Climbing in Wadi Rum

My last time in the desert was in 2005, when I spent a couple of weeks in the Red Rocks in the US. It was also spring, the flowers were blooming, and the climbing was new and good to me. Desert remained a fascinating place, and I have been wishing to go to another desert, Wadi Rum, for some years since. Finally, although with a few difficulties, it worked out this year.

Wadi Rum village

Wadi means a valley in Arabic, thus the Rum village is situated in the middle of a valley between several impressive walls to its sides, with both better or worse rock depending on color and the erosion patterns. Getting there involves flying to either Amman or Tel Aviv, then taking the bus or taxi to Eilat/Aqaba, and then another taxi to Wadi Rum (25JD). The ride already gives some idea of things to come. 

Wadi Rum at night

The village is rather poor, resembling many other third-world countries, with children chasing travelers practicing the recently learnt "hello" and asking for spare dinars. Religion keeps people in check - whereas alcohol is not allowed, tobacco is highly used and overused. The local saying has it that smoking is good for the heart. Cars have replaced camels as the most efficient transportation system in the desert, Toyota enjoying the lion's market share of this market.

Toyota, the new camel

Several routes are popular with the climbers here, the biggest challenge being the loose and friable sandstone. The quality of the rock is very variable, so one has to decide all the time which holds to take and which ones to avoid. It is also dangerous to climb after the rain, as rock becomes softer and protection does not hold. I hear in sandstone areas in Germany it is illegal to climb for at least a day after the rain. Similarly in Red Rocks the saying was to wait at least 3 days after a heavy rainfall.

Approaching the Beauty

Unfortunately for us, this March was unusually rainy, with over 10mm falling in only two days we were there whereas the monthly average for March is around 5mm...We had to wait out some days and do other touristy things while it rained - and even snowed - around us in the desert. That explains the green colors surrounding some pictures. But finally the sun came out and climbing did happen.

Still approaching the Beauty

The Beauty is a duly famous route not only for the climbing, but also for a wonderful and tricky approach to the route. The route finding is not always trivial, and takes you through intricate labyrinths of slot canyons inside the sacred mountain. It is nice enough to make mistakes of the route finding fun and exciting experiences of their own.

When finally reached, the wall is very impressive, with the best rock of the trip for us. Every piece of protection looked solid and inspired confidence, not the usual with Wadi Rum climbing.

Up the perfect rock of the first pitch of the Beauty

Varied crack-climbing went from pleasant on the first pitch, to awkward on the second, to this perfect crack on the last.

 The last pitch of the Beauty

In the Wadi Rum village we stayed with Ali Hamad, who provided us with bed and board, and took care of our travel needs around the desert. While his wife cooked us all possible variations of rice, he drove us with an easy hand to the Barrah canyon and the Nassrani wall. Good place to stay if you are not willing to rough it in the Rest House.

Ali driving through the desert

Barragh canyon is popular with climbers due to the relatively good rock, and we enjoyed climbing the Star of Abu Judaida there as well as the first pitches of the Merlin's Wand. Crack climbing skills are very useful on both.

 Close to the top of the Star of Abu Judaida

The highlight of the trip for us was the Guerre Sainte, or the Jihad route, going up the Eastern Nassrani Wall - in the middle-left of the picture below, close to the black streak (that becomes a waterfall in case of rain) on top of the white wall. Opened by Arnaud Petit, it is a face-climbing jewel of the desert, with relatively solid rock and bolt protection all the way up.

Nassrani Wall

Bolt protection does not mean relaxed climbing though, especially on the seventh pitch, which has a sling and two bolts protecting the crux lower down, and another two bolts and a couple of slings for the remaining 30 meters...

 Up the Jihad

 Climb or go home pitch, Jihad

The route is gorgeous though, with hanging belays most of the way, and vertical to close to overhanging climbing. Only the rock quality could be better, although the last three 7a+/7b pitches have perfect rock and great protection, very welcome after the first 8 pitches involving more fear about the gear and rock. Colors and ambiance are hard to beat.

 Up on Jihad

Overall, an interesting destination, with several things to offer for both culturally inspired travelers as well as sensation seekers. A lot of care is recommended though, as rock quality remains the biggest issue for the area, and especially for weak-headed climbers like me it is hard not to get scared on most routes, whatever the grade.

Rainbow over the desert

Mogli or an Introspection

Sitting at home and eating my first-ever homemade coca with espinacas (see here for the recipe of this wonder), i think i am ready to follow the example of a friend and write about my experience now that it is still fresh and steamy.  While my neighbors noisily make love, i stare into the night and try to remember what it actually means to me, the climbing, the projecting, the absurdity of dedicating so many resources of my life to this so clearly purposeless activity.  At least before i used to look at mountains and think about climbing them.  Staring at a wall - a b i g  wall - would instantly switch my brain on and make me click, and i would just have one thing in mind - climb that wall.  But the level of analysis - or rather experience - has gone micro lately, very micro.  What in the climbing world is (disparagingly in the mouth of a real alpinist) called sport climbing.

My transformation into a sport climber has happened recently, starting sometime this summer, rather invisibly by means of a couple of projects.  Was it when i finally redpointed Jarabe de Palo in La Mussara?  Was it that 'project' i did in Gelida - given that i don't even remember its name, it does not qualify as a serious project...The transformation was definitely complete at the final scream (or whatever indistinguishable sound i managed to mumble through my cold self-protecting armor), when, puffing and shaking, i reached the anchor on the redpoint of Massa Kumba at Cavallers.

Now i'm not only a sport climber - i'm obsessed, i spend days working a route and, like a self-respecting bear, i can't be torn away from the honey.  The name of the patient this time is Mogli.  It is a 7b+ route in La Selva, Camarasa, conveniently bolted by Albert Cortes 4 years ago.  At this point in time it resumes in its 25 meters everything climbing has been and passionately continues being to me.  (The already-bored people can stop reading now, as the following content can probably be understood only by a couple of other climbing addicts...)  We were introduced by chance, when Tranki onsighted the route during our visit to Camarasa.  So many things happen by so much pure chance in this life - we meet people, make friends, fall in love - mainly by coincidence, justifying it all by our rational choices, feelings or whatever other bull.  But then again, there are moments when things click - and others when they don't.  I can try a line that looks perfect and NOT appreciate it, turn my back immediately after and forget it ever existed.  Than there are other lines, the sticky ones, the ones that imprint the conscience, that make the blood boil, that make one fall in deep for them.  I could have been obsessed by any other 7b or 7b+ or even 7c climb out of many thousands of bolted lines in Cataluna, but it is Mogli right now, so let it be the king of the night and rule the show.

Back to the topic, as i was saying, i tried it under the imitation reflex, after seeing Tranki easily move through the cruxes.  At that point my brain started its conspicuous lying spree about how it was not as overhanging as it appeared, and not as hard as the grade suggested, and why should i not try it given that the rope was already in place anyway etc.  I did try it on top rope that first time, around 3 weeks ago.  Climbing and love analogy is not as straightforward as it might seem, but it does work.  First, you see the line.  No, actually first you see the line really when someone else climbs it and makes you understand that the line can actually be climbed.  But you really see it when you try it for yourself, going from bolt to the next, flowing through the rock, or struggling for your life to get to the next pinch.  The first impression at our first touch with Mogli, like touching for the first time an unknown body, was strange.  Strange and painful.  Ok, why use euphemisms:  it was very painful and discouraging.  After seeing the flow in Tranki's lead, i could not read the first sequence, way before the crux.  The crux itself was excruciatingly painful - and it didn't go.  I could not figure out the way.  Then there was the second part.  Angrily overhanging.  It had some crack moves, which reassured me at first.  But trying them i found a couple of minor cruxes for me, with a mental melt-down in the end, a jug-haul traverse over the bolt, with crossing hands, feet, and a final reach for a huge hole.  There was no way.

Given my natural stubbornness (one of the reasons i'm still into this sport after so many years, so many failures, price already paid, and the remaining one to pay), i went for it again that day.  The second try was, following the learning curve principle that rarely lets down any minimally skillful business consultant, better.  I spent a while on THE MOVE - there is a cemented hold for the right hand, and than a shoulder-move to the left, and from there a long reach is required to go for the next pinch, that is the crux.  The original advice was to block the shoulder on the left hand, get feet high and go up for the hold with the right hand.  It did not work.  After numerous attempts, some cussing, numerous examinations of the specific details and the big picture, small feet, and big feet, small handholds and the non-existent ones, i finally figured a circumvented way - as usual doing 4 moves instead of one, but getting the job done:  after bouncing off the left shoulder hold, get the left foot up on a vertical push-hold, go for the higher pinch-side-pull-with-two-fingers hold, get the right foot up, and finally reach for the key pinch with the right hand.  After that mental and physical power-drain exercise i was done for the day, and overwhelmed to even consider the possibility to ever imagine myself leading this monster.

