Never Judge a Book by it's Cover

(January 2015)

The snow was falling heavily to the north of Cannock, coating the Peak District in a white blanket. I'd been working all weekend and had the urge to go out to explore the wintry conditions. I knew Dave (Chairman of the WMC) would most likely be free on a week day, so I gave him a bell to ask if he would be up for venturing out. Luckily he was, so I suggested walking the whale back ridge that forms the spine of Mam Tor. 

Walking up out of Castleton

Dave picked me up on a dry and overcast morning, and we set off in the  direction of the Peak. I sat in the car chatting away, already knowing some of the many expeditions Dave had taken part on from the Karakom to Greenland and the Andes. He talked about his connections with the British Mountaineering Council (Governing body of Climbing, Mountaineering and walking in the UK), I was amazed that I was sat in a car with such an accomplished mountaineer and climber. And also thought that if my CV looked half as good as Dave's I would have achieved a hell of a lot. 

The snow lay thick as we walked out of Castleton heading up across some farmland surrounded by flocks of prying sheep. I watched Dave move with his bag untidily stuffed with a map wrapped in a bread bag, a walking pole protruding out the top, a few spare layers and a loaf of Soreen bread. He didn't look like an experienced and world class mountaineer that he was. We plodded on up until we found a flat spot on the ridge for tea and some food. 

View through the clag

Mam Tor ridgeline

After Dave had brushed off his square section of foam that he used to sit and keep his backside from getting cold on the snow (another example of simple equipment gained through years of experience), we set off along the ridge. We waded through drifts of snow and watched as a few intrepid paragliders launched  from the summit, catching some form of thermals even on this cold day. 

Sun breaking the cloud behind Mam Tor

Intrepid paragliders

 

The summit was marked as usual with a cairn, and surrounded by a flock of crows searching for scraps among the snow. The descent route took us along the old road that lay destroyed after several large landslides over the decades off the East face of Mam Tor itself. 

Summit cairn

 

As we walked across the warped and buckled tarmac Dave told me about the history of the road, as well as the famous Blue John (a semi-precious mineral) that occurs in many caves beneath the area attracting thousands of tourists each year.

Which way?

I absorbed Dave's knowledge of his years of climbing and walking in the Peak and soaked it up like a sponge as he spoke about the area geological and human history. 



Mam Tor east face

The day may not have been an epic slog or climbing box ticked, but I had spent a day with a true legend of British climbing and mountaineering who I may never have got to know so well. And I learnt once again that you can never tell a book by it's cover, particularly a man wearing Aldi track suit bottoms. 

 

My advice when out in the hills speak to that person, join someone you normally wouldn't for the day and ask the questions when you get the chance. Because you never know who you may meet, stories you will hear or skill you may gain! 

#TypicalWales

(January 2015)

The wind howled and the grey sky streamed with low cloud as I stared out of the window of cottage. Me and Dan had risen surprisingly early and the sun had just started to brighten the sky, as we tucked into a couple of bowls of steaming porridge. As we ate we debated the plan for the day ahead and agreed that standing being chilled by the growing wind in the slate quarries was a bad idea. 

Low cloud coming down the valley

We packed up the car and headed up the Ogwen Valley amiss the swirl of low clag, pulling off the road at the base of Tryfan. I followed Dan up the monster like north ridge of Tryfan among a group of other fellow hardy walkers and climbers. The wind speed increased with height as we scrambled across the steep slopes of slippery heather as we lost our way up the normal ascent line, moving across a few loose gullies until we found firmer ground. 

Dan chilling on the canon

Me doing my best not to get blown off

(Photo taken by Dan Jackson)

We climbed higher towards the end of the first tier in search of the famous Canon feature. This large lump of rock planted into the mountainside and erected at 45 degree angle into the air. Even with the heighten wind we both knew we had to venture out as close as possible to it's end for a picture surrounded by the now very atmospheric Ogwen and low clag. I crawl to the very end of the Canon and stared down hanging hundreds of metres above the A5 below, as I was bufferted by the gale force wind.

 

Ice cold

Dan having a bit of alone time with his food

We hunkered down behind a few large lumps of rock to gain some rest bit from the uneasing gale to refuel for the final summit push. The second tier that makes up Tryfan is a crown of steep, uneven jagged rocks that requires the whole body to overcome. Along with the increasing difficulty of the terrain, the growing altitude allowed any excess water to form a thin glass like layer of ice across any willing surface. 

