Out of Mind

2

DON'T DIE OF IGNORANCE

I had already had an experience of extreme mental turbulence, long before I went to Everest. It had been triggered by another traumatic event in the mountains. Then, it resulted in a strange case of post-traumatic joy rather than stress and was also a little closer to home.

In February 2008 I was dating a local girl by the name of Julie Carver and things had been going well between us. She was working as an assistant producer for Hand Pict Productions in Edinburgh, while I was figuring out what do next with my life in Fort William. A petite and powerful nature girl, with freckled skin that glowed golden at the first hint of sunshine, she was most at home among trees or surfing the seas. Her blue-green eyes sparkled with fun every time we met and, even though I felt I was fighting above my weight, I really hoped this could be the start of something special.

Julie had enjoyed my first climbing film - a documentary about the history of rock climbing in Glen Nevis - which she had seen at a climbing festival in Edinburgh. I had teamed up with my friends John Sutherland, Ali Berardelli and Ed Grindley to produce it. We called ourselves Heather Hat after the obvious overhanging boulder in Glen Nevis, and set up a make shift edit suite in the upstairs of the old nursery in Roy Bridge. The fact that we didn't have a clue what we were doing didn't matter: it felt exciting and fresh. Even if we had to wait patiently for the toddler groups to finish and pack away each evening before we could start work.

Through making this film, I met the legend that was Dave MacLeod and we hit it off well. He was living in Dumbarton at the time and had just finished climbing his Rhapsody project, the first climb with the whopping grade E11 in the country, or anywhere in the world for that matter. Dave needed new challenges and it wasn't long before he and his wife Claire moved up to Lochaber. To facilitate his expanding adventures, the two of them somehow squeezed themselves into a studio apartment next to the Spar shop in Claggan. Not the most exotic place for one of the world's leading climbers, but Dave and Claire were keeping it real. It was the perfect place for Dave to launch his assault on Glen Nevis and he wasted little time in doing so, creating some classic climbs in the process. It was great to witness such an explosion of climbing in the Glen. Although, lost in the grand solitude of the place, you would have never even have known he was there.

One project in particular was a big one: Don't Die of Ignorance. The name referred to the notorious public health campaign at the time, warning of the dangers of AIDS. It was a climb Dave had been attempting on the North Face of Ben Nevis for four consecutive years and had fallen at the same spot each time. The route had already been climbed in winter by Andy Cave and Simon Yates in 1987, but they had used several points of aid* to get through the outrageously hard traverse on the first pitch, which was the crux of the whole climb. Dave's plan was to climb this route free. His only protection would be the gear that he placed as he climbed. If he somehow managed to achieve this, it would be the hardest technical climbing ever achieved on Ben Nevis and Britain's hardest mixed route to date.

Dave is one of the world's most gifted all-round climbers, excelling at the top level whether it be on a boulder, sport route or mountain cliff. I, on the other hand, am not. After enthusiastically accepting the opportunity to join him with my camera, my limitations became apparent to me in the most serious of ways.

I was buzzing as John Sutherland, Claire MacLeod, Dave and I stomped up to the CIC** hut in military style. I was a smoker back then and managed to get a quick roll-up prepared and puffed without breaking stride. However, my casual excitement gradually began to dissipate, and by the time we had reached the hut, it had u-turned into utter terror. Bang in the middle of Corrie Na Ciste was Don't Die of Ignorance looming at the crest of a fierce tidal wave of granite. It seemed to be screaming its name as a warning to me. Or was that the wind? The line of the route went up the middle of the Comb Buttress and was the most obvious, imposing and direct way up the whole of the North Face. I looked at John for reassurance but didn't find any. His friendly face looked more serious than usual. I could see he was thinking the same as me. With a raise of his eyebrows and a nervous grin, John looked away and shook his head. Should I bail now? Could I bail now? What was I doing? Could another quick roll-up help?

