Slab and Crack

Choosing what to climb with Dan follows a familiar pattern: I will suggest something I consider feasible; Dan will dismiss it as too easy and suggest something I consider too hard; We’ll try it in spite of my reservations; Dan will somehow drag us both to the top (or at least to a safe escape). To make matters worse for me, Dan remains happily unaware that being over-ambitious is even possible, leading to an even bigger discrepancy in our proposed objectives. I wanted this pattern to change. I wanted to out-ambition Dan.

So on a Saturday in November, Dan and I already driving towards the Peak, though not yet having discussed what to climb, I took my opportunity to think big. One route came to mind that I would love to climb, but I’ve always rejected it as being too difficult for me. Even better, I knew that Dan was intimidated by it too, and so he wouldn’t be in a position to over-rule it. Barely able to contain my fear, excitement, and smugness at beating Dan in this stupid game of route-suggestion one-upmanship (that only I was playing anyway), I put on my most casual offhand manner and I said it: “how about err, oh I don’t mind where we go really. Ahem. How about Slab and Crack?”

“Ooh!” Dan looked shocked. For a moment I felt proud – I had done it. I had thought big. Bigger than Dan. Then, having recovered his composure, he got the last laugh, Dan agreed we should try it. Oh shit!

Needless to say, neither of us are Ryan: Neither of us flashed it. Indeed, we were far from flashing it. Which is fine, as that was not what we expected. Rather, I have had about a dozen goes spread over the past two weekends. Dan topped out yesterday, just before rain stopped play. Perhaps out of kindness, perhaps out of a sense of obligation, or maybe from a sense of team completion, Dan is here at Curbar with me again.

The whole process of solving problems, bantering away the other’s anxiety and pooling our collective nerve had left me with a string of memories. In the way that friendships are built out of shared experiences, and Dan and I have certainly been accruing a lot of these in the past few days. I also felt an unusual affinity for the route. Different sections of rock acted as cues for memories that were intrinsically linked with a specific sense of place. Different moves holding an emotional intonation, reminding me of snippets of chat, kind gestures or overcoming feelings of intimidation.

Finally, having already undergone a great deal of barely necessary pre-route faff, I took one last look around. Maybe the duress of repeated attempts has left me in a reflective mood, but even the ground at the base of the route brought back good memories. The joking, the gossiping, the psyching up, the piss taking, the time Dan tripped over that deceptively flat bit of grass...

Somewhat forced, I leave the ground. The first moves are close enough to the pads to be climbed more dynamically than necessary – a playful hop taking preference to a boring reach.  Much to my amusement, Dan made a mess of this part every time. The easiest bit of the route, but Dan would always be in a tangle of limbs until told what to do, an unintended in-joke (it is actually really obvious how to do it, by the way).

The next part was a bit of a breakthrough for me when I first did it, as I couldn’t use Dan’s beta and I was starting to feel a bit stuck. Right now I love and loathe this part in equal measure, it’s my way of doing it and it works for me, but it leaves me with the unfortunate consequence of an awkward foot-swap. Every time I get here I’m grateful that Dan pulls the rope to the side, otherwise runs across the vital foothold. I didn’t have to ask, but the difference it makes is more than psychological.

Completing the long rock over leads me back to a familiar spot: Back to the pause just before the scary part. It’s become a familiar position, right here. It took me a long time to find that I could actually rest a little. Allowing my body to lengthen from my hands to my feet and spragging with my thumb. Breathe deeply but carefully, or the movement of my chest will push me out of balance. On paper  it sounds so simple. It didn’t feel simple the first time I was here, but the holds haven’t changed.

The next part is the scary bit, and I’m still not sure how I feel about it. Although I have jumped off from this slight rest a few times, I wouldn’t want to fall from higher up. And I could do, it’s not consistently easy enough for me to be certain. Cruelly, it’s the most insecure of all the climbing prior to the gear. It’s all slopers, smears and a sidepull, nothing you could catch yourself with. Last time it felt great – so easy that I convinced myself I have it dialled.

