Chapter 22

RIVER DEEP MOUNTAIN HIGH

Part Two — ‘Just go for it’

Playtime

The next decade was fun.  I was back in Bristol after my RTW trip, with a decent job, a car, some money in my pocket and time at weekends with no commitments.  Best of all, Sue hadn’t given up on me and most of our adventures from then on would be shared.  

I quickly re-established contact with the Canoe Club, realising that the standards and ambitions had risen noticeably in my absence.  Sue had paddled with them occasionally but had also joined the incredible Bristol based group known as the Avon Outdoor Activities Club and, once she was happy that we might have a future, she persuaded me to come along and see what I thought.

Let me describe some initial impressions that bombarded any newcomer turning up to the club night at The Hole in the Wall in Queen’s Square on a Wednesday evening.  It was rammed with young people; I couldn’t see anyone over thirty, and everyone seemed to know each other, standing in small groups, chatting ten to the dozen whilst trying not to spill their drinks.  It felt both exciting and intimidating and I stuck close to Sue who shyly introduced me to a few people she knew.  Jostling between the various groups were a few people adding names to lists or handing out sheets of paper.

‘Anyone signed up for climbing at Goblin Combe on Sunday? Get your instruction sheet from me!'

‘Ski-trip second payments are due folks.  I need you cheques by next week.’

‘Bank Holiday weekend at Sennen.  Anyone need directions for the campsite?’

'Beginners canoeing?  See me by that corner table in 10 minutes.’

‘Badminton, Sunday evening, seven to nine at Whitchurch Sports Centre.’

I picked up a leaflet showing a calendar of the planned activities for the coming months.  Where to start?  Caving to canoeing, climbing to hill-walking, skiing to socials: take your pick.  It seemed it was all organised by the members themselves and they’d got some sort of arrangement with Avon County Council that allowed the hire of equipment, minibuses and any necessary instructors at a knock-down rate.  For outdoor-minded young people looking for a social group in Bristol, it was perfect and had become a magnet for those who had moved into the area for work.

There was only one sure-fire way to get to know people: sign up and join in; not always easy for those of a quiet or shy nature, and I was fortunate that Sue had already tried some activities and knew how things worked.  Over the following year, we jumped in with both feet and our experiences grew along with our widening group of friends.  A look back over the first year or two is almost embarrassing to recall, particularly as I’m writing this as our 2021 after our twenty-something modern-day equivalents will have spent most of their year in lockdown.

A camping, walking and surfing bank holiday at Sennen; several dozen of us squeezed into a pub, singing around a fire on the beach, or a quick skinny dip one night at Lamorna Cove. This weekend marks the trip that good friends Andy and Nicki Stone and Chris and Jo Williams apparently found the right romantic formula.  Walks along the Malverns and in the Brecons, a first trip down a pothole on the Mendips, abseiling and climbing at Goblin Combe where we camped in a field nearby.  It was Bonfire Night and around a roaring fire we ate under-cooked sausages and drank too much cheap cider.  Sue ended up with food poisoning all night and, typically, Mike Hayden managed to fall onto the fire, fortunately only scorching his fleece, but reinforcing his reputation as an accident waiting-to-happen.

We took over Aberdovey Outward Bound Centre for a weekend, climbing on the slabs above Barmouth, surfing kayaks on the deserted beach, and falling off the assault course rope swing into a pit of noxious slime.  The social activities picked up as the year progressed.  Christmas discos and an increasing number of house-warming parties, as one-by-one our expanding friendship group took advantage of our good fortune and took a first step onto the property ladder.

I’d managed to squeeze in at the last minute onto the annual February ski-trip.  It was a budget package but perfect for the 60 or so of us who went to the French resort, Les Menuires.  By the end of the week, our little ‘beginners' group that included Sue, Bridget, Bev, Jo and Andy Poole had progressed enough to tackle most of the non-black routes.  Unfortunately, we’d lost Jo Pollit on our first afternoon as she had crashed and badly torn her knee ligaments.  It had been a bit sobering, waiting with her on the slope for the ‘blood wagon’ and seeing her whisked off down the piste to the hospital.  We’d have a lesson in the morning, munch our baguette sitting outside a chalet restaurant, and then ski with friends, usually encouraged onto runs at the edge of our abilities, until the lifts closed.  Every night, apart from the obligatory fondue evening, we’d be in the local disco, which resulted in an increasing challenge to get up in time for breakfast.  It was a great week and a foretaste of a further five club skiing holidays to come before children intervened.

