When I signed up for my first trip with Warwick University Mountaineering Club (WUMC) in the autumn of ’97, I pictured a weekend of peaceful cragging, fresh air and a chance to make new friends. What I got instead was a chaotic convoy, boisterous hut games and a Land Rover painted like an ambulance. Back then, many uni clubs prided themselves on outlandish initiations and WUMC was no exception.
Friday:
Our group loaded up three minibuses, a car, and Nick’s Land Rover “ambulance” with ropes, harnesses, crates of beer and enough food to feed an army. I ended up in a minibus driven by Mark (aka John), alongside Dave “The Hair,” Sickboy, Spencer, Cathy and a few others. The journey was peppered with pub pit-stops and the occasional spirited antics, so by the time we reached our destination, I already knew this was going to be a weekend like no other.
At one point, we stopped to let Sickboy close a gate. The driver joked about leaving him behind. Then accidentally reversed our minibus into a ditch. Lucky for us, we weren’t the last vehicle in the convoy; Nick roared around the bend in his “ambulance” and hauled us out. Apparently, that kind of mishap was just WUMC standard operating procedure.
By the time we arrived at Wernside Manor, the club Exec had claimed the cozy bunks, leaving us freshers to a drafty portacabin, nicknamed the “schoolroom.” That night, I got my first taste of “Wizz, Boing, Bounce,” a baffling drinking game fueled by an endless keg. I finally crawled into my sleeping bag around 2 a.m., more worried about hypothermia than about my climbing the next day.
Saturday:
Fueled by a quick breakfast courtesy of Will “The Swedish Chef” and Lou, his butter-spreading sidekick, we headed to a Yorkshire limestone crag. On the way, we detoured to a waterfall, where Nick decided to wade in waist-deep. While the rest of us, retaining some common sense, watched from dry land.
Despite my late night, I managed six routes, while others bailed sooner. Many still hungover or lost in banter. Anthony “Mines Another Pie” Rowe repeatedly fell off until Willy pointed out the right beta. We returned to the huts for dinner, then dove headlong into an evening of pints, raucous drinking games and a mock “court session.” “Flash” Gordon was charged with every automotive sin known to man. By midnight, half of us were squeezed into a single bunkroom, but at least it was toasty.
Sunday:
Sunday brought us to Brimham Rocks for a spot of bouldering. I stuck to easier problems, still recovering from the previous nights’ revelry. By dusk, we were exhausted and headed for dinner in Leeds before rolling back to campus, shattered yet brimming with wild stories.
Final Thoughts:
Looking back on my 1997 university trip, I suspect that club culture has evolved. Mostly for the better. Even during my time at university, I noticed a shift as the new millennium approached. The hazing rituals, excessive drinking and reckless antics gradually gave way to a more inclusive and mindful approach. While some may miss the unpredictability of the past. The payoff is a more welcoming and supportive atmosphere, one where camaraderie flourishes without the darker edges.
On that first WUMC trip in ’97, I learned climbing was only half the story. The other half was an unruly mash-up of friendship, mischief and communal challenges, often involving kegs. Whether you pine for the wild 1990s or prefer the safer, friendlier 2020s, there’s a constant truth: University mountaineering clubs remain a forge for unforgettable bonds, tall tales and a lifelong passion for the mountains.