| Date | Time | User | Type | Name | Attribute | ||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:10:49 | remus | - | - | notes_pretty | |
|
Before
<p>Named after a curious <a href="/climber/741/george-smith">George Smith</a> who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.</p>
<p>The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:</p>
<p>One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!</p>
<p>My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.</p>
<p>Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.</p>
<p>I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-</p>
<p>Me: Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.</p>
<p>George: Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.</p>
<p>Me, (naively): I’ve got to drill some holes.</p>
<p>George (sigh): Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?</p>
<p>Me: I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?</p>
<p>George: I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?</p>
<p>Me (innocently): In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.</p>
<p>George (heavy with disbelief): Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.</p>
<p>Me (realisation dawning): No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.</p>
<p>George (dripping with sarcasm): And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?</p>
<p>I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.</p>
<p>As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Dear Glenda</p>
<p>I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.</p>
<p>Love Big George</p>
<p>xxx</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.</p>
<p>I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!</p>
<p>As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.</p>
<p>Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!</p>
<p>There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.</p>
<p>One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Dear Crag Inspectorate</p>
<p>Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.</p>
<p>Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.</p>
<p>George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.</p>
<p>George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244">https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244</a></p>
After
<p>Named after a curious <a href="/climber/741/george-smith">George Smith</a> who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.</p>
<p>The article below is reproduced from PlanetFear.</p>
<h3>I Am Curious Yellow</h3>
<p>by <a href="/climber/578/glenda-huxter">Glenda Huxter</a>.</p>
<p>One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!</p>
<p>My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.</p>
<p>Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.</p>
<p>I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-</p>
<p>Me: Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.</p>
<p>George: Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.</p>
<p>Me, (naively): I’ve got to drill some holes.</p>
<p>George (sigh): Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?</p>
<p>Me: I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?</p>
<p>George: I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?</p>
<p>Me (innocently): In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.</p>
<p>George (heavy with disbelief): Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.</p>
<p>Me (realisation dawning): No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.</p>
<p>George (dripping with sarcasm): And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?</p>
<p>I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.</p>
<p>As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Dear Glenda</p>
<p>I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.</p>
<p>Love Big George</p>
<p>xxx</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.</p>
<p>I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!</p>
<p>As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.</p>
<p>Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!</p>
<p>There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.</p>
<p>One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Dear Crag Inspectorate</p>
<p>Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.</p>
<p>Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.</p>
<p>George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.</p>
<p>George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244">https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244</a></p>
|
|||||||
| 2 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:10:49 | remus | - | - | notes | |
|
Before
Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:
One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!
My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.
Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.
I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-
Me: Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
George: Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
Me, (naively): I’ve got to drill some holes.
George (sigh): Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
Me: I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
George: I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
Me (innocently): In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (heavy with disbelief): Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
Me (realisation dawning): No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (dripping with sarcasm): And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?
I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.
As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:
> Dear Glenda
> I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.
> Love Big George
> xxx
I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.
I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!
As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.
Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!
There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.
One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:
> Dear Crag Inspectorate
> Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.
> Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.
George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.
George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.
George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]
### References
[1] [https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244](https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244)
After
Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
The article below is reproduced from PlanetFear.
### I Am Curious Yellow
by [Glenda Huxter](/climber/578/glenda-huxter).
One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!
My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.
Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.
I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-
Me: Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
George: Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
Me, (naively): I’ve got to drill some holes.
George (sigh): Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
Me: I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
George: I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
Me (innocently): In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (heavy with disbelief): Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
Me (realisation dawning): No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (dripping with sarcasm): And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?
I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.
As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:
> Dear Glenda
> I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.
> Love Big George
> xxx
I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.
I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!
As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.
Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!
There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.
One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:
> Dear Crag Inspectorate
> Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.
> Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.
George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.
George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.
George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]
### References
[1] [https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244](https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244)
Diff
--- before
+++ after
@@ -1,6 +1,9 @@
Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
-The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:
+The article below is reproduced from PlanetFear.
+
+### I Am Curious Yellow
+by [Glenda Huxter](/climber/578/glenda-huxter).
