Name: Club Climbing Night
Start: 2026-09-03T18:00:00+01:00
End: 2026-09-03T21:00:00+01:00
Location: Dalkey Quarry

Love at First Sight – Impressions of Arolla

(by Fran McGinnitty, from IMC Newsletter Autumn 1998)
Crisp, magical moments of early morning sunlight on virgin snow, and the bigness, ah the vastness of those mountains. It was more beautiful than I could have ever imagined, and I fell in love at first sight.

It was challenging too, challenges were coming at me from all directions. Crampons, ice axe, roped up – "not too fast Fran, not too slow" – crevasses cracking my over-confident stride. But in the end our first peak, from the Vignettes Hut to L’Évêque (3716 m), felt very manageable, comforting even. Well it would have been very manageable if we’d hit the right peak, we did climb the right one but the left of the twin peaks was L’Évêque, Eoin discovered after the fact. (Fiona and I were prepared to argue otherwise, but no one believed us.) Our route home was punctuated by the thunder of avalanches. Avalanches I thought were rare and exotic? Apparently not.

Another day of snow followed, and snow was everywhere – filling my eyes with white brilliance, crunching in my ears, cold in my mouth as we drank the snow-flavoured water from the hut. We reached our second summit, the Pigne D’Arolla, (3796 m) at a respectable hour and smugly surveyed the scene on another sunny morning. Over a crevasse-ridden glacier to the Dix Hut, perched miraculously on a rock, we glimpse the magnificent, bold Mont Blanc de Cheillon (3870 m). We’d had two rewarding days but they were alpine walking. We wanted more. Our ambitions were mushrooming, tumbling over each other with excitement. Could we climb the Mont Blanc from the Dix Hut by the AD route? Did we dare?

What did AD mean?, I thought to myself. I’d looked at the charts but somehow I couldn’t feel the terror it would evoke in me, like I can with rock-climbing routes. We talked to Guides, looked at the forecast, I even chatted up a German group but they were even more clueless than we. We tossed back and forth between plans, all the time being watched and taunted by Mont Blanc through the window. We finally settled on the PD route up, and by God as I clung to that ice slab the next day, watching my soft soled boots wobble in my crampons, waiting for my calves to crack like nuts, I was glad, profoundly glad that we’d decided not to do the AD route. Alas the weather came in, visibility plummeted and we had to abort before the summit. I was slightly dismayed, but still, glad to be alive.

Our next big day was the Petit Dent de Veisivi and big the day was, all 18½ hours of it. I guess we just lacked that sense of urgency that seems so crucial in the Alps. Other mountaineers are swift and efficient, their possessions like their days, pared to a bare minimum. My possessions and my days by contrast are cluttered and chaotic, and that one was no exception. After a stiff walk up to the rock we climbed pitches which slowed us up, especially on a rope of three. Better and faster climbing alpine style – that’s what we were there for, after all, and it was easy, trustworthy rock. Up, and even more startling, down the five Dents we went, on excellent rock with thrilling exposure, (with more than the odd pause to savour the panoramas…). Our descent off the Dents was hampered by the rope-loving rock, greedily grabbing the abseil rope as we struggled to release it and beat the darkness. As darkness fell we found our swiftness. And deep in the tiredness of my body I sensed an inner glow, a satisfaction spreading out from my middle – this was the best climbing day of my life. Somehow fitting, I muse, on the fiftieth anniversary of the IMC, as the Petit Dent de Veisivi was the first Alpine Ascent of an "IMC-trained" team. Bill Carroll, Colm MacMahon, Liam Ó Réagáin and Joss Lynam climbed the route in August 1949. I wonder how long it took them?

Fran on the Petit Dent de Veisivi

I headed back to Berlin after barely a week, jealous of the others going to Zermatt, jealous of all those 4,000m peaks I was going to miss. But on the train I found myself chuckling in spite of myself. I’ll be back, I thought to myself, that was only the beginning. This love affair isn’t over.
An ascent of the North East Ridge of the Spazzacaldera

(by Pauline Delahunty, from the IMC Newsletter Autumn 2001)
A personal account.

