garibaldi, sloan, touch and go, currie

Like 2017, some of my best moments in 2018 were adventures in the local alpine. Of these, splitboarding Mt Garibaldi in May with Leo was the undoubted highlight; in fact, something of an all-time life experience. I have been interested in climbing Garibaldi ever since moving to Squamish - it dominates the town and is the most northern of the Cascades volcano chain that includes Mt Rainier and Mt St Helens - but had been put off by stories I heard from friends, especially concerning the long approach along Brohm Ridge. In July 2017 Leo and I considered it as a crampons-and-axes style alpine climb but changed objective to Wedge instead.

That we felt ready to splitboard Garibaldi a year later was a consequence of two factors. One was the indirect result of James spending the whole of the 2017/18 season in coached sessions with the Whistler Valley Snowboard Club. As I found myself committed to driving James to Whistler most weekends I bought a season pass and ended up doing far more snowboarding than I had done before. With backcountry objectives in mind I specifically tried to improve my woefully-terrible riding on steeper terrain. I downloaded an inclinometer app onto my phone and measured a few of the resort slope angles. I was surprised to find that 40 degree slopes (the angle at which backcountry descents start to be classified as “steep”) are pretty common, even on short sections of regular black runs. I worked harder at linking turns at that angle and banned myself from employing heel-side sideslips (the “safe space” for the timid snowboarder).

Leo dropping in to DOA

The other factor was Leo embracing splitboarding really vigorously from the autumn of 2017. This led to him (and I) acquiring more equipment, learning to use it and moving up the learning curve in travelling through more complex backcountry terrain. In December 2017 Leo and I rode the classic Husume couloir, just outside the resort boundary above Blackcomb glacier. Though classified as a steeper objective it didn’t feel especially difficult. For both of us it was also the first time we rode carrying ice axes - a significant psychological boost. A month later we descended the slightly-spookier DOA couloir in similar style. Later in the season Leo and his school friend Cameron then “enchained” DOA and Husume in a single day. Around Easter 2018 we spent four days in an AST2 course in the Whistler slackcountry then three days based out of the Jim Haberl hut in the Tantalus mountains, riding with a guided group. Though this was frustrating in various ways (I was reminded that I am temperamentally unsuited to being guided and prefer making my own decisions) we spent one excellent day ascending almost to the summit of Dionne and riding down a steep couloir from there.

nicely colour-coded while bootpacking the Dionne couloir

The Garibaldi trip necessarily had to take place over a weekend as Leo was still in school. It was also constrained by the late-spring snow conditions. Our plan was to hike up Brohm on a Saturday, camping as high as possible on the mountain then get to the summit early on Sunday hoping to catch rideable corn snow on the steep north-east face before the temperature rose and the face turned to slush. Possibly unnecessarily I also insisted that we take our avalanche airbag packs. As those packs are only ~30 litre capacity, and we needed to bring glacier travel and mountaineering stuff, our camping gear had to be severely pared down. No tent just aggressively-compressed sleeping bags, ultralight sleeping pads and a SIL tarp.

We were able to park at about 1000m on Brohm Ridge. Beyond that point the snow on the FSR was too deep for the 4Runner. I had been warned that the snowmobile club who have sole tenure on the ridge (a can of worms beyond the scope of this blog post!) were having their end-of-season party that weekend, so we attempted to gain the crest of the ridge via a decommissioned forest road that bypasses the sledders’ road. This was probably a mistake as it cost us a lot of time and energy but at least we avoided inhaling 2-stroke fumes. The horizontal section of the ridge, which eventually accesses the provincial park boundary, is a notorious grind for non-mechanised travelers, worsened by the constant buzz of snowmobile engines. The only compensation is the amazing close-up view of the Garibaldi massif’s vast west face.

Dalton Dome and Mt Atwell from Brohm Ridge

Tantalus range from Brohm Ridge

At the east end of the ridge, sledder tenure ends and there is a short climb up to the Warren Glacier. Most people climbing Garibaldi via Brohm camp on moraines there but we continued across the glacier aiming for the ridge just below the summit. Here we made another navigational blunder, heading straight up an abrupt slope direct to the ridge rather than finding a shallower-angled ascent further north. This involved a worrying bergschrund crossing followed by bootpacking up very steep collapsing snow. We had been on the move for most of the day at this point and I was very tired. Thankfully Leo, who is much fitter than me, took over the lead.

