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/

Other Realms

There’s an unfortunate interaction between Dan and I, that often happens when we are deciding where to go climbing. He’s better than me, and often wants to do routes that I’m intimidated by. But, here’s the rub, I’m easily persuaded. And I don’t let on that I’m too scared. We chose to try Other Realms on Cilan Head, by which I mean Dan suggested it and I failed to say no.

We’d already failed to access the base of the route last year (which had left me secretly relieved): no sign of the abseil stake and a static rope shorter than the height of the cliff putting paid to that attempt. Dan had slightly more success last weekend with Calum, actually getting to the base and doing the direct first pitch. They were then stopped by the wet second pitch.

On the Friday night, as we were being plied with rose petal wine by our friend Jess, we confidently declined her offer to check the tide times for us. We calculated that the base of the cliff is almost certainly non-tidal. We didn’t feel the need for an early start either. It’s only a three pitch route anyway.

Having sussed the ab point last weekend, I let Dan equalise the half-dozen mediocre pieces whilst I racked up. Dan refused to climb on my set of wires. Where I see as a varied and comprehensive mix of passive protection, Dan sees a tatty bunch of frayed second hand odds and ends. I anticipated his objection, so I dug his wires from his bag. Ironically, they looked no better than mine. Even after combining the best wires from both our motley bunches, we still only had one rock 1 and one rock 7.

We both ab’d down to the start of the route. I had been volunteered to lead the first pitch, given that Dan had already had the pleasure. The straight-forward chimney crack start didn’t warm me up, but this was made up for by the awkward rest before the crux, which did tire me out. Confused by the lack of holds, and completely forgetting Dan’s beta, I fell off. Lowering down, we acknowledged that the sea was starting to come over the top of our supposedly non-tidal ledge. Hmm.

My second go was a mess, as I forgot my own beta before I even got high enough to have the opportunity to mess up Dan’s beta. Lowering off again, I curtailed my rest due to the encroaching tide. Dan relocated his belay to a smaller ledge a few feet higher. At the crux once more, I still can’t make Dan’s beta work, so I improvise. An unlikely rockover leads me to the jug and the end of the good rock. The remaining few scary pulls are made easier by the presence of Dan’s week-old chalk.

Having arrived at the stance, I struggle to find enough decent runners. Eventually I settle for a wire, a cam, an in-situ wire and the ab-rope. Dan joins me and points out that I should be 10 feet lower, so if he falls off the next pitch he won’t land on me. And I’d be able to stand on a nicer ledge, out the way of falling rock. With better gear for the stance. Feeling defensive because of my own stupidity, I try to argue the point. But the in-situ wire I’m hanging off snaps, which kind of takes the wind out of my sails. It seems to take ages to fix my mistake, which is even more frustrating for Dan who just wants to get stuck into pitch two. Eventually, with the cluster-fuck mostly resolved and me at the lower stance, Dan begins pitch two.

Dan gets regular gear, and from my (now comfy) perch, the holds look like jugs. From the slowness of his movements however, I infer the gear isn’t very good, and the jugs are all loose. He arrives just below the crux overlap, which guards access to the groove above. Despite lacing his highpoint with gear, Dan is evidently having a hard time committing to the crux. I suspect that this has something to do with a loose looking block that he keeps on hitting to test. It doesn’t escape my notice that the same block has half of his gear behind it, and provides two essential holds. Eventually, Dan decides that today is not the day. Tentatively, he weights gear on both ropes whilst still holding on with both hands. Slowly at first, he commits his weight to the ropes and lowers back to the stance.

I know what’s coming, and I’m dreading it. Dan offers me the lead. And With me being how I am, I again fail to say no. Dan suggests that if I get stuck at the overlap, he can swing the ab rope towards me and I can bring out the prussiks. Suitably encouraged by this escape plan, I take the rack and prepare to set off. Just as I’m ready to leave the stance, Dan turns to me and says “there’s a vital piece of information that I’ve not shared with you about this route”
“Oh yeah?” Maybe this is going to be good news.
“When Caff did this he found it hard and thinks its E7.” My heart sank.

Suitably discouraged, I leave the stance. The difficulties are never too great, but this is compensated for by the rock, which is never too good either. To my benefit however, Dan had left me a trail of gear which gently coaxed me upwards. On this style of terrain, where every move on dodgy holds requires a real commitment, the gear (mediocre it may be, but averaging one piece every two feet) and the chalk makes a massive difference. I arrived at the pre-crux rest without having done anything too stressful, having basically piggy-backed off Dan’s efforts. I extend the gear in the suspect block so I it looks useful but is almost redundant. And I’ve just watched Dan lower off the cam on the other rope. Sure, it’s only on three lobes, but I find strength in the fact that three is one more than two. I procrastinate until boredom exceeds anxiety, and thus find the impetus to carry on. The moves into the groove go easier than I’d expected, if a little scruffily. The ledge that Dan has promised will offer post-crux salvation appears ready to fall off the cliff, but as recompense I find some decent small cam slots.

