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In Search of Gary Gibson

Words by Mick Ward -‘The sins of youth live on in the minds of critics; all that’s good, conveniently ignored.’

May 31^st, 2019

Bell Hagg, long ago

January 1978. Huge fluffy snowflakes drift into an eerie silence. I trudge the length and breadth of Crookesmoor, in Sheffield. Someone told me this was a student area. I’m looking for somewhere to live, a room in a shared house, a bedsit, anything. It’s five days since I left Delyth in Keighley and fled to Dave’s, in Bradford. But Dave’s bleak gaze is cold as charity. This is my fourth consecutive day of coming down to Sheffield on the bus, looking around for somewhere to live and going back up again. For each of the previous three evenings, the minute I got in, Dave’s looked straight at me and said,

“Found anywhere yet?”

Put enough effort into anything and you’ll get a result; it may not be the one you wanted but you’ll still get a result. I find a place in a shared flat opposite Kelvin Flats. Back then, Kelvin Flats was notorious for people getting free televisions on their heads. When I walk past, I always look up. Chas, my flatmate/landlord, is up to all kinds of dodginess. I leave, get a nicer room near Ecclesall Road. But then the owner abruptly decides to sell the house and turfs us all out. I find a bedsit near Hunter’s Bar.

After bringing my worldly goods down from Bradford on the bus, I walk into the Labour Exchange. The bored clerk flicks a few cards, idly picks one up. I take the first job offered – window cleaning. Every night, after work, I bang out hundreds of words on my battered, gun-metal grey Olivetti. Writing will be my life’s work. I have no earthly idea that I’m heading for ultimate disaster.

One day, in the street, I meet someone I used to know, from the Humphrey’s Barn coterie of climbers in Llanberis Pass. He stares at me, turns away. Sheffield must be full of climbers but I don’t know any – well, apart from him. In fact, apart from the window cleaning guys, I don’t know anybody.

Sometimes I walk up to Broomhill, take the bus to Lodgemoor and go soloing at Bell Hagg. A few years before, when I was running up pretty much whatever I wanted in Wales, the Lakes and Yorkshire, I passed by Bell Hagg and effortlessly ticked the crag. Now though, I’m crap, really crap. Too many brain cells lost arguing with Delyth?

I rarely see other people there. But one day there’s a lean, slightly gangly guy, with red hair. We boulder and solo together. I quickly realise that he can effortlessly reach past stuff where I have to make one or two more moves. But it doesn’t matter. We establish a rhythm. I begin to enjoy myself and, of course, when you enjoy yourself, you start to climb well again. Along the way, he drops a few clues. By the time we part, I’ve got a pretty good idea who he is.

Forty years later, I email Gary and ask him. Yes, he went to Bell Hagg in 1978. And no, unlike me, he never went back.

People give me the eyes

Autumn 1991. It’s one of those mellow autumn days that seem to go on forever. Dave, Steve and I tick route after route after route on Clwyd limestone. Below us, the valley falls away. It should be idyllic. But it isn’t.

From across the way, comes the intermittent, raucous buzz of a drill, shattering the silence. Dave jerks a thumb dismissively.

“It’s Gary bloody Gibson – and some bloody mate of his.”

He glares across. And, it seems, they glare back. It’s as though there are waves of menace, of hatred almost, flowing to and fro across the valley. I don’t know what to think. I’m pretty sure Steve doesn’t either.

This is the first time I’d heard a drill at a crag. Should the place be getting bolted? I’ve no idea. Clearly Dave’s not happy with things. He glares some more.

The Man They Love to Hate, Wolfscote Dale

One thing of which you can’t accuse Gary and his mate is laziness. Their work ethic is unrelenting. They’re up and down, up and down. Gary tries one line, fails, tries another, fails. At the end of the day, they’ve cleaned and bolted several routes, worked a few, but not actually topped out on anything. Dave turns to me, viciously grunts,

“You check he doesn’t claim these routes today – ’cos he’s not bloody well done ’em.”

The peace of the day is shattered. Dave and Steve go home. I wander off to one of my favourite places, Maxine’s Bookshop, in Llangollen. But I’m uneasy. There was so much anger in the valley. Dave, normally the most easy-going of people, was furious. Gary and his mate, seemed to give off a, “F*ck you – I’m doing it anyway!” kind of vibe.

Afterwards I check the routes. They weren’t claimed on the day we were there. But some of the names are ominous, disturbing. One simply states: People Give Me the Eyes.

What was I expecting – a monster?

Mid 1990s. As Karl Smith and I walk into a newly developed crag by the river, near Buxton, there’s a chunky figure cleaning from an ab rope. No prizes for guessing who it is. I stand underneath, gaze upwards and receive a gruff - but polite and entirely deserved - rebuke. Standing underneath someone cleaning is indeed pretty dumb; add it to the long list of dumb things I’ve done in climbing. It’s just after the Harpur Hill debacle and emotions are running high. But I can see no earthly reason why Gary shouldn’t be bolting here. If I recall correctly, the rock doesn’t run to trad; certainly Karl and I have no qualms about enjoying the routes which Sid and Gary have provided. Once again I’m struck by Gary’s unrelenting work ethic. He never stops.

Having covered the Harpur Hill saga in a prominent climbing magazine, I’ve a sneaking suspicion that Gary’s wondering whether I’ll be stirring it with Ken Wilson. But I don’t. I’m a climber not a journalist. Harpur Hill was Harpur Hill. And this is this.

Something Karl mentions intrigues me. He’d met Gary at another crag and enquired about some new routes. Gary took his address and said he’d send him details. Back then, he didn’t really know Karl, so just sent them addressed to ‘The Climber’. But – the important thing – he sent them promptly. You’ll say it’s a small point and yes it is. But to me it’s significant. Most people would have meant to send stuff but just wouldn’t have bothered. Gary did what he said.

The next time we meet, he seems to have thawed considerably. I’m guessing he didn’t receive ranting telephone calls from Ken so realised I hadn’t been stirring.

And then we seem to bump into each other regularly on Peak limestone. My impressions of him are markedly at odds with that day on Clywd. He seems reasonable, polite, well mannered. What on earth was I expecting – a monster?

***

Back at Harpur Hill, the bolts have gone back in, courtesy of Gary. The first time around, Sid and Bill got a flood of abuse. This time, there’s nary a murmur. Gary shrugs and says, “Maybe it was a bit early...” And maybe he’s right. Maybe it was a bit early and Sid and Bill innocently walked into a ton of undeserved flak.

***

At Harpur Hill, I have a quick play on Sid’s route, Power of Sole, knowing that shortly the sun will be on it and it’ll be game over for the day. But then, as the sun comes round the corner and hits the wall, suddenly I can’t resist. Michèle belays me. I hit the first crimp, which feels as though it’s been dunked in grease. Slap wildly for the next - same story. Feet skid as I clip and slap again. And suddenly it’s no longer climbing as we know it but a brutal bare knuckle fight where the first person to give in loses. And it’s not going to be me.

With a brutality I scarcely knew I possessed, I slap and skid to the break. It’s a piece of piss from here to the top but I’m almost delirious with nausea. If I faint, I’ll have to do the lower section all over again. I push away the blackness long enough to carry on, clip the anchors.

Back down, I feel ashamed. This wasn’t climbing; it was brutality. Michèle shouldn’t have seen it.

Turns out Gary also saw it. Tactfully he makes no comment. And for this I am profoundly grateful.

“Don’t go back!”

Early 2000s. After 23 years living in Sheffield, I’ve upped sticks and moved to Portland – climbing paradise. Only problem is there’s nobody to climb with. Scratching round for something to do, I get a drill and start new routing in earnest. Sure, I’ve done the odd new route, here and there, but have never really been that bothered. At fifty, it seems a bit late to begin. But there’s nothing else to do. Even when lines are cleaned and bolted, it’s hard to find belayers.

So when I bolt a huge arête in Wallsend and months go by, it’s decidedly frustrating. By chance, I bump into Gary and his wife, Hazel. Generously they agree to forgo their own plans and help me out.

