For many climbers, it’s a bit of both. And mountain climbing always carries some degree of risk. Going with a guide or partner is no guarantee of safety, as witnessed by the losses on Everest in recent years. Climbers need to know how to cope with whatever conditions they may find out there and also to weigh up and judge just how dangerous a climbing choice might be—before they even start. In short, climbing is an advanced form of growing up, of taking responsibility. And, if need be, blame.
Up on the mountain, there is absolutely no room for machismo. You can leave behind any preconceptions of what makes a climber—the stereotypical bearded muscleman is not nearly as widespread a phenomenon as you might think. There have recently been several celebrated women climbers (Lucy Creamer and Anne Arran from the United Kingdom; Lynn Hill and Tiffany Campbell from the United States; Kim Csizmazia and Jany Mitges from Canada), and, whether male or female, each climber brings his or her own mental skills to the game regardless of athletic prowess. They will all tell you that true humility and a healthy respect for the mountain in the face of overwhelming odds are essential; that imagination and common sense count for just as much as determination, stamina, great muscle tone, and pure physical strength.
Above all, climbing is about judgment. Because a climber ends up retreating rather than forging ahead doesn’t necessarily signify failure but rather that he or she will survive to try again another day. New climbers are encouraged—contrary to popular myth—to look down, the theory being that when you know what you’re in for if you fall, then you’ll adjust your risk taking accordingly.
I learned much of this information only recently here in Snowdonia. With little formal training and more of the “wing and a prayer” method than is entirely healthy, I felt the need to learn more about the fundamentals of climbing. And so I signed up for a Winter Skills mountaineering course at Plas y Brenin National Mountain Centre, Snowdonia’s best-known climbing school, in the village of Capel Curig.
One thing my class made clear was that all kinds of people climb, and they deal with sticky situations, and success, in as many different ways. Climbing with me was a policeman who, every time he reached the top of a mountain—usually in the teeth of a howling gale—pulled on a pair of pink bloomers over his climbing gear and had someone take a photo.
From all over the world elite climbers come to Snowdonia to train to be guides or to hone their already considerable skills and pass them on to others. They will climb with Iain Peter, Plas y Brenin’s chief executive, or with Martin Doyle, the Brenin’s director of training, who in 1999 independently guided a group to the top of Everest. Other Brenin-trained guides have been instrumental in the success of countless expeditions worldwide. And then there are the people for whom the biggest thrill of it all is their trolley-dash through the outdoor-clothing store for lavish, and preferably expensive, equipment in preparation for their adventures.
For me, in the end, one of the most appealing aspects of the climbing experience—aside from the exhilaration of the climb itself and the privilege of enjoying the stunning views from the top—is the deep-reaching effect it has on relationships and group dynamics. You can’t hide your feelings about the mountain from your fellow climbers—a sort of exposure that is initially daunting but ultimately satisfying.
And as a climber you can’t hide from the mountain—there’s no getting away from it, whether far afield in some distant country or here in the beautiful and ancient landscape of Snowdonia.
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