The guidebook description doesn’t really say anything about the upper part of the pitch, merely “carry on up the line”. So I assume it will be easy. In many ways this was correct. Unfortunately, the rock quality deteriorated to archetypal Lleyn standards so in actual fact it’s kind of the crux. I move upwards exceptionally slowly, thinking lightweight thoughts, separated by even longer periods spent refusing to move.

Sometime later, I made it to the second stance. Dan joined me and lead through onto easy ground. I imagine his enjoyment of the final section choss-eering can only have been heightened by the passing of a quick rain shower, as otherwise it would have been boring, right?

We got back to the bags at eight pm, half a day after having left them. Starving and parched, Dan suggested we stop for lunch.

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.

Cape Raoul

I think that anticipation really adds to my enjoyment of climbing. A lot of my best days out, both at home and abroad, tend to involve fulfilling long-held ambitions, irrespective of the actual difficulty of the route.

I’m aware that I start half my writings by saying how I’ve always wanted to do such-and-such a route, which is perhaps indicative of how much it affects my enjoyment of climbing, although I particularly remember the first time I experienced that phenomenon. I was about 15, and had just fought my way to the top of Overhanging Groove at Almscliffe. This gave me a grandstand view of a particularly youthful Andi Turner, questing his way up the adjacent Big Greeny: I was inspired! E3 was talking big numbers to me, and seeing one getting onsighted really fired my imagination.

Andi is just a few years older than me, but that was at an age when a couple of years meant a lot. Andi was old enough to have developed adult qualities, like his affableness and humility, that I was still clumsily searching for, yet we were close enough in age for me to identify with him. This combination elevated him further in my adolescent eyes. I’m not one for having heroes, but throughout my teens, unbeknownst to him, I always looked up to Andi as our paths occasionally crossed. For these reasons, The Big Greeny became symbolic of both what I wanted to do, and who I wanted to be. When I climbed it myself a couple of years later I was psyched out of my mind to tick my first E3, but the experience was sweetened immeasurably because of the way in which I had been introduced to the route.

There must be countless routes that I’ve enjoyed because I learned of their existence sometime in the past. I suppose classics like say the Cromlech routes hold their aura because of the stories, photos and writings that project them into a collective-conscious. Climbing them becomes something more than just ascending an arbitrary piece of rock. I find this happens after gaining knowledge about esoteric routes too. Snippets of information can fire curiosity. Things like this, which inspire a fun day out, are really worth expressing gratitude for

My new friend, Garry, who I first met in New Zealand, has very kindly put me up in his house in Tasmania. This in itself has been a real luxury for me, but also has the added advantage of me being able to benefit from his extensive local knowledge (not to mention psych).

Garry said that we should climb on Cape Raoul. Heard of it? I certainly hadn’t. No long awaited build-up of anticipation here, just Garry’s eulogizing the night before. It sounded well up my street though, and so we went. I was completely unprepared for the caliber of this adventurous day out.

And a full-on day it is too. By no means is this just cragging, this is sea stack-eering with an alpine ridge-esque approach. The Cape is a narrow line of basalt columns protruding boldly into the Southern Ocean.

The approach would make for a worthwhile day out in itself. We walked two hours from the car to where the slender curtain of basalt abruptly departs the peninsula. From there, we ab’d down, scrambled through dense scrub, climbed a two pitch E2, walked along the top of a buttress, ab’d again did some more bush-whacking, simul-climbed a horizontal chimney / flake, and eventually completed a final diagonal abseil. Two hours of complex and engaging approach adventuring had brought us to a notch between the two most prominent columns, 50 meters above the sea and the seals. It may as well have been at the end of the world. I was glad that Garry had been there before and knew the way. I can barely imagine being the first people to try and work it out.

We summited two of the columns by existing routes, and added a new route to one of them for good measure. The quality of the rock and the varied technicality of the climbing would make these three star routes anywhere. One route in particular was really classy, sustained insecure and inventive movement, switching between arêtes as the features see fit. To cap it all, the routes all finish on tiny square summits with the sea on three sides. This is a special place.

Reversing the approach engaged my tired mind sufficiently to just about ignore the hunger and dehydration (although as usual, that didn’t stop me bitching about it). We arrived back to the cliff top with just a few minutes of daylight left, and hiked back to the car by headlamp.

