Rannoch Mountaineering Club 

www.climbrannoch.co.uk

Mount the Pole... by Gavin Mitchell, August 03

(Click on images for larger view)

	“Gladiators ready? Contestants ready? Mount the Pole.”  (One of the reasons I suspect that programme did not hit Polish TV) I have made numerous visits to the Tatra mountains of southern Poland over the past 12 years, as the wife is a Pole – European, not telegraph. The first time I went out there was when yon wall was still intact and everything was monochrome. Wherever you looked there was clear evidence that this was still very much under the shadow of Russian influence. Railway stations had loads of soldiers travelling from one place to another, the whole atmosphere was, at least to me, intimidating. But hey, I didn’t spend all the time with my wife. God, I hope she does not read this, she’ll remove my only remaining gonad. Before heading off to my first venture into the Polish mountains I spent an evening round at my wife’s uncle’s house with some lads that I assumed to be some distant family members. Bozena (el wiffy) had stayed at home with the close family, or at least the folks I knew to be family. So there I was, the western enigma, listening to these chaps whittering away about why I should buy some cars that had been hand painted, and ship them back to the UK. Hell, why not, there has always been a big market for hand painted Ladas in the UK. Maybe I had misunderstood something in the translation, especially when one of the more ugly ones planted a pot of Vaseline on the table and just sat and smiled at me. Door hinges I thought (hoped). I was being quizzed on what car I drove back in the land of milk and honey, and the answer “Rover” seemed to create no small degree of hilarity. It may well have been because “rover” means pedal cycle in Polish, but in truth they probably knew more about this masterpiece of British engineering than I had realised at the time. Yes, I’ll have another Vodka please, it would be rude not to. As the night wore on, and the house began to sail head on into a heavy swell I began to realise that I was making less sense to them than they to me. But it was all in the interests of east-west relations, one had to do one’s bit. I took my leave and headed off into the darkness of a sprawling east European village. I could have been anywhere, hell I could have been going anywhere, and after an hour of walking about aimlessly with a gut full of vodka in the rain realised I was actually going nowhere. More by luck than judgement I came across the family home, staggered in the door and found the family gathered round a big black and white TV. I promptly asked, in an effort to break the silence, “hey – what’s on the box?”. They all stared at me, I could have been speaking Greek, come to think of it, I probably was. I then topped that by falling flat on my face behind the settee. Yes, what an impression I had made on my new found family. Well, at least I must have made some impression on the uncle and team the previous night, as they were kind enough to offer me the use of a Lada to get to the mountains. Heading off in this old rust bucket I was pleased to make it to the end of the street, and more surprised to actually get to my intended destination. I was mega impressed getting it up to 70mph, yet seemed to be overtaken by countless FIAT 126s. I realised it was actually 70kph. Despite all of that I still manage to get pulled for speeding, and the cops had the damned audacity to whitter on at me without even attempting to speak a word of the Queen’s English. I could not believe how big skiing is out there, it is embedded firmly in at least 20% of evey wordski that these guys were saying to me. Bloody ignorant, and damned bad mannerski. Amazing how quickly people forget that most of the globe had been pink not so long ago. A wee bribe being one of the best understood international transactions resulted in the journey being only briefly interrupted. The Tatra, or Tatry as many call them (could not work out why one or the other) present a very spectacular skyline. Remarkably like the Black Cuillin, but of greater stature. If you can imagine a small town nestling 3,000 feet under the water between Elgol and Loch Curuisk, without the sea, then you have Zakopane. However, maybe you don’t take the same medication as me, so you’ll have to take my word for it, hopefully the photos will underpin my theory. I think it fair to say that over the last 12 years the Tatra have (at least to me) become less appealing. The pressure of tourism has taken all access points to these mountains to bursting point, and last year it took forever to find a place to park. Access into the mountains is very strictly restricted to mountain paths, but in this regard the Poles have really got it sussed. They build these paths to last a thousand years, and (for the most part) blend them well into the hillsides. I had always been keen on getting up Rysy (2,500m), the highest peak in the Polish Tatra. The first time I tried that was about 9 years ago with my Zenek (brother-in-law). He was a fit guy then, some 12 years younger, and not long out the army. Although it was only late September there was a considerable amount of snow and significant ice runs spilling across some of the higher ledge paths. Although