Eee, that Brunel chappie can certainly build a good route!
By Steve Culverhouse - September 2003
Eee, that Brunel chappie can certainly build a good route!
It has to be said that there were some rather brave words spoken the night before in the pub (and not just by myself!) - 'It's got four stars you know' I remember saying, 'A must-do'. The phrase 'Chickens coming home to roost' sprang to mind as I looked over at it, but as I traipsed to the bottom of the route with a disturbingly large number of IMC 'spectators' (didn't they have anything better to do for heaven's sake?) I was rather glad to see the route taken. It looked steep.
Phew!
Sadly, however the team in front consisted of someone who was clearly an E11 climber taking his (mere E1 leader) mate up a quick warm-up VS sharing the same start. To say he made the initial common steep layback section look easy would be to understate things - the term 'saunter' seems more appropriate. If he'd been a proper 'ard Yorkshireman he'd no doubt have rolled a quick fag whilst doing it too.
I'm never quite sure what to think when I see a team on a route that is probably near my limit. Is it worse to see the leader lobbing repeatedly from the crux or cruising effortlessly, obviously well within his/her limits? I mean, if the bloke's that good what's he doing on a VS? Surely it's got to be a complete sandbag?
Pushing these thoughts to the back of my head - it's a bloody VS layback for heaven's sake - you can see the jugs - and he laced it with gear. I stand at the bottom and contemplate the initial steep move. The presence of a large band of spectators magically pushed out of my mind by the thought that this looks rather steep for rather a long way. Right then, gear in, grab the edge, pull hard and I'm going. Not that bad really, some bridging footholds reduce the stress on the arms and quickly I'm near the hand traverse level. I'm sure there's a nice jug about 5ft up (that E11 leader had a quick cuppa there) and these footholds aren't that good so it's a quick sprint upwards to the safety of the jug and, hallelujah, jug it is. More gear in and I contemplate the hand traverse, now about 4ft below, realising that this position isn't quite a rest - oh dear.
The traverse had looked scary from the ground and it didn't improve much close up. Yeah sure, I could now see that the handholds were mostly OK but how about that bit there, or over there? The footholds don't bear thinking about at all. I lean down and stuff a Friend in near the start of the traverse line and retreat back to the jug. I can easily imagine quite an extended stay attached to the jug at this point, shame I haven't brought the portaledge I think. Eventually, I decide I can delay things a bit further by adding a second Friend a bit further along the traverse line. So it's down the crack a little, slam the Friend in and clip. At this point, my conscious brain is about to tell my muscles to send me scampering back to the jug except I find I have both hands on the traverse line and I'm moving leftwards - how the hell did that happen? In the confusion the autopilot continues to run and I absently admire it at work on the traverse - damn! Why can't I climb like this all the time?
Autopilot abruptly kicks out at the end of the traverse and I'm hanging there on a single sloping foothold, a mediocre jam and a decent lip on the traverse line. Its overhanging about 20 degrees and the last gear is now 8 feet away - time for a quick decision. I'm off autopilot so it's into full coward mode and out with the gear. I mean this lip is pretty good, I reckon I can hang off it for ages no problem and anyway I can just about hang on this jam. Friends are on the wrong side of the harness but I reckon the crack will take a hex OK. A bit of wiggling and the hex is in. Don't want it lifting out, so it's out with an extender and the growing realisation that the clock is running in my forearms.
Some abortive fiddling around ensues; I'm sure that good edge has shrunk and if this was at Cape Canaveral some American with a deep voice would be clearing his throat in front of a microphone. Right then, time for a last go at clipping that extender in. A bit of fumbling and the extender is heading earthwards - bugger! The gasp from below to reminds me that I'm not alone in the Universe - er Hi Guys. The chap at NASA has now turned his mike on and there's no time now for another extender. Thankfully the rope clips in quickly to the hex and, oh goody, I can look up and contemplate the crux. At NASA the countdown has now well and truly started although main engines are now feeling distinctly below par. Still, no time to worry about that, foot up into the vertical crack, jam in as good as it's ever going to be then it's up with the right hand, that jam's not as good as I'd like but pull anyway, left hand up for a pinch, feet up and - Allah be praised - jugs and a rest. A few minutes later and some perspective on the world returns and I can think of things like adopting a more elegant position than arse in the air, head in a hole (it's not for nothing that this point is known as 'The Gargoyle') and the fact that some more gear would be a good idea. I'm peculiarly loath to leave the depths of the resting niche so fiddle in a sideways nut in the depths before squirming outwards to contemplate the final crack.
Mmmm, looks interesting - it may be only 10ft to the top but the route is clearly not over yet - a gently overhanging jamming crack looms above and I suspect that the spectators haven't had their full value for money yet. So it's jam up, reach over the top and - not a bloody sausage. So it's a retreat back down to the niche for a whimper. Right then, this time it's got to go - up on the jams, foot on a tiny edge, reaaaach over the top and yep it's another rubbish jam but I'm going up anyway, leg over the top and, flop, I'm there!
By 'eck Petal, it's a good route.
PS - Thanks to Pete for removing the gear and making all the appropriate grimaces and grunting noises and to my faithful band of spectators for avoiding the 'Oooh, he's a long way from the gear' comments!
Steve
