Carlisle Mountaineering Club Newsletter July 2025

July 2025 NEXT CLUB EVENTS

The weather was mainly very good lots of sun with only the odd spot of rain, it was even warm enough for Mike to wear a T-shirt and Tony & Sue went swimming. The main crags we went to were about an hour away in Geyikbayiri valley but it was a good chance to see the area and experience the “Whacky Races” style of Turkish driving – thanks to Dave and Sue, our chauffeurs for the week. The climbing was generally on very good rock but I found it harder grades than Kalymnos (or indeed Kendal Wall). There was more than enough in that one area to keep us amused but we also had a day at Akyarlar beside the beach with a horrible path to get down to it but it was worth it once there and I think it was my favourite crag.

very tasty Chilli and to Lizzie for the beautiful rhubarb crumble for our Saturday evening meal it all went down very well.

The last time I made it to a crag was the Castle Rock meet which true to form after weeks of brilliant weather produced a heavy downpour with a colourful rainbow. Not before we had completed a good few routes though and it gave Rob a bit of excitement finishing Failed Romantic.

Adventure in Peru 1982 – by Ray Cassidy

Back in early ’82, one of by Durham college pals, Dave Harries started talking about a trip to Peru. The goal: Alpamayo (5,947m) supposedly the most beautiful mountain in the world and Nevado Cayesh (5,721m), whose northwest face was then unclimbed. In hindsight, “clueless” doesn’t quite cover it – though had we actually gone for it, we’d have been attempting what would become a “proper job” of an alpine route. 

At the time, the northwest face we were eyeing hadn’t yet been climbed and it wouldn’t be until 1986 (when some real climbers – Jerry Gore and Terry Moore succeeded). The only successful ascent of Cayesh up till then was by a New Zealand team in 1960: 21 days up, 7 days down. Their line of ascent? The ridge we’d casually pencilled in as our descent! 

It was a motley collection of four Durham college pals: Rob Gregory, Dave and Caroline Harries and myself. Joining us were Steve Tansey from Manchester and Gill… whose surname I have sadly forgotten as I never saw her again after that trip as far as my addled grey bits can remember. We flew with Viasa Airlines – and I watched my rucksack vanish into the Lima baggage system at the end of the trip, never to be seen again. But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

Capital, Chaos, and the Cordillera Blanca 

Lima was a lesson in vigilance. We stood guard in shifts at the bus station, ice axes in hand, while gangs wandered by eyeing our kit. The Sendero Luminoso had just bombed a power station, to kick off their insurrection and boy soldiers with rifles dotted the capital’s street corners. It was a bit tense! 

The bus rolled north for hours along the misty Pacific coast, past empty beaches and desert ridges, before turning inland. As we climbed, the hills turned greener, llamas appeared as desert became altiplano. Suddenly as we rounded a bend, there was the first snowy peak of the Cordillera Blanca, Caullaraju in plain view. Gobsmacking.

Huaraz – the Chamonix of the Andes, was home for the next few days – specifically the top floor of Pepe’s Hotel, an unfinished concrete slab of a top floor, recommended by Steve’s mate, Mick Fowler, who had been out to Taulliraju earlier in the year. Bare bones and multiple hygiene hazards, but decent views, especially north to Huascarán and to wedding parties and mud brick makers down below..

Eyes on the Prize: Into the Quilcayhuanca 

After supplies and a few beers, we headed into Quebrada Quilcayhuanca with a solo German lad called Thomas. He was off to solo Nevado a nearby peak, Nevado San Juan; while we were heading to weigh up Cayesh. Pitec locals, who we’d been warned to steer clear of, shouted a bit, but we weren’t stoned – which in 1982 was considered a win. 

The valley was easy-going at first, a vast u shaped furrow in the mountains. After a fairly long day we left the track and made a comfortable camp. Next morning, we climbed over slabs and rubble to reach the glacier edge that finally should have given a view of the West Face of Cayesh if the cloud hadn’t rolled in. The lower half we could see was steep, grey, and properly forbidding with its fringes of enormous hanging icicles. The mood turned. One look, 4 knotted stomachs and we all realised without a word, it was far beyond us. We slunk back down to camp. 

(It would be two more years before the mountain saw a second ascent – and four before anyone got up the face we’d been contemplating.) 

Eventually, we reached our jumping off point, Cashapampa. We found a father-and-son arriero team, and after a cold night loaded the burros. The trek in was idyllic – alpine lakes, rushing waters, granite walls and blue skies: tempered by donkeys with digestive issues and some particularly vicious biting flies which seemed to really pick on Rob. After a day and a half’s trekking, we set basecamp in the cirque in view of Alpamayo’s south ridge at 4,260m. It was a completely stunning spot. 

The next day as we got used to the altitude again, I took a wander up the glacier. The air was thin but dazzlingly clear, and the views of the Rinrihirca and Pucahirca peaks stole the show. There was a huge melt pond already forming on the glacier tongue – an early sign, even back then, of where climate “things” were heading. 

First Attempt (Wheeze) 

We set off up to the glacier between Alpamayo and Quitaraju, planning to cross the high connecting ridge between them and access the Ferrari route across the next glacier. As the day wore on it was clear that Steve wasn’t well – the altitude was hammering him – so we dug a snowhole below the ridge and spent the night there. Next morning we set off up the steep slope to the ridge but Steve hadn’t got any better and he insisted that we left him there to rest and chill.

