The Cheddar Gorge Outing

 While visiting my sister in Bristol with my stepfather for Christmas, we decided to finally escape the endless eating - by me, mostly - and escape into the countryside, where while it was still raining heavily as it did all trip, we would have a change of scene from wet Bristol pavements. 

The beach not appealing on a day when the sea and the land were virtually the same thing, we headed inland for Cheddar Gorge, a famous natural formation to the south of the city comprising of a narrow road surrounded by towering crags and the site of the earliest complete human skeleton found in the UK.

Despite the appalling weather, it was amazing how many waterproofed figures were walking up and down the gorge. There were cyclists too, serious types of expensive road bikes grinding their way up the climb through the gorge as the rain hosed them down. 

Evidence of human activity was everywhere - rubbish and more disgustingly human waste at the various stopping points. My sister and stepfather collected a box of the the former and thankfully not the latter. 

It's really upsetting that supposedly outdoor loving types would do this. 

The gorge indeed is spectacular, looming cliffs of slate and limestone, where apparently peregrines and ravens fly, although they were too smart to be doing it on such a rotten day and were probably laughing at the brightly coloured humans scurrying about from their lofty eyries. 

The village is surface pretty, but as with so many similar places it's largely filled with tourist tat  - genuine cheddar cheese on sale, no doubt at about £5 per gram. We couldn't find a cafe open to shelter from the weather in as we trundled up and down the village. 

Still, it was a fun little jaunt, and I'd like to come again in warmer months when there might be some flora and fauna to see. I'd love to see a raven for the first time!

Si

All text and images copyright CreamCrackeredNature 01.01.23

Green Boots and the Ghosts of Everest

Once again I find myself tapped behind glass at work, and find myself having to look upwards and outwards with the eyes behind my eyes; I'm imagining and daydreaming again.

I've been thinking a lot about "Green Boots". Green Boots lives high in a cave, on the North-East Ridge of Mount Everest, and has done so since 1996. He greets every Everest climber heading for the summit by the North-East Ridge direct or North Col routes, recognisable to all at the staggering altitude of 8500 metres. A landmark of legend.

The Northern Aspect of Everest, the North East ridge leading from the left of the summit. Picture from wikimedia commons, credited to Carsten Nebel

"Live" of course is a misleading term. "Green Boots" is thought to be an Indian climber called Tselwang Paljor, who died after summiting the Mountain on an Indian-Tibetan Police Expedition. No-one is totally certain about this, and his body at that altitude is unrecoverable. He lies forever in his little cave, his clothes perfectly preserved, as bright and shiny as the day they were bought.

Including his bright green boots, that give him his name.

Over 200 people have died on the various Everest routes since the 1920s, and most of those bodies will still lie where they died, be it of a fall, avalanche or sheer cold. On some parts of the mountain, the lie of the land and prevailing winds has created small "cemeteries" - George Mallory, the most famous body found on the mountain, apparently lies in one of these. Other well known bodies, like those of Joe Tasker and Mick Burke, have never been found.

I can imagine that their families were devastated at having no remains to bury, but I wonder how the men and women themselves would have felt. Do their spirits roam the cols and snow fields in an endless unrest, or do they take in the unbelievable vistas, and think themselves privileged to have been able to visit such an incredible part of the world, and feel no sadness about remaining a part of it?

I can only envy them, and the people who survived the climb. For they have seen things a landlocked lubber such as myself, riddled with vertigo and prone to agonising pain in his hands in only a moderate Northern breeze, can't even dream of.

All text copyright Cream Crackered Nature 09.11.14 - picture credited.