 

Tryfan steepening to the summit

Facing out onto the steep East face

The decision not to bring crampons seemed to be a mistake as we clawed and scrapped our way onto the summit. But arriving onto the very top of this 900 plus metre mountain, left us unprotected from the full force of 70 mph winds lashing across the summit. I wedged myself between the famous rock couple of Adam and Eve, unable to make the famous jump between them.

Me and my green bandana between Adam and Eve

Dan being battered by the gales

The descent reversed the ascent process just down a different route, slipping and sliding our way down towards the side of the lake. The path on the lake shores levelled out and eased us gently back to the carpark, and a date with McDonald's on the dark drive home. 

Snow and ice making the descent interesting

The descent view over to Llyn Idwal

A typical winter day in Wales of low cloud, strong winds and rain. But I couldn't have wished it any other way as this time on the mountain allows you to experience natures power and it's atmospheric ever changing mood. 

Back by the darkening shores of Llyn Owgen

A Big Day on Glyders Fach- East Gully Arete

(May 2014)

The sky was grey and air cool as me and Lee headed from the A5 at the bottom of the Ogwen Valley and towards the side the Godzilla like Tryfan and the cwm containing Llyn Bochlwyd. The path was fairly steep and I soon had to take off my jumper and tuck it away in my pack. I was en route towards my first multi-pitch mountain day and hopefully going to conquer a massive 150 metre route up the East Gully Arête, a place few have the chance or the urge to visit.

Llyn Bochlwyd and Tryfan behind

The path levelled out to follow the shores of the lake bustling with people heading towards the jagged Bristly Ridge high to our left. Lee pulled out the guide book and between us we began interpreting the direction in which we must go to find the base of the route. Heading from the path we soon had to start slogging through ankle deep mud and sheep droppings surrounding the lake shore and our trail. 

Tryfan with the grey sky above

 

The line we planned to take was a arête of jagged uneven rock raised above a steep sided and boulder littered gully to it's right. Lee took the lead up the first steep and twisting pitch, directly up the north face of the Glyders Fach. I followed and took over the lead once he was safely secured, scrambling up ladden with my rucksack. 

High on the Glyders Fach

The sun creeped higher into the sky evaporating the early morning cloud, leaving a bright clear sky. The rays beating down on us soon began to cook my neck and face that I had naively left unprotected. I came to the hardest section of my leads so far, a sloping narrow pinnacle of rock that I protection by quickly stuffing a large cam into a crack above me. I composed myself on this exposed and vulnerable position with a huge drop eitherside and moved up. 

The light fading and time to make an escape

 

(Lee abseiling down a gully to escape the mountain)

The light had began to relent and indicate that we must give up our persuit for the summit and descend down the gully to our right. Packing up the ropes we began the scramble off the side of the arête and into the gully, soon being required to set up a 25 metre abseil to reach some solid ground. 

The light slipping away out of the Ogwen Valley

The slog once on some leveller if boulder littered ground seemed to take for ever as we stumbled our way down and past the shore of the lake again. We were both knackered, hungry and dying for a beer and the sight of a horned local mountain goat made me think a barbecue would be a great idea for dinner. 

Last light from the hut

 

I just collapsed onto the empty carpark, savouring the smooth warm tarmac under my back after 12 hours of moving. The bottle of ice cold cider cooled my parched, dry throat and pizza soothed my aching stomach on our return to the hut. The tales of days adventures filled the room for the rest of the night as we discussed our successes and funny moments out on the hill.

Cadair Idris

(December 2014)

I dropped Dave a message last minute to ask if he could put me a pair of crampons and an ice axe in. The snow had been pouring down across the UK, but mainly in Scotland. I was hoping to get in my first days winter walking with the guys from the WMC (Wolverhampton Mountaineering Club) of the season. 

I rolled up outside Dave's house with the sun barely breaking the hold of darkness on the sky and waited for the John and Rich to arrive. John was fighting fit as usual chomping on a McDonalds breakfast to soothe the previous nights drinking session. 

John feeling a little better on the summit

 

I drifted in and out of sleep in the back of the car crammed in with John and Rich, and suddenly awoke to John requesting Dave to stop the car as soon as possible. Rich and I eitherside piled out of the car to enable John to empty his stomach contents on the side of the road. (That's why you don't drink too much kids!)

