I SUPPOSE the first question is "How did a nice convent school- girl like me become involved with a load of bums like C.U.M.C.? Well after the frustrations of such an upbringing, I suppose it is quite understandable, but the initiation test was quite an "accident", It all happened at a piss-up in a friend’s room – some great lout on crutches made a quick dash for the loo, carefully placing his crutch (plus whole weight) on my foot. He thus became the only Jake-the-peg to break three feet.
For some unaccountable reason I ended up going out with the lout, who apparently considered himself a climber. Unfortunately (for whom I am not quite sure) climbing was out until the Lent term, due to collapsed limbs, when our relationship came down to the nitty-gritty – "either you come climbing with me or amuse yourself all Sunday" "Well," I thought, "anything for a laugh," and went along
I must admit that I did enjoy my first visit to Stanage! The petrol-fumed minibus nearly caused me to chunder mutilated baked-beans into the crash hat I was hugging on my lap, which caused a bit of a stir. After that they let me sit in the front, so perhaps it was worth the fuss. On arriving we discovered that the frozen north really did exist and I looked around expecting to see Eskimo Nell standing there. However, I was not to be saved by any such apparition, and was forced to lug a great heavy rope up to the crag. The rest of the day I spent freezing, but it was all too novel for me to learn my lesson.
The next thing I knew was the C.U.M.C. dinner – £3.50 to have your idolised president throw brussel sprouts at you – no chance. A snowy night spent in a cold barn full of drunken, snoring hooligans – "Never again" I thought.
But after a few weeks when the memory had deadened a bit, I was persuaded that a long weekend in Derbyshire was just what I needed to finish off a perfect term. "Perfect term", I thought, but did not hasten to question the English. Seven hours to hitch to Stoney Middleton; still the weather was fine and the tent quickly put up. Time for a quick drink down the pub before retiring – which leads to the main problem encountered by women climbers. By 9 a.m. in the morning I was dying to go to the loo – threw on a couple of extra jumpers (I had slept in jeans and T-shirt due to the cold), Well, it was dark when we arrived and how was I to know that the quarry opposite worked on a Saturday. I tore down to Eric’s and hammered on the door of the ladies "loo". The string fastening to the door snapped and I found myself apologising to a very red-faced old lady, who turned nut to be a lorry driver,
Relieved at last, I wandered back to awaken the snoring mass stretched across the tent. My first real climbing was attempted that weekend, and I was getting on quite well. The weather was great and we wandered over to Froggatt and Millstone Edge. I was feeling quite pleased with myself until my "mentor" asked me whether I was going to get down to some graded routes now that I had sussed out the boulder problems.
"Right, I’ll show him," I thought, mustering up all hidden feelings for Women’s Lib. The chance came when I was honoured with a four day visit before a two week climbing trip to Aviemore. "Fancy a trip to my local crag?" I asked nonchalantly. So off to Avon Gorge we went. You know it doesn’t look that high when you’re driving past in the car. Putting on an air of calm confidence, I fumbled to tie the rope around my waist. "It’s all right, I remember how to tie it – just don’t rush me." Half an hour later – "It wasn’t my fault, it was the bunny going the wrong way round the loop." Off goes the leader up the first pitch, while I stand panic stricken at the foot, reminding myself that it was only a "Diff." – a walk rather than a climb, really.
"Are you bloody well coming up or not?" was the rude awakening I received from my daydream. "Climbing," I stuttered back. "Well, if you can call it that," I thought to myself. The thing that put me off most about the first pitch was this little five year old kid who kept clambering up next to me and telling me where the next foot-hold was.
"Piss off," I thought to myself, but mustering up all my teachers training, quietly told him to go back down because his mother was probably looking for him. A worried face greeted me as I joined my partner. "It’s alright," I lied, "that little kid was getting into a bit of trouble and I had to see him down again" – ever felt a heel. Still the face looked worried. "You can’t remember where the route goes next, can you?" it said. I didn’t really panic – I felt more like laughing actually – shock I think the word is. "Does that mean we will have to go back down?" I brightened. "Oh no, we’ll find a way up," was the confident reply.
My heart sank again as I was left to my own thoughts. I searched in my pockets for a scrap of paper and pencil stub to write my last request – "Cremate the pulped up mess and scatter the ashes over Arms Park." What Welsh girl could ask for more? The day had been quite fine but now clouds were starting to gather and it was cold. I was glad to be climbing again. By now it had started to rain and several other parties had abseiled off. Unfortunately I had a gap in my training – I had never learnt this effective method of descending. I was just contemplating the inefficiency of my teacher when I felt the world slipping from under my feet, and the rope around my waist crack against my spine.
"You alright," said the voice from above.
"Fine," I answered, clinging onto the rock-face by my finger-nails. It took six more attempts and a very tight rope to complete the move. The rock had a stream running down it by this time and the rubber soles of my plimsols were slippery from clearing away the vegetation (well, that’s my excuse anyway).
As we stood on Lunchtime Ledge trying to decide whether I should start lessons in abseiling or risk my neck climbing the rest of this saturated crag, we were suddenly confronted with the ghost like head of. .html human, peering over the other side of the ledge.
"It’s the mountain rescue people," I said confidently, but was met by a look of disdain that indicated I had said something wrong. Five other heads, attached to five even stranger bodies, followed in quick succession – a bit like a Keystone Cops movie, in fact. We stood and eyed them from one side of the ledge, while they did the same from the other. At last my companion approached the leader of the little band, a bloke of about forty who looked as if be knew every crag in Britain.
"You know the easy way up?" he asked. The man grunted.
"Mind if we join you?" he asked hesitantly. Again a grunt. We turned to collect our rope and gear.
"Hey, you the two who just climbed that Hard V.S.?" said a voice from behind. My partner froze as he saw the words sinking into my small share of grey matter.
"Hard V.S." I exploded. "You told me it was a Diff."
"Well, it was until I got lost," was the sheepish reply. I was too stunned to answer and anyway the others had started climbing – the rain was teeming down but it was anger that blinded me to everything else except the figure clambering above. He offered a hand to me as I reached the top, but I would rather have jumped off rather than take it.
"Just don’t talk to me," I said through gritted teeth, as I stalked past him.
It’s been a long time now since I’ve been asked to go climbing and I have settled down to a steady routine of packing sandwiches for one only on a Saturday night, dreaming of the peaceful Sunday stretching before me. I was quite safe (so I thought) until last week when I was informed that a super three week holiday was all planned out for us during the summer vac. Yes, climbing, in the Ardennes; who could ask for more?!!