I rarely think about what I say. In fact half the time I bypass my brain completely. My mouth takes off on its own, spewing verbal vomit over everyone, leaving me to deal with the fallout. Mostly, that fallout consists of bruised egos, some shocked moral standards or a dented reputation, and more often than not, these injuries belong to me. I’ve learned to live with the flaw and sometimes even laugh at the scenarios it creates. This was not one of those more humorous times. On this occasion my mouth got me into trouble. Big trouble. Trouble of the life threatening kind.

Sitting around a camp site in the Swiss Alps with fifty other Irish climbers is an exciting place to be. Routes are planned, equipment checked, adjusted, repaired and rechecked. Rucksacks are packed and repacked, each item ruthlessly judged for its weight versus necessity. Weather, snow and even avalanche conditions are discussed in earnest. Health issues are of the utmost importance as people become very aware that their body is a their most vital piece of gear. Most notably, are the compelling stories of death-defying feats and epics of high altitude adventure which are recounted and exchanged.

It’s a wonderful feeling to be part of the MCI meet. However, being relatively new at the mountaineering lark and being acutely aware of my own mortality, I tend not to stick my neck out. I have a secret desire to live for ever and so far so good. Then my big mouth decides to stir things up. In the midst of the bustle and chat I heard a confident earnest voice say "I’d like to do the Fiamma". I nearly laughed when I realised the statement came from me.

The Fiamma is a skinny flake of rock that sticks straight up out of a 2,500 metre mountain called Spazzacaldera. There is just enough room on the summit for one person to straddle the rock and if that’s not heart stopping enough the top is an independent boulder which sits on the flake and has been known to wobble.

A reply came in the form of a Northern Ireland accent "Aye. I’d like to do the North East Ridge of that. Let’s do it tomorrow so." The accent belonged to one Coryn Armstrong who had previously informed me that he leads E1, ergo way out of my league. "Great" says I, not being able to admit that when I said "I’d really like to do the Fiamma" what I meant was "I’d really like to do the Fiamma if I was a competent climber with a fit and co-ordinated body and a spare life in my back pocket". I didn’t mean that I’d actually consider doing the climb, much less the North Ridge and forget about liking it.

Caught in the headlights of my own ego, I could not back out now. Coryn very matter-of-factly continued "so I guess we’ll leave around 10.30 in the morning. You will of course need your climbing shoes, harness, some extenders, I’ll bring the lead climbing gear and I have an 8.5mm half rope. That’s a bit thin but it’s light which is obviously an advantage. It won’t take a hard fall of course, but its strong enough to take a slide, so it will be fine."

"Great" I croaked feeling a little bit nauseous trying to digest the bit about the rope not being strong enough to take a fall.

We started the climb the following morning at 12 noon a little later than planned. At the base of the first pitch we changed from our runners into our rock shoes. As we sorted out the rope we discussed the climbing route, well Coryn discussed the climbing route, I nodded a lot. "How do you feel about alpine-style climbing on the easier gradients?" asked Coryn.

"Great" I replied. Why was I saying "Great" when I meant "No Fucking Way"? Still preoccupied with figuring out a way of getting out of this without losing face, I started the scramble. It was a grassy slope and not very steep, I knew I could handle it. I was cool. The gradient became a little bit steeper and the knot in my stomach tightened. Coryn was way ahead and out of sight, I shouted at him that it might be an idea to stick in an oul’ piece of protection (like before we plummeted to our deaths some 800 meters below). I tried to sound casual but I’m not sure Coryn bought it.

The real climbing started shortly after that. Coryn shot off clipping in to fixed bolts as we ascended. Following behind, I unclipped the gear, getting a frequent bout of disco leg. Elvis would have been proud. My mother would have killed me (had I not been making such a good job of that myself).

"Don’t look down", I thought. I rigidly adhered to this rule all day, knowing that the moves are easy enough, it’s exposure and the views that are the thrill for most climbers on this route. If I didn’t look down, I reckoned I had a serious advantage over those other climbers, so I stuck to this policy.