One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!
|
|||||||
| 3 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:10:28 | remus | ascent | Glenda Huxter | ascent_dt_start | |
|
Before
1998-01-01
After
1999-01-01
|
|||||||
| 4 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:10:28 | remus | ascent | Glenda Huxter | ascent_dt_end | |
|
Before
1999-01-01
After
2000-01-01
|
|||||||
| 5 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:08:46 | remus | - | - | notes | |
|
Before
Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:
One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!
My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.
Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.
I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-
Me Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
George Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
Me, (naively) I’ve got to drill some holes.
George (sigh) Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
Me I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
George I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
Me (innocently) In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (heavy with disbelief) Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
Me (realisation dawning) No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (dripping with sarcasm)
And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?
I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.
As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:
Dear Glenda
I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.
Love Big George
xxx
I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.
I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!
As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.
Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!
There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.
One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:
Dear Crag Inspectorate
Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.
Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.
George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.
George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.
George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]
### References
[1] [https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244](https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244)
After
Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:
One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!
My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.
Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.
I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-
Me: Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
George: Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
Me, (naively): I’ve got to drill some holes.
George (sigh): Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
Me: I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
George: I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
Me (innocently): In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (heavy with disbelief): Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
Me (realisation dawning): No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (dripping with sarcasm): And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?
I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.
As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:
> Dear Glenda
> I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.
> Love Big George
> xxx
I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.
I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!
As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.
Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!
There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.
One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:
> Dear Crag Inspectorate
> Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.
> Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.
George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.
George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.
George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]
### References
[1] [https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244](https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244)
Diff
--- before
+++ after
@@ -10,29 +10,37 @@
I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-
-Me Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
-George Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
-Me, (naively) I’ve got to drill some holes.
-George (sigh) Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
-Me I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
-George I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
-Me (innocently) In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
-George (heavy with disbelief) Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
-Me (realisation dawning) No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
-George (dripping with sarcasm)
-And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?
+Me: Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
+
+George: Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
+
+Me, (naively): I’ve got to drill some holes.
+
+George (sigh): Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
+
+Me: I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
+
+George: I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
+
+Me (innocently): In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
+
+George (heavy with disbelief): Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
+
+Me (realisation dawning): No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
+
+George (dripping with sarcasm): And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?
I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.
As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:
-Dear Glenda
+> Dear Glenda
-I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.
+> I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.
-Love Big George
+> Love Big George
-xxx
+> xxx
I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.
@@ -46,11 +54,11 @@
One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:
-Dear Crag Inspectorate
+> Dear Crag Inspectorate
-Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.
+> Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.
-Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.
+> Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.
George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.
|
|||||||
| 6 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:08:46 | remus | - | - | notes_pretty | |
|
Before
<p>Named after a curious <a href="/climber/741/george-smith">George Smith</a> who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.</p>
<p>The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:</p>
<p>One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!</p>
<p>My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.</p>
<p>Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.</p>
<p>I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-</p>
<p>Me Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
George Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
Me, (naively) I’ve got to drill some holes.
George (sigh) Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
Me I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
George I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
Me (innocently) In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (heavy with disbelief) Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
Me (realisation dawning) No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (dripping with sarcasm)<br />
And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?</p>
<p>I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.</p>
<p>As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:</p>
<p>Dear Glenda</p>
<p>I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.</p>
<p>Love Big George</p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.</p>
<p>I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!</p>
<p>As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.</p>
<p>Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!</p>
<p>There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.</p>
<p>One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:</p>
<p>Dear Crag Inspectorate</p>
<p>Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.</p>
<p>Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.</p>
<p>George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.</p>
<p>George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.</p>
<p>George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244">https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244</a></p>
After
<p>Named after a curious <a href="/climber/741/george-smith">George Smith</a> who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.</p>
<p>The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:</p>
<p>One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!</p>
<p>My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.</p>
<p>Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.</p>
<p>I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-</p>
<p>Me: Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.</p>
<p>George: Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.</p>
<p>Me, (naively): I’ve got to drill some holes.</p>
<p>George (sigh): Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?</p>
<p>Me: I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?</p>
<p>George: I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?</p>
<p>Me (innocently): In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.</p>
<p>George (heavy with disbelief): Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.</p>
<p>Me (realisation dawning): No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.</p>
<p>George (dripping with sarcasm): And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?</p>
<p>I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.</p>
<p>As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Dear Glenda</p>
<p>I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.</p>
<p>Love Big George</p>
<p>xxx</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.</p>
<p>I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!</p>
<p>As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.</p>
<p>Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!</p>
<p>There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.</p>
<p>One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Dear Crag Inspectorate</p>
<p>Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.</p>
<p>Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.</p>
<p>George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.</p>
<p>George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244">https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244</a></p>
|
|||||||
| 7 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:06:08 | remus | - | - | notes | |
|
Before
Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
After
Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:
One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!
