Gullknausen, the Northern Jewel

The island of Kvaloya was formed, the guidebook says, as part of Greenland, before it actually parted from Norway some 100 million years ago on a sail West.  The island is incredible in its abundance of high-quality granite, tilted in all possible directions, and most of the time providing a stunning view to the neighbouring fjords below.  It is both beautiful and remote, hanging on the edge among the rocky and harsh world as we know it, the still arctic waters, the never-ending skyline, and out-of-space light that colonises it in summer, as opposed to all-day night that settles comfortably throughout the winter.

Nothing represents Kvaloya in all its full-blown colours and mind-blowing airy, watery, and rocky atmosphere as the Gullknausen.  Discovered accidentally by Svein Smelvaer from aboard a fishing boat called "Fidel",  the name given to the first 8a bolted on the main wall, it is a white-orangy 70-meter wonder hanging off the rims of the fjord, that any climber would go to some length to get a belay on.  It has been my immense pleasure to have a video shot by our talented cameraman Paul Diffley of my attempts, and final midnight redpoint of Golden Shower, an awesome line up the main wall, bathed in afternoon, and then night, sun, while the other members of the Gore-Tex team were busy with other projects: Helena and Donald multipitching on Flikkflak, and Dave working the yet unclimbed extension of "Fidel", supposedly a bouldery problem around 8b+:

Sports Climbing at Gullknausen, Norway from Hot Aches Productions on Vimeo.

Thanks Paul!  Below are more pictures of this incredible crag, one of the more stunning locations I have sport climbed in:

Donald climbing Flikkflak, as the guidebook says: "best 6b+ around (in Norway, Europe, and even on...)

 Incredible sunset over the unending ocean (picture by Paul Diffley)

Myself during the second attempt at Golden Shower (picture by Paul Diffley)

View from the ledge with the evening sun

Sportclimbing on Kvaloya, Ersfjorden

Climbing up Granitveien, a very strange but photogenic 6- (French 5+)

After the first days of Gore-Tex Experience Tour spent trying out the big wall and its much smaller offspring boulders, we finally went sport climbing - my speciality!  Just 30 minutes walking distance from our fisherman's cabin are the big boulders of Ersfjord.  The main attraction is formed by two big boulders, over 20 meters high, called Resekjerringa and Resekallen, that as the guidebook mystically says, are "treasure objects" of Saami culture.  The first name translates as the Troll, and the second as an evil female demon.  Trolls are an interesting species by themselves - usually assumed to live in isolated places, rarely friendly, they form part of Norse mythology and have fascinated me for a while.  I remember bringing back home a troll from my first trip to Oslo 10 years ago, although it has disappeared, mysteriously, since.  Now I am on a mission to find a replacement troll that I promised as a Nordic token for Silvia's precious baby, Montse.  I like trolls, partly because they appeal to the dark corners of my own character, and I do appreciate visiting their country very much lately.

Fisherman's boat parked near our cabin, picture by myself

A different take on the same theme of man and the boat by Paul, our official photographer on the Gore-Tex tour.  You can see the difference in skills, I do find the below picture inspiring - taken while shooting into the sun, on the approach to Ersfjorden by Paul:

The actual climbing at Ersfjorden proved very good, with tilted bouldery granite problems.  Very different from the slabby and cold Blamannen - most routes we tried were rather short and intense.  After contemplating several crack lines and warming up on the backside in the welcome shadow, we started the exploration with Helena getting our eyes on Psilocin, an attractive 7a crackline, where I managed to fall off the last move onsighting.  Using well the hanging draws, I next jumped on the near-by Sjamanen, and fell off this one quite low, at the bouldery crux off the second quickdraw.  The onsight attempt finished with the same luck on its neighbour, another 7b called Moctezumas Hevn.  Inspired by the boulder moves, I managed to redpoint Sjamanen, one of the more popular 7bs of the crag by the crowd wisdom of 8a.nu, on the next go.  Moving down the line, I finished the day with a final well-earned onsight (almost falling off at the last moves near the anchor) of a beautiful diagonal crack called Buestrengen, 7a, and gave Ramadan a (quick and rather lame) try provided the strong appeal of the hanging quickdraws and the eye of the camera staring into the blue distance beyond this steep line:

Struggling up Ramadan, first bolted 8a of Northern Norway

All this action wetted my appetite for more, as I watched a girl climb up In Deliri Flagrante, another superb 7b+ crack line that I'd love to give a [corrected] flash attempt on another day weather permitting.  Sport climbing is truly fun, and granite again made my day a good one.  Cheers to granite and to more sport climbing in Norway.  To be continued!

