Joys of Mid-Week Climbing

Neal Short

I was now precariously bridged, my right hand fumbled around in the soft earth failing to find security and only pulling away sods of grass. My rusty early-season technique had allowed myself to move into another uncomfortable and off-balanced position. Retreat was definitely out of the question.

For the first time in some months my day off during the week coincided with fine weather and some very early winter conditions. Having already heard rumours of routes being 'in nick', I hurried out to North Wales. It had been particularly frosty the previous two nights but rain the previous Sunday had washed away most of the ice and so I headed to that traditional early/late season stomping ground Snowdon's Trinity face. The Snowdon cirque shimmered in Llynnau Mymbyr as I sped past Plas Y Brenin. That view gives the mountain such a vast alpine nature and it looks remarkably like the Everest horseshoe. Often when climbing there I picture that Crib Coch is the crenellated ridge running up from Nupste and Lhotse, and then the Trinity face can be likened to the majestic sweep of Everest's South-West face (Everest actually has Trinity gullies but these are on the East, Kangshung, face). I parked up at the deserted base camp and trundled off in to the western cwm.

Gradually as I got closer to the foot of the face, below the spider, it dawned on me what the obvious brown streak that I noticed from as far as PYB was. The whole of the central section of the face had avalanched, though now there appeared little danger.

Feeling fit I found myself moving quickly up and through the crux of right-hand Trinity particularly enjoying bridging past the narrows. The weather was glorious, witha deep blue sky and silence filled the face. After descending Central Trinity I choose Trinity Buttress and hoped that the turf was well frozen. It starts in a gully directly above the spider and then gradually narrows until a traverse is supposed to be taken. The guide calls it a short grade 3!

Finding the start O.K I progressed to a point just above what was probably the traverse line left on to the open buttress where a wandering line of grade 2 can be taken, but unconsciously I decided to keep climbing opting for the harder finish.

Almost instantly the gully steepened. Carefully working my way up I came across a peg buried deep into a grassy crack. The tat dangling from it brought thoughts of epic retreats to mind. Unlike the relatively straight forward Right-hand gully the steepness of this section made me rely even more on the snow and turf. These were insufficiently frozen to take my body weight and when I stood up on the snow large chunks would just fall away to the spider below. This instability heightened my awareness to the exposure. Increasingly Trinity Buttress was becoming quite 'keen' and the atmospheric condition started to enhance the experience too, as mist gradually smothered the face.

I felt reasonably in control until I came upon a second peg. Immediately the composure bubble burst. I instantly became completely committed, more so than ever before; minutes passed by with no upward progress, and my mind started racing between impending doom and disaster and the thrill of being out-there in an utterly adventurous (stupid) position. It was nearly five years since I'd literally 'left' Left Unconquerable at Stanage 'unconquered', if I fell would I be so fortunate this time?

The ground ahead looked a daunting line of slimy grooves and vegetated seams which would probably normally be coated in fine thick ice. The peg had an old Clog krab attached which became too tempting to leave alone. With gloved fingers firmly wrapped around the twelve millimetre bar I felt safer. Taking a breather only deepened my dilemma as it allowed me to tune in even more to my senses. I could feel the awkwardness of my pose, the beads of sweat on my brow which annoyingly ran slowly into my eyes and the mounting tension expressing itself in my forearms as an over-anxious gripping of the shafts. My brain was now bombarded with near panic stricken levels of hopelessness. In hindsight I dismissed down-climbing too quickly. Upwards movement appeared the best option. Making a climbing wall move leftwards off the peg, I wobbled my way up only a few feet into a small niche which felt no better than before.

I was now precariously bridged. My right hand fumbled around in the soft earth failing to find security and only pulling away sods of grass. My rusty, early-season technique had allowed me to move into another uncomfortable and off-balanced position. Retreat was definitely out of the question.

The only solid axe placement was out left in what was luckily frozen moss. The pick stuck like a dart in a dartboard. Again I sought refuge in the krab but this time by placing my right front points in it, the other foot braced squarely against the side wall. The craziness of my predicament obvious as my foot swayed unnervingly in the krab. Looking for excuses, I cursed the traffic jams in Liverpool that had slowed my outward journey thinking conditions would have been more favourable an hour earlier and wondered how nice it would be to be with a partner using the fixed gear that could be so easily lowered off.

A few minutes of stress passed and was followed by a moment of clarity and the steadfast realisation that there was no way out unless the section above was passed. A few extremely bold moves for a short distance would have it cracked I hoped. I just couldn't comprehend that a grade three had turned out to be so desperate; was it the conditions? my rusty technique? or was it that this section was actually a lot harder than the guide said? That Tuesday it was probably a mixture of all three and for that moment it became far too serious. Unsympathetically, I hear you say "What does he expect climbing alone!?" I can only agree.

My only hope was the band of moss that my left axe was firmly placed in. Leaning at sixty-degrees leftwards I placed the right-hand axe awkwardly. It went in deeply enough to look and feel sufficient. My body was extremely tense but now for the first time in fifteen minutes my mind was completed focused on the task ahead. I felt my body-weight load my axes and I pictured my muscles taking the strain. A high step with my right leg, leaving the relative sanctuary of the krab for good, and rocking upwards on a small edge allowed a further placement in the continuing seam of moss. A number of precarious moves using sods of grass followed and my body straightened up. As my toes felt the crampons biting into solid ground for the first time waves of relief started surging through me. In ten feet I had won the battle and survived the test. I sought a direct line for the summit, wanting to finish this startling adventure quickly.

Standing atop Snowdon, covered in soil, with the cold peace and dramatic clarity of winter views all around, my shoulders finally dropped. The tension ebbed away and the committing experience eventually become just a memory, though a vivid one. With tools still in hand and a manic stare gradually being replaced by an all-conquering smirk, I uttered to myself "The joys of mid-week climbing, hey!".