The rest of the winter and spring would be spent alternating kayak river trips with day walks, usually rounding off the weekend with regular Sunday night badminton.  Feeling rather superior, we’d compare ourselves with those colleagues at work whose weekend highlight seemed to be washing the car or a trip to town.  For Easter we’d head off to the Lakes, keeping our fingers-crossed that the sun would shine and we wouldn’t spend a soggy few nights in a wet tent and walking in cloud, and as the summer arrived we’d head for the beaches of north Devon and Cornwall for the surf and cliff walks, or the rolling Purbeck hills for cycling.

It really was playtime. Trangias, Fleeces, Robert Saunders, Quip-U, KSB’s, Zamberlains, Red Barn, Karrimor, bungees or straps, tide-times, low-pressure systems, meths, bedroll, Kobers, Naismith’s rule, grid-to-mag-add, and Peter Storm were words that were intrinsically part of our vocabulary.

Occasionally I played a bit too hard.  Let’s take a look at a few of the ‘Oh No.Shit’ moments.

River Dart: Autumn 1984

By the time we came off the river on the Saturday afternoon, the sun had disappeared and the first spots of rain were falling.  Our first time on the Dart had been a nervous attempt to memorise the safest route down some of the significant drops and rapids.  But this had combined with the excitement and sheer delight of paddling down through a beautiful valley, on clear peat-tainted water where the rocks and the bottom were visible and where the autumn colours and sunlight played in the trees that shrouded the river banks.   At the bunkhouse that evening, someone heard the weather forecast.

'It’s going to chuck it down all night!  The level will be right up in the morning!’  Not what I wanted to hear.  The river conditions we’d enjoyed earlier were good enough for my skill level and I didn’t fancy anything much bigger for tomorrow’s race.  It was my first kayak winter after the RTW gap year and I was still learning the techniques necessary for another step up the grading ladder.  I didn’t sleep too well, anxious about taking on the river alone in a race, especially in my low-volume Sorcerer kayak, designed for fancy manoeuvring rather than punching and cutting through big water.

It was still raining when we drove down the hill to the New Bridge start point. 

‘Bloody hell! Look at it!’

Yesterday’s friendly challenge had metamorphosed overnight into something menacing and scary.  Barely contained within its banks, a noisy, fast, angry flow of brown soup was surging under the bridge and hurtling off downstream.  Organisers, kayakers, parents and friends contemplated the scene near the get-in.  I was secretly hoping they’d called it off, but no such luck; in fact, some of the experienced paddlers seemed quite excited at the prospect.  One of our group sensibly bottled it. ‘Too big for me.  Pete, you can use my boat if you like.’ and before I knew it I’d somehow allowed myself to register an entry and was sticking my race number disc onto the foredeck of his ‘Everest' kayak and adjusting the foot-rest for my dimensions.  Using his kayak was the only sensible decision I made that morning; the same type of boat that had been used on the Dudh Khosi, it was designed to be used in big bouncy white water.

The race briefing wasn’t particularly encouraging: ‘There are rescue teams including a frogman on each of the big drops!' (Who uses the word frogman anymore?).  Watch out for the big bend just before Buckfastleigh Weir - it’s over the bank there.’

The next thing I knew, I’d pulled on the spray deck and edged the nose out into the flow.  ‘Whoa!   We’re off!  Shit, shit, shit…!’

There’s nothing you can do about it other than try and keep the nose straight, avoid the odd boulder breaking the surface, and hang on for the ride.  The boat knows what its doing even if I was trusting largely to luck.  One second submerged, the next seemingly airborne, ducking tree branches, narrowly avoiding rocks, spray in your face, paddles whirling, bum clenched.  Ten minutes in and still upright: must be close to the first big drop, the aptly named ‘Washing Machine.’ Don’t miss the chicken run easier slot on the left, you really don’t want the main drop in these conditions.  Where is it?

‘OH NO! SHIT…….!’  It wasn’t that I didn’t spot it.  I could see the spectators and rescue team gathered on the bank, but I was being swept along so fast that it was too late to pick the relatively less hazardous route.  Worse still, my belated attempt at salvation meant I was badly lined up for any sort of attempt on the main drop.  Only a few frantic, adrenalin-fuelled paddle strokes saw the nose straighten up before, with a feeling of impending doom, time seemed to slow down as I watched the V-shaped funnel of water carry me over the top and down into the gaping pit at the bottom.  With hardly any speed, I was sure the stopper wave would hold the boat in the hole.  The Washing Machine would then have another victim to play with before spitting me out, or, hopefully, I was rescued.  Thank Christ for the Everest!  Amazingly, I broke surface on the safe side of the stopper wave, wobbled a bit, accepted the cheers of the crowd, and was swept off downstream again.  Onwards, downwards.  Rushing through the bouncy stretch known as Lovers’ Leap, normally a boulder strewn 100m that needed careful steering though, today the rocks were safely below the surface.  There was a sharp turn at the bottom to avoid being swept against the cliff.  Too sharp and over I went but I was in luck as my far-from-bombproof roll worked first time.  One big obstacle remained: the self-explanatory Triple Drop.  A sequence of three falls that zigzags downwards with steadily increasing magnitude.  Get over the first in the middle, hard right for the next, then hard left and, assuming you’re still upright, hard right again at the bottom to avoid the eddy and find sanctuary in smoother water.

Again the crowds gave it away.  This time I noticed some arms waving but it was far too late before I registered that this was an alert, not that I could have stopped anyway.  Fortunately, taking the first drop in the right spot it was only when paddling hard for the second that I clocked the kayak and paddler stuck in the stopper wave below.  ‘OH, NO! SHIT….! ‘  Within seconds, and with no time for my limited ability to do anything about it, I’d plunged over the top and dropped down on top of them.  My kayak went over the top of his deck and punched through the wave and, without really knowing what was happening, we also survived the final fall.  At the time, I’d no idea what had happened to the other paddler as the river swiftly carried me onwards, below Holne Bridge towards the finish in Buckfastleigh.  Friends, spectating from the bank, explained later that I’d caused him to capsize and this had inadvertently changed the flow dynamics in the stopper, bringing him within easier reach of the rescue team, so I’d actually done him a favour!

The final stretch was less scary, more of a bumpy ride than a roller-coaster, and by the time I’d passed under the bridge marking the finish line, my heart rate was coming under control and I was already telling myself I’d enjoyed the whole thing as the thrill and survival endorphins did their work. 

No doubt my memories and ‘creative’ writing have talked the whole experience up.  Since then I’ve paddled this river numerous times in all conditions, sometimes with Sue in an open Canadian canoe, but every time I drive down the hill and see the river at New Bridge, I’m reminded of the view on that Sunday morning and it’s accompanying pit-in-the-bottom-of-stomach feeling.  And no rapid since has provided quite the same Oh, No Shit! panic as The Washing Machine did that day, and that includes the Afon Tryweryn and the Rabioux Wave on the Durance in France, both of which were plenty scary enough for me.

Any Surf Beach, Anywhere

Woolacombe, Sennen, Whitesands, Watergate, Llangenith, La Torche.  It didn’t really matter.  If the ‘surfs up’ the experience was usually the same.

It rarely looked too big from the top of the hill as you caught your first glimpse of the beach, driving down the road to the car park.  By the time you’re changed and at beach level, it actually seemed to be quite decent.  Sliding into the kayak, or strapping yourself onto the surf-ski, things were beginning to take on a slightly different dimension; there’s a steady sequence of white waves rolling in across the sand.  'This is going to be fun!  Or tricky!'

It was fun on days when there was little cross wind, the waves organised in regular swells arriving in distinct sets and it was obvious where the breaks were.  The sun would be out, the sea a translucent blue and the sandy bottom visible three or four metres below.  Somehow it was also a day when there’s only you and your mates out there sharing the waves.

It was trickier on those days when the wind was all over the place, the waves coming in from multiple directions, forming, dying, forming again, and the break points impossible to predict.  A grey overcast sky, the sea a murky, foam-flecked brown and all your focus was on trying to find a decent, elusive point to take off.  You couldn’t care less about what the others were doing.