View up into the cwm and summit in the middle

 

The air was cold and crisp as we pulled on our boots in the carpark and the outline of Cadair Idris backed by pure light blue sky and the odd whisp of white cloud. Cadair lies on the Southern edge of Snowdonia National Park, Wales near to the town of Dolgellau.  

Llyn Cau

The path followed a set of block cut steps that criss crossed via slab bridges over a fast following stream that fell to form a number of small waterfalls and white frothy plunge pools. The stream was feed from a large lake (Llyn Cau) at the base of Cwm, the water of which seemed black compared to the white snow around it's edge. 

Following the rim of the cwm

View across the surrounding peaks

 

We followed the rim of the Cwm that opened out onto a snow covered ridge, plodding up in a line staring out at the view for miles across the Welsh countryside. The route led across several stiles with the adjoining wire fence eitherside encrusted in wind blasted ice. As we crossed the col towards the summit trudging through deeper snow that had drifted in the shallow depressions. 

Panoramic summit view

Me and Rich at the summit cairn

 

The summits cairn was encrusted in snow and ice from the strong winds blowing down from the north. We all stood in amazement at the breathtaking view across the Snowdon range and out to the Irish Sea. The wind soon began to pick up and the air cooled further, so we headed for shelter for lunch in a small bothy (a small brick shack) hidden in the hillside. 

Descent across the summit ridge

Wind shaped snow on the descent

The afternoon came and we began our descent stumbling and sliding down a scree banks the otherside of the horseshoe shape of the Cwm. We arrived back at the carpark as the sun was slowly sinking in the sky and the stream growing from the additional of the days melt water. The return home was somewhat mard by a trip to the toilets before leaving that were flooded with raw sewage, the sink I'm sure didn't help John's hangover.

Last view before heading to the car park

 

Cadair Idris is a true gem at the edge of Snowdonia with several classic mountain routes that can escape the weather systems trapped over the National Park itself. Well worth a visit! 

Kayaking Doubtful Sound

Doubtful Sound is the second largest  fjord in New Zealand, a huge sprawling network of inlets connecting Lake Manapouri and a number of rivers to the ocean. It was named by Captain James Cook, after he stated that it is doubtful whether if he sailed in that he would ever sail back out. So I decided to have a paddle around and see how things went! 

There were many things I had dreamed about doing that encouraged me to journey across to the other side of the world and visit New Zealand. The main being the Fjordland in the South West corner of the South island, an area of towering peaks, steaming temperature rain forest and dark foreboding waters.  I have to apologise for the lack of pictures before I start, a blizzard the previous day on the Kepler Track is to blame.

 

A view down on the dim Lake Manapouri

 

   

The day started early with me waiting for a lift outside the hostel from my kayaking guide Cloudi. I threw me gear in the back of his 80’s Jeep and we cruised down the empty and wild road between Te Anau and Manapouri. I joined up the rest of the group for the day and boarded the boat that motored us across the huge expanse of Lake Manapouri towards the towering peaks of the fjord that emerged vertically out of the cold black water. The peaks capped with brilliant white snow, which soon disappeared beneath a blanket of low cloud that rolled in from the sea bring with it a torrential day long downpour.  

 

We boarded a 1970’s school bus that transported us from the lake up over a high pass and down to the shores of Doubtful Sound, each kitted out with a wet suit and micro thermal top to keep us slightly warm. The second boat for the day ferried us out into the middle of the water away from the tour groups, launching our four double kayaks out onto choppy surface. I was paired with Cloudi to even out the numbers in each boat, and we lead the way out into the main body of water. Once the shore and boat were a distant outlines in the dim light Cloudi informed me of a number of Great White, Bull and Mako sharks that had made their way up the Sound in search of a food over the past few years. I didn't feel so confident in our small craft.

 

 Every island we passed as with the rest of the steep and towering peaks either side of the fjord was covered in beech forest that grew out of a layers of moss and lichen that inhabited the bare rock faces on which soil could not form. As we passed under the low limbs of the ancient and gnarled beech trees and ferns, we ventured around the corner to see a small family of Fjordland Penguins that soon hopped into the water with their yellow striped faces vanishing into the darkness.