Leo on the Warren Glacier

Our intended bivouac spot turned out to be perfectly located with astonishing views north to The Table and Garibaldi Lake and west to the Tantalus range. Leo busied himself taking sunset photos while I dug out a trench for our bivvy, attempting to replicate an idea from a YouTube video I had watched the previous evening. Then we endured a very cold night. I guess the temperature only fell a degree or two below zero but it was sufficient to re-harden the surface snow and freeze our water bottles.

Garibaldi summit from our bivvy

Looking west to the Tantalus

Jones vs Prior; Karakoram vs Spark

Tantalus sunset

Our tarp construction

On Sunday morning we started moving at around 8am. Our bivouac site was around 2200m, so we had another 500m to climb. The initial section up to the moat (Canadian for bergschrund) below the final face was just skinnable, though we slid a few times on the hard snow. Beyond the moat we bootpacked in crampons. To save weight I had only the micro-spikes variety designed to keep hikers safe on horizontal trails. However they seemed just about adequate for this 45 degree slope. Helpfully a party ahead of us had already kicked some steps in the hard snow. The actual summit area was far sharper and more spectacular than I had expected. To the south is a substantial cliff invisible from the valley, presumably a remnant of the volcanic crater that is now splintered into three summits: Garibaldi itself, the very pointy Mt Atwell and more rounded Dalton Dome.

Leo on the final bootpack

Mt Atwell and Squamish from the summit

Leo on the summit

For me the crux of the trip was always going to be riding back down the north-east face. In powder conditions with the moat well filled-in I can imagine it feels quite friendly, but we had just a few cm’s of corn snow over icey hardpack stuff with the moat open below the fall-line. However the day was so beautiful - no clouds anywhere - and adrenaline already flowing so freely that there was really no question of not attempting it. Moreover, another mountaineering party had appeared while we lingered on the summit. Neither they nor the earlier ascentionists had carried skis up the final face, opting to reverse the bootpack, so honour demanded that we actually use the boards we had carried up. As soon as I committed to the first turn I realised that the descent would be fine. We broke it into two pitches, Leo leading both. On the steeper second pitch, Leo lost his heelside edge and took a short slide that he arrested fairly easily. I smugly rode past where he had fallen feeling very superior but then almost immediately blew an edge too.

Leo strapped in on the summit

Leo second turn 

From below the moat, we rode the lower glacier slope face back to camp in a single mellow run of about a kilometre long, one at a time. With the scary section complete and reuniting with the jetboil imminent (second breakfast …), this was pure pleasure. I’ll draw a veil over the rest of the day: reversing Brohm ridge back to the car. Not fun at all, but inconsequential in context.

Leo starting the long mellow run back to our bivvy site (just visible left of centre)

Leo and I back at our bivvy spot after our ascent/ descent.
We rode the whole way from the summit to this point then another 300m of vertical below

Summer 2018 involved what now seems to be the BC norm of a week or more of “extreme” heat (apparently anything above 30C for people who have not lived in a desert) or wildfire smoke or both. In mid-August we were in the “both” scenario, rendering conventional rock climbing very unattractive. My friend Chris proposed a trip to Mt Sloan, a pointy rock peak about 150km inland from Squamish whose north-east ridge is considered a BC classic. The approach drive involved the sorta-famous Hurley road through the mountains beyond Pemberton. Though the mountain itself did not appeal very much, I had never been out that way before so agreed to the trip.

Sloan from Gold Bridge

We drove to the area on the previous day, staying in Gold Bridge, a remote town that does not seem to have received any fresh investment since the 1970s. On the way there, just outside Pemberton, we had seen two black bears close to the road. The next morning, driving to the trailhead, we startled another. Chris, who grew up in northern BC and has already exceeded a reasonable lifetime quota for bear encounters, was somewhat unnerved by this. Confirming his fears, an hour into our climb, where we gained the north-east ridge, we could see two very large bears in the meadows of the valley beyond. One was distinctly brown and humped, probably a grizzly. We were less sure about the other. I nervously joked that the bears would be unlikely to waste energy climbing up to the ridge to investigate us - moments later we found bear scat right on the ridge trail! However, thankfully, this was the end of bear-drama.

Grizzlies?

Or one grizzly and one black bear, or ... 

Chris at the start of the ridge

We had decided to treat the ridge as a scramble and did not bring a rope. We also read all the trip reports for the ridge which we could find online. This combo did not work well: the trip reports confused us and at an early stage led us into terrain that seemed distinctly fifth-class and rope-worthy. We ended up down-climbing about a hundred metres. Following our instincts instead, which generally meant sticking to the main ridgeline, worked fine. The summit was a cool spot, but views slightly disappointing as the air was so hazy. Descent, using the “scrambles” route, mostly a talus-grind, was lengthy and unpleasant. I enjoyed one brief interlude, bumbling up some moderate lines on a beautiful white granite boulder while Chris - who had not brought rock shoes - watched enviously. Lower on the descent we made a significant navigational mistake and spent a couple of hours negotiating worst-case BC mountain vegetation, notably the infamous slide alder.

