Ultimate MTN Phone

I once ended up sitting next to an ex–Royal Marine at a corporate gig, a big guy who’d fought in the Falklands War. I’m not sure what unit he’d been in, but he seemed to have spent most of it hiding in a hole in the ground under a ceiling of chicken wire and turf with three other soldiers, so I guess he was some kind of special this or special that. I seem to meet a lot of these professional killers—maybe it’s a climbing thing—but they’re always a type. I remember my dad telling me that SAS soldiers (he worked at a joint services centre for many years, so knew them well) were not who you’d think they are. Not supermen jumping through windows, but guys who could lie in a bush for a month. This was one of those guys.

We swapped stories about dangerous adventures all night, then the topic of gear came up—how soldiers put up with so much heavy kit, ill-suited to really bad weather (lots of heavy cotton, gabardine, canvas, mixed with wool). He said they’d often wear civilian gear like Helly Hansen and later Buffalo. I asked him what the worst bit of kit he’d ever been issued with was, and after a minute he said, “The first GPS units,” which were the size of a suitcase. “Do you know what GPS stood for back then?” he asked. I replied, “Global Positioning System?” “No,” he said, “Giant Pieces of Shit.”

That always stuck with me. It said something about the interface between rough end users, tough environments, and cutting-edge technology. In the early days there wasn’t much interface at all. You didn’t have much technology. A tiny button battery in your watch and your manual camera was about it. Life was simple. Sharing happened in the pub or with a handful of slides. The first digital camera I took away was in 2006 when I skied across Greenland. Its suitability for the trip is betrayed by the fact it’s still there. I’ve always struggled with the non-breaking of anything that goes beep.

Now we carry a lot of devices. GPS units of all sizes. Trackers. Spots. Heart-rate monitors. GoPros. Sensors in clothes. Video cameras. Cameras of every kind. Of all the devices we carry, the most common—and the one we’re most dependent on—is the mobile phone.

Phones have replaced cameras for many people (not a great idea, as you never get them out when you should), and even navigation gear for the trusting few, with GPS apps that work on downloaded maps. You don’t need phone reception for GPS. There are apps for stars, mountains, weather, and dedicated emergency apps like the Tirol Emergency App. Used responsibly, these are a great idea, allowing rescue teams to pinpoint you accurately and communicate directly. A phone is also a great place to store topos, descent details, images, and beta—not forgetting the ability to call people. I remember the first time I carried a phone on a route, on an attempt of the Croz, ringing the editor of High magazine for a forecast during a sudden storm. It was bad, so we came down. Now you just pull it up yourself, even satellite images.

Early phones were basic. Cheap. They held little sway over us. Just phones. But over the last decade they’ve become indispensable. A luxury turned necessity. Even the most basic phone is now a small computer, with more power than the space shuttle, full of games and features we can’t do without. They’ve changed us. Sit on a bus or train and you can see it.

Have you ever noticed what happens when you’re sitting in a café, thinking, and someone else’s phone pings? It snaps you back. Back from somewhere else. Our monkey brains get zapped. What do you do when you hear that sound—or even imagine you do? Ignore it? Or reach for your own phone? Studies show our attention spans dropped from 12 seconds in 2000 to 8 seconds six years later. That might not sound bad until you realise a goldfish has a 9-second memory. I’m sure we’d be better off without phones. Maybe I’m just getting old.

There’s also the issue of cost and complexity. Phones now cost as much as a laptop, sometimes more than someone’s first car. Batteries drain fast and age badly. Most phones aren’t tough. For every climber with an unbroken screen, there are four with broken ones. You can buy cases, waterproof bags, insurance. But what’s the point if the battery dies after a day and you’re out for three? Simple. You carry a battery pack. Three or four hundred grams of juice.

But there’s another option. An old-school one. A basic 2G phone. Calls. Texts. Maybe a light. Maybe Snake. That’s it. These phones have massive battery life, are cheap, tough, glove-friendly, and practical for the outdoors.

Of these, perhaps the best is the JCB Tradesman 2. A rugged, waterproof phone designed for builders. It has a military-grade shell—softer, bendier plastic rather than brittle. The internals and screen take big hits. I’ve seen a video where one sat in a cement mixer for an hour. You may not throw your phone off crags, but how many times have you fallen on your arse with a rucksack on, or dropped your phone while checking the time? Although rated for 1.5-metre drops, I’d expect it to survive much more.

Waterproofing matters. Here it really means waterproof. IP67—one metre for 30 minutes. Think leaking tents, wet ground sheets, light rain, or a Nalgene leaking into your pack because ice stopped the lid sealing. Being able to throw your phone in your pack and not worry is a gift. Waterproof also means dust- and snow-proof. The battery and shell are good down to –20°C. Handy in deserts too. And it floats. I once assumed waterproof meant floating. It doesn’t.

Can you check email or post to Instagram? No. You can call. Text. Set an alarm—vital. Use the light. Take a terrible photo. It has a clip-in point. It takes a micro SD card so you can use it as an MP3 player or read ebooks. Mostly, it’s just a phone.

One thing all mountain phone users should do is register with www.emergencysms.org.uk, and always dial 112 rather than 999. It helps rescue teams locate you. Abroad, add local rescue numbers to your contacts.

The two best things about this phone are its battery life—around 130 hours standby—and its cost, usually £25–£50. That alone makes it a no-brainer bit of hill tech.

Best of all, being almost a Stone Age phone, you might regain a little Stone Age concentration. A bit of boredom. A daydream. A thought. A brain that doesn’t jump every time another goldfish beeps.