WHILE we were stuck in Tromso for a fortnight last August, waiting for a trawler to take us and our equipment back to Grimsby, some of us got together and decided to do a few climbs. We were the relics of yet .html of the interminable Cambridge Spitsbergen Expeditions, but, as has always been the case, scientific work had come before peak bagging, and the amount of climbing done in Spitsbergen was negligible. In Tromso, how- ever, we were blessed with fine, warm weather, part of the best summer they had known there for years, and unlimited time, which did a little to offset the fact that the town is very badly situated for getting at any of the peaks except the Tromsdaltind, a large lump of a mountain, of the size and general shape of Nevis. It .stands across the head of a long valley running east from the town, with its long dull slope falling into the valley head, blunt ridges curving away to the north and south, and steep rock walls falling to the north and east, on the face hidden from Tromso. It would appear to be quite a popular ascent from the town, by a path up the screes onto the northern ridge, and it was by this line that we intended to walk up when we set off at nine in the morning, across the ferry to the mainland, and up a dusty track among the beech and hazel scrub in the valley.
As the day passed it became very hot, with a dry thirsty heat that made us delay frequently to gather handfuls of succulent bilberries. Nevertheless, an hour and a half brought us to the point where we had to cross the bubbling mountain stream and make our way up onto the north containing ridge of the valley. We lost our path here, and had to force our way through the scrub and saplings, inevitably collecting an occasional stinging lash across the face, until at last we stood on open ground directly beneath the steep scree shoulder of the north ridge. It was coming on for lunch-time then, so we plodded up into the western coire, looking for water, but found none. Tongues lolling out we traipsed back onto the shoulder, about fifteen hundred feet above sea-level, and from there we could see a string of tiny lochans in a shallow valley running along the north side of the mountain, perhaps half a mile away. With blissful visions of wallowing in cool water we hurried down, nibbled at a Ministry of Food dried meat block, quenched our thirst, and dived thankfully into the cooling waters of the tarn.
It was quite the coldest reception I had ever, wittingly or unwittingly, let myself in for. Imagine jumping into a cold bath in the middle of the cold spell last winter, and you can imagine our feelings.
However, this dip revived the party after the stifling heat of the valley, and as we dried off in the sun, we plotted a climb up the five hundred feet of slabs which are exposed on this side of the north ridge. The slabs are extensive, and generally featureless, but with many grassy grooves and ledges intersecting them. On the whole they looked quite steep, and on closer acquaintance it was found to be rather like the east face of Tryfan, steep but with good holds, and with all the difficulties avoidable by detours up steep vegetation. The rock itself was a remarkably sound garnet schist, where each tiny garnet, the size of a pea, made a small but satisfying finger or toe hold by which to climb the smooth slabs. Giles Brindley led the way, choosing an interesting line which brought us into a tiny alcove below a bulge, which was surmounted by a hard and delightful crack, leading onto a steep arete with small holds. This pitch was the nicest to climb, and if taken direct about very difficult, the rest of the ground being fairly uniform at Difficult. Taking in all about an hour for the climb we reached the main ridge, four hundred yards from the summit, at one-thirty.
As we walked up to the cairn we were very impressed by the steep rocks of the north east shoulder, and east face, which fall several hundred feet direct from the ridge to a steep little glacier, and not less by the magnificent views eastwards towards the Lyngen peninsula, where a magnificent array of jagged peaks filled almost a third of the horizon; For us the greatest attraction was a fine pointed cone of rock some four miles distant across a deep valley to the east. It stood at the junction of three ridges, a very long west ridge rising out of the valley, a short and exceptionally steep north ridge, and a south-east ridge which curved round by way of two other fine peaks to enclose a coire on the south-west of the summit. In both the coires visible to us there were small glaciers. It was obviously the next climb for us, and as we wandered on around the ridge in the late afternoon we had already begun to consider ways and means of getting to it, the chief objection being that it would need a whole day to get there and back, and we were expecting that a trawler might sail in at as little as a few hours notice.