That was three weeks ago.  This w-end, after some late-minute planning, i was climbing with Salva and Pau, and they somehow managed to agree with me to go check out la Selva.  My persuasion powers are infinite, especially when climbing is involved.  Albert tagged along as i promised him to do a long route together.  But on the drive up north, with a meeting place being fixed as the Camarasa bar, i could not concentrate on much more than Mogli, the jungle call.  The long route plan got scrapped and there we went, down the ferrata and up Mogli.  After 4 tries i was destroyed, the route stood as virgin as it first presented itself to me, proud and yellow, with plenty of white marks suggesting the lack of its supposed virginity - and the standing proof of my incapacity.  But on my last go with a top rope i did make a very little step further - i did manage to do the lower part and the crux move, get the pinch with my right hand - and fall immediately after (all on top rope with patient belay from Albert).  A very small step, but enough to keep me thinking about the route, analyzing over and over the moves, repeating the lower sequence, the higher sequence, THE move.  By this morning i was ready - i could give it my all.

Mogli is a complete route - it calls upon all my skills, physical, technical, and mental.  Climbing is like that - it not only requires a pull-up muscle strength, but it is also so much more of a mental feast - one of the reasons it has been keeping me interested for so long.  It is impossible to get bored when applying at least a tiny little bit of imagination to the game.  And passion.  And patience.  And there it goes - an explosive mix of dust, chalk, sweat, success and failure.  The funny thing is i am still unable to pinpoint what exactly success means in this game.  I onsight some routes - and usually when they are important projects of mine i feel sad afterwards, sad i won't have to keep thinking about them again, concentrating on all the moves.  It is like loosing an old friend - the tension is off, there is no more risk of falling just before that crucial clip, of messing up that key foothold, of hesitating just a second too long when reaching for that last big jug.  It is over, time to look for another project, follow the same path over again - motivation goes down, existential questions come in - why this absurd game again? Proving what to whom?  Suffering a little bit more, trying a little bit harder to do a route half a grade more difficult than the previous one? Who cares? What does it all mean?  No, i don't feel the rush of 'joy' or adrenaline or whatever else word that could signify happiness or contentment or some higher order of satisfaction when being lowered down after a successful attempt.  On the contrary, i think of that empty look i have in Par's picture, when lowering from Massa, a look of a Martian, tired and absent, as ignorant as before, just a little bit less naive - but still as purely and functionally ignorant of the truth or its shade. It becomes an empty tick list, a cheap talk, a lost arrow.  But all that happens AFTER, when the redpoint gracefully appears for a minute on the infinite and eternal horizon.

Before there is obsession.  I use mental simulation a lot, seeing the moves, seeing myself doing the moves, feeling how it feels to have a hand, a foot there, in the precise spot required by the climb.  It is all about being sure, about putting an extra ounce in the exact spot where the gravity is, of taking off with the air, of flowing up against the pressure of the whole universe painstakingly dragging you down.  The first time i redpointed a 7a, Pillier Cromwell in Freyer, Belgium, in 2006, with a Hungarian belayer i dragged to the base of the route, running there away from a birthday party i was attending in the vicinity - he could not believe it when, after some closed-eye time and a full-blown concentration soup, i flowed up the route that i struggled terribly just minutes before.  By then i knew the moves.  I did not have the faith i could do them - one never knows 100% the project will go - one feels it is close, but which try will be THE try is totally uncertain - it is one of the basic rules of the game, what gives it so much competitive taste.  The competition here is against oneself, but also against nature, against rock, against all the possible things that can go wrong - not only with one's skill, memory, footwork, confidence and fear - but also an inquisitive bird flying by, a gust of wind, a belayer chatting with a by-stander, lack of the right pushing word at the right time, the wrong image flashing through the defenseless brain - the UNCERTAINTY has to be tamed, subdued, harnessed - through any means, muscular strength, technique, rubber, longer draws, more chalk, less cloth, whatever it takes.

Back to the beginning - yes, as i was saying, Mogli is a complete route, the first section, for three first draws, is 6c-ish.  It requires clear optimization technique and good memory for both, feet and hands.  After several runs it goes through pretty smoothly and gets you to the rest - it can be taken in any form, sticking your head to the rock and getting a no-hands rest, bringing feet up the ledge, and getting a feet rest while contemplating the crux above, looking at the rock and into the concentration depths of oneself, the depths of the soul or the empty spaces therein.  Then it is time to go - how much time i cannot tell, it is some internal clock, that measures how much is enough to rest the body but keep the concentration intact, keep that interested look, that expectation, that uncertainty about the outcome and a simultaneous curiosity - will it go?  This time?  How will it feel? Do i remember it right?  Will i be able to clip?  Will i screw it up (again)? But at this point it already is getting overly negative - time to stop the mind and get the body to work.  It is always a combination, that is why climbing is so interesting, it is a challenge of synchronizing body and mind, of exploiting the endowments of all the available resources a human being has in order to accomplish a goal.  The only problem with all this is the absurdity of the goal itself.  But then again, which ones of our 'ultimate' goals are not as absurd, as empty as this one, of climbing 25 meters of rock without falling, with as many subterfuges as possible at the current technological level - but still respecting some rules and norms about how exactly it is supposed to be done to truly be able to call it a redpoint, loud and clear, - to oneself or the others, the audience, the community, - or whatever pieces of it i believe to assemble in my head...

The crux section starts next.  After my four attempts on Saturday, i figured an easy way of getting through the next section all the way to my key cemented hold, using a small undercling and good feet placements.  The problem with all of this now is leading.  Now that i can do the moves, the next challenge is to integrate this with clipping - an essential activity when leading and stressing about the fall.  Clipping adds the spice to the soup, the adrenaline, the explosive stuff that makes climbing what it is.  Climbing is about leading - one way or another it always comes down to this.  Doing a long route or a short route, mountaineering or sport climbing, it is all revealed through leading.  It is the time to confront the monsters, the latent ones from that cabinet, the sleeping ones, the gray and limy caracoles endlessly crawling under the skin, waiting for the right moment, the instant of doubt, the decision point, the focal moment, the go/no go braking line.  Now, are you strong?  Are you good?  Can you call yourself human?  Can you do it?  My biggest disappointments with myself in climbing come not from falling or flailing, not from not understanding the move, or not managing that onsight attempt - but from not daring, not giving it all, not cutting off the bridges and committing to the whatever decision i take, not shutting off the context and going for it.  That is the way i want to live my life, that is the way i want to climb - to commit and do it, no regrets, to the plentiful, using all my capacities, choosing to use them and then taking the risk.  The risk of falling or succeeding, the risk of being wrong, the risk of suffering, the risk of destruction.  I judge myself on this basic criterion.  Sometimes i am cruel enough to apply it to others, but only sometimes, when i really really really care only, - that is also when i really really really get hurt.

My strategy today has started with engaging two strong strangers to put me draws up my project.  One of them nicely accepted, and even onsighted the climb in the process.  He confused me more than anything given that he went through the crux in a totally different manner than anyone else i have seen doing it.  I decided to remain blind to this insight and keep to my original plan and intuitions, hard earned through the numerous previous attempts.  It is another difficult decision in climbing - are you doing the move the best possible way? Should you try a different method?  Usually those questions pop up during the ultimate attempt, when you have only enough strength for one more, and no possibility for a screw-up.  So do you take a risk and try it a different way or stick to the original?  Can one learn from experience?  How to decide?  The questions remain the same throughout the lifetime.  Answers change - or they don't.  Do people really change?  Or do they change clothing, from yellow to blue, to green - disguising the gray uniform mass below, the gnawing body without hope...?

With the draws on, and doubled at two key spots, after 5 attempts on top-rope and one lead using wide artificial techniques to put up draws on the climb Saturday, i finally decided to go for the first serious lead attempt.  It is another vital decision - when is the time?  When is it enough practice and time for action?  For some climbs, it is time right away - they might be easy, they might be marked, someone can convince you to go for an onsight.  For some climbs it is the second or third try that is the good one, after having figured out the biggest secrets, after having penetrated the mystery of the rock, having combined the rock and the body, converted, activated the resources of human being into a purposeful action.  For other climbs it just never feels right, the secret remains closed, opaque, fuzzy and impenetrable.  At some point decision is required, a push, a no-return-i-have-to-go-for-it, an i-have-cojones-today altitude.  This altitude might be available in draws, or in limited supply depending on the breakfast menu, partner at hand, temperature and friction of the rock, mental state or an sms received the evening before.  Today i went for it.

In the end i actually do not have a story to tell, that is why this post is ominously hiding behind the useless title of an introspection.  I screwed up twice on my first lead attempt.  Clipping the second draw at the crux, just before going for my right-hand pinch proved too strenuous for my current fitness level.  Doing the last minor crux move, from the crack starting the traverse to the right-hand pocket, crossing hands and clipping was psychologically too difficult to accept as a challenge, so i yelled 'pilla' and gave up.  My second lead try finished with the same success, this time i did not even try the crux move but grabbed the draw instead.  I did go for the minor crux move on top and took a fall - again because i did not dare to go one move further to the pocket - already having my foot positioned for it, i did not even try the move, but at least i did take the fall without downclimbing, i just jumped.  This little tiny progress made me a little bit less angry with myself and compensated some for failure.  My old friend Mogli remains my old friend.  As Albert said, maybe it is a 2010 project - maybe i need to get stronger - or maybe it is simply irrational and inexplicable, the time was not ready for me.

below - my first lead attempt at Mogli, Camarasa, finishing the first 6c-ish section, October 2009.

Half Dome, Regular Route

After the Nose climb we took some Degnan's Deli pizza-filled days of rest, encircled by fattening squirrels and tourists, free hybrid $500,000 shuttles, and gluttonous camp 4 routine. We grudgingly returned to climbing, visited Church Bowl for relaxed single-pitch cragging (I loved Bishop's Terrace and Terror), ran up Pillar of Frenzy for crack training and Crest Jewel Direct's first pitches for slab experience.

While at the top of the Column up there, the view was tempting. Our short memory of the big-wall suffering switched off and the rat started chewing at our stomachs as strong as ever - if a climber, what would you want to do after a picture posing session with this baby in the background?..

The Regular route, running up the estheticly vertical NorthWest face, is considered to be another valley classic, first climbed a year before the Nose by Royal Robbins in only five days. Today it is often done in one day to train for long climbs, or more by slower parties.

Our plan was as follows - approach through the lower slabs and climb the first 11 pitches on day 1, climb to top on day 2, descend on day 3. Planning is just that - inventing a future that will eat up the plan, like Cronus ate his own children. The first screw-up happened when we walked up the Mirror lake trail, haulbag and enthusiasm well secured to our backs. Bleary-eyed, we followed the well-asphalted pass to the tourist overview and then around the lake. A problem suddenly sprang up - the Tenaya Creek. A small streak on the map, it is a waist-deep, rapidly moving water flow, carring all the awakened snow down the inexorable pass to the sea. Traversing it, with our meager forces, proved a difficult matter. After thought, exploration and Renaud's experiments in the cold water up to his arm-pits at the artificial dam, we very reasonably decided to back track and change the plan. All that pain because we started the approach on the wrong side of the river - after the Mirror Lake bus stop, just before the bridge (hint hint), there is a trail braking right from the asphalted road and taking the other bank...

Our second, updated, plan that Sunday was to relax, have a coffee and a hamburger at Curry Village, spend time sun tanning and applying our intelectual abilities to making puzzles come together at the Lodge rather than finding intricate ways to traverse a river at the peak of spring snowmelt. Slab approach was put off to the evening, we would climb all 17 pitches the next day, hopefully making it up to the Big Sandy bivy, finish the rest on day 3 and descend to the valley after.

That appeared a more feasible way of addressing our undertaking, despite the painful approach that took us all the seven out of the supposed three hours and ate up all the hidden ressources of our bodies, bushwacking, struglling through the waterfalls and landslides, going up torn fixed ropes and mangled terrain to at last reach the snow band at the base of our route.

The bivy at the base was a wonderful wilderness affair, as cliché as that sounds. The spot was great - huge wall on one side, especially bewildering when the moon shows its prow over the top and richly gives away its shine over Tesaiyac's pale tears, mysterious valley down below. A lost light over the Glacier Point warmed the eye as we contemplated that last photo flash of an invisible photographer looking through the glimmering eye straight onto us, like god supervising his children, not from above anymore, but from straight ahead. It was eventually time for the pay-off after all the sherpa carrying done on the gripping approach: the stove got out of the haul bag, and the ramen started boiling and sharing that inimitable chicken smell with the world. Nothing like eating a Pepperidge Farm soft dark chocolate brownie cookie while staring over the Toulomne canyon and counting the first stars while inhaling the primaveral snow-mud-pine potpourri.

We started climbing under very auspicious circumstances. A two-party team walked down to us, just as Ren went off leading the first pitch. As they unhappily eyed our haul bag and learnt our imposing intentions of spending two days on the wall, a cunning creature approached their bags from behind. There was a reason we saw bear tracks in the snow on the way up. A yellow-reddish adolescent bear decided to try his scare powers on us. As i yelled at him, he happily continued trashing our climbing fellows' bags. Unfortunately for him, he had not yet graduated from the bear roar school and had not taken up the imposing size of his tribe. As the two men turned down on him with stones and yelling a bit more frightening than my opera-like screams, he decided to try his fortune at some other sport, - as ultimately did the two other climbers.

On that note, a ranger told us another story about a bear at the base of Half Dome, during the Free Coffee and Climbing Ranger Speach event on a Sunday morning at camp 4 (cool idea, IMO): apparently a girl had to be rescued from the same spot as she jugged the fixed line when scared by the bear there. She could not rap back down as the line was too tightly jammed by the snow!..

Climbing itself was easier than on the Nose, first part being mainly 5.9ish, on white, big-grained granite face and manageable cracks. The surprise came at the chimneys, where the first 5.9+ offwidth made Renaud come down after a struggle, and opt for the 5.11 variation at its left...Yes, if i had time to spare, i would spend a year training chimneys and offwidths in Yosemite, just for the pain of it, - but i don't,- so i swear, sweat, and grapple for holds, and make s l o w, painful upward progress, that resembles modern-day self-imposed torture - and all that only from the second's perspective!

We did successfully arrive at Big Sandy Ledges and spend another pleasant night on a big comfy bivy ledge, - especially if compared to the living on the Nose, - despite the constant sipping streaks of sand from the top (yes, that's why there is sand on this incredible ledge in the middle of a blank, vertical wall). Next day, when i saw a tourist piss from the top exactly over the Big Sandy Ledges, i was somehow less happy about all that sand, but again, tourists are butterfly-beings that thankfully blossom only in perfect conditions of warm sunshine and blue skies.

Here is Renaud, after all the painful aiding on the Zig-Zag pitches, traversing the Thank God Ledge. First you start by walking the ledge and feeling good about how great this all is and how your second must be taking great pictures from that photo belay. However the picture below comes just after the tight spot on that long ledge, where most courageous and bold leaders are bound to descend their feet and continue traversing holding on with hands only. This pitch is the icing on the cake as far as the excitement on the route is concerned, even if playing the cowardly seconding game!

The summit is much more rewarding than El Cap. You start anticipating it after the first look at the topo, with that 'tourist applause' phrase for the last pitch sticking in the mind for the duration of the climb. When we got there, there was no applause, but enough tourists to take this classic picture:

And we fumbled around enough to find this other, less popular, spot for more photosessioning, looking to the other side of the valley:

After an hour of real summit pleasure, we started down the painful John Muir trail, 8 miles of fun - with a smile at first, like this:

And less happy after miles and miles of a gentle trail. It is very beautiful though, and becomes a painful pleasure as you hike through the Little Yosemite Canyon, passing Nevada and Vernal Falls on the way. The last surprise came while passing the Mist Trail, when we finally realized the origin of the name. The picture below, taken from the Glacier Point we visited a couple of days later, shows the Half Dome that is not really a Dome, and the picturesque hike that we followed on the way down, past the two falls in the middle of the picture.

El Capitan, the Nose

So this is it - the moment of truth for any big-wall climber wanna-be. You have to shit. You can go around it in circles, in squares or in pyramids, but after an hour, a day, or maximum two, there is no getting around the painful truth. Princesses do not exist - we are all mortal creatures and we have basic biological needs, as smelly and putrid as they are. It's like death, the biggest of them all needs, and there is no getting away or hiding or finding a different logical issue from the dillema of the wall.

Waking up at the Boot Flake ledge and sitting up in our single portaledge (Renaud slept underneath me on the ledge itself, with around 40 cm of living space - what else would you wish for on the wall...), I knew this was the day i would have to confront the monsters of the wall - or rather my inner inhibitions from the darker side of the consciousness. It's not even the process of shitting itself, it's the image of it in our head that is the problem. It is so innately personal and supposedly repulsive to others, that doing it while strapped to a rope on a 30cm ledge couple of hundred meters up a big stone, is one of those moments of truth we do not exactly expect or plan for.

But as with all things that come to pass in this life, i grabbed the long-prepared brown paper bag (long live free bags at the Yosemite Village Store - the Moma store of them all in the Valley), squatted down as i could with harness and tie-in in the way, and made the moment of truth become a second of happiness when the ancestral pride in the accomplished feat made me sigh with uncontrolled pleasure. Here it is, nicely packed in the empty water bottle and duct taped for prolonged conservation.

