Climbing in North Wales is as good as it gets for the delicate balancing act of convenience versus adventure. Without driving another 6 hours further north to Scotland or joining the gentry in the Lakes, Llanberis Pass offers some of the best mountain rock anywhere in the country. A myriad of cliffs, strafe the valley sides, but no one crag perhaps best captures the spirit of adventure as much Cryn Las.
The skeletal face looks down on you as you walk in, its eyes stare at you sizing you up. Its mouth whispers swift put downs, that make you divert your eyes, like walking down any High Street at pub closing times, you keep your eyes down and hope that the town drunk doesn’t take a fancy to you.
It is an impressive crag though and as much as you try to avoid looking up your gaze is quickly drawn to whatever route you choose. For most this will be Main Wall, the easiest route on this cliff, and a well deserved classic, but looking up you will struggle to see ‘an easy route’, so devious is the line.
My first acquaintance with the route was one sunny summers afternoon, the kind of day that makes climbing up here not so much possible, but pleasant. I ran up alone, chalk bag and rock boots tied round my waste the sweat began to drip onto my glasses. By the time i reached the base i was a mess. Settling myself down, cleaning my glasses and drying my hair on my shirt I put on my shoes and started moving up. Slowly developing a rhythm to my progress, a thinking pace that allowed enough time to think of the next move but not of the situation.
I was over 200ft up when my rhythm was broken, as I climbed up behind another team. The reality of my situation was now apparent. My heart rate which had dropped since the jog in had started to rise again, my breathing deepen, as for the first time my mind realised what I had done. As I play follow my leader to the next ledge I try to counteract the growing trepidation. ‘This is not the time, This is not the time,This is not the time…’
As I reach the safety of the ledge, I am met by SAGA climbing tours. I sound facetious but there wasn’t one of the 5 or so assembled climbers under retirement age. Some you will recognise from the first ascent history of a few of the classic lines in the area. At that moment I knew that I wanted to grow old just so I can relive these quasi ‘Last of the Summer Wine’ moments with my ageing climbing companions.
They graciously handed over the rock to let me pass, as I traversed out to the final exposed arete my rhythm started to return, allowing me to enjoy the setting at the edge of heaven. The route was one of those moments of madness, but one that has remained with me for years, as is quite often the powerful emotional experience of climbing unroped.
* * *
I was sat round a friends house, it was just another summers day really, the sun rays still warming the day, the smell of coffee percolated the house, and the feint aroma of bacon was slowly dying. Cards layout out on the table, playing for who next made the brews before we head out.
Our peace was viciously destroyed by another friend, tearful and full of sorrow uttered the words. ‘They have found Will, dead’. In those few moments that it took the messenger to compose herself my head was already spinning with unanswerable questions. Instantly I run through scenarios, Will becoming a victim of his own judgement on a solo ascent, a car crash or some other unpredictable accident. The truth far to difficult to comprehend.
I run through those times I have been climbing with him, times too numerous to remember at once, one thought leads to another, as a friend and I sob into each others shoulders. There is no comfort, no solace and no solution to our grief.
My memory is shaky, diluted through years retrospect, and having been here before. On this mighty cliff, its a bit of a joke really, although I didn’t know it at the time I was to fail on every pitch of this route on three separate occasions. But with Will I was lucky, he rope gunned every pitch, after I wasted more time flailing, like a child suddenly thrown into the deep end.
The route was amazing, one of the reasons I had been back three times to attempt to lead at least one of the pitches. The last pitch is the most memorable of any on this cliff. Cutting through the nose of the skull, and out through the eye. The skeletor figurehead, threatens to eat you you as you disappear deep in to an overhanging groove. Bridging for your life as the drop barks at you feet like pact of charging wolves.
I am lucky though, to share these precious moments with a dear friend, who is now only visible in the rear view mirror of life. A bright and warming light extinguished too early. A waste, a loss, a constant reminder to me that life is just too short.
* * *
My last time on the cliff, was again another hot day, baking would be a better description. We literally fried as we approached, ideal conditions for such a shady mountain crag. This time I was with Greame, nearly exactly twenty years my senior. I used his 50th birthday party to celebrate my 30th. It was over this summer that we climbed this route.
Two ageing climbers, on paper at least trying to fight the inevitable downward arch of a flight through climbing. Struggling to maintain the status quo. Our route was the classic Lubyanka. The great central corner/groove system that splits the crag, separating the men from the boys. A flip of the coin deciding the order for the day.
I was to tackle the first crux, an obstinate groove, with a bouldery start and heart stopping finish. On the ledge we caught up with a friend out for the day with his son on Main Wall. As Steve traverses out of sight I am left in the company of his son. I feel jealously and sorrow for this young boy, jealous that he has the opportunity to experience the adventure of such an outstanding route, but sorrow that he has lost the opportunity to make such an ascent for himself in a few years times. For me it was one of those more memorable experiences, for him just another day out with his father.
For me my father and son moments are long since vanished, instead memories of my father taking me fishing on the south coast. Long nights casting out into the darkness, landing a 10 pound cod on a shingle beach as the sun starts to over power the yellow tinge of the Tilley lamp, gone are those days a dodgy heart and over fishing making both impossible. I did not have the benefit of a mountain guide as a father, but at the same time I did have the benefit of making my own mistakes and learning for myself.
The continuation of the corner above led more pleasantly to what can only be described as the headwall. We were to avoid issue by sneaking up the groove on the left until a line of quartz leads invitingly out right. This photogenic pitch, apparently leads to nowhere, the rail of quartz soon extinguishes itself without the merest hint of protection. As I watch Graeme scuttles rightwards, the ropes arch out into space.
Trying to capture that ‘picture’ Greame managed to climb virtually all climbable rock other than the actual pitch, which he followed as a last resort. Whilst I belay glad that the old man is on the sharp end. Hobbling down the descent to the valley, its just another route ticked, but as I walk away I look back and you should never look back it will just antagonise them.