Most pictures above courtesy of Paul Diffley, Hot Aches Production.

Blamannen, First Days

The North Face of Blamannen

My first thought upon landing in Tromso, Arctic Norway, has been about how insanely beautiful the place is.  Flying in the midnight sun over Lofoten and the neighbouring islands, reflected in the water, with moon bathing their dark fins and snowy outcrops in a mellow light, I felt amazed, as in the old days, at the moment of birth, when discovering the Alps, when first driving through the Dolomites, when gazing up Cordiliera Blanca or contemplating El Cap from the bus: the sheer beauty, the simple and lasting presence of nature, masterpiece without need for the last touch of any human brush.  This place where we can call "home" the Utah desert, the Sierra de Guarra canyons, the high peaks of Himalaya, or the Ersfjord waters.  Come, stay, enjoy, and climb.  What a fortune, to be alive and well, to see it all, to gather in the sounds, the smells, the sights, and to reverberate back.

Midnight light on the fjord, seen from the base of Blamannen

The first big objective of our expedition has by default become the Blamannen, a towering North Face crowning the island of Kvaloya, just outside Tromso.  Already from the airport we could see the summit pointing outwards into the star-filled sky, the wall otherwise hidden by scenic hills.  Not wasting time and using the incredibly good weather we have been having, we headed directly for the Blamannen approach on the first day to measure ourselves up against or with the mountain, to check out the worth of the human condition, to laugh at our smallness, to admire nature's prowess.  It has been a while I have not been excited by a big rock face.  Looking at this one from the car park I did not necessarily feel the kick of energy or the urgent need to get to the top either.  Mountaineering ambition dead?  Let's go see and check it out. 

The promissed 45 minutes of approach turned out to be a good 2 hours of uphill walking, making me regret the missed training opportunities each time I have refused to join the Maladeta FA this summer with Ori, Xavi, and co'.  But after some persistence and the help from the walking sticks, the first miracle was accomplished and we were standing at the base - having passed the forest, the slabs, and the final snow patch and the muddy fixed rope.  Two other teams were going up Ultima Thule and Lost and Found, the first team ultimately abseiled, the other with Dave's friend Andreas on lead, continued to the top after we left for a due rest.

With difficulty getting used to the Northern light that never leaves, and recovering from the flight in, we slowly started exploring the face.  First, a look at Icarus, that appeared very difficult and badly protected for a free attempt.  Change of objectives, and standing below Bongo Bar we finally decide to give that a go as the lower cracks seemed more appealing and Andreas shouted down to us that the crux was apparently exceptionally dry during these last days.

Paul inspired by midnight light

Thus began the toil - almost Himalayan-like expedition style, fixing ropes up the first pitches.  Dave bravely lead the way up, despite being short on gear, but inspired by the prospect of difficulties up above.  Helena and myself seconded the incredible 50-meter monster endurance fest pitches with key lay-back moves on thin flaring cracks and pretty sketchy protection, especially on the first pitch.  The whole second day was spent by the dedicated team of Dave and Don to aid up the key third pitch and leave another fixed rope up that.  While the girls went bouldering and cooking dinner instead:

Bouldering at the base of Blamannen (picture by Paul Diffley)

The complete story of Blamannen remains to be written though, depending on so many outside as well as inside factors - will Dave be able to freeclimb the crux pitch?  What difficulties will follow up above? Will the weather keep the face dry?  Will we get a good day for a redpoint attempt?  Will we be able to make it to the top?  Logistics, planning, pure effort, and enthusiasm, those are the determinant things.  Or is it all just about simple luck and courage to try things out, to take chances? Up and free!

Very late sunset as seen from Blamannen (picture by Paul Diffley)

And all this possible thanks to the Gore-Tex Experience Tour, Mountain Equipment, and the great company of Paul, Dave, Donald, and Helena.  Let the adventure continue, wherever it might take us.