We climbed on, stopping occasionally on wider ledges for a chat. Coryn, despite his young age, had an impressive and prolific climbing career. As a result, he has more than a few high altitude adventure near-miss adventure stories. My favourite was of his friend Eddie who didn’t have a bog about the wonderful world of mountaineering (I identified). Eddie forgot his water bottle on one of his first Alpine endeavours. Not a bright move. Eddie and his buddies were climbing the ‘Barres des Ecrins’ a 4,000+ metre peak of considerable adversity. The final three hours of the route are a rocky ridge with sheer drops on either side. Given the height and the difficulty of the climb, most people understandably travel light. Eddie however, on reaching the summit, and amidst some slagging from his mates over his water-bottle error, reached into his back pack and casually extracted a stove and pots and began to melt snow. Class.

I was surprised at how quickly we ascended. The summit was rapidly getting closer and it looked like we would finish the route in fine time. As this glimmer of hope was emerging, disaster struck. I was happily(?) climbing a chimney of rock. There were two huge grooves running almost parallel, so with one hand and one foot in each I was shimmying up feeling about as secure as I could at 1,500 metres. The cracks gradually began to diverge. I stuck with them hoping they would reunite but they didn’t. It got to a point where I was spread-eagled, hugging the now very wide central column, koala fashion.

"Eh Coryn," I tried to sound normal with one cheek pressed firmly against the rock face and my heart about to leap out of my chest "I’m about to make a dodgy move. You got the rope secure up there?" I received a completely incoherent reply from an out-of-sight Coryn. He was too far away for me to hear him. I thought I would repeat my warning seing as how my life depended on it. "Okay, I’m going to move now" I shouted not moving an as much as an eyelash but beginning to slide down all the same. I got another muffled response. I wondered how much slack there was on the rope before it would tighten and hold, then I wondered if it would hold. I decided not to leave gravity win without a fight so I dubiously removed a shaking right hand and slowly transferred it into the left crack Feeling around for a good hold I was rewarded with a generous place to wedge four fingers, a gift from God. I then found I was able to pull my right foot over and get two feet in the left-hand groove. Hey presto, I was safe (well I wasn’t falling at any rate). It wasn’t until afterwards, in the sanctuary of the local pub that Coryn told me he was actually shouting "Don’t fall for a minute, you’re not on belay". Great.

We hit the base of the final and most difficult pitch, up to this point it the climbing had been grade 4, this was now a grade 5. The weather looked like it was closing in. I prayed it would rain but didn’t. Instead dark clouds hovered ominously, the odd measure of thunder rumbled around inside them, but no rain.

The Fiamma, Spazzacaldera, Bregaglia

Coryn led, I watched him from the base of the climb. Towards the top he began to feel around looking for a hand-hold. I could tell from the way he rejected and then reconsidered the holds that there was nothing ideal at that point; it was a question of palming the rock and pushing up with your feet. It took him just ten minutes to get to up. He didn’t spend long on the summit, the odd low roll of thunder warned us not to delay.

Now it was my turn. My stomach was in knots. My breath was shaking. "I can do this", I thought trying to convince myself. Coryn coached me up describing the route as I ascended. I did okay until I received the instruction, "At this point there really isn’t anything to hold on to and there’s not much for your feet either. You just have to smear across and up to your left for a bit". The word ‘smear’ is enough to put fear in to the heart of any woman. At 2,500 meters ‘smearing’ just doesn’t sound like a very good idea. I looked at the smooth rock and contemplated the move. I looked down at Coryn; "It’s okay" he assured me, "I have you". "Yeah, I thought, on an 8.5mm half rope". I went for it, completed the move and found myself in an equally difficult dilemma.

"This is the final difficult move" he said. "That’s what he said about the last one" I thought. "You reach up and around with your right hand and palm the rock on your left and stand up on the ledge on your right." "Ledge on my right" I thought, "what ledge on my right" and then I saw that he meant the quarter-inch sloping blip in the rock face. It was a ‘ledge’ in about the same way a unicycle is a mode of transport but I could see the summit and the thought of straddling it and feeling secure was the incentive I needed. I made the move. I sat at the top, trying to believe I was actually there. I raised both fists in the air and took a deep breath. For the first time that day I dared look down. On one side I could see our camp site way way below, on the other side a massive dam and gorgeous big mountains all around. The view was stunning from my vantage point – on top.
Alpine Accident

(by Seán Rothery, from Irish Mountaineering 1968)
Rockfall and rescue.

