Tales from the Top-Shelf

by Nick Bullock

A glimpse into the dark, scary recesses, of one mans obsession...

Pumped as a skunk, I press on. No understanding of grades, protection, technique, rock types, routes to avoid, first ascentionists to avoid! Fuelled with daring accounts from Bonnington, Boyson, Brown and Whillans, I push it out in an attempt to sprint to the top of the climb. All, who have gone before, will me on. I fight, and stay longer than many would.

*

Feeling indestructible, I had left the Canadian secured to several pieces of gear, perched on the airy, large ledge of the crevasse stance. Twenty meters above the ground, the fingers of af ternoon sun didn’t reach far enough to warm this dark corner of the Roaches lower tear. He had struggled on the first pitch for some reason, I think the unprotected, roundness, may have played a part. Wedged beneath a huge chock stone, bulging and overhung I knew the fun was about to begin. A fist-sized crack split the roof, it was clear the technique needed to surmount this monstrosity was the much-read about hand jam. Bring it on! I wanted desperately to simulate the exploits and experiences of the fifties, grit gurus.

Matinee, HVS5b, first ascensionists, Joe Brown and Don Whillans, a jamming test piece, enough to strike terror into the heart of many a seasoned climber, not me though! Comfortably ignorant, I didn’t understand the subtleties involved. Guide book writers dark sense of humour also passed over my head. Having just climbed Elegy, an E25c, this climb will be a walk in the park. Redundant shiny new gear, hung from my harness, no idea how to use it, no need to use it, the climb is only HVS! Pushing a hand into the crack, bunching my fingers I make a fist. Twist the hand until it hurts. Leaning out, and back, from the hand jam, I stretch to peer above, the bulging chock, inches from my nose. Reaching above, I loose an arm into the flared off-width. Camming elbow and wrist making an arm-bar it holds, just! Pushing knees, thighs, feet, ankles, anything into the damp, depths of the fissure below, and out of sight, I attempt to lighten the load on the upper body. I manage to free the lower hand. All of my weight comes onto the upper arm. Slowly, the arm jam holding me in position starts to creep out. Desperation sets in, I try to find a hold above by ramming the left arm into the even wider crack. Where have all the holds gone? Turning the palm of the left-hand one way and bunching knuckles does nothing to help my situation. I try it with the hand in the opposite direction and still it does nothing! I don’t do this. I can’t do this. I don’t know how to do this!

A mad last ditch effort, twisting the right arm even tighter into the crack. Blood oozes and runs. Squirming, thrutching, trying to keep my knees spragged. Like a caterpillar, knees to chest, oh god, the bloody arm is slipping. Legs shoot out from beneath. My inadequate arm bar and hand jam fail. I’m spat out; arms fly to the side. The massive chock stone I had only just surmounted disappears into the distance. The Canadian dives for cover taking in as much rope as he can. Missing his head by inches as I hurtle past, my feet hit the ledge on which he is now sprawled. Flipped upside down full bodyweight comes onto the rope, a parabolic pendulum. Smash, a resounding thud into the rock below the belay. My back takes most of the impact, but my un-helmeted head quickly follows and is whiplashed into the unforgiving rock.

Unconscious for a few seconds, stars and bright light explode in my head. Upside down I come round and I’m unceremoniously lowered into the arms of several off duty policemen. They had witnessed the whole debacle, and suitably impressed by the length of fall, (especially as there are so many gear placements!) insisted on driving us to the A&E. Seven head x-rays later, and a few stitches, I’m discharged with the instruction not to climb for a week! A good weather forecast and a mad for it attitude put pay to that though, and the next day we merrily weave our way to Wales, seeking further adventure!

This was the first large roped fall I had taken. It was a surprise to find that climbing with a partner was probably more dangerous than without! Having a rope played curious tricks on my mind. I had started to climb by on-sight soloing, so when the chance to climb with a partner arose, I felt very safe. Even if the rope ran straight to the belayer without any gear between! I had taken the odd, small tumble while soloing, and had several lucky escapes. A stubborn attitude mixed with a background of gymnastics and weight training found me repeatedly wanting, devoid of the climbing skills needed to continue the climb and escape the wild situation I had exposed myself. Learning the art of down climbing or jumping was a lesson learnt quick!