Because of bands of relatively soft rock, the lower wall has very spaced bolts indeed. Not a place to fall off. I reach better fare above, press on. I’ve made the classic equipper’s error of underestimating the difficulty. But it doesn’t really matter. I’m hanging off a little flake, reaching to clip the anchors when, without any warning, the flake snaps, hitting me in the head. I take a big lob. Although I know, from previous experience, how much even trivial head wounds can bleed, I’m losing blood at an impressive rate.

Gary lowers me to the deck and tells me to lie down. Hazel and he lean over me to inspect the damage. I imagine them rising, looking at each other and shaking their heads with grim finality. Thankfully they don’t. With some loo roll wrapped around my head with finger tape, I’m good to go. A gentle drizzle has descended. Hazel, dog Lulu and I clamber across greasy, slippery boulders to get out of Wallsend. Gary disappears for some more mischief. Before he leaves, he looks hard at me and delivers a stern warning. “Whatever you do, don’t go back on this tomorrow!” It’s sound advice but, as so often with sound advice, I ignore it. Before, I was moderately frustrated, hanging around for months, waiting to do the route. But now it’s personal. I bloody well want it.

Next day I’m back with my (non-climbing) partner, Michèle. Boulder hopping across Wallsend isn’t really her cup of tea but she gamely manages it. The base of the route has a coffin-shaped block, with a monster red bloodstain. Ominously she stands in it to belay.

On the route, the truth of Gary’s warning quickly comes home. I’m shaken, feel sick, facing possible groundfalls going for the first few bolts. Nevertheless, once again the relative sanctuary of the middle section is reached. Onwards I go, everything seems fine and once more I reach to clip the anchors.

This time it’s not just a flake that snaps, it’s as though the rock explodes. I take another massive lob. There’s a sizeable block heading straight for Michèle. I scream at her to get out of the way. She does – just. I lower off and we stand there together, surveying a block lying smack in the middle of the bloodstain where she was belaying. There’s a stench of cordite in the air.

Suddenly, belatedly, I come to my senses. What the hell have I done? Barring a miracle, Michèle should be dead now. What would I feel, seeing her body beside me? How could I explain to her mother?? We leave Wallsend and I, for one, am sadder, older and wiser. A little voice in my head murmurs insidiously, ‘This is what happens when determination becomes obsession, when you slip across that line. Gary was right. You should have listened.’

‘You should have listened...’

At around this time, Gary says two other things, to which I definitely do listen. Both concern Hazel, a very private person. Gary states bluntly,

“If Hazel ever asks me to give up climbing, I will.” Although he quickly qualifies this with, “But I don’t think she ever would!”

Nevertheless the resolution is there. I remember giving up climbing decades before, for Delyth. (She was terrified about my soloing, even though it was under control.) I remember the ache, the sense of loss. Gary knows full well what he’d be losing. But he’d still do it for love of his wife.

When Gary confides that Hazel is in remission for cancer, I’m horrified. Tactlessly I blurt out,

“But what if it comes back?”

“If it does, it does,”

Those five words hang in the silence between us. There’s an eternity of pain in them. I look at him more closely. This is someone who has suffered terribly. He’s filled with pain. It’s almost seeping out of him.

With people, there are lines you sometimes cross; once crossed, nothing can ever be the same again. This is one such. Gary has my friendship, for as long as I live.

Some kind of insight into Gary’s psyche

Over the years, Gary’s occasionally mentioned writing an autobiography. I’ve always been encouraging, though knowing full well that most good intentions remain simply that. And, as Flaubert caustically observed, ‘You don’t make art through good intentions.’

But (remember that letter to Karl, back in the 1990s?) Gary’s the kind of guy who does what he says. And suddenly 100,000 words have appeared. How much hard work is that, do you reckon? Answer - a lot!

I spend my life trying to create the literary equivalent of tiny Font arêtes; by contrast, Gary’s delivered a stunning Alpine ridge, going on and on into the sky, with dizzy precipices falling away underneath and mist swirling all around. Sure, it needs a bit of loose rock clearing off, here and there and that’s exactly what we do. Those 100,000 words come down to a more manageable 80,000. Although this sounds long, believe me, there’s something happening on every page. There’s no fluff, no filler. Trying to cram 40 years of frenetic activity into 80,000 words is like stuffing a suitcase with clothes until it’s well-nigh bursting.