I only took out my crampons and a single axe, Zenek had no winter gear. I should have had the foresight to break off on my own earlier, and arrange to meet him later, but he was determined to push on to a point where we both had to end up retreating. About 5 years ago we went for it again in early June. This time with Zenek, and my wife’s nephew ‘Crazy Horse Pav’ (I have yet to meet anyone as fast on the hill – got to get that guy a drug test). There was still a lot of snow, but we had axes etc, and the ascent was straightforward. However, the most frightening thing was watching countless parties thinning out as they made their attempts, especially how far beyond their competence levels they’d all go before retreating. The last 1,000 feet to the summit is up a steep cambered snow ramp with some horrific granite walls to free-fall over. The snow began to firm up to the point where it was kicking steps into formica. Although I had crampons, the other guys did not, so I chose to continue kicking steps. There were so few parties going to the top, and the snow so firm that it almost seemed virginal. It was a perfect day, blue skies, freezing conditions, crystal clear, could not ask for more. The top was quite exposed and not having roped up I was becoming fearful that one or both of the lads would give it a screaming arse slide straight to hell. They were too stubborn and proud to rope up.  A great summit, very distinct, and dropping spectacularly down into the Slovakian side to the south of us. The backdrop on that side was a slate grey sky with lightning – what??? Elation turned to deep inner panic, outwardly I politely smiled at the guys who clearly though they were looking at a big movie screen). It was clear that the soup would be over and around us in about half an hour. A rapid descent was called for, and off we went. The amazing thing was that on our side of the range the sky was still 100% blue, and the only indication of problems was the constant rumble of thunder coming from the other side of the mountain. I have never seen such a marked contrast in weather. Clouds then started to pour over the ridges, but we were making good headway. We stopped for some chocolate some 2,000 feet above the frozen lake of the higher of two stepped corries. The path was well worn and clear to follow below us in the snow as it curved down round a buttress. Well, it was visible for at least another 20-30 seconds until we heard that sound you get all too often in the Alps. A sort of crack and deep rattle from above, then another, then a sound like a train coming off the tracks. I scanned the slopes above and around us as my stomach churned, but could see nothing. Then up to the left saw boulders cracking down some big gullies, followed by an avalanche piling down over the tracks below, and sweeping down round the buttress and finally out onto the frozen corrie lake. Ah yes, that’s the path - gone, thank God we stopped for chocolate. My Polish mates suddenly found energy they never thought they had, and I suspect their entire perspective of ‘the hill’ had changed in about 20 seconds. We had no option but to go down round the buttress over boulder-like snow, and get the hell off the hill as quickly as possible. The weather never did close in, and amazingly nobody had been caught in the avalanche. This year the same team, Zenek ‘Crazy Horse Pav’ and myself headed up onto ‘Eagle Path’. A great name, despite the fact that there were no eagles and the word path was perhaps a bit artistic. It is a fantastic ridge scramble with terrific views and spectacular drops. As you will see by the photos the weather was a bit like Scotland, it seemed to keep changing every half hour from low cloud to clear skies, however the temperature was in the mid nineties. Our ascent took us up a very steep gully. Fixed ladders and chains made the going very easy, although in places it was fun to cut out some of the zig-zags and scramble up nothing harder than vdiff. The rock is just superb, not unlike Cuillin gabbro for friction – many other parallels as you will see by the photos. The ridge has fixed ladders and chains, which left me with mixed feelings. It would be just an outstanding ridge, like a mega Cuillin. Some of the pinnacles are just fantastic. In terms of climbing, there is relatively easy access to some fantastic granite walls. In all of my time traversing the ridge (our section being some 6 miles) I only saw three guys climbing. Despite the numbers of folk hitting these mountains, there seemed to a constant lack of climbers, something I have noticed every time. There is some talk of budget flights starting up to Krakow, some 90 miles to the north. If that happens it is well worth a ‘hot rock’ trip some summer. Accommodation, food and drink is very cheap (if you shop around) – as little as £10/night/person. However, the charm of novelty of eastern Europe is fast fading as the town of Zakopane becomes more and more like Chamonix. When I first went out there it was hard to find a place for a beer at night, and you could find virtually nobody who could speak a word of English. Now most folk speak some English and there are at least three McDonalds – ah, progress (perhaps not).
(Above)Crazy Horse an Zenek, below Zenek and Gavin

Useful link: POLISH TATRA