Hell’s teeth. The spectre of back surgery, which I’ve been trying to dodge for the last ten years, is upon me. In two days time I’ll be in a London hospital having an operation to remove small parts of the L4/5 and L5/S1 inter-vertebral discs, which are compressing the sciatic nerve root thus causing pain, numbness and loss of strength in my right leg and foot.

A typical surgery patient…
I should be ok as long as my nose doesn’t light up and go beep.

2013 has been too challenging in terms of disruption, chronic pain and disability. Here’s to a successful outcome – meaning the symptoms resolve, and here’s to a motivated rehabilitation, strong recovery and a graduated return to being active. I have a list of goals and they all require a fit healthy body.

Here’s to good health!

To Hatch a Talented Complainer

I recently dipped into a blog by climber John Appleby: ‘To Hatch a Crow‘, and came across him espousing the merits of stripping vegetation from mountain cliffs whilst at the same time taking issue with winter climbers who climb rock routes such as Great Corner – a vegetated summer E2 on Llech Ddu which received its first winter ascent in January. There’s not many things in climbing that I dislike but one thing that winds me up is closed-minded superior attitudes amongst climbers; unfortunately sometimes found amongst some Brits who predominantly climb one style, usually trad. You probably know someone.. Great Corner in winter makes a classic mixed climb – three contrasting pitches giving excellent varied mixed climbing on a wild cliff – in short one of the best at its grade in Wales. It won’t receive ‘that many’ winter ascents because it is both reasonably difficult whilst also not coming into winter condition very often. In summer it rarely receives ascents due to it being a relatively long walk-in (for rock climbers in North Wales) to a route which is ‘good but not ‘that’ good’ on an often damp, cold and vegetated cliff. That said it’s obviously a very good – but not great – rock route. I think it would be fair to say Great Corner would be seen as a good candidate for both summer and winter ascents in the eyes of those climbers who participate in both genres. I recently re-visited the cliff to climb another new winter route with a very well-known all-round climber, who seemed to think Great Corner looked excellent in its winter clothes.

The blog is here: http://tohatchacrow.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/the-ice-warrior-cometh.html

Decide for yourself. The point that stands out for me is the author’s contradictory views on how the mountain environment should be respected by climbers depending on which ‘camp’ the climber belongs to – summer trad or winter trad:

  • On the one hand he’s enthusiastic about stripping vegetation from damp north-facing mountain cliffs in order to keep rarely-climbed rock routes in a climbable state for summer ascents.
  • On the other hand, he shows a complete disregard for winter climbers attempting those same routes on the grounds that this may ‘damage’ the route by scratching the rock on ‘acknowledged classic summer routes’.

Bullshit gif

The great irony, and it’s a bit worrying, is that deliberate stripping of vegetation is the last thing that should be happening on high mountain cliffs because they are the habitat of fragile and rare flora. This is the biggest reason winter climbers in the North Wales are constantly reminded – by the conservation bodies and BMC – not to climb turfy winter routes unless they are solidly frozen; it’s more than just a self-preservation thing, although that’s the first thing in my mind if I’m honest (unfrozen turf placements failing easily). I’m not suggesting either camp is rocking with the angels here; but the blog author’s blinkered assumptions demand to be challenged. Who’s really doing the damage here, and who’s respecting their wild surroundings more? Those who think it’s OK to strip vegetated mountain cliffs of their vegetation in order to maintain artificially cleaned lines for rock climbing, – or winter climbers making an ascent, in solidly frozen conditions, of what nature has placed in front of them?
A guide has been produced, aimed at climbers, by the CCW / BMC, here: https://www.thebmc.co.uk/north-wales-white-guide

More obviously (I hope), telling people they shouldn’t be winter climbing a vegetated route on a damp mountain cliff and that instead we should be spending days hanging on ropes cleaning routes like this just so that they are made temporarily appealing for the occasional summer E2 leader to have their fun on, is such a fucked-up discriminatory idea.

The hypocrisy is clear and I think probably stems in part from the unquestioned activities of climbers over the last half century. I certainly don’t want to lose huge numbers of rock climbs to vegetation, however some battles are worth fighting whilst others aren’t. The reasons to be careful on Llech Ddu are clear, this isn’t a bit of grass on a once-popular but neglected Tremadog VS.