My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.
Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.
I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-
Me Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
George Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
Me, (naively) I’ve got to drill some holes.
George (sigh) Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
Me I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
George I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
Me (innocently) In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (heavy with disbelief) Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
Me (realisation dawning) No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (dripping with sarcasm)
And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?
I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.
As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:
Dear Glenda
I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.
Love Big George
xxx
I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.
I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!
As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.
Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!
There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.
One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:
Dear Crag Inspectorate
Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.
Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.
George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.
George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.
George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]
### References
[1] [https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244](https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244)
Diff
--- before
+++ after
@@ -1 +1,63 @@
-Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
+Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
+
+The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:
+
+One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!
+
+My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.
+
+Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.
+
+I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-
+
+Me Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
+George Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
+Me, (naively) I’ve got to drill some holes.
+George (sigh) Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
+Me I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
+George I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
+Me (innocently) In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
+George (heavy with disbelief) Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
+Me (realisation dawning) No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
+George (dripping with sarcasm)
+And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?
+
+I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.
+
+As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:
+
+Dear Glenda
+
+I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.
+
+Love Big George
+
+xxx
+
+I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.
+
+I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!
+
+As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.
+
+Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!
+
+There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.
+
+One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:
+
+Dear Crag Inspectorate
+
+Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.
+
+Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.
+
+George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.
+
+George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.
+
+George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]
+
+### References
+
+[1] [https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244](https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244)
|
|||||||
| 8 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:06:08 | remus | - | - | notes_pretty | |
|
Before
<p>Named after a curious <a href="/climber/741/george-smith">George Smith</a> who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.</p>
After
<p>Named after a curious <a href="/climber/741/george-smith">George Smith</a> who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.</p>
<p>The article below is reproduced from PanetFear:</p>
<p>One arbitrary piece of rock - my obsession for summer 1999- eventually became I am Curious Yellow (E6 6b). Located in a steep zawn in a relatively unfrequented part of Anglesey, North Wales. I identified with the route to such an extent that I felt a sort of possessive ownership of it and, as time passed, an increasingly unhealthy, and largely unfounded, belief that any climber who noticed the line would be so inspired that they would immediately climb it, and thus shatter my dreams. It’s a selfish game really but only one person can ever be the first. It had to be me!</p>
<p>My climbing partner Howard (whose endless wandering during the drizzles of winter had found the cliff in the first place) was even more possessive about it than me and thus we fed off each other.</p>
<p>Howard is also mischievous and not averse to the playful teasing of people made vulnerable by their desires to discover new routes. On this occasion my neighbour George Smith became both my tormentor and victim. George of course has countless new routes to his name but, believe me, the flame still burns strongly and his curiosity and devious probing made me uneasy.</p>
<p>I was living outside Deiniolen at the time, in the heart of North Wales’ slate quarries, and my boyfriend and I were trying in a limp and desultory way to fix new shelving to the kitchen wall. Nothing is straightforward in these old cottages; walls are never straight and the plaster, two inches deep in some places, is barely a skim over the unyielding slate in others. It became clear that the power drill we were using would never drill a hole into these walls and I phoned around our friends to locate a more powerful weapon. I spoke first to Celia Bull, she, in turn, advised me to call George Smith and so it was that this bizarre conversation ensued:-</p>
<p>Me Hi George, I’m on the scrounge far a drill, Celia says you’ve got a good powerful one.
George Well!!! It depends really on what you want it for.
Me, (naively) I’ve got to drill some holes.
George (sigh) Yes I guessed as much, but where, I mean what are you drilling into? My batteries are a bit weak, not holding a charge too well and some rock takes an awful lot of drilling. What kind of rock is it anyway?
Me I don’t know really, not for certain, but I suppose it’s slate, most of the stuff round here is slate isn’t it?
George I think you know slate when you see it. Whereabouts is this slate?
