Journals | 1968 |Pottering About on Papsura | A Day in the Life | Carnmore | Nationalisation Now | Scenes from a Traverse of the Weisshorn | Snowman | Spectator Sport | First Route | Night-Time Escapade | Snow on the Equator | Reflection on a Minibus Meet to Derbyshire | Editorial

IT was hot. There was sky and sun and rock wheeling above us. There were grooves and slabs and pitches tumbling down towards us and past and through us. This was the day of days and the climb of climbs and we were there in the middle. Traversed out, finger-tensed: this was the hard part. Feet pressed outwards, body arched from the rock arms stretched to the next hold. Round and up, through and across, it went on, until it was the top and it was over.

Then it was .html day and the rock was wet, wet everything. The old man was with me that time and we were slow. Only met him the night before, a lonely old man, given up climbing really: but I was short of a climbing partner so along he came and we went to Grooved Arête so it wouldn’t be too hard. He was a very old man, face hardened and wrists scored by rope burns years ago on this very climb. When we got there it was wet and hailing now and then, but he was keen by then so I started off up the cold slippery rock.

Worried on the crux. Water runs down the groove and hail fills the holds. Shivers run down the rope to the old man on the ledge. He’s worried too: his leader fell here so long ago and then it was bounce slither jerk but it was too late. I move my foot in the groove again. Slowly stretching for the slippery hold, gently pull and we’re there, relaxing as the tension drains away. It’s always this way on something like this – but no time to think, here’s the o1d man and we’re off up the turfy ledges above.

The old man’s leading now, and we’re on the little rib that starts the final part of the climb. That gives me the next pitch, the one with the long stride left, and then we’re at the Haven and the hail is trickling lethally down the Knight’s Slab above. The old man’s keen on leading it so off he goes. At first I can see him, climbing the groove on the left. slowly and deliberately. No runner on the way but I think "He’s an old man, he doesn’t really know about runners." Then he steps onto the slab and disappears. I can tell his position from the rope: it hangs straight down from the undercut slab, moving out in inches, then feet, and I think he must be over the worst. Then the rope begins to move sideways and I think "He can’t have put a runner on before the traverse either." Then it’s right out on the edge, nearly running down the Superdirect, and I think "He’ll just have the little move up on the edge now," but there is no movement for some time. The rope quivering along the edge of the overhang dislodges drops of water. I drift off, watching them spatter in the groove below and join the rush to the valley.

... It must have been winter for I can remember the clear blue sky and the infinite white line of the cornice above. The snow was hard; it sparkled and flew out in a million glittering fragments with the axe. The day was a superb one. I remember now. Central and South-East Gullies behind us, we were going slowly down into the depths of the valley. The upper slopes were weirdly half-lit as the wind whispered endlessly across them. We were there on the edge of it, almost understanding – but the magic passed away and all we could feel was the cold wind sighing round the peaks. Then I remember that day when we walked up to the crag just near the road. Not far off the ground on the second pitch the move had to be made and it was harder than any move I had made before so I was scared. But why not? So I bridged out on the hold and moved round, foot shaking and breath catching, hands searching and finally finding the jug. After that we went there many other times, but it was never as good.

And I remember that summer in the far north. Lonely hills and unknown rock. The day we fought for hours against the unyielding rock and the darkness until we finally stood on the top and the sun went down behind the black Atlantic islands, floating far out on a mirror sea. And the days of wind and rain, with the bogs full and the path winding on endlessly to nowhere...

And the times like this. when the rain spattered from the overhangs and the leader was fighting it out above. The rope quickens and gently grates over the edge above. and I think "He must have made it this time," and as I think that the rain and wind grow louder. But above it I can hear something else: a desperate bump and scrape and a figure comes flying over the edge, the rope screams out, stops and it is all silent. Eventually the noise of the beck below trickles up to me and I fix the rope and look over the edge. He is there, hanging in the groove, face disfigured and neck broken, and his blood reddening the rocks below. And I look at my wrists. scoured by the rope like his: then out at the valley, where the end- less curtains of rain are shifting, and wonder if I will ever be able to come back like the old man.

Extracts from "A Day in the Life" – (c) Copyright 1967 by Northern Songs Limited. Words and music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney.