Fighting to preserve Finedon Slabs for future generations. 

Whenever some scrotty tottering chosspile of an obscure Lancashire quarry is threatened by further quarrying, housing development, or simply the vegetation reaching such a level of luxuriance than it is no longer possible even to find the crag, Activist will be fighting to save it. His “Save Running Sore Quarry” thread will be universally ignored, but he will keep bumping it regardless since he knows, deep inside himself, that someone out there cares. Eventually, he will persuade like-minded Activists to form a working party and turn out, armed with machetes, helmets, body armour, flamethrowers and riot shields, to remove the excess vegetation, trundle the loose rock, and render Running Sore Quarry a safe and attractive place to climb. Having taken several casualties among the neck-high nettles, rampant brambles and the occasional escaped triffid, they will finally succeed in approaching the base of the crag where they will trundle the loose rock, removing most of the existing routes in the process, climb a new route on what holds remain and then return triumphant to the forum boasting of the progress so far and appealing for more volunteers to join in next weekend. This will be greeted with widespread apathy, which only confirms to the Activist that he is uniquely and praiseworthily dedicated in his desire to give up his spare time, sanity and quite possibly life to preserve this important and interesting venue for future generations of climbers. When he eventually gets squashed by a falling block, eaten by an escaped big cat or buried under the three million tons of landfill he is trying to divert, the forum will breathe a sigh of relief and quietly dispose of the “Save Running Sore Quarry” petition in the recycle bin.

The survivors of this process will end up running the BMC. Someone has to.

“I don’t like this.”

Loose snow breaks away beneath a crampon.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

The gravel underneath offers no purchase.

“Please let me get out of this. I won’t do anything this stupid again, promise.”

Lunge desperately with the single long axe and blessedly, mercifully, the shaft plunges full-length. Feet up, another deep plunge with the axe, spare hand punching numbly into the snow, and at last I’m stood on something reasonably structural and can take notice of something other than imminent death.

First route of the season, a couple of days after a heavy dump of snow. We didn’t really intend to be climbing, weren’t looking for a particular route, but when we walked into the cwm the gully looked reasonably complete and not too steep and so we sandbagged ourselves into climbing it. Which is why I am standing halfway up, slick with cold sweat, hands numb in their sodden fleece mittens, ducking occasional pieces of falling ice, and earnestly wishing for waterproof gloves, a helmet, two axes and all the other comforting paraphanalia that goes with being a climber rather than a slightly mis-placed walker.

Onwards and upwards, trogging up the snow to a frieze of dangling icicles hanging off a little lip. There is water running down the rock behind them, and the ice coating the boulder blocking the gully is clearly not long for this world. I take the safe option and boulder round the side with one of those awkward stick-your-foot-in-your-ear-and-stand-up moves, made even more awkward by having spiky metal on each foot and hence being in danger of nailing my own ear to the rock.

Above, blessedly, the snow is good.

Dan and I top out to the last rays of the setting sun and scamper to the summit. Suddenly the fear and the hot-aches seem entirely worthwhile.

Another adventure has been survived.