The ten hour drive south to Fiordland afforded us ample opportunity to upgrade our email friendship to a face-to-face one. The topic of conversation steered itself from climbing, to work, home, family, romance (not that I had much to contribute about that one) and back around to climbing.
Suitably introduced, we warmed up with a couple of days sport climbing at the steep and weatherproof crag of Little Babylon. With a good forecast and a days rest, we chose a route called Labyrinth (grade 22, about F6c and 6 pitches) as our first objective in the hills. Due to the compact nature of the rock, many of the mountain routes in this area are protected by a mix of trad gear and minimalist bolting (Labyrinth was bolted ground-up originally), a bit like some slate routes, or granite slabs in the US. The topo showed long sustained pitches with run-outs between the bolts. On the steep sport routes I had felt weak, unfit, and had wanted lots of bolts. After my injuries I'd had three weeks off climbing, and I was still having trouble with a leg and a hand. Still, on the bright side, being unaware of the route's reputation as a frightener meant I wasn't as intimidated as I otherwise would have been. Ignorance of the objective dangers is bliss, so it seems.
We walked up early the next day, taking about three hours to reach the bivvy spot, on a shoulder just short of (the splendidly named) Barrier Knob cliff. I revelled in the fact that compared with Patagonia, the routes here are short yet the days just as long. We relaxed as the sunshine burnt off the early-morning chill, admired the view and drank copious cups of tea. Now this is my kind of alpine rock climbing!
We sauntered around to the cliff for midday, a tactical decision so we could climb in the warmth. That, and I objected to rushing elevenses. The relaxed and sunny ambience of it all was doing a good job of allaying any anxiety I had about climbing in he hills again, especially given my current condition. Until, that is, a rock fell from the top of the cliff and smashed to the ground five metres behind me. Understandably, given recent experience, this spooked the hell out of me. We racked up regardless, working on the principle that it was a one-off (which as it transpired, was the case) but I remained hyper-vigilant, always glancing above me and unwilling to permit myself to relax and enjoy the situation.
Garry lead first. He had intended to link the first two pitxhes, but decided that the second was too blank and too bold. He offered it to me from the comfort of the first stance.
The combination of the rock falling, my poor fitness, and Garry's assessment of the next pitch meant my confidence was at a low ebb. It was with a reluctance and little hope that I took the rack from Garry and went to 'have a look.' Usually when I use this phrase its a euphemism for "I'm going to actually commit this time but I'm too scared to admit it, so here's a bit of linguistic self-deception instead. However this time, I genuinely expected my 'look' to be a token inspection so I could confirm that Garry was right and we could retreat.
As it happened, this token look revealed an RP placement that Garry had missed. As is often the case, as soon as I clipped a runner a dozen new holds appeared and the ones I was using miraculously got bigger. I made a tentative move upwards, which lead to a second move, a third, and before I knew it the series of moves was a sequence, and much to my surprise I appeared to be rock climbing again. After my recent hiatus from climbing, shadowed with doubt and anxiety about being in the mountains, this was a awakening. I found myself immersed in the challenge and focussed on anything that would maintain my upward momentum. Everything fell into place.
The next pitches, because off their style, took us a long time to climb. Nonetheless, I felt increasing enjoyment from being fully engaged in the task. Garry lead the technical crux and I took the psychological one (not that his pitch was exactly over-bolted either, mind you). It was probably to my advantage that the style was quite British trad-esque, even with the bolts: just less than vertical, teetering up on edges, nothing too hard but with the crux lying in keeping it all together.
By the time I was leading the penultimate pitch I felt I was back in my element. Even the three bail 'biners below a blank section didn't phase me (although it took a bit of lateral thinking to avoid using them).
We topped out and rap'd the route. I was psyched. Everything had come together and I had not, as I had feared, completely forgotten how to climb. Climbing with Garry had been fun in itself, despite the route making for a tough day out.
Relaxing at the bivvy that night, my sense of satisfaction was only matched by a returning desire for more of the same, something that had been sorely lacking in recent weeks.
Garry leading the crux third pitch (Photo: Tom Griff)
The last of the evening sunshine at the bivvy (Photo: Tom Griff)
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