Cold Wars Read online

  Andy Kirkpatrick

  Cold Wars

  CLIMBING THE FINE LINE BETWEEN RISK AND REALITY

  FOR ELLA & EWEN

  It was gravity which pulled us down and destiny which broke us apart

  You tamed the lion in my cage but it just

  wasn’t enough to change my heart

  Now everything’s a little upside down,

  as a matter of fact the wheels have stopped

  What’s good is bad, what’s bad is good,

  you’ll find out when you reach the top

  You’re on the bottom

  BOB DYLAN, IDIOT WIND

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  Preface

  PROLOGUE Yosemite

  ONE Dru

  TWO Lafaille

  THREE Black Dog

  FOUR Fitz Roy

  FIVE Mermoz

  SIX Park

  SEVEN Fear

  EIGHT Xmas

  NINE Troll

  TEN Hard

  ELEVEN Troll II

  TWELVE Breathing

  THIRTEEN Lesueur

  FOURTEEN Sheep

  FIFTEEN Diamond

  SIXTEEN Post

  SEVENTEEN Charlie

  EIGHTEEN Grounded

  NINETEEN Magic

  Climbing 101

  Glossary

  Plates

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  I owe a big debt of gratitude to many people in this book, both in the writing of it, and in the living of its stories. I have tried to be very honest in my views of people back then, much to my detriment I expect, and I hope friends like Kenton Cool, Ian Parnell, Leo Houlding and others forgive me for my flawed opinions and pig farmer psychology. They remain superstars and the best of their generation.

  Most of the people described in this book are partners of the wall and partners of life, and I owe them all a debt for taking me along, especially Paul Ramsden, Nick Lewis and Robert Steiner.

  Some people are left unnamed in the book when a story was too important to omit (I couldn’t bring myself to give you a new name), and some important stories and incidents have been left out. Some people don’t wish notoriety of any sort, while others are only mentioned when it’s unavoidable. This is the story of me, not them.

  When writing this book I tried hard to make it an improvement over Psychovertical, not wanting it to be my ‘difficult’ second album. You need to write a book to know how it’s done. Thanks to Ed Douglas for doing the edit, no small task, no matter how many times it had been through the spell checker. Ed scares me a bit because he has a super-powered brain (he’d make a good Bond or Superman baddy) and knows stuff about grammar and stuff. I lived in fear of reading his comments on the chapters he sent back for more work.

  A big thanks go to John Coefield and Jon Barton at Vertebrate for taking on such a project during hard times in the book world, and for being so patient (it was only a year late!), as well as their designer Nathan for indulging my meddling with the front cover (it is better without the squiggles).

  Thanks to my friend and ex RE teacher Rob Sanders for reading through my chapters as I wrote them, as well as Tim Maud, Chris Hale and many others for feedback (sorry it made you cry in the Adidas cafeteria Tim).

  Thanks go out to all those cafes I’ve frequented over the last year. I guess for every page in this book a cup of tea was drunk.

  I’d also like to thank all the people and companies that supported me through the adventures in this book, including: First Ascent, Patagonia, Black Diamond, Petzl, La Sportiva, the British Mountaineering Council, the Mount Everest Foundation, Outside and Snow+Rock, as well as Geoff Birtles and Ian Smith at High Magazine (another pair of very patient men), and my old boss Dick Turnbull.

  Thanks to my Dad for reading the draft of the book, a hard read I know, but I hope you see it as much as a love letter (in a man-love way) as an indictment (I dissect my past out of interest, not to find fault).

  Thanks to my kids Ella and Ewen for putting up with a dad who calls himself a writer (honestly writing is work) and for being inappropriate at times (you’re not adopted). I hope when you grow up and read this book you won’t judge me too harshly – like most adults I had no plan, and so just made it up as I went along.

  And lastly, although she is noticeable by her absence in this book, my thanks go to Mandy. This book was written for her (even though she’ll never read it, which is good, as she’d tell me it was sub sixth-form crap). I just wanted her to know it was never easy.

  Preface

  A few months ago I went to Switzerland for the launch of the German translation of my first book Psychovertical, a book that ends a few hours before this one begins. At the event, full of serious and academic types, an old white-haired Swiss lady came up to me and asked politely if I wasn’t a little young to be writing my autobiography. The question really threw me, especially considering that Psychovertical ends when I’m still only twenty nine, with nearly ten years of stories of trips and climbs left to tell. She was intimidating in a teacher sort of way, and I daren’t even tell her that it was only part one in a planned trilogy!

  ‘Oh I think when you read his book you will see Andy has many stories to tell,’ said Robert Steiner, the translator.

  ‘But you are so young,’ said the lady unconvinced. She looked as if she was in her late sixties and no doubt had many stories of her own to share.

  ‘It’s not an autobiography,’ I said, laughing off her question, while feeling a bit embarrassed at the very idea, having never thought of it as such. ‘It’s just a story about a climber,’ I said, trying to sound humble.

  Still feeling a bit uneasy I was led into a huge hall filled with people, all waiting to hear me speak about my book. I’d been warned by Robert that they may give me a hard time, as Swiss-German people tend to view people like me – who seem not to hold their lives too dear – as a little crazy, and not in a good way.

