Century Crack 2 by Stevie Good Job Haston

WARNING : Don’t read this if you are not a nerdy climber!

Mine is bigger than yours!

I had a couple of Emails late last from America concerning the ethics of Trad-climbing and crack climbing, mainly from older climbers or people with a strong foundation in climbing on gear. Climbing on gear is very special in that it allows you to protect your route without anything being in place and thus ‘clean’, it is in fact termed clean climbing sometimes, and it also allows you at its best to do new routes anywhere in the world with some gear facility. That’s up to a point! And the point of course varies, from climber to climber and climb to climb, or area to area. In the late 1970s the Verdon Gorge was being developed in southern France and some routes where protected by long bolt ladders. In the Dolomites in Italy some routes where long lines of metal pitons and eventually these so-called permanently protected type of routes became more of the norm and a new ethic of climbing was born where you good basically mess around to your hearts content, pulling on gear, practising, as long as in the end you did a free ascent without falls or aid. Anyway this type of climbing in my early years was anathema to most of my friends and the worldwide elite, it was denigrated and termed cheating. Roll on a few years and most of the world doesn’t understand Trad-climbing and its intricacies, some people would say it has limitations. Some of the limitations are its strictness, the on-sight, is king in this game, and indeed when you fail you have the problem of protection left in place, which then precludes a strict clean ascent. Another limitation is the amount of protection you carry, it can be big! Big racks of expensive gear are maybe what the gear junkie wants and craves, but the free climber detests such constraints against his capacities. Another disadvantage is that gear is fiddly to put in, takes time and experience to use properly, so some routes become an exercise and a nightmare of gear placement and management. For this reason most people take the more amenable road of bolt protected climbing, I say amenable but should use another word, even simpler which is a good word might be misconstrued. I often think to myself that bolt climbing allows me more freedom of movement, and I can come much closer to fearless and less encumbered enjoyment. I hope you understand all of this, because most people don’t, and there is no best way, they are just different. Now there arises around the world problems of local ethics or even personal between different climbers. The polemic about Century Crack is interesting on a number of counts, primarily on whether you try to do it by Local (stringent) ethics, or a more modern and quicker way. In conversations I had with Americans over the years about Century Crack it was always very clear what they thought was correct. I have noticed over the years what you think of as correct is a best case scenario or what you would aspire to. I myself have taken great liberties with ethics, morals, and laws, bending, breaking, and simply not noticing over the years. Some of my climbs have been done in impeccable style while others have been a bit sloppy, some times I have been greedy while other times noble. Century crack posed many problems for me over the years, the main problem was ethics with gear. The climb for me, cracks (being very morpho) is hardest where your equipment burden is greatest, and thus it is here I wanted (but never did) bend the rules. Century Crack may well be flashed one day which would be the only real traditional correct way, but until then there will be easier options available to its suitors. I hope this helps people understand a bit more. A good long article explaining the ins and outs of various ethical stands on climbing is long overdue in the mags, from bouldering to the Himalayas, but of course magazine people take the easy way out.    

Century Crack

So the Century crack, a very good crack  that is awaiting an ascent. I stopped trying this route years ago because the chance of me doing the route with this rack of gear seemed low, to verrryyyy low. I leave it to you to try and understand the absurd comment that it is ok to leave this gear in, and not carry it. Trad climbing is absurd nowadays,  the climbers are good but their approach is silly. Ciao

A year out, by Stevie Haston.

(c) Lorenzo Belfrond

To take a year out between school and Uni was a smart thing to do among those who could afford it. Indeed I suppose for those who could go to Uni it must have been great, I didn’t go to Uni, I went to work! I am not grumbling, I didn’t learn much at school and would’ve probably learnt nothing at Uni. Still the idea has always appealed to me, a time to pause before adulthood, a time to enjoy, a time to mature, a time to gird ones loins or grind ones loins etc. So at the tender age of mid fifties I took over a year out! I did 2 months work, total time away from home and wife and Ariege was 14 months, it could have been longer, but it seemed right at about that length. Why did I do it? I needed it! I needed to get away from climbing which has turned into a shit sport run by internet jockeys. Climbing is so good, that to have thus tainted seems like graffiti in the Sistine chapel. So I ran in autumn, snowboarded in the winter, and ran in the spring and summer. I climbed to 8b but my heart wasn’t into it, and I stopped 3 months ago to try to concentrate on running. Did anything happen, anything profound? Maybe yes, maybe maybe! I have become adroit at staring at stuff and drifting, thinking, I can ignore a few things, and I can run, a certain amount of peace is accessible by being alone.