Coming from a non-climbing background the technical aspects of how to go about protecting one’s self by top roping or shunting routes didn’t enter into the early Bullock climbing career. Living in Leicestershire, without a climbing wall or a strong social scene, made the normal avenues of learning unavailable. I really did start to climb with a fresh innocent attitude. I had a guidebook, a pair of sticky shoes, a chalk bag. Combined with determination, and, a large library, the climbing world didn’t know what was about to be unleashed! A climbing day would generally involve running to the crag, a quick read of the route description, and climb! If I was lucky I got to the top! On many an occasion I didn’t, forced into a horrific down climbing epic, reaching the ground a quivering wreck, but the buzz was terrific! These lovely, innocent, and ethically pure years were exciting, but not without further misfortune!

Camping at Tremadog the following summer I eagerly waited for my partner to arrive. I bounced around the campsite, behind Eric Jones’s café, filled with joy and enthusiasm. The previous day I had led my first E3. Comes the Dervish at Vivian Quarry, in Llanberis. Flushed on success, I needed to push harder now, strike while the iron is hot. My partner for the day, experienced, middle-aged and very safe suggests starting on a HVS, silly old sod. A HVS! Way beneath a man of my calibre, after all, haven’t I just led E3? In an attempt keep the peace, I reluctantly agree. Slipping and sliding in the mud on the steep approach we arrive at our climb.

The Fang, HVS5a, quickly, wasting as little time as possible on this climb without an E in its grade, I volunteer for the first pitch. No sooner had the silly old sod tied on, I’m away. The description for the first pitch has crack mentioned, so when a crack appears directly infront of my face, I follow it! I place a large wire into the crack. It rattles and moves around, but, no problem; I’ll soon be high enough to make it redundant! Higher still, I place two wires into the crack, not used to standing around, messing with gear, my arms burn. Climbing beneath an overhang I press on, pulling myself above, sure in the knowledge a jug waits. Unfortunately, the jug doesn’t materialise. To make matters worse, the holds are even smaller! Hanging around trying to make sense of the moves to come, I can’t believe I’m finding this so hard, but defeat isn’t an option. The lesson of giving in gracefully is one I hadn’t learnt (and still haven’t!). Adopting my well-practised down-climbing technique, I use the sharp sides of the wet crack below the overhang to push the soles of my feet. This relieves some weight from my arms. Grunting and panting, I lower back to the salvation below the overhang. Grasping tight, fingers turn pale, squeezing the life from the bigger holds, wedged beneath the step, a body-jam, I frantically shake the lactic acid from my burning forearms. The silly old sod suggests giving in, does he not know, I don’t do that! “No, I’ll have another look.” This is HVS! I’m an E3 leader!SILLY OLD SOD!

Setting off again, the pressure from below, to back off, causes me to speed up. Knowing I can’t back off a HVS (the shame of it), I pull once more over the roof and find nothing new. Crimping hard onto tiny holds, I frantically look around, eyes dart, left to right, up, down. Sweat on my forehead runs down the ridge of my nose, free falls, unnoticed, fifty feet onto the gnarled tree roots. The damp mildew of the forest floor invades my senses. I have to lower again, but the fruitless search for a haven of good holds has left forearms drained of energy. Feet skitter around, trying to latch onto the sides of the crack. The water seeping from the crack runs over the footholds, friction is at a minimum; it will have to do! I lower myself taking all of my weight with my feet, they hold for a second then shoot off, fingers, numb from gripping too hard, snap open. I shoot down the face! My forehead clatters into the sharp edge of the overhang knocking me out immediately. Limp, unaware, my body continues its downward dance, all of the wires unzip, except the first one. Hitting the root covered, earthy forest floor, a resounding hollow thud is heard around the crag. I slide down the steep, muddy, rock strewn gully, head first, stopping thirty feet below.

Slithering down to my prone body, the silly old sod fishes my tongue back from the depths of my throat. Bleeding all over where the ropes have skinned me, other climbers have rushed over to help. They carry me down to the road where I’m bundled into a car and whisked to Bangor A&E.

Three days later I come out of my comfortably numb existence, the drip is removed, and I try to make sense of what happened. The climb I mistakenly thought was the Fang, was in fact a climb called Extraction. A gnarly E2 5c with a reputation for spitting people off and unzipping gear. Battered pride restored! The reason for the lack of holds above the overhang now becomes clear, combined with a blasé attitude, I didn’t stand a chance! Maybe a less gung-ho attitude in the future will be adopted, maybe!