I launch up into the sequence, imbued with confidence from cruising it earlier in the day. But having lulled myself into this careless mind-set, it will not surprise you to learn that it now feels much harder again – oh dear! I don’t like having to try this hard up here.

It made me think of Dan spotting me. He always looked smooth on that part, despite using worse smears on his sequence than I dare. I always feel bad when I sketch up high, it’s awful to watch when you’re spotting. I felt anxious when spotting Dan, and he never looked sketchy on it like I do now. Sorry Dan!

Now stood on a stepped edge, I’m level with the gear, cheekily still in from yesterday’s efforts. Clip clip clip. Two RPs and a crap alien. By a fluke of taking turns, Dan had always got here first, and so had to place the gear. Of course, the strategy I employed was to makesure I went last on any given day, that way it was always Dan to go first next time.

A few more moves and the wall steepens slightly. Predictably, the crux. It’s protected by another RP, a completely blind placement that again, I never had the pleasure of putting in. This suited me perfectly, as it is pumpy enough to clip, let alone place. Fortunately for me, this also meant that Dan was always the first to test it too. I’m glad I didn’t have to!

I can’t even think of this crux without admitting to our complete punter-dom. I’ll come straight out with it, I’m going to blame Dan. You see, Dan placed three RPs in the top crack, although only one of them ever got weighted. The bottom one wasn’t very good anyway. And the top one was adjacent to the crux crimp in the crack. Between us we must have had a dozen attempts each with this setup, crimping the hell out of the edge of the crack, barely cramming our fingers deep enough to call it a hold. Until Dan took out that darn top RP. He’d blocked the crucial hold with a non-crucial wire. Obviously everyone does so occasionally, but we had both persisted for two full days like this. As I said, punters! Obviously it was Dan who placed it each time. He’d have been a lot less pumped if he’d left it out too.

Kind of disappointingly, the absence of this wire is actually what made the difference. Of all the combinations of foot positions, sidepulls, undercuts, and any other trick I had tried, none of them mattered much compared with actually having the actual hold available. Ah well. I set up for the move, heavy with the emotional baggage of past repeated failure, but light with the comparative jug now in my right hand. I trusted to luck on the right foot smear, and stepped my left foot towards the good edge. Here is where I’ve fallen before, but not this time. With a foot on the good flatty, I rocked over.

Again making use of the RPs Dan had placed yesterday, I stand in balance, sizing up the final moves.   The one good foothold gives some respite, but it doesn’t stop my escalating anxiety. Basically, I really don’t want this siege to stretch on any more. Fear of failure has got the better of me now, and I’ve allowed myself to get into the trap of pissing about looking for the massive jug that blatantly doesn’t exist.

Tiring forearms force me into action. Choosing the best of the bad bunch of crimps, I smear with my right, then smear with my left. A gaston is within reach, but in my urgency I mess up the slap and end up hitting the wall to the side of the hold. I’ve pushed myself outwards! I barndoor backwards, left hand and left foot arcing in mid-air. But my whole-body pendulum slows, and I swing back in. It is a slab, after all. I kind of fall back onto the hold. Compared with grasping at fresh air, it feels like a jug. No more mistakes here, I don’t so much smear on the next foothold, but weld my foot into the very grain of the rock.

With both hands on top, a wave of euphoria and relief engulfs me, although only for a brief moment. It passes and I feel strangely weak, as if my body has paced itself perfectly and now has nothing left. I wobble through the easy mantel onto the top of the crag, and standing in the wind, out of sight of my companions, everything feels slightly surreal. Not for long however, in the time I’ve undone the Velcro on my shoes the high has already passed. No more anxiety, no more euphoria, back to normal. It might sound a bit cliché, but topping out is all part of the process, and doesn’t seem any more important than the parts that came before.

Topping out offered a sense of completion, but my enjoyment of the route happened across the whole four days. Memories are intrinsically anchored to the physical place where they took place, and without a doubt that is a special place and a special route, but in many ways the route was primarily a vessel for friendship and challenge.

 The stopping point just before the scary section (Copyright Dan McManus)

Reaching for the good edge, at the start of the crux (Copyright Dan McManus)