Chris saluting the tiresome "notch" area where we wasted time climbing the subsidiary tower

Chris on the summit

Bouldering break on the descent

Perhaps as I had been toughened up by this experience, a few days later I agreed willingly to another oddball adventure: crossing the Squamish river (my second time) with my friend Kris to explore the Touch and Go towers. These tottering forested spires and ridges are remnants of volcanic activity just a kilometre or so from downtown Squamish. (It is a sad reflection of the municipality's indifference to its natural surroundings that you'll find no official recognition of this extraordinary fact anywhere.) Kris' aluminum canoe was far lighter and easier to use than the wooden beast I had borrowed on my previous trip. From the west bank of the river, we hiked up old hydro access roads until behind the Castle. A steep scramble in old growth trees gains a col on the Castle's ridge, from where you can look very vertiginously back to the river. Kris led a short (15m?) but very loose pitch to the Castle's summit. This is an unsettling spot apparently composed of wholly-detached blocks. The existing anchors included tape slings so ancient that they had been encrusted in lichen. Kris deployed his guide/ SAR skills to assemble something more convincing, including a reassuring piton (though it would have been more reassuring had the whole summit not vibrated with every hammer blow).

The Castle from Squamish

Squamish from The Castle

Fifty year old sling?

And other tat ...

Kris demonstrates advance anchor repair skills

Finishing the job

After rappeling we went on a bushwhack in search of the legendary Teapot tower, allegedly climbed once in the 1950s and still awaiting a second ascent. The first tower we found looked plausibly climbable from its backside, like the Castle. I claimed the lead as Kris had led the Castle. Our route consisted of a loose earth scramble followed by squirrelling some distance up a poorly-attached young cedar, from which it was possible to mantle another cedar branch on the tower then ascend some low angle moss to the summit. There was no evidence of any previous human visit to this tower. However it was not the Teapot (we discovered later that it might be known as the Fiasco). After descending and traversing some old growth forest to the north for a few hundred meters we found the actual Teapot, which has a definite "spout" and is truly intimidating: overhanging and loose on its backside and merely loose on its river face. We did however note a very unorthodox possible route to the summit which we hope to investigate on another visit.

The Fiasco tower from the Castle, Teapot tower semi-visible down to the right

Chris above the cedar shenanigans, beginning the moss slab, on the Fiasco

Improvised summit log on the Fiasco

The final alpine excursion of the summer was climbing Mt Currie with James, my friend Luc and his son Kyle over the Labour Day long weekend. Very much a last minute idea of Luc's and not something on my radar at all, but it was great fun. Though the classic view of Currie from Pemberton makes it look almost Himalayan in scale, the easiest route from the Green river valley is just a hike, though a long and complex one with about 2000m of vertical ascent. As this area is still wonderfully unspoilt and little-trodden I will hold back on giving much detail. I'll just say that we did it over three days, spending two nights camping above the tree line. I carried a tent up there, assuming Luc would too, only to discover that he had only brought sleeping bags. I mentioned that the weather forecast, which I had checked carefully on spotwx.com, called for rain on the second night. He shrugged this off with typical Quebecois insouciance, claiming that I had consulted inferior sources and was wrong. To James and I's great amusement we were indeed hit by a quite serious storm on the second night after bagging the summit. Luc deigned to let Kyle sleep in the tent with us but insisted that he slept only in the tent's vestibule to preserve his alpine honour!

James, Luc and Kyle on day 1

Day 1 dinner

Day 2 breakfast

Kyle with the summit log, day 2

Luc on the summit, day 2

James on the summit, day 2

Luc apparently not sleeping in our tent, second night

Luc's vestibule reinforcements, day 3 morning

Kyle and James heading down on day 3

Luc, James and Kyle on day 3; Pemberton valley beyond 

the nostalgia project: Standing Rock, USA (2000)

The route

Standing Rock is a desert tower in South-West Utah, located in Monument Basin within the Island in the Sky area of the Canyonlands national park. More than any other in the US (except perhaps the restricted-to-climbers Totem Pole), Standing Rock exemplifies the classic desert tower shape: an implausibly-tall and slender 130m column.

