VDiff Summer 2015

VDiff Summer 2015 - 1


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Front cover: Sarah the crazy Canadian celebrates after an ascent of Half-Dome, Yosemite. Photo: VDiff Collection

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In a previous life I had an IT manager who was a stickler for security, insisting on a change of password every month. After working my way through the usual suspects, I hit upon the idea of using the names of routes I wanted to do, thus providing an aide-mémoire and, through a process of daily reinforcement, the psychological conditioning required to focus my efforts for the coming season. The first part of the plan worked brilliantly (there’s an inexhaustible supply of routes I’d like to do but haven’t!) but translating this into action the following year yielded disappointing results.

Ten years later I finally managed to settle three of these old scores. Looking back, I’ve been wondering what stopped me before now and what made the difference; and coming to the conclusion that it’s largely in the mind – secret words indeed!

Prana, Black Crag, Borrowdale, E3 6a.

The drizzle stops and the sun makes an appearance but Paul O’Reilly and I arrive at the crag to find it streaked in water. My emotions are caught between relief and disappointment until closer examination reveals that the crux


of the route looks largely dry. No time for second thoughts and we gear up, with Paul leading the green, oozing, entry ‘scramble’ which is anything but inviting. I start up the main pitch, unsure of the line in the absence of the usual chalk trail, washed away by recent rains. Happily this is fairly straightforward until steepness intrudes and holds disappear, forcing a leftwards tack onto the headwall.

Looking further left and upwards it is clear that the crux is approaching. A small wire nestles snugly in a long tapering crack – bomb-proof, and encourages me up another ten feet or so to a small foothold and a decent jug. Options for progress have now crystallised, literally, to tiny finger and toe holds which lead up and out of sight over a bulge. The solitary wire looks smaller from here and will be a long way beneath my feet when I’m pulling over the bulge. Half of my brain is already in the bar at the Eagle & Child, nursing a bruised ego over a pint and recalling that it had been a bit damp, and we’d done three great routes already that day, so it hadn’t really been a failure...

Luckily, the other half knows the secret words: ‘That wire is good.

You’d go a long way if you fell, but into fresh air. If it was a bolt you’d make the move. If you go down now how long will it be before you come back? What will have changed?’

With unusual calm I utter the other half of the spell: ‘OK, Paul, watch me here!’ and move up. The good jug that I’d rationalised doesn’t materialise but I’m committed now. Another couple of moves on discomforting holds finally yield easier ground and I speed to the top. Clip in, sit down and relax gazing out over Derwent Water under skidding clouds. One part of the Codex is broken.

Star Wars, Bosherston Head, Pembroke, E4 5c.

I’m a sucker for a good photo, and if it happens to be on the front of a book then I’m hooked. ‘Limestone’ by Chris Craggs features a great picture of Star Wars on its front cover, which is how it ended up on my passwords list. Reassured by the beta: ‘There is more gear than the grade suggests, and although there are hardly any easy moves, there are no desperate ones either’ I make plans for the May half-term and Andy Stewart is recruited to


the team. Having cast the spell I’m committed, and we duly find ourselves on a ledge a few feet above the sea, with me tied to the sharp end. The route starts benignly, following a corner for about fifteen feet to a decent runner, before traversing rightwards towards a distant arête. No difficulties are encountered, but neither is any gear, and a creeping

sense of commitment sneaks up on you, as you move further away from the protection. The first hard moves arrive just as the exposure kicks in, along with the realisation that you’ve now traversed further than the height you gained up the corner. A fall here would result in a major pendulum and a sickening crunch into the wall beneath your belayer.


Looking up at the sun-kissed upper arête I remind myself that I knew the score before I started the route. That’s the 'old me’ talking, with more secret words: ‘Nothing has changed. You’re quite comfortable with the climbing. How long have you wanted to do this route for?’ Some layback trickery and fancy footwork leave me catching my breath on a decent hold and fiddling a tiny bit of brass in. The climbing continues, complex rather than desperate, and the focus required to find the right sequence and tease out the subtle gear-placements is totally absorbing. Before I know it I can feel the sun on my back, and a few more pulls bring the horizontal world of closely cropped grass into reach. The Atlantic swells below and all is well with the world. Another piece of the puzzle is solved.

The Axe, The Pinnacle, Clogwyn Du’r Arddu, E4 6a.

The cover of the Cloggy guide is compelling, with its stunning photo of Jim Jewell’s landmark solo ascent of The Axe. If the route falls anywhere near within your compass you just have to do it; it’s simply a matter of when...

Dave Booth immediately agrees to the plan. I even own up to my objective; I don’t think I’d have been able to hide the mounting buzz, and anyway, crossing the Rubicon of saying those secret words seems like an important step along the journey.

We ascend the Western Terraces; walk over to the top of The Pinnacle and abseil into the ledge system at the bottom of The Axe, pulling the ropes down behind us.The Axe is a route of two halves. The start is on the sombre north-facing wall of The Pinnacle. Steep moves lead to a small roof guarded by some shattered flakes where gear can be arranged before pulling over and onto the wall. Steep and fingery climbing then leads through the crux of the route (at least psychologically) with no further gear for another fifteen feet or so. A fall from the crux would be likely to end up on the ground. Strangely at ease I move quickly through these moves.

