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

Sirens and Blue Flashing Lights

(by Kieran Kelly, from IMC Newsletter Winter 2004)
A helicopter rescue experience.

More times than not I hear it before I see it, it never fails to startle me then again that’s what it is supposed to do. I scan the windows front, side and rear then the mirrors, still no sign, and some times they approach head on, other times they come from behind. Eventually I catch sight of the blue flash its an ambulance. The closer it gets the louder it gets, as it flashes past I see an image in the rear window “Its Mine”.

When I was young I always imagined myself to be indestructible, apart from sprains, strains, torn ligaments and rope burn I had managed to get through half a century relatively unscathed. I never imagined for one minute that I would be the one in the back of that ambulance; it would have been morbid to do so.

The lead up to the few seconds that the fall/slip/overbalance was straightforward, seven o’clock and the last of the climbing gear descended into my sack. I moved off from base camp across the boulder field, reached the dirt track that leads down to the main track up the valley. As I zigzagged my way back and forth with my trekking poles in hand, I was facing down valley (not sure if that is a Zig or Zag), in a split second I fell over and came to a halt on my back. Looking down I observed a rather odd shape to my lower right peg; the tibia, while one bone was now in two parts an x-ray showed that the fibula has suffered the same trauma.

I remember thinking in stages as I lay on the ground waiting in anticipation for what was going to happen next, I just wasn’t sure how soon or how it would happen.

Stage 1: Pre-Rescue
The phones appeared, the call were made, the contact confirmation was received; I looked up at the sky then down the valley wondering how long will I be lying here. My companions made me comfortable then arranged to get my gear and car back to Dublin, Rob would drive, he seemed pleased when I said it was a blue Honda Civic. I was now in the care of Charlie’s angels (Lynn, Annette, Ramona) who provided the TLC and organised the area for the helicopter rescue.

Stage 2: Rescue
One pass to locate, then on the second pass the winch man descends in all his finery to announce that he will have to move the limb at some stage and it will involve pain. Just then mountain rescue appear from the four cardinal points like an assault team; discussions took place, roles were assigned and the team moved as one. I was give copious amounts of gas to breathe, encouraged to inhale deeply, the pain seem to disappear and I began to feel happy/giddy. With swift efficiency I was in the cradle with my leg covered in an inflatable similar to a swimming armband. Not once, twice but three times that I can remember the cables/cradle connections were checked by two rescuers; funny how you take account of these important aspects, self-preservation I suppose.

Stage 3: Airborne
Airborne and looking like I was on a collision course for the helicopter undercarriage, it occurred to me to put my hand up but I thought better of it, one damaged limb was enough to convince me that I was no longer indestructible. I need not have worried, the winch man had the cradle out and in the door in a flash; I was now lying on top of the undercarriage (floor) staring at the roof undercarriage. The noise in the helicopter was deafening so earmuffs are provided; communications between the crew is by radio, between the casualty and crew is by hand signals and raised voices.

Stage 4: On the Road
With swift efficiency I was transferred from the cradle to a trolley at Dublin airport and secured inside the ambulance, the winch man recorded some final particulars and wished me a speedy recovery. This was the final stage of the rescue. My carriage sped off, sirens blaring and light flashing, my destination no more than a few minutes away. Motorists are now ducking and diving clearing the way for my carriage and as I peer out the window I catch sight of my image in a blue Honda Civic.

Appreciation/Acknowledgement
My experience of being rescued was, although painful, not an unpleasant one. My companions were efficient in organising the rescue services, competent in stabilising my condition, and provided generous amounts of support both during and after the fall. The air rescue was professional in their management of the situation, they oozed confidence that was comforting and reassuring. “The mountain rescue”, what can I say about these Giants of Men, all volunteers who brave the elements year after year to locate and help those who are lost or injured in the mountains.
We got off with a warning

(by Frank Winder, from the IMC Journal Winter 1952)
An ascent of the Aiguille du Peigne, 3.192m, by the Chamonix face and the SW arête, finishing by the upper part of the NW face.

The sky was clear and starry as we started from Montenvers at 3.15, but the stars had faded and the eastern horizon was already pink when we reached the Plan de l’Aiguille hut and began the trying trudge up the moraine. We had had not allowed ourselves enough time for the start from the more distant hut, or for the inevitable mistakes on a strange moraine. So the day had dawned long before we strapped on our crampons at the foot of the Chamonix face of the Peigne.

More time was wasted on difficult rock, because we did not like the look of the loose couloir which we should have taken. However. we soon regained the correct route and, climbing together, started ascending a groove running diagonally across the steep slabs which make up the lower portion of the magnificent, two thousand foot high face. Mixed climbing for some seven hundred feet brought us around to the west side of a gendarme in the middle of the face. (According to the guide-book, we should have passed to the East of this pinnacle). A steep couloir and easy ledges brought us to the 3043m. Brèche in the SW arête.

