2011 in pictures

Finally had chance to review last year's photography and thought I'd pick out a few favourites, and one near miss, that might be of interest.

Hazel Findlay, Apaloosa Sunset, E3, Five Clouds, January

One of those perfect Peak moments - the end of a great day and a reminder why we endure the rain. We started the day with a long drive to Bosley Cloud in middling weather, and after bagging some long-held ambitions on the Secret Slab, headed over to the Roaches and a clearing sky. Hazel went on to have an incredible year, climbing E9 in Devon and freeing El Cap. But for me this image is all about home, and the fact that it doesn't get much better than a sunset soloing session with a few good mates, on perfect rock, with a view as big as your smile. I've made several versions of this shot of over the years, but none have quite ticked all the boxes like this one. Shot on medium-format film, the detail and colours are amazing and I look forward to making a really big print.


Ben Bransby, Gathering Sun, E7, Nesscliffe, late March

What a place – Nesscliffe is an incredible crag. We made our yearly pilgrimage in late March, on one of the first warm days of spring, before the leaves shade the crag and slow its drying. Conditions were perfect. Jason wanted to headpoint this route – Gathering Sun, nowadays considered E7 but for many years (including during my own formative teenage visits) it was a benchmark E8. Having belayed Jase for a while, Ben felt he had the measure of it and set off on a flash attempt. Reading the moves perfectly, he climbed strongly to right below the top, only to be stopped by the very last move - a reach an inch further than he could make. With a bit in the tank he tried every which way until his arms gave out and he took the ride. Not the sort of ascent that gets reported, but its making attempts like these that build climbers like Ben up to another level.


Buttermilk country, Eastern Sierra, California, April

I'd heard plenty of good things about Bishop, but was totally unprepared for the sheer beauty of the landscape - on so many scales. Stopping by for a couple of days on our honeymoon, I never put my climbing boots on but spent hours wandering through the tor-studded sagebrush with my camera. I suspect spring may be the most colourful time of year, but I'm surprised the Buttermilks aren't just as popular with photo workshops as they are with climbers.


Red Grouse, Burbage Valley, October

Very occasionally, male members of the Grouse family suffer from a curious hormone imbalance that causes them to lose all fear and defend a territory against all odds. There are instances of Capercaillies in Scotland attacking people, dogs and even vehicles. Thankfully Red Grouse are somewhat smaller, but I still had the strange experience of feeling intimidated by a normally shy animal. The bird's confidence allowed me to get a great selection of straight portraits, but this image felt like it went in a little deeper, giving a Grouse's-eye view of the world as a covey creeps through the heather.


Dan Varian, Bewilderness, 8b+ (!), Badger Cove, June

Probably Peak's hardest boulder problem, I was blown away by the difficulty and quality of Dan's line. Limestone bouldering is rarely the most photogenic subject, and although Badger Cove is about as impressive as it gets in the Peak, it still needed some careful lighting to project the height and depth into a 2-D image whilst trying to retain a natural feel. This was published in Climb magazine over the summer, though heavily cropped removing much of the impact of the original.


Masked Boobies, Sula dactylatra, Redonda, Carribbean, June

A smaller tropical relative of our Gannet, these birds were nesting on the remote volcanic plug of Redonda in the eastern Carribbean. As well as hosting two other species of Booby - the Brown and the Blue-footed (no titters now!) - the island is also important for its colonies of Frigatebirds and three species of endemic lizard. Unfortunately the numbers are nowhere near what they should be due to the presence of Black Rats and Feral Goats, both legacies of a guano-mining operation a hundred years back. BMC chief exec Dave Turnbull and I visited the island to help Flora and Fauna International ascertain whether climbing or rope access techniques might be of use in eradicating the voracious aliens. Nice as 'tropical island' sounds, it was one of the most inhospitable environments I've ever experienced, and tackling the problem will not be easy. Whether or not climbers are required in the end, it was a huge privilege to visit such a remote spot, and I'm confident the island can be one day restored to its former status as one of the seabird wonders of the world.


Michele Caminati, Angel's Share, 7c (!!), Black Rocks, early March

Almost one of my favourite pictures from 2011, this frame captures the tiptoe dance that makes gritstone's blankest climb quite so special. Unfortunately there is just enough motion blur in Michele's face to prevent it quite making the cut. I have other sharper frames, but none quite capture the same atmosphere. There are a couple of good lessons to be learned here though: firstly, repeating the 'same' shot several times will often throw up something unexpectedly different - here the magic arises in the split second that sees both hands floating just off the rock, and secondly - 1/125th isn't quite enough to freeze even the slow sport of slab climbing. Here's to getting it right in 2012...

Midsummer in Wales

Finally I could rest. I wriggled down into my bivvy bag, breathed deep and slow the mountain air, and tried to sleep. It was well after midnight, and late on this solstice night the darkness was almost complete. The patch of sky framed by my sleeping bag was small, and a lone star glowed small in the centre. Below, the skyline was reduced to a black cut-out against the last glimmer of light on the horizon. Bristly ridge, Tryfan, shapes from my childhood - when climbing meant mountains, and long days moving through them. I hadn't been back in a long time.

 Wild Goats, Glyder Fawr

Starting as the last walkers left the hills, I'd climbed Y Gribin to the high plateau of the Glyders, where a tribe of goats relaxed in the evening sunshine. My plan had been for Castell Y Gwynt, but on a whim I turned west and photographed the sunset amongst the little tors and scattered stones of Glyder Fawr. While the sun still lit the summits I worked on the view I'd pre-visualised - the vista of  Yr Wyddfa to the west. As ever, the elements that make the scene sing can rarely be planned, tonight - a great sea of cloud filling the west but held back by the hills, sending long tendrils of vapour along the valleys to the south.

The Snowdon massif from Glyder Fawr

As the sky glowed gently in the minutes after sunset, I made my favourite photograph of the night, facing east along the broad ridge of the Gyderau. I composed it instinctively, trying to simplify the elements and create a gentle balance between land and sky. There aren't many of the rules of compostion being obeyed here, but I'm happy that it works.

Glyder Fach from Glyder Fawr

A long stumble over Glyder Fach in the gloaming led me, finally, to Llyn y Caseg Ffraith, where I had water for my dinner and a plan for the morning. The dawn came slowly. A crimson bleed on the horizon, high clouds first dark then pastel pink, a cold breeze strengthening. The cloud sea had crept up the valley in the night, and spilled like a tide over the bwlch, burning away in the light of the sun. I was cold in my bivvy, and delayed rising too long. The gentle colours of the pre-dawn were far superior to the blast of light as the sun appeared. The air was clear, too clear, with no haze to soften the light, and no cloud to fill in the shadows.

First light on Tryfan 

I took the long way back to the car by way of Cwm Cneifon, hunting amongst the rocks of Clogwyn Ddu for the Snowdon Lily. It was perhaps a little late, and I found none. It was a treat to see the cliff decked in alpine flowers though - Stonecrops, Roseroot, Starry Saxifrage and Navelwort. As I walked down cloud boiled over the ridge and played with the light, conjuring pillars and gullies from the crags. All was silent, save for the dry ringing of my footsteps in the scree, and a Ring Ouzel's piping song echoing around the Cwm.

Life and Death at Donington

 

To the north, the fields and farms of the Midlands stretched away to the Ashbourne hills and the start of the Pennines. Closer, the parkland sloped downhill to the deer fence bordering the woods, through which the sparkling reflections of the lowering sun betrayed the River Trent. A little upstream, two swans turned gracefully on the current, silhouetted black on shimmering gold. Water from much of the English Midlands flows gently past this point on its passage to the sea. To the west tributaries fan out to drain the Black Country, the Potteries, and the southern Peak. Just downstream they are joined by the Derwent, bringing both the acid waters from the high moors of the Peak, and the warm, hard waters that rise from the caves and springs of Buxton and Matlock. Together they turn and flow slowly north across the drained fens of Lincolnshire, to a muddy confluence with the Ouse in the broad valley of the Humber.