As you may see, one of the most memorable moments on our first big wall, the four-day ascent of the Nose route on El Cap, has been the toilet experience. There were certainly other moments, like jugging pendulums over and over and over again - until that last one where the rope got stuck at the bolt when i was pulling it through, like setting up the portaledge in the dark on our first day, like dropping the duct tape after jugging up the first pitch, like chimneying under the portaledge at camp V when it was my turn to sleep under it in the 40 cm living space, or praying the rain gods - really praying - at the Changing Corners pitch while it thundered and rained over the Higher Cathedral on the opposite side of the valley.

The Nose route was the first daring undertaking up El Capitan, biggest wall in Yosemite, and one of the biggest world cliffs situated in such pleasant and warm surroundings. Warren Harding and team managed the feat, after many years of dreaming, trying, and climbing bits and pieces of it, in a total of 45 days, on November 12, 1958. The route goes right in the middle of the big face, more or less where the shadow meets light in the picture below. It was a daring undertaking and a courageous feet in the 50ies that created a new precedent for the generations to come. It remains an exciting challenge today - to do it in one day for some, in many for others, in dreams for some more.


We prepared thoroughly, by first getting a haul bag, many more cams, and finally even investing into a portaledge to have all the chances on our side. And so the day has come - after stashing water at the base for five days (two liters per person per day, or 20 liters, or 10 duct taped apple juice and water bottles, 4 or which we did not use...), here is Renaud on the way to the cliff, the first day of the climb.

There was a party of three Austrian girls in front of us that rapped of the Dolt Tower (50% success rate, or what do the statisticians say today?), leaving more water there and a warm Budweiser (thanks!), and two American guys, rapping off the first pitch after their main water bottle exploded. We had the climb to ourselves - a rare occurrence, even on this May 1st beginning of the season.

Renaud led off the first pitch, with plans to free most 5.10s. The aiding struck us on some unexpected places, like the 5.8 fist crack on the awesome Stoveleg cracks, or more expected, but benighted Boot Flake approach, Great Roof, and several pitches following that. Below is Ren full of fresh enthusiasm, first day, first pitch - and a seemingly endless wall for the days to come. The bizarre thing, at least for my inexperienced big-wall self, was that you could see the top from day one, and it looked so close that the mind refused to acknowledge that it would take several days to get there. It appears so impossibly close by, the heart gallops to the goal, and the emotions, unarrested, make you feel as if you were already on top. However, there is lots and lots of work to do to actually get there. Yeah, life is like that...

I jugged most of the pitches and figured out the haul bag logistics, managing the three ropes, pulling on this, freeing that, and tempering with various mechanical devices. Not that much fun in the long run, but a good way to learn the basic mechanics of the big wall climbing on the go. This is me, the Great Roof pitch - where the jugging starts to be strenuous at once and the panorama eventually manages to send the message to your brain, despite the epinephrine and fatigue raging there, - about how stupendous it is:


We slept our last night on the wall at a comfortable camp V. Our bivies kept getting more and more lush with each day: a benighted portaledge setup in the middle of nowhere, just after the ultimate pendulum into the Stoveleg cracks below the Dolt tower, a ledge - but only a 30cm one at the top of Boot Flake, a big nice ledge at camp V, and the last night on top in full sleeping conditions, with a big pine tree overhead and a moon to sing us a lullaby.

Here is another picture, in the same genre, of me following the Changing Corners pitch on the last day. My favorite pitch was the one after this one. The belay on top of Changing Corners is a hanging one, with all this incredible exposure beneath you, and a majestic layback 10d in front. That was a pleasant culmination after the rain and thunder scare i got while sitting and praying at Camp VI for those gray and humid, unsmiling rain gods to hold off and let us be.

We did get to the top and had the unique pleasure to experience the East Ledges descent with all those bags, and our shit tacked in the middle of it all. Our short memory soon made us look up El Cap again, with that stupid, fleeting feeling of big wall envy, scooping crazy people hanging there with their stuff, trying to reach some goals none understands or really cares about. But doesn't that King Swing look wonderful from below? Like David Breashears would say, it's time for the Big Wall Anonymous Club.

****************

On a practical note, i heard this question at Camp 4, 'what do you need to train to make it up there?' and here are my two cents concerning the technical essentials:

- jugging and following pendulums on jugs (especially the first day);
- hauling systems;

- basic aid (bolt ladder, aider use, thin nut placement);

- and the most important one - moral strength and the good feeling with your partner that all the climbing is about...oh, and don't forget the off-set nuts, small sizes - it's all about the off-sets!

To finish this off, here is a picture of my climbing hands in the morning after the third bivy, inspirational, ain't it...

Dolomites Trip with Christian June 2006

we had good times - on saturday we went up Katia Monte on Colodri in Arco, a very nice route - especially the top pitches - although a bit crowded. Having tried our forces there, we decided we were good enough to go try a real thing in the mountains to comfort our mountaineering itch.
The adventure started that same saturday night with driving to the Vazzoler refuge in the Civetta range (Paolo, thanks for the advice!). After 1,5 hour moonlit approach, we had some trouble finding the winter room - and finished by entering through a window into the shower, and then finding some beds and sleeping thus. Sunday morning found us hezitant because of a grey and rather unfriendly sky. Still determined, we decided to go check it out. Our objective for the day was the route called Solda, apparently one of the best in that grade (6- UIAA) in Civetta and comparable in length and difficulty to Katia Monte (400m). It goes up this -

It's Torre di Babel, maybe not the most impressive of them all around there but definitely very inspiring anyway (here is a picture of Vazzoler refuge and Torre Venezia that i really like too, maybe one of the next objectives)

At the bottom i could not resist giving it a go. I got lost already on the first pitch, having to make my own anchor and seeing afterwards the real belay 10m to my right. Next chrtur got lost as well - here he is leading one of the first pitches -

Then somehow i found the way again, we persisted on like that, off and on route until the mid-tower grassy ledge. From there routefinding became easier - and the climbing really delightful. Great rock, good protection and awesome moves. We finished the last pitch with some snowflakes just to give us a feel of what all those clouds were about. Here is a view from the route -

After several rappels and some exciting scree we got down, and back to the car from the refuge by 10 pm, just in time for a good pasta in Agordo.
On Monday we slept. And slept again. When the sleeping was finally over, we decided to try smth near Sella as approaches there are easier. We went up the first two pitches of Grosse Micheluzzi route on Piz Ciaves, only to notice that we were too tired, too long, and too worried about the clouds around. Rapping down and driving around lake garda taking pictures of lemon trees was the last thing on the menu. Good trip.

Callanque Trip with Gabe, November 2005

Calanques – or How to Trust your Instincts about Warm Relaxed Sport Climbing at the Beach – or Oh, those Frenchies! With addition commentary from Gabe – or “But officer, I was only going one way!” 28/10/05 – 06/11/05

So I thought I wouldn’t write it. Not again. This whole TR business – especially now, sitting in front of a dark window at work, knowing that there is only sleet, rain and cold out there waiting for me. But then the details are still so vivid in my head. And I feel them zoning out on me – pretty soon my brain will decide that some of it is garbage, will let some other holds break off, make mashed patatos of other parts, and finally I will have a name, Calanques, in my mind, not representing anything in particular, just another old yellow page. It better be a nice white virtual page instead, running the risk of IT viruses rather than my brain’s bizarre workings. And then, I need to show those awesome pictures to the world one way or another, so there goes…

Gabe here. Ah yes, another TR. Lucky for me, Julia has already done most of the work! But I’ll jump in to add my own perspective, because it was a magical trip for me, and I’d like to try to capture some of the feel.

“Another friend of yours, hmmm?” said mom, after I informed her of my travel plan – going again south, but this time all the way south. “Yup, and this one even sings at the opera!” I told her with a grin. I met Gabe as planned at Gare St. Charles and our adventure started right away in our little new friend – Fiat Punto. Finding Cassis was not the easiest objective ever, but we somehow managed our first assignment as a team. The second assignment was less trivial – Traversée sans Retour was its name, and Fear its nickname.

Pardon me while I interrupt again (arrogant Americans – no manners). But there’s a lot wrapped up for me in the name of the climb: “Traversée sans Retour” – only after I started the climb did I figure out what the name meant in English. “Traverse with no return”. A “One Way Traverse”. It’s like the punchline of the old joke – “But officer, I was only going one way!”

Our routefinding difficulties started early. In fact, they started the night before! We were headed out on the main road from Marseille that led straight to Cassis, but somehow we thought it was wrong, and I turned around. Wrong way! A foreshadowing of things to come. Sure, the first outing had to be memorable. Having seen the last weather forecast, I knew we had to expect rain on Sunday. That is why I wanted to give it all out on the first day.