Here we had breakfast — our last meal until 2.30 the next morning. It was distressingly late (about 11 a.m.). Three on a rope was proving far too slow for an expedition like this. Consequently we decided not to take the direct route up the remaining third of the face, but instead to climb the SW arête which bordered it on the right. This was no easier, but offered opportunities of escape should time run out.

As we started the arête we realised that continuous climbing would be impossible from now on. I volunteered for the middle of the rope and carrying the luggage, leaving Peter and André at the ends to share leads. The ridge reared itself up with disturbing steepness and a succession of vertical cracks and chimneys, of grades IV and V, tried the mettle of the whole party. One steep, exposed, and delicate slab, with a piton half-way up, was outstandingly tricky. After a couple of hours of this we traversed to the left to reach a large platform below the final 100 feet, which ran up the steep NW ‘facette’.

The weather had been looking uncertain for some time, and now black storm clouds were boiling up from the South, over the Aiguille du Midi. Soon they would reach us, and distant thunder suggested that their arrival would not be pleasant. Speed was imperative. André launched himself up the Lepiney Crack (V), which ran up the almost vertical wall, slanting out over a frightening drop. A piton and a minute stance enabled him to bring Peter up, who then ascended a horrible open chimney (V). A short, pitoned artificial pitch and a difficult groove led to the summit.

Back on the platform again, a series of abseils brought us into the Peigne-Pelerins Couloir —the normal route for the Peigne. It was now 3.30, and the storm had arrived. Very heavy rain and sleet made climbing difficult, while the mountain seemed to shake with fear as crash after crash of thunder exploded above us. In an hour we had arrived at a spot near where the snow-filled back of the couloir had to be crossed. Waterfalls threatening to sweep us away now roaring down every groove in the mountain, while the air hummed with flying stones. For twenty minutes we sheltered, and shivered, under an overhang while we peered through the mist and sleet at the far side of the couloir, where the next portion of our route 1ay. We did not know the way exactly, but hoped we could find it. Very steep, and with black mud flowing menacingly over the rocks, what we could see did not attract us; but it was the quickest way down, and night was fast approaching. We decided on a dash. We stumbled one by one through a waterfall, watching for flying stones, stopped for a second under another rock, and then together made for the snow- filled back of the couloir. We had moved only a few steps when the thunder of a hundred trains coming down the couloir stopped us dead. Great black boulders came leaping out of the mist above, followed by others bigger and more numerous. Deafened and appalled we watched them pour down the snow ribbon on which we would have been a few seconds later. A few stragglers bounded towards us, dropped at our feet, and then joined their companions in that devil’s race down the couloir. Crossing the couloir was out. Anyway, the whole of the far side had been raked.

Despair as black as the near-approaching night seemed about to descend when an almost hopeless suggestion of mine — that we should cross over to the Chamonix face and descend the way we had come — was leaped at by Peter, who raced up the rocks towards the 3043 m. Brèche in the SW arete. André and I followed as another great stone-fall came down the couloir. This time the stragglers which bounded towards us had found our range, and we left the place gladly. The Brèche was quickly reached, and our chances seemed brighter — but André announced that he was almost incapacitated by stomach cramp. However he kept going and soon had plenty of other worries to help him keep his mind on other things. Nevertheless the remainder of the descent must have been a severe strain on him.

We started to fight our way across the Chamonix face. How different from the morning. Fresh snow covered everything, making the climbing highly treacherous. We were wet, cold, hungry, tired, and it was all we could do to keep moving mechanically, unthinkingly. Peter, though, had just that bit of external cheerfulness which kept despair a pitch behind . the party, but even he must have felt the same horrible uncertainty under it all. We decided against the morning’s couloir, expecting to strike that described in the guide-book instead. Too late we realised that we had missed it in the dusk and were committed to one which diagonalled across the whole face, and then dropped sheer down the North face. We left it for steep and difficult rocks on the left, hoping to be able to spot a break which would enable us to force a way back to the familiar route before night closed in completely. Horribly steep, overlapping slabs made this impossible, and after another couple of hundred feet the arrival of pitch darkness found us on a tiny ledge surrounded by hopeless precipices.