Now obviously it would be entirely remiss of me to review a book in which I had a hand, no matter how minor. So this isn’t a review. But, after spending months poring over the detail, what it has given me is an insight into Gary’s psyche.

In a way, there are two Garys – the brash upstart of the first 10 years of new routing and the much more thoughtful Gary of the last 30 years. That’s not to say that the last 30 years have been entirely free of controversy but I think most people would agree that, somewhere along the way, the balance changed.

As with soloing, new routing is a distinctly minority pastime. Most climbers have soloed the odd route or two but these days it’s increasingly rare to come across people who’ve soloed thousands of routes. Again, although it’s not uncommon to have done the occasional new route, new routing, as a sustained endeavour, is also the preserve of the few.

A kind of death

While most people think of soloing as risky, few realise just how dangerous new routing is. Yes, there are days where it’s simple stuff and everything goes right. But there are also days when things go badly wrong. I’d suggest that, if you do more than, say, 100 new routes, the chances of you nearly losing your life are pretty high. Ask Gordon Jenkin. Ask Gary. Ask Martin Crocker. There’s a Crocker route, chillingly entitled, ‘One Day I Won’t be Coming Back.’

And there’s also a chapter in Gary’s book entitled ‘A Kind of Death’, when everything goes horribly wrong and the bullet in the chamber is pointing right at him. What happened – and how he dealt with it – is heartrending. The Gary who survived, severely traumatised, was forced to consider the results of his actions. With supreme irony, as he lay in a coma, hundreds of miles away, a meeting was being convened to strip Pembroke sea cliffs of his bolts. When he recovered, he could have fought on – but instead he chose to bow to public opinion. And it wasn’t that his resolve had lessened. After his accident, he was so weak he couldn’t do a single pull up, yet his first route back was a pumpy E3 and his second a scary E5!

Not everything before his accident was bad and not everything since his accident has been good. Nevertheless the balance changed – and changed remarkably. Nowadays there are new generations of climbers who simply applaud a man who’s given them well-nigh 5,000 new routes to go at. But there are also those whose opinions were formed a long time ago and who simply won’t forget – or forgive.

I guess, in the end, it boils down to whether you believe in redemption. Can a man truly reform, revisit the mistakes of his youth and do his best to effect redress? I believe in redemption. I believe that Gary’s redeemed himself again and again. Cleaning up old crags which have fallen into disrepair? Rebolting other people’s routes? No glory in that. But he does it. And more.

Gary won’t be with us forever; nobody will

GG after a heavy bout of cleaning and ‘absorbing’ Peak district limestone

If you’ve not done a lot of equipping, it’s hard to imagine just how hard it can be. One day, while climbing with someone who ironically is one of Gary’s most bitter critics, we bumped into a young guy who’d just about got through his first day’s bolting. Despite being an 8a climber, he was utterly wrecked, cleaning and bolting a line which really didn’t take that much work. This isn’t meant to be at all snide – he simply wasn’t used to the effort involved. Gary routinely does half a dozen such lines a day.

Little things. In scary situations, I like sunlight on my back. Irrational? Of course. But see if you feel the same. Going out in the gloomy hours around dawn, abseiling into forbidding sea cliffs, no-one else around, no hope of salvation if anything goes wrong... it’s a very different experience to anything most mainstream climbers ever encounter. It’s what he does. In the immortal words of Leonard Cohen, ‘But I guess that those heroes must always live their lives... where you and I have only been.’

Gary won’t be with us forever; nobody will. Already he and I know that we’re placing bolts which will be around long after we’re gone. So be it. Gary has given more – much more – than any of us. All I would ask is that you keep an open mind. Sure he got some things wrong. But, in my view, he’s got a hell of a lot right. Can a man redeem himself? Can he finally slay his demons and go on to achieve true greatness? You decide.