Eight Days in the Land of Rain: A Parable of Six Climbs.
“Flying Buttress Direct”
I’m jet-lagged, hungover, and everyone is driving on the wrong side of the road with a single-finger hand signal so common in
Conversations with friends warned me that initially I would be underwhelmed, and to expect the English to “take the piss” out of me regardless of what I did. If I sent an E8, then they would say, “but he didn’t send THIS E8.” If I sent a hundred routes, they would say I sent the “easy ones.” However, I was also told to sample as many holds as I could and to really pay attention to the history, while ignoring the criticisms that would inevitably happen because as another friend stated, “you’re an Irish kid, so even if you sent every one of their hardest routes, you’d still be looked down upon by the English.” Though every one of those things later turned out to be true, I didn’t listen at the time and concentrated on the routes that inspired me the most.
Now Henry Barber is my hero, and one of the routes that he onsight soloed before sticky rubber shoes existed and caused me to openly gasp when I first heard about it was the “Flying Buttress Direct.” With an overhanging crux high above the deck, my stomach knotted in anticipation. Mark and I head directly to it. The hammering in my skull stops me from warming up and I jump on the route. The bottom slab of low angle smears quickly changes into overhanging slopers. I reach up and slap my hand into a puddle. If I force the issue, I know the rounded hold will send me crashing to the ground. I look to Mark and we both laugh at the absurdity of calling this a route. Sure it’s high, and yes an ankle can be broken if one landed wrong, but like most of the routes listed in the guidebook, a crashpad or three would protect even a beginning boulderer. Two more times I reach up but the water denies my purchase. A sprinkle from the clouds gives me the excuse I need to walk away and find another area. Seven days later, relaxed with more understanding of the history and continuously bad weather, the winds dry the holds just enough to send the route. Thank you Henry, I couldn’t have done it without you.
“Stanage without Oxygen”
9:00 am and the wind pops my eardrums. My tongue cuts a swath across the fuzz on my teeth. Too many ales and further suffering of English whiskey the night before put me in a sour mood. I reach for a wet sloper that refuses to stick and slam into the ground again. I stand up, my right side soaked, elbows bleeding from slamming the earth, lungs trying to expand my compressed ribs, feet covered in sheep shit, and feel my body tense with a frustration I cannot explain. Four days of nonstop rain and I’m ready to kill someone. An hour earlier I sent the crux to “West Side Story” but for the second time this week was stopped from topping out on it because of water pouring from the top. To make matters worse, a local boulderer who I previously considered a legend just glowered rather than join the fun. So much for the friendly comradeship usually provided by climbers. At this point in the trip, we’ve become accustomed to most of the local climbers being in a constant state of grumpiness. A handful were openly kind and helpful, particularly those that work in the outdoor shops and friends from my past, but overwhelmingly the shoulders have been colder than the weather. On the other hand, the patrons and owners of the Little John Pub have provided a second home on this trip, where stories were told after every meal and lasting long into the morning hours. Over breakfast with the surviving few we made plans to once again share pints and stories later in the evening.
I wipe my feet with my hands, the brown sludge smearing against my palms. I go to a natural basin and wash my hands. The preparation of cleaning my shoes, followed by chalking up and finding which routes to attempt takes longer than the actual climbing. I start up another route. Mid-way I jam my left foot into a horizontal crack that gives me the reach my left hand will need for the next hold. Below me the wash basin waits to cripple me as I have no crashpad. My hand touches a sloper. No surprise there, every route has a sloper, sticky when dry, miserable when wet. My eyes blur as the current of air crashes into my face. A vision of my spine slamming the rock below rushes in. The hell with it, time to test the English healthcare system. I stop thinking, unclench my jaw, and scream at the wind, cutting my foot free from the safety of the crack and launch myself up to the next hold. Five moves later I’m at the top. Mark and I share a laugh because something happened. It wasn’t until later that afternoon that I realized what it was.
With enough rain comes plenty of time to catch up on movies, our latest being a video of the legendary Johnny Dawes. Watching him climb, we realized that he doesn’t grab or stand on holds so much as lightly touch them and quickly dance to the next. It’s the secret to Grit climbing. I’ve been so accustomed to grabbing and pulling that I forgot how to move. With proper movement comes the ability to work one’s way upward until there are no moves left. It’s a startling revelation, so simple in its answer, but also explains the reputation of the area.
“Sheep Carcass”
A moment of sunshine peaks through the clouds, rare in this land of winter. The beams drop down on a spot of rock, like a rainbow revealing the gold. Mark and I head over, and find a large boulder split by large horizontal cracks. As usual the highballs are listed as routes, but rather than laugh at the absurdity, I am reminded of my own stomping ground of Joshua Tree. That place also has a reputation for needing to dance among the holds, with more than 6,000 “routes” many of which are now boulder problems to a different generation. I warm up on a low traverse, then pick a line of slopers that appear dry enough to stick. Then the stench hits me.
I look to Mark, wondering if the grey matter on his plate from the day before caught up to his bowels, but this is far worse. Wandering a bit we discover that the sheep live and literally die in these hills. A carpet of dirty wool barely covers the decimated remains a grazing, cuddly critter that has moved to the afterlife. Tucked at the base of the climb, the fluff is perfect as a crashpad, the bloated belly looking to provide a cushy, though explosive, landing if tested. I look to my freshly washed shoes, a nightly ritual thanks in part to my dead companion’s buddies who litter the base of every climb with their fecal matter, and then to the climb ahead. Mark, a little bitter that I challenged his manhood for not bedding a hobbit that stumbled into the pub the previous evening, “double-dog” dares me to go for it. We may not be from this country where the English language has been corrected beyond a Texan’s nightmare, but childhood rules apply across international waters. A double-dog dare can never be ignored, and if I complete this, Mark has to do my next dare. Two more weeks with that hanging over his head are more than enough motivation. I shoe up and send in short order.