Running east along the ridge was the broad tree-studded grassland of classic English deer park, on which my companion, Guy, was conducting a bat survey for English Nature. Mentioned in the Domesday book, it has been been parkland as long as records have been kept. Strictly private too, with a concomitant style of gentle management that can disregard concerns of public safety, liability, and tidiness. Here perhaps a third of the great Oaks are classed as 'veterans' - some 250 in all - often huge, always gnarled, and left to grow into a state of majestic decay that would be deemed dangerous elsewhere. It is not a unique site, but certainly significant - the famous ancient pollard Oaks, or 'Dodders', of Windsor Park number barely 100.

The younger trees are typical oaks, with a neatly deer-browsed base supporting the full canopy that the open setting allows. As they settle in to old age - and great age it is, according to the old rhyme 'Three centuries he grows, and three more he stays, Supreme in state, and in three more decays'  - parts of the trunk begin to die, and the tree seems to slowly collapse in on itself. Trunks become great barrels, often hollow, whilst upper limbs typically die first, creating the classic 'stag-headed' Oak - bare, pale branches reaching up from a shrinking canopy. With the gradual decline comes great character. No two veteran trees are alike. Their charisma is impossible to resist, deeply individual but always with the same qualities of stately, regal bearing combined with a deep, aboriginal wildness. I climbed a little way up one, and it unnerved me. The thickened, ancient bark felt light and weak, and poorly bonded to the dry trunk that groaned hollowly beneath. It was as if the tree had gone, leaving only the husk.

Quietly approaching a huge oak with a great almond-shaped cavity high in its trunk, a pale shape resolved blinking amidst the darkness. Before I could raise my binoculars it was out; the sandy back and silent, buoyant flight of a Barn Owl. I smile at the presumption of our name in this ancient setting - trees like this would have been their homes long before barns were even an idea. Its flight takes it past another Oak, this one long dead, its barkless, bleached limbs reaching upwards still into the dusk, frozen in life like a figure struck by lightning. It was from such a tree, perhaps, that Herne, the great hunter and keeper of Windsor forest, hung himself in a tale that was old whilst this tree was young. As the last rays of the sun left its branches a perfect full moon rose pink in the east.

Our transect takes us back to the woods above the river, and a sudden scuffling in the undergrowth. The striped head of a badger nods as he squints at us. He seems unable to convince himself that we are not just deer, and dashes noisily away only to return once, then twice, to stare, snort and rush off again. By the woods the bat detector chirrups constantly - the steady chip-chip-chip of a Noctule, then the staccato rush of a feeding Pipistrelle. Earlier their dashing, twirling flight was visible against the sky, often close enough to touch, but here by the woods the darkness has collected, thickened and now they fly beyond our senses.

Sketches

Lots of little things have gone on since my last post. Nothing big, but no lack of interest either. We had a week in the Outer Hebrides at the start of June, which didn't disappoint. Despite taking a car-full of camera gear, I really got into using my Ricoh compact on this trip.


A lot of the time I was sketching with a view to returning with more serious gear if the weather cooperated, but having seen the quality it can produce it also meant I could my binos round my neck, D300 + 300mm over my shoulder, Ricoh in pocket and be ready for landscapes or wildlife without needing a bag.


Getting back to The Peak, I've kept using it for sketching out locations in marginal weather. Attempts to return for a proper go haven't always worked, what with the weather, the midges, and the fact that when you get down to it, it can be damn near impossible to improve on a photo, even when its one of your own. There are a lot of subtle factors which you rarely take into account as being crucial when deconstructing photos, so its always instructional to try and repeat a shot. If nothing else it'll give you an appreciation of how much the landscape changes in a week or so.
Climbing-wise, I've surprised myself in getting into limestone more than ever, and bolted lime at that! The motivation is easy; in a few weeks I'm off to Mont Blanc's Grand Capucin with a strong team, and I need to get fitter. I've done a lot of trad lime, and enjoyed it all, but the combination of uncomfortable holds, uninspiring lines and arbitrary bolting of Peak sport has always seemed a particularly joyless challenge. I can trace part of this change in attitude back to a conversation I had with Pat Littlejohn whilst taking a minibus of foreigners down to Craig Dorys. Discussing some of the piles of choss he'd climbed over the years, he explained that he has never viewed poor rock as a detrimental quality, but just simply as a fact of the route. It can add to the character, or it can detract, but in itself it just is. Whether, to a climber, it is a problem, is something foisted on it entirely by the climber's preconceived notions of quality.


