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Me & Stevie

August 28, 2010 08:34 AM Comments - 1

I noticed tonight when looking at my website stats (yes that is very sad) that a lot of searches that bring people to this site are via the words Stevie Haston. I imagined the rage in the man, to know that people looking for him were in fact winding up with me*.

Stevie Haston - just his name strikes fear into my heart. He is my boggy man. A climbing monster. A creature. Myth. He’s also my hero.

The other day, while in a climbing shop with my kids, I picked up a copy of Climb magazine and on seeing a picture of Leo Houlding I said ‘hay kids do you recognize who this is?”, the reason being that last time I’d described Leo as a climber, my daughter had corrected me that he was in fact a base jumper. On seeing the picture Ella frowned and in front of a lot of people said “God dad, you’re obsessed with Leo Houlding, can you stop going on about him all the time!”

You see I do have a tendency to become a bit obsessed about stuff, and sometimes with people (although I’d say in my defense that I’m not that obsessed with Leo). People on that list include perfectly nice people who I bare a grudge against (Bear Grylls and Ben Fogle), and others - that will remain nameless - who I just find fascinating. But one of these, and maybe the climber I’ve been facinated by the longest is Stevie Haston. You could say I’m his biggest fan… but not in a stalking ‘play misty for me’ way.

Climbing’s changed so much in what seems like such a very short time. This isn’t due to climbing technology, or training, or travel, but down to communication. Everything that is known about climbing, can be known by everyone. Nothing is too small to be shared, be it tip, news, rumor or image. The internet allows a climber in Chile to know what gear he may need on Vector, while a climber in Oban can download a topo of a jungle wall in Brazil. The only things that are unknown are things that are yet to happen, or things that have yet to be documented (but eventually they probably will).

When I started there was only High, Climber and Mountain, cringingly unsophisticated by comparison with a magazine like todays Climb, with their small poor quality black and white pictures, or out of focus colour ones, the text written in an old school manner, meaning everything was underplayed. Back then the first ascent of Indian Face got no more than a postage stamp picture and a postage stamp description, coverage that would fit in a single image caption to Dave MaCleod’s fourth ascent. The only place were climbs came alive was in stories told, generally shared in crap but much loved climbing walls, and in pubs at night while making a pint last until closing time. There is no journalism in story telling, no place for any truth that interrupts the flow - interrupts what your heart desires to happen next. The tale is greater than the deed. This is where I was told stories about Mick Fowler, Ron Fawcett, Any Perkins and Johnny Dawes. I guess this is were I learnt to tell my own, or at least have adventures like theirs.

And so the landscape of what was known was patchy, with few history books to tell you what had happened, let alone what was happening, and virtually no climbing media (the only climbing films were VHS videos of Leo Dickinson movies). And so a picture would have to be build up using all available means, mainly books, magazines and stories, and more often than not the best source of knowledge was simply looking at the first ascent list in guidebooks.

I loved learning all the links within climbing, climbs and the people who made them and repeated them, their relationships with each other, their triumphs and secrets, joining it up, discovering the map of British climbing.

Just as football is more than kicking a ball, climbing is more than pull ups, and it is this which makes it more than a sport.

Back then Stevie was only known by people who knew Stevie, or had heard the many wild tales about him, or bent over some face or cliff - guide book in hand - and marveled at the madness of the man. But Stevie was always more than just the climbs he did.

He was world class, and he knew it, yet felt trapped in mundanity, ignored, past over for lesser men. I also think he was the type of man who reveled at being a dark horse, and his ego was both offended by the lack of fame, but too big to seek it. And yet if you had top trumps in climbers, and you knew about climbing, then Stevie Haston was a card you’d want to have.

The first time I saw Stevie in the flesh was at a slideshow at the Foundry in Sheffield. It was a cold evening, and the wall had the ambiance of a bucket, not helped by the size of the audience. We cowered in Stevie’s presence - a compact knot of a man in jeans and a fleece, hair tide back, an exotic creature just in from Chamonix, a spring coiled. He looked like he could be touring with some 70’s supergroup - or tango dancing in Buenos Aires - but you knew he was special. The small audience felt Stevie’s rage, as if their very presence was an indictment to the lack of love the rest of Sheffield had Stevie. It was as if God himself had chosen Sheffield as the first night of his one man show and no one had turned up. But then that’s just sheffield.

For an hour and a half Stevie railed against the French, the Scots, the English, signaling out Jean-Christophe Lafaille for extra special treatment, describing how he made the the second ascent of Lafaille’s hardest mixed route - then soloed it. You got the impression that if Stevie had died doing it, then it would have been worth it, just as long as he got his chance to prove he was the alpha male.

At the end of the talk Stevie barked a command for questions, at which point heads were withdrawn into necks. It was like being asked for volunteers for a suicide mission. I put up my hand.

“ermmm” I started, only to realize my mouth was so dry with fear no words dare show themselves.

“errrmmm” I continued, forcing in a squeaky voice “what climb are you most proud off?”

“Free soloing the Walker spur in winter” fumed Stevie “And no fucker knows about it”.

After that night Stevie was my hero.

The problem was Stevie was born about twenty years too early, which in many ways was a blessing, because if he’d been the Dave Macleod of today, he’d no doubt of got himself killed, as often it’s a lack of money that keeps you out of harms way, rather than skill and judgement. Never the less I guess Stevie knew that although he was playing in the premier devision, he was living on a fourth division level of sponsorship. It was only when climbing began to change, that Stevie broke out of his bondage of obscurity and made a break for the limelight.

The first time I met Stevie face to face was in Outside. He didn’t meet me thought - I was just some till monkey. He was in a bad mood about something. Seemed angry. Ready to kick off, but it was like meeting a pissed Shane Macgowan, he was everything I’d expected him to be. He was at the height of his fame, the mixed master in bendy boots and powerstretch tights - well in photos anyway.

He was fingering some crampons when I stalked up to him and said - without introduction - “What do you think El Niño would do in the alps this winter” wondering if this south american weather pattern could effect conditions. Turning with a face of furry - as if he was going to bash my teeth out, he said in a demanding voice “Who is he!?”, as if this unknown upstart El Niño could be a threat. I knew Stevie was a clever guy, so just put this down to a bad day. But again, I wasn’t disappointed.

Things took a twist in this story of Stevie and me, when I repeated Lafaille’s route on the Dru. Me and Parnell got a lot of coverage - as we should - after all it was trumped as the hardest wall in the alps, and we were far from the hardest climbers. Maybe we stole some limelight, or the aid climbing offended him, but we felt the wrath of Stevie after that.

I’ve not seen Stevie again since then, but it always warms my heart to read about what he’s up to, always upsetting what is to be expecting, always pushing, pushing, pushing to be better, both himself and British climbing - he will always be the most extreme of extremists.

As for me and Stevie, someone told me he’d read my book and thought it was great, and I hope he writes his own soon, warts and all. And although it’s hard when your hero hate you, I hope when he finds out that the seed of repeating Lafaille’s route had been sown in that slideshow, and we had simply - just like him - set out to prove Stevie the better man, and that the Lafaille route wasn’t so hard, he’ll pay me some slack. After all I am his biggest fan.

*Stevie’s site is here, and is well worth visiting, especially of you like pedigree rabbits.

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