pumpkinstrokemarrow

When I was at college we spent a lot time thinking about (or least being told about) how many statistical distributions wind up as normal distributions, aka bell curves, when the spans get large. So interesting to come across another example, in the context of another hand me down from Surrey Libraries about a climber called Alison Hargreaves and written by Rose & Douglas; a biographical companion piece to the 'Into Thin Air', which I acquired some years ago from a bookshop in Laguna Beach, the same day as I came across a chap checking the timbers holding up beach side properties for ants - ants which carry on a bit like our wood worms. To go with the 15 or so other books which I have about reaching into places which are very cold, very high or both. Must say something about me that I have them and it is certainly true that I am a lot more tolerant of cold than hot and that I am a lot better at endurance sports than sprint sports (better being understood in an entirely relative sense here).

Alison Hargreaves was a very talented climber who had a rather messy life apart from climbing. A messy life which included two quite young children, which I think should disqualify one from sports with as low a life expectancy as this one. The authors point out, for example, that of the people who get to the top of a mountain called K2, only about two thirds get down again. Alison was part of the other third. The disqualification even stronger in this case in that Alison was a mother, the loss of which I believe to be a more serious matter than loss of a father, even in our liberated age.

I was reminded of the bell curve by the authors setting out the life cycle of a sporting life. One starts quite slowly; the thing is no big deal. Then one realises one has talent, gets hooked on and progresses quite quickly. Parents, friends and coaches pushing hard too. Then one peaks, holds that peak for a bit, then gets tired of all the hustle & bustle and moves out of competition, losing form quite quickly. Then settles down into a slow decline into old age. Still retaining some core skills, still able to do it, up to a point.

Mountains being an odd sport in that one perhaps gets into it for love of the mountains and the open air. The love of the rush one gets getting to the top, or coming over a ridge or a pass and gazing out over the blue green yonder stretching out below. The sense of oneness with the other, a sense which I believe is mixed up with what Freudians call the death instinct - and not because one is tempted to jump off, rather because of the oneness. Death by merger not by trauma.

But then one gets competitive. One starts having expectations and worrying more about coming up to scratch than enjoying the mountains. And competitive can come to include all kinds of funny rules about what sort of climbing is allowed. Is one allowed to use rope at all? Is one allowed to be roped to someone else? Is one allowed to use rope that other people have strung up? Ditto ladders. Is one allowed help, with other people carrying one's luggage up the mountain for one? Is one allowed to hammer pegs or bolts (for additional support or safety) into the rock face? Is one allowed to use pegs which are already there? Is one allowed to trudge up the snow steps stamped out by someone in front - which might sound a bit picky but which can make a lot of difference when one is up in the death zone. Is being helicoptered to the start of the climb OK or should one hoof it from one's bivvy? Is bottled oxygen OK? What about the raft of other chemical aids that olympians gets excited about? It all gets terribly complicated and starts to seem a long way from getting a buzz gazing down over a ridge.

A gazing which, incidentally, is in my limited experience greatly enhanced by having climbed up to the ridge in the first place. The chemicals released by sustained exercise do something which just being dumped there by cable car or whatever misses out on.

Then there is the business of fear: the sort of climbing which Alison did was dangerous and was only possible at all if one learned to conquer fear. Not to be too thrown by the fact that one's spikes were resting on a couple of millimetres of ledge and that was pretty much all there was between you and the bottom of the cliff. And keeping this up for hours at a time. And being cold and tired at the same time.

Alison had the additional problem of money. She decided that she was not going to be a big enough star in rock climbing so switched over to mountain climbing, which last as well as being an endurance rather than a sprint sport, comes a lot more expensive. Suitable mountains tend to be in far flung places and one can't just potter over to the sea cliffs for a spot of climbing after lunch. One needs to have a considerable private income or be famous enough to command sponsorship deals. Sponsorship deals which need media charm and a steady stream of media friendly achievements. Something else driving you along, on top of the considerable competition within the climbing fraternity to be thought the best, or at least in the premier league. A need for a steady stream of achievements which seems to have been at least part of what pushed Alison up one too many mountains.

All in all, an interesting read about a very talented climber.