With difficulty we regained the couloir which was as steep as ever. Abseiling it had to be. Our whole two hundred feet of rope was used. As I swung down into blackness I realised that if I couldn’t find a stance and abseiling spike before I reached the end of the rope my number was up. I couldn’t climb the hundred feet up the thin rope. As we had no safety line the boys couldn’t help me — even if they had the strength left. However, a ledge and spike were found, and the others followed. The rope came down — we had now no line left for slings and just were hoping that it wouldn’t stick. Three more descents into darkness — our lamp had given out — and my feet touched snow. I was not too tired to cheer. This last time the rope did stick, and Peter ascended twenty feet to free it. Coming down again, the rope slipped off the knob on which he had placed it. He fell only a few feet, but if it had happened higher up… We found later that the rope had been cut in two places — a slight pull and it parted.

The bergschrund and the trudge down the glacier had few terrors, but the interminable moraines were just hell to our exhausted minds and bodies. The plod along the track to Montenvers was mechanical, but seemingly endless. We arrived at 2 a.m., after twenty- three hours hard going. Our dormitory was full of French tourists. When they objected to our disturbing them by getting some food, I was too tired to translate my envenomed language into French. However, they seemed to understand what I meant.

“Il y a également un musée à Zermatt. Ou plutôt une morgue, car tout ce dont le cimetière n’a pas voulu, on l’a rassemblé ici sous des vitrines impitoyablement astiquées. Débris innommables, touffes de cheveux décolorés, bribes d’étoffe, boutons de culotte en six morceaux, le tout de provenance. Killed on the Matterhorn.

Naturellement, l’une des cordes de Whymper (Whymper avait au moins dix-huit cordes le jour de la conquête du Cervin) et un oeuf.” Samivel.
Alive!

(by Ben March, from IMC Newsletter Spring 1999)
Witnessing a rescue from a Kerry mountain storm.

Front page of The Star newspaper, Wednesday 20 December 1998

At 7am on the morning of Tuesday, December 29th, 1998, Frank Power, Dermot Sheils, Séamus Crowley and I, all members of the IMC, sat in a rocking car at the foot of Carrauntoohill. As the car was buffeted by wind gusts of up to Storm Force 9, horizontal hail peppered the windows, and beside us, a full-sized galvanised farm gate slapped back and forth, threatening to unhinge itself at any minute and cheesegrate Frank’s nice new car. Undaunted, Frank produced "Travel Connect 4" (what next!) and we settled down to see if dawn would bring any let-up in the ferocious wind.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to us, on the shore of the tiny corrie lake by the Eagle’s Nest, some 650m above us, a drama was unfolding. Five young Dublin climbers, some of them known to us from the UCD climbing wall, were caught in the very teeth of the storm. Wind howled around the 200-metre high walls of the corrie where they had chosen to camp (situated between Carrauntoohill and Beenkeragh) and slammed into their tents from every direction. As the temperature rose, snow and ice on the slopes above them melted and joined forces with torrential rain and sleet which sluiced down through their camp.

The five young men, Eoin and Darragh Curran, Conor and Dónal O’Shea and Ben Griffin, are aged between 16 and 18, and all hail from Templeogue in Dublin. They are all experienced mountaineers, although only the Curran brothers were familiar with the Reeks. On the night of Monday, December 28, they had camped in the Gap of Dunloe. After a late start the following morning, they walked though the Black Valley, and started their ascent of Carrauntoohill from the Southeast. They had no radio, and were first made aware of the approaching storm on meeting another party descending from the peak by the shore of Lough Callee. On voicing their intention to camp by the Eagle’s Nest, members of the second party assured the lads that they would probably be able to weather the storm in the shelter of the corrie.

They summitted Carrauntoohill at about 5pm, just as dusk fell. They then began the difficult descent of Shay’s Gully, thick with snow and ice, in rapidly diminishing light. They reached the tiny lake in the corrie at about 7pm, and, in deference to the impending storm, briefly considered descending further to the mountain hut that lay just a couple of hundred metres below them. However, they didn’t fancy the precarious descent past the waterfalls in the dark. Lulled into a false sense of security by the apparent calmness of the night, they decided to pitch camp on the flat rocky outcrop just above the lake. The lads spent the next couple of hours preparing food, and generally settling in for the night. As they went about these mundane tasks, they became increasingly aware of the rising wind and rain outside. By ten o’clock, the full force of the storm broke over them. The wind rushed in from every direction, delivering sledgehammer blows to the thin material arrogance of the tiny tents. In that cauldron of storm-fury, something had to give. A principal tent-pole in Darragh Curran’s tent bent, then snapped in two. As he rushed outside to investigate, a gust through the open door caught the tent, spinnaker-like, ripping the pegs from the sodden ground, and sending the tent and its remaining occupant skidding towards a sharp drop into the maelstrom of lake water below. Darragh reacted quickly, and collapsed the tent. His companions followed suit, knowing it was only a matter of time before their tent was also flattened by the storm. In a mad flurry of activity, they simultaneously extracted their survival bags from the wreckage whilst piling anything heavy they could find onto the madly flapping fabric. For nine interminable hours, the lads crouched huddled in their survival bags, periodically checking on the well-being of their comrades through the screaming wind.

