Wild Wanderings by Phil Gribbon sampler

phil gribbon is a mountaineer, writer and retired physics professor. He has
written for the Polar Record, the Canadian Geographical Journal, the Alpine
Journal and the American Alpine Journal, as well as the Scottish Mountaineering
Club and Irish Mountaineering Club journals. A key figure in Arctic
mountaineering and exploration in the ‘60s and ‘70s, Phil has made over
100 Arctic alpine first ascents and has led expeditions in Greenland, the usa
and Canada. Born in Cannes in 1929 and raised in Northern Ireland, he
moved to St Andrews in Scotland in 1961 and has lived there ever since. Phil
was awarded the Polar Medal by HM Queen Elizabeth in 2014.

Wild Wanderings
A Life Amongst Mountains
PHIL GRIBBON

First published 2018
isbn: 978-1-910745-94-6
The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.
The paper used in this book is recyclable. It is made from low chlorine pulps produced
in a low energy, low emission manner from renewable forests.
Edited by David Meldrum
Typeset in 11 point Sabon by Lapiz
Printed and bound by Bell & Bain Ltd., Glasgow
Text and illustrations © Phil Gribbon 2018

This book is dedicated to Margot my better half who, after contemplation,
let me do my thing, alive to all those wild and wondrous places

Contents
Foreword9
Introduction10
Synopses15
Who’s Who in the Book 21
1. No Entry for the VeePees 35
2. Slalom in the Sun 38
3. No Place to Go 42
4. Getting the Wind Up 45
5. Tour de Baker 47
6. Mayday on Meagaidh 50
7. Stepping Wearily and Back We Go 55
8. Night over the Gorgon 59
9. The Remains of the Day 63
10. The Awesome Cauldron 68
11. The Fearless Alopex 70
12. Catching the Caora 73
13. Three Hits and a Miss 80
14. Summer Seas to Winter Woes 86
15. The Great Prow 92
16. On the Pommel of the Knight’s Saddle 95
17. Imprinted on the Nose 100
18. When I was Sixteen 103
19. Gripped in the Crypt 107
20. Going, Going, Gone 111
21. The Black Stairs 115
22. A Bridge for Troubled Waters 118
23. Up and Doon the Watter 123
24. Five Times Lucky at Ben Alder 127
7

contents
25. Climbing in the Canadian Northland 131
26. Welcome to Farewell 137
27. Time for Tea 140
28. Madman’s Tour 146
29. Dancing with Sticks 150
30. Burn Big Grey Hill, Burn 156
31. Och, My Ould Vibramers 162
32. Last on the List 164
33. Craiglug Lost in Translation 172
34. A Figment of Time 177
8

Foreword
in this collection of climbing tales, Phil Gribbon chronicles episodes
from his long lifetime as a mountaineer, taking the reader from early days
in Ireland, to the Arctic and the Far East, but mostly to Scotland, where he
has made his home. Somewhat after the questioning and irreverent style of
Tom Patey and Geoff Dutton, these stories paint a whimsical, yet at times
profoundly analytical picture of our sport and its practitioners. This hugely
approachable and enjoyable book will be a most welcome addition to our
bookshelves. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.
Chris Bonington
9

Introduction
having climbed, wandered about, argued and drunk with Phil Gribbon
for some 50 years, I suppose I’m in some sort of position to write an introduction
to his book. To comment in a critical way on Phil’s writing is
simply beyond the scope of what I can attempt here: I’ll leave that to other
critics.
I’ve sometimes tried to write about my experiences with Phil and some of
these articles and stories have been published, usually in the Scottish Mountaineering
Club Journal. I say ‘stories’ as well as articles because sometimes
when I write about mountaineering I cast what I have to say in the form
of fiction. This allows me to preserve the essence of the experience while
departing a little from what actually happened. Adopting different names
and backgrounds for the characters also lets one stand back from the facts
and perhaps understand them a little better – it can even work for oneself.
When Phil was in his late 30s and early 40s he had the sharpest, most
sarcastic tongue of anyone I’ve known. Not even the late Archie Hendry
could match him. Woe betide the undergraduate who made some pretentious
or pompous remark, he (less so she) would be sliced in half by a very
sharp phrase. In those days Phil was a man of few words, most of them
sardonic. By this means he taught us, and by ‘us’ I mean the large company
of students he climbed with, to grow up a bit and not be quite so foolish. I
don’t know where the acid came from but it was part of his makeup and we
were very much in awe of him.
Myths about Phil abounded in the student community: he had been in
the Foreign Legion, he had been in prison, there were dark secrets in his
past. My wife once made the ghastly error of asking if one of these myths
was true. She was met by a silence so deafening that ‘neither durst any man
from that day forth ask him any more questions’. This acerbity and a certain
personal aura made him the perfect person to lead student expeditions to
Greenland.
10