The Regular Route was first climbed by the legendary team, Layton Kor and Huntley Ingalls, in the 1960s. It is de rigeur to repeat Layton's quote about Standing Rock in any account of climbing the tower: "We climb it not because it’s there, but because it won’t be there much longer.” Ironically it is still there, 50+ years later.

Standing Rock from Monument Basin rim

Standing Rock middle distance

Standing Rock - close-up

The context

In autumn 2000, Dan Donovan and I travelled to the US for a two week "holiday" attempting desert towers. Remarkably, nine were summited (full list below) and we managed cragging days in Eldorado Canyon, Maple Canyon and Indian Creek. Most of the credit belongs to Dan who was in excellent shape. In contrast, my trad skills were rusty and in the twelve months leading up to the trip had barely climbed at all (Leo was born in February 2000). We were lucky with conditions, experiencing mostly dry mild days. The word "desert" in desert towers suggests somewhere reliably arid but on a subsequent visit to the area in the same autumn season it was cold, windy and rained quite frequently.

We flew in and out of Denver, renting a vehicle at the airport. We lucked out by scoring an SUV - Ford Explorer - for a small supplement to the basic rate we had booked. In fact, having a vehicle with reasonable clearance proved essential for some of our objectives. We also discovered that it was roomy enough to sleep in the back and and took advantage of this on several nights.

Dan getting beta from Andy Donson in Boulder before we drove west

My diary notes from the trip describe Standing Rock as "probably the most exciting climb I have ever done". I am not sure if that is still true, but it was certainly the highlight of the trip, and the most committing of the towers we attempted. Even getting close to Standing Rock is an adventure. The Island in the Sky national park is a curious upside-down place, a large mesa surrounded by multiple tiers of eroded sandstone of different varieties delimited by the Green and Colorado rivers. The top layer is Wingate sandstone, forming fairly solid cliffs, in places eroded into towers like the Monster, Washer Woman or Moses. Below this is a terraced flat area of white rock - the White Rim - encircling the whole mesa. Below this again is a layer of the much chossier Cutler sandstone, which in one location is eroded into the Monument Basin, containing Standing Rock and other surreal features. Even the base of the Monument Basin is still well above the level of the nearby Colorado River, with yet another cliff tier in between.

In 2000 access to the White Rim required a mandatory ranger briefing at the Island in the Sky park office, and as far as I recall, some kind of permit application. Then we drove down to the White Rim trail and tortured the Explorer's suspension along fifty kilometres of stone-and-dirt track to our destination. Looking into the Basin from the rim that evening intimidated me. Standing Rock appeared dauntingly tall and slender and getting in and out of the basin clearly added to the challenge. I guess that anyone venturing that way now for the first time will come pre-armed with numerous trip reports from the web, but we just had a basic guidebook description. If we were to have an accident on the tower, getting any assistance appeared impossible. We had barely seen anyone else on the road. I was a new father with responsibilities; what the hell was I doing? I slept poorly that night.

Looking into Monument Basin
Standing Rock is not the prominent tower just left of centre - it is more distant and further left

Monument Basin rim rock weirdness

Camping in the Explorer near the White Rim trail

In the morning we made the discouraging discovery that we had left a light switched on in the car and drained the battery, raising the risk that we might be stuck in that remote spot for several days at least. However, about a mile away we could just see another group - mountain bikers with a support vehicle - starting to pack up their camp. After weighing our various unsatisfactory options, we decided to run in their direction in the hope of intercepting them before they left. Thankfully this worked and they had jump-leads. More of the day was then lost to idling the engine to recharge the battery.

Descending into the basin required a short steep rappel. We left the rope in place with stashed ascenders, stumbled down some talus then then set off across the silent basin toward our tower. The floor of Monument Basin is almost wholly cryptobiotic soil: a living though dormant crust of lichen, moss and bacteria structured like a tiny fractal version of the towers and cliff rim around us. The ranger had spoken sternly about not disturbing the crust, without which the basin would be a dust bowl. We did our best.

Cryptobiotic soil, Monument Basin

Dan chilling in Monument Basin

The ascent

At the base of the tower, we took a break for a while. Dan happily puttered off somewhere to explore. My anxiety had escalated into an irrational certainty that I was going to die, not least as I had committed to leading the unstable-looking 5.10 first pitch. While sure that Dan wasn't watching, I recorded a short video message to Leo on my new digital camera apologising for dying plus some other platitudes that I no longer recall. (That the camera would somehow make it back home from Utah in the event of my death seems a major assumption in hindsight.)

