Mohole-On The Rails

This is the story of a climbing obsession - one that sprang to life and then expired in little more than a week. As climbers our motivations are often a puzzle - to ourselves and others, and Mallory's gnomic 'Because it is there' hardly enlightens. So maybe this little episode will shed some light on those motivations. Equally, it may not. Certainly, those inclined to doubt the wisdom and sanity of climbers are unlikely to be persuaded otherwise by this story.

One fine warm September evening, John and I found ourselves at Brimham, sole representatives of the Harrogate Club on this particular 'evening meet' (but that's another story). After a preliminary round on the boulders by the car park - which serious crimpers call 'The Pommel'- we headed out towards Fag Slab. The previous week some of us had visited that same spot - switching venues from a too-verdant Brandrith - and we'd enjoyed some traditional quality climbing. I'd wandered into that crevassed boulder-strewn area beyond the elephantine Pig Traverse block, curiosity aroused, gazing up - at Lithos, Three Trees Crack, Hanging Groove - falling under their spell, enticed but also apprehensive. No soft touches these. This evening, then, it was perhaps a case of being tempted back for something more.

Emerging from bracken and boulders we paused below the oddly-named Mohole (it was once 'mole hole'). A short VS it starts up the daunting, off-width Three Trees Crack, crosses an impending wall, goes round the arête onto an easier-angled face with the leering cavity, then climbs a steep little headwall to finish. I'd never tried it before but John had led it a couple of times in the early 90's. A tricky hand (or foot?) shuffle to get round the arête, he suggested. That was it. My turn. Harnessed to double ropes, helmeted and with an arsenal of gear, I clamber over boulders to the base of the crack. A semi-layback and a high stretch bring the finger traverse into reach. For the right hand a fine little slot, but for the left...? Back down. Try again. Right hand finds a small slot nearer the arête. Now both hands are in business; foot on the arête, reach round, pawing, frisking the rock for crimps, cracks, pebbles... but nothing. Reverse down. It feels warm, tense. More chalk, more strength-sapping tries, but the move won't come. A shuffle too far, without gear and poised above those boulders. The light fades on this adventure as John rigs up a top-rope. At full revs I manage to grope precariously round the arête. The rest goes without difficulty. Predictably we argue grading, slam the Guidebook. It feels more like HVS, and it must be P3, the only gear's way above the crux...