"Let's Go Climbing!" was written by legendary climber Colin Kirkus as an introduction to the sport of mountaineering. One of the most engaging books ever written, it was read and revered by both Joe Brown and Don Whillans. In the world of British climbing, there is probably no greater compliment.
"Let's Go Climbing!" gently takes the reader through every aspect of mountaineering, from British hillwalking through rock climbing and winter mountaineering to Alpine ascents. In the latter part of the book, Kirkus describes his own exploits in the Alps and Himalayas, including his Alpine-style ascent of Bhagirathi III.
Chapter 1 Why do we climb?
It was cold and bleak when I reached the summit of Snowdon at 5.30 on Easter Sunday morning.
I had been climbing all Saturday, and had returned in the evening to the little climbers hut in the Ogwen Valley, where I was staying. Most of the others were drifting off to their bunks, but it was such a lovely night starlit and frosty - that it was more than I could resist. So I collected a little food, pulled on my sodden boots, found my ice-axe, balaclava helmet and gloves, and set off, a little after midnight, with a strange feeling of high adventure.
It was wonderful to be walking across the crackly frozen bog, all alone in the night. I experienced a satisfying sense of freedom and all sleepiness was driven away by the keen air; I felt I could keep going for ever.
Soon I reached a slope of hard snow and had to cut some steps. I cut with a steady rhythm, and got very hot and sticky with the hard exercise. It was almost as light as day, with the moonlight on the snow, and I had no difficulty at all in seeing where I was going, until I got into the shadow. Then a kind of chill seemed to descend on me and all the snow looked even and featureless.
I had a short rest when I reached the crest of the rounded eastern ridge of the Glyders and then set off on the 1,500-foot descent to Pen-y-Pass. It was very rough and stony, and the moonlight played queer tricks. I would step on to a firm-looking rock and find it was a deep hole, or else I would prepare to jump down a drop of four feet, only to be brought up with a jolt after a few inches. After a little practice you learn to take up these shocks in your knees, so that you can run quite safely, even in the dark, down a steep rough slope, without any danger of a sprained ankle. The fact that you are wearing heavy climbing-boots instead of shoes makes a great difference, of course.
I passed by Llyn Cwm-y-ffynnon, a beautiful little tarn, now half frozen over, and reached Pen-y-Pass (the top of the Pass of Llanberis) at about 3 a.m. It was quite an eerie business, climbing over the rickety stone wall with all the caution of a cat-burglar, so as not to arouse the sleeping occupants of the hotel. My nailed boots made a loud ringing sound as I crossed the main road and set foot on the Snowdon massif, which was my objective.
The rest of the expedition was pure joy. I made my way, first along the crazy path and up grass slopes, and then up slopes of snow where sometimes I had to cut a few steps. Then came the rocks, a mere scramble in summer-time and not difficult even now, though they were glazed with ice in places. And finally a narrow snowy ridge brought me to the summit of Crib Goch.
Crib Goch is in many ways the most lovely peak of Snowdon. It is just over 3,000 feet in height, and from Pen-y-Pass appears as a sharp cone. But on the other side is a narrow ridge, which is justly famous among mountain-lovers. I shall never forget crossing the ridge this Easter morning. The hard snow was piled up to a knife-edge on the crest, while on the right it dropped in an almost vertical wall of white. The slope on the left was easier, but still quite steep. The snowless valleys were almost invisible, so that there was nothing to be seen in front but this narrow gleaming moonlit edge, dropping down into nothingness. I felt as though I was poised in the air, on the very top of the world.
All around were snowy summits, dropping weirdly into the inky blackness beneath; they looked almost like clouds. Yet there was no atom of danger to take my mind off all this magnificence; I knew the place well and felt perfectly at home.
I was feeling warm and exhilarated as I made my way through this enchanted scene, over the spiky pinnacles and up the rocky ridge of Crib-y-ddisgyl, and on to y Wyddfa, the summit of Snowdon. It was 5.30 now and beginning to get light. The moon seemed to have lost its brilliance, and the snow was a dead unearthly white, cold and spectral. A chilly wind had sprung up and I shivered as I forced my way into the old wooden hut on the summit. The door was jammed with frozen snow and it was a tight squeeze to get in.
There was no furniture inside nor glass in the windows, and the floor was covered with a thick sheet of ice. I ate a little food, but my fingers got frozen as soon as I took off my gloves, so I just stamped my feet and shivered and waited for the sunrise.
The east window was almost covered by a framework of feathery icicles, and I kept watch through a ragged hole that was left in the middle. All the valleys were filled with mist, with the peaks standing up clear above, like islands. It got slowly lighter, but no warmer. Then presently a scarlet glow appeared above a level purple bank of cloud lying on the horizon, and soon the red sun, looking queerly oval, came into view. As soon as it rose above the cloud it changed to gold and made the icicles in the window gleam like diamonds. I could feel its warmth immediately and grew cheerful and comfortable again in an instant.