Three years pass, the learning curve is steep, a few big, scary falls along the way. Still in one piece, the fire inside burns as strong as ever. E5s now de-rigour, even a few E6’s. On sighting is where it’s at! North Wales has become my favourite hunting ground for pushing the grades. Dinas Cromlech in the Llanberis Pass most suited for climbers with steel fingers, forearm stamina and the ability to push it out above minimal protection.

Romping up the steep, purple, heather covered hill. I follow the giant steps of Tim Neal. A mountain-guide, who’s skills, both on rock and ice are well known and respected. An all round good guy! The sun shines, the crag is dry, an exciting day in prospect. Both of us have ticked nearly all of the routes on the fantastic, open-book walls of the crag. The previous evening of guide- book study led us delving deep, reading the small print, a hunt for the more exotic. We had come up trumps!

Ivory Madonna E56b, a rising right to left girdle of the Cromlech walls starting at Cemetery Gates. First climbed by Ron Fawcett in 1980. If the name of the first ascentionist excited me, the route description took me into ecstasy (an adrenaline pumping 20-foot sequence of ‘brick-edge’ climbing enable non-flyers to gain the sanctuary of Cenotaph Corner). Red rag to a Bullock! Quickly scampering up the polished rock step, we made base camp below right wall. Big Tim asked if I wanted the first pitch, the crux pitch, the bold, potential monster lob pitch, DO PIGS LIKE TRUFFELS?

Some strange masochistic, warped, trait in my psyche was taking over. My climbing had been heading in this direction for some time. People climb for a variety of reasons. Exercise, the gymnastic movement, the social side, to name a few; I climb for all of these, but especially the head games. The ability to cross the barrier inside my head, push it out above suspect gear, climb technical, difficult moves at my limit. I have been accused of chasing big numbers, not enjoying the environment, wrongly so, but how are others expected to understand, the very type of climbing the sane shy from, is what attracts me! I do not question why others go out and climb well within their ability (although I don’t understand it!). What I do know, is, I don’t have to queue, to climb the routes I do!

I solo the start of Cemetery Gates. Through the overhang, place protection, relax! Let the lonely, leftward shuffle begin. Easy climbing (if climbing can be described as easy, when you’re facing the chance of terminal cratering) follows. There is even gear! I climb through the line of Precious, another Fawcett route of the same grade. I remind myself I climbed this route with the difficult Redhead direct start, the previous year (head strengthening tactics). Into Right wall (my second E5, so many since! More subliminal head strengthening). Slowing down now as the mighty Lord of the Flies approaches, (my first E6, climbed last year, no peg, a crucial nut placement gone, crater potential from the crux guaranteed, led with ease, ((that’s what I tell myself anyway!)) and no sleep the night before!). I know the rock intimately. Small but positive finger jugs, looking right, the ropes run away without interruption. Washing line, on a windy day! The small ledge just climbed is good for heel hooking; doing this rests my arms while contemplating the climbing to come. The small pockets to the left belong to Lord, I know the gear is terrible. A large crozzeled pocket smothered in chalk teases with the chance of protection, it’s useless, but I have to try. The chance to psyche up while placing useless R.Ps will help. Finally the excuse to delay the inevitable is completed.

A man on a mission, no fear, no worries, no brain, no going back! Two moves into the sequence, the pocket for the sky-hook, which protects the crux moves on Lord of the Flies, is above. I unclip the sky-hook and place it in the lip of the pocket. In an attempt to stop ropes flicking the hook out of the pocket, I hang all of the large wires onto the sky-hook to weight it down. A shake of the arms (and the head), dip in the chalk bag, try to fathom the sequence required. Dip into the chalk bag, again! Commit for Gods sake, turn the head off and commit!

The holds are tiny, but positive, a match on a match! Swing the left foot high, aiming for a foothold the thickness of a ten pence piece. Lock off with the right arm. A side-pull for the left hand is an arm length and an inch away; pull with the foot for the extra reach. Got it! Rock-over placing all weight on the left foot. Oh no, this can t be happening. The foot holds have run out, a foot swap is the only way, BUT I’M HOLDING A RAZOR BLADE! JUSTDO IT! Push down hard on the matchstick with the right. Pull with the left. I skip feet, exchanging left for right. It works. Bunched up with nothing for my left foot and paper edge holds for my outsized fingers, I snatch a glance ahead. Cenotaph Corner is near, a move away, one more foot hold, one more handhold. Deathly quiet falls onto the crag (or is it in my head). A climber on Cenotaph Corner is just above. I can whisper sweet nothings in his ear. He’s gone; he fades into the distance, arrrrrrrgh!