Our first sunlight of southern France met us already on our way to a parking lot in Port Miou. That was a curvatious way, and we finally parked at the only parking lot we were able to find, additional 30 min march away. And why did we have to walk an extra 30 minutes? Because we drove around for forty frickin’ minutes looking for the turn that would take us to the correct parking lot. Dammit, where was it?! We later discovered that the correct road to take was marked with a "wrong way" sign. And get this - the one way sign was a "suggestion" with fine print. I'd never seen a one-way sign with fine print before, and somehow in the early morning twilight we thought it was a simple “one way” road. :rolling eyes:

We started walking already an hour behind schedule for our one-hour approach. Two hours later we were happily arrived at the Calanque d’En Vau, looking for the access to the Plateau of Castelvieil. Imagine an island in the blue Mediterranean sea, formed by white rock walls 200 m high, with just a couple of trees and bushes on top, and linked to the mainland by a narrow strip of solid ground, and you will know why that name sounds so appealing. En Vau is one of the best climbing areas around. Although the guidebook will tell you a lot about the ‘éloignement’ and ‘adventure ground’, it does serve as a home to numerous hikers willing to have a beach all to themselves, coming from either sea or land. (Picture - Calanque d’En Vau from the Plateau) But all those people do not get to Castelvieil. That is climbers’ domain, and we were about to learn why. We went up what supposedly looked like a trail. Oh, it was a clear trail all right, winding up scree, then through and around thick bushes, until... it stopped. Turns out, we'd followed up a trail that led – down from a standard rappel descent! Another trouble with wrong way streets!

Vertical terrain. After some hapless research by Gabe and myself in turn, I headed for my harness. Yes, there was an option to go down and look for another trail. But who considers options like that when you call yourself a climber?! Isn’t climbing THE skill supposed to get you up there? And going as straight as your eyes can do it? After getting a rope to trail behind me, I felt reassured and confidently started upwards. The first couple of moves felt easy, the first nut went it – we were having our adventure already! Next couple of moves started being tricky. That nut looked desperately lonely and far below. I grabbed a tree. Or rather that weak green thing other people would call a bush. I followed a chimney; I placed a couple more nuts (we had many draws and a couple of nuts with us as this was supposedly a relaxed sport climbing trip to the sunny France, mother of them all, sport climbers!) and finally found a rap station that left me at ease about the direction of our travel. Uff, that was pretty exciting!

I have to interrupt again. Julia impressed the hell out me here. When it comes to climbing on choss, without the right gear – she’s got a lot of guts!

Thank god there was one experienced mountaineer in our party, or I’d still be at the bottom of that gully whimpering! I decided not to consult the time anymore. I also remembered that my other guidebook only mentioned distances in km and not the actual time it took to get to places for some obscure reason. However, our approach was not done yet. We spent another half hour walking circles on top of the Plateau to eventually, and hopelessly, remark that mere meters away from where we had initially finished our little “first pitch,” there was le Trou du Cannon. Those speaking French maybe guessed already – a big hole, through which we were to rap down to our traverse. Yes, our first route was supposed to be a 10-pitch traverse, with a 6b crux, and many 4s, 5s and 6s in between, going half way around the Castelvieil Plateau. But to get to the start of the traverse, we decided instead of stupidly rapping to it from the top (and we did not have double ropes to make all those raps anyway) to do another traverse, called Traversée Ramond.

The guidebook modestly didn’t mention anything about it, only showing what looked like 2 pitches of 4c on the topo. (Picture – the rappel down Trou du Cannon) The rappel was magnificent. It resembled more a caving exercice if looking at the rock formations around, but then the sea and trees below reassured we were far from any kind of a cave. Gabe easily led off into the traverse. Then I went off, we simulclimbed, then we rapped, then we simulclimbed again, then we finally got to the end of the ledge system we were following – after what seemed more then 4 full rope lengths…Here we were supposed to do another 3 raps to really get to the start of our route. I decided not to look at the sun so as not to be able to tell time that way either. Gabe set up the first and second raps. Next one was mine. Things suddenly did not look that glamorous any more. There was nothing green left. There was only white rock and blue sea below. Not the picture-perfect blue mass, radiating warmth and pleasure, but stressed, foamy and menacing dark depths, crushing every couple of mili-seconds into the rock with a centuries-long hatred, determined to get through, to vanquish, to destroy. There was also a roof. And the rope hung freely from it downwards. The ends were almost in the water. ‘This is scary’ thought and said I.

But I was the Ukrainian Strength, I was fearless, I was a climber. And climbers should do their thing, rap, not look down etc. And then, this wasn’t even mountains, there was no glacier, no avalanches, no crackling bergshrunds or whistling stones. I made a big smile (can you tell it’s forced? See picture) to Gabe and went off.

Let me set the record straight. I think the conversation went something like this. G: “I guess the rap goes down there somewhere.” J: “Whoa, you think so?” G: “Um, yeah, I guess, I mean, where else would it go?” J: “Okay, go ahead.” G: “No, it’s your turn. Besides, I’m scared for my mommy, and I didn’t bring a change of underwear.” Okay, I didn’t actually say the part about being scared out loud, but Julia must have seen my legs about to buckle, because she valiantly threaded her rappel device, and down she went.

Half way down, I somehow was still 3 or 4 horizontal meters away from the wall, and from a station. My rope ends were in the water. Also still 3 or 4 meters from the wall. Things were definitely not glamorous any longer. I cried out to Gabe, looked around again and got out my Tblock. Finally, that thing on my harness was getting some use. Carefully I set up my system and started slowly moving up. But then, after some time, I realized I was not exactly getting any progress. Oh, Tblock does not actually work when you try getting up a rappel with it, as it is only set up on one strand of the rope! Newbie 101 (or 201). It took me a nice half hour of hanging over the crushing waves to figure out what was wrong, setting up another system with prussiks, and finally starting to really move painfully upwards. Yup, practicing self rescue in Quincy Quarries or even jumarring in Zion has not taught me everything about this skill yet. But I made it. Gabe was patiently waiting for me, I allowed myself only one doubtful look up, we quickly reevaluated the situation and Gabe went off, downclimbing the rappel this time.

That worked, and, oh joy! we were at what appeared the belay after the first pitch of our route. ‘One of the best routes in France’ I was told. Gabe led off. Downwards. And traversing. His next piece was 50 feet away, a slung horn. The sea (the crushing, foaming, all-devouring monster, not the nice-blue-warm sea kind) was 20 feet below me. Next hour, while Gabe was finishing his pitch (not exactly an easy 5c traverse), dealing with monstrous rope drag, route finding etc. I was contemplating the moment I would have to leave the security of my anchor (those two rusty pitons that made me keep the left toe and right pinky stance upright without breathing out too much for all that time). That time came. I had to move. I did. I had to. I couldn’t see Gabe anyway, and he could not take up slack either as the rope was stuck somewhere in front of me. Things were, what the French guidebook effectively called ‘terrain d’aventure’. I somehow joined Gabe. Not sure how long that pitch took, but it felt like an eternity. I had to gather up my strength and take up the next lead. That brought us to what we decided was a perfect lunch ledge. That was the most pleasant and relaxed moment of the day.

Maybe at that time I first started thinking about water. Initially I took a little less then 1.5 liter with me. Half of it was already gone. The day was hot. And we were at what appeared to be…hmm, either second, third or fourth belay of our route…Anyway, after some consideration and deliberation we decided that our way was down as the only bolt at the lunch ledge was also equipped with an even lonelier rap ring. Gabe courageously took up the rap, found an awesome window-arch, and spent another 15 min there trying to figure what would look like the most probable anchor. Did I mention we only had a couple of nuts with us? Oh, and so far we maybe met 10 bolts on the route. That including all the rap stations…

I got down. I think that is also the first time we noticed there was a party behind us. That felt somehow reassuring. There were people on this thing even later then us? Wow, that’s awesome, they probably know the way, and we’re probably not that far from the end anyway (left side of the brain moaning and asking the right side not to mention anything about those other 8 pitches, all harder then the ones we’ve already done, remaining in front of us)! (Picture – view of the Castelviel Plateau from la Brèche de Castelviel, the first easy traverse with its 2 pitches began with all that greenery in the middle and the raps to start the Traversee Sans Retour were somewhere at the horizon, just at the end of the horizontal ledge system) Those good hopes were very quickly destroyed when the party started yelling to us from the lunch ledge if they should rap from there or continue traversing. Hmm, they seemed somehow lost too…

Thankfully the left side of my brain successfully managed to shut down whatever the right side was trying to mumble, and I just concentrated on going up. A piton, a quick step up, and another piton for an anchor. But I have a ledge, so I am good, I can belay Gabe up. He quickly finishes the next pitch and we come to what looks like another rap. The topo says that there are only 2 raps on our route, and the second rap is after the 6b crux. So maybe we somehow got through the crux? I even can glimpse the last, supposedly 4c ramp on which we have to finish the traverse. It looks surprisingly far away – but the right side of my brain is silent, and the left one does not know how to ask questions, is tired and thirsty, and can’t concentrate on too many things at a time anyway. We are again in a mini-Calanque or mini-cirque – a half circle formed by 200m walls, with sea (still the crushing one) below. After a nice stroll we get to a next window in the rock. That window gives us a very unreassuring site. It’s one more cirque. But it finishes like a cave with a huge overhanging wall above. The way from the window is unclear. This whole window thing reminds me of some thriller about ‘window into devil’s quarters’, from which all the evil will fly out at us at any moment. Ok, there is a shiny bolt on the wall to the right of the window. It is not clear how to get there or where to go from there, but the bolt is shines to us with all its splendor and persuasive strength. Gabe is the strong one, I give up easily my lead to him. He quickly gets it all figured out, clips some invisible pitons and disappears from view. The party behind us (brothers Georges and Pierre, in their 40ies, confirmed Chamonix climbers) comforts me that Gabe is doing great out there as I cannot see a thing from my window stance. I come up, pretty sure that this is the crux of the route, rapidly get the gear for the next pitch, and go again. First move takes me a while. Second move takes even longer. The gear is great on this pitch so far – I can see three pieces of cordelette strung through three pitons, each 6-10 feet apart. Whatever the difficulty, but I determinedly clip (right side of the brain flashes ‘no, no, don’t even try to look at those pitons’ – it is getting the flare from the left side on how to keep me sane for a while longer) and go.

