I MET Roger by mistake; and within two minutes of meeting he was showing me, rather proudly, a suitcase full of colour photographs which he had taken anywhere and everywhere in the States; snow and ice on Rainier, rock and colour in the Tetons, sun and flowers from Florida. Several hours of this, then lunch, almost an afterthought, and at last future climbing plans. Ten days hence there was to be a Sierra Club meet, could I make it, he could certainly wangle an invitation. But what about this weekend? Well, he didn’t really know the area well, but he had been told about a smallish outcrop north and east of Los Angeles; he was living in downtown L.A., and I was out near Hollywood, so that sounded fine as a day’s outing to try and get back into some kind of form. We duly met on Saturday and started off in my humble car – my hosts were thrilled to have Roger’s Rolls parked outside their house all day! After a good deal of misdirecting from the navigator we at last reached the promised land: a semi-desert area, just off the main road, ankle deep in ice cream papers and garbage. Not unlike a race-course after the races are over, but hotter, dustier, dirtier.
Parked the ’tar under the only tree, it was terribly hot; changed and set off, jingling our pitons to give us confidence. We looked with doubt and apprehension towards the rock; it was hardly inviting. Uniformly high, about fifty feet, save at the east end, sort of a circular island, broken here and there, some horrid looking cracks, mostly overhanging, and some worse looking walls. The rock was a sort of rough sandstoney texture, but not too rounded; a geologist tells me it must have been a kind of granite, but perhaps he’s only guessing. The rock in the sun was incredibly hot, it burnt the feet painfully, one could hardly touch it; and Roger said some- thing about poisonous snakes hereabouts to add to our discomfort. We walked around the island, expecting to find something climbable around each corner. After one circuit we had found several "might go’s," but all in the sun – quite out of the question. Roger thought a steep looking groove in the shadow might go, he got up about six feet, spent five minutes telling me how unfit he was and .html. five convincing himself he couldn’t make it, and came down; I tried, got no further, but didn’t need quite so much convincing. Eventually we got into a huge curving chimney right inside the island, got up some fifteen feet, didn’t like it, not any holds, and too wide at the top for back and foot, anyway it was so painful in a thin shirt, more half-hearted attempts getting nowhere at all, and then without much argument we convinced ourselves that it was lunch time. I don’t know who made the suggestion, perhaps it can be blamed on the ice cream, anyway we decided to forget about climbing and find the sea – sorry, the ocean. We did, a few miles south of point Mugu, and after a descent down a red mud bank much too high and loose, more exacting than anything in the morning, a swim in the breakers. We consoled ourselves with the thought that the rock had been horrid, hot, even unclimbable, and who knows, we might have been at the wrong place – though in our hearts we knew that we lied. So our first day’s climbing together.
Our second day’s climbing was not unlike the first; only on Sunday we skipped the climbing preliminaries and went straight to our beach (some compensation, it was probably the only one a hundred miles either way completely deserted). But next Sunday would be the real thing; or so Roger told me.
We started off very early, drove for an hour or so, mostly along eight-lane freeways (why doesn’t England have these?), had break- fast in a drive-in, and met the boys, or, more properly, the Rock Climbing Section of The Sierra Club. Most of them seemed to pride themselves on bone-crushing handshakes; that and the hardware stock they carried around impressed me most. Another two hours driving, higher and higher into the Sierras, brought us to the charred remains of a great forest. A few minutes walk, more shaking of ironmongery, but this time depressing, there was so much about, and we were there. "There" was a series of cliffs, mostly small, say twenty to a hundred and sixty feet high, the same kind of rock as on our ill-fated island, nice for pitons, a few holds, but awfully steep.