When I interviewed Darragh Curran, he was characteristically silent on any fears he must have had for the ultimate safety of the group. One can only imagine the terrible, desolate atmosphere of the place at that time.

Dawn finally broke, and the party prayed the storm would abate. It stubbornly refused to oblige. One aborted attempt to descend was thwarted by the wind-whipped spray from the waterfalls drenching the descent route. The lads finally mustered the necessary determination to make the nightmare descent to the hut which they all reached at just after 10am. They spent hours there in deplorable conditions, ankle-deep in sheep droppings, sparsely equipped with the few sodden items they had managed to salvage from the destruction of their camp. Meanwhile, my friends and I ambled around Muckross Lake, picked our way through wind-downed branches, and thanked our lucky stars we weren’t above in the invisible mountains which surrounded us in the clouds.

At midday, Darragh Curran and Conor O’Shea were chosen to go for help. It took them two and a half hours to reach Cronin’s farm in zero visibility. They had crossed two rivers in furious spate. The three remaining climbers were finally reached by their rescuers at around 4pm that afternoon. All were suffering from signs of hypothermia and shock. It took six stalwart members of the Kerry Mountain Rescue to recover their waterlogged gear (Not something they make a habit of, so don’t expect it!).

That evening, the lads faced a hungry press-corps with enviable aplomb. The next day, several tabloid newspapers, delighted to have a saleable story during the post-Christmas silly season, would make front-page news of this affair, taking the lads to task for risking the lives of the Kerry Mountain Rescue team. Meanwhile, to his credit, Paul Curtis of the KMR was far more magnanimous, praising the lads for their obvious enthusiasm and youthful experience.

The following morning, Frank led our group, this time with a new member, Déaglán O Dónaill, on the Reeks walk in glorious conditions. (In the meantime, Séamus had succumbed to the ‘flu). From the saddle above the corrie, we could look down on the brightly-coloured remnants of their camp scattered about the lakeshore like so much flotsam and jetsam. There are probably no better words to conclude this tale than those of Paul Curtis himself. I paraphrase: "In a few years time, these lads will have passed us all out. When they return, I’d love to bring them up a route myself. In the circumstances, they behaved remarkably in a remarkably responsible way".

All the lads wish to acknowledge the bravery and dedication of the KMR, and thank them heartily for all their help. They also assure me that they will be returning to the mountains at the next possible opportunity.

As for me, well, all I can say is : "Gentlemen, I take my hat off to you. I’ll see you out there sometime!"
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.
From the Glendasan Hut Logbook

(from Irish Mountaineering 1968)
English visitors help in a rescue

Mr. & Mrs. D. Carnell (Summit M.C.); Miss L. Childs (Summit M.C.); Mr. & Mrs. Nat Allen (Rock & Ice C.C.); 7. 8. 65.

We arrived late after a long wet ride from Clifden (Connemara) and after a few moments of rest got the dreaded rescue call from the local cops ! Apparently some ordinary type tourist had gotten himself crag-bound on the opposite side of the top lake. We (The English abroad) were piloted round by our Irish champion of the coming night, Pat Kavanagh, to the lake side to be greeted by the Fire Brigade – Police Force – Civil Defence and Atomic Warfare Squad and a Boat ! We rowed up the lake with our tinhatted friends observing from the loch the crag-bound broke about 350 ft. up a tottering heather covered crag. We landed and rushed up the hill, while our friends dug in by the shore, and by a surprisingly difficult traverse climbed above him and after some fancy work on the vertical heather we made contact with him at dusk. All roped up and ship-shape, we started the tricky descent; Derek and Pat, then Chris (the first of us to get stranded) backed up by me. After four or five abseils over overhangs, we made contact with the deck and after many funny Irish remarks (even Pat was amused) we abseiled into a tree and relayed from its branches to the ground. Pat, at this time, seeing things running smoothly, clouted himself on the head with his own peg hammer, and on arrival was descended on by 20 aspiring ambulance boys who with shears started to crop his curly head. We relaunched the boat at 12.15 a.m. with the aid of a searchlight and sailed back down the loch like some venetian fete.

“ Subsequently, a letter of thanks was received from the rescued youth – it was addressed to the Irish Mountaineering Boys’ Club.”

Sirens and Blue Flashing Lights

We got off with a warning

Alive!

Alpine Accident

From the Glendasan Hut Logbook