But after I traverse right to the last visible piton – and find a rap station at my feet – my reasonable thought leaves me for good. There are two options from here. Straight up – a ledge where my piton sits, and then 10 meters higher I can see more cordelettes hanging, pointing at a high traverse. The only problem is, the rock is bare, white, holdless and dead vertical between the piton and the cordelettes. I know this piton will not hold a fall. Then there is the second option. So you see, there was this window onto devil’s quarters we did not use. Instead we traversed through the outside of the first mini-cirque to only come to that same devil’s quarters’ second cirque, just a bit higher, closer to the roof. And there are bolts showing a traverse entering that cirque. A very scary-looking traverse. The bolts are just below the roof, then there is another foot of a vertical slimy wall, and then there is nothing. Oh, I forget, there is sea. Below. The foamy crushing beast sea, 100 meters below. Sure there is a third option, there is always a third option. That is bring up Gabe and let him do the thinking, the leading, and everything else – as I am tired, épuisée, exhausted, drained and weary. Did I say thirsty? Oh, I think I also forgot to mention the sun has clearly set at that time – even my optimistic left side of the brain could not deny it any longer.

Gabe came up. He looked up, he looked right. Then we, even without consulting, offered to Pierre to take over the next lead as we were not sure what to do – or to put it clearly paralyzed by fear to the point of not being able to move forward, even if it were light out.

My perspective: It was a real dilemma. The guidebook seemed to say up, traverse, and then rap back down. But there was no way up. The frustrating thing was that I could see so clearly where we were trying to get to. The traverse clearly continued, just 30 to our right. Unfortunately, that 30 feet was made up of pure air - 300 vertical feet of it, resting on nothing but the water below.

So if we couldn’t go up, and we couldn’t walk on air, then we needed to delve into the cave, and that way looked pretty damn hard, and was almost certainly off-route. We were at an impasse. And then the sun set.

Pierre confidently came over. He looked up, then right, then with more surprising confidence (oh, those Frenchies!) went right into the dark. Oh, I think I meant crawled, as to get to the first bolt there was only a ledge, maybe 50 cm high, on which you could crawl on your stomach if you really really tried. So Pierre crawled, got the first bolt, looked into the dark again, concerted with his brother and then crawled back to us. It was a long time since things were no longer glamorous. Now they were grim. We were in the dark. 3 of us at the station (an old piton and a slung horn). Pierre decided he would be unable to reverse the moves to get to his brother, and the cordelettes with those nice pitons were not sure to hold his body weight, nothing be said of a fall.

Things were actually not that bad – we could have had a hanging belay, be injured, frozen, broken under a heap of ice or snow debris on some God forgotten pile of rock. We had instead a large (2 sq feet) ledge all for ourselves, a view on an endless sea, a moon and even a lullaby sung by those crushing foaming beastly waves just a hundred meters lower. I said that we could only die from thirst, and that would take maximum three days. We really would be stuck only if it rained, but then we would not die from thirst as we could always collect water into our helmets.

My partners thought I had a combative spirit. I rejoiced. I also decided not to be claustrophobic and get the best use possible out of that belly-crawling ledge we had all for ourselves. The preparations were quick, and so went my first unexpected bivouac on a climb. At least our lodging dilemma for the night was pretty much solved.

Haha! How to get a night of free lodging while staying in southern France, right? There was a little crevice in the rock right next to the anchor, just big enough for two small people. Julia and I had gotten there first (so we had squatters’ rights). Pierre tried to fit in too, but it was impossible, and he didn't have sufficient gear to make a safe anchor further along the traverse. So he settled himself as well as he could, sitting on a little ledge, feet dangling over the abyss. I woke every thirty minutes or so with shooting pains in whichever hip was taking my weight on the rock. I would turn over to the other side, waking Julia as I did so. Damn her – at least she had a jacket, which I stupidly did not! Often when I woke, I would hear Pierre out there, shuffling around a little. As frigid and stiff as I was, I could barely begin to imagine his misery. So I tried not to worry about him, and simply tried to sleep. I must have finally slept because I woke to a gray light that told me the sun was already up somewhere behind heavy clouds, and Pierre and his brother were up and moving around.

The morning found us cramped, cold, thirsty and hungry. And still wondering at where we were, what did that whole topo thing want to say by its meaningless horizontal and vertical lines in all directions, and pointing to each other all the pieces of pro we could see or imagine around (up to 15 or more). At last, Gabe took up his courage into his hands and started off for, as far as I was concerned, the scariest ever traverse to our right. It was still pretty dark inside the cave, but the glimmer of bolts were appearing out of the dim.

Someone had to do something, so I took the rack of draws, Julia belayed me, and I started crawling through the crack, in search of the first bolt.

Crawling on his belly, with ballerina steps afterwards, he somehow got to one bolt, then the next. Then he saw more bolts. Well I'm not ashamed to say that I used extensive aid to get through the traverse, but get through it I did. It was aid! After Touchstone in Zion, he went through the whole thing rapidly and left us agape with admiration. Mmm, I had to do it next. Another ‘scariest’ pitch of my life…At least it always looks that way before I go for it. The good thing about action is that it makes you forget all the mental fears and misgivings. Imagination gets shut off, and that’s when brain for once unites with body for an accomplishment. It took me some time to convince my brain of all this. Then I went for it, and did it (not that there was much choice anyway). Pierre and Georges followed.

We were not through yet though. Next pitch looked even less reassuring as it boasted only two bolts for the whole of its 30-meter traverse out of our demon furnace cirque (the first traverse brought us in, the second had to bring us out). This time Pierre from the other party showed what he was made of, took up the sharp end and easily went off.

I think the conversation went something like this: P: Chapeau! (Nice lead). You would like the next one? G: Oh, I don’t mind if you take it. P: You can have it if you like. G: No, really, I want my mommy, and I’ve decided I’m giving up climbing forever, so I am going to zip myself into my backpack now and I would like you to carry me the rest of the way, thanks! Except the last sentence came out sounding more like “I’m a little tired”, but he knew what I meant. Thank you thank you thank you, Pierre!

I managed to follow Pierre’s pitch cleanly. Soon we were all four past the gap, and back on route! We were going to make it. As we had two ropes, I decided to shut up my brain this time with a Tyrolean traverse, and things went much quicker, with much lower psychological price for it.

Finally we were out – on a huge ledge, in the sun, with a visible, plausible way out! The weather was still awesome (there is good grounding to calling this one of the sunniest spots of the country), we were all in one piece, even our bivy spot looked more sexy in the daylight. Then we knew we were out of it, despite it already being noon, our mouths being extra dry and our tongues hanging out, like Bedouins after a couple of weeks of a desert march. Even our cell phones started working again (oh, cell phones, that useless piece of extra weight, but what modern climber doesn’t proudly carry at least one instead of a PowerBar or an extra biner?).

The first thing my mom managed to tell me was ‘call the hotel, call the hotel, they are going to shoot your baggage!’. Yup, we left our bags at the hotel the day before, saying that we would pick them up that same evening. However we never made it to our hotel. My mom said the hotel called the police and police was coming to shoot through our baggage, as we could be terrorists wanting to set up a bomb at the hotel. Very exciting!

At that moment my phone connection stopped working and all my tries to reach the hotel failed relentlessly. Oh well, that was not any big worry for me anymore. What things can’t you deal with in this life?! Few are absolutely bad, although many are irksome.

G: Your mom said they’re doing what with our bags? Blowing them up?!!