As often happens in rock climbing, once engaged in leading the opening pitch, up a corner system, I felt much better. The rock was more stable than it looked and protection acceptable. The style felt recognisably similar to choss I had negotiated in the UK. At the end of the pitch there is a cruxy and exposed traverse rightwards out of the corner to a belay stance. Very exciting but still fine.

Dan then romped up a long 5.10+ crack pitch above. I followed this OK though it was strenuous. Pitch three is weird, and judging from more recent trip reports, may have got weirder. Dan led again. I remember a hard crux move (5.11?) and a very hollow flake on a steep bulge. I believe I managed it free but won't swear to that. The diary is silent on this detail. I led again on the top pitch, which spirals around the tower some more, out of sight from the belayer. Though easy (5.8 or 5.9?), it was runout, lonely and exposed enough to be intensely memorable.

On the summit we found an ascent register. Satisfactorily, it appeared from the spaced ascent dates that the tower was still rarely climbed. Then we rappelled, tiptoed back through the cryptobiotic crust and re-ascended our fixed rope to the rim. Dan, at that time a qualified vertical access worker, howled with laughter at my incompetent technique, especially when I got significantly stuck trying to pass a bulge.

The next day I assumed we would rest. Dan instead pointed out the relative proximity of the Washer Woman, and insisted that we thrashed six pitches up that - the diary records that I led nothing - and back down its somewhat notorious "arch" rappel. Washer Woman shares a col with the self-descriptive Monster Tower. Inevitably Dan then suggested that we bagged that too; I rebelled and we retreated to Moab for showers and beer.

Subsequent ascents

I have not been back to Monument Basin.

The tower ticklist

• Fine Jade, The Rectory
• Kor/ Ingalls, Castleton Tower
• Stolen Chimney, Ancient Art
• The Cobra (RIP)
• West Crack, Owl Rock [Dan only: he soloed while I took photos]
• Regular Route, Standing Rock
• In Search of Suds, Washerwoman
• Primrose Dihedrals, Moses
• Learning to Crawl, Thumbelina

Me on the Cobra

Dan on Owl Rock

the nostalgia project: Right-Hand Crack, UK (1999)

The route

Right-Hand Crack at Brimham Rocks in Yorkshire is a short unexceptional crack climb graded VS (~YDS 5.7 or 5.8). It is the second-from-the-right of a quartet of crack routes on the buttress. The route to its left is called Central Crack and is a tad harder. The route to its right is not called Even-Further-Right-Hand Crack. Guidebook length for these routes is forty feet or about thirteen metres, but I suspect that is slightly exaggerated. Brimham is a pleasant area of moorland, trees and eroded gritstone blobs, popular with tourists as well as climbers.

unknown climbers on Right-Hand Crack, Brimham © unknown
The fall described was from the wide section of the crack to the left

The context

In August 1998 Shoko and I spent a long weekend in Yorkshire intermingling gritstone climbing and sight-seeing (primarily the spooky ruins at Fountains Abbey). Shoko was pregnant with Leo but not yet showing it. The diary records that we stayed in a "nice" B&B in Grassington. We visited Ilkley on Saturday then Brimham on Sunday.

The ascent

I don't remember why we picked Right-Hand Crack as an objective. Perhaps I wanted to introduce Shoko to hand jamming - often a fraught exercise with new climbers. I also don't remember anything about climbing the route. I do know that I belayed from the top, despite the route's modest height, as is normal for trad pitches in the UK.

As Shoko began following the route, I noticed a middle-aged male climber advancing up Central Crack, just to her left. He had all the characteristics of what the Brits unkindly call a "bumbly": mildly-overweight, uncertain in his movements and possessing a rack of gear apparently chosen with little forethought. He was belayed by a younger man that I guessed was his son, who was standing too far back from the base of the cliff. It may have passed my mind to say something about this, but there were other climbers at the cliff-base and I probably felt that it was their responsibility.

Near the top of his route, the leader paused below an awkward-looking wide crack section, which I guessed was the crux. I watched him place a classic bumbly protection piece: an ancient hexentric nut threaded with an absurdly-long rope sling. Even before he attempted the hard moves, the carabiner on the sling was level with his ankles. I began paying more attention to him than Shoko, who was roughly level with him. They were both just three or four metres below me. It was soon clear that the guy was having trouble. He tried to reverse his last move but slipped. I had a bird-eye view of the arc of his fall. First the long hex sling snagged one of his feet and tipped him out horizontally. Then his belayer was catapulted forward, creating enough slack for a possible ground impact. The rope went tight as the guy hit a slab at the base and inverted completely. His head, thankfully in a helmet, hit a boulder with a loud bang.

