800 Feet Above the Irish Sea
Solo climbing before "Free Solo"
photographs by Paul G Ryan and Edgar Boyles
June 1976
It had been a long time since I had been around the climbing scene, since my first few and only climbs. I never learned to climb well, though I always wanted to. I remained fascinated, from a distance, with the great climbers. From my few experiences years ago, I realized the skill and more importantly, the crucial judgment, necessary. One has to anticipate every move, be precise, the consequences can be grave. These were valuable life skills. And it was exhilarating.
I had been filming a few documentaries for ABC Sports as cameraman— skiing, kayaking and other outdoor activities. One day I got a call from Scott Ransom. They were going to Wales to make a film on cliff climbing, followed by one on the speed skiing trials in the Italian Alps. He asked me to be part of the camera crew, primarily because of my ski film experience, certainly not my climbing. Edgar Boyles, a Yosemite and Himalayan veteran of severe climbs filled that role. Scott is a skilled filmmaker, with an engaging sense of humor.
Our personality focus was to be on the American climber, Henry Barber.
Henry was the best free climber in the country.
Hot Henry. With flamboyant style, he took chances others would not. As good as anyone’s was his ability to look at an unclimbed route and assess his moves in terms of his ability. That’s important in rock climbing. Particularly in on-sight free soloing: climbing with no roped protection and, equally perilous, with no previous inspection of the route.
Also, not said but implied, was a competition with the best of the local Welsh climbers, particularly Al Harris and Peter Livesey. All very good in their own right.
It was a circuitous drive from London to the Welsh towns of HolyHead and Anglesea, passing signs naming towns with multi-syllabic names impossible to pronounce:
Llanfihangel Tre’r Beirdd….Rhosllannerchrugog,
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogog
On our afternoon scout of the cliffs, weathered granite rising eight hundred feet straight out of the Irish sea, our perspective was unique.
We stood on the grassy pasture lands near the top, looking down along rocks that plunged straight into the breaking waves.
It was a dicey walk down to the small ledges near the sea where the climbs would start.
The wind blew off the ocean. The rock surfaces were wet and slippery. It reminded me of climbing the Yosemite route near the waterfall.
Al pointed up to a route called Strand. It was difficult. It had never been climbed solo, let alone “on sight” : climbing it without inspection. Henry considered it but without commitment.
That afternoon Al, Henry and a couple other Welsh lads climbed Dream of White Horses, a less severe but visually spectacular route. From half way up I could see across the channel to Ireland, and the ferry boats that regularly made that crossing just as the local Welsh Pubs were hit by the afternoon closing. On the ship, bars were open.
“Henry,” Al yelled, “we could be in Dublin by six o clock...”
That night at the Black Boy Inn, an ancient local pub…
A gathering mecca for climbers and local fishermen, Henry reconnected and celebrated with several Welsh climbing friends. Then after several pints of the local ale, they put Henry to the test of hand held traverses across the pub’s wooden ceiling rafters... It was a local tradition, a rite of passage.
Late into the night after more ale and ego prodding, Henry committed to free soloing Strand in the morning.
In the light of the morning there were second thoughts. Henry had second thoughts but he didn’t want to back off his promise of the night before.
I had second thoughts. All our film crew had second thoughts. No one wanted to see Henry’s sense of obligation to us result in a tragic fall, let alone have it on film. Climbing this route unprotected, free soloing, would mean any fall would likely be fatal. A three hundred foot fall caroming off rocks and into the Irish Sea.
In the end Henry said he was going to do the climb whether or not we filmed it. Scott made the decision. We would film it.
Edgar and Scott made roped ascents beside Strand for their camera positions. I was at the base, for a view of how high Henry was climbing and to film the reactions of the other climbers watching. Halfway up, there was a difficult passage. Fatigue was a factor on this climb and Henry’s leg started trembling. Sewing machine knee, it’s called.
Henry’s friend Kim left. She didn’t want to watch. Al, usually ebullient, was visibly tense. He spoke to me in hesitating sentences.
As I filmed, I thought of my own situations that have been filled with uncertainty and danger, when I was alone, without the knowledge that what I was trying was even humanly possible. Flying my airplane into remote backwoods strips, skiing in avalanche prone mountains….
For all the camaraderie in Wales, up on the granite wall of Strand, Henry was on his own.
“Any fear that arises in you, you have to control and cut off… you have to piece a rhythm together…” - Henry
He made it.
After that there were other climbs.
For the Welsh climbers, particularly Al Harris, “the edge of danger was different than for you and me” .. to paraphrase F. Scott Fitzgerald. On a drive back from town with Al in his beat up Mini Cooper, distracted by his own conversation, he made a sudden U-turn in front of an approaching large semi-trailer truck. We could have made it, but his car stalled in mid road. Doubtful if the truck could stop. I was about to open the door and bail out when Al’s engine started and we escaped. Barely. Al seemed unperturbed, “that was our road, I had to turn…”
There were times at other pubs. I’m not very good at striking up conversations with strangers at bars, but in Wales I found it impossible not to converse. It’s the condition of admittance.
It was 1976, the bicentennial year of American independence. On the way out of town we stopped in a small village for a coffee – on a rock monument in the town square was annotation of historical local dates. Every date of significance was carved into that rock. There was nothing noted after 1725.
Later that year Henry and Kim stopped to visit me in Santa Monica. I had planned a trip with my friend Deborah to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico in my Cessna airplane. Why don’t you come along? They did. There were no rocks to climb. For once, I think Henry enjoyed that.
Excelente'
Really special read as his son. Hope we all get together at some point. -Scott