Tangling With Terrors

Naming routes is definitely one of the stranger, more whimsical aspects of climbing. A grade, well, a grade is simple; a benchmark, a personal goal, the next level in the continual progression of the sport - whatever it might mean to you, it is merely a definition of difficulty, a fixed (if slightly varying) point of reference.

A route name, however, is something else entirely. A name, unlike a grade, is not just a reference to a route, it is the route. Narcissistic or not, a name is our way of embedding a line with personality, allowing intrigued climbers a fleeting, letterbox glimpse into the mind of the first ascensionist as they trod ground that had never been conquered before. The name is what sticks in your mind as you climb ever higher, pushing your limits both physically and mentally. The name is what you tell others, having survived your tussle with an unforgiving art. 

'A Dream Of White Horses' at Gogarth is a good example of a route where the name has much more meaning than the grade.
Climbers (Left to Right): Ian Westerby, Mischa Hawker-Yates, Haigh Gorman, Henry Roberts.

I recently climbed two routes that gave just such an experience, each about as wildly different from the other as possible. The first was down in the leafy, hidden expanse of Chee Dale Lower, an area that has a remarkably strong feeling of isolation given how easily it is accessed. Virulent plant growth and steep, overhanging cliffs hide evidence of the nearby Monsal trail with its regular traffic of cyclists. 

Just to the right of the popular Embankment area lies another, less well travelled rock face. Shorter than their neighbours and shrouded by ivy and tall trees, the routes on this wall have seen little attention over the last decade, with only a handful of repeats listed amongst the four lines that snake up the overbearing limestone. My climbing partner, Mark, had his eye set on one of these lines, 'Barefoot in a Pool of Sharks' (7b+), and proceeded to clamber up a dirt slope to the base of the route, clipstick in hand and a multitude of brushes clipped to his harness. I followed, slightly dubious, eyeing the dirty crimps and overgrown approach warily. 

Line no.31, Barefoot in a Pool of Sharks. Powerful and overbearing, although the crux isn't where you'd think.
Thanks to Rockfax for the excerpt from their excellent guidebook, Peak Limestone.

An hour or so later, however, and the route was looking decidedly more attractive. Persistent brushing and chalked up holds had worked their magic to produce, from the disused rock face, a route that I really wanted to try. Chalking up and trying to remember Mark's beta, I pulled through the entry slab to the steep overhang that marked the start of the route proper. Expecting to be shut down by this section, I was surprised to find myself soon working out the sequence and pulling through to the big, flat hold that marked the halfway point. 

At this point, I was feeling confident in myself, but I knew that the hardest moves were yet to come. An awkward rock over leads to a small two finger crimp, followed by a balancy sequence to reach a good sidepull and brief respite before the push to the top. Despite doing all the moves and linking it from the flat hold to the top, I dropped the crux move twice on my redpoint attempts. 

Spent for that day, I decided to return the following weekend with another partner, Nigel, as Mark had successfully topped the route on his first redpoint attempt. Fully rested and warmed up from putting the quickdraws in, I pulled onto the route and moved swiftly through the powerful bottom moves, arriving at the crux feeling remarkably fresh. Taking a moment to breath, I built my feet up and braced for the crux move. Reach, reach... Yes! Latching the crimp and moving through the positive hold, I chilled out for a second and then flowed through to the top, the moves seeming much easier than they had before. 

In my mind, I thought I could see why the route had been named as it was. Vicious and powerful, it was move fast or get bitten by the energy sapping stances. A worthy title for a worthy adversary. 

The second such experience was, as I mentioned previously, about as different from the first as is possible. A month or so after I clipped the chains on Barefoot, I found myself treading through the vast, desolate expanse of the Dinorwig Slate Quarries, searching for a route that had recently topped the pile as the longest sport climb in the UK. 

The scale of the Dinorwig Slate Quarries has to be seen to be believed.

The route, 'The Desolation of Smaug', was climbed in April of this year by Ian Lloyd-Jones, and comprises of six pitches ranging from 6a+ to 6c. A vast, sweeping expanse of grey-green slate towering above the dangerous quarry floor, it is easy to see how the route got its name. Approaching it from the base, treading carefully to avoid causing a mini landslide amongst the precariously balanced slate slag heap, you feel an impending sense of uncertainty about what is to come. 