I wave farewell! Leaning forward reaching for the corner my feet shoot off, I plummet. Flying down to the right the rock is a blur. The ledge Big Tim is sat, grows large, it fills my vision. Spinning, an exocet, my course set.

I flashback to the gang of grubby kids growing up in a North Staffordshire market town. The mills and mines long closed. Perched in the tree, which leans over the dirty brook, they dare each other to jump from higher than before. The rope hangs straight down from the branch it’s tied; curves back up in a great loop to the kid holding the end of the rope. Count to three and launch, acceleration, gravity pulls. The loop in the rope allows free fall, freedom, escape. Distance and time destroy the fantasy. Rules apply, knots creak and tighten, the tree complains, gradually the kid comes to a stop, who dare jump from higher?

Big Tim throws himself backward in an attempt to shorten the amount of rope paid out. It works, just! I whiz past, missing the ledge, (which the big man is now hanging below) by inches. I lift my legs, for a second I’m tempted to see if I can run along the top of ledge. Greetings to the big guy as I fly past. I leave his company as quick as I arrive.

Strange how some things from school re-emerge when you least expect! Every action shall have an equal and opposite re-action! My journey of discovery continues with a vengeance. The party climbing Cemetery Gates are looking distinctly un-happy, the Bullock bomb, heads in their direction. The leader holds on hard and prepares for impact. I gracefully swing to greet him, introduce myself and wave goodbye (I never have been one for long relationships!) This is fun, whooping and laughing I sail across the right wall for a second time. More, again, More! The crag is in uproar; it’s a blast! I look up and notice the rope holding me for this roller coaster ride is passing through a single point of suspension, which happens to be the sky-hook. Hypnotised I watch the hook swivel in the pocket following my progression. Whispering, scared my voice will shake it loose, I ask the big man to lower me, carefully!

Experience gained from falling, climbing, more climbing, more falling, give an in-depth understanding of when to push and when to hold back. Unfortunately, my head often overrides the catalogue of epics stored in the dark reassesses of my mind. Skin of the teeth escapes or last ditch dyno’s before plummeting to a horrible death are conveniently forgotten. Tomorrow is another day. All that matters is, surviving today, to come out mentally stronger, to push harder tomorrow! It works, sometimes! This forgetfulness does have a down side. Some very scary times have occurred by forgetting factors such as, the early season inability to place gear, or, the end of a long day, but I don’t know when to stop syndrome! Combine either of these factors with an exceptionally driven personality, add the, I’m going to the mountains soon, but still want to knock off several hard climbs and hey presto, an epic is on the cards!

It was such an occasion I found myself at Stoney Middleton with my friend Bruce French. It was early season, but I was climbing well. Three months in Australia had paid off. Mr French is often a steadying influence. Especially when my puppy dog enthusiasm throws unforeseen hardship in his direction. Although, when rock climbing in Britain, things can change. Good weather, the short walk to the climbing venue, a cell phone with a signal, a single pitch climb. All remove the normal stress factors for Mr French. Then, he turns from cautious Dr Jeykle, into Mr Hyde, the evil belaying Bastard!

The warm up for the day had been Wee Doris, not the easiest E45c by any stretch of the imagination! A climb French pointed to, with an evil glint in his eye. He had climbed it before, “your lead” he laughed. I slithered my way up this very polished, technical, Proctor, test piece, reaching the top pumped stupid! The second climb of the day also a Tom Proctor classic, Bubbles Wall with the direct 6b start. I climbed up and down several times trying to fathom the sequence before finally committing myself to a series of semi-dynamic moves to reach the brake above. Pleased to place some gear, but more pleased that I had found the strenuous moves reasonably easy. The final climb of the day is Scoop Wall, an E25c. A three star route taking the magnificent upper wall of Windy Buttress, a classic! Sustained at the grade and steep. I seconded the evil Mr French, loving every minute.