I really liked this philosophy, and it ties in well with the zen approach I mentioned in an earlier post. I've never had a problem viewing loose rock as interest, so on the Peak lime this year I've been trying to put notions of good and bad out of my head, and simply see what there is to learn. I always like learning, and along with the dose of variety its enough to keep me happy. So far it seems to be working; I managed to actually work a route over several sessions at a grade harder than I've done before (a lowly 7c) and, when it came to it, got a lot of satisfaction from the redpoint. I was surprised to find it really does feel easier (and a lot better!) when you do it. Now if I could just get my head round working stuff a bit better...

Stanage birds

One of the things I've been busy with the last few weeks is the birds at Stanage. I got involved with the BMC's access team about eighteen months or so ago after expressing a little too much interest in what was happening on the Eastern Edges. One of the main tasks is to tour Stanage and Burbage with Bill, the North Lees estate warden, looking for the Ring Ouzel nests. Ring Ouzels only live in moorland and mountain habitats, and there's some evidence that their range is contracting northwards and to higher altitudes in response to global warming. They disappeared from The Roaches some years ago, and on the Eastern Edges occur no further south than Burbage.


Bill does the bulk of the work finding the nests in the early mornings and late evenings, then once he has a good idea of their locations we go out and decide whether a restriction on climbing is needed. My trainer-soloing skills are occasionally required for checking the innaccessible nests with minimum disturbance, but my presence is more to advise on the popularity of any adjacent climbs, and hence the size of any restriction. Despite the high profile of the Popular end restrictions they are actually rarely used. So far this year we've had 7 nests on Stanage with only two restricted areas, both covering the same pair. As soon as the chicks fledge the parents get straight on with a second brood in a new nest, the male continuing to feed the fledglings whilst the female starts incubating. That's right where we are now so its taking up quite a few of my evenings this week.

As the shot above shows, its also been a good opportunity for me to scope out some good locations for photographing the birds. Bill's knowledge has also been invaluable in going about this without disturbing the birds. Its also nice just to go out birdwatching for its own sake again, something I rarely do nowadays, although I seldom go out without pair of binos stashed in my bag. As well as the expected residents like Woodcock and Grashopper Warbler we've had Short-eared Owl, Buzzard and Raven, none of which are common on these still-keepered moors, and a real treat in a party of Dotterel at Crow Chin.


Dotterel are one of those species which, like Ring Ouzels and Chough, have a special meaning for anyone who loves high, wild places. Less than a thousand pairs nest in the Uk, and only on the highest mountain tops, the Cairngorms being a particular stronghold. They are one of the last species to migrate north come spring, and every year they break their journey north from the Atlas mountains at traditional spots like the Carneddau plateau and Pendle Hill. Its something of a pilgrimage for hillwalking naturalists to get to one of these spots at the right time (mid/ late May) and catch a glimpse of these mountaineering plovers as they head north, and one I've long intended to do. I didn't expect them to come to me; perhaps a little karma for looking after the Ouzels? This one is a female; unusually the brighter of the sexes, a role-reversal that extends to them displaying to attract a mate, who is then left to incubate the eggs and rear the young.

The Zen arcade

Climbing media nowadays is awash with increasingly sophisticated advice on training on strength and stamina. Wisdom on technique is basic by comparison, and as a result folk keen to improve often focus on the physical aspects. Part of the problem is that strength training is so easily reductible in a scientific manner whilst technique is not. So first lets try to define technique; mine is simply that technique is efficient movement.

I look at climbing not as a simple physical challenge, but as a four-dimensional puzzle. On an easy climb there are any number of solutions, but as the climb gets harder the available solutions get less in number and demand greater precision in execution. Strength can help you bulldoze through but the really useful skill is to be able to find the most efficient solution quickly and repeatedly. This is the skill I'm most bothered about in my own climbing, and what I touched on in the previous post is that I don't feel its one that has especially improved over the years. I don't agree that this is because it is innate talent, it certainly wasn't for me, but I think it is the kernel of truth behind the old adage 'the best training for climbing is climbing'.

