Jerry Moffatt - Jerry Moffatt - Revelations

Its the summer of 1983. Im twenty years old, standing alone by the side of the road. The sun is blazing over the beautiful mountains of Snowdonia in North Wales. The Llanberis Pass snakes down from the slopes of Snowdon itself, flanked on both sides by some of the greatest and most historic cliffs in the country: Dinas Mot, Carreg Wastad, Clogwyn y Grochan, Cyrn Las and above me, the greatest of them all. A towering pyramid of stone dominates the skyline a quarter of a mile up the steep rocky hillside Dinas Cromlech. Two huge black walls, almost a hundred and fifty feet high, dominate centre of the crag, forming an open book. This is where the best climbers of the last hundred years have added the greatest climbs.

I look up. Its midweek and the crag is practically deserted. I see only two climbers just starting up a long, easy route on the more broken rock on the left-hand side. I pick up my rucksack, heavy with ropes, climbing hardware, rock boots, chalk bag and harness, and begin the hot slog up to the cliff above.

I know whats coming, but Im keeping it a secret from myself.

I promised myself I wouldnt do this again. I had decided to take a step back for a bit. Only yesterday Id fought my way up one of the most famous unclimbed sheets of rock in the country, Masters Wall on Clogwyn Dur Arddu. I came so close to death that I told myself I wasnt going to do anything dangerous again for a long time. And today, thats why I need to pretend. I just want to lead a few routes, I tell myself. Ill get up there and find someone hanging around who doesnt have a partner and who fancies a climb. Well team up and climb together for the day, taking turns to lead and second the climbs. Itll be a nice day out.

Almost believing this, I soon arrive hot and sweaty at the base of the corner. Its deserted. Of course it is, but Im here now and Im ready. Standing in the centre of the great black corner I look at the familiar climbs that I have worked my way through so far in my climbing life. These climbs, with their increasing difficulty, are markers Ive passed while growing stronger and more experienced. I see the line of Cemetery Gates, Joe Brown and Don Whillans exposed E1 crack climb up the very edge of the right-hand wall. I put on my worn rock shoes and chalk bag, leaving all the heavy ropes and hardware behind and, dressed only in a pair of shorts, climb the long, vertical pitch. It takes less than five minutes. It feels incredible to be climbing in total solitude with such a vast feeling of space and the freedom of having only the climbing to think about. Any thoughts of danger or safety are left a long way below. Near the top I hang out from the rock on two good holds, look down at the space beneath my feet, then to the road a long way beyond and let myself take it all in. What a place to be.

At the top of the crag, I down-climb Ivy Sepulchre. Three years ago, this had been my first ever HVS lead and as I solo down through the crux, memories of my struggle that day flood into my mind. Soon I arrive again at the base of the big corner. On the wall opposite Cemetery Gates, a thin crack climb splits the otherwise featureless face. This is Left Wall. Graded E2, I had led it two years before, fighting metal wedges into the thin cracks, clipping in ropes to catch me in the event of a fall. Today, with only fingertips inside the crack and the ends of my toes smearing on the rock, I cruise to the top with ease. I run down again and on the way, look up to see the other two climbers still about their business on their V Diff. I imagine they are enjoying themselves in the sunshine. On the ground again, I solo Cenotaph Corner, one of Browns greatest routes, blasting straight up the central corner. I have never done it before and its relatively low grade hides the fact it is a desperate solo. At a hundred feet I have to fight with slippery crux moves, palming my weight against the greasy walls, without any real holds to hang on to. Momentum carries me through.

I am on fire. I am having one of those unforgettable days when everything comes together: the place, the situation, the weather, the climbs, my fitness, my desire and my state of mind. Without a rope or protection to save me if I make a single error, one miscalculation means death. But nothing I do, no matter how hard, feels like a battle today. It feels like destiny.

Memory Lane, the left edge of the left wall, goes by in a blur. Foil, to its left, is harder and steeper than the other climbs. I did it a couple of years before, when it was a good breakthrough into a new grade, my first E3. It has desperate climbing, strenuous and pumpy, but it follows the safety of a good crack that swallows protection. Today, without the protection, it is just as strenuous. At the top of the crack section, a hundred feet above the rocky ground, I reach the crux. It involves a long powerful move off a flake of rock to a good hold high above. I grab the flake, but it is loose. It rattles in my hand. The rock is steep and I must trust all my weight on this one hold to gain the height I need. The force Im using must surely snap the hold off. I know what will happen if it does.

I cant reverse the moves I have made to get here. I am fully committed. I feel lactic acid pumping through my forearms, the first sign of tiring muscles. I need to do something. I decide to try to knock the loose hold off, and if I cant, then Ill assume its solid enough. I bang it with the fist of my right hand several times. The smacking makes it budge a little further, but still it doesnt come free. There are no other options. I switch into survival mode, calm and detached. Holding the flake, I run my feet up the steep wall, getting my body as high as possible. I suck in a lungful of air and crank all my weight onto the loose flake. It stays put and I grab the good holds above. Relief and joy fill me as I race up easy climbing to the top of the cliff.

At the top of the crag I decide Ive had enough, but once again I find myself in the corner. The hardest route here is Ron Fawcetts recent climb, Lord of the Flies. I led it last year, but it is too close to my physical limit to climb without the assurance of a rope and protection. To its right is Right Wall, Pete Liveseys all-time classic E5, the hardest route in the country in 1974.

Right Wall is steep, with long, hard sections on very small holds. I climb past these sections without the slightest doubt. High on the wall I reach for a very small, brittle-looking flake of rock, like an ice-cream wafer stuck onto the rock. Perhaps after my experience on Foil, I think it moves as I pull on it. Should I trust my weight to this tiny flake? Did it really move? I decide it hasnt. I curl the fingertips of both hands onto this tiny brittle blade of rock, all my weight hanging on it, a hundred and twenty feet up, all alone in the middle of the week on a mountain in Wales.