Campbell-Kelly -Sunday:

From the safety of my suspended sleeper I cast a beady eye over the off-size gash above. our heads. "Nasty," I muttered, then turned over and put it off for another half-hour. Wide cracks have never been my forte, so I wasn't too keen to get the only one on the route. Halfway up it I realised that this wasn't going to be one of my smoothest leads, in fact I probably wasted more energy squawking than thrutching. 'Blob' Wyvill sat with the patience of Job, and listened to my bitching without com­ment. In a last desperate effort I tied my etriers together, lassoed the big chockstone at the top of the crack and clawed my way gratefully into the roof. In my gripped condition the next few A 1 pegs seemed like A3, but I was soon sitting on a small ledge basking in the early sun.

Blob took the bolt ladder in style and pendulumed Dervish­like onto Easy Street, a fine bivouac which would have been perfect for the previous night. These pendulums can be quite reasonable and good fun. J find them mildly disturbing, but the Blob takes a positive delight in vertical running ... if he lived in Africa he could well put Tarzan out of business. My next pitch also had a small pendulum, but the state of my worn-out boots sent me slithering back to my starting point as the protruding screws on my toes failed to grip the glaciated granite. Blob threatened to increase my daily dose of monkey gland extract and I finally struggled across.

Two pitches later we were on Calaverous Ledge, a huge area of easy-angled rock with a good flat bivvy spot. In comfort we fixed the next pitch and settled down for a leisurely dinner. Both of us were hungry and looking forward to our salami, I carved and shared it out. A few minutes later. Blob vomited his portion back up; hastily I gulped mine down before he could get his hands on it.

The thought of having to retreat and then do that wide crack again made us absolutely determined to plough on unless Blob was completely incapacitated. Fortunately he was as fit as a fiddle next day and just hungry.

"Yonder Blob has a lean and hungry look. He should be just about tuned up for the 'sling shot'," I thought.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Ben Campbell-Kelly and Brian Wyvill

Wyvill: The term 'Curry Girl' is not in fact an item taken from the menu of some horrific back-street Bradford restaurant, but a term of endearment describing those poor lasses who have been enticed into the service of the 'Curry Company' of Yosemite Valley. I stared with hungry eyes as the other Camp 4 climbers used their well-tried seductive techniques to cajole from the girls the most valuable of all currencies for man and bear, food. A week had passed since the Nose and the post-route hunger was still not abated.

My reflections were interrupted by the Boss (Ben Campbell-Kelly): "Come on Patrick, time for the Big Grip." Another piece of theatre was about to begin.

Saturday: It wouldn't have been so bad if we had managed to scrounge a lift the mile or so to the base of El Capitan, but unfortunately the only available transport was a ripped-off tandem. "You pedal, I'll steer," proclaimed the Boss as we. made off past the thronging hitch-hikers on our brakeless­rear-wheel-drive-only-tandem. The tourists stared aghast as we cycled along like some comedy duo. Of course, not only had I all the pedalling to do, but also the haul was strapped to· my back, and the pointed Campbell-Kelly dome gave me the just-about-to-take-off look. "It's currently fashionable amongst we Yosemite climbers," I cried. Fortunately our journey was terminated by the front wheel dropping off, which left us sprawling in the dirt fighting off climbing gear and the ferocious Meccano of the bike.

Sweating beneath the nasty side of El Cap, I became sticky with orange as the Boss chased an uncooperative rattlesnake with one of his expensive cameras. Still exuberant from having made the first El Cap start on a tandem we harnessed the 'Bat Sledge' and jumared to our high point of the previous day, two pitches above the naked scree on the 'North America Wall'.

The Boss had won the dubious honour of leading the notorious third pitch and I hung watching in fascination as his neck grew long on poor pegs, until he disappeared from sight and only the cursings filtered through. The adverts had fooled me into thinking Yosemite climbing was always in blazing sunshine, but now I shivered and muttered dark thoughts, sucking on a sweet from my secret store. The rope went tight and I felt the cold inside, but some healthy language from the Boss reassured me of his abilities and after admonishing the pulled peg, he continued on nut and copperhead. Two hours of chewing and the Boss shouted from the safety of bolt and belay seat. I joined him in space to find a tangle of knitting and cameras.

On the fourth pitch I, too, praised the ubiquitous copperhead and journeyed up the dead rurp-cracks using. a few of the ingenious pieces of ironmongery from our secret factory in North Wales.

Skyhook scraped granite, fingers scraped flakes, and the first bivouac was reached. Royal Robbins must have a good imagination or had a lot of bad bivouacs: the ledge which 'sleeps four' was full of hideous rubble which we avoided by using our hammocks.