The subtleties of sequence choice and body-positioning are best left to the subconscious, as Bruce Lee put it 'don't think - feel', and the best way to get that to learn is to immerse it in the environment you want it to perform in. Long-term training on a board is likely to leave your subconscious confused when you get back on the rock, just as a summer on lime leaves you flailing on the grit. Malcolm Gladwell's recent book Outliers glibly suggested that elite performers in any discipline have one thing in common - not talent - but practice, and at least 10,000 hours of it. In Jerry Moffatt's book Revelations he recalls training endlessly in a cave at Stoney, confident that he is the only one of his peers so motivated, and later reaps the rewards in the USA.


Back when I was twenty and obsessed I put in far more hours, all on the rock, than I do now, and I'm sure that's the key to what I seek. Of those climbers that are putting the hours in now, how many are on unrealistic artificial surfaces? I'm sure that you have to spend at least 50% of your climbing time on rock to avoid loss of technique. My base level is high enough now for me to rest on my laurels at a respectable standard, and there's also a problem of dimishing returns in seeking out new problems locally to solve, so its not likely to change soon. In fact I'm quite looking forward to decrepitude setting in and pushing me back down through the grades and a new set of puzzles!

What has also intrigued me is how technique in climbing is analagous to composition in photography. Its another four dimensional puzzle that for me gets played out twice for each photograph. First there is getting yourself to the right place at the right season, time of day and weather. Secondly is settling on the right angle of view and precise positioning to resolve the elements within the frame and give a harmonious composition. I say harmonious but its an inadequate word, for many shots you may be trying to create a startling effect or a neutral one. If its a climbing shot a lot then rests on the timing at the last instant, plus recomposing on-the-fly to ensure that as the main subject moves they aren't upsetting the composition as a whole. On a landscape shot the final timing is also suprisingly fraught, I guess the final images give the impression that the making of the image is a calm affair - not usually! The final composition has to be tweaked to accomodate moving and reshaping clouds, wandering sheep etc, all whilst trying to capture what is usually fleeting good light and ensuring any wind effects on vegetation are as desired.

I'm sure lessons learnt in reading climbs have been used to good effect in composing photographs, and I'm sure in time compositional trials will further my pursuit of a more refined climbing technique. Some of my most productive times in both areas have undoubtedly been away on trips when I've been immersed in both on a daily basis.

I equate making it to a good location with the right gear in the right season to turning up to try a climb fit, strong and with the right boots. Success of sorts may be easy to achieve, whether the desired tick or a half-decent photo, but what will create real lasting satisfaction comes down to those last little elements, and ultimately, technique. Flashing the climb with an elegant sequence, or quickly settling on a really cogent composition, these are things that cannot be trained for but rely on regular practice in the field coupled with maintaining an open, creative mindset. Or as the Zen maxim goes:

'First develop a perfect technique. Then place yourself at the mercy of inspiration.'

The Pits

A good few years back now I did a few various bits of work for Beyond Hope over in Delph, back when Sam Whittaker was doing the day-to-day running of the place. In the evenings we'd get to the local crags before scooting back over the moors to Leeds or Sheffield. Usually this meant Running Hill Pits, not a well-known crag but one of which the locals are justifiably proud. I spent enough time up there to understand why, but its a ballache to get to from Sheffield and you drive past a lot of good crags on the way. So its probably six or seven years now since I was last there.

The central goal of these evening sessions was a Dougie Hall route from the early eighties called Scoop de Grace. The Scoop itself is a great feature that just begs to be climbed, but is guarded by a fifteen foot wall of essentially blank rock that is the local byword for impossibility. Just leaving the ground is difficult, making progress is harder, and there's precious little to aim for above. Sam eventually did it using the most brutal basic sequence of pull-ups on tiny edges that I knew was a non-starter for me. Some consolation though was the photo I got of him on it.


It was one of the first climbing photos I took which I'd venture to call definitive; as in I think it will be very difficult to improve upon, either by myself or anyone else. Quarried grit isn't generally a sculptural rock, but waiting until the sun was at the perfect angle brought out something pretty special.