Heading up North

Excited and packing to be going up North tomorrow, way North...

This is supposedly the cabin where we will be staying during our two weeks of the Gore-Tex Experience Tour in Norway:

Let the adventure begin!

Life in Kaos

My life has been strange during the last...should I say three years?  Life in Kaos sounds about right as a title for this mess I have been senselessly contributing to, day in and day out.  A dry tree in the middle of a glamorous landscape, a flower in bloom on a satellite planet on a circuitous way around a beehive.  Taking it easy, taking it hard.  I left it all behind and took a four-day break in my favorite mountains, driving North again, full of motivation for the project, a need to forget, a want to remember.  The project went quickly, on the first night I sent Cobra Canaria, using new beta for the last sequence and doing the mini-dyno with the right hand instead of a much longer traverse right and back left I used to do before.  After the first lame try, I proudly listened to inspirational Sarah, no fear, only trust in the foot, an almost mechanical execution - put the foot, get up, dispara, there we go, what Holly named my "Levitation Project" has just been sent.

Taking it easy the next day, we visited Kaos and the top of Pared Inerte for some onsighting action.  After not appreciating at all the loose rock on Ordesa, figuring out the moves but not having any motivation to repeat Unai's 7c, I finally had loads of fun onsighting Toulomni Meadows and Tsaranoro, my kind of climbing, my kind of fun, "boring" for Sarah - my newly found friend that effortlessly onsighted wet Los Congitos, after only one year of climbing and a lifetime of gymnastics.  Below a shadowy Darth Vader of myself belaying the gifted Sarah on another test-piece, Massa Kumba:

Taking it easy again, we drove next to the hot Rodellar for a change in scenery and climbing style.  I let Sarah enjoy the commercial side of climbing in Spain, and hopped myself on a couple of lines to check my newly gained strength or the illusion thereof.  Conclusion: pull-ups are definitely working (had loads of fun leading the second half of Pequeno Pablo and Vis a vis, thanks Piju for the draws on that one), my long resistance ends at move # 13 (could not stick the beginning sequence of Pequeno Pablo, have to come back strong and just send this route once and for all), and I am definitely starting to enjoy Rodellar (a good project to get my self-esteem up: IronMan, first pitch, crux all figured out, although pretty hard moves for shorter people I believe).  I will be back.

Last winter I used to climb with boys, making them discover the beauty of this land I have been trying to make in a little tiny way my own for a while now - Ville, Philip, Martin, Mark.  In the reverse side of the model, this summer I climb with girls, also strangers here, like me, also thirsty to climb more and more, like me.  Big thanks to my girl partners for living with my crazy character for a couple of days, belaying me on my projects, and enjoying the climbing as much as I do - Holly from Bishop, CA, and Sarah from Massachusetts:

Other girls I climbed with this year - Sharon and Delphine, while regretting for not climbing more with Silvia and Cathy.  Girl climbing rules, and now off to Norway to climb with Helena...

All pictures courtesy of Sarah.

...

"A path is only a path, and there is no affront, to oneself or to others, in dropping it if that is what your heart tells you . . . Look at every path closely and deliberately. Try it as many times as you think necessary. Then ask yourself alone, one question . . . Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn't it is of no use."
— Carlos Castaneda

Cobra Canaria, Cavallers

 Raspberries at the base of African

Despite the gift of berries and many a fond memory, Cavallers has been harsh to me this year.  First week-end in April with Philip we both tried the wet and cold Smith Rock, and it spit us off without skin or desire.  Philip got sick, Jaume took awesome pictures.  Second week-end with Victor n Freeboc company in June, first the rope slipped off the gri gri and I almost went flying down to the lake from Pared Inerte, second we both tried la Foca Pirenaica but it was too wet to think about figuring out the crux moves at the crack, and I fumbled on Rigol Mortis, also wet and unruly.  Third week-end in June, Martin, Vincenzo, and myself went up to Pared Inerte again, this time I fell off the last hard move when onsighting Dimension Rappel, and then it cost me another 2 tries to redpoint this awesome route.  Smith Rock ate my skin and spit me off the move, again.   Vincenzo and myself decided Foca Pirenaica was too hard to get it figured out this year.

