The Blind Man of Hoy

by Red Szell

  From the moment I returned to London, friends and neighbours quizzed me on how our trip to the Peak District had gone, wincing at the sight of my hands (which looked like they’d been through a meat grinder) and, convinced by such a raw statement of intent, spreading the word. Sponsorship and good wishes flowed in. John Weston junior’s message on the JustGiving page was typical of their generosity:

  ‘A Gherkin-high rock, over the sea, ‘in a blindfold’; that raises the bar; the next to ask me for marathon sponsorship better be doing it on their hands!’

  With the broadcast of In Touch bringing an even wider audience I was contacted by the editor of Grough, an online magazine that provides ‘the inside view of the outdoors’. He wrote a terrific, eye-catching article about my attempt, which in turn was picked up by Times Scotland.

  ‘Hey man, you’re going’ viral. There’s even a UKC forum opened up about you!’ Cole’s laconic Southern drawl was almost tinged with excitement. ‘And Christmas has come early for you this year.’ He plonked a box on the table beside me, and flipped open the lid.

  Spurred on by Matthew, I had asked Cole whether there was any chance that Mammut, the Swiss Alpine equipment retailer who have concessions at many High Sports and Climb London walls, might sponsor us with some of the gear we needed. Ever supportive, Cole promised to have a word in the relevant ears and I’d given him a shopping list.

  Christmas had indeed come early! I pulled out a lightweight wind and shower-proof jacket, a summer fleece, climbing trousers, karabiners, a new belay plate, a packet of slings for every eventuality and a really natty 12.5 litre daypack. They had also let me have a 60-metre rope at cost price, for future expeditions.

  ‘If you could try to get a couple of photos of you climbing in their gear, Mammut would be very appreciative’ Cole added, ‘but otherwise they just said to wish you good luck.’

  I was ecstatic. Quality climbing gear is far from cheap and my budget was running close to capacity, especially since I had decided to foot the bill for all three of us.

  A further discussion with Martin about hiring a guide to lead Matthew and Andres up the South Face route had ended with Martin’s assertion that coordinating two parties to summit simultaneously was problematic and the location inhospitable. I suppose I could have argued the toss with him but suspect it would have achieved little, save to make it look like I was questioning his professional judgement.

  There would be no photograph of the three of us celebrating atop the Old Man of Hoy together. Matthew and Andres were of course disappointed (as was I) and Matthew was even more peeved to find that Mammut had only supplied me with gear. Some light relief was provided by the fact that I’d ordered the trousers when my waist had been three inches stouter so that they fell down to my ankles when I tried them on, but there was a slight edge to his comment: ‘Well, I suppose you are the star of the show.’

  Fortunately he is not one to hold a grudge, which was just as well as we were spending an increasing amount of time together. We’d done a couple of evenings bouldering at Hendon before going to the Peak District but now ramped up to a two-and-a-half hour session each Wednesday.

  Typically we’d arrive at 8.00 pm, me with my iPod, him with a portable speaker, and listen to something loud and rocky as we did 20-minute circuits round the four walls of a tennis court-sized, windowless room. It was stifling, sweaty and unforgiving when you slipped and fell. What the poor staff there thought of two middle-aged men stripped to the waist, listening to the King Blues or Depeche Mode and stuffing their faces with chocolate between traverses, god only knows! But it was bloody good fun and helped cement a growing friendship.

  We were also beginning to teach each other techniques that we had gleaned from climbing DVDs such as Neil Gresham’s Masterclass and perfecting skills that Andres had been working on with us. He meanwhile was climbing during his breaks at Swiss and spending his evenings on a bouldering wall in Bermondsey.

  I was feeling strong and positive. Even my fear of injury had receded and I allowed myself off the leash a little. I kept up with the training programme and climbed at every opportunity but was no longer so quick to turn down going out for a drink or a curry. The trip to the Peaks had reminded me of the camaraderie of a night out with the lads. Plenty of friends wanted to take me for a final few pints before I risked life and limb on Hoy; many had barely seen me over my six abstemious months. Consequently the last couple of pounds I’d planned to lose, to take me to my target weight of 10½ stone, went on rather than coming off.