  I stood there on the stage, looking out at all these serious climbers, wondering what to say, how to explain myself, my book and my view on life.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, Robert translating as I spoke. ‘My name is Andy Kirkpatrick. I am mentally ill.’

  The stern serious audience broke into laughter. I was saved.

  Psychovertical was a book about a man who is struggling: against the wall, against himself, but who wins through. The story a hundred thousand word answer to the question: ‘Why do you climb?’

  Cold Wars asks a different question: ‘What is the price?’

  PROLOGUE

  Yosemite

  June 2001

  It had taken eleven days to reach the final pitch, the wall beneath my feet skyscraper high, every inch climbed by me alone. Every day had felt like it could be my last. Out of my depth but unable to back off, it had been just me against the wall – toe to toe. Now we were done, the summit a few metres away, just an overhanging roof for me to cross, an easy crack from which to dangle. The Reticent Wall, one of the world’s hardest climbs, the climb of my life. And it was almost over.

  The thought stuck in my head. ‘The climb of my life.’

  The wall had taken everything I had to give, and in doing so made me see everything I had to offer as a climber, as a human being. The wall became a mirror, and in it I saw my life in complete clarity. Up here, a low-achiever, a guy with no prospects, with a dead-end job and in a marriage that wasn’t working, could really be somebody. Up here you could transcend the life you had. Once I got down, the world would see me differently. Maybe even I would be convinced.

  I moved out to the crack, feet swinging, the two weeks spent up here still no antidote to the dizzying exposure. F
or ten years I had been pushing so hard, climbing in the Alps, Patagonia, Norway and here in Yosemite, consumed by a burning drive that seemed at odds with my character. The truth was I felt I had nothing to lose in a game with the highest stakes.

  Halfway across the roof I allowed myself to look down and feel the waves of fear. All my heroes, the gods of climbing, had finished their climbs out across this very same feature. And as the fear swept across me, again and again, I knew what it meant to be superhuman.

  ‘Hi. I’m down. I’m safe,’ I said, standing at a phone booth in Yosemite Lodge, my legs still wobbly after the long descent from the summit of El Capitan, my feet throbbing from eleven days stood in slings. It was late evening in the UK. I could hear Ella in the background singing, home from nursery. I imagined Mandy sat on the stairs where the phone lived. I could see her sat with her hand on her pregnant belly, our second child inside.

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you feel better?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to make a go of it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying not to cry.

  It seemed I was brave enough to solo one of the hardest routes in the world, but was too scared to tell her no.

  I sat in the Yosemite Lodge cafeteria, sunlight streaming through the windows, thick branches swaying in a slight breeze, their leaves brushing the glass. The big room was almost empty.

  Dirty plates stood piled up beside me on the table from breakfast and lunch. I hadn’t moved from this spot all morning, happy to just sit there, reading my book, looking at the trees and other people as they came and went.

  I had never felt so much peace within me.

  This time yesterday I was on the crux of the Reticent Wall. I could so easily be a corpse now; being hauled up by the rescue team from the ledge I started from yesterday, smashed to bits, my story that of a climber who went crazy and tried to solo one of the most serious routes in the world, and how he came unstuck, overreaching, dying.

  It was the only way such a story could be played out.

  The route was beyond me.

  But I didn’t die.

  I did it.

  The leaves brushed against the glass. People laughed around me. I thought about the falls.

  I thought about how much I wanted to back off.

  I thought about how close I was to the edge.

  I thought about the fear.

  I knew I was going to die.

  I wanted to die.

  I did it.

  I did it. I did it.

  ‘It’s the Kirkpatrick,’ said a voice I recognized, and I turned to see Leo Houlding and Jason Pickles walking over to me. In their Hawaiian shirts, shorts and shades they looked like rock stars – which they are.

  ‘Where you been?’ asked Leo, one of Britain’s best young rock climbers. Skinny and good-looking, Leo spent a few months every year out in the Valley climbing. He was someone who only lived the dream.

  ‘Climbing,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I guessed that,’ said Leo, rolling his eyes, his manner always assured. It was something you could forgive him for, as he was justified in his self-confidence, his skills as a climber touched by magic.

  ‘Not much…’ I said, preparing to tell them.

  Leo interrupted. ‘Well, me and Jason have just freed the West Face of Leaning Tower,’ he said, pulling a catwalk face, no sign of the usual British reticence, his words like a challenge.

  ‘I’ve just soloed the Reticent,’ I replied, deadpan.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jason, looking at Leo with a smirk.

  Leo’s face was blank for a moment, as though awaiting confirmation it wasn’t a joke.

  ‘Well done that man,’ he said finally, shaking me by the hand, a smile on his face.

  ‘Good effort,’ said Jason, the tension suddenly gone.

  ‘Looks like you’ve lost lots of weight,’ said Leo, poking me in the tummy with a finger.

  ‘I’m the self of my former shadow,’ I said, stealing a line from the great Mo Anthoine.