For me this epitomizes the impression that I am building of Tasmanian climbing. More than most places, there are unknown adventures of the highest quality to be had all over. But only if you know where to look. It’s exciting to realize how many anonymous adventures must be lying in wait to be re-discovered, or even discovered at all.

For Cape Raoul, amongst others, I owe Garry for the inspiration.

[A few days after climbing at Cape Raoul, our attention was brought to these photos, taken by a passing acquaintance from his boat: http://www.thesarvo.com/confluence/display/thesarvo/2012/03/16 ]

New Zeal Land

Through a serendipitous sequence of acquatintences and coincidences, I managed to hook myself up with a climbing partner for New Zealand. As we had arranged, Tasmanian Garry collected me from Christchurch airport, despite the difficulties associated with recognising someone he'd never met.

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)

Chance

Tony and I were joined by Andy, a friend Tony met in Edinburgh. We decided to climb Artebelleza on Innominata. It was fun to climb as a three, being more sociable at belays, and Andy fitted in comfortably with our established systems. The day took longer than planned however, a due to a combination of harder climbing than anticipated, the ropes getting stuck four times, and Tony needing to replace half of the rap-stations. Eventually, we reached the floor at dusk, and hurriedly packed our bags. I was warm and no one was above us, so I removed my helmet.

We rushed to get down the steep snowy gully, hoping to reach the feint trailhead before darkness fell. Tony was somewhere ahead of Andy and me when an almighty cracking noise echoed from above. A pillar of rock the size of a row of terraces was falling away from the mountain directly above us. I yelled "oh fuck" in disbelief. It was surreal to see, and hard to believe this was about to happen to me.

The main body of falling rock impacted on a shoulder and exploded. I intuited that the largest blocks would miss Andy and I, as the topography immediately above us would carry these away from us. This still left the hundreds of fragments that were rapidly dispersing in every direction. Not knowing Tony's exact position, I temporarily put him out of mind.

Above me, the sky was now littered with detritus; some pieces were rocketing down already, others that had been tossed upwards appeared suspended in space, poised to accelerate down on us.

My first thought was to escape. I briefly considered trying to outrun the mass of rocks before they reached me. The idea's implausibility was obvious, the gully too steep and the rocks already moving too fast.

Silhouetted in the sky, one large boulder demanded my attention over any others. Its arcing trajectory appeared to terminate exactly where I stood. Having already rules out escape as an option, I took two strides to my left and dropped into the foetal position, bracing my arms over my naked head and burying my face into the ground. The image of the rock in the sky remained in my mind. I hoped I was wrong about where it would land. With nothing more within my control, I was acutely aware that my life was now left to chance.

Although unable to see the onslaught, a rapidly rising crescendo of artillery fire exploding around me signaled its arrival. Everything vibrated violently. It sounded like the world was being torn apart. I can't remember where I was hit first. The hardest of the blows made my whole body recoil. With each impact my fear of the next increased. Hands and shoulders were hit the most. The hope I still held onto evaporated as pain rocked my head. I didn't think my skull would survive a much larger impact than that. All I could see were pebbles and gravel sliding past my face, sent by impacts just above my head.

As the rocks continued to fall, the thought came to me with surprising lucidity that I just wanted an end to this. If I was going to die, let it be swift. Through this partial expectation, I wondered how much longer it would last. How much longer could it last? Normal notions of time had ceased to apply. Yet rocks still collided all around me. And with me.

In desperation I begged "please stop, please stop, please stop, please stop." I was shocked to hear my own voice, only just audible over the noise, childlike and fragile. Even as the volley of stone fall eventually slowed I remained hyper-tense. I almost expected the ultimate blow to come right at the end, as soon as my guard was down and my hopes were up. A cruel twist that could be played by fate. The twist never came, but there was a delay before I allowed myself to believe it.

I knelt up and drops of blood fell from my head in quick succession. My voice cracked as I shouted to Andy, a vague figure through the thick dust yet only 20m from me. He replied and I was he was moving. The realisation that Tony was so far ahead of us that he could well have been caught in the midst overwhelmed my mind with sudden immediacy. I screamed his name. He answered. He had been safely off to the side.

I was unable to bend my right leg, although it could bear weight. Andy was mostly unhurt, so he and Tony took almost all the weight in their bags and guided me, bleeding and wincing, down the scree. What should have taken an hour took us five. Tony and Andy never showed impatience, although I started to doubt the accuracy of them saying "nearly there now". I never doubted their motive. At the bivvy I could barely keep my eyes open. Tony cooked. I was touched when Andy, judging that I lacked the motivation to even sit up, passed me cheese on crackers so I could stay laid down.