“This is my life,” said Pat – nobody disagreed. I was washing my socks – for medical reasons – not hygienic since a sharp stone had ripped a lump from my right calf. Peter was asleep, Doc was arguing and Dick was keeping an eye on the German birds and planning ahead. There was no doubt about it – it really was the good life – the clean sharp air at 7,000 ft. the satisfaction after yesterday’s epic traverse of the Leiterspitze in twice the guide book time and a nice reasonable route for tomorrow on the Alphubel and then on to the Matterhorn.

That night Dick beat Pat to it and had his sleeping bag like a flash over to the other side of the Matratzen lager where the dollies dossed – much good it did him ! Three hours later we were up – there was grim satisfaction in sticking your crampons into some one else but breakfast civilised us and we were rattling off in the darkness up the track. The start of the Rotgrat was easy – it was first light and we were moving at great speed unroped right up to the top of the rib. The snow shoulder swooped up above – grey and cold. I was slow fixing my crampons and Doc and I moved up the snow on the last rope.

We started on the rock tower. It was eight o’clock in the morning – cold and still – when it happened ! A flurry of frenzied shouts and the great black mass of rock came thundering down on me. A terrible blow tore me from my holds, the world turned upside down and I was falling clear with the rocks! The rope jerked tight–Oh, God–Doc had held me! I spun around in the gully, my right hand burned into the rope–my left leg was turned around and hanging by the muscles. I scrambled in a panic across the gully as more rocks came down – the others screamed up at Eddie, who had started the fall, to stay still. I found a belay spike up on the wall of the gully and hauled myself up to it. I wound a spare coil of rope around and then gave way to the waves of pain sweeping over me. They will never get me out of here I thought and I didn’t think I could stand the pain much longer. I hung from the belay and tried to pull my leg up to a foothold to ease the pain. This worked for a while and I was able-to tell the others about my state. Dick took charge and raced away up the tower with Pat to descend by the easier normal route for rescue. Doc belayed Peter to let him down to me.

He tried to splint the leg with his axe but it was impossible in the situation and I couldn’t stand the pain of manipulating the leg. He cut a series of ice steps up and across the gully. We had to get out of there before the sun got around or we would all be smashed by stone falls. He faced the slope and I put my arms around his neck and we started. This was the worst experience I could imagine. My leg kept tangling up and Peter was exhausted with my weight. He cut a couple of handholds for my hands and with me pulling and Peter lifting me, he got me onto the platform.

Shock descended in waves on me then – great shuddering spasms. They adjusted my leg to stretch it out despite my howls of agony but when they covered me up I settled down and the shock waves died out. I was more frightened of my back where the big rock had hit me tearing my axe out of its straps. I endured this sharp burning pain for a while until I got the courage to reach around under me to find that a nut on the sling was biting into my skin – the relief almost brought me back to normal.

The long afternoon wore on with no sign of rescue – the black clouds over Monte Rosa growing bigger every minute worried hell out of me but the others tactfully didn’t mention them. Then Peter shouted “Look at the light on the hut flashing.” They lifted me up to see and there away down below the glacier was a red light flashing. Hope came flooding back to me and I felt renewed. Days later in hospital the boys told me that the “light of hope” was the square red Swiss flag flapping in the breeze beside the Tasch hut.

Eight hours passed and now the boys were silent. What had happened to Dick and Pat ? My mind was far away now and I was in a sort of delirium. Somebody shouted “There it is”! The helicopter rose and spiralled up away across the valley then its ugly clattering roar enveloped us and it was hanging there a hundred feet out from the face with the door open and helmeted figures were sizing up the situation.

There was no hope of getting a line to us from that position as the face was too steep. Down went the machine and it hovered over the snow shoulder. Out jumped two men to land waist deep in the soft snow. They climbed rapidly up to us and we were relieved to find that Dick was one, the other a guide from Zermatt. Dick’s first concern was to do a really good splinting job on me as since the femur was smashed I had to be completely immobilised. He used three ice axes and a couple of hundred feet of nylon cut into loops and in the process stopped the guide tying an ordinary knot in the nylon tape sling which was to connect me to the helicopter line.