  I wasn’t the only one. Andres and Matthew were also dining out on the buzz surrounding the climb. Our weekly sessions at Swiss, during which we were regularly tackling 6a+s and 6bs, often had a febrile quality born of pushing ourselves to our limits on not quite enough sleep and a mild hangover. We’d done the hard work now and were under starter’s orders, ready to go.

  Only two thistles remained in a garden that was otherwise rosy. The first was my continuing struggle to find the right climbing shoes. Having taken Cole’s and Andres’ advice I had invested in a pair of Scarpa Vantages, an Italian lace-up shoe with a slim fit, reasonably pointed toe and good, solid rubber edge to the sole. They were mid-price and known to be relatively durable; and had been perfect for the three months they’d lasted.

  Because I explore the wall as much with my feet as my hands they, like every other pair of climbing slippers I’ve owned, wore rapidly through at the big toe. When I went to order a new pair I found that Vantages had been discontinued. One pair remained at a shop in Covent Garden so I reserved them and hotfooted it down there. Having size 8½ feet I ordered 7½ shoes. They felt a bit tight when I tried them on but I was in a hurry to get to Swiss so grabbed and dashed.

  After an hour of climbing my feet felt even more like they’d been in a vice than usual. Matthew checked the box – US 7½, UK 6½! The salesperson, I remembered now, had a stateside accent; no wonder the assistant I’d paid had remarked that I clearly preferred an aggressive shoe! Fortunately, being end of the line, they’d been half price – because now they were too worn to return.

  I kept them for tough, single pitch routes, rang the shop again and, making sure to quote the EU size, asked whether they had any in stock. After a bit of searching the final pair in the country was located, in its Bristol store. They could be sent to Covent Garden and would be ready for collection in a fortnight.

  Two weeks of climbing in the 6½s did little for the sensitivity of my feet but they still informed me that something was amiss when I tried this latest pair. They were both the right size but unfortunately they were also both the right foot. The sales assistant seemed a little put out, reminding me that they had gone to some trouble to obtain them for me. Over the next hour I tried every climbing shoe in the shop and finally, with some desperation, settled on a pair that felt almost fine.

  Cole made a teeth-kissing noise when he saw them. ‘Nice colour. Though Red Chili have a poor reputation for quality.’

  I was already pushing my luck buying new shoes so close to a big climb – I didn’t want to take blisters to Hoy. They’d last long enough. That assumption was however destructively tested by a combination of my foot-groping technique and Yorkshire gritstone. By the time I got back to Swiss my big toe was already feeling more through the thinning leather than it wanted. With only four weeks to go there was no time to wear-in a new pair even if I did manage to get a refund (which was doubtful). All I could do was treat my red shoes gently, alternate them with my aggressive baby shoes and hope.

  The other thistle was the nagging concern that I was making a claim that I could not be 100% sure of. I had checked with both UK Climbing and the British Mountaineering Council that they knew of no other climbers who had logged a first blind ascent of the Old Man. The two obvious candidates, Erik Wiehenmayer and Gerrard Gosens, certainly hadn’t and when I’d quizzed Martin, who was about as great an authority on the Old Man as I was likely to find, he’d known of no other attempts. But with news spreadin
g far and wide, I had to prepare myself for the eventuality.

  So my heart fell when I read the following message attached to a JustGiving donation from a guy called Steve Bate:

  Hi Red, I’m a climber with RP. Good luck. I’m going to Yosemite to climb, give me a mail through my Facebook page Visual Aid – Climb Zodiac.

  I checked the page and did a little digging around on the Web and discovered that Steve was a seriously talented climber who was proposing to become the first blind man to solo-climb El Capitan! Not only that but, until his diagnosis a couple of years earlier, he’d been working as an instructor in Scotland. All of which increased the likelihood that he may have beaten me to it.

  I hadn’t set out with the intention of breaking new ground; I’d just wanted to climb the stack that had seduced me so many years ago. But what with the charity fundraising and the need for a strapline to advertise my attempt, ‘Red Szell aims to become the first blind man to climb the Old Man’ had become enmeshed in the project. Now, fearing I had made a false claim, I typed my message to Steve with trepidation.