I lost my temper only once in 14 months! All these things cost a lot. I was poor, and often lonely, I didn’t accomplish much, but re-realised that most stuff is Lego building, or sand castles. I arrived at a place I was 20 years ago, running in the hills and doing a bit of climbing. More interesting was my wife’s time, she has become a yoga teacher and did very well with out me, which was part of the plan and point, but also one of the dangers. As a 50 year old in a world that seems to glorify teenagers I needed to re-acess my future (which could be another 50 years –my god!) I needed to find my path for a while. This may sound hippie or weird but its gotta do with how I see the quality of my time and not wasting it. Entertaining a climbing public while earning other people money isn’t that good, it corrupts my joy. And talking to many sportsmen, they seem think the same. Anyway it’s nice to have met some like minded runners who think like me, shame that they are runners perhaps and not climbers.  And to finish there is one lie I must put to rest, age is not a burden, it is a gift. I am old and can run for 36hrs, I can do a good days work, and I can climb what I want. The tiring thing is the chaff, the parasites in climbing, the politicos, and the rabid profiteers, in short, the stuff that needs sorting. The young are learning to be users, it’s the way of the world they see around them Ikead to the ying yang, pre programmed robots.....make a break take that traditional year out. Go surf the Himalaya or run in Kenya.  

Walter Grivel, my buddy, Stevie’s Haston.

Walter is the  last Grivel to work with Iron, actually he is iron, and always has been made of iron.

So I have known him for a long time but Walter goes back a few years before me and used to work with the forge and the hammer. We were talking the other day  about my first pair of crampons, that I had in 1973 and the chances are that he made them. It was he or his mate, working side by side sometimes. Anyway when I said they were a very good pair very stiff, he claimed responsibility, Walter is like me in that respect, he knows the value of his work.  So I spent 14 months in Courmayeur and changed flat four times and Walter and his family finally put me up just before the Tor de Geants, and Walter and his family always gave me the nod when they saw me training and when they heard that I stopped because of cramp and stuff they just said ‘hard shit Stevie its like that man”. Walters’ genes are Walser that is from north of the alps and they are burly men not scared of working, sometimes they have red hair and there humour is subdued and slow in coming they are not typically what you think of as Italian. Anyway the Flat Walter gave me was great but it was ten yards from the original Grivel forge which of course was totally cool. A week or so before The Tor the Ultra trail de Mt Blanc was on, and the runners passed literally under my balcony, so I naturally set my alarm and cheered Killian the winner as he passed underneath. Killian looked fresh as a daisy after 80km! My original crampons were made from railway rails! They were maybe made from Krups railway rails, Krups made the best steel, as witnessed by all the lads who died in the wars! Walter was the only person apart from me who could lift a 280lb piece in one hand! Walter of-course used to walk around with it as part of work and not showing off as a trial of strength. I can’t pick that piece of steel up any more! I tilt it on my back sometimes and do a few squats after a few hours running and then have a beer. One of Walters sons has a climbing shop in Courmayeur, and they hire ski and winter stuff out under the lift, be sure to do some business with them because they are part of the mountain scene, and I like the family. The day the photo was taken was a Courmayeur day, blue, and people doing mountain stuff, mainly blackberry picking, but it was also the day Walter Bonatti died, a friend of Walter and a big climbing buddy of my boss Gioachino Gobbi dad’s Tony. I have soloed a lot of Bonatti routes and they have been some of my best days in the mountains. Anyway Walter thanks for my first pair of crampons, forged by an expert, a forger of young mans dreams and aspirations, a true man of iron.  

Tor de geants 2011 report by Stevie dnf Haston.

Anne Marie Gross 4th again 91h28mn only 9mn slower than last year!

