Wild Wanderings by Phil Gribbon sampler
Phil Gribbon’s decades of mountain exploration include over 100 first ascents in the Arctic. Filled with humour, honesty and captivating descriptions of his journeys, this book is the amazing untold story of one of the world’s greatest mountaineers.
Wild Wanderings: A Life Amongst Mountains is by turns thrilling and fascinating, surprising and entertaining. Follow Phil through the ups and downs of a life spent in pursuit of the wilderness.
Phil Gribbon’s decades of mountain exploration include over 100 first ascents in the Arctic. Filled with humour, honesty and captivating descriptions of his journeys, this book is the amazing untold story of one of the world’s greatest mountaineers.
Wild Wanderings: A Life Amongst Mountains is by turns thrilling and fascinating, surprising and entertaining. Follow Phil through the ups and downs of a life spent in pursuit of the wilderness.
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
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introduction<br />
The shiny new karabiner that the Gaffersnake had discovered<br />
now glinted incongruously at his waist, looking out of place<br />
amongst his small collection of faded old tapes. I think that most<br />
of his gear had been found on a climb in Ireland when we had<br />
discovered every stance littered with abandoned goodies.<br />
On the same occasion:<br />
I looked up to see the Gaffersnake’s loose crampon bindings on<br />
a pair of what looked like old walking boots; Terrordactyls hung<br />
from his wrists and these concessions to modern (sic) ice climbing<br />
matched his miner’s helmet. I remembered him climbing at<br />
Lochnagar with his trusty old walker’s axe, and crampons with<br />
no front points, as we chopped steps up in yet another storm.<br />
(SMCJ, 1993, pp185-6).<br />
The Terrordactyls weren’t even his originally: they belonged to staumc.<br />
<strong>Phil</strong> borrowed them for such a lengthy period that ownership became mysteriously<br />
transferred.<br />
After a glorious day on Observatory Ridge:<br />
Very early the following morning the Gaffersnake disappeared<br />
out of the hut, apparently, and strangely, concerned about being<br />
late for work. I think he was trying to avoid scrubbing his porridge<br />
pot. I yelled after him, but he was too far away to hear my<br />
shouts questioning his parenthood and merely turned and waved.<br />
(SMCJ, 1993, p187).<br />
More recently Mike has described some of his earlier experiences<br />
with <strong>Phil</strong> at the cic:<br />
<strong>Phil</strong> stirred in his wafer-thin sleeping bag. Even as I felt around<br />
for my shirt he was up and had snatched the last ring on the stove.<br />
I sank back onto the bunk as he poured two mugs of someone<br />
else’s tea and handed one up to me. (SMCJ, 2013, p411).<br />
<strong>Phil</strong> <strong>Gribbon</strong> is one of nature’s survivors:<br />
<strong>Phil</strong>, who never wore a watch until he acquired a freebie – and<br />
never, to my knowledge, used a compass, but managed only rarely<br />
to get lost – had managed to take the seat nearest the fire.<br />
13
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