on the in situ piece). I was in an unfamiliar part of the crag, the back of my hand was bleeding from a laceration caused by my belay hand scraping against the crag. It was clear : the belay had ripped.

"We've got to get back on the rock". I belayed Fred as he got onto the rock. I slammed in a couple of Friends (we know how good they are in these situations!). The friends were easy to find - they were dangling around my ankles. Fred sorted out a belay on the gear that had held. We were both somewhat shaken. I couldn't believe that the belay had failed. I knew it hadn't been the best belay, but I didn't think it was as bad as it had been - Fred hadn't taken a factor 2 onto the belay after all. I really couldn't believe what had happened.

The Moonraker team asked us whether we were alright. I knew we were. As a matter of good style, we had to finish Goddess. I assumed Fred didn't want another go (he really was pumped stupid now and was presumably in something of a nervous state). I led the pitch in nervous style. Wherever there was a piece that Fred was belaying on, I placed an extra piece (just to be sure). I got to the in-situ piece. It was a Peck peg. I clipped it. Just to be sure, I gave it a pull. The peg moved. Oh dear - that peg that we had been dangling from was actually not really attached to the crag at all. "You might as well pull this one out as a souvenir", I said to Fred. I moved to where Fred had lobbed. He was right - the holds were muddy and pretty poor. I gnarled in a friend 1 and then set to work with my nut remover. On excavating the mud, I was able to find a little finger jug. From the finger jug, a nervous move led me into the juggy vegetated crack above. It had been a worrying little lead, but I was at last on easier ground, above the moves that Fred had lobbed from.

At the second belay (shared with Moonraker), I had the chance to practice the art of belay creation once more. This time there was a good thread and peg to belay from. I also used a couple of friends in horizontal breaks. This time it was a good belay! I took the ropes in and then waited for Fred to come up. I watched him pretty carefully, especially at the point where he had lobbed before. He was fine on the blunt end. I think he was a little peeved with himself because he realised that he had fallen with his hands about two inches away from a good jug in the vegetated crack.

He showed me his trophy - the Peck peg. He had pulled it straight out. Having a 30 degree bend in it, it was in a sorry little state. It had probably been there for years waiting patiently for it's role in life to be fulfilled. Now it could retire in peace knowing that it's existence had been worthwhile. That bit of steel could have been made into some can - thrown into a dustbin once the baked beans had been eaten. Now it was the hero of the hour and had earned it's place on the mantlepiece for eternity.
The father and son team had long gone. They were presumably at the top, feeling pretty pleased with themselves and wondering how that party on Goddess could have been so slow and moose-like. A couple of south Devon activists had followed the father and son team up Moonraker. They were telling us tales of other belay ripping experiences on Berry Head - of the time that Pat Littlejohn had ended up dangling off a single peg when the Dreadnought stance had collapsed. We were clearly climbing in good company (styling our way up almost).

I was in charge of the third pitch. The adrenaline was flowing, but I knew that the third pitch was more normal climbing - we'd be alright. I pulled over the starting bulge (the pump was pleasing) and bridged upwards to the cave (what a cave - it is deep enough for a one man bivvy. It would be the perfect place for a falcon to nest - all that seabird food flying around too). There was a tricky section above the cave. I pulled rightwards to an exposed little ledge and then struggled back left on small holds to a knobbly crack that led to the top. It is all pretty exposed up here, though the holds are good and it is eventually possible to get some gear in. Theresa was peering over the top of the crag as I was climbing. "Did you see the lob?" I asked. She hadn't (maybe this was a good thing - it could be a little troubling to see your newly-wed husband take a 30 foot whipper off a south Devon sea cliff). I concentrated on executing the final few moves up the steep grassy corner, the pump pressing nicely by this stage. Eventually I was there - at the top. I shouted "YES". I was well pleased to have ticked Goddess of Gloom. I was pleased that we hadn't quiched onto Moonraker after our misfortune, I was pleased that I had led the whole route (Tom had led it mainly last time). I tied onto the massive post at the top and brought Fred up. I was just happy to be alive as I pulled in the ropes and looked out over the sea.

Both Fred and I were elated to be at the top. We were mentally drained. Chudleigh was no longer on our minds - we headed off for a great pub lunch near Exeter.
Any plans to go back for Moonraker?
We'll be back. The fire still burns.

Martin Beale, September 1999