  ‘Have you met Pep?’ asked Leo, pointing over at the Table of the Gods, where all the superstars sat. ‘You should talk to him. He did the Reticent with his girlfriend Silvia a while back.’

  We walked over to a table I’d never dared approach before, everyone on it a face, the young superstars, tomorrow’s heroes, and the legends, all sat chatting and laughing, oozing cool. These people had been places – in body and mind – that few can imagine.

  ‘Everyone, this is Andy. He’s just soloed the Reticent,’ said Leo, his hand on my shoulder.

  I felt embarrassed, knowing it would be impossible to excuse myself as they all turned to me, looking like Benny Hill.

  ‘Hardcore dude,’ said an old guy in sunglasses.

  ‘Way to go,’ echoed a younger guy wearing funny specs.

  ‘Well done, Andy,’ said a girl who looked about ten.

  ‘Oh it was nothing really. Even Leo could have done it,’ I said, sitting down at the top table for the first time.

  ‘Pep. Andy. Andy. Pep,’ said Leo, as I took my place next to a good-looking Spanish climber, a guy I knew a lot about already. Pep Masip was one of the stars of big-wall climbing.

  ‘Andy, I have read some of your writings, it is a pleasure to meet you,’ said Pep, shaking my hand. ‘How was it?’

  We talked about the route for a while, which pitches were the hardest, which were the most beautiful, where we thought the crux was.

  ‘What have you got planned for this trip?’ I asked, excited to hear what this hero was up to.

  ‘I wanted to solo Native Son, but I changed my mind,’ he replied, Native Son being a hard climb, but not as hard as the Reticent.

  ‘Why did you come down?’ I asked, thinking there must be some good reason.

  ‘I changed my mind.’

  ‘Changed your mind?’

  ‘I’m just tired.’

  Leo asked Pep about Amin Brakk, his last climb. The wall was in Pakistan and he’d climbed it with his girlfriend Silvia Vidal, one the best big-wall climbers around, and Miguel Puigdomenech, who had also been on Reticent with them. They had to share a portaledge. Halfway up the wall, Silvia and Pep had split up.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Leo, both of us trying to imagine how you could do that, and carry on.

  ‘We had a lot on our minds, so it was not so hard,’ he replied.

  They had run out of food, underestimating the length of the wall, and climbed on starvation rations, their bodies consuming themselves until they reached the top, the descent taking a further two days. The route had taken thirty-four days to climb.

  ‘It was not good,’ said Pep, ‘to take so much from your body. I have not been the same since.’

  ‘Tell me, Andy, are you married?’ asked Pep, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a daughter who’s three, and another kid on the way,’ I said.

  ‘Is it hard to do such things as this when you have a wife and kids?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s hard on Mandy, my wife. She always thinks I’m going to die.’

  ‘She sounds like a clever woman, your wife,’ said Pep with a smile. ‘How many times did you nearly die on the Reticent?’

  ‘Only once,’ I said, thinking back to my hundred and fifty foot fall on the second hardest pitch, a fall that should have been terminal. ‘Maybe twice,’ I added, remembering the storm, when I almost froze to death. ‘A couple of times,’ I said, as more near misses came back to me.

  Pep raised his eyebrows. He had a decade on me. He knew the score.

  ‘It’s not dying that is the problem,’ he said. ‘Climbing is like a lover, and your wife knows this. Whenever you are together, no matter how much you love your family, your thoughts are only of your lover, of climbing.’

  The deer sprinted out of the woods. Spooked. Into the road. Impossible to miss. Car doing fifty. Mandy beside me, her bum
p showing. Ella in the back, asleep in the car seat.

  I knew I would hit it – saw its giant eyes. It knew it too. We were both heading for disaster on the road to Scarborough.

  Everything, as it always does, slowed down. No time for fear, no time to freeze. Foot off the accelerator, going for the brake, knowing it was too late, the bones in my foot still bruised from the wall, hands tightening on the wheel, strong from hauling, knowing that I had to hold our course, not lose it on the busy road, trucks and cars speeding towards us on the other side.

  We were going to hit the deer.

  We met. A blow. Deceleration. It was like pushing against a soft wall, like wet clay, the deer bending around the bonnet, a bag of meat and bone, the glass breaking, our bodies shooting forward and then the seatbelts snapping us back.

  Mandy had screamed as my foot hit the brake – too late. The deer unwrapped itself from the bonnet in slow motion, spinning off, legs liquid, into the oncoming traffic, missing the cars and stopping on the edge of the road.

  I held on.

  The car slowed.

  I held on. In control.

  Pulling in, onto the grass verge, the cars behind slowed as drivers turned to see the deer.

  We’d stopped.

  ‘Are you okay, Mandy?’ I said, looking at her, her pregnant belly proud of the seatbelt.

  ‘Oh God I can’t believe what’s just happened,’ she said, panicked.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked again.

  ‘Yes… yes, I’m okay.’

  I turned around to check Ella. She was still asleep.

  ‘Stay in the car,’ I said, and got out, the traffic now at a standstill, other people getting out, everyone walking over to the deer. I joined them, saw it lying in the dirt, tongue stuck out, its chest rising and falling. I waited for its last breath. Dying. Dead.