Smith rock is composed of tuff, a porous and sharp rock type consolidated over time from ash expelled during a volcanic eruption (Geologists can correct me on that), offering grippy and blood-letting climbing
The Eugene Columns (Skinner Bute) are filled with wonderful basalt columns and offer plenty of crack climbing and chances to cheesegrate down their slick surface in rain
Symonds Yat in the Forest of Dean is limestone, and can get quite polished from extensive use as eager climbers imitate Indiana Jones and climb through jungle-like conditions
And then there’s the Gritstone in the Peak District.
Upon entering the club I heard many comments jokings about gritstone, and “Grit season”. Here’s the all knowing Wikipedia description of Gritstone, describing it as ” a hard, coarse-grained, siliceous sandstone”. Climber Magazine describes it as “a coarse textured form of sandstone but it deserves its own article because it gives us such distinctively unique climbing”, which I find to be closer to the truth. See, gritstone requires great technique and the ability to 1) Smear 2) Hand Jam 3) Lay Back. Unfortunately for me, I’m still pretty lacking in 2 & 3. The rock itself is incredibly grippy, so much so that you’ll leave a lot of skin (and blood) there. It tends to be straight up or in a slight overhang, with multitudes of horizontal cracks arranging themselves into beautifully broad shelves or pinky-jamming rounded torture slopes. It offers little in the way of nut & hex gear, so be prepared for run-out gear placements unless you use cams.
Now I’m sure you’re wondering, how was the trip leading up to the grit?
‘Twas a dark and stormy night, when van #1 creeped up to the Scout Lodge in a small village somewhere around Sheffield. Much like Ursulmas, we layed our mats shoulder-to-shoulder in the hall, as the smell of musty backpackers wafted through the icy air. The atmosphere was jolly, and after dropping our gear we headed over to the bright pub to socialize with those who drove up in cars. In the juxtaposition of old and new, modern pop music drifted over the mounted antlers, rustic photos, artifacts mounted to walls, with the sounds of our laughter melding the whole scene into one of absolute comfort and companionship. Lubricated by bubbly beverages, hugs, laughter, Trump mocking, and route planning were had by all. The fun kept on rolling until 2AM, when we decided that sleep might be a neat idea if we didn’t want to be complete zombies the next day.
After a cold night, filled with rampant snoring and sleep-kicking, we set off to the cliffs, where after a fun scramble along the base of the walls we settled at Stanage Plantation. After watching my climbing companions wiggle awkwardly and amusingly through Helfenstein’s Struggle, I went off to do my first trad lead on gritstone, an easy rip up Hollybush Gully, a fun route that helped to improve getting ‘creative’ with gear placement ( no cams = runout line) . After that, and to the arrival of more CUMC folk, it was time. To. STRUGGLE.
Geared up with as little as possible, no chalk bag, no cams, no hexes, and minimal nuts I faced up to the 16m black rift of doom; Helfenstein’s Struggle. See, the route itself isn’t hard for the first 97%, hell, I didn’t place any gear until about 10m up. But once you’ve left the ledge and gone up through the chimney it gets… interesting. See, this route has STRUGGLE in it for a reason. At the very top of the route there’s a boulder conveniently blocking a majority of the escape. So what you’re left with is a 1′ x 2′ (if that) gap shaped like a cat laying on its side in a sunbeam, not the most ergonomic for the human ribcage or ass. See, it’s called Helfenstein’s Struggle because Helfenstein was never able to finish it, well, only his top half finished it, the rest of him had to be pulled out with ropes and slings after becoming wedged. The guidebook description of this route is “something every climber should do once (and only once)”. A fair description.
I scramble up onto the first shelf and start shimming up the chimney. I reach the hole and look upwards to the grinning, mockingly-amused faces of Steve, Eben, and a few others. As I reach upwards for a ledge, it becomes increasingly apparent that my torso is enclosed by rock, my shoulders facing forward, and hips at a 30 degree angle left, employing a perfect full-body jam. Upwards movement is impossible as my body is jammed thoroughly between a rock, a hard place, and Doctor Jones by Aqua. As I wiggle my jiggles trying in vain to dislodge something, anything, I curse every piece of chocolate I’ve eaten in the past week and contemplate what’s worse: My current predicament wherein my ass decided to be a cam, or Steve’s infuriating music choice causing traumatic flashbacks to a childhood involving ‘Barbie Girl’. Eventually I decide on a tactic, and wedging my elbows outward like a constipated chicken, completely dropping my legs to hang around limp like an eunich on a nudist beach. Ass cheek by ass cheek I inch upward, to the screams of MegWan below judging my terrible performance whilst enlightening me on how my performance is bringing dishonor on my family. Finally, as ungraceful and grunt-filled as the miracle of childbirth, I slithered out of the hole to the cheers and congratulations of the sarcastic crowd, disheartened that I didn’t struggle more for their enjoyment. Helfenstein’s Struggle definitely lived up to my expectations, and I wholly recommend it to all.
Now, I’m a lazy ass, so I’ll just summarize the rest of the trip briefly. The committee cooked an amazing dinner that managed to knock everybody out, and everybody slept deep and content with their feats of the day (Oh, copious amount of alcohol also helped with the sleep).
Sunday we woke, packed, and headed out to Bamford, a different section of the same area. It was superb climbing where I spent the day leading, free-soloing, bouldering, and cursing at Gunpowder Crack (at least 10 attempts of the start- a gnarly overhang requiring some acrobatic heel-hooking, we eventually set up a top-rope and watched others grumble at the start, before gawking at Eban free-solo it in a flash).
After our second day of climbing till dusk we hiked gleefully back across the wide rocky plains, watching the vibrant pink glow of a dying sun set across the great green hills, wincing as icy wind lapped at our faces and gray clouds began to loom and suggest our nearby wet future. The drive homeward was a mix of happy conversations and falling asleep on Thom (Shoutout to bus #1 crew: Sam, Erin, Will, Barney, Marianne, Callum, George, James, Jake, Thom, and Camilla… BRAAP BRAAP!).
Here’s the link to the video of the trip!
Pictures from the trip:
The Sunday crew walking to the crag
Amazing landscape shot by David Maddison of Sam Talbot climbing, that really captures how pretty is was there
The power of Trump compels me!
(I was in the pub a grand total of 15 seconds before this hat was thrust upon me)
In the midst of the struggle
Shit man, still reading this? You must either really like me or need to get some hobbies, I hear climbing is nice. Now instead of a recap, here’s the usual spiritual insight to what I learned on this trip. As I see more and more of the UK, I find myself scrambling to try and associate it with the familiar. For instance; the landscape this weekend looked a lot like Montana, and I was associating it as such. In hindsight, that is a terrible thing for me to do. I’m here to experience new, exciting things, yet be it from homesickness or a subconscious bias towards the familiar, I am associating these new things to the old. I should be in the moment, absorbing everything as exciting and new, building new memories and foundations instead of building on the old; to do otherwise means I am not truly experiencing. I am ever endearingly thankful for the mountaineering team, who by showing me around this place is defining a new idea of ‘beauty’; one that does not find beauty in the familiar, but beauty in the ‘new’.
With love and grit-butchered hands,
MegHHHHHHHHHan (the H is very much not silent)