Finally, this last week-end with Holly I changed objectives and went to pay a visit to an old acquaintance, Cobra Canaria on the African Wall.  It is a short slabby wonder that some guidebooks have rated 7b, others 8a, and few people have been willing to waste nails and skin to figure out the way through the moves.  I tried Cobra while working the incredible Chris last year, and could not figure out the moves either.  I left it be, black and happy in the sun, and it slowly cooked, to become a worthy test-piece to check my slab technique again this year.

My butt starting up the traverse before getting to the base of the Cobra

After studying the moves out, Holly suggested i try a mantle with my foot to start the traverse.  That became a crucial insight as it made me able to clip the next bolt, do an incredible one-finger undercling mantle, and start the traverse.  However, the problem with this route is the sun - it is South-facing, and thus trying it in good conditions means waiting until at least 5 pm to be able to pull on the crimps.  The other limiting condition is skin, as after a couple of tries nothing is basically left, skin or nails included.  It took me 2 goes to get the undercling move wired on lead, however not enough time left to redpoint by finishing the crazy traverse after the move.  Not expecting much, I still stayed one day longer, and had a morning try.  But it was too hot already, only shade can save me on this route.  Very close, but very far, home I drove again, speeding through Escales, Alfarras, Balaguer, and back down towards my home mountain.  There is always a next time, to be continued...

On the bright side, the new bar Tropic kept us awake with the Columbian dancing during Barruera fiesta major, and Ana made us her wonderful tapas and maracuya juice - although at a much higher price this time.  Good things get expensive, a sad rule from business.

Holly showing them how it's done

All pictures are courtesy of Holly, on a climbing visit from Bishop, CA.

S de Sorro, or learning to fly...

After having redpointed the near-by Xilum this spring, I decided i should go for its neighbor, much less done, and supposedly easier line in Guilleumes, S de Sorro.  After some inspiration here and here, i took up the combat and checked out the moves on toprope.  Ville generously belayed me on the first meeting.  Pretty impressed from the beginning, I tentatively went up.  I solved the traverse doing a strange, hard pull from the key pocket to the two-finger right-hand wonder, getting the right foot as high as it would go on the red sandstone bend.  Incredible move that I found rather tenuous.  The second part of the route is really the business (despite a hard 2-move boulder problem at the second draw).  You get to a small roof, first traverse left along red sandstone ledge, than come back right following classic Montserrat two-finger pockets, and than there is the final dyno to the big rescue pockets to the right.  Overall, the first part of the famous "S" is formed by 14 moves from leaving the security of one bolt to reaching the next one.  It is a long journey, that takes away one's breath, inspiration, self-composure, sleep, if not more.  The last move is what makes this route a challenge for me - it is a dyno that I have to do with the right foot in the air, from a crappy sloping left foot, and a good 3-finger extension with my left hand.  When i fail, it's a whipper.  When I stick it, I do the route.

*************************
As Eva Lopez says, dynoing is genetically not a girl's thing.  I have been struggling with dynos for some time now - I encountered the first serious dyno for my little self on the Rush, my first 7c.  The key move has to be done dynamically, going for a big hold from very small crimps for the left hand.  Vianant, my first 7c+, also had a dyno on it - instead of launching for the big hold on the left, in the end of a tricky traverse, I was always going for the shitty hold below.  Although a worse hold, I could stick the dyno much better as the distance was shortened by going for the smaller hold.  Finally, the Ben Petat, this winter's struggle, did not have serious dynos, but I fell around 7 or 8 times before sending the route after the crux, incapable of going dynamically for the jug undercling after the pump below and the crux move on crimps.  There has also been Calladeta - still not done - where the dyno came first, I had to jump to get past the first bolt, than dyno again to get out of the roof section.  I failed many times on this route so far because I got too stressed and tired by these two dynos to be able to start the fun - slabby - part above.  Dynos have always been my low point, my challenge, my pain.
*************************