“End of the Affair”
The first drop of water lands with a loud thump against the back of my hand. A second and a third follow, removing the white chalk and exposing the veins underneath. I close my eyes and will my stomach to unknot itself. Six days I’ve been suffering this rain, yet they claim there is a drought. Six days my feet have skittered about yet the friction here is supposedly flawless. For six fucking days I’ve suffered English hospitality constantly reminding me that I am both a Yank and a lowly member of the Irish problem. And now, I’m thirty feet up without a rope, three moves from providing my own stamp on the historic Peak District by soloing an E8 (a rating system even the locals cannot seem to explain), and quickly getting soaked to the bone. The thickening drops refuse me my sanctuary, forcing me to look up to the heavens as the floodgates open. My howl matches the thunder’s fury. Why do people even climb here? The question bangs around my head, when my mind should be concentrating on other matters. Then it hits me. I’m freezing cold, soaked to the bone, covered in sheep shit, missing my family, smelling of bad whiskey, and barely recognize the person I’ve become – but – I’m in England. I’m in
“Neon Dust”
The rain threatens as always, but for one brief hour it remains at bay. Mark and I have wandered the cliffbands looking for a dry spot, when the guidebook reveals a short boulder problem of crimps that traverses over and up a handcrack. Crimps and a handcrack? I look for the inevitable slopers, when the wind kicks in. Wherever there is wind, the rain is about to fall. I immediately pull on the first moves, then hop to the ground to test the landing area. It’s a bit dodgy as I get higher, but I know I’ll survive if I botch it before the crack. I look at the guidebook again and realize that the lower boulder problem is the crux, but then the route has two variations to the end. The first continues straight up through wet muck before joining the crack, the second traverses to the crack ten-feet sooner. I grab the opening holds, then move delicately to a left micro-crimp. I shut out any thoughts of failure and dyno to the hold above. My right sticks it. Holding my breath I make the next sequence and look to my choices. Straight above the holds look doable, but slick from this infernal rain and bound to injure my ankles from the straight fall. To my left, I’ll be forced to stretch my foot to the crack, jam it, and use it to pull me over which also means I could fall upside down and land on my head instead of my feet in the cobbles below. The wind accompanied by splashes of moisture shuts out the thinking and I opt for the crack.
Comfortable in the relatively more secure climbing above, I hear voices behind me clapping and laughing. Six military folks working the ropes nearby had witnessed the hesitation and provided encouragement for the remaining bit of the climb. On top, I turned and gave a bow to my audience, prompting a laugh from all involved when the wind kicks me in the face and almost sends me off the backside. Minutes later, back on the ground, Mark and I chatted with the folks, and learned that some were second and third generation climbers in these stones. For the first time, I’m starting to feel guilty for my initial feelings of the people and the place. The rains hit, forcing us to retreat once again, but in the pub that afternoon Mark and I commit to getting on as many routes as possible before the week is over. Of course most of the routes would be considered boulder problems today, but with guidebook in hand, I can only follow the local customs of calling a series of holds the same as they do.
"The Nose"
Eight days earlier Niall Grimes had offered to give me a tour of the place, but the rains only allowed for one brief encounter which prompted a half-handed effort on “Soul Doubt” and several others. On this last day, Niall had to work, but showed up in the early evening and gave a two-hour tour from where we started. As usual, the weather was miserable, with winds that literally tossed my knit hat up and over the ridge several times, but earlier moments of sunshine provided a quick run in several areas on routes that ranged up to 5.11. I still have limited understanding of the English rating system and have yet to fully understand their definition of a route (different guidebooks list routes as boulder problems and vice versa), but I’m finally starting to understand the rock. It is vibrant with stories both past and present, with an exciting future ahead. I’ve also learned that the stand-offish attitudes is instilled deep into their psyche and not a personal slight.
We’re back where we started, in Stanage, only this time Niall is giving a story to every route, regardless of how hard it is, that makes the palms sweat. A few holds I would consider a boulder problem become a 1960 solo with devastating consequences. A crack just made for handjams and camming devices becomes filled with knots around 1950 to protect the leader. The banter has become more friendly as well, the usual walls between climber and journalist settle into the background. Niall admits that most of the hard routes are being rediscovered as boulder problems with crashpads and nary an injury, while I give in that the boulder problems in a different time under those conditions were routes. The sun settles too quickly, with few routes left before darkness will overtake us when Niall points out a classic that overlooks the valley below. I stick my hands in the chilly crack, finally a climb without slopers, and make the traverse over the void. Rounding the corner and dancing my way to the top, I have a smile on my face and a promise to return.
* Note: It has come to my attention since publishing these parables and giving a series of interviews that some folks have an issue wity my comments regarding completing 214+ onsight solos in England. The reality is that the Grit is an amazing place, but overall the routes tend to run quite short, with more than a handful barely two bodylengths in height. "Routes" that short would normally be considered boulder problems in the places I learned to climb, but the guidebooks I used (from both the BMC and Rockfax) listed every climb I did as a "route", therefore, rather than disparage the local custom or minimize the impact of past heroes, I listed all I did as routes as well.