Well this is going to be short because I don’t want to dwell on my own failure too much. The Tor this year was like the Tor last year a totally fab and fantastic experience. If anything thing the field of runners was of a better standard and more prepared with people like me having the benefit of finishing the year before. Last year there were 9 runners inside 100 hours, this year 12, but this doesn’t count the possible! For instance last years winner Mr Gross baled out almost straight away and number 2 Calvo mid wayish. There were many others who DNFd including me who were on for a very good time but were injured and naturally are a bit pissed. So why were so many good runners injured? Well the Tor is hard, maybe harder than I thought the first time and is now advertised as the most gruelling long distance race in the world. It is certainly a race that can easily hurt you, the paths are very rough, lots of loose stones and this year seemed very hot. The heat caused a lot of early cramp and the tougher field caused a tougher pace, both very dangerous things on a long race. People like me were not interested in finishing and were only interested in time, this caused lots of trouble. Anyway many runners also ran on with injuries which is pretty dumb, me included. You live race and learn, and I certainly learnt so am not too upset, I also saw and met some fantastic runners, so have been inspired again, so thanks guys!

this year Numero Uno Jules Henri Gabioud 79h58mn

The male winner was Jules Henri Gabioud who came in a few minuets in front of the Gross time for last year. And the female runner was Anne Marie Gross who came in fourth like last year in a remarkably similar time. There could easily have been another 10 runners under 100 hrs, and from what I have learnt there seems room for the time to go down by 5 hours, wow! The Tor was really really great I met lots of mates and made lots of new ones, a big thank you to the organisers and the people of the valleys. I will try to write something more interesting when I am not sulking, more info can be had on the Tors web site.

Paying your Dues, by Stevie ‘at your service’ Haston.

Steaming up hill

I am a selfish man, but I believe in community. I am a lazy man but believe in accomplishment, so like alotta folk I swing both ways. So the other week I had blisters and thought it stupid to make them worse by running a 100km mountain race, so I decided to be good by being at a refreshment station on the 55km race, and thus accruing some ‘Brownee points’ with that fictitious God that still lives in the back of my mind. Anyway there was a slight motive, as if I run in the race I wouldn’t see it as such, as I would be well down in the pack. By officiating I would see the good runners, see their condition, and judge them and myself. The refreshment stand was at three thousand meters staffed by three women, and served water, coke and some energy stuff. These women had walked up there along with another girl and a man who did the runner checks, in addition there was me, and all the stuff that had been flown up there by helicopter. There were alotta these check/point aid stations, and that’s why I decided to help, to be part of it all, not just a user. Anyway you understand, you have probably done this kindda thing yourself, you may have just taken home some litter climbers have forgotten, it all counts. So on the 55km the initial climb is a separate trophy in itself, it’s called the Pascal, named after a local guide who died in an avalanche. The climb is particularly gruelling, 2000 meters of very steep path over 9kms, it’s a mean montée, but if you have a history of alpine mountaineering you might understand it’s got an attraction to climbers, even if you cant do it! So the first lad got to the stand in 1hr 45mins, and I gave him some coke, 1hr 45mins, jee wiz! It was a humdinger of a race, cold with a very competitive field. In fact more than a few burnt themselves out, and didn’t finish the 55km. 

Laurence resting

The 100km with 5000mts of up, was won in just over 12hrs, and the second guy was 1^st in the Tor de Géants last year, very impressive. Anyway lots of runners very little litter, and what litter there was  taken care of by me. So that night I stayed at the hut, and was feeling great about myself, running, and humanity in general, until along came some youths, who proceeded to shit within a meter of the hut, and keep me up passed my aged bed time. If for some unaccountable reason you wish to visit their graves they are under the big cairn, and I have planted some Edelweiss to help their passing. Never hesitate to tidy the mountains up, keep em clean, stay mean!

Mid life crisis number 329, by Stevie ‘over ripe’ Haston

Shiva and his own way of recycling.