When Nick and I climbed Great Corner earlier this winter the first pitch consisted of perfect mixed climbing up a 35m snowed-up turfy corner; bridging and delicately front-pointing up on small frozen turf blobs with axes in good frozen sticks in the back of the corner. It surprised me to find out yesterday that the blog author’s friend had spent numerous days last summer stripping the vegetation out of that first pitch (and in the process neglecting to clear up the masses of his unsightly static rope left hanging from the cliff).

Thankfully he gave up his destruction before ruining an acknowledged classic winter route. ๐Ÿ™‚


Depending where your outlook places you on a spectrum from Fatalism to Free Will, it can be argued that each moment is pregnant with the consequences of the taken, or mistaken, step.

Edward Whymper wrote ‘.. look well to each step, and from the beginning think what may be the end.‘ His words hint at a philosophical view which believes there are a multiverse of consequences which swim, unseen, like dark matter around every moment of our existence. Some climbing – like violence, driving fast or any other risk-management activity, may be addictive partly through its capacity to amplify awareness of the unseen to the point where the practitioner experiences feeling ‘more alive‘.

I wonder whether one day processing power will reach a point where it can suck in theย  billions of variables inherent in the complex dynamic system of human decision making in risky situations, and rapidly create a probability forecast of the consequences of our decisions. The forecast would be streamed in real time to help inform us about the wisdom of our next move – from a business venture to deciding to set off up a difficult climb. We do this everyday using a limited range of inputs to form simple on-the-go heuristics. Having more beta would be like living the flash instead of the onsight. Deep Blue predicting our next move on a chessboard of life.

Or, if you believe in the fated path, your life’s trail has already been blazed. All you’re doing is following it.

Dave was a pilot flying commercial jets for a regional airline in the far north of Canada. We meet up on a bitterly cold morning in Kananaskis Country just south of Canmore. He’s happy and excited because he’s starting his long-awaited Captain’s promotion course tomorrow. It’s Dave’s first day of the ice-climbing season so we aren’t gunning for anything difficult, King Creek seems like a sensible option. Earlier that year we’d rock climbed on ‘Canada’s longest sport route’ as our first outing together. It went fine, but ‘Canada’s longest sport route’ is over-egged: good enough, but not really deserving of the accolade when there are so many finer pieces of rock in that vast country.

The day was Canadian mid-winter cold. After moving to Canmore I’d developed a temperature heuristic: snot froze in the nose on the walk home from the bar at anything colder than around minus 15 degrees C. Walking in up the log-jammed creek that morning our snot was frozen, along with our toes and fingers. Not a day to have an accident; or so we thought.

We arrive below a slabby M4, gear up and do ridiculous calisthenics in an attempt to force some warmth through our bodies. Tricky slab-climbing to a crack. Just like Wales but not rimed. We do one pitch and then bail from the crack due to too much snow, oh the irony! We decide to head further up the creek to a wide area containing some easy ice routes. A group are there top-roping under the supervision of their stereotypically generic guide. Alpha male in Arc’teryx soft-shell, probably likes carpentry.

We each lead a couple of easy ice routes, enjoying the warm movement and care-free atmosphere. The guided group starts to pack up. It’s getting toward the end of a bitterly cold day, even for Canadian climbers. Minus 22 degrees C in the January afternoon gloom.

One more? We head further up the creek.

There’s a good-looking pitch of WI4 where the narrow creek opens out into vast alpine terrain beyond. We drop our packs at the base of the icefall and uncoil the ropes. I lead the route and anchor myself at the top. An impressive WI5+ ice pillar cascades down the wall behind me. Dave climbs up to me. It’s late now, the group left long ago and we’re alone. The winter sky quietly watches us.

We remark how good the ice pillar looks. Shall we take a quick look? I decide to set off up the pillar.

It’s steep and there isn’t any gear.

Can’t place a screw in the skinny pillar, I’ll have to reach the solid ice on the headwall 40 feet above.

I go up and down the first 10 feet, listening to my inner.

Will I won’t I will I won’t I will I won’t I? The CPU quietly hums, fan whirring to keep the elements cool in the deeply frozen air.

I won’t. Ego and a probability heuristic combine and deliver an answer. A memo from accounts arriving in a 1950’s mail room, delivered noiselessly down a vacuum tube. I retire for the day, content.

Dave says he’d like to take a look… Ok.

We swap ends of rope and he starts to climb.

He’s a mid-grade rock climber, a busy family man, a professional pilot. It’s his first day ice-climbing of the season but he’s got experience climbing hard ice in Alaska, he’s not a gym rat and not an ice climbing wad. Neither of us are.