The climbing for the next 50ft leads up and left towards the arête via a series of stiff but enjoyable moves – surprising holds have been engineered just where you need them and the gear is sound throughout. As I reach the arête I


recoil in amazement as the sun breaks through and I cast a shadow down into the cwm below. I rush upwards, convinced it’s ‘in the bag’ only to be stopped short by a brief sequence back on the north face which avoids a bulge on the arête proper. There are two possibilities here and I procrastinate, angry with myself for allowing a lack of concentration to potentially ruin my lead. Up then left; or left then up? I need to commit urgently as the pump is building; roll the dice and I make the move. Re-established on the arête I can now gain a rest. Aching arms dangling and bathed in the warming sun, I really cannot think of a better position on any route in the world. There’s plenty more climbing, but the difficulties are easing; just as well as energy levels are falling at about the same rate! As I reach the top the last piece of the puzzle falls into place and I can finally consign those secret words to the trash can: ‘Are you sure you want to permanently delete these passwords?’ ‘Yes!’

So what makes the difference? I’m still not sure I have any answers, and certainly not all of them. Having clear targets is important; but committing to them is key. There’s a huge difference between

a ‘wish list’ and a ‘hit list’ and no way of knowing which one you’ve assembled until push comes to shove. Knowing when it would be safe to fall and knowing when you can’t is an important skill, though one best left untested; and having a climbing partner in whom you have complete trust is essential. Perhaps the most important secret words can be summed up as ‘seize the day’ and ‘be lucky!’

About the author

Dominic Oughton has been climbing for more than 30 years, and has spent a fair few of those cragging in Europe, North America and Down Under. His “Top Five World Crags” include Gogarth, Cloggy, El Cap and Hobson Moor Quarry – the other one varies depending on the latest trip; currently Gayikbayri in Turkey. Now semi-retired he's trying to visit the remaining 98% of the world’s best crags – see www.rockaroundtheworld.co.uk for progress. He is also a past president of the Rucksack club; a group of like-minded individuals from all walks of life who share a common interest in adventure in the mountains. Visit www.rucksackclub.org for more information.

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Over the summer, I embarked on an unforgettable voyage into the strikingly wild and secluded Kara Su Valley, Kyrgyzstan. My climbing partner, Callum, and I had two lifelong dreams, both of them required us to venture into unexplored territory. The first, and perhaps most important, was to

suntan our frightfully pasty skin sufficiently enough to impress the Cumbrian ladies at home. The second, was to complete a big-wall first ascent on the 1700-metre west face of Kotina; one of the biggest vertical rock walls in the world. Only one of these goals was completed.


"How do you say hello in Kyrgyz?" Beads of sweat retreated down Callum's sunburnt forehead under command from the blazing sun.I hung my head and sighed. "I've no idea." I dropped my haulbag on the dusty ground and slumped over it. We hadn't slept for two days. "Is Kyrgyz even a language? I thought they spoke Russian here."It was our first day in Kyrgyzstan and we had stumbled upon a bustling outdoor bazaar in the large city of Osh. For hours we had wandered through crowded streets, meandering between donkeys and piles of rice in a dazed state of jet-lagged, culture-shocked confusion.Callum slouched on top of our

enormous sack of onions."We can't just eat this for six weeks." He gave flitting glances at the rest of our food supply; 20 kilos of pasta, a bag of flour and some garlic cloves. "I don't even like pasta.""It'll be fine, mate." Half-asleep, I sat up and wiped sweat from my face with dirt covered hands. "It'll be cheaper if we don't buy any more stuff."Callum rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Yeah okay, let's get out of here."

Kyrgyzstan has roads with three lanes. It seems the outer two are used for parking mopeds and


donkeys, and for storing gigantic piles of fruit and sand. The much narrower middle lane is used for driving, for traffic going in both directions, though this lane is typically riddled with pot-holes big enough to swallow a bus.Not even an advanced case of sleep deprivation could close our eyes during the unnerving 8 hour

drive from Osh to the road's end. From there, we loaded our equipment onto 6 donkeys and trotted with the sturdy creatures under clear blue skies for two days into the biggest mountains I'd ever seen. We had reached the end of human civilization, and the beginning of an adventure into the unknown.


As we become older, and more afraid, the unknown becomes a seldom explored realm. But it is in the unknown that we learn the most about ourselves; about our hopes, our dreams and our fears.

Light snow crystals drifted in the crisp mountain air and collected in neat fluffy piles on our portaledge cover. I stared with awe into the large U-shaped valley below. The Kara Su valley was bounded on three sides by tremendous granite

walls and towers. Huge waterfalls cascaded between them in great leaps. A deep, slow-moving glacier dressed the valley floor and snow glazed the higher reaches in an icy splendour. We'd been climbing Kotina's immense west face for three days. We were, as far as we knew, the valley's only inhabitants.