It was now a dangerous time in the Bullock psyche. Bursting with enthusiasm and confidence from successfully climbing three very good routes. Now should have been the time to call it a day. Ok, the sun is still shining with loads of daylight remaining, but all of the climbing must have taken a little energy from my arms, hadn’t it? It really would be a shame not to add one more route though, wouldn’t it? The evil one sat contented, his climb safely in the bag, the pub would be open for a long time yet! The decision was left to me. Back to Bubbles Wall then! I had spotted a great line out to the right while climbing earlier in the day. Once again, I fell, hook, line and sinker. Mr French had completed his transformation into the evil belaying bastard, devoid only of cape, and stove top hat, he encouraged with abandon! Oh, I really should have read the warning signs, but of course, I didn’t!

The route was called Black Kabul, an E56a climbed by Jerry Moffat. In a year when my first route was Linden at Curbar Edge, a hard E66b, this climb really didn’t cause concern, and it had gear, spaced, but good. Definitely good! The crux sequence is high in the climb and run out, but no worries. A great big pocket before setting off into the sea of nothing will give adequate protection. If the unthinkable happens, I’ll be fine. There aren’t any large ledges or lumps of rock to hit on the way down, a steal!

Black Kabul starts by climbing the route to the right, an E2 crack line. The E2 begins above a large hole at the foot of the crag. The hole is the entrance of one of Stoney Middleton’s under ground tunnel systems. I minced around the wide mouth of the hole, avoiding mud, and patches of wet, stingy nettles. A cold stale breeze emanated from the bowels of the crag. Stepping onto the foot of the climb and making one move to the right immediately placed me fifteen feet above the ground. The evil one stood to the side belaying, he was at the same level and fixed me with an evil stare, “get on with it Bullock, the pubs waiting.” I climbed the crack it was horrible. Polished and dusty, just the sort of thing to fall off and wreck months of confidence building. I placed a bomber wire into the crack and pressed on.

At the top of the crack the E5 traverses left, the moves to reach the pocket look steady. There’s even a small break to stand and shake out while studying the crux, no problem, push on! This was the Bullock of old philosophy. The more experienced Bullock though, occasionally stopped to draw on some of those hard won, painful lessons, sometimes! Luckily this was one such occasion. Before setting off I placed a sinker number seven wire, high in the crack. The evil one’s dream of alehouse relaxation was disturbed by the appearance of his girlfriend and daughter. The pair, both climbers, sat down in preparation for a climbing display, par excellence!

Leaving the crack, the left traverse was great. Lock off with the left arm, heel hook with the right foot; pull with the right leg to take the weight off the arms. Reach the right arm over the left, place it further along the traverse line. Lock off, an outside edge with the left foot onto a small positive flake, press with the foot and take the weight. Feed the left hand beneath the right, lock off, swap feet, stretch out into a balanced position and place protection before making the big rock-over move to reach the pocket.

Superb, forget the danger, the trivialities, in the zone. Evil one’s girlfriend quietly explained to the daughter the reasoning behind some of my actions. Why I had placed gear high in the crack before leaving on the traverse. The reason I now placed a piece of gear on the second rope to protect the hard move, reaching the pocket without causing rope drag. It felt nice to show my honed skills to the younger generation, to be a roll model, something to aim and aspire too! The warm feeling I now felt in my stomach was tempered slightly by the nagging heat generated in complaining forearms. Pushing the thought of dwindling arm strength to the back of my mind. I continued, it would never do to show the child failure!

The rock-over consisted of a long reach for the pocket, made possible by placing my right foot on the same hold as the right hand. The hold was really good, making this powerful move easy, if attacked with gusto! Once made though, it would be impossible to reverse. Having made the move, I would be able to place a large cam into the pocket. One last shake of the arms (they were definitely starting to feel the pace now) and I was on my way. Foot to hand; pull in with the leg, and a long reach for the pocket. Pulling myself into a standing position I took the large cam from my harness, glad to be rid of the weight, stuffing it into the depths of the pocket. A perfect fit, I over-cammed the jaws to get it past the entrance, but once inside they opened out to press tight against the roof and floor of the pocket. Confident the cam was solid I studied the crux section.

The climbing looked fiery with a really long move half way through to reach an obvious hold. I couldn’t see if the hold was good or bad. Leaving the pocket was a repeat of the move to reach it. As before, it would be impossible to reverse. The ground covered was difficult to read with no gear! Too late to back out now though! Backing out certainly wasn’t an option. Some people can accept failure easy, not me! I had gear at my feet, a smooth fall out zone, and months of Australian climbing under my belt. Run away to fight another day, bullshit! Go down fighting, that was my motto!