There we go, so why would one do this to oneself?  Lo que no te mata te hace mas fuerte?  O no?  I don't know, but somehow, in this vicious circle of life, I got myself head over heals into trying the S de Sorro.  Coming back to the route after a pause, I checked out the moves again, this time figuring an easier way for the traverse - going further left from the key pocket instead of doing the mortal dead-hang to the right-hand two-finger, and figuring a final traverse variant (doubling the S) to escape the mono that I could not hold on the exit moves.  All set, no?  No.  The problem is the first S, the DYNO.  I tried cheating around it - putting a long extension sling and clipping just before the dyno.  Although strong enough to clip, I cannot stick the dyno after clipping.  The last time i tried the trick, I had a perfect go, very strong, did everything perfectly - and certainly had strength to do the dyno...But the sling was there, i could not fight myself, i betrayed myself, i could not control my head.  Survival instinct said clip.  I clipped.  I had strength enough to get my feet very high - but not enough to get the dyno.  I fell.  I fell less than i would without the sling - but i failed again.  I could have done it, but i did not, i managed to convince myself i needed the extension, again.  Not anymore.  Playing games with oneself is the worst kind of a game one could play.  I am strong.  I will forgo the sling and send the route.  It is just one dyno.  I am not even that scared when on the route, I go for it with it all, but somehow I psyche myself out of it.  I can do it, and i will.  It is a struggle in my head, the worst kind of subconscious struggle.  Let's play...!!!
*************************

Project sent, 28/07.  Thank you Ville, Uri, Victor, Txema for accompanying me in my learning, pain, fears, and flying time.

Getting back into shape

After my 2-week hiatus, an almost enforced break from training and climbing, time mostly dedicated to my thesis (although with exceptions for Gore-Tex allowed :), now I am back into the routine of getting myself up to shape again.  I started off the wrong foot already - warming up on Bauhaus on Wednesday, although going 2nd, somehow managed to pull my left hand finger on the first route of the day, to screw my tendon right from the start.  Yes, it's been a while, they tendons took much damage, they took even campusing for 6 months without too much complaining and without Radiosalil for some time now.  But it is that time of the year again, time to be motivated and stupid, stupid and motivated.  So there we go again - ice, heat, Radiosalil, and no, no, no, I do not want to stop n rest...

Anyway, whining aside, after not being able to solve the last move on Rescate Emocional, awesome, well-named 7b+ on Paret Gran, I lowered the objectives again, and went to the church.  The sacred place, St Benet.  Nothing like it, you might travel, you might roam.  Nothing like it, it is a honor to live just below, for a while, a very transient while, but I feel I somehow participate in the mystery of the place, in my own little and insignificant way.  I tried talking about it to Shantala, to Delphine, during both days, trying to transfer the sacredness, the beauty of the place.  Not sure I succeeded, but I continue believing, I continue worshiping, saying my little prayer to the Mother Mountain.  Coming back, again and again.  It is beautiful, it is mysterious, and it is not only about the mist, the clouds that take possession naturally and quickly of the Gorro tops.  It is not only about the landscape, about the absence of civilization - or its flagrant presence with tourist kleenex everywhere over the trails.  It is not only about the refuge, about Angel trying to fit into Ferran's role, about Santi giving us laurel leaves and tea flowers, sharing recipes for olive oil with rosemary.  It is not only about the routes, the moves, the flying feeling of weightlessness up above.  It is not only about flying off the wall and soaking into the scenery, mingling with the Elephant trunk, the Mummy, the old dead French soldiers, and the burros caring food for the monks up the endless stairs into the galaxy.  It is all of it, the whole, that is both smaller and bigger than the parts.  It is St Benet, one and only, the unique one.

I remember, I do not go for grades here - I go to climb a route, and this time the route was K Monos Somos, a piece of art in the pleasurable windy and shady Panxa del Bisbe.  After painfully getting to the anchor for the first time, I realized this was it, a route i needed to get my motivation going, to get my inspiration in, to feel the air below me, to use the newly gained strength, to try out my pull-up training I've been doing for a while now, to get the resistance back.  After the first run-out scary (supposedly 5+ the guidebook says) pitch, two bolts of warm-up on slightly overhanging ground, the business starts with the next two bolts.  First boulder sequence going for a left-hand stone, get the feet up and a dynamic move to the right-hand open-mouthed hold. Short rest, then left-hand crimp, get feet very very high, drop-knee, and go for the white marble stone, the crux.  If you get it, it is not time to celebrate yet - after a painful clip, there are still a couple of tense moves with ballerina feet to get to the next rest.  Then another clip, and the final batman flight to the last jug.  Despite careful inspection, I fail the technical sequence with the undercling after grabbing the white marble on my second go.  I do not even manage to catch the marble on my next go.