"It doesn't look like we're even halfway yet." I stared up at the seemingly endless vertical headwall which loomed overhead. Snowflakes fell into my open mouth. In the distance above, I could see the ominous granite wall disappear into thick dark clouds and then reappear even higher up. "How big is this thing?" A twinge of apprehension distorted my voice into an unusually high pitch."1700 meters." Callum mumbled through a mouthful of pasta and boiled onion.A shiver, partly from the cold and partly from fear, rippled through my spine. "That's 170 times bigger


than the routes at Stanage.""Yeah, I suppose it is." Callum passed me a pan of half-eaten bland pasta-mush and stretched out across our tiny home on the mountain, seemingly unfazed by the enormity and power of the vast wall.

The intensity of the snow fall increased and darkness descended upon us. We became encapsulated in a blanket of eerie silence as our portaledge turned into an igloo. It suddenly occurred to me just how vulnerable we were. To be rescued from that point on the mountain, even in good weather, would be unjustifiably dangerous for a helicopter rescue team. In any case, we didn't have rescue insurance, or any insurance at all. And no-one knew where we were. We also didn't have a map, watch, phone, radio or any means of being able to contact anyone. We didn't even have any spare

underwear."Don't worry mate. We've got bigger problems." Callum gave a forlorn frown at the pale skin on his arms. "The Cumbrian ladies aren't gonna be impressed."After three days huddled in our portaledge igloo, we ran out of food and were forced to descend 900 metres to the ground.Exhausted, hungry and in desperate need of a shower and dry clothes, we returned to our base camp to be greeted by a very excited, though extremely bedraggled, dirty-white puppy in an even worse physical condition than ourselves. We guessed the poor fellow had strayed from the nomadic shepherds who were camped further down the next valley. Our food supply was untouched but our only bar of soap had been eaten.We rustled up a feast of sloppy pasta flavoured with a thin ration of garlic and slightly mouldy onions


for the three of us. The dishevelled, starving dog gave a curious sniff but absolutely refused to eat the meal.

The storm cleared the following morning and in its glistening wake a flame dawn burned across the frosty land, creating an aura of prehistoric desolation. We re-climbed the same 900 metres to our portaledge camp, relieved to see it hadn't been washed away. From there, we were lucky enough to find incredible crack systems up the remaining 800-metre vertical headwall. This allowed us to climb the entire route on-sight and free. After pausing on the way up to boil pasta and onions, we staggered onto the summit in the midst of a howling thunderstorm. Our beard hair stood straight and our equipment buzzed with electrical charge.

Due to the cold temperatures, we named the route 'My Little Winkie'.The Cumbrian ladies were not impressed with our suntan, or my little winkie.

We haven't eaten pasta and boiled onions since.

Getting there:Most international flights land at the capital city, Bishkek. From Bishkek, you can fly to the city of Osh or the town of Batken. It's an 8 hour drive from Osh to the trail head, or 2 hours from Batken. From there, donkeys will guide you 30 miles into the mountains. Food and supplies can be bought in Bishkek and Osh. The country is difficult to negotiate without a tour operator. Tour operator options include Ak Sai Travel, Tien Shan and ITMC.

Costs:Border permits and travel within Kyrgyzstan (organized through a tour operator) costs around £600 per person. London to Bishkek return flights are around £400 per person. Food and supplies are approximately half of UK prices. Onions are cheap.


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VDiff Summer 2015 - 27Back to contents page




Springtime in the mountains is like sex

without an orgasm – all tease but no magic.

Warm, sun-drunk days cross county skiing in a t-shirt and

Raybans lead you on to

believe summer is only but a handful of hopscotch squares away. You’ll be skipping along scree fields and toasting your

folly-full afternoons of whispering to wildflowers and waterfalls with your favourite brightly balanced microbrew in no time. You’ll be able to


don your flip flops and cut-offs worn so many times they’ve memorized the

contour of your ass cheeks without the threat of a 30 degree temperature drop

when the sun slinks below the final drop of the valley. But just as your heart balloons

with the thought of tall grass kissing your toes as they hang languidly from your hammock, a crisp wind leaks into your

jacket and sucks the daydream from the moment. Heavy

clouds have breached the wall of jagged peaks to the north and wrapped themselves there like a dragon, coiled teeth to tail. Winter isn’t done with

you yet. A stubborn lover, no doubt.

Autumn arrives to the mountains brisk and

unabashed. Summer’s lush fields fattened by heavy rains fade to seas of suede and rust. The berries have

dropped their fleshy fruits; the aspens begin their

staggered switch from green to gold; and the rocky peaks wear their fresh caps of snow with the smug knowledge that their time of rest has come. For a few days the living world unfurls its most

brilliant costume - vibrant, variegated, and ephemeral - an affront to the monotone, a spurn to the stagnant. But as the light falls quietly away from the long, sweet evenings she sculpted, we watch as our hero is betrayed by all that was nourished, all that was born. Summer, silently slain. The curtain closes, and winter

takes the stage.











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VDiff Summer 2015