  His reply not only set my mind at rest but offered me the one thing I realised I had hitherto been lacking – someone who knew exactly what the challenges were because he faced them too; a one-man peer group.

  Hi Red,

  A friend of mine sent me a link to your radio 4 interview which I listened to yesterday. That’s awesome what you’re doing. I think my friend Alex climbed with you on the Cioch Nose and he was really impressed and thinks you will cruise the Old Man. I too have RP and do a bit of climbing. I was diagnosed two years ago and that shook my life up for a bit making it all new and unknown for a while. I currently have a 10-degree visual field which I think is a bit better than your vision from what Alex told me. It’s a shame I didn’t find out about your trip earlier as it would have been great to climb with you. I’m a mountaineering instructor and have led people up routes for a few years now.

  I’m about to head out to Yosemite to try and Solo a route called Zodiac on El Cap. I think the route is going to take 10 days to climb and going to be a real big challenge. Like yourself I’ve been training for a year and it’s only in the last few days I have felt fit and not tired all the time.

  I’ve never climbed the Old Man but I have climbed the Old Man of Stoer a couple of times and Am Buachaille off Sandwood Bay the other two famous stacks behind Hoy. Both of those were really good adventures and I really enjoyed those routes. I’m away until the end of June but I very much look forward to hearing about your adventure on my return, and maybe we could share a rope one day in a joint effort to raise more funds. I’m trying to raise 5k for a local charity that have helped me come to terms with RP. I’m also a member of RP Fighting Blindness which I’m surprised they didn’t put us in contact as I called them to let them know what I was doing.

  If you have any media contacts that you think would be of use to raise awareness of RP that I could contact before I leave that would be much appreciated.

  If you have time to give me a call it would be great to talk to you. If not I wish you the very best and I’m sure you will enjoy the adventure. It’s great to know there are others out there like me still pushing hard to live their dreams.

  Cheers Red

  Steve

  So this was the guy who Alex Moran had been talking about the day we’d climbed together. He hadn’t mentioned El Cap though. Solo aid climbing is about as hardcore as it gets. The climber has no partner to follow him and remove his protection, so has to rappel back down and do so himself, effectively climbing the wall twice, and he takes all his equipment (bedding, food and water) with him; dragging it up behind him on a rope. El Cap is 1000m high and Steve was hoping to do it in ten days, which meant carrying sixty litres (60 kg) of water alone!

  He was in good hands though, a good friend of Paralympic cyclist Karen Darke, he was going out to Yosemite to acclimatize with her partner and El Cap guru, Andy Kirkpatrick.

  We chatted happily for the best part of an hour, Steve’s chilled out Kiwi accent making light of what must have been a brutal couple of years both in terms of his diagnosis, loss of his driving licence and career and his adoption of a punishing fitness regime that I suspected put the Cole Styron Workout in the shade. Steve too had a supportive wife and friends and told me that rather than getting all mawkish about his loss of sight, Karen’s reaction had been; ‘Great, we could do with you on the British Paralympic team!’

  We arranged to keep each other posted on our progress and I put the phone down knowing I had banished another aspect of the desolation that lurks in the wings when you have a disease that gradually cuts you off from the world.

  The final fortnight before our departure began with an interview in the local newspaper The Ham & High complete with vertigo-inducing photos of me, taken from above on The Cioch Nose, that brought gasps from neighbours and a renewed flurry of activity on the donations front. Chief among these were the East German Ladies Swimming Team, many of whom I had met at Al Alvarez’s book launch. Even these hardened year-round outdoor bathers were impressed by what they’d seen and read and were extremely generous in their sponsorship. One even made the following bizarre pledge: If Matthew climbs in his Speedos I’ll double the donation!