The tunneled entrance to the quarry opens into the vast expanse of Twll Mawr, dwarfing everything around it.

Reaching the base of the first pitch, we pulled on our rock shoes and checked that we had everything we needed. Once that was done, there were no more excuses to delay - time was of the essence as we weren't sure how long the route would take, and were conscious that we had limited daylight remaining.

Chalking up, I started up the first 6b pitch, moving smoothly through the first section of the route, finding it strangely hard to concentrate on the climbing. Every few seconds I felt the compulsive need to glance around me and soak in the strange, dominating atmosphere that Twll Mawr created, making it difficult to focus on what I was doing. Pleasant moves led to a rockover, and easier ground to the first belay. Bringing my climbing partner Ian up to the belay ledge with me, I managed to drag my eyes away from the surroundings and contemplate the coming pitch; the first of the 6c pitches, it was a blank slab dotted by crimps and occasional small weaknesses in the rock. 

Breathing in, I flowed through the first few moves until I came to a sudden transition, an obvious step into harder terrain. Seating my toes on a delicate smear, I latched the next thin crimp and rocked my weight over onto my left foot. 

Suddenly, I was fully committed and completely focused. Equally thin and precise moves wound their way up the wall, each one interestingly challenging without being overly physical. Before I knew it, I was clipping into the second belay, struck by the sudden feeling of exposure that had come over me. 

The impressive second pitch is a plethora of thin holds and smears for feet.

Moving onto the third pitch, and how the game had changed! Expecting more of the same, I was surprised to find myself climbing a steep rib of slate into a precarious groove which required a fair amount of body contortion to stay stuck. A large, scary move out to a pair of slopers marked the transition back to easier, slabbed terrain and the comfort of the third belay ledge, providing the most impressive view of the quarry yet. 

At this height we could see above the far wall of the quarry and soak up the sunlight reflecting off the surrounding lake and mountains. The belay stance forced you into a position facing outwards from the cliff face, so you were unable to escape the epic nature of your surroundings. 

Ian set off to lead the fourth pitch, leaving me alone and exposed on this tiny rock ledge. I watched as he moved slowly upwards into the grey expanse, growing steadily smaller - or was it me that was dwindling, pressed smaller by the colossal nature of my surroundings? Eventually he reached the fourth belay and the revery broke, replaced by anticipation for the coming pitches. 

Pausing mid pitch to take in the surroundings.

The final belay ledge stood just below a lower angled slab than the rest, tipping you forward so that for the first time you couldn't see the incredible drop below. A traverse led you into a short groove, then upwards into the last 6b pitch; I had decided to link the two together to make one, long pitch. 

Setting off along the traverse, I found myself placing my feet as carefully as possible, and moving very slowly. Despite not being able to see the drop below, the atmosphere of the climb had not changed, if anything, it felt even more intense. I had a remarkably strong feeling of tiptoeing over the void - even now, writing this, I can still feel a slight uncertainty as I remember placing my feet on small smears, stepping into the shallow groove. 

The final pitches seemed to flow past, move following move as smoothly as possible, until sharp focus was brought back right on the last moves of the route - sloping holds led to a seemingly blank top that for a moment, left me thinking I might fall at the final hurdle. Pushing those thoughts aside, I scrabbled around until my right hand latched gratefully onto a crimp and I topped out, victorious. 

Ian makes the moves through the groove on the final 6c pitch.

As we relaxed at the top, waiting for our friends to top out behind us, I felt again the contemplation over the name given. The surrounding area and the cliff itself were so impressive, so dominating, that the climbing was almost secondary to the experience of finding yourself in this incredible, unreal place. 

Leo and Bertie topping out in the evening sun.

The name made sense. Looking at the landscape, you almost imagine some great beast carving these deep scars into the welsh hillside. It was an impressive experience, and not one I will forget in a hurry. 

Looking out over the welsh mountains.

Victorious ascenders! (Left to Right: Ian, Bertie, Leo, Mischa)

Two routes, two names, two deadly beasts conquered. Each with their own meaning, their own personality - or at least, that's how it felt to me. A name, a place, an incredible experience. In the end, that's all that really matters. 

Stay tuned! 

Mischa.