The ice is steep, hard, unhooked; and unprotected for a long way.

He’s swinging and moving confidently upwards. He reaches forty feet up. There aren’t any runners in. I watch him, processing, the fan quietly whirring….

He’s swinging, his muscles are fatigued and his axes are bouncing off the bullet hard ice. He isn’t fit enough.

He’s pumping out and I’m watching it, blatant. It’s Probable. The processor quietly hums… The next stage.

Right tool in a poor placement, he swings ineffectively with his left tool and it bounces off the ice. A second swing, a second bounce. Heavy panting. Not fit enough. Half-way up, crampons. No runners. Unforgiving violence; or morning coffee and lessons on the Captains promotion course? Dave reaches the cul-de-sac. The poor right tool pops out of the ice and for his prior lifetime he’s airborne; if only he never landed.

Ice screws and carabiners noisily jangle as the weakest of the four fundamental forces instantly wakes up and slams Dave with bone-snapping force into the hard ground from 40 feet.

24 hours into the future a pilot receives a phone call: ‘a place has become available on this year’s promotion course, can you make it?‘.

I kneel down next to him. Leg-bones point sideways. Blood is there. ‘Oh my god it’s broken’ are his words, adrenalin masks some of his horror. It’s bitterly cold, it’s dark, we’re alone, a pitch up, hours from medical treatment. He’s fucked.

I lie to him and tell him it’s not bad and that he’ll soon be out of there. Legs strapped together with a sling he’s lowered, screaming, back down the previous ice pitch. I follow by abseil. We discuss how to get out back to the road. Crawling – dismissed. Carrying – dismissed. Hobbling – not a hope. I wrap him in everything we have and leave him to his demons in the cold dark night of the creek.

There’s a ranger station not far along the highway from where we left the car, hopefully there will be someone there. I take his keys and run down the creek for an eternity but is really around 20 minutes. I reach the car and for a fraction of a second acknowledge that I’ve always wanted to test drive this model of Suburu. The ranger station has a light on in the wilderness like in the films. I bang on the door. Canadian uniforms, radios, authoritative voices summoning a volunteer rescue team by telephone. Can I escort two paramedics ahead of the main rescue party?

Off we go back up the creek with the two inadequately clothed medics. It’s very cold and they’re out of their depths. We reach Dave. It’s been two hours since I left him and three hours since he smashed into the ground. It’s bitterly cold. Afterwards he told me how he was sure he was going to die of shock or hypothermia and had began saying his farewells to his wife and children, lying in the snow in the dark cold night. The thought brings tears to my eyes. The two paramedics start to unpack their cases full of equipment. The vials of painkilling morphine have all frozen solid and are useless. I rage inwardly. This is Canada in winter, don’t they put drugs in fucking insulated cases? –ย  but these people are just trying to help out a couple of silly climbers. The medics shuffle around, shivering uncontrollably. We put some morphine vials under our armpits to try to thaw them out. It doesn’t work.

The rescue team arrive half an hour later with a big old man in charge who’s a force. They package Dave into a large orange plastic sledge with a dirty perspex shield. Won’t be able to see much. The two medics are escorted out by one of the rescue team, they’re gone, with incipient frostbite. Dave has seriously broken bones and hasn’t had any pain relief since he smashed into the ground and we’re about to spend hours dragging him down a rough creek bed. The next couple of hours pass in an exhausting blur of dragging, screaming, and more dragging. We reach the road at 1 in the morning, the big leader guy lets me lead the drag for the last 50 metres. I thank him silently. A week later I’ll write him a letter thanking him and his team for being there that night. Solid oaks in a storm.

Dave’s transferred into the waiting ambulance; bright and warm contrasts starkly with the cold dark. The rescue team and medics go off for pizza in the ranger station. They invite me along, I decline and never see them again, I want to be alone. I drive Dave’s car back to where I’d left my little honda with the studded tires. I get in and remember the heater doesn’t work. It’s minus 25 and I’m hypothermic, shivering uncontrollably and trance-like as I drive the 45 minutes home to Canmore. I arrive home to my rented condo with the under-floor heating, dump my gear in the hall, and go to bed.

The next morning I don’t mention much about the previous night to my housemates. Blood on goretex soon washes off. I try but fail to reflect. I’m tired and a bit numb like after an alpine route, or two-week’s on a full-tac exercise, or a six-month operational tour. It takes Dave a year to come off crutches but his leg will never be the same. Running is out. The last time we spoke he hadn’t ice climbed since the accident.ย  I continue living the life of a climber in the Rockies. I try to remember to look well to each step but it’s an impossibility – a single brain can’t process all the variables at every moment. A processor with finite processing power trying to forecast an enormous, dynamic and unstable system. The sound of jangling ice screws snaps me back to his life-altering impact.