  Another unexpected surprise came in the form of a DVD posted to me by a well-wisher who had heard of my difficulty in finding a copy of The Big Climb. Somehow he had managed to track down the first episode and burned me a disc. Watching it was as much a history lesson as a guide to the route. The grainy black and white footage and ponderous long-shot camera work suited my eyesight very well and reminded me of episodes of Z-Cars when I was growing up. I got a very good sense of the scale of the task ahead and a pretty good look at the overhang. They were all there including Joe Brown, making steady, elegant progress up seemingly impossible rock; Tom Patey, always quick with a witty remark; and Chris Bonington, resplendent in woolly climbing socks and what looked like breeches.

  With Chris Brasher of the BBC providing and receiving running commentaries via a two-way radio system, I watched closely as the six climbers toiled up their three chosen routes, Bonington and Patey on the original East Route that I would be taking. I took careful note of how they stopped regularly to brush away what Bonington called ‘a kind of thin slime of wet sand that’s just like ball-bearings’ from each ledge, so that they could get purchase. As Bonington entered the bottom of the big chimney crack that leads to the overhang I sat on the edge of my seat, intent on gleaning any knowledge I could.

  The audio drifted in and out of range as he worked his way deep into the Old Man’s innards from where odd phrases like: ‘it starts getting really awkward going . . . hand-jams deep in the crack, it’s a real grunt . . . it gets pretty desperate . . .’ emerged periodically.

  Brasher: This is the sort of situation where somebody who wasn’t quite so good would get into real trouble.

  Bonington: If I did fall off here I’d go about fifteen to twenty feet clear of Tom and it would be a hell of a job to get back in again . . . My wretched crash hat is too big to fit in the chimney . . . It’s very slippery . . .

  I leant forward, keen to see how he worked his way out from under the overhang to a position where he could gain purchase. At that moment the BBC, in its infinite wisdom, cut the team on the arête. I sat back swearing at the TV.

  Five minutes later we were back with Bonington. He had got his head clear and was bridged one foot on either side of the bottomless crack, 150 feet above the waves and not looking particularly comfortable. Brasher asked him how he was getting on.

  Bonington: This is a particularly awkward one. You’ve got to get right, straddled out.

  Brasher: Your right foot doesn’t look as if it’s on much.

  Bonington: It’s my left foot actually is the worse one; the right isn’t too bad. The worst thing is there’s nothing for holds up here to speak of and you’ve just got to press on. I’m pressing on my right arm and just balancing up. I’m n
ow getting my right foot up. I’ll get a bit further up the crack and then I think I’ll be able to get out right out onto the edge. Another straddling move, it’s straddling all the way just here, it’s er . . . a bit awkward . . .

  This was it, the crux move; how to escape from the overhanging, bottomless crack they call the Coffin and I was about to see it done by the expert. I was on the edge of my seat.

  Bonington: I’m now going to reach right up here to try and get my left foot up . . .

  Brasher: Can we go to Joe Brown? I’ll shut Chris Bonington up.

  I hurled abuse at a man long dead for actions that had occurred before my birth. By the time they cut back to the East Face Bonington was safely installed on his belay ledge and Tom Patey was hanging beneath the overhang, fag in mouth and fixing Jumars.

  Patey: When I launch out into space here just now, you’ll have some idea just quite how steep this pitch is.

  Kate, Laura and Megan all gasped as he swung out to reveal just what would be facing me in a few days.

  ‘That’s huge! Seriously Dad, how are you going to do that?’ Laura, who gets vertigo at anything over seven metres, and who had already pointed out just how tiny the six figures crawling up the Old Man looked, sounded genuinely worried.

  ‘He can always use those clampy things like that man is,’ Meg replied defensively. Ten years old and slightly built, she is a fearless and determined climber at Swiss who had begged me to take her climbing outdoors. However when, halfway through the DVD, I’d jokingly suggested she come to Hoy with us, she’d merely shaken her head in mute astonishment at the scale of what she was seeing.

  Kate was keeping her thoughts to herself. That morning she’d rung to say there had been a British man killed on El Cap, and that she hoped it wasn’t Steve (it wasn’t). Over the next fortnight two more Brits were killed by rockfalls there and two climbers, one of them known to the guys at Swiss, died on Anglesey. My glib assertions that I was less safe crossing Finchley Road and that the majority of climbing fatalities occur in winter conditions, were beginning to look as crumbly as the lower reaches of the Old Man.