The next few moments were very ugly. Shoko was in shock at what had happened and was almost unable to finish the last easy moves of our climb. The victim began making animal-like groaning noises. People rushed over but could do little as it was obviously unwise to risk moving him. The son was understandably distressed. It passed my mind that his father might die in front of us. Rescue services were called. The victim went quiet.

Wanting to help, but lacking any better role, I rappelled their route, cleaned the gear and coiled their rope. It seemed pointless but somehow respectful - signifying unrealistically that all might be well and that they could soon be climbing together again. The rescue team came quickly and thankfully confirmed that the otherwise-unresponsive victim was still alive. For reasons that were not explained - proximity, I assume - the stretcher was carried to an ambulance pick-up location different to the regular car park. However the son felt that he needed to retrieve the family car, which was parked there. Shoko and I walked him to the car park. I want to believe that we then offered to help him find the hospital where his father had been taken but that he declined - but I am not sure if that is actually true. For some reason, whenever I think about the incident, this detail troubles me. Could we have helped more? Was the boy safe to drive himself in his shocked state?

We never learned what transpired next, how serious was the victim's injury or whether he made a full recovery. 1999 was still a year or two before it would be normal for climbing accidents to be discussed on internet forums. The incident remains the worst climbing accident that I have witnessed. As my description demonstrates, I can rationalise it as a combination of avoidable errors - the poor belaying and the outdated poorly-placed protection - and so have shrugged it off. I even climbed the next day. For Shoko, the effect was more disturbing. She has only climbed a few times in the nineteen years since.

Subsequent ascents

I have been back to Brimham once, in 2003. I did not climb Right-Hand Crack.

And another thing ...

My impression is that this kind of climbing accident, a bad fall while climbing, is fairly rare these days; in Squamish, anyway. Protection and belay devices have improved and knowledge of how and where to use them seems to be better disseminated too. Anecdotally, the most popular way to kill yourself climbing now is to lead sport routes with a newbie or - less forgivably - a set-in-their-ways ageing traddie, especially an american. They will take you off belay when you reach the anchors, making the assumption that you are planning to rappel rather than lower, guaranteeing a ground fall unless you spot their error. (Famous example.) I try to make a habit of always checking tension in the rope before committing to being lowered. This actually saved my life about three years ago.

the nostalgia project: Lai Bab, Thailand (1998)

The route

Lai Bab is an overhanging 7a+ (YDS 5.12a) sport route on the Tonsai Beach cliff at the karst limestone peninsula variously known as Tonsai, Railay, Phra Nang, Laem Phra Nang, Krabi or "that place in Thailand". I believe Laem Phra Nang is the accurate name but TripAdvisor and Lonely Planet use Railay, so I will too. Quicker to type, anyway.

Tonsai beach (left) and Railay West beach (right) in 1998 

Railay East beach in 1998

The growth of sport climbing in the 1980s and 1990s, especially at sunny venues in southern Europe, helped redefine the "climbing holiday" from a typically uncomfortable experience, unsuitable for family or less-committed climbers, to something more hedonistic. The final evolution of this concept would be one-stop climbing "resorts" like JoSiTo in Turkey but an important milestone along that road was the development of sport climbing in genuinely glamourous locations that almost no-one would need persuasion to visit. Railay, with its four white sand beaches, mandatory boat access, jungle backdrop, monkeys and giant surreal rock architecture, was the original, and perhaps still the best, example.

I first became aware of the place in the early-90s, possibly from magazine articles but also possibly from the eccentric 1994 book "Exotic Rock". Though effectively a humble-brag by the author, Sam Lightner, showing off just how extensively he had travelled, it was also quite inspiring.

Exotic Rock's world map. I have still only visited four of these areas.

The context

In January 1998, Shoko relocated from Tokyo to London to live with me. Before her arrival I had suggested that it might be best if she started rock climbing, as I was unlikely to be giving the sport up. With that in mind, I organised a series of trips to aesthetic overseas climbing venues that I hoped would sell the sport better than grotty British cliffs. Over the next two years we sport climbed in Tenerife, Mallorca, Railay, Smith Rock, Red Rocks, Siurana and Buoux, bouldered in the Seychelles and put up new trad routes on Inishturk island in Ireland. It helped that my career trajectory was in good shape at that time and money not a major constraint. There was no camping or similar hardship involved in any of these trips.

That said, when researching a one week visit to Railay for March 1998 I did have a brief dilemma. The area had a luxury hotel (then part of the Dusit group, now The Rayavadee). I guessed Shoko would feel cheated not to stay there but the price was outrageous. We compromised by booking a standard backpacker hotel for the first few nights then the Dusit for the remainder.