First ascent: Lateo

The Unnamed 1

Below the roof on the first ascent. The route goes through the roof on the right. The steep crack on the left is Travesty Direct.
Photo: Tom Livingstone

Three winters ago, after bailing from an attempted repeat of Travesty Direct on Clogwyn Du, Dave Garry and I decide to take a quick look at an obvious enticing line to the right. A crack line through the steepest part of the cliff looked to provide all the ingredients we wanted in a mixed route – compelling line, hard climbing, impressive position, and a reasonable chance of gear. The hook was baited and we were reeled in and landed like helpless fishies. Since then, my winter climbing in Wales has stalled for what seems like an eternity on attempts at the new route on this deceptively steep cliff.

Tuesday’s conditions are looking excellent. It will be my seventh day of attempts but my first visit for nearly 12 months. If it doesn’t go today, I don’t know if I’ll be able to justify spending any longer trying and failing to climb one route.

Finding willing partners to climb a hard new mixed route with had proved hard. Another hurdle. Firstly, people are understandably reluctant to try something new and unknown when they could go and try a known quantity – winter conditions in Wales are fickle at the best of times; why risk not ticking anything? Secondly, the climbing scene in North Wales, like any walk of life, contains its share of people hamstrung by self-limiting beliefs, many of which seem to me to stem from accepting certain axioms which circulate like disabling parasites looking for a host. Allow one to get it’s teeth into you and you’re fucked by an atrophy of the belief organ that can be chronic. Luckily for me Tom Livingstone is keen for a look – the right mix of youth, cheerfulness, ambition and ability to contrast with my innumerable years, focus, and drive to see this project finished. Tom hasn’t been around long enough to dissuade himself from trying hard so I’m safe from any negativity other than my own.

On arrival at the cliff it’s obvious that the variables are set up in our favour. Fluffy thick rime coats the rock – dry rock with no verglas. Temps are easterly cold yet there’s hardly a breath of wind, making for comfortable climbing. The turf is frozen solid. The only unknown will be ourselves.

An age getting ready. Food, a little chat, hot juice, the usual. Racking up and going through the quiet psyching-up process inherent in trying something you know from previous attempts is going to be difficult and which is likely to involve falling off… silently mantra’ing, bigging up, constructing belief. Make-believe.

‘just go for it’, ‘most of the gear’s held every time’, ‘just go for it’, ‘don’t leave anything behind on the ground this time’, ‘you’re good enough’, ‘you’ve worked hard for this’, ‘100%’.

I set off. The gear crib sheet I’d written after last winter’s final attempt proves wrong at the first placement. And the next. No worries, plenty of time to rest before committing to the steepness above. Leaving the rest ledge I start to execute the moves as I’d rehearsed hundreds of times in my head. It’s obviously hard but feels ok. I start to struggle as I reach the point where rehearsal stutters into 12 months worth of faded memories. I’m on overhanging ground, on a tenuous right hook trying to find something useable for my left, strength ebbing, my borrowed time ends and I’m in flight as the tenuous hook pops. The gear holds, I hit the slab with a thud but it’s ok. I’ve now hit the slab in the same place seven times. There’ll soon be a 5’10” imprint of a mixed climber. I’m lowered to the ground. It’s over. Relatively unfit after weeks of bolting but zero climbing, I’m doubtful that I’ve got enough juice left in my arms for success this day.

Tom’s eager for a look. I silently wonder to myself if I’d be as keen if it was me in his place looking at the route for the first time. The eagerness of youth! He gets to the lip of the roof and tries my beta, as he starts to move leftwards a tenuous hook pops and he’s airborne. The slab below receives him. A recalcitrant axe needs retrieving from where it was left above the roof so Tom goes back up with one of mine. Impressively, as he reaches the in-situ axe he accurately deposits mine onto the ledge below and continues questing onward into the harder climbing.

And then he falls again, slightly further on than before. We’re both shut down by the steepness and blind hooks. It’s all oh so familiar, it’s never going to happen, and I’ve wasted 7 valuable days of Welsh winter climbing – a whole season! – on an over-ambitious dream.