There seemed to be rather a lot of competition among the younger generation of the Sierra climbers; some had driven that morning all the way from San Diego – about two hundred miles of pre-breakfast driving. There was a lot of talk of nightly gymnastics, a "work-out," of a terrifying number, well into three figures, of press-ups and pull-ups non-stop. Almost at once one of the tigers started up one of the overhanging walls, climbing entirely on artificial aid; he carried enough ironmongery to make a hardware store jealous, all making a depressing noise; I hoped I wouldn’t be asked to follow anything like that – imagine taking out all those pitons. We were led around the corner, after a suitable photographic interval, and told, indirectly I guess, by our instructor that "the English just ain’t safe." After a few minutes of showing us the fundamentals, together with a lot that wasn’t obvious to unsafe climbers (such as the fact that it was really quite unjustifiable to lead out more than about ten feet without sticking in a pin, if one wasn’t sure of what was coming), we were led off’ to be shown "dynamic tension," a new way of belaying. I envisaged’ pulleys, pitons by the dozen, and goodness knows what; it turned out to be merely having the rope around one’s waist instead of over one’s shoulder. Now we were to do some "practical "; jumping off. I saw us innocents commending ourselves to the powers,. jumping off the top (now it looked quite high), and waiting for the jerk rather like a parachutist. I was soon relieved; the cliff was only fifteen feet high just here, and jumping off meant climbing up a few feet, and then falling, on the rope of course. This dynamic tension business looked simplicity itself; I was the first guinea pig, put the rope around my waist carefully, took a stance, firm I thought, felt a ton or so of bricks at the other end, and was dragged ignominiously across the rock. Only after several attempts did I hold the faller, whom I suspected of cheating by not allowing me to take the rope in and so falling several feet before allowing the strain to come on the rope (one shudders when one thinks of the countless times one has cheerfully reassured one’s partner with "wonderful stance " and "perfect belay" as he was about to lead’ through on a Welsh crag). A few more instructions on the American. (or Californian, rather, there is a difference) way of doing this or that before we were released.
Perhaps most important was the verbal procedure. None of this "Okay, come on" business; this was serious work. The code was; something like this; the leader reaches his stance, belays, and when ready to bring up the second shouts down "belay on" (nothing else will do – even "on belay" is sacrilege); the second re-echoes his call, and when ready to climb announces "climbing "; the leader now commands "climb." During the climb itself there is; none of the " take up the rope, damn you," or "slack, slack, you’re throttling me, you idiot "; only the cries of " up rope " and "slack" are permissible. Several times Roger said "rope up" and was severely reprimanded for his heresy; and all this with a dead straight face!
By now the rocks, and they were fairly extensive, were not unlike Brighton beach on a Bank Holiday. Grandfathers who had climbed in the Golden Age, whenever that was, elderly men starting for the first time, boys and kids, beginners and experts, mothers with children and even babies, people everywhere. And the noise; " up rope," "falling," "belay on," "climbing," "slack," all jumbled up, a terrible racket; but worse the incessant banging of the pitons - bedlam.
Lunch, and after we had watched the best of the West Coast climbers, Royal Robins, piton his way over a horrible looking overhang (he looked terribly good), we were led to .html climb. Two ropes, our instructor on the business end of the first, his helper of the second, I was second, Roger last. Poor Roger; his was the work. Our leader used only seven pegs in the 130 feet, conservative really, it was about a V. Diff. Actually that is unfair; where we might have put a sling he put a peg, only rather more often. But the time taken! Roger spent fifteen minutes with one peg before the rock would surrender its violator. However we had completed a climb; our consciences were stayed. We scrambled back along the ridge to a sort of amphitheatre where the practice climbs pure and simple were done; the wall was perhaps twenty feet high.
Four or five distinct routes, some hard, some harder; the tigerish competitors swarmed up and sometimes off, amid the usual laid-down cries. Top ropes so no pitons; not unlike Harrisons just here save for the noise. Roger, after a good deal of verbal pushing, at last did the easiest to relieve my conscience.
The last innovation I saw was a further employment of artificial aid. Someone wanted to climb a wall; but no holds, and worse, no cracks – I would have said leave well alone, perhaps it was not meant to be climbed; but I was told that that was of course sentimental rubbish – if a wall is there and one wants to climb it, one climbs it. And so the lengthy business of expanding bolts. It takes about ten to fifteen minutes to drill a hole in the rock, and perhaps .html five to insert what looked to me not unlike a rawlplug. I thought what would happen if these enthusiasts, who would spend a day pegging and plugging their way up a wall, were let loose in Wales – and shuddered.
But the day was over, the smog was rolling up even into the hills, it was time to go. Maybe we hadn’t done much, maybe we were armchair climbers after all – but we had certainly seen and learnt a lot. More bone-crushing handshakes, and we were off. I must confess that later I got to know these hills and the methods of their climbers a little better; but the first impressions were peculiar. Perhaps pitons scattered over a cliff do make the climbing of it safer; but at the same time something seems to be lost – and do we want to see Llanberis and Langdale transformed into a hardware store?
These west coast climbers were certainly boundless in their enthusiasm, and their kindness. Certes any English climber who goes to the States is assured of a wonderful welcome from the American climbing fraternity – I can vouch for those west of the Mississippi. The "nothing-is-too-much-trouble " and "do-come- along-with-us" attitude prevails everywhere. The Americans are wonderful hosts. And if their climbing methods are not ours, let the English climber remember that "he just ain’t safe."
So these then were the Sierras – well, gee.