Meanwhile a line was being rigged up across the gully and up to a larger platform which jutted out from the face.

They lifted me up and clipped me to the ropeway. I was scared stiff and the pain was bad again. I hauled hand over hand, the others pulling me. Near the top the rope jammed and my stomach turned hanging there above the gully. Two others rushed up and hauled me onto the ledge. In the process, the guide, who refused to be belayed when all this was going on, slipped on the ice and came off. He managed to grab a spare rope to save himself from shooting down the gully.

I heard the clattering roar of engines again overhead but again the helicopter swooped away. I heard the guide muttering that it was too dangerous, the rotors could crash against the face. I really felt black despair. The others were not discouraged – they dragged me and hauled me right out to the very edge of the ledge and waited for the chopper to come back. In it came again and then I saw the rope and snaplink come sailing in. They reached for it, grabbed it with frantic fingers and clipped it onto my rope cradle.

There was a ferocious jerk, an ear splitting howl of engines and I was lifted right off the mountain – out into the void. The figures of the others dwindled until they vanished into the face of the mountain. Then I saw the immensity of the glacier below and the thousands of feet of space around my sailing legs. I shut my eyes tight and gripped the rope until my knuckles were white.

For five minutes I hung there with my eyes closed until I plucked up courage to look up at the helicopter. The door was open and the co- pilot was leaning right out, looking down at me. He grinned and waved and suddenly I felt I was on the way back.

After what seemed like hours, a dream like flight at the end of a slender line, floating over dark ridges and white snowfields, green alps and forests appeared below and I was suddenly suspended over a group of climbers outside the Tasch hut. Willing hands lowered me to the ground, Pat appeared and brought me water and I was then lifted into the cabin and laid flat on the floor.

The clattering roar began again and the second leg of a long journey was under way. Down to Zermatt, the first operating theatre of many and the months of hospital before I could walk again.
A Traverse of Monte Rosa

(by Noel Brown, from the IMC Journal 1956-57)

On the 6th August last year, Betty Healy, Frank Butler and I were in the Betemps Hut on Monte Rosa. Our plan for the following day was to do a high-level traverse to the Magherita Hut via the Dufourspitze (15,217 feet), Zumsteinspitze (15,004 feet) and the Signalkuppe (14,965 feet). Since none of us had previously climbed Monte Rosa we felt keen anticipation for the morrow’s adventure, which we hoped the weather would allow us to enjoy in full. Before retiring that night we packed our rucksacks so that we could depart as expeditiously as possible next morning.

At approximately 3 a.m. I was jabbed in the ribs and told to get up, which I reluctantly did. Breakfast was the usual meagre coffee and bread affair and did not detain us for long, so that by 4 a.m. we had stepped out into a dark, cloudless morning. We took to the moraine track above the hut which led us rather quickly to the foot of the Monte Rosa Glacier. This glacier forms the north-western slope of the mountain and gains 3,300 feet in height before ending abruptly on the western ridge. I strapped on my crampons before starting up the frozen slope which, although long, offered practically no difficulty. We climbed steadily upwards until at last we were separated from the main ridge only by a narrow ice arete. This section, however, was the steepest part of the glacier and made heavy demands on our stamina. Fortunately, it was short and inside half-an-hour we had gained the rock ridge proper. By this time the sun had risen and the weather was still good, so we took a breather and admired the magnificent scene around us. Now that we were on the ridge, the slope up which we had come seemed steeper, while on the opposite side a terrific mountain wall of snow and ice-glazed rock plunged down almost vertically beneath our feet. Most of the great Zermatt peaks were visible, and far away in the west the snow dome of Mont Blanc, King of the Alps, could be seen gleaming in the brilliant sunshine.