The water below was a swirling mix of denser sea water and fresh rainwater layered on top. The murky depth hidden by the brown pigment of tannin leaching from the decaying leaf matter. This unknown beneath us added to the mystery of low cloud and thick wooden slopes. 

 

We headed up an arm of the Sound that was free from all forms of motor boats, enabling us to move closer into the towering peaks and gained a real perspective of how small we were. Something only you can truly experience from just above the water surface. Cloudi guided me to paddle towards one of a number of flash waterfalls (temporary streams of water falling vertical off the mountainside, formed by the high volume of rainfall) cascading straight off the top of one of the mountains, I looked up into the haze of the spray as it collided with face and water surface on the way down. The water was free falling a 1000 metres pummelling us as we passed beneath the torrent. We continued around into another cove with a huge rock cavern cut by the water, the water flowing from above created a curtain that sealed the cave like a glass window. Only on entering through this wall did we finally have a rest bite from the millions of raindrops pounding onto the surface of the Sound.

 

We drifted out Cloudi asking us to stop paddling and close our eyes to just listen and absorb the environment around us. I was inside a gigantic cathedral surrounded by the world’s largest water fountains that created a cacophony that mixed with the lapping waves against the kayak and the never ending patter of raindrops on the water surface. This is a moment I shall never forget and a lesson that even in the biggest spaces a moment of silent can only truly enable you to absorb the small details that make a memory unforgettable.   

 

 

Banter, Beer and Swedish Babes

(El Chorro, Spain- May 2015)

This was my first trip abroad with Wolverhampton Mountaineering Club and that's always a strange mix of nerves and excitement. Nerves as you never know how well you will get along with people after you only really know them from a few days together on weekends away. And excitement to venture into a new place made up of cliffs hundreds of metre high, large caves and a wilderness sparsely populated away from the masses.

The adventure began once we arrived at the airport and the sudden realisation the most likely person to miss the flight was stuck delayed on the train. And as we were a tight group and stuck together at all times, we decided it was every man for himself and checked in our luggage and headed for security without him. Jon eventually turned up and the group was united as we headed for the plane.

The heat as always hit us as we left the air-conditioned environment of the plane, and I stood sweat dribbling down the back of my neck in a slow moving car hire queue. The wait was worth it as Dave drove us out of the outskirts of Malaga and up into the hills towards El Chorro. We soon began following the edge of huge Caribbean blue watered lake, that would offer a playground later in the week for cooling off and soaking aching muscles. After a short break at a lakeside bar for a ice cold cerveza and fish bowl like glasses of gin and blue tonic, we continued our way down into the El Chorro gorge. Soon we were dwarfed by the towering limestone cliffs wetting our appetite for the week ahead and the endless lines to be conquered.

Towering cliffs around El Chorro

 

 

The villa which would be our base for the week lay high above the wild west town that is El Chorro, surrounded by endless orange and olive groves. Me, John and Chris soon found the pool after stripping off and diving into the cool, refreshing water after the long day spent sweating in the dry Spanish heat. We then ventured down the road to the Rocabella Restaurant, where was sat sipping freshly made sangria glazing from the veranda over the dying light seeping out of the valley below. I knew then we had arrived in a special place.

Light fading in the valley

 

 

Parking next to a concrete railway tunnel that looked as if it had burst from the base of the limestone crag towering above, we set off weaving our way through a woodland of tall knotted pines and thick undergrowth. The walk lead us to a huge cave set back into the cliff guarded by lumps of debris that had over time cascaded from the cliff above. Dale lead the way first up a steep and quite intense route inside this vast casum, using a variety of tufa's and pockets while the caves swallow inhabitants swooped around above. I followed him up after, twisting and pivoting to reduce the pressure on my arms. The steep section towards the top of the climb forced my forearms to tense the higher I moved. I clipped the final bolt and lowered off back to the floor and suddenly as I placed my hand out to steady my descent a swallow burst from one of the mainly hollows and holes on the face.

Cathedral like cavern filled with swallows 

Dale heading up his first route of the trip

The following day meant heading off to the grey slabs of Turon via the small traditional village of Ardales. We picked up some supplies mostly importantly some extra beer, Bacardi and large globe shaped bottles of wine. The walk into the crag crossed an area of farmland, followed by a combination of bushwhacking through tall thin spikey leaves and stumbling over hidden rocks. The first route scaled a smooth grey slab section where trusting my feet was the only way to make progress. I pressed and twisted my toes hard into small indentations and run my hands slowly across the sun baked surface to find anything to provide enough friction to enable upward movement. The sun continued to draw higher in the sky, baking us in the open area beneath the crag.