I looked at Dave, who was beaming. 'What you reckon, Joe? Still keen?' I tried to hide the distinct tremble in my hand as I attempted to roll this, the most important of roll-ups. It was as if he could read my mind or at least knew that as soon as I saw the reality of his proposition, I might have second thoughts. This was to be our first climb together after all. 'Wow,' I responded, but the wind sucked my little word away before it had left my mouth and it cartwheeled off into the snow.

I glanced back up at our route and wished I hadn't. The huge tombstone of granite was looking more menacing and impenetrable by the minute. Spindrift curled wildly over the summit cornices like smoke from a dragon's nose and my mouth was so dry I could have struck a match in it. I eventually allowed my eyes to fix with Dave's; his were full of intense enquiry. 'So?' he asked. I looked down at my failed roll-up and crumpled the soggy Rizla and tobacco in my fist. 'Britain's hardest route?' I heard myself ask. 'Fucking let's 'ave it.' And that was that.

I became increasingly subdued as we continued up into the corrie to commence our climb. As Dave started getting himself clipped in, psyched up and sorted, I could barely tie into my own rope - or speak, for that matter. The first pitch was the crux to the whole climb. He needed to traverse an awful looking undercut crack that rose and snaked horizontally away from our ledge for about twenty metres towards a blunt prow that jutted out into space. It was just wide enough to wedge your foot in, but other than that I couldn't see any foot holds or ice that were thick enough to make it worthwhile swinging my axe. This was my first taste of hard mixed climbing and already I felt sick.

'Climb when ready, Dave!'

Dave set off, stepping straight out into space and tip-toeing his tiny metal toes across non-existent footholds. The odd nub of granite was just big enough to bear some of his weight. Everything sloped the wrong way and there were no holds or features anywhere, other than the icy crack that he followed. Dave had to turn his axes upside down so that their shafts stuck up and out of the crack rather than down and from it and use them as teetering levers to crank down on, in the hope they wouldn't rip out. This technique is known as 'tin opening' and I'd never seen anything like it before in my life. He looked like a giant space crab as he scuttled along the crack with his metal pincers, yellow helmet and red jacket. I stood open mouthed with a mixture of amazement and terror at what I was finding myself witness to.

'Go on, Dave! Send it!' I shouted at the twitching ropes as they snaked out of sight, pleased with the positive tone of my voice. I didn't really think he would do it this time. Pretty soon we could be back home with a nice cup of tea, and we could pretend this never happened. I could see John way below on the corrie floor lying back in the snow, camera pressed to his face. I was cold on a snow ledge and dancing on the spot to warm myself up. Dave was taking some time. I sang Bob Marley's Three Little Birds to myself in the hope that it would banish the rising terror in my system and bring about a sense of calm. It didn't. I was worried about everything and seriously doubting whether every little thing would be all right.

My impromptu performance was brought to an abrupt end when I heard Dave screaming. His voice was thin and urgent, but at best muffled, at worst completely inaudible through the buffering wind. He was at the crux move and needed slack. This was it, the point of no return. I needed to be on it here like never before. He was about to commit his life to pushing through the boundaries of what was thought possible, and I was holding his ropes. Oh no. They were iced up and heavy, hard to manage as the fear inside me. If I gave him too much slack he could have a nasty fall, but if I didn't give him enough, I could pull him off the cliff.

I don't know if it was better or worse that he was obscured from my view at this point, but his screams for slack were getting louder, accompanied now by primal sounding grunts. With so much drag and ice on the ropes it was almost impossible to let them run free. This would only get worse once he left the traverse and started climbing vertically. A small group of onlookers had gathered at the corrie floor, seemingly miles beneath our route and were craning their necks to see what I could not.

As Dave reached the crux, the sliver of rock providing the tiny dinks for his feet got smaller and smaller until they disappeared and there were no footholds left at all, just hundreds of feet of space between him and the boulders below. This was the crux to the whole route. With one last scream, Dave entered some elevated state and launched into the unknown. He tried desperately to gain his balance, but because of the lack of holds, it was impossible for him to find any way of doing this. The only option left available to him was to cut loose and hang by his right hand on the upturned shaft of his axe, as it...