Like many of us I’d started surfing on family Cornish holidays, using the short wooden bodyboards everyone used in the sixties and seventies.  Dad even painted ours a vivid orange with a black arrow.  By our late teens we’d graduated to a proper ‘Malibu’ board and wetsuit.  We pretended we were surf dudes, even though we were barely past the ‘managing to stand-up' phase, but by the time I headed off RTW, I could usually grab a decent ride if the conditions were favourable.  But the board was sold to help fund my trip and by the time I was back a year later my friends in the club were immersed in surfing their kayaks.  I joined that particular cadre of surfers.  Also arriving on the scene around this time was a new type of surf toy.  The ‘surf-ski’ was a sit-on, paddlable version of a surfboard.  Far more manoeuvrable than a kayak, quicker to accelerate than a ‘Malibu’ and without the ‘stand up’ challenge, it opened up new possibilities, especially for those of us who already possessed kayaking skills.  The downside of a ski is that you have to break through an oncoming broken wave which usually means getting a face-full of cold salty water and being pushed backwards a bit by the bigger waves.  A kayak, however, cuts through a broken wave better and half your body is protected inside the boat, whilst a surfboard provides the option to duck below the wave and avoid most of the force.  Our little group were soon investing our spare cash in a fleet of surf-skis, ranging from plastic Wave Riders for the novices to the latest Palm Lazer or Raider Lightening for the few of us who liked to consider ourselves more expert.

Back to the beach.  You paddled out through the rollers, past the kids jumping the waves, past the family bodyboarders; on a big day the waves would be breaking well beyond people’s depth.  But in order to safely reach the break-line you’d have had to cross a dangerous zone, a no-man’s-land that it didn’t pay to dwell in.  It’s here where a rising wave was steepest and strongest and the last thing you wanted was to get caught under one that’s just about to break.  But for the moment, by paddling hard and picking the gaps to ride over the growing swells with a sigh of relief you arrived safely 'out the back.’

After the exertion of getting out there, it was good to sit and bob around for a while, checking where people are positioned and keeping a wary eye out for any approaching rogue waves that required a quick spurt to head further out to safety.  Waves usually arrived in sets; a calmer lull of a few minutes followed by a set of six, seven maybe eight waves that generally grew in size before the next lull heralded in a smaller batch.  They’re formed by little zephyrs of wind, hundreds of kilometres out in the Atlantic and the wind and wave dynamics can sometimes combine over that distance to form a perfect swell, delivering lines of regular two or three metre waves to the shore of a flat sandy beach.  Before kids (and the internet), we’d live for the beach in the summer, and attempted to predict the likely surf conditions for the weekend by studying the isobars on the BBC evening weather chart.  A low-pressure system over the Azores on a Thursday would get our hopes up.  Maybe just check before we set off?  One of us would make an early call to The Red Barn cafe in Woolacombe.

‘Hi. I’m calling from Bristol.  How’s the surf looking?’

‘Pretty good mate: five foot and glassy!’

Three hours later we’d pull up in the car park to find a gentle two or three footer wave.

‘Should’ve been here an hour ago,’ said our café-owner friend as we decided there was now no rush to get in and instead ordered a full English breakfast.  These days, with webcams and web pages that can forecast swell and wave heights, wind speed and water temperature, for every beach around the UK, it must be harder for the cafe to entrap breakfast custom.

Meanwhile back 'out the back’ everyone was scanning the horizon for the change in sea profile that will herald the arrival of the next set. 

Typically, the following would happen.  The first wave would be used as a ‘spotter’ to figure out the right spot to catch the next.  Having just about arrived at the desired launch point in time for the arrival of wave number two, I’d swing round to face the beach and, as the wave built behind, I’d paddle hard to pick it up.  Invariably I wouldn’t have quite got enough acceleration and, despite teetering on the lip, miss it and the waves would pass below me.  Consequently I’d now be slightly out of position for number three which was probably a bit bigger so it required a quick turnaround and paddle out again to rise over the oncoming wave and avoid getting dumped on.  Hopefully I’d now sitting in roughly the right spot for number four, and this time as it built steeply, scarily behind, I’d be ready for it.  Paddles whirling I would manage to catch it and be instantly heading downhill, feeling the back of the ski lift up as the wave steepened. With luck I’d execute a turn on the face, the critical manoeuvre that avoids a nose-dive at the bottom of the wave, and suddenly I’d be ‘on it.’  Scooting along the face of the wave, the curling break just behind one shoulder it’s possible to play a little, make a turn, rise up and down.  With the sun playing on the spray and a steepening wall of turquoise forming as the rising wave threatens to break ahead before I can accelerate or turn to escape, it’s a great feeling.  For a magical moment it’s possible to relate to those classic scenes in any surfing movie and, as the ride ends, it’s hard not to let out a ‘Whoa Yesss!' whoop before swinging round to fight my way out the back again. ‘I wonder if any of my friends saw that one?’