Fired up on adrenaline and the fear of failure, I asked for an evil eye to be kept on my progression, I didn’t catch the full reply but did catch mention of the pub! I set off with anticipation of the battle to come, relishing the control, drawing strength from fear. The voice in my head screamed back off, run away! This was going to be a skin of the teeth affair, my arms told me so! I joked with the ground support, asked for mobile phones to be at the ready.

The first move away from the pocket was powerful, more than moving into it. An energy sapping move; the hold I aimed for, placed all of my hopes, was abysmal. Small, crimpy, and facing the wrong way! I had to use it though, no going back now! Taking it with the left hand an inch from my nose, keeping the elbow high and pulling to the left, balanced me enough to slap for a better hold out to the right. It was good, although, horror of horrors; the footholds had disappeared. The next move was the long reach spied from below. I recognised the moves to be made in an instant. I needed to use the side-pull with the right hand to make a powerful lock off while smearing the right foot on nothing. Lurching quickly into the move, before loosing anymore strength. I smeared the right foot as high as flexibility would allow. Pushing the foot as hard as possible onto smooth rock and pulling with the right arm, I stretched out. Standing straight, using the full length of the right arm to pivot, I was short by an inch! Using as much power as I could possibly muster I jumped my right foot higher, it was almost level with the side-pull. Unfolding my body for the second time I knew it was make or break. Pushing hard onto the right foot, smearing onto smooth rock and pulling hard enough to rip the crimp from the wall, I stood. Turning to the right my left shoulder pressed against the rock, giving the left arm maximum reach. I was at full stretch. The power drained from my arms in an instant!

Shaking with the force generated to hold such a powerful position, I slapped for the hold. The relief at hitting it vanished in a second. It was rounded, not the inset crimp I had hoped. Not even a flat top! Pinching with as much energy as my forearm would give, I threw my right arm in a windmill action to join the left. One hand on top of the other, the left sandwiched between rock and the right hand. Bloodless fingers, head screaming, eyes wide, my brain hit overload. Feet needed to be run up the rock, but there are no footholds. The following move will have to be dynamic also. I’m spent; I’ve given everything and have nothing else to give. Decision made, control and sanity return, “I’m coming off.” The cam is quite far below but the extra distance will cushion the fall as the rope stretches. The female contingency are excitedly talking, a chance for the daughter to witness the reliability of modern protection. I throw myself back, pushing to give myself clearance. In a flash I’m whizzing down. My eyes fix onto the cam as I fly past. The rope comes tight, I wait to slow down. The rope stretches, and the cam rips straight from the pocket, holy smoke, I’m in for a big one now!

The cam exploded from the pocket, catapulted into space. I’m snatched from the hand of safety, my speed increases and the ground looms closer. I see The Evil One trying to take in as much rope as possible. As a last ditch effort he runs backward and jumps. The wire placed a year ago, in the top of the initial crack line might just save me. The rope tightens, ten feet from the ground and still I plummet. The rope stretches, five feet,…… three. I hit the muddy ground impacting with both heels, the rope is fully stretched, I surf the mud, The Evil One is catapulted into the air. The ground disappears; I’m over the cave entrance above the hole with air beneath my feet. The base of the crag approached fast. The bushes of nettles cushion my crashing into the rock. My fifty-foot skydive comes to an end. The Evil One hangs half way up the face. I hang below ground level. Obviously there is a god! I begin to crawl out of the pit, fighting the bushes of nettles, slipping and sliding in mud. Legs of jelly. Popping my head above the edge of the hole, a gofer on the prairie, I look up and ask the onlookers if they have any questions, now the Bullock master class of modern climbing techniques has finished.

Epilogue

Ten years have passed since my first innocent explorations onto rock. The journey at times has been painful, but very rewarding. The return from pushing myself to the limit is a major factor in my climbing. The combination of difficult, demanding climbing, with the ability to push on, when the voice inside screams to stop, is, as important as the physical struggle. Climbing at whatever level, means different things to the thousands who participate, thank god! Many will wonder the motives behind the type of climbing which ultimately could end in disaster. So be it, who cares! My climbing will always be a very personal thing, an escape from the mundane, an adventure into the unknown, long may it continue!

The End.

Nick Bullock would like to thank all of the people who made writing the above possible. The band of ever suffering, grey haired, nervous climbing partners. Friends with patience in abundance!