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Simon Yates gave an interesting lecture in the evening, and showed us slides of many daunting, exposed faces and towers. Charles, however, was unimpressed, as Simon, in recounting his entire life-story, made no reference to the fiercest crack in the Moelwyns.
February 22
Having backed off Creagh Dhu Wall (HS*** 4a,4a,4b) in high winds with "Ab-Off" Alfie, I convinced Justin that we should go and do it. I led the first pitch because I'd done it before, and tied off at the tree belay, happy that my bit was done. I lit a fag, brought Justin up, and handed him the gear. My state of contentment evaporated when he handed it back to me, and no matter how I protested about a bad arm and a dicky heart, I was unceremoniously shoved out towards the hand-traverse to hell. "But it's your turn", I sobbed, from halfway along the line of flakes. I heaved up onto the pinnacle at the end of the hand traverse and stuck in a bomb-proof hex. I looked up. The wall reared vertically above, straight up for at least a hundred feet. I looked down. Between my feet I could see my rucksack - a little red dot 100 feet below.
I heard a strange whimpering sound and looked around to see where it was coming from. Unfortunately, I discovered it was coming out of my mouth, which was lolling open. I looked back over to the belay. Justin had erected some razor wire and had employed armed guards on the ledge to prevent my retreat.
"How does it look?", he asked. I smiled weakly and put a bomb-proof sling around the pinnacle I was standing on.
"Steep" I mumbled. Tentatively, I stepped onto the wall. A line of good holds, invisible from below, gradually revealed themselves as I gained height. Things went slowly but smoothly, until I got to a large flake. I could see a big hold about five feet above me, but only the edge of the flake would allow me to get there. Between my feet, my sack had got noticeably smaller below. I placed yet another runner, took a deep breath and laid away on the flake's edge, smearing my foot on the blank wall. Miraculously, my foot stayed on, and I arced my left hand over the top to grab the jug. I pulled up and over, and emerged on a ledge about 8 inches wide. Bloody hell! This was the guidebook belay. A selection of unsound blocks, just like the ones in the scree a few hundred feet below, were piled up behind the ledge. I didn't rate their chances of staying on the cliff under load, so I carried on knowing the crux was awaiting me at the very top.
I could hear some children in the distance, and had the sensation that their laughter was at my expense. With
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your second out of sight round the corner, and a lot of space all around, it's a lonely lead up the wall. Especially if you climb as slowly as I do.
Everything was straightforward, until I got to a very polished groove. I placed a small wire in the crack running up to it, and slowly bridged my feet higher to get a better look. Before long, I slowly bridged back down again. I placed another runner, and clipped in the other rope. I repeated this process several times, and began to realise why the entry to this groove is so polished compared to the rest of the route. It's probably climbed and down-climbed about six times per ascent, with people like me nervously calculating fall factors. A fingerlock with the left hand, combined with high smears with both feet, enables you to grab a half decent and virtually unused pinch grip high on the right. Thus, you simply lever into the groove. Easy, apart from the space between your legs, which drops away vertically to your sack 200 feet below. And it's all over!
I've let out a few sighs of relief in my time, but this was a big one. I even thanked god, which is an exceptional compliment to the chap considering I'm an atheist. Justin romped up it without any hiccups, and then had the nerve to tell me he wished he'd led it!
The route's reckoned to be the best of its grade in Wales,
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