It doesn’t always work out like this.   For every great ride on a big day, I can trade at least one, probably two ‘OH NO SHIT!!…’ memories.  Let’s go back to the no-man’s-land and the challenge of getting out the back if there’s no rip channel to provide an easier path around the side of the main breaking zone.

I’ve just punched my way through the last moving wall of white water, having lost most of my momentum and, as I shook the water out of my eyes, I see and sensed trouble approaching.  The next wave was building, already beginning to curl at the lip and I realised with a sense of impending dread that I might not be able to paddle out and over it before it breaks.  Kidding myself it’s possible, I paddled like fury in a race against time, aiming for a spot on the lip that represents safety.  Things seemed to stand still, in fact there was ample time for the brain to register several repeated ‘OH, NO SHITs’ as the merciless wave and I met each other.  I was paddling up an increasingly steep blue wall with the breaking lip about to collapse and engulf me.  Occasionally, rarely, the Gods were with me and I could edge over the top, paddling hard to avoid being sucked backwards.  Usually the Gods wanted a spectacle and I lost the race up the face.  The wave broke and there was still time for a final ‘OH, NO SHIT’  a gulp of air and a glance at the sky before being back-flipped downwards into the tumbling mass of collapsed white water.  ‘WIPE OUT!’

A wipe-out could happen, as described, when trying to paddle out to reach the safety of ‘out the back’ but equally as often on the ride in.  Ballsing up the bottom turn was a guaranteed way to be pitched forward into the maelstrom whilst other times it might just be bad luck that the wave broke differently to your expectation.  It was not a lot of fun, even for someone like me who’s confident in water.  Tumbled, wrenched, flipped; the classic washing-machine experience.  There’s not a lot I could do but hold my breath, hang onto the paddle and wait for it to pass.  Attached to a ski or strapped in a kayak the wave might carry you some distance upside down before releasing its grasp.  Attached only by an ankle leash, a board rider will be freed sooner.  The biggest risk for them is being clonked on the head by a rampant board.

Eventually, after what seemed ages but is probably only seconds, the wave moved on and, below the surface, all becomes calm.  Hopefully I was still holding my paddle and could roll up and grab some air but the scene that greeted me was not always one of salvation.  If I’d been swept inwards past the breaking zone I could at least control events a little bit more easily.  Usually I was not so fortunate and found myself sitting like a lame duck back in no-man’s-land where I was easy meat for the next breaking wave.  Time for yet another ‘OH, NO SHIT' as the process repeated itself. ‘How many waves are left in this set?’

If I managed to survive until the set had passed there were two choices:  Cop out and surf into the beach on the smaller stuff and get my breath back, or head out the back again and float around for ages, summoning up courage for the next attempted ride.  I’ve done both but on a cold, blustery, messy day, I know which option I chose.

The surf-ski days eventually passed with the arrival of the kids.  Kayaks reclaimed the number one position as the surf toy of choice as our gang matured and some of the kids showed interest and ability.  At least with a kayak, if the surf’s flat, there is still plenty of scope for paddling around the coastline, nosing into caves, riding a gentle swell around the rocks and finding hidden coves.  And for the surf?  The kayak was finally sold a few years ago and now I use a boogie-board and pair of fins that will still let me get out the back in moderate surf.  I’m very happy with the slightly reduced thrill and I’ve yet to have an OH, NO SHIT moment on a boogie-board.

Any Icy Black Run Anywhere - especially if there’s moguls.

I’ve only ever been a functional skier.  I’ve never possessed the natural confidence of Anna Wedgwood, the cautious elegance of Sue, the technical, confident precision of Chris Wedgwood or Matt Pollit or the natural carefree style of the teenagers in our group.  Even when I think I’m skiing with style down a friendly ‘red’, a casual observer would see someone who looks stiff, rather than relaxed, who’s forcing the turns rather than carving, and whose balance somehow doesn’t seem quite right.

Maybe it’s understandable.  Compared to some in our group I hadn’t skied that much.  Sue and I had been on four ski trips with the Club before we took a twelve year gap.  We then had ten years of an annual family trip organised by Anna that included as regulars the Woodrows and Carringtons.  The kids grew up and improved together.  One minute we’d be dropping them off as toddlers at their One Star lesson on the nursery slopes, the next they’d be hurtling down the slopes past us and finding their own way around the mountain pistes, only bothering to ski with us if it was time for some chips or a hot chocolate.

