from a number of other authors, detailed in the Notes, whom I gratefully acknowledge here. Climbing journals and magazines have been an invaluable source of reference and quotes, particularly the Climbers’ Club Journal, the Fell and Rock Climbing Club Journal, the Himalayan Journal, the Rucksack Club Journal, the Scottish Mountaineering Club Journal, Climber & Rambler, Crags, High, Mountain, On The Edge, Summit and, above all, the Alpine Journal, now in its 147th year, which remains the greatest record of British mountaineering history.
I am very grateful to the Alpine Club, the Abraham Brothers’ Collection, John Beatty, Chris Bonington, John Cleare, Leo Dickinson, the Fell and Rock Climbing Club, Mick Fowler, Jimmy Marshall, Hamish MacInnes, Bernard Newman, Sandra Noel, Ernest Phillips, the Royal Geographical Society, Doug Scott, Gordon Stainforth, the Wayfarers’ Club Archive, Ken Wilson and the Wrangham family for permission to use their photographs.
I would like to thank John Cleare, Steve Dean, Anna Lawford, the late Peter Hodgkiss, Tadeusz Hudowski, Gary Mellor and Gordon Stainforth for their help and advice. I am particularly grateful to Livia Gollancz and Sarah Gracie for reading and commenting on early drafts of the book and to Stephen Goodwin, John Porter and Kev Reynolds for their invaluable corrections, comments and thought-provoking suggestions on a much later draft. The climbing world is full of myths, told and retold until they become an established part of the lore. If some myths have crept into this book masquerading as facts, the responsibility is mine.
Finally, I would like to thank Margaret Body for her brilliant editing and fund of extremely funny stories and Jonathan Williams and the team at Cicerone Press for their constant enthusiasm, support and encouragement.
Our poignant adventure, our self-sought perils on a line of unreason to the summit of a superfluous rock, have no rational or moral justification.
Geoffrey Winthrop Young
1
INTRODUCTION
To the impartial observer, Britain does not appear to have any mountains. Yet the British invented the sport of mountain climbing, and for two periods in history, in the second half of the nineteenth century and for a shorter period in the second half of the twentieth century, they led the world. In no other comparably flat country have mountains and climbing played such a significant role in the development of the national psyche, both reflecting and influencing changing attitudes to nature and beauty, heroism and death. This book is about the social, cultural and economic conditions that gave rise to the sport in Britain, and the achievements and motives of the individual scientists and poets, parsons and anarchists, villains and judges, ascetics and drunks who have shaped it over the past 200 years.
Like all sports, climbing is the pursuit of a useless objective – the summit of a mountain or the top of a cliff – for amusement, diversion or fun, and in common with most other sports with a strong amateur tradition the means are more important than the end, but not by as much as some climbers like to pretend. Unlike most games, but in common with other field sports, climbing has no written rules. Instead there is an ever-evolving set of unwritten but widely accepted conventions that govern its conduct. The only sanction if you break these ‘rules’ is the disapproval of your peer group. As Colonel Edward Strutt, Alpine Club grandee and self-appointed guardian of British climbing morality in the 1930s, observed: ‘The hand that would drive a piton into British rock would shoot a fox or net a salmon.’1 In most sports it is easy to define what ‘winning’ means, but not in climbing. In the early days, success meant reaching the summit of an unclimbed peak, but mountaineering was never simply exploration in high places. People with truly exploratory instincts soon became bored spending months trying to climb a single mountain (even if it was Everest) when the whole of the Himalaya lay around them, untravelled and unknown. The conquest of a virgin peak remains the ultimate ambition for some climbers today, but as the supply of readily accessible unclimbed mountains began to dwindle, winning was gradually redefined. In the mid-1890s, Fred Mummery, the leading climber of the day, wrote that ‘the essence of the sport lies not in ascending a peak, but in struggling with and overcoming difficulties’.2
Over time, with improving technique and rising standards, it became clear that almost any rock face or ice wall could be climbed, given enough manpower and equipment, and the style of the ascent became paramount. The most dangerous and therefore the ‘best’ style is to climb a route alone (‘solo’), without a rope. The worst is to drill holes in the rock and use expansion bolts to create a line of fixed ropes running from the bottom to the top. Between these two extremes lie an almost infinite variety of styles, the nuances of which confuse all but the most devoted practitioners of the sport. Climbers have always soloed short, easy routes on sunny days. Progressively the same approach was applied to longer, harder climbs, to alpine peaks and finally to the highest peaks of the Himalaya.
As with every sport, a large part of the attraction lies in the uncertainty of the outcome, but in climbing the consequences of failure can be fatal. Bill Shankly, the manager of Liverpool Football Club, once quipped that football ‘isn’t a matter of life and death, it’s more important than that’. For elite climbers, this really is true. Overall, climbing is not a particularly dangerous sport – the risk of harm is more often imagined than real – but the sensation of fear is intensely real and that feeling either attracts or repels. For some it becomes almost an addiction. At the leading edge, the objective of the sport is to take risks that others consider unjustifiable, and within the small community of top climbers everyone knows a dozen or more people who have died in the mountains, and yet they continue to climb. Extreme climbing is the ultimate expression of ‘deep play’, Jeremy Bentham’s term for an activity where the stakes are so high that the potential for loss far outweighs the potential for gain. From a utilitarian standpoint, it is clearly an irrational activity, but climbing is a sport for romantics, not rationalists, and climbers are drawn to risk like moths to a flame. The typical weekend climber eases himself cautiously forwards, pulling back the instant he feels the heat, but the frisson of fear is sufficient to sustain his heroic self-image through another mundane working week. The elite climber flies ever closer to the flame and plays ‘this game of ghosts’ for real.
Almost regardless of their absolute level of achievement, when climbers operate at their personal limit they experience an emotional intensity, both elation and despondency, that exceeds all but the most ecstatic and traumatic events in ordinary life. During a climb all mental noise, all distractions, are eliminated and the mind focuses solely on the flow of climbing. For a short period of time all of the cares and concerns of the world disappear and all that is left is the climber and the mountain. The experience is so vivid and taut that ordinary life can feel grey and flaccid in comparison. For elite climbers, ‘deep play’ is rational because a man who is afraid to die is afraid to live.
But there is more to climbing than pure heroics. It is possible to climb in a disused quarry full of rusting cars and stagnant pools or on a specially constructed wall in the middle of an industrial estate, but for the majority of climbers the beauty and grandeur of the surroundings are an intrinsic part of the sport. Mountains have always been regarded as spiritual places, and for the past 200 years they have also been regarded as beautiful, a refuge from the polluted and crowded complexity of the urban environment where most climbers are born and bred. Like ballet or gymnastics, the beauty of climbing also lies in movement. A mountain path is a physical manifestation of the aesthetic urge to see the view from the ridge and the next horizon, and there is beauty in the line of ascent, even individual moves, on the chosen mountain or crag. The most elegant ‘classic’ lines tend to follow distinctive natural rock features in grand surroundings, with an ever increasing sense of height and exposure as the route is ascended. Classic routes must present a significant climbing challenge and demand a variety of techniques, but they are often the easiest line of ascent of a particular rock face or mountain, so that escape to an easier route is impossible and the choice is either to go up or to retreat. Above all, classic routes have a history. Climbing is a human activity, and a rock without a history is