introduction
I was chosen to go on the expedition to Upernivik Island in 1969. However,
a first year spent play acting, drinking, and falling madly in love with a
dark haired student with lovely green eyes meant that I failed all my exams
and couldn’t go. In a way, I’d let Phil down and he could just have abandoned
me. But he didn’t. I got a nice little note from him telling me to pass
those ‘durned exams’ and who knows what might happen in a couple of
years’ time. It lightened my despair and I dimly began to realise that underneath
all the bitter sarcasm there lurked something else. Over the ensuing
years I was to learn that he is a most faithful friend.
Two years later, having snared my green-eyed student for life (at least I
hope so!), I got the chance to go on the St Andrews University expedition to
the Cape Farewell region of Greenland and that was where my friendship
with Phil really began.
In the stories I’ve written about climbing with Phil, he appears as the
dour Yorkshireman George Reddle; the fabled dourness and tight-fistedness
of the Yorkshireman seem an appropriate representation of ‘that dour Ulsterman’
(as I once heard a colleague of his describe him). Being ‘tight-fisted’,
however, as one of my stories shows, has nothing to do with lack of generosity;
it is simply a rather amusing quirk of character. I cast myself as Patrick
O’Dwyer: a not so gentle hint at my Celtic ancestry.
In Untrodden Ways (SMCJ, 2007) Reddle and O’Dwyer set out to climb on
a pleasant crag in the North West:
Reddle led through, exclaiming over the excellence of the rock...
To his right was a steep slab devoid of holds, and to his left an
easier traverse… O’Dwyer could sense the temptation of the
steeper way tugging at the older man. He remembered many
times watching the soles of Reddle’s boots vanishing upwards,
remembered also how Reddle would pause before making the
vital move and make some light-hearted remark. Now, he hesitated...
O’Dwyer could sense a trembling in the rope...
‘George,’ he shouted up, ‘it looks much easier to the left.’ Reddle
looked down at him:
‘Don’t you fancy going right, eh?’ It was like a wasp sting
from the past. O’Dwyer winced...
11

wild wanderings
Ian Hamilton, a perceptive judge of the WH Murray Prize entries that year,
said the story was about ‘the age-old theme of the master/pupil relationship’.
And there was the pupil, in his late 50s, being put firmly in his place.
However, as my story goes on to relate, there was an evening in Greenland
when Phil and I canoed back to base-camp across Tasermiut Fjord.
It was late, we were both tired and when, manhandling the canoe up the
beach, I clumsily dropped my end, Phil made a snappish remark. I apologised
at once, accepting responsibility. Somehow, from that moment on, I
wasn’t just another student on an expedition but I sensed that he actually
had time for me as a person. He has always been very devoted to long-lasting
relationships and ancient traditions and I think he perhaps sensed that I
felt the same. Oddly enough, now that I think of it, we had something else in
common: we were both married; none of the others were, and, although Phil
would never in a thousand years have admitted to missing Margot (although
I’m sure he did), he probably noticed that I was missing Angie and that may
have added to the feeling of closeness.
Although stingy with food – he once, rather reluctantly, gave me a dry
rock-cake at the top of a climb on Creag Meagaidh – even more so with
drink, and tight-fisted with money to the extent that to this day he goes
round in the most ragged and antiquated climbing clothes and is delighted
to use other people’s climbing gear (and you certainly wouldn’t want to trust
his), Phil is not at all stingy with the things that really matter.
I remember with deep gratitude a visit he made to us when we were in exile
in darkest Merseyside and my ill-fated career as an English teacher had come
to a shuddering halt in a nervous-breakdown. I remember when I opened the
door to him and we shook hands he just looked me in the eye and said:
‘Are you all right?’
I said, ‘Yes.’
And he said, ‘Really?’
We sat in the garden for a whole sunny afternoon and Phil looked
through Tom Strang’s recently published Guide to the Northern Highlands.
It wasn’t anything he said, but I just felt so much better afterwards.
As many of the stories in Wild Wanderings show, Phil loved going to the
cic hut on Ben Nevis. He delighted in its special atmosphere and jestingly,
but very sincerely, venerated its long-suffering custodians. Our old friend
and fellow Greenland expeditioner, Mike Jacob, captures Phil brilliantly in
some of his articles. In Greenland, Phil was the ‘Gaffersnake’ on our Snakes
and Ladders board. Thus on the Ben:
12