But regardless of my style, it was always great to head out onto the slopes.  Mountain views, crisp air, excitement, controlled risk, speed and plenty of shared experiences.  I knew my limits.  Give me a freshly-pisted red-run with a blue sky, early in the morning before the sun and crowds have softened it too much and I love carving down the slope or following a trail of small bumps and turns through the conifers.  Happy days.

Sometimes, if I wasn’t concentrating, or my piste-map wasn’t handy, I’d suddenly find that Chris had proposed a route that included a black or two.  ‘You’ll be okay,’ he’d say if I queried it.  ‘Anna and I did it a couple of years ago and it’s not too bad.'

I’d generally trust his memory, certainly more so than Anna’s who was hopeless with piste-maps.  She’d just smile maliciously, ‘It’ll be fine.’

Usually it would be and I’d find an ugly way of getting down, relieved when I’d made it to the next chair lift that provided an escape route back to a safer world of reds and blues.

There were, however, moments; those inevitable occasions when I found myself on a cold chair-lift ascending upwards towards a black run that I’d allowed myself to be suckered into.  By the time we’d gathered at the top of the lift and headed off in the direction of the run, I’d already adopted a defensive position at the rear of our little group.  The sign indicated ‘black' and we stopped to peer down it.  ‘OH, NO SHIT…!’  My nightmare turned into reality as I assessed what I could see.  It was steep and the sanctuary of the chalet at the bottom looked miles away.  There’d been no fresh snow so it was icy and I knew I was going to be tentatively scraping along on my edges.  The cloud cover meant the light was flat making it hard to make out the small rises and falls on the slope.  Worst of all, there were moguls, the bumps and troughs that form from the constant twists and turns of the experts dancing their way down the slope.  Good fun for some but for me and my limited abilities they were another obstacle to deal with.

But Anna’s already off, effortlessly gliding down. Chris followed confidently and the others with varying levels of competence were also making progress.  I knew it was going to be a mess and they’d all be watching from the bottom.  With an expletive or two under my breath, I pushed off and headed diagonally across the steep slope.  I know what I was supposed to be doing.  Weight on the edges; don’t lean into the slope; keep eyes ahead, not down; plant and turn round your stick.  It’s just that my body wouldn’t obey.  The scraping edges weren’t biting as I’d got my body position wrong and rather than steadily descending across the slope, I found myself just traversing.  In fact I’d also postponed the turn manoeuvre too long and was then in danger of skiing off the piste into thicker, un-pisted snow.  But a turn involved facing directly downhill for a second or two and my mind was saying, 'Don’t do it!  You’ll fall!’  I had absolutely no choice, so in the end I unceremoniously yanked my skis round forcing my body into a turn.  It wasn’t pretty as I slid downwards for several metres before regaining some degree of control and heading back the way I’d just come, albeit a few metres lower down. The process repeated itself back and forth across the slope.  ‘When will the gradient ease a bit?’  Sometimes I’d lose an edge, fall inwards onto the slope and slither downwards on my side until eventually, a few metres lower, an edge found a small patch of snow to bite in and stop my slide.  It was even worse if I’d mogul field to cross.  The bumps slowed my speed and confused my turns even more ‘Turn on the top of them!’ is the shouted advice but I usually found myself stopped dead on the bumps.

‘OH, NO SHIT!’ The others were already safely down by the chalet.  I’ve barely reached half way, having just had a minor slide and now a ski’s come off.  You try walking on an icy slope with a ski on one foot and a clunky boot on the other, retrieving the miscreant ski and then balancing on one leg whilst trying to clip back in.  It’s easy on a red run but a black freaks me out.  Sometimes I nearly chose the option of just sliding down on my bum and taking the consequences.  Eventually, miraculously, the slope eases and I mustered whatever style I could to finish the run and join the others.  ‘That’ll do for blacks today, thank-you very much!’ as we headed into the chalet for a vin chaud.

Crib-Goch  February 1987

There are some classic ridge walks in the British mountains and over the years we seem to have found our way safely along a fair few of them.

Striding Edge and Swirral Edge that guard Hellvelyn in the Lake District are dramatic, atmospheric scrambles along a classic sharp ridge, although on at least half the occasions the views have been obscured by cloud.  A little further north, nearer Keswick is Sharp Edge that forms part of a route up Blencathra.  It’s less challenging than most and there’s only one seriously exposed section where the route traverses some slippery slabs; a fun route on a straightforward rocky crest.  Unless, that is, there's someone in the group who freezes half-way along and refuses to move forwards or back.  It took a combined effort of several of us to coax the individual back onto a wider path; I guess we all have our limits.

