On Pillar Rock

And I’ve still never had a free helicopter ride.

On Pillar Rock

My new climbing partner George had just led his first VS and was looking pretty pleased with himself when I floundered over the top of the crag. He was coming along very well and I was struggling to keep up with my apprentice on our local outcrops. This wouldn’t do. I could think of only one way to regain my superiority and put him back in his place and so I said to him,

“Well, I think it’s about time you got some experience of something a bit bigger than these little outcrops. Yes, it’s about time we went to the Lakes, the lads are going there next weekend. We’ll tag along”

“If you like” was all he said.

But once he’d got home and looked at a guidebook it took me a considerable amount of persuading and not a little bit of downright lying about what lay in store before I eventually convinced him to leave Bowden Doors behind for just one day. It was just so very unfortunate that that day was to go down in history as a huge embarrassment for the “Big Route” faction of the club. I’m also sure, and this is only the opinion of an avowed traditionalist, that it also had an unwholesome effect on his development and was instrumental in turning him into a sports climber.

It all happened on one glorious summer’s day in 1984. While most of the gang was piddling about on Shepherds, we real men went to climb on Pillar Rock. At the last minute Mike, Stuart and the Rev. Bob decided to join us, a fateful decision as it turned out because what subsequently happened to them is still guaranteed to raise a considerable laugh at their expense.

Having said that, purely from a climbing point of view, of the four visits I’ve had to the place this was by far the most successful. On visit number one, in a fit of foolish chivalry, I loaned our guidebook to some ladies who had forgotten theirs The result was my hastily scribbled note proved ultimately useless and I ended up doing bits of half a dozen routes to get to the top. On the second visit, this time with PT, I got part way up Eros, an E2, before a tremendous nosebleed forced a retreat. He unkindly attributed this to the prospect of having to follow the unprotected traverse he’d just led. I blamed his ridiculous idea of walking in that day with tents and food for six months all the way from Seatoller of all places, “Just to make a real expedition of it”. Whilst on the last visit I didn’t even get to start a route because despite the warm sunshine elsewhere, Pillar was basking in its very own ice age.

The day began with George in all likelihood achieving an unlikely and unlikely ever to be repeated first by walking the length of the Ennerdale valley in his EBs. He said that they hurt him less than the old army boots he’d borrowed from his Dad. Despite this he seemed to be enjoying the day as we walked up the gently inclined track through the forest. That all changed when we turned right to cut up the steep fell side to the crag. Not only was it steep it was also very hot and soon George was muttering about how inefficient it was to go climbing and spend half the day walking “I could have done ten routes on Bowden Doors by now” he moaned.

Well, we reached the crag without any major coronary episodes and for some of us that was the only positive achievement of the day. George and I teamed up to do a MVS “Thor” for no other reason than that it was the only route we could definitely identify. Mike who hadn’t climbed much recently took the other two who hadn’t climbed much at all, to another bit of Pillar to do a classic route called route called “North Climb”

Our climb went off like clockwork and we reached the top in the middle of the afternoon. Not even George, still moaning about taking all day to do one route, “We could have done forty at Stanage by now”, could spoil the moment. We went on to the top of High Man and lazed about in the sun waiting for the others to appear. We were also waiting for one of us to tell the other where the way down was! After an hour or so of surreptitious looking for the way, it struck us that there was still no sign of Mike and we began to think that maybe they had beaten us to the top and had already left. Or maybe they hadn’t bothered to go to the top at all.

We decided to go back to the bottom of the crag and see if their rucsacs were still there. First, of course, we had to find the way and it was during one of our searches that we heard the telltale clink of karabiners. It was Mike and he was belayed somewhere below us and just out of our sight. He told us everything was fine and pointed us in the right direction to get off. Sadly as we were to learn later on, just ten minutes later they were most definitely not all right. we continued down to the bottom of the crag and even debated about whether or not to do another route.

Me “Fancy doing another route?”

George “No”

I felt that was a pity, although purely from a climbing point of view, this had been by far the most successful of all my visits to this crag. On visit number one, in a fit of foolish chivalry, I loaned our guidebook to some ladies who had forgotten theirs The result was my hastily scribbled note proved ultimately useless and I ended up doing bits of half a dozen routes to get to the top. On the second visit, this time with PT, I got part way up Eros, an E2, before a tremendous nosebleed forced a retreat. He unkindly attributed this to the prospect of having to follow the unprotected traverse he’d just led. I blamed his ridiculous idea of walking in that day with tents and food for six months all the way from Seatoller of all places, “Just to make a real expedition of it”. On the last visit I didn’t even get to start a route because despite the warm sunshine elsewhere, Pillar was basking in its very own ice age.

Blissfully unaware of the drama that was even now starting to unfold up above we ate our food and sunbathed for a while but when a cool breeze picked up we went down to the car to wait. George’s feet were getting fed up with wearing EBs and he was finally forced to try his dad’s boots for the walk out. This did not improve his mood and he was most definitely not a happy chap by the time we reached the car. “All day for one bloody route, six hours of walking two hours of waiting and ten minutes of climbing” he moaned. But it wasn’t over yet or at least the waiting wasn’t. Another two hours passed but when the midges came out we decided something had to be done. We left a note on the car, we couldn’t get in because Mike had the keys, and walked to the Fox and Hounds at Ennerdale Bridge. Nine o’ clock came and went and the first hint that something might have gone wrong briefly clouded the enjoyment of the beer. “Do you think we should do something?” asked George “Well” I said, “Climbing three on a rope always takes longer than you think, we’ll wait until closing time.” But this was so unlikely an event that it was clear it was the beer, rather than George, that had said it. “We’ll give them until closing time then.” The beer, or rather I, replied.

Closing time came and went and we began to get concerned. It was time for decisive action. I’m not sure how I expected them to react, possibly with a comforting assurance and quiet efficiency, or maybe a sudden bursting into action heralded by alarm bells going off and landrovers and helicopters breaking the night’s silence, What I didn’t expect was that they were expecting me to ‘phone them “Ah” said the constable, “You’ll be part of the Smout party. There’s nothing to worry about, two of your mates are at the Youth Hostel and the Rescue have gone to get the one that’s stuck on Pillar. We’ll send a car round to take you to the hostel”

There’s nothing more deflating than when you think you have some exciting news to impart and the person you tell it to already knows it.

Suitably deflated, I told George the news. His pained expression seemed to suggest that this would never have happened at Bowden Doors, which I suppose, was fair comment. Or then again maybe it was just the army boots.

We’d no sooner reached the hostel and had a cup of coffee, when a totally unconcerned Mike walked in with an equally unconcerned looking Cockermouth Mountain rescue Team. So what had happened? Well as I said earlier that was a little difficult to ascertain.

Mike had apparently led the crux of “North Climb” which has a famously awkward move over a nose of rock apparently and the others had been unable to follow. Mike untied so that they could down climb or abseil whilst he climbed on to the top. But he found that without the security of the rope he couldn’t manage it so, he told the others to scramble up to the top and lower him a rope. The first part of the plan was easily accomplished but the second objective proved to be beyond them. Try as they might they couldn’t get the rope down to him so there was no alternative but to go and seek help. They ran down to the car, saw our note, evaluated our likely state after two hours in the pub and went to the youth hostel to call out the rescue team. And so Mike became one of only two club members to fall a victim to the rescue services. His story even made The Guardian (Whitley Bay) and for a while he became local celebrity, albeit a somewhat minor one.

The upshot of this semi fiasco was that it took a long time before I got George back on a big crag. When I did it turned out to be in the Verdon Gorge an adventure almost put everyone off big routes for good, but that, as they say is another story.