At Last : An Epic!
by Anna Blackburn
So much talk of Epics on the hills - nighttime descents with headtorches
through appalling blizzards, terror and tears, forgotten equipment, lost paths and abandoned
gear....
And after all this time every one of my attempts at having my own Epic had failed. The
time we spent sixteen hours on the Aiguille du Tour with four wires and a Friend and no
snow didn't count (apparently) even though it was 10 p.m. and well dark by the time
we got back to Chamonix. The time darkness fell on Tryfan, Paul's headtorch died and
Chris's lighter proved an inadequate substitute didn't count either. Well, I
kept trying but in order to have an Epic I concluded that I had to climb with someone
other than Ian.
On the November trip to Wales my allocated climbing partner didn't turn up (army
commitments, not an adequate excuse in my opinion even if Saddam was having another
tantrum at the time). So I ended up with Dave. Thus my opportunity of an Epic dawned.
Tryfan's east face proved to be cloaked in wet snow from well below Heather Terrace
level. The vertical rock, where snow couldn't lie, was running with water. Everything
was icy cold and slippery! The teams - there were eight of us, four climbing pairs
- split up, each to their own route. Dave's and mine was Grooved Arete, HVD
according to the book. In big boots in these conditions it was to feel a lot worse than
that. As I geared up, we discovered that in our desire to avoid bringing three full sets
of wires between us, we had managed to leave all of them behind! Equipped with Friends and
slings I led off. Cold and wet, after three or four pitches we weren't that
enthusiastic, but "We have to finish the route, or we'll get laughed at!"
We dreamed of a return in summer to do the route on sun-kissed rock... If only we'd
known, by this time everyone else had backed off and was either en route to a hot shower
or had already emerged from that and was en route to the pub.
As we didn't know, we continued up, alternating pitches until I fell off. I had time
to think "Oh no, my expensive dental work!" as my face hit the rock and time to
think "Fancy worrying about teeth when all sorts of other things could break during
this plummet", before the Friend I'd placed a few feet below drew me to a halt.
Unfortunately, after climbing back up, I couldn't manage to reach the elusive hold
and after I'd stopped being cross I had to bring Dave up to finish the pitch. I must
say that he did some fantastic leads that day on pitches which were totally horrendous in
the prevailing conditions. Not least of these was the Knight's Move, a balancy,
reachy, slimy slab whose few holds were full of icy water. If sun-kissed and tackled in
rock boots it's no doubt fun but it wasn't that day. I have rarely, if ever,
been so cold; numb hands and feet, the latter had been sloshing around in waterfilled
boots for hours, and I shivered so violently that my karabiners clinked!
At the top of the Knight's Move we considered the options: only 160 feet of
(allegedly) easier climbing to the top, but it was twilight, night was on the point of
falling; we decided to abseil off. The first ab was accomplished without headtorches,
just; but the rest took place in the pitch dark - and there were lots of them! At no point
did we manage to identify a path off until well below the crags. Four and a half hours
from the Knight we reached road level, and as I climbed a stile and set off for the Iayby,
where we trusted someone would be awaiting us with transport, I was happy to hear my name
called: there were Catherine and Ian, warm and dry and eager to load us into the car and
head for the chip shop.
"I think I've had an Epic!" I said.