Back in basecamp, I rather cleverly crushed my thumb between two cobbles trying to build my camp kitchen wall. The pain was “not nice” and the colour was soon equally “lovely”. Over the next couple of days something ripened nicely under the nail. 

We briefly considered an alternative mixed face in our basecamp cirque, that looked like a kind of Creag Meaghaidh on growth hormone: until we watched a massive avalanche rip down it. That closed that door. 

Here We Go Again 

After a couple of days of mooching, we came up with a theory… the snow would have settled by now! It was time we set up for the return match. Steve stayed in basecamp this time having still not acclimatised comfortably to that altitude. We three climbed back up to and over the ridge in a oner and spent the night in a snow grave under a freezing, clear Milky Way. (I reckon it’s places like this that sow the seeds of the back ground music to the Alien series of films 😉) It was surprisingly comfortable, if you ignored the nerves

Next day, we tackled the glacier again, weaving through a series of truly monster crevasses. I was gifted the job of testing snow bridges – being lightest.  

We started climbing upwards after a couple of hours and soon reached the bergschrund. It was time to dig in again. I felt oddly energised considering I was usually the weediest of the four of us! I beavered away and helped dig most of the hole, and then watched one of us accidentally knock part of the roof in. Some quick Eskimo snow block work patched it up. 

I stayed outside quite late soaking in an incredible high altitude sunset and the stars as night fell. And guess who ended up the crap corner of our palace! As I squirmed into my sleeping bag and shifted around for comfort, my arse pressed against the back wall of the shelter.. which promptly  vanished into the bergschrund. That made for a twitchy night.

The Face 

We were up early, knowing an adventurous day was in front of us. The overhanging headwall of the bergschrund forced a traverse left; Dave then led steep ice to regain the runnel of the route. I led through next, kicking upward into the flutings. At some point after a few pitches, I had a weird dizzy spell a complete absence for a few seconds – puzzled why there was this cold blueness in front of me. For a second I had the notion I was riding on top of an open top  London bus… possibly a petit mal seizure? I was right at the end of my pitch on lead. The moment passed, shaken and stirred, but still in place. A belay was quickly created. 

A little later, the cobble-crushed thumb – now blackened, bulbous and very painful – decided to pop. Right through the nail. I carried on up, oozing quietly into my good old Dachsteins. 

The Fallen 

About five pitches in, a shout, from Dave and Rob above, warned me not to look up. I did, of course. A dead climber’s leg was poking skyward out of the snow, half-buried. We’d heard something about a body left on the mountain, but seeing it in the flesh – as it were – brought a sense of discomfort over all of us. 

A couple of pitches later, amongst  a forest of contorted Mr Whippy snow ridges, Rob clipped into the belay, turned to me and said, “F*cking hell, I’m out of my depth here!” That left a slightly sick feeling in my stomach. 

Two more pitches and we were just below the summit ridge. I belayed off a proper ice screw for once, while Dave launched into the final section . Near vertical postholing through armpit-deep sugar. An hour of frozen caster sugar torture ensued as Dave precariously gained the 80 feet or so of progress we needed. Eventually, he disappeared over the crest.

Far down below we could see 4 figures on the glacier.

Somehow, we got down without further incident. The final ab landed us almost on top of the snowhole.

Out and Down 

The following morning, a more leisurely start and we descended the final thousand or so feet down to the glacier. Our trail took us to the people we had seen earlier. They were a German crew, dead friendly and very pleased to have watched us climbing their objective… Qitaraju! I’m not sure what they read into our expressions as those words landed 😉 

It took several pidgin “Germlish” minutes to demonstrate that their hill was the other side of the glacier. They’d followed our furrow

Somewhere, back down in the Santa Cruz valley, we ran into a well-supplied group of American trekkers. They shared snacks with us and said they might have bumped into Caroline and Gill a few days previously. They were interested in our tall tale of the past few days and left with a cheery wave goodbye. Perhaps 4 hours later, an apparition, a man with two burros turned up and offered to carry our gear.

A couple of hours later we were back with the same Americans being fed watered and beered, albeit in the cooks tent. That evening was a great craic with a nice bunch of people. Sadly they couldn’t carry much of our kit the next day but that was fine. We were now almost able to keep up with them.

When we walked into Cashapampa they were still there for more craic. The village kids coming out of school showed us their immaculate handwriting and relieved us of our remaining sweets. The final gift was the trekking team ushering us onto their truck for the ride back to Caraz.

An Epilogue or Two

In Caraz we were rejoined by the ladies before heading back to Huaraz to collect some bits of kit and then back down to the capital. Back in Lima, we lounged, then rebooked flights – the new term loomed.  At the departure gate baggage check in, my rucksack exploded as it hit the conveyor, and Viasa staff just shrugged. I saw it in a baggage cart, rolling across the tarmac and that was the last I saw of it.

A decade later, Dave – the catalyst behind the whole trip – was killed in the 1992 Pakistan International Airways disaster approaching Kathmandu. His credit card was the only trace of him ever recovered. At his (and the other PyB and Manchester crew’s memorial at Plas y Brenin, I learned we’d been the first British team to climb Alpamayo by the Ferrari Route. But that wasn’t really important.

What mattered was that we’d done something big. I’d gone well out of my depth, we’d leaned on each other, and come back changed. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I see that sky above the snow grave, or Cayesh’s grey face rising from the mist, and feel that familiar churn of awe and fear in my stomach. And every now and then wonder what Dave would have been up to! (This is a shortened version of the original online account on my own blog).