But it was time to move again. At 14,280 feet, when most climbs are over, the real part of this was just beginning. The ridge soared above us, half-a-mile long, like a giant’s saw with teeth turned to the sky. We climbed along it, moving together on some sections and singly on others. Our progress was good and several times we thought the summit was near at hand, but on reaching one high point another and higher one always loomed up in front. So it went, up, down, up again and sometimes around the red rocks of this seemingly endless ridge. The rock-climbing was not difficult, but at an altitude of 15,000 feet it became very strenuous. We were relieved when finally, after cutting steps up heavily iced rocks and rounding an exposed corner, the summit came into view. Another fifty feet of rock, a short chimney and we stood on the Dufourspitze, the highest peak of Monte Rosa. The climbing had so absorbed us that we had not noticed the deterioration in the weather during the last couple of hours. Big clouds were piling up about the mountain and above us the blue sky was gradually being blotted out. We had taken eight hours to reach the summit, which was longer than expected, but the day was still young and we had no intention of forfeiting our well-earned rest. We stayed on the summit until the biting wind made further loitering impossible, yet not once did our eyes pierce the impenetrable clouds which obscured everything. Before we could sample the comforts of the Margherita Hut we had to climb down the ridge and cross two more 15,000 foot peaks, so we had no time to lose. After a last look round we moved off down the ridge while the wind tore at us and blew loose snowflakes into our faces. In a situation like this speed is of paramount importance, so we had to make a decision: we could climb together along the ridge and hope that none of us slipped, for on both sides were great precipices, waiting for a false move on our part. Alternatively we could choose the much safer but far slower process of moving one at a time. Neither method seemed attractive under the circumstances, but we adopted the latter. Betty went down first while I belayed her. She belayed me in turn and Frank followed up the rear. This maddeningly slow process went on for hour after hour and still we seemed no nearer the Grenz Sattel which is the col below the Zumsteinspitze. By this time Frank’s balaclava was covered in tiny icicles and wind-blown snow and Betty’s hair sticking out from under her anorak hood looked frozen hard. I wondered what it would be like to bivouac on this ridge with the merciless wind blowing into us all night. I conjured up visions of three huddled figures, minute specks on this vast mountain, rubbing hands and stamping feet all night long. Strangely enough, the thought did not disturb me very much at the time, although I still had a preference for the hut.

Suddenly the mist began to thin out and the col became visible. The ridge from the col to the Zumsteinspitze looked iced and terribly steep but we would soon know all this, for we were much nearer to it than we had thought. We celebrated this discovery by opening a tin of fish (we had not eaten for twelve hours), but unfortunately they were frozen so hard, as to be indigestible. I flung them over the ridge while Frank rummaged in his rucksack for something more edible. He produced bread and cheese which appeased our hunger to some extent. As Betty was, eating I noticed that she had frostbitten fingers. By gentle massage I endeavoured to revive the circulation, but to no avail. Since nothing could be done for the time being, she replaced her gloves and we continued down to the col. From here the route up to the Zumsteinspitze was quite easy and not nearly as steep as I had thought, although a dangerous looking cornice had to be treated with care. But it was now Frank’s turn to massage, for one of my fingers was causing me great pain. He applied the necessary treatment and we carried on to the Zumsteinspitze without further mishap. We descended as quickly as possible to the Col Gnifetti, 250 feet below. Above us rose one more slope–the final one–leading to the summit of the Signalkuppe. On the top of this mountain is the Margherita Hut, the highest in Europe. We toiled upwards in semi-darkness with ever slowing pace until at long last we reached the hut, seventeen hours after leaving the Betemps. We had to kick and hammer the door, for the guardians, not expecting any climbers to arrive so late, had gone to bed. A minute later a head appeared out of a window and muttered something in Italian. We heard footsteps coming down the stairs, a latch being lifted, and then the door opened. We entered the hut and were admitted to the guardians’ private little room where they supplied us with coffee to which we added whiskey. Fortunately, Betty’s frostbite was mild, which was as much a relief to us as it was to her. After having a meal we retired, thankful for the four walls around us. The wind was still raging outside, but sleep came easily.

The weather had improved the next day, but we decided to stay at the hut and descend the following morning. We greatly regretted this decision, for before we could clear out the weather became so bad again that we were forced to prolong our stay for another two days. On the fourth day the storm subsided and we grasped our opportunity to descend to Zermatt, as glad to be out of the hut as we had been to enter it four days previously.

Love at First Sight – Impressions of Arolla

An ascent of the North East Ridge of the Spazzacaldera

Alpine Accident

A Traverse of Monte Rosa