Motivation is back.  This route inspires me, it makes me think of Unicorni, of Ben Petat, of Calladeta, past or future projects, beautiful moves, precise footwork, reading the rock, only the right approach, the right mind will get you there.  I call Delphine, we change plans, and here I am back again, second day.  This time I put the draws in confidently, the moves are just soooo good.  I need this bouldering strength, it is so good to have air underneath, to go, to fight the fear again, to have the adrenaline rush.  I do a stupid mistake of feet on the next go - it was too good to be true, i was too strong.  Down we go, woooosh.  I rethink the strategy, recheck the feet.  Next one is the good one, despite the usual self-doubt, the wishful thinking, the partner-trusting, I go up.  I am weightless.  This is the right go.  Let's do it!  What a route!!! Can't shut up about it on the way down, try to convince Par to come out and try it too, what a route!  Maybe I will come back as well, another day, another year, a minute from now, a century away, for the neighbors on the left, they do look gooood too, although I like the names already less.  I got my motivation back, St Benet, thank you, one and only, no hay nadie como tu!
*****************************

To continue the training, despite rain forecast and tired forearms, training continues in Gelida.  The sun is inescapable, it is sauna time, big contrast to St Benet.  Warm and dusty.  While Delphine struggles on the vertical terrain of the 6as that are pretty bouldery for the grade, I go for the old favorite, No HoSe.  Been a while I came back to this one.  Long-standing project.  This time I am able to put up the draws all the way.  But the rain is coming, we are the last ones left on the crag, JuanAn leaves along with others, only black clouds and swooshing wind remain with us.  Pull the rope or second?  I remember the storm in Collegats, the epic to get the draws down there a month ago.  Let's second.  With a quick rhythm and straight arms, I manage to reach the chain, get down the draws, and be done with another project.  Although only on top rope, but i feel my strength slowly flowing back into the veins, the muscles starting to respond, the arms getting back into action, hardly-won endurance flowing along the blood-work of my body.  I am ready, it is time for the projects again.
*****************************

Four weeks left for projecting, in the meantime getting inspired by Nordic dreams - a picture from Jonas Wiklund, friends and cams waiting in the distance...:

 

Maybe will get to use them before going to Norway, say on some Southern face of a Mala mountain from Deta one day?..

Gore-Tex Experience Tour, part 1

Life has its strange ways, and in another circle-like fashion, after not so long ago reminiscing about El Cap glory days, I have come back to trad climbing this summer.  Rather unexpectedly, I have been chosen to participate in the Gore-Tex sponsored "Experience Tour", after a preliminary selection contest on Facebook, and a final selection day in Scotland.  The tour itself involves an expedition to the Northern Norway, complete with the filming crew, specifically exploring the region around Tromso in search of new lines on the Nordic granite of Kvaloya and Lofoten. Gore-Tex brings together distinguished athletes (that is Dave) and enthusiast weekend-warriors (that is Helena and myself) on a fun event to promote their brand, reach the younger audiences, and allow us to have some fun in an incredible company and a breathtaking setting.

Gore-Tex is an interesting company in its own right.  Similar to Patagonia in the past, it is one of the 100 best companies to work for as declared by Fortune Magazine in the US.  Its employees do not have titles, are all called "associates", and all have a power to veto any decision the company comes up with.  Best known for the Gore-Tex fabric of impermeable fame, guaranteed for a lifetime (!), the company is active in various domains, from outdoor wear to industrial and military supplies.  But that is another story.

Back to my own Experience-Tour story: Dave, (the climber), Paul (the camera-man), Donald (the sherpa), Helena, and myself (the girl-power support team) will take Norway by force next month.  In anticipation, a lot of enthusiasm, research, and training to be had while dreaming of big walls, granite touch, and cam placements. All below pictures are courtesy of Paul Diffley and Dave McLeod.

