Serpentine

What a brilliant route! The best route in Victoria? The sustained climbing up the 40m second pitch is simply magnificent. - Sublime Climbs guidebook I try to ignore the hyperbole that often accompanies classic routes. My enjoyment of climbing is linked to many factors, I often love unloved one star gems, and can one three-star classic really be any better than another three-star classic? Anyway, Serpentine is sufficiently classic (oh, and notoriously soft) that I was kind of saving it for the onsight. A pie-on-the-sky dream I'd secretly fantasized over since first seeing photos of it when skiving at work. Well here I am in Australia, so we rented a car to get to the Grampians for the week. I did some other routes on Taipan wall first, great routes themselves like Snake Flake, Fisting Party and Venom. An Aussie climber, Mike, had already had his gear in Serpentine (its mixed bolt and trad protected) for the last few weeks, including the weird first pitch and a jugging pine to the stance. I wanted to feel fitter before getting on it (as ever), but you can't put things off forever. Also Mike had ticked the route the day before so the gear would be coming out soon! His ascent sounded exciting: after climbing in control all the way to the top moves, panic and tactic acid took over and "no one will ever appreciate just how close I was to falling off the top moves". He followed this with a 40m victory whipped back to the belay! Pitch 1 (grade 24 ~ F7a) has got good climbing interspersed with about 20m of traversing to link the only features on the lower wall. I overcame the weird blind cruxes with judicious over-use of Mike's shouted beta. Tom tried following, but excessive rope drag and hard moves above ledges didn't inspire his confidence. He wisely sought a second belay from the floor and followed using a lead / second / back clean / reverse for gear combo and joined me at the stance. By this time I was cold but in position to begin on pitch two. It began to rain. We sat it out, relatively sheltered under a small roof, reading the 1983 edition of woman's weekly fashion knitting magazine (full of bra-less cuties in very loose-knit crop tops, in case you were wondering) which is stashed at the back of the ledge for such eventuality. I felt cold and considered just rapping down the fixed line, but excitement, the pressure of limited time here, and some degree of pride combined to overcome thoughts of putting it off any longer. I preclipped the first bolt and readied myself for what could be the perfect experience that I'd secretly dreamt of. I set off. I fell at bolt 1. Cold. Damp rock. Misread sequence. I curse and immediately see what I should have done. I bolt-to-bolt my way to the top. The initial crux roof is followed by a technical rib and traverse. Next, extended fridge-hugging up a hanging turret. This is followed by 20m of boulder problems separated by juggy rests and jams. I've only had the briefest play on the moves, but its obvious that its great, really great. The moves, the position, the rock. It's all as good as the reputation. I can't wait to be in amongst it all trying the reprint. We rap off as more squally showers pass over. We're back the very next day. My excitement hasn't diminished overnight. Two others want to go on the route today too. Sure, no problem, there's loads of time. I warm up as they jug the fixed line. Julian has a strong flash attempt. Chris goes to work the moves. I do some belaying. It's been a while so I warm up again. Chris keeps plugging away at easy sequences beyond his grasp. And some more. And for some time after that. He dogs the pitch for almost two hours, and by the time he's done the day is running out. Julian despatched the route on his second go. But by now the daylight is fading. I find it hard to not feel resentment at my day being wasted. I shout up some friendly nonsense to the guys on the stance to remind them about me. They seem to be pissing around and I'm getting more anxious. They don't seem to take the hint but eventually vacate the ledge. I jug up as fast as I can as the sun sets. I've cooled down again, but ironically, I also feel worn out from having spent sip much of the day warming up. Tom joins me for belay duty. I preclip the bolt and survey the horizon, the view over the rocky amphitheatre and the plains beyond. I try to suppress frustration and anxiety, and replace these with my previous excitement, which seems to have got lost in the wait. I don't have the luxury of taking my time so I decide to set off. If nothing else, the crux will warm me up. I set up for the big slap, hit the jug and cut loose. I move above the bolt with a high heel "Stop! Andy..." I don't need to hear Tom's explanation, I see that I've back clipped the draw. What a clusterfuck. Tom's made the right decision to tell me, but I can't help but feel I've lost my short chance because of my own stupidity. Feeling defeated, I reverse the moves. In anger, I hang off one arm from the jug, feet peddling the air under the roof, and preclip the krab. I'm about to have Tom take me tight when I realise that I haven't waited the rope yet. I may have been doing a one handed deadhang, but time is of the essence. It's still on! Feeling pumped, I recommended climbing and slap my way through my half-remembered sequence to a good rest. Tom and I laugh at the ludicrous maneuver. I want to linger at the rest, but a quick glance at the horizon tells me that procrastination isn't an option. Again, some anger at having to wait so long permeates my consciousness so I make a concerted effort to banish this unhelpful distraction. I can't remember the sequence for the next 10m of sidepulls and heelhooks, but I have acne impression of how it should work out. What's more, I have nothing to lose. Circumstances are against me, so so what if I fall off? It goes by in a blur of deadpoints and tension. Further tricky moves pass below me. I'm continuously aware that the clock is ticking, so every move I get to make is a bonus. I play on this feeling, making sure I appreciate every moment and keep climbing with guns blazing. Before I know it I'm at the rest before the final 5m boulder problem. My confidence grows as my arms recuperate. For the first time on the pitch, my concentration wanders and I become aware of the voices below me, as the voices below become aware that I'm still going. By now I can only see holds that have chalk on anything else blends into the night. Mike and his friends shout up their encouragement. I tell Mike that I'm nervous, as he find the top hard despite cruising up to this point, yet I've barely had a modicum of control at all! In spite of my joking, I've found a sneaky jam, so I actually feel pretty fresh. About 10 people are watching so I play it up a bit and ask Mike for a joke to help me calm down "How do you stop a dog humping your leg" Mike asks after a pause. "Dont know, you'll have to tell me" "Give it a blow job" Laughter all round. "Is that tried and tested?" I enquire. More laughter. I'm enjoying the banter, but if I wait any longer I may as well close my eyes. Heelhook; lock; match; lock again; crimp. And jug! I top out to the echoes of my own whooping, amidst cheers from below. Everyone wants me to take the obligatory victory leap but I'm terrified! "Can't you all just leave so I can downclimb to the bolt?" I joke with about 70% seriousness. The baiting crowd don't detect that I'm genuine. Tom tells me he's ready, meaning he must have paid out a load of slack. I'm not ready but I jump before I can stop myself. My lungs run out of air mid-flight. There's more laughter and whooping all round. So what it wasn't the dream onsight. Was my pleasure diminished? Would my experience have been somehow greater? I can't imagine how.