Our traverse continued, mostly unroped now, through a system of ledges, with another short Tyrolean, an awesome chimney-cave (very like Tunnel Vision in Red Rocks, with even more fun formations, hanging stalagmites, pockets and any other type of holds that it will take another half a century for the hold manufacturers to replicate), a final 7a (for Gabe, and A0 for all other unfortunate feeble humans) to gloriously bring us to the top as the sun started to join the sea again. (Picture – one, rather interesting part of the unroped traverse) During our long hike back (sure, 1h! I would call this a guidebook syndrome – see Tom Swain’s approach timing references for various Red Rocks jewels – and try running with him!) I couldn’t resist accosting a couple of happily hiking tourists with a ‘Please, do you have some water left? We’ve spent the last two days in here without any!’ with a desperate look of a lost child on my face, which worked miraculously well and procured us almost 2 full 1,5 liter bottles.

**** Hmm, that much for the first two days makes it already a very long TR. I will have to stick with mere naming for the following days – as we did climb consecutively for 8 days during the trip, although most of it was much less exciting then the first two days. Monday, the rest day, was spent at the sport crag of Tiragna, clipping draws and admiring the rock texture. A sport crag, as there are so many out there these days, with its sport crowd of weekend warriors and a couple of project-obsessed guys. Tuesday we were ready for adventure again, and that was reserved for another ‘Best Route of France’. Judged by our now experienced eye, the guidebook promised a much more straightforward approach, with things being bolted all the way, going straight up most of the time, and no ‘adventure terrain’ or ‘bring a couple of coinçeurs just in case’ remarks. La Gutenberg on Socle de la Candelle, and then la Centrale on la Cancelle herself were a swan’s song for us. Climbing started with a 5c to end with a 6b+, with 8 outstanding 6a pitches in between. Very, very beautiful, face, crack, stemming, roofs, more traverses out of this world (reminiscent of Spigolo Gallo on Cime Piccola of the Dolomites), and a final boulder problem made it an unforgettable day, although much less charged with psychedelic impulses. (Picture – me flying on La Candelle)

We spent another rest day exploring la Calanque de Morgiou, with its most beautiful port of the world – straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean. The exploring culminated on Cret St Michel, with a 5-pitch, more bolted than not 6b, where I even managed to lead the last, outstanding pitch up the grand dièdre, although Gabe did an even more outstanding job onsighting the first 6b+ pitch, where I had to swear in all my native or not so native languages to get up. We finished with a headlamp, but the walk down was cake, and the port at night made me imagine all those scenses out of Hemingway or Margarite Duras, with pastis drinking and romantic, wild sailors.

It was time for an adventure day again, and that was to happen in la Calanque de l’Oule this time, where we decided to look for another classic, les Futurs Croulants. That was a wise decision, as we did look for it – for half a day, without actually finding the route…But the access to the place was lots of fun in itself, including some more cave-crawling through le Trou du Serpent (yup, as exciting as the name suggests), scree walking over precipices etc. and despite mine and Gabe’s attempts to lead the first pitch on three different routes, we decided that things looked like much more adventure than we could bear and we opted for a bolted line instead, les Cacochymes, only 3 pitches after more than half a day of hiking and wondering around, that still surprised us by the quality of climbing and views. After this adventure without spice we spent another day waiting for rain at Rocher du Renard, where rain did find us, after completing la Diedre du Renard (awesome, awesome last 6a pitch) and a couple of other by-standing routes. Saturday, our last climbing day, had to bring a culmination.

It was to be l’Armata Callanqua, a newly opened route (2001) to the furthest right of la Candelle, counting three 6a pitches at its bottom part (le Socle), another three 6a pitches on the intermediate part, and 5 more pitches from 6b to 6c on the top part, la Candelle itself. Who could resist a dessert served on an azure-blue plate and covered with white sparkling cream-chantilly? I guess we could, as we woke up 3h after the wake-up time (4 am)…but then the temptation was too strong – we looked at each other, looked at our tent, felt our train tickets in our pockets, and went for the car. We could still do it! When we got to the last, hardest part, it was already 3 pm. We looked at each other again, and after a minute’s hesitation I led up the pitch. Knowing where the rappel was, and having nice new shiny bolts all the way to it helped, and with the last sunrays we were already finishing our roped maneuvers.

We got it right this time! And what a route! The last 6c pitch was even apparently the highest onsight for Gabe’s sport record. The only sad part was our departure planned for the next day. (Picture – me consuming a Nutella sandwich midway on la Candelle, looking forward to future adventures, on sea or land, as long as rock is somehow involved!)

