My feet, ankles, shins, hands, fore-arms, neck, ears and cheeks are covered in small red bumps. They are maddeningly itchy and I’m going insane just trying to keep from tearing my own skin off. Yesterday two friends and I drove to Cannon Mountain (New Hampshire) to climb one of the great Northeast classics. Black flies, millions of them, ate our flesh and drank our blood. Worse than mosquitos they are hard to kill, numerous, determined and thirsty. If I never see another one again, it will be too soon.

In a few days I'm leaving the US for a place at the University Hospital of Zürich, Switzerland. A friend of mine has cooked up a last gasp mission to take me climbing on at least one of the Northeast's great classics before I go. In our sights are Moby Grape (nine pitches, 5.8) and the Whitney-Gilman Ridge (five pitches, 5.8), both on New Hampshire's Cannon Mountain.

After hours of driving up from Connecticut we swing into the carpark at the Cannon trailhead right on 8am. There are two other vehicles, one belongs to fishermen dudes out on a small pond nearby and the other to a couple of guys who (according to the register) are heading up to climb the Whitney-Gilman. They are only 15 minutes ahead of us and John (who is something of a speed climber) says we are hosed if we want to follow them, so we decide to do the Grape first. John insists we take his alpine-style rack (a few battered aliens, three aging TCUs and a snarl of ancient nuts) and two ropes. Thus, we march up the trail. Today is overcast and mildly warm.

The talus field is pretty strenuous. Antony jokes about the "Cannon Stairmaster" and we perspire freely in the humidity. We spot the guys on Whitney Gilman and, amazingly, they are already half way up the route. We decide to stay with Moby Grape. Tracking up and right we reach the base of the climb at ten minutes before nine.

I look at the start line. Reppy’s Crack (5.8), the popular alternate first pitch. It’s a perfect splitter crack 100 feet long straight up a granite face. I’ve been told about the pain this pitch engenders but (being clueless) I want to try and lead it anyway. Besides there are a few annoying little black fly things buzzing around down here and I want to get up above them.

"Approximately 40 species of black flies are known to occur in New Hampshire. Of these species, only 4 or 5 are considered to be human biters or annoying." (Bowman & Burger, 1996).

I take John’s rack, he explains the order in which the pieces should go and Antony puts me on belay. Pretty soon I’m remembering just how intensely I suck at crack climbing, my hand-jamming is weak and my feet are in significant pain. After going maybe 35 feet I give up, I’m putting in pro too fast anyway, I would never have enough to do the whole pitch. God my feet hurt. Antony lowers me and John takes front-running. John's lead is a beautiful piece of work. Antony has me clip myself with a draw to his harness, to act as an extra weight/anchor just in case the big guy slips and takes a whipper. The black flies are starting to get pretty annoying. John gets to the top of the crack and whoops it up. He continues on corners a little right and then finishes on a big ledge. Antony, who has been bitten a few times on the legs by the flies, gets to follow up next. While he is climbing I am so bothered by the little black bastards that I start to move around, pacing restlessly backwards and forwards. I can't wait to start climbing and escape these bloody things!

Antony, in pain, takes quite a long time to do the crack. The upper part is very nearly an off-width and quite difficult to climb. Many minutes pass and I am starting to feel some bites. Eventually he finishes up and it’s my turn. Quickly I head up the crack and at first it’s not too bad. The flies drift away and I can concentrate on business. Ouch. Goddamnit my feet are killing me. The hand jams even hurt. I hate crack climbing! I thrash, flail and fall repeatedly. My so-called ascent is a miserable embarresment and I wish I wasn’t here. I resort to getting out of the crack and finding a few features to the right, but there’s never enough and I am forced to get back in the crack. John is laughing at me. No matter, I will kill him. Finally I reach them at the belay ledge (it’s after 10am!) and they have bad news. Those little flies are up here too and they're hungry.

"There are only 2 species of black flies in New Hampshire that are consistent and abundant human biters. These are Prosimulium mixtum and Simulium venustum." (Bowman & Burger, ibid).

John offers me the next pitch, it’s a fourth class scramble. I take it and run up as fast as I can, taking a pretty direct route I follow not quite the easiest line available. Finishing it with a short wide chimney. It took me about 10 minutes at most. I bring up Antony next and he doesn’t have any trouble at all . John solos up just behind him, not wanting to hang around with the black flies any longer than necessary. Bad news guys, the flies are coming along for the ride. With all the bites on his legs and arms Antony is beginning to bleed.

"Simulium venustum, the so-called 'white-stockinged' black fly emerges in early to mid-May in southern New Hampshire and remains a pest until the end of May. In the north, it emerges in late May to early June and can remain abundant until the end of June in some areas and even into July in higher mountain localities." (Bowman & Burger, ibid).

We look up at the third pitch. This time it’s Antony’s turn. The third pitch (5.8) holds the crux of Moby Grape. A triangular-shaped roof with a crack right through its apex, the roof is over a tricky little slab. John calls it the "ominous A-roof". Antony, knowing that to be still is to be fly food, unhesitatingly heads up left of the roof and then moves diagonally across the slab underneath it. A very light rain starts to spot down around us and it alleviates the fly situation a little bit. But for Antony this only adds to the difficulty of his lead. There is one reaching move to a hold and then there’s a pin, vocalizing some discomfort about the now slippery stone he manages the reach and clip the pin. Then comes the roof. Protecting it with a #2 camalot Antony balks at jamming a couple of times before finally committing himself to a layback. Antony is clearly out on the ragged edge and hauling for all he's worth. But he’s over and we’re all breathing again. Happily, the rain has stopped. Unhappily, the flies have returned. Above the crux Antony thinks the rest should be easy. The problem is that I’ve used too much gear for my belay anchor and he has only one sling left to help protect the last 35 feet. But he does the run-out very well and soon we hear that he has set himself for us to follow. I go next. At the reaching move my feet slip at the last moment and I find my chest hitting the slab as my fingers hang furiously onto the hold. I haul up and then try to pull over the roof just as I saw Antony do it. It’s a desperate lay-back and I only just heave over it. Antony has done a great lead here, cojones de toro. John comes up last and thrutches through the crux before cruising up the last moves.