Me (innocently) In the kitchen, I’m putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (heavy with disbelief) Shelves, in the kitchen, look you don’t seem to realise who you are talking to this is The Crag Inspectorate and I demand to know what you are up to.
Me (realisation dawning) No, really, we’re putting up shelves in the kitchen.
George (dripping with sarcasm)<br />
And these shelves Glenda, will you be taking them down again and then putting them up again for the photos whilst clearly displaying your sponsors gear and logos?</p>
<p>I don’t believe I ever persuaded George that I didn’t intend to bolt a project in the quarries and this exchange, whilst amusing in retrospect, was the innocent beginning of a game of bluff and counter bluff through the miserable wet spring and summer of ’98 as I wandered from project to project on the cliffs of North Anglesey waiting for one piece of rock o another to stop dripping. Between ourselves, Howard and I had taken to calling the site of my main project ’The Curious George Wall’.</p>
<p>As soon as the weather started to improve I took every opportunity possible to attempt I am Curious Yellow. In my eagerness, I constantly made the mistake of going to the route too early in the day and expending all my energy hanging onto greasy rock, only to sit the afternoon out too exhausted to attempt the route again when the conditions were right. Many times we just looked at it longingly only to be forced to climb elsewhere because of a westerly wind blowing spray onto it. I was getting increasingly frustrated and paranoid that someone was going to find the route after all. I imagined that George was looking for it and it was only a matter of time before his efforts would pay off. I’d committed myself to being a host for the women’s international meet and although I really enjoyed that week I felt panicky about all the lovely weather passing me by. This panic was heightened when shortly afterwards I found a note lodged under the windscreen wipers on my van which was parked outside South Stack cafe:</p>
<p>Dear Glenda</p>
<p>I did a new route near Gogarth today. It was very steep, but had chalk on it. I hope it wasn’t your project. I’ll be at this number tonight, 01248 608???, if you want any more information.</p>
<p>Love Big George</p>
<p>xxx</p>
<p>I was freaked, surely this was a wind up, but unlikely as it was that George had found and then actually done my route I was unable to shake off the niggling doubt that it was possible. Maybe I’d wound him up so much that he couldn’t resist getting me back. Much more likely it was a joke, maybe not even written by George. I examined the note for clues, but couldn’t bring myself to phone up, even though I was chewed up with anxiety. I was too proud to be laughed at by George for falling for one of his wind ups.</p>
<p>I managed to leave it a few days before confronting him. His denial was absolute and very convincing. He denied all knowledge of the note and seemed to actually regret that he hadn’t come up with the idea himself. I was impressed by his show of innocence, and inclined to believe him, only I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d play such a trick. To my frustration I’d lost the letter so I couldn’t check the phone number -though I remembered that it was not a Llanberis one which further confused the issue. George never budged from his standpoint and I rushed back to my new route the very next opportunity with even more determination to overcome my fear and just get the bloody thing done!</p>
<p>As I felt I was getting close to completing the route cleanly, (I’d got to the top with only a couple rests) Howard thought that it would be a good idea to get some photos for use later. However we had a bit of a dilemma, as there were other projects nearby we didn’t want a third party coming along so we hit on the idea of mounting my camera on a tripod and setting it to fire the shutter every three minutes. Unfortunately this was one of the occasions when the rock turned out to be just too greasy. Something which I found out very early in my attempt. I struggled briefly before falling onto the rope and spending some time ignominiously kicking and swinging in an attempt to get back on the route. As a result a week later we received back the slides - one blurred Howard’s ear, several worried Glendas on the first 15 feet, and a couple of dozen very cross Glendas hanging at various angles on the rope.</p>
<p>Undaunted we went high-tech. An 80 feet air release on the camera operated by a rubber ball which Howard could press with his foot whilst (hopefully) giving his full attention to belaying me. Things were looking good. I was rested and climbing well that day and got high on the route. I was going to make it until a finger flake snapped off and I spun down ’like a great black spider’ (I was later told). As for the photos: the tension had got to my belayer and as he mentally urged me on he omitted to remove his foot from the shutter release bulb - several dozen pictures of me in much the same position!</p>