This worked out well, though it quickly became obvious that the Dusit was not used to hosting climbers. Right from our arrival we confused them by marching into reception with our bags rather than being dropped off on their boat shuttle from Krabi. Then we raised their eyebrows further by setting off out of their compound with backpacks and a rope to re-join the proletariat and climb.

The accommodation itself was quite fabulous. We had our own two storey villa with a little private plunge pool outside. Phra-nang beach, the prettiest of the four beaches, was a short stroll away on manicured lawns through palm trees.

Whether the Dusit was worth the price I was less sure. We had also enjoyed staying in our OK hotel room with its quasi-functional plumbing and noisy ceiling fan on the previous nights. I have been lucky to stay in quite a few fancy hotels over the years, also flown first class several times and eaten in some famous restaurants (Le Manoir, four different Nobu's, etc). These experiences have left me undecided as to the actual value of luxury. I have noticed that there are several ways in it can disappoint. An obvious one is if expectations are set unrealistic high. Then there is the anxiety brought on by the excessive choice which is often a feature of high-end travel; pillow menus, for example. Arguably, luxury only becomes truly luxurious once it becomes routine, and you are able to, say, sleep all the way through your first class flight and not over-order champagne and fiddle with the movie channels. Overall, I think it is good to sample this kind of thing a few times in your life then convince yourself you don't need it.

Queen Shoko in our private pool at the Dusit

And slumming it on the backpacker beach

On that theme, I had a bizarre encounter during our Dusit stay. We were walking back along Phra-nang beach in the early evening after climbing at some cliff at its far end. A european guy in a Dusit uniform yelled at me to ask - not very politely - for help. It turned out that he needed to move the Dusit's wooden shuttle pier higher up on the beach away from the tide line. It was a four person job and he was one short. For some reason, I agreed. It was a brief task - we only had to stumble a few metres - but the pier was brutally heavy and, sans warm-up, felt like a back-strain risk. When the job was done, Shoko and I stepped off the beach into the Dusit's compound. Uniform-guy started yelling again, this time warning that we were on private property. "I know", I replied, waving our room key, "We are guests". His face fell satisfactorily but we didn't hang around to see what he would say next. It dawned on me that he had only targeted me for help because he had assumed from my climber clothes that I couldn't be staying in the hotel.

The next evening we were eating in the Dusit's main dining room when uniform-guy came over to apologise. With hindsight I realise that this would have been an excellent opportunity to fake great outrage and a stiff back, and insist on compensation, or, at least, many free drinks. Instead I made a pious little speech about stereotyping, and suggested he treat climbers with more respect going forward.

The climbing, of course, was pretty good. Diary notes aren't very detailed, but I remember that Shoko had fun and was solid on the routes we tried up to ~6a (YDS 5.10b), including Massage Secrets, a cool three pitch route with amazing tufa stalactites. This was so good that we did it again on our departure day to get more photos.

Shoko following Massage Secrets

... and at one of the belays

The ascent

We did not venture over to the Tonsai beach cliff until late in our stay. The hike from the Railay West beach passed over an area of low-angle rock which I remember being sharp and awkward. At that time, there was just one beach bar and some very rudimentary huts at Tonsai. In my memory, it is populated by the sort of hairy German stoners who were a fixture at cliffs like Siurana in the 1990s, but that's probably totally inaccurate and unfair. I didn't intend to try anything "hard" but ended up watching someone on Lai Bab and thinking "I could do that". To my surprise, I flashed it. Not an onsight as I had observed the previous climber use a non-obvious undercut which proved to be essential beta. I was reasonably accustomed to flashing routes at that grade but not so often that I wasn't really pleased. It was very cool to climb smoothly on something so steep. The wall was around 45 degrees overhanging.

On the way back to the Dusit we got waylaid at a beach bar, first watching the sunset and then sitting on the sand while hippy firedancers performed to Leftism - that ubiquitous soundtrack to the mid-90s. A very clichéed experience but great. If someone entrusted me with a time machine to revisit moments from my life, I'd probably set the dial to that day in 1998 first.

My flash ascent of Lai Bab

Subsequent ascents

I have not climbed in Thailand subsequently. Shoko, Leo and I did spend about a week in Ao Nang, a few kilometres west of Railay, in January 2007. Though it was a strict "non-climbing" holiday, we did day-trip in a boat over to Railay. One change was immediately evident: the whole Tonsai beach area had been developed. Presumably as a consequence, what had been an empty crescent of white sand and blue sea was full of moored boats and the water had become brackish and unappealing. I made a mental note that the place was now "spoiled". But then I remembered that before we visited in 1998, some friends, who had been there a few years earlier, had warned that the place was too popular and "ruined" - which had not been our experience at all. In the same vein, while researching this blog post, I noticed a commentator on Mountain Project complaining that the place had been "discovered" since his first visit - which had been in 2009! It is all relative.