There was a bit too much trash in my bachelor flat, and it was starting to smell a bit, so I very sensibly thought I’d take the trash out. Well a few days later when I finally did take the trash out it was raining, so I got the turn-ups of my trousers wet, as I wore slippers instead of shoes, and my bare back got an unexpected wash, which admittedly was a plus. Anyway, thinking about what a tosser I was, I then for no accountable reason threw my keys with the trash into the recycling bin. Didn’t even know what I’d done till I returned to the locked door. Double Tosser! I searched around for the keys, ‘like you do’, not wanting to face the fact that they were in the big, deeeep recycling bin, I patted each pocket and searched the path 5 times. No joy. Looking thru the squeezy slot-why is it not bigger- I spied my keys, it’s still raining, but there was a silver lining in the shape of a roll of wire left by some workmen. So it’s raining cats and dogs, and there I am fishing with my wire line for my keys, 4 people I know stop, and ask me what I’m doing. Great! Just as I am beginning to seriously think about posting myself to the fictious recycling heaven, thru the slot, I catch my Keys. And they don’t fall off the hook, then a big audible sigh of relief escapes my chest, as I hand over hand the stiff wire back out of the deeeep bin, I don’t relax as I have been fishing for about an hour. In fact, I don’t relax until I am back in the cocoon of the flat, after all a meteor attack could strike me down. I have always hated recycling bins, they are normally lies to make you feel good, and lies to make you fink that some one is doing somefink about all that fooking cardboard and plastic you use. But I gotta tellya folks, none of it is working, we are doomed, so get some trail running, or climbing done before we are covered in garbage.

Organic food in plastic wrapping is not organic, Dolphin friendly tuna is not Tuna friendly Tuna, and even if it was, it comes in a fooking plastic coated can, man! So I go back to the Flat soaking wet, dripping in fact, there’s a puddle around me as I strip off, and hit play on my computer. I have the film American Beauty on, do you remember it, it’s about how shit and empty suburban American life is, and I am such a sad looser, that I am watching it again, but this time with various smug commentaries, by overpaid grovelling actors, producers, and thankfully only one director. They are all doing the Dream Canyon Handshake. It’s a well done film, but it’s not really what they are all saying, the message is clear, everybody in the film is living an unrequited life, and it’s a tragedy, it’s really fooking depressing and terribly sad, there’s no bloody hope. It is just what I don’t need, so I attempt suicide by eating a whole loaf of toast-I am in Italy but the soya beans for my fru fru loaf are imported from china, WTF, anyway no butter of course, cos I am too fat and I am off animal products this week. The ingredients of the loaf start to freak me out, and I work out that my loaf is made up of ‘stuff’ from four different continents! Half way thru the film I realise that a Philosopher prof mate of mine uses some of the lines in American Beauty as part of his speech patterns, Jesus, what does that mean, and do I care, I just want it to stop raining, and there’s nothing in the fridge except some furry yogurt left. It’s funny how you need to have something to think about, but you don’t really want to think, and what do you do with the conclusions anyway if you are clever enough to come up with any. That’s why people have Kids, TVs, microwaves, dishwashers, jobs, haircuts, so called friends, climb Everest with oxygen,;;;:::===Every morning I wake up with a hard on, what for, I should’ve been neutered, like my dad advised. Everyday I think weird stuff, what for; I should’ve been lobotomised, like my dad said. I desperately need to get out of the flat, off this continent, off this planet. Yep I need to go running for at least 4 hours. But what for? Tell me oh great Guru what for? Guru speak to me, please. And that’s when you go in search of your Guru, swish through the bead curtains, and find him watching American Beauty, but with the sound turned off, the Finnish subtitles on, and a heavy scent of a suspicious smelling Jos stick wafting around on a non existing breeze. He turns to you and says ‘bro what's up, check it out’ and he Frisbees Suzie and the banshees album cover at you. Yea so you are transported back by that internal warp drive function you secretly have in your frontal lobe, and yes you are in Croydon watching Suzie nad the aforementioned §Bannnsheees, its 1978 or something. And you know what, you aint got no worries anymore, cos you just wanna get it on with this girl in front of you with the Mohican, it’s like a tequila sunrise plume crest. So that’s what the hard on is for, cross-pollination with extra terrestrial species lets get it on. Her name wasn’t Stella from the Astral plain, it was Sharon from Millwall.

 The Guru breaks you out of your reverie with;‘The World is just a great big Onion’, title for a song, this is your starter for ten points, 10 points makes you eligible to win an inflatable family, ‘you'll never walk alone’. Please read the disclaimer tattooed on the inside of your helmet. What u don’t have a tattoo, well get one dude. Or jump the queue on next years fashions, and get a wooden disque inserted inside your lower lip, this with baggy trousers should ensure you only get laid by a giant Duck Billed Platypus named Pax Mobiscum.