Grey slabs of Turon

My first 6b route right in the middle of the shot

I ventured out with Dale and Chris to a slightly more shaded area on some steeper and more strenuous terrain. Dale soon moved effortlessly up a technical and pumpy 6b, which I made the mistake of pulling the rope down after he was back on the ground. This required me to venture out to try and complete my first 6b, if I'm honest I didn't have much choice as most of my quickdraws were hanging from the bolts above. I tied in feeling the tension building in my stomach as I then pulled up to clip the first bolt. Each move higher I constantly focused on my feet to propel myself upwards as the strain on my arms grew, every clip meant shaking fingers as I fumbled to connect the rope to the wall. The last move tested my nerve as I stretch up and clipped the final bolt knowing a fall would send me tumbling onto an uneven and sharp edged face. But instead the rope fell into place and relief fell over me as I was lowered down to the ground.

Jon making new friends

Amptrax

The sky was still dark as I made my way upstairs to meet the other guys attempting Amptrax. A seven pitch route up a huge limestone face over looking the town and hydroelectric reservoir that was feed from the gorge. I was teamed up with Dan for the day and we were elected to head off as the leading group. This was my first time on a steep multi-pitch route of this length and it soon became apparent after mauling my way up the first steep and fairly strenuous pitch it was going to be a long day. I reached the final bolts of the pitch and set up a hanging belay and lent back into mid-air with nothing but two bolts and a length of rope supporting my weight. I began pulling rope up coiling it as tidily as possible over my legs. As I looked down to watch Dan moving off up the route below me, I noticed the low morning light rising and piercing its rays down the valley behind us. The early light flowed like gold coating the tree canopy below me, forming a golden carpet of leaves and beams of light erupted from the valley head between the huge towering limestone crags.

The route continued unrelenting as we soon began to bake exposed in the heat of the Spanish sun, sucking the moisture from our skin. As I reached the last pitch I began to cramp up with this loss of fluid. I had to grit my teeth and pull on everything and anything to hand to get my aching, parched body up to meet Dan at the belay. My last challenge on the wall was leading out across a 30 metre traverse knowing that a fall at any point would lead to a huge swing down the face and a difficult recover back up to my current position. Each step around large budges sticking out the face caused my heart to stutter as I searched frantically to find a hidden foot placements to stabilise my weight.

Amptrax hidding behind the trees

The final scramble to the summit was pure joy and huge sense of achievement in reaching the top of such a famous route and to be on flat ground and remove my tight sweaty climbing shoes was just as good. The route back into the village saw us follow the wrong trail to the edge of a steep cliff, bushwhack through undergrowth and stumble upon someone's home craved into the rocky hillside. What a great adventure!

Dan admiring the view off the top of Amptrax

A real life Hobbit hole!

 

The beer in the rustic station bar had never tasted so sweet as we told the tale of the route to Jon and Guy, who had unfortunately not been so successful. The return to the villa was made all the better by yet another dip into the pool, before to our shock Alex had managed to invite two tall blonde Swedish babes back for dinner. Placing the pressure on Jon, myself and Chris knocked up a dinner fit for our sophisticated guests, a combination  of paella, pizza, pasta and a pudding of fruit salad and yogurt. Oh, and of course some more beer! 

Last light over the beautiful lake

The rest of the week continued as it had begun. Jon spending large periods of the time naked (often in public), Chris telling us secrets of his past that would have ashamed most men into silence, Dale having his hat soiled by Chris's penis and Dan going to bed by 10pm every night to get some beauty sleep (unfortunately with no prevail)! Then the rest of us taking the piss out of them. 

I remember my first beer!

 

The trip was rounded off with a dip in the Caribbean blue lake and eating our final meal of the trip watching the sun slide behind the huge limestone cliffs  we had spent all week clambering up. The low orange hue on the horizon glowing like a raging wild fire. Then as the sun light finally extinguished, the blackness above us develop thousands of pure white stars. What a prefect end to a superb trip, with a bunch of nutters and endless banter!
 

Dying light on the last night

Look at all these ugly mugs after our final meal