An hour has passed. I absentmindedly re-rack, the process consigned to autopilot by now, expecting to be stripping the gear and bailing in 10 minutes time. Rhubarb and Custards provide momentary tangy pleasure and the sugar rush essential for a falsely confident approach.

Starting the stein pull feels more cumbersome than last time. Internally: ‘No chance, I’ll just have a little huff and puff and we’ll bail‘. Reach through to hook above the bulge and match. ‘Not feeling strong after last time‘. I decide in an instant to try something different to the moves which I know work and which I’d rehearsed a hundred times in my head over the last two years. I’m on steep ground on tenuous hooks but I’m making progress. Before I know it I’m at the crack, but pumped. ‘No chance of holding on for much longer‘. A wire goes in, but the angle’s steep and the position strenuous. ‘I could just slump‘. A move upwards is made. I change. The internal polarity instantly switches from – to +. Ice caps melt. The internal dialogue becomes fiercely positive, an affirmation of commitment, I am not going to fall until everything has been given.

Everything isn’t required. I prove myself right to have dreamed as I nervously reach the belay ledge and secure myself. Three winters on, I’m where I want to be.

Clogwyn Du proj 5

Shaking the pump at the start of the hard climbing. Photo by Calum Muskett from the belay of Travesty, during a previous attempt in 2012.

Advice to people who suffer long-term back pain

This is for active people, it may not be good advice for sedentary people.

I’ve had disc-related back pain on and off for the last 10 years. During that time there have been month-long periods when I couldn’t walk more than 100 metres without needing to sit down in order to stop the breath-taking nerve pain. I’ve had long periods of bad sciatica down to the foot in both legs (thankfully not at the same time). There have been many flare ups after doing something that was too much for my back. I’m currently experiencing a flare-up which has been going on for four months so far. It took me a long time to fully understand that my pain is a mechanical issue, with some mind-trickery thrown in as well.

My advice is stay as active as possible. That might sounds obvious but when I say active I mean really active, to the point that it’s border-line whether you’re going to do it more damage. I’m currently bolting dry-tooling routes across roofs inside some slate mines. This involves the sort of hard labour that would trouble many people with healthy backs. I start the day hurting and finish the day feeling amazing. The most important thing is to build up your all-over body strength so that when flare-ups do hit, as they inevitably will, they knock you down to a level which is still respectable for a normal standard of living.

As any self-help snake-oil salesman will tell you, it’s important to listen to your body and ease off at times. But this can be counter-intuitive – I’ve had many days when I felt I probably shouldn’t be doing what I’ve been doing but afterwards I’ve felt amazing. That may sound trite but I think these are the times when you make progress from inability to ability. Keep the gain made by knocking back some heavy dosage of ibuprofen to avoid sliding back again through muscles over-tightening or nerve fibres becoming too irritated from activity.

A surgeon once drew me a sketch which showed the body’s decline into ill health that we’re all destined for eventually. He illustrated how his surgical procedure would put a little halt on the path of the slide by drawing a little right angle like a step. Everyone’s bodies will have different inherent rates of decline (I figure). You can put yourself in a position where you can slow, but never halt, that rate. That’s what I mean by building up as much all over strength and being as active as pain allows.

Learn and practice good posture, read books on body mechanics and imagery, and do core strengthening/stamina workouts every day for the rest of your life. You probably know that. If you decide pain-killers are needed, go large dosage and combine with caffeine for increased punch. Otherwise do without. I generally use pain-killers after hard physical work to give the irritated nerves around the disc a little breathing space and hopefully not slide back into pain. Lastly, don’t hang on one person’s opinion, especially physio’s/chiro’s/whateverio’s.

Understand it’s a mechanical fault, it’s not all in your head. But also notice how emotions do affect pain levels. If you’re grumpy the pain is often worse. Beware of the potential for a downward spiral – the pain can make you grumpy, the emotion can enhance the pain level.

An Xmas Gift

It’s a satisfying feeling in any sphere of life to follow an idea through from conception to completion. The initial bubbling up into consciousness, via research – sometimes just finding out what to research, to carrying it out in action. Climbing’s no different.