<p>There followed more shitty weather, more frustration, more anxiety about potential route stealers, George in particular. He was constantly on my back and as I’d now become his next door neighbour there was no escape from his persistent questioning. I ended up darting in and out of the house in an attempt to avoid him, and through it all he still maintained his innocence in regards to that note on my van. One particularly drab day with nothing better to do Howard and I decided to get our own back for that offending note, which had caused us so much angst. We drove to The Range and I aided my way up a dank and dripping cave whilst Howard took some photos.</p>
<p>One photo was taken from the back of a cave. I was standing in etriers, dangling pegs, hammer and jumars and waving an unfeasibly large crowbar. This photo was sent along with a letter, which read:</p>
<p>Dear Crag Inspectorate</p>
<p>Help! I have an ethical dilemma. The photo is one of several hundred taken of my new route ’Barbie Berghaus’ on the Curious George Wall. You can see my problem immediately, imagine my horror when I realised that I was shown using equipment not made by any of my major sponsors! My question Is, should I: Keep the route name and hope that none of the offending photos come to light, or Contact Guest, Keen and Nettlefield, the makers of my crowbar, and offer to call the route G.K.N. in return for a lucrative photo deal.</p>
<p>Yours, perplexed of Deiniolen.</p>
<p>George was beside himself next time I saw him. He’d been studying the photo endlessly for clues, but the print was such poor quality that really there was little for him to go on. Shortly after this shameful and extravagant wind up I climbed the line of I Am curious Yellow. I was still very coy of revealing its whereabouts because like a fickle lover, my affections had fallen on another line nearby.</p>
<p>George, however, had noticed my van parked, as he described it :- ’In a very curious place’ and one evening as we sat in it we saw a tall and purposeful George and slightly shorter companion striding across the flat heath that borders the cliffs of The Range, a secret no more.</p>
<p>George climbed a fine cave route about 300m from I Am curious Yellow he called it Honed On The Range. He also did the second ascent of my route and was generous enough to offer the opinion that it was as good as any pitch on the main cliff of Gogarth. Some ten months later he casually asked if I had finished trying the spurious cave route in the photo I sent him and could he, perhaps, have a go. [1]</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244">https://web.archive.org/web/20071026234435/http://www.planetfear.com/article_detail.asp?a_id=244</a></p>
|
|||||||
| 9 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:04:39 | remus | - | - | notes_pretty | |
|
Before
None
After
<p>Named after a curious <a href="/climber/741/george-smith">George Smith</a> who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.</p>
|
|||||||
| 10 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:04:39 | remus | - | - | notes | |
|
Before
None
After
Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
Diff
--- before
+++ after
@@ -1 +1 @@
-
+Named after a curious [George Smith](/climber/741/george-smith) who was angling to find out where this new cliff was.
|
|||||||
| 11 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:02:58 | remus | ascent | Glenda Huxter | ascent_type_id | |
|
Before
None
After
1
|
|||||||
| 12 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:02:58 | remus | ascent | Glenda Huxter | climber_id | |
|
Before
None
After
578
|
|||||||
| 13 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:02:58 | remus | ascent | Glenda Huxter | ascent_dt_end | |
|
Before
None
After
1999-01-01
|
|||||||
| 14 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:02:58 | remus | ascent | Glenda Huxter | ascent_dt_start | |
|
Before
None
After
1998-01-01
|
|||||||
| 15 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:02:58 | remus | ascent | Glenda Huxter | climb_id | |
|
Before
None
After
3240
|
|||||||
| 16 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:02:58 | remus | ascent | Glenda Huxter | fa | |
|
Before
false
After
true
|
|||||||
| 17 | 2nd March 2024 | 08:02:58 | remus | ascent | Glenda Huxter | ascent_style_id | |
|
Before
None
After
1
|
|||||||
| 18 | 2nd March 2024 | 07:57:01 | remus | - | - | climb_name | |
|
Before
None
After
I Am Curious Yellow
|
|||||||
| 19 | 2nd March 2024 | 07:57:01 | remus | - | - | ukc_url | |
|
Before
None
After
https://www.ukclimbing.com/logbook/crags/the_range-671/i_am_curious_yellow-413781
|
|||||||
| 20 | 2nd March 2024 | 07:57:01 | remus | - | - | climb_type | |
|
Before
None
After
3
|
|||||||