Dolomites TR – July 2005

So we started driving. Stress stayed behind. Work stayed behind. Problems stayed behind. But driving is boring – from behind one truck to in front of another truck. White scenery changes to many words in Germanic script, most of which I can’t make out with all my French and Cyrillic background. With a couple of navigational issues, a couple of sausages and a many chocolate treat, Munich is in site. That’s where another internet friend is waiting to provide me with German (again! this language is starting to make me unhappy –I wish I applied more effort than just calling my teacher the grünes Schwein during the 4 years in high school…) guidebooks and last-minute suggestions on routes to do. My research is far from exhaustive, no huts preparation, no exact idea what the week will be like, just a place on the map and an image in the head.
It’s been there for a while – maybe even before I started climbing altogether. Maybe that Stallone movie, or the name from Breashears’s book, or the mountain call made it all up in my head. I need mountains. This whole Europe move idea was to get closer to some of those old heroic deeds, ascents full of unknown by bearded guys with balls and pitons and balls again, those names with German (!!!), Italian or French connotations that I keep stumbling upon on paper and still have trouble imagining. Like Bonnatti doing a route up a Cima in winter, sleeping there in his bivy sack, proud, hungry and alone. Or a Messner looking up a new line over his brother’s shoulder. But let’s get back to the already stinky car, or rather get out and start the sleep part on some bike road under Innsbruck. Not too bad of an idea – and the moment we are out of the car I can feel the mountains around me. It’s been dark for a while, but they are there, breathing under the starry sky.
The wake up call comes up in a cruel, wet and dark shape. Oh well, let’s drive again. We make our triumphal entry to the country of pasta under torrential rains and empty stomach. Only when we finally get to the Passo di Sella do we stop to get the stove out and courageously start cooking. Walls. They are there. Despite the clouds, the rain and the total absence of any humans – or because of it. Yeah, that’s the place.
But that’s not the time. We pass the day in the car, exploring the valley, having good pasta, getting wet and all those things over again. Driving through a couple of passes, figuring out where the Viajolet towers are (can’t see anything anyway, some old Rosengarten sign and postcards make us feel better), wondering at the snows of Marmolada (picture left) and crossing paths with some unhappy tourists like us makes the rain finally stop. Back to Passo di Sella (picture right), we finally get a look up our first objective – First Sella Tower. A pimple for mountain goats, that’s what it is compared to the bystanders such as Piz Ciaves or Piz Pordoi. 22 pitches of UIAA grade 6 (5.9) to get to the top of one or 26 to the top of the other. MMM, let’s camp.
Saturday is sunny. Oh my, and cold. When we get to the top of the pass, it’s around freezing, down jacket is out, sun is out, and somehow both go together. Dolomites’ approaches are just great. The roads are there in the best places – that’s what having a couple of wars in a good setting does to you! After hours passed scrambling and bivouacking under the routes in Red Rocks this is a piece of cake. 20 min later we are under it – still alone and cold – Trenker crack. Dummies’ introduction to climbing 101. 6 pitches of fun, the hardest at 5.8
with a reassuring A0 possibility. Let’s do it. The rock is a bit similar to the limestone I’ve been climbing in Freyer for a while now, although the pro is thin and the climbing gripping. Cory gets the hardest pitch due to some screw-up with route finding (not the last one on this trip) and deals admiringly with it. A couple of pitches later we are taking in the view around (picture) and downwards, with numerous ants following in our foot prints. The climbers are out! Cold, but fun experience. Now let’s start the walk down. From what I hear, the best part of the dolomites experience. Not too bad, and a couple of hours later we are at the base again. Yup, guidebook is optimistic with its timing, but we’re still down one way or another.
So there is this other, apparently bolted line calling my name. But I see no bolts. No problem, let’s look for those later on the climb. Cory goes up, he’s supposed to find a bolted belay under the hard (10ish) pitch. I follow him – through 50m w/o pro to an anchor w/o bolts. So WTF does this go??? Oh well, I’m in a curious mood, I see a sling threaded through rock above me, let’s go up. I do. The going is not hard, but not exactly reassuring. The anchor below is not solid either. And pro isn’t there. Finally I do see a piton to my left. Maybe that’s what the Italians (or Germans in case of my guidebook) mean by bolts. Anyway, stop thinking, just get there and clip. I get there and clip. The piton almost gets out of the crack with my draw, and continues wobbling attractively in my hand. MMM…in sweat and stretch, long look up. Finally an anchor materializes some feet above. No pro. A TCU, I know it won’t hold. But let’s go. Just shut up and go. When I get to the anchor (two very old and rusty-looking bolts) I start doubting this whole Dolomites idea. The bolted climb had one piton on it. The belay stance however has cigarette butts all over it, thus reassuring me softly. I take my spirits into one hand, belay Cory up with another. Yeah, you explore now. That’s the best thing about switching leads. The mental rest is there, give up all authority, let him decide and be the man. We do look miserably off route. After some discouraging looks up, then down to that piton, than back up to the blank face, we decide to sacrifice the first gear of the trip, rap and downclimb. That’s it, the day is done.
Sunday. The weather is cloudless. Still freezing in the morning, but beautiful. Piz Ciaves. We camp right underneath. The arête has been staring at us for the whole 2 days already. There is no way to ignore it, even looking the other way I can feel it pointing upwards. It sure is a route. Abram Kante, not too bad for the 30s, UIAA 7- or 5+ A0. Sounds like my type of climb – and definitely looks like one! 12 pitches, and an unnerving-looking descent. Let’s do it. After sharing the road with more than a thousand bikers making their long way up the pass, we get to the beginning of the route (they are the real heroes, we’re just some show-offs with tinkling metal things hanging around our necks). After the first pitch some Italian dude, putting no pro for the first pitch and stretching it all out to the second belay, effortlessly passes us. Yeah, I know we’re weak, rub it in man. After admiring the bikers and the morning sunlight for some more, we start our journey up too. My turn again – the pitch looks not too bad, but quickly after the start I’m already sweating – good and bad, means my hands won’t get cold, but also means the leading is getting harder. Supposedly it’s only 5.6, but the last piton was rusty, the next pro looks far away and the corner is off-balancy just enough. Oh this trad thing, haven’t done it for a while now, breathe in and out a couple of times, remember why I’m doing this again, and finally get to a belay after what seemed like an hour. MMM way to go on a 12 pitch route on one of the easiest pitches, Julia…Ok, Cory’s lead, let’s rest. I actually have set up the belay too low, not even finishing the crux of my 5.6 pitch. Very glorious. Cory decides to take the next couple of leads.
It’s great when you start following blindly a pitch and then slowly the realization comes that the climbing is what they call ‘a classic pitch’. Beautiful yellow rock, awesome cracks, stemming and corners. The holds are big and far apart. Wow, this is good! I think I’m finally warmed up and know why I’m here. That’s in time as next pitch is mine and it’s the famous 7- or 5 A0 one. Things go smoothly and my fear is finally under control. The A has quickly its win over me, even without a battle, and the 15 meters of crux are gone in minutes in a monkey-with-the-trees style. Wow, this is awesome climbing. This is also the point where I know that we’ll make it – the crux is behind us, now only some route finding remains a challenge, and ….mmm only 7 pitches to go…
Another 60 meters and 2 pieces of pro later I take the lead. Easy terrain and good pro lead me up to an attractive open book above. But approaching the open book my enthusiasm perishes and sweaty hands make their way in. This looks like shitty rock. This looks like psychological I-need-this-worthless-TCU terrain. After half an hour of up and down, I finally realize my mistake, find a piton and the route. Sure enough, the parties behind us are already all at the same belay Cory is at, looking pissed, hot and have this what-an-incapable-is-it-out-there look I practice so often myself. Yup, that’s me…A couple of pitches later, the followers appear to be a couple of Slovenians here for the w-end, rather relaxed (with a cigarette box stripped to a helmet for better rock repellent) and chatty. After a couple more route finding moments we do get to the top.
Top is always sweet. This one is also sunny and offers a splendid view. What more to ask from life?! A cheerful descent, that’s the recipe. It’s a traverse. At least an hour’s worth of traverse following the wall on a terrace a couple of feet wide with moving rocks all over it, and looming walls above and below. A perfect spot to experience vertigo under a desert sun. The last part of the traverse is the most impressive – looking at it from a distance I start having ants down my spine and have to sit down to get back the combative spirit. What a joy when we get there and realize that it’s actually equipped with the famous via ferrata cables – just clip and go! Oh, those Italians, I appreciate them more and more. One more good day.
The next day is cloudy, our energy supplies are low, and we decide to drive further. After a couple of picturesque Italian towns we get to Falzarego pass and the Tofana (picture). Wow this mountain is calling too! After a lunch at Refugio Dibona and some mystic vues of the Ghedina route, we decide to push it to our final destination, the Zinnen. Lavaredo is a famous area, and a postcard landmark. No wonder than that we have to pay 20 euros just to be able to drive the last couple of kilometers to it. Everything is still covered in clouds, and we venture on a hiking exploration that in some strange ways takes us up to the col between Cima Grande and Cima Ovest, right in front of the Dulfer route. Fun fun places. Not fun downclimbing all that scree – at least we know now how bad the descent can be…
Next day is totally awry with constant rain and then snow until 5 pm (picture). But afterwards the weather miraculously clears up and we are even able to hike the loop road and take tasty pictures in total solitude. The Cimas look better than ever, more unapproachable too. It is hard to stay optimistic about our route plans as it is cold and windy despite the sun. The walls look very intimidating, long, high and daring. But the morning is always a better starting point, so sleep time again.
Finally a day of good weather arrives. We decide to bank it all with Gelbe Kante (picture below, the route is on the yellow arête of the tower to the left), 14 pitches, 8 of which are grade 5 or 6 UIAA (5.7 to 5.9/10ish), up the Cima Piccola – the third and smallest of the Cimas. The pictures look very appealing though, and each time I see a Kante in the name of the route, I want to do it – somehow each time the word means ‘song’ instead of arête to me, and this one is the swan song.
We are at the start of the climb around 8 and the first thing there are a couple of Italians. We hear them chatting away already during our hour’s scree approach. When we finally get to the base, the second is still half way up the first pitch. He talks endlessly and moves s l o w l y. After an hour of snail-like progress, his partner and he decide, to my certain happiness to rap. When on the ground, the first thing they do is try to convince us that it is ‘durro’ ‘durro’, or even ‘difficult’. There was also an English party behind us that looked like real mountaineers, tanned, fit and full of humor. Determination started to fade in our little party. Then I decided I wanted to risk it. Durro or not, let’s give it a shot. Cory bravely went up the first pitch, a stiff 5.8 that felt all 5.10 to me while following with a pack. Slippery and sustained. A pleasure to climb, but the pack made things rather nasty. However I was surprised to find myself full of energy the moment I did take the backpack off. Next pitch was the first crux of the route – an overhanging crack-chimney. Slowly but surly, with an awesome #4 placement, great feet and those oh so good jams, I got to the belay. Wow, we’ve done the first hard part, which means maybe we’ll be able to affront the 2 crux pitches up higher. Anyway we have one rope and retreat will be harder and harder the further we go. Let’s do it. Next 2 pitches go by quickly and I proudly set up a belay at a fixed anchor – for once I found it without a problem and didn’t even get off route. Cory comes up, looks up, and doesn’t feel good about the 5.3 above. Actually it looks overhanging. Jugs are not in site. And no, we’re not in the Gunks so 5.3s should not look like that. Exploration time, some more exploration time, the English guys are at our back again, and I realize that I did make the belay at a wrong place, again. I take over the lead, traverse way right, and finally see the route clearly. Sometimes I can be blind, but sometimes the topo also thankfully makes sense. In the meantime the English guys loose a bit of their mountaineering shine when they tell us that they lost their topo, and would love to follow us "the experienced ones" up the route, as anyway it’s their first really long route etc. We do find the right pitches and start coming closer to the hard stuff. English guys are lost behind us again, we hear sometimes their desperate "Coooory", apparently they found their topo again, but not the route. Next pitch is a traverse. It’s a climber’s dream traverse, with a disappearing overhanging face below, crazy exposure, and
good pro. Makes me think about Fiddler on the Roof, much easier, but more exposed (picture). I know I’m climbing the best route of the trip. That’s what this whole rainy waiting was for. In another pitch we get to the real business – another overhanging crack. My baby. The pro is awesome again, pitons are plenty, climbing is gripped, slow and cruxy. Breathe in and out, the usual thing, hang on just a little longer, figure out just one more sequence. And here it is, the dream hanging belay. The good thing about switching pitches on a long route – total mental rest awaits me, I look up the continuation of the overhanging offwidth, and feel relieved. I’m done with my hard leading of the day, one more pitch and we are done with the cruxes. Just another 4 or 5 pitches left. Cory does wonderfully, and there we are at another spectacular traverse. Definitely this climb just keeps getting better. Some route finding business still is ahead, some snow on
ledges, a never-found last hard pitch, and we are at the top.
A quick look around reassures me that the clouds are coming up, the dark times are close, relaxation is no more, it’s time to look for the rap route. Some scrambling and more traversing gets us to the rap ring. The book talked about ‘solid rap pitons’. Here we have one huge rap ring. It looks a lot like a ring I would imagine a huge bull has in its nose during a Spanish bullfight. It also looks like one of the best rap rings ever. I do love these Italians or whoever rebolted or reringed this route. Many rappels later we are down to the snowy descent, our favorite scree, the refuge and our canned food. Only now does the realization start entering my mind – we actually did it!
******
Unconquered walls remain out there…