I discovered the perfect dry-tooling crag on xmas day whilst out for a nosey based on hunches and a bit of research. As far as dry-tooling crags go this one’s the best I’ve seen in this country. It ticks all the right boxes:

High (30m+ in places), a variety of angles from vertical walls to horizontal roofs, with a predominance of slightly overhanging 30m pump-fests. Natural holds with interesting features, torquing cracks from baggy to thin, lovely sweeping visual lines crossing exposed walls. Quarried. Beautiful location with gorgeous views. Short walk-in. Close to home. Unsuitable for rock-climbing? – that’s debatable but it’s dark, damp and dirty. However, akin to Devil’s Gorge it could clean up to provide impressive long sport routes given a dry spell and a thorough scrubbing – it’s the sort of place someone like me would be all over cleaning and bolting as a sport crag except for a: it’s December and, b: I’m as keen about mixed climbing as I am about every other discipline. They could be dry-tooled every day of the year no matter the weather (it’s sheltered enough) and there are already enough sport routes in the region, but not enough amazing dry-tooling routes, so this is going to provide the most fun dry-tooling ever whilst I’m also hopeful the routes might make decent sport-routes in summer to give a truly unique venue!

Together with the climbing in the mines lower down the valley, this is going to turn Crafnant into a dry-tooling nirvana. How bizarre is that. That it’s going to come about in one of the quietest, most secluded and beautiful, and strongly traditional, of North Wales’s climbing venues makes it all the more special.

A gift that will keep on giving for years. Woot woot. All down to following through on an idea. ๐Ÿ™‚

New Routing Inside A Mountain

Back up to the mountain cavern today for round 2 of bolting across the roof. I like a lot of things about this place – the way the evergreens in the valley remind me of BC, how the silver colored, lichen-blotched Dolerite outer contrasts with the slate and iron-ore internals of the mountain, the attractive roll of the land. I’m also appreciating how spending time in this mineral-rich zone seems is rejuvenating my stock of shoulder-season depleted mojo.

Music blasting, aid bolting along a roof by myself inside this immense cavern feels like pure freedom – the freedom of a road trip in a wide open wild place. Joyous! An esoteric and ridiculous way to spend a dark December day which has me leaving in the dusk covered in grime and glowing. Hanging from 60mm of stainless the only decisions that matter here are my own – if I make a bad one I’ll be punished. Just how I like it.

Aside from the physical freedom I’m buzzing from creating. Something real and good which other climbers are going to buzz off, and something which will hopefully show up new possibilities to get pumped stupid whilst climbing brilliant lines in a wild place. The route we’ve started to create is going to be awesome – an overused, but in this case apt, word. And very cool. At this new Welsh dry-tooling-orama there’s a lot more potential waiting to be realised, but only by aid-bolting troglodytes willing to spend time alone hanging from the roof inside a mountain.


As a kid I used to enjoy computer flight simulator games, I think it was on an Atari ST or one of those old-time 2nd or 3rd generation home computers (there was a rivalry then between Commodore Amiga and Atari ST which probably tells social observers something fundamental about you.., like Betamax or VHS, BBC or ITV). Anyway I remember wanting to do this flight simulator game ‘properly’ – as in I wanted to set the settings to the most realistic and difficult level and learn what to do as if I were learning to fly a real aircraft; of course this meant I could barely control the pixelated plane and had to spend ages reading instruction books about how boring things like fuel calculations and trimming to compensate for crosswinds (which didn’t really exist). When I could have just been having a laugh and doing what my friends were doing which was deliberately crashing into bridges (training for something??), or doing virtual loop-the-loops without even knowing how to correct from an incipient spin if they messed up. Huh!

I have the same obsessive approach towards climbing. I fixate on doing things ‘properly’ (to me), like when I decided to start trying harder and did eight 7c’s, four 7c+’s, two 8a’s, before allowing myself to do an 8a+. Because that makes sense and makes the difficult outcome more probable, and means you’re a proper climber at grade xyz instead of someone who got lucky. Or something. I realise it’s ridiculous.

Twenty years down the line from computer flight sims, after botching-up one of my first real-life attempted solo landings sans-instructor and making the decision to ‘go-around’ in the Cessna 152, I’d find myself at tree-top height, failing to gain altitude and staring through the cockpit glass at the deciduous trees surrounding Ormond Beach airfield in Florida getting closer by the second. Why wasn’t I gaining height? Carb-heat ‘off’, dumb ass! Flaps up in stages! Just in time the plane gains height and, barely clearing the tree-tops, I re-join the pattern to make another approach.

I land, taxi to the hard-standing outside the flight-school building and shut her down. None of the other students or flight instructors sunning themselves on benches outside had noticed the clueless rookie almost plough an airplane into the golf course. So I don’t mention it… I go off for a Bud and a cheeseburger and prepare for the next written exam.

Land of the free.. gotta love America.