The black flies are now swarming all over us. On belay duty it’s impossible to escape them, but even two hands are not suffucient to keep them at bay. John slaps and swats and bites back, killing thousands. Antony, who seemed to be the mildest of the mild when I met him, is swearing with increasing profanity as he suffers the worst of their assaults. His legs, arms and neck are oozing with blood. It looks pretty gross. I have lots of bumps and lumps too and I silently beg the weather gods for more of that relieving rain.

Black flies are active only during the day ... they tend to be most active on humid, cloudy days and just before storms." (Bowman & Burger, ibid).

John romps up the fourth pitch, following a right slanting corner and then angling back up and left to a good belay ledge. I go second again, Antony admonishes me to move quickly, the flies are driving us into a sort of growling hysteria. We aren’t doing the full 9 pitches today, there's a walk-off John says can be done after the fifth. Eventually we are all up with John on top of the fourth pitch. John offers me the next pitch, the Finger of Fate.

This pitch, like most of the others, is 5.8. I’ve only successfully led the fourth-class second pitch so I really want to do it and make my contribution to the real work. I’m pretty gripped but John says it’s a short pitch and points out the way, shows me the big detached curving flake above us which gives this pitch it’s name. The start is a traverse right over open space and a long stretch to a large pointed flake which seems to reach towards you as you strain out towards it. By the tips of my fingers I nab it and then start moving up to the looming Finger. There I clip the bolt underneath its base and then move up into the finger's overhanging left off-width. John instructs me to put the #3 camalot in there to protect higher moves, but I don’t have it with me. If I fall I’m going to bounce onto the slab below (and then some), and the way I am positioned I’m going to fall out backwards. It’s really scary. I have squeezed up in here and now I can’t down-climb, I must finish it. Somehow I trust the sloping edge my hands are pulling on, thrust my butt back out into open space and haul up. Gasping and yelping like a frightened kid I reach the top. I have to lay still and recover for a minute. I know that Antony and John are being eaten alive down there but the adrenaline pulse is shaking me senseless. John snaps a few shots of my prone form lying on top of the Finger of Fate. The rest of the climb is a little scary, first sling the top of the Finger then climb up to the slab above, delicate friction moves up this and then easy steps to a big grassy ledge above. Quickly I try to find a suitable anchor, using the radio to let them know what's happening. Antony tells me I'm going to be hauling the packs on one of the lines. The black flies are just incredible up here.

"Synchronised, mass emergences frequently occur, particularly in temperate regions, and these may persist for much of the spring and early summer as successive species mature. The sheer numbers of blood-seeking adults make such outbreaks especially dangerous to livestock and humans. For example, in Algonquin Park, Ontario, Canada, maximum attack rates of Simulium venustum on humans, in June, have been recorded at 78 flies/inch of skin/min (landing rate) and 17 flies/inch of skin/min (biting rate)." (Peckarsky et al.,1990).

They're constantly in my face and almost blinding me. They're biting my ankles, my arms, and I can feel them in my hair at the back of my head biting me there too. Fortunately I’m using a gi-gi to belay so I can occasionally slap myself ferociously in an effort to murder some of the little bastards. The packs get stuck somewhere so I bring up John on the other line. He unsticks the packs and I keep hauling both them and John. John gets up and takes over the pack hauling (they are in the middle of the line, at the end of it is Antony). He belays for Antony and soon we are all on top of pitch five. Weirdly John isn't suffering nearly as much as Antony and I.

"Human subjects ... exposed to Simulium venustum ... show that biting rates are partially dependent on interindividual variation in skin secretions and skin temperature." (Schofield & Sutcliffe, 1997).

Antony doesn’t stop, following John’s pointing finger he strides off right looking for an exit path. I coil up one of the ropes and carry it. John is warning that we should remain roped up and keep our rock shoes on, as there are still some careful rock moves ahead. Antony, sweeping by me, asks for a belay. The escape takes a long time, we get lost often. The belay Antony gets from John is nominal and I climb essentially unprotected for most of the way. At one point John leads up something tricky, I tie into the middle and simul-climb with him. We are being driven by the flies and it’s difficult to force ourselves to stay safe. I realize how it's possible to be so maddened that leaping from the cliff becomes a consideration. Eventually we get to the top and, mercifully, the flies are swept away by a stiff breeze. Our relief is enormous.

Antony has already said that if there was going to be any more climbing then he was out. His body is a mess, he looks like someone with a horrible and disfiguring skin-condition. I was also ready to bail on further climbing. We head down, stopping only for happy snaps around the Old Man of the Mountain (a rock formation that looks like a giant face jutting out of the cliff) and after an endless descent reach the bottom. Pushing through the brush, following John's short cut, we burst onto a walking-path amongst hordes of tourons who seem faintly disgusted by our rude appearance. The flies are no-where in sight down here. It’s just not fair.

It’s over, I got to climb one of the classic North-Eastern giants - but those bloody black flies subtracted nearly all enjoyment from the experience. In a few days, when the welts disappear and I no longer feel the need to flay the skin from my body, I guess I will be able to say that ... on balance ... it was a great trip.

An example of what Antony looked like several hours later,
after cleaning up and washing the blood away.