We walked back to town the following day. Again, Tony and Andy took all the weight. I felt significantly fresher for having had some rest, but still limped behind for ten hours. We made it back just in time for the ritual pizza, beer and chocolate, only this time it was accompanied by relief rather than celebration.

Postscript
This happened about two weeks ago now. Just to pre-empt anyone who's concerned, essentially I'm fine. I still limp if I sit down for too long, and my shoulders seem reluctant to shed their bruises. But all things considered, I'm not doing too bad.

Kind of the PR

(Link to route info: http://www.pataclimb.com/climbingareas/chalten/fitzgroup/mermoz/pilar.html)


After climbing Chiaro Di Luna I expressed my intention to sit out my Achilles injury in the chocolateria. In the time it took for the swelling and pain to subside I also managed to visit a myriad of cafes and both ice cream parlours on several occasions. I felt decidedly more fat than fit.

Once the ankle was strong enough for me to boulder and sport climb on the outskirts of town, Tony suggested that I hire some strap-on crampons to approach routes in my trainers, thus eliminating the need to wear the boots that aggravated my Achilles in the first instance.

With good weather forecast for the Friday, we chose the Red Pillar on Mermoz as our objective. Analysing our previous route together, we felt that the rushed preparation and approach (due to having only just arrived in town) was the main factor in how trashed we had felt for the route. This time, we assured ourselves, would be different. Wednesday was left free; we would be fully prepared and completely rested.

Wednesday morning came, and over breakfast we we told of an injured climber high up in the Torre Valley. With the winds too high for a helicopter rescue, 30 climbers were mobilizing themselves to affect a rescue operation. It was difficult to not feel some level of grievance at the possibility of losing our opportunity to utilise the good weather, however utilitarianism took precedence in our minds.

The group of climber present worked well as a self-organising and motivated team. The kinship of it being a fellow climber in need creates a powerful reciprocal obligation to help, but even considering this, it was still heartening to see the gusto with which people helped. This went further still, to the non-climbers who helped out as far as they could, in spite of having a much weaker reciprocal incentive to do so. The day was a long one however. Stretchering all 95kgs of Canadian Ross across scree and uphill was not easy work. We got to bed sometime in the early hours.

The next morning came too early, in spite of milking the snooze button on my watch as much as I could justify. The available weather window was brief, so we had to leave that day, but we were in an even worse state of preparedness than last time! Collective psyche was low, and I sensed that both of us were on the brink of dissuading the other from even setting off. Begrudingly, we continued to pack our bags, and bitched our way along the hike to the bivvy site.

To cut a damp story short, we arrived at the bivvy late, quickly stuffed ourselves and settled down to another night sharing a sleeping bag. We rose at 2am (although only just, in a moment of weakness Tony almost switched off his alarm before I was awake) and walked the final 3 hours to the base of the route. We climbed three pitches, caught a glimpse of the splitter upper pitches, and got rained off. The conditions became properly Patagonian (well, probably not properly Patagonian in the scheme of things, but I thought it was all a bit minging). We got back to town damp and dejected.

We agreed to escape El Chalten and head to Bariloche for some stress-free climbing. Then Tony checked the weather forecast again. Another window was opening up. Unable to leave on a good forecast, and with the bitterness of unfinished business spurring us on, we walked in again.

This time our preparation was ideal. We were well rested and fed. We knew the approach. Tony had already cruised the first crux pitch, and higher up the grades eased. We felt pretty confident of fast and slick ascent. Which, as it transpired, turned out to be quite some error of judgement.

As soon as we moved above our previous highpoint, things started to go awry. Tony had to aid past the second crux, a boulder problem over a roof. The next "easier" pitches were alarmingly strenuous. Steep, butch cracks that Tony had lead with huge run-outs between his gear. Oh no he hadn't. The long gaps between peices of pro were the long stretches where Tony had leap-frogged two cams in an unashamed aid-fest. I spent the last of my fight on the supposed final hard pitch. It felt great to be trying hard and just pulling it out of the bag, high above the glacier on perfect granite with a feeling of remoteness. And the sun on my back, unreal! This feeling stopped suddenly, when the next pitches felt no easier, and became a protracted dogging session. I felt like I was working a route at Malham, rather than on our intended fast and light, alpine ascent.

Wearily, we surmounted several false summits on the final ridgeline, until we found one that lead us on to no further disappointment. Although not the fast and clean ascent that I'd envisaged, I felt no lack of satisfaction at this. One never knows how hard a route will be until one tries it. An inevitable consequence of this is that sometimes you will bite off more than you can chew.