So on sunday when Nige suggesting heading over I was pretty keen. Seven years stronger; I'd be all over it. The reality was a little different. Sam's direct sequence seemed as impossible as ever. The footholds were even worse than I remembered. The tiny crimps are harsh on the skin but I was loathe to abandon the way I knew could work for fear of wasting it getting nowhere on an alternative. However Jon and Nige got no further and I really felt like pulling any harder would be injury, so I had a go at the right-hand start. I vaguely remembered a cunning sequence but couldn't recreate it and resorted to a jump start.

All this only served to further confirm one of my pet theories, which is that I haven't improved as a climber over the last ten years, I've only become more accomplished. That might sound like like my typical half-glass-empty grumble side coming out, but its something I believe in. I could pull out the excuses, like my boots being worn out when you need new, it being May (though 6 degrees and windy...) and general poor form. But the fact is I was doing no better, and on the technical invention front had got worse. As an aside, I'll admit I have made some gains - more comfortable on big trad than I was back then, a good bit fitter, and along with the accomplishments has come experience. But to a large extent I think experience makes you more conservative technically. Climb carefully, statically, wear it down you learn. Back when I was in my early twenties I would usually pull some crazy sequence out of the bag and it would work more often than not. Nowadays it seems the bag may be empty. This being the side of climbing I most value, its a worry. How do you train for invention?

The others had lost interest. Si asked if I fancied a route. "Yeah, once I've done this," I replied. It wasn't so much PMA as stubbornness. Realistically, if I didn't do it today it might be another seven years. I'd be pushing forty, no chance. Thank god, the next go was progress. Jump off the floor, just catch the crimp with three fingers, swap feet, udge left hand to make room for a stretched match, left foot high, pull-up, out to tiny crimp, change feet, big lunge left for better crimp - a hold that is the key to the route. I'd stuck it. Left foot on fast, sag under, through to next crimp with right... back on the mats. The next hold was terrible. Another five goes got to the good crimp but no higher. I was struggling to stay warm and feeling tired.

I walked over to the others and had a snack. Looking back over, the chalk marks looked like footholds. Too small, and with worse feet. In a wider context this is also a pretty significant route. By the mid eighties this, Walk on By and Monoblock were probably the three hardest problems in the Uk. Our Big Three. I don't think anyone has done all three to this day; there's a red rag for all you strong boys out there. Gradewise I suspect Scoop is the easiest, but it will test your head too, and as a line the others do not compare.

Jog about to warm up, then back on. Miss the jump start a few times, then catch it. Back through, feeling a little better, this time I get the better crimp and can use it. Left foot high, right hand through, its bad but I'm ready for it, through to the next, its better, some weight on my feet finally. Not quite the good hold I was after though, time to move on... left hand comes through, another tiny slopey crimp. Shit, I'm coming off, paste right foot into scoop, big rockover almost into balance. Shit, no handholds. Nothing. The others have noticed, Jon runs over to spot. I'm teetering, left foot onto the slopey intermediate, left fingertips by my knee, right hand nowhere, I stab my right foot across onto the lip, it sticks. Lean into balance, exhale. Thank fuck for that. The top is a delight.

Sprung

Spring feels like its really sprung here in Sheffield. Its a few weeks now since the Curlews returned to the moors, the first buds burst about two weeks ago, but the last week has seen the leaves unfurl and breathe colour back into the landscape. On friday a Cuckoo sealed the deal. To further lift the spirits there's been plenty of sunshine, we might even be on for a repeat of April two years ago when it didn't rain in the central Peak for four weeks. Hopefully we'll be spared the summer of floods that followed. In common with previous years there's a lot of haze about which can make for disappointing sunsets for photography, luckily alternative subject matter to 'the grand vista' is getting more varied by the day.


As is usual this time of year grit action has swerved into the quarries. For these (and the midland sandstone crags) it's peak season; quick drying, not too hot or midgy yet, and a nice transition to the bigger trad challenges of the summer.


At venues like Duke's or Nesscliffe the rock is usually at its driest of the year just before the trees close in. Not sure if'll make it over to Shropshire this year, but if you've not been, now's the time to go.