Next day in Tromso we did a little research, and found that the name of our peak was Kamperrokken, about 3,500 ft., and that we could get to a point on the main Narvik road four miles from its base by bus at 9.00 next morning. We also satisfied ourselves that the arrival of a trawler was improbable, and next morning a party of four of us, armed with ropes, and an extensive supply of food, caught the Narvik bus. Pat Parks had joined the three of us who had gone up the Tromsdaltind, Giles Brindley, Tony Hallam, and myself, chiefly because we were uncertain as to what sort of climb we were up against. From a distance it had looked very imposing, and we were expecting something of a fairly high standard of difficulty, where two parties might be better than three on one rope. When we arrived at the road fork it was raining lightly from high clouds, and the air was sticky and warm. In shirt-sleeve order we walked up the branch road among the woods, passing several small shacks, with corrugated iron roofs, and white painted. wooden walls, and meeting on the way a party of three Laps, dressed in their attractive and brightly coloured national dress. These people would appear to be in the same position socially over there as are the gipsies in this country.
After some three miles we reached a point where the long west ridge of our mountain descended to the road as a steep, thickly wooded shoulder. It had stopped raining, but the air was still filthily sticky. Once again the temptation of ripe bilberries proved too much for us, and we made our way uphill a good deal slower than the thick scrub warranted, but eventually we got out onto open hillside about two thousand feet up, not far below the start of the ridge proper. There was a slight breeze too, which cleared the cloud from the tops, and made the heat a little more endurable. The man who was carrying the rucksack decided it was time for lunch, a cunning move since he had only taken it over ten minutes before. After lunch who should find himself carrying it on the last stage of the slog but Patrick Parks!
The view from the first of the many tops along the east ridge was as good as we had hoped, and from this much closer range, and greater height, the peak of Kamperrokken presented a fine spectacle, the obvious line of attack seeming to be the right hand skyline, which now looked very feasible. We were separated from it by the best part of a mile of Cuillin like ridge, with many high- lights, plenty of scrambling, and a nice sense of exposure. We had at last become conscious of a sense of the passing hours, and decided that a degree of hurrying was indicated if we hoped to be back at the road fork by six o’clock to catch our bus. We covered the ridge in good time, and arrived at the final pyramid quite warm. The way was now plain to see, and we reached the top by way of a shallow gully on the south-west face, finishing up an exposed mantleshelf directly onto the summit plateau, about the size of a table top, with our ropes still nicely coiled and unused.
Investigations in the depths of the cairn revealed a tin with several pieces of paper and cardboard, presumably bearing the names of the previous visitors, although most were illegible. A tentative investigation of the prospects of climbing up or down either of the two remaining ridges, satisfied us that they were positively bleak. In the interest of saving time we abandoned, reluctantly I like to think, the idea of traversing around the head of the coire, and descended by the shallow gully. Then down a thousand feet of screes, to a small lake set beneath a vast crag to the south, rimmed with ice, and with the odd small iceberg drifting about in it. Giles and I arrived steaming like horses, and, profiting little from our previous experience, stripped and dived in. As cold receptions go, this one was altogether exceptional. The Tromsdaltind lake lost its reputation as my silliest bathe at the same moment as my head entered the water. It was too late to draw back then, but it enjoys the reputation of my quickest bathe as well as my coldest.
Pat and Tony caught us up, and we pushed on down an interminable valley filled with moraine, which gave us nearly a mile of boulder hopping before we reached the forest. Time was running very short indeed, and as Pat had gone lame in the boulder field, Tony and I went on ahead, with the probably idle hope of delaying the bus until Giles and Pat could make it. As it turned out, the bus was late, and worse, it was full up, and went sailing past without so much as a toot on the horn. We thought this was a poor way to encourage tourists, and set off walking, hoping for a lift. Of course, from the moment of the passing of the bus, there was ’ scarcely a vehicle to be seen. Two hours later Pat fell out, and spent the night in a farm, continuing by bus the next morning, while the rest of us walked until eleven in the evening, when at last we hitched a van which took us back to Tromso. Thus ended a pleasant interlude in an otherwise uneventful fortnight.