Leo on Railay West beach in 2007

the nostalgia project: Twinkler, UK (1997)

The route

Trwyn Llwyd is a vowel-free gabbro  sea cliff in the esoteric Welsh climbing area of North Pembroke. Twinkler is a two pitch HVS (~YDS 5.9) that wanders across the cliff finding the easiest line between much harder routes. In the 1990s it was graded VS.

The context

For all sorts of reasons best left undocumented, 1997 was a chaotic year for me. The frequency of my weekend climbing was about the same as usual but I was very distracted and did little of note.  In grade terms, the highlight was a trip to El Chorro in Spain in January where I redpointed a 7b fairly easily. One unusual feature of the year was that Dan (mentioned twice before in this blog and likely to recurr again) rented a room from me in the north London flat that I had just bought. Inevitably this meant that we climbed together more often.

In May we spent a long weekend in the North Pembroke. I believe the  motivation was that a new guidebook had just come out. Photos show that we dossed two nights in a pub car park; a typical strategy in those days. On Saturday and Sunday we visited four cliffs, roping up for several routes in the E1-E3 range, most of which seemed somewhat less worthwhile than the guidebook promised.

(fresh) Airbnb - 90's style

The Economist and the Financial Times - essential accessories for the travelling Londoner

The ascent

On Monday, the diary notes that it was "scorchingly hot" and that we climbed unroped most of the day, mostly on very easy short pitches. To end the day Dan suggested a "convoy solo" of Twinkler. It had been several years since I had last soloed a multi-pitch and I remember feeling some concern. However VS was comfortably within my limit so objectively the risk was low. Dan soloed often at that time. I acquiesced.

Convoy soloing - two or more people climbing unroped on the same route at the same time - was something I had done a few times prior to this. Especially ten years before at Arapiles, when I and most of my regular partners were very young and foolish. Aside from moonlight idiocy on D Minor, mentioned here, I got notably scared onsighting the 100m slab classic Brolga unroped. Both I and my friend Pete found it much more delicate, insecure and irreversible than we had anticipated. A unique aspect of this dumb activity is the potential opportunity to be private witness to your partner's death (or vice-versa) as a section is tackled which the other has already completed. I still remember Pete and I's nervous banter, wide-eyes and various "what the fuck are we doing" philosophising on that ascent.

Dan starting Twinkler

Twinkler lured us in gently with a traverse above the sea that was easy and unexposed. In fact, I recall absolute no issues with the route until the very end where a short overhanging crack connected a small ledge with the top of the cliff. Dan did this quickly as I waited on the ledge. As I followed, it dawned on me that the crack was awkward and would be a challenging down-climb. The final move was a pull over a bulge on to gently-sloping terrain. I recall some dependence on a shallow unsatisfactory hand jam. I paused and looked at Dan who I think mumbled something like "it is OK" but looked worried. I paused a while longer. It was a bad place to stop; fatiguing eventually. The fall would have been 30m or more toward the sea, possibly into water of uncertain depth, possibly on to boulders. I doubt more than a few seconds passed in total, but as the cliche goes: they were "long" seconds. Finally I pulled the move, there being no other options and of course it was fine.

Researching this blog post, I stumbled over notes on a 2017 ascent of Twinkler that may shed some light on why the route felt so marginal: "[pitch] 2 felt hard even for HVS 5a as per the 2013 guide to finish up the steep final crack though i might have done the finish to "Better Led than Dead" climbing up a steep crack above a small step down in the ramp, either way this was excellent and well protected but felt E1 5b."

Subsequent ascents

I have not been back to North Pembroke.

I have also not soloed anything substantial since 1997. Where we live now in Squamish, there is an abundance of solid moderate climbing, moments from our front door, that is very well-suited for unroped climbing. But I don't do it. I believe I could run many laps with the required focus but in time complacency would be inevitable. Best not to start.

A case in point: in September this year I slipped off the final 5.4 pitch of a ten pitch new route that I had helped establish a few months earlier and had already climbed five times. I was seconding with far too much slack in the system, so fell the length of the pitch to ledges, bruising a few ribs and opening a spectacular though unserious scalp wound. No big deal but it could have been much worse. If anyone had asked me in advance how many times I could climb that pitch without falling I would have estimated thousands, not five ...