Cross the border into Scotland and head for Glencoe.  High above the valley, running along the skyline, is a steep-sided roller-coaster of precipitous rocky pinnacles, sheer rocky steps and knife-edge ridge walking that just seems never-ending.  Known as Aonach Eagach, it’s often rated the best ridge on the UK mainland: a proper bucket-list must-do for any keen walker.  I followed Matt Pollit and Jerry Wheatcroft along it one afternoon in 2010, heart in mouth and repeating the ‘three points of contact' mantra as we progressed.  The only time I allowed myself a proper look at the view was when I found a small niche in the rocks to take a phone call from work.  That same trip we also found ourselves on the Devil’s Ridge on the Mamores; on a beautiful day with an awesome highland panorama it seemed friendly by comparison.

Snowdonia too has a few it has offered up.  The North Ridge on Tryfan that looks down on the Ogwen Valley is more of a buttress than a proper narrow arete and its next-door neighbour, Bristly Ridge, is rather short but both need full concentration.

On all of these occasions I’d managed to avoid any ‘OH, NO!  SHIT!’ moments;  some bum-clenchers for sure but it was always a case of knowing that there were enough hand and foot holds to be safe and not dwell on the consequences of a fall.  Anyway, thousands of others had managed it safely over the years so statistically…..

If you ask me to pick one ridge on one day and I’ve no hesitation.  I honestly don’t know what we were playing at.  The subset of the Activities Club known as the ‘Downend Gang’ was staying in a small, draughty cottage near Capel Curig for the week.  It was February and there was some snow on the peaks but with a decent weather forecast it seemed like an ideal chance to go up Snowdon.   None of the girls had been on the Crib Goch ridge before and, being mid-week, with few people about, we anticipated being able to take our time and enjoy the experience.  Following the path from Pen-y-Pass car park we quickly reached the turn off and headed for the start of the ridge.   At first there was just a little soft snow in the nooks and crannies but, as we gained height, the amount snow increased and there were coverings on the path and rocky outcrops.  The ridge lulls you into its lair with an easy start that lacks any serious technical difficulty but then, suddenly as you round a small crag, the sharp edge and pinnacles of the route come into view.

We stopped for a chat.  There was more snow than we had expected and we wondered whether it would be icy further up.  Without a rope, crampons and ice axes were we under-equipped?  We bumped into a couple of people coming down: they had all the gear and passed on the news that it was frozen in places but doable.  (To be honest, I can’t remember what they said, but I can’t believe we’d have pressed on if they’d said it was dangerous).  I’d considered Chris and Mike as both having more climbing experience than me and agreed with the suggestion that we might as well give it a go and see what it was like.  We could always retreat if it looked too dodgy and this argument must have swayed the girls, Sue, Jo and Bridget, into agreement.   Before we knew it we were off, trying to ignore the dizzying exposure as we picked our tentative way.  There are sheer drops of 500m on one side and a slightly less steep but still serious run-off on the other.  Naturally the best hand holds are on the sheer side and by the time we were balanced on the narrow top of the first pinnacle it was a classic case of being as risky to go on as it was to go back.  Apart from encouragement there was little we could do for each other; if the leader made it past or over a particular obstacle, it was clearly possible, so then it was a case of concentrating for your own turn, before saying a silent prayer for anyone still to come.

Needless to say we survived.  A ridge walk is hardly the right description!   It was very much a hands-on experience.  It should have been a major 'OH, NO SHIT!’ but for some reason I don’t recall it as such.  It was a tense and anxious hour but that momentary feeling of impending doom was absent.  Looking at the photos now, I can’t believe we did it in those conditions, so maybe we just had a different perception of risk in those days.

Playtime lasted throughout the eighties and into the nineties before the arrival of children clipped our wings.  The steady constant roll through from club nights to weekends continued to deliver all sorts of experiences on the hills, rivers and beaches of Britain and as a group we’d explore and adventure further afield on trips to Switzerland, Brittany, Canada and Kashmir.   With occasional big challenges added to the mix, including two marathon canoe races and the infamous John ‘O’ Groats to Land’s End Alternative Challenge, there was no time to get bored.  Memories, friendships, and relationships all forged from the phenomenon that was the Avon Outdoor Activities Club (see Friends chapter) and have proven to last a lifetime.