Not the shape of things to come

Round one had taken place three weeks previously. Looking for something to do from my winter wants list, I went for what I had assumed would be the easiest one. A quick route tick to satisfy the ego, in amongst a couple of months of bouldering. My progress had faltered at an impasse which required more than I was willing to give: more in the way of commitment. Maybe due to a lack of recent time on a rope, maybe from the gear which is more ‘okay’ than ‘good’, maybe in my desire for a quick-tick I had underestimated the difficulty. As you can tell, the one thing I had in spades was a willingness to resort to a string of excuses.

I came back armed with Dan. His talent and enthusiasm tends to bring out the best in me. His superior ability provides sufficient competition to make me try a little harder, but any seriousness is avoided by the nature of friendship. The emphasis is always on fun.

Plus I had my knowledge from the previous attempt. I had already meticulously explored every conceivable sequence in the desire to avoid what had ultimately proved to be unavoidable. At least I was now certain of what to do.

As I had done last time, I solo’d up to the gear, placed an okay cam in a good flake, then a good cam in the okay flake. Not my favourite combination, but its grit isn’t it, and slightly hollow flakes are always fine anyway. That’s obvious

I climbed back down to the floor. Cup of tea, Jamaican ginger cake (very important), clean shoes, tie on. Joke with Dan about belayers wearing helmets. Back up to the gear, quickly clipped. With no reason to pause, I launch myself straight into the crux. A jump into a high left foot and I’m higher than I have been. The crimps are smaller than expected, and my hands are unhelpfully crossed. Oh dear! Having been riding on the confidence of prior knowledge, my gumption has suddenly run dry as I’m faced with the unexpected. I turn to my initiative for some inspiration. ‘Climb down’ is its best response. Very helpful, given that the climbing is irreversible. I retreat as far as possible, about half a move, and try to sag as close to the gear as I can. It’s a strange paradox, wanting to avoid a fall but pushing yourself to the point where it is inevitable. My sagging reaches its conclusion and the inevitable fall becomes current reality. I’m aware that I am falling, but as ever, it is happening very quickly and it isn’t as scary as the moments leading up to it.

The next three things happen in very quick succession: My legs take up the impact as I swing into the wall, I put my feet down onto the pads just a few inches below the point at which I came to rest, and I feel the air from something moving past the back of my neck. It seems that we all look to the floor at the same time. There’s a rock on the pads. It wasn’t there before. I look up at the hollow flake. Only it isn’t there. Collectively it seems, the penny drops. I’ve just fallen to within a whisker of the deck, and the falling flake has missed us both by the most narrow of margins.

I start giggling, and can’t stop. I keep expecting a delayed dose of adrenaline-induced shaking, but it never arrives. I remain unusually calm about the whole debacle.

Although ostensibly it was a close call, it still felt like the whole situation was sufficiently calculated and under our control, in spite of the unexpected. “Safe enough, although not quite textbook” is our conclusion.

Photo courtesy of Dan Arkle  http://www.danarkle.com/