introduction
The shiny new karabiner that the Gaffersnake had discovered
now glinted incongruously at his waist, looking out of place
amongst his small collection of faded old tapes. I think that most
of his gear had been found on a climb in Ireland when we had
discovered every stance littered with abandoned goodies.
On the same occasion:
I looked up to see the Gaffersnake’s loose crampon bindings on
a pair of what looked like old walking boots; Terrordactyls hung
from his wrists and these concessions to modern (sic) ice climbing
matched his miner’s helmet. I remembered him climbing at
Lochnagar with his trusty old walker’s axe, and crampons with
no front points, as we chopped steps up in yet another storm.
(SMCJ, 1993, pp185-6).
The Terrordactyls weren’t even his originally: they belonged to staumc.
Phil borrowed them for such a lengthy period that ownership became mysteriously
transferred.
After a glorious day on Observatory Ridge:
Very early the following morning the Gaffersnake disappeared
out of the hut, apparently, and strangely, concerned about being
late for work. I think he was trying to avoid scrubbing his porridge
pot. I yelled after him, but he was too far away to hear my
shouts questioning his parenthood and merely turned and waved.
(SMCJ, 1993, p187).
More recently Mike has described some of his earlier experiences
with Phil at the cic:
Phil stirred in his wafer-thin sleeping bag. Even as I felt around
for my shirt he was up and had snatched the last ring on the stove.
I sank back onto the bunk as he poured two mugs of someone
else’s tea and handed one up to me. (SMCJ, 2013, p411).
Phil Gribbon is one of nature’s survivors:
Phil, who never wore a watch until he acquired a freebie – and
never, to my knowledge, used a compass, but managed only rarely
to get lost – had managed to take the seat nearest the fire.
13

wild wanderings
Naturally the happy pair had arrived at the hut after the usual appalling walk
up the Allt a’Mhuilinn:
Some strange Irish logic of Phil’s tried to convince me that mine
was the correct introduction to a Club Meet at the cic hut.
(SMCJ, 2013, p412).
I’m afraid this introduction reads more like character assassination, but I’m
sure Phil will enjoy the jokes at his expense and, no doubt, get his own back.
To be serious for a moment, this book is crammed with the life of a man
who has been perceptively absorbed in the mountain scene all his days. His
work contains many subtleties and different levels of meaning – not all of
which are immediately apparent.
One can make much of the master/pupil relationship and, of course, it is
there, but the only actual word of instruction I can remember Phil giving me
was on Shadow Buttress on Lochnagar in 1973.
‘Don’t take such big steps,’ he said. A remark with a much wider application,
I feel. A good teacher doesn’t have to say very much.
On one famous occasion when we camped in spring sunlight by Loch
Maree on the Club’s Easter Meet, our much loved Hon Secretary called us
a pair of ‘skinflints’ for not staying in the hotel. Of course the remark was a
joke, but Phil was aghast:
‘What! We’ve had our dinner looking up at Slioch, utterly at one with
nature and you lot are sitting in a plastic bar...!’
Perhaps George Reddle should have the last word. After a cathartic row
on the way back from a failed attempt on the Pinnacle Ridge of Sgùrr nan
Gillean, when an abseil rope got stuck and all sorts of mayhem ensued,
Patrick O’Dwyer felt the need to make a sincere apology to his old friend:
‘That’s all right, lad,’ said Reddle, lowering the paper he’d
borrowed and smiling his strange smile. ‘I’d get you a drink, but
I’ve left my wallet in the hut.’ (SMCJ, 2001, p.503).
Read this book, then read again, with increasing pleasure.
Pete Biggar
Hon Editor
Scottish Mountaineering Club Journal
14

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