Getting used to the trad craze again, the famous yellow Gore-Tex helmet borrowed from Dave McLeod himself (a landmark to look for in his movies by Hot Arches Production)

Below are some beautiful colors of the Ratho quarry, reminding me of Ettringen in some insolite ways, where our last selection happened over last w/end.  Not only were we treated to a glamorous stay at the Country Club hotel near-by, but we also got to experience the full-blown Scottish weather with rain turning on and off throughout the day.  Climbing damp rock with unfamiliar people and a camera looking straight at your face from above became a funny exercise in oblivion, timidity, and trying to avoid any kind of a mighty challenge for me. In the end I enjoyed a couple of interesting cracks and even ripped a couple of nuts on the last route.  This game still holds a lot of interest and challenge for me, despite my cowardly betrayal to the warm sport-climbing gods on the Iberic peninsula of late.  Maybe a long-due reconciliation is possible, who knows?..

Myself getting with difficulty off the ground in the Ratho quarry

 Helena, my rope-mate, happily gunning up

And here is a little music to go with the story...long story short...to be continued in a couple of weeks in direct from Norway!!! Now time to go see Par, get the guidebook, talk to Jonas, get the beta, and climb with Oriol, get my trad rack back.  My first summer in a while that it looks like I'm not going to Chamonix, but adventure will come my way one way or another.

Edinburgh the gloomy

Continuing my travels up North, I also visited Edinburgh, the Scottish capital where I have not set my feet yet.  During the visit itself I started to dimly recollect talking about the city, its history, and sights, in our English classes in high school, long time ago.  A very interesting city indeed that generously provided for a surprisingly rich visit despite the unpredictable uncontrollably rainy weather and limited time available for sightseeing.  One has to be warned directly and honestly - visiting Edinburgh without rain is possibly impossible in summer.  But it has some ways to keep the tourist happy - such as numerous museums, shops, or coffee houses (such as this one, the Elephant House, where for instance Harry Porter was born among other novels, scribblings, and journal entries by the tea, coffee, and elephant lovers).  At the first sight, it appears a gloomy city indeed:

Greyfriars Churchyard

One of the sights I did have a chance to visit was the Holyroodhouse, the Edinburgh residence of the Queen. Rich in history, it was home to many Kings and Queens, most memorable probably being Mary Stuart, that saw her lover killed in one of the rooms here by her husband (yes, many gloomy stories in Edinburgh)...

Inside court of the Holyroodhouse

Outside the palace, actually alongside behind it, lie the ruins of the abandoned abbey that inspired Mendelssohn's Scottish symphony among others.  Roofless and open to the sky, defenseless in Scottish weather, the walls still proudly stand, a symbol to both the permanence, and impermanence of things.  It also made me think of the speech by Deirdre McCloskey I heard just a couple of days before about the Victorian travel writer and skeptic Alexander Kinglake, who suggested that every church should bear on its front door a large sign, "Important If True..."

Romantic remains of Holyrood Abbey

Although the rain managed to spoil several of the walks in the city during the two days I spent there, the compensation came in the most ephemeral form - the clouds.  Incredible clouds, almost as if painted by Constable himself kept changing, moving in, moving out, all day long. Although often bringing the rain with them, they kept the sky so beautiful, so curiously different at every moment, that it became a delight for me trying to spot the blue quadrant somewhere in the middle of the stormy surroundings.

Clouds over Edinburgh

Oh, and not to forget Bobby.  As Copenhagen has its Little Mermaid as a symbol, Edinburgh has Bobby.  He is the celebrated dog that spent 14 years mourning on the tomb of his master, John Gray, in the 19th century.  I heard that story in some context before, it was funny to come across the statue of the hero in Edinburgh:

To finish with art, the National Gallery impressed me with this portrait of Lady Agnew of Lochnar, by the talented American John Sargent that kept me standing there, apparently it made his fame in the UK, and I am not surprised.  It left more impression on me than Rafael (he could not paint hands, could he?), Titian, or Gainsborough downstairs (maybe Botticelli's Virgin adoring the child also left an impression).

Copenhagen, the bike city

Nyhavn, where Hans Andersen used to live for many years

Lately I have been, among other things, visiting Copenhagen, a city that has been on my travel list for at least 10 years now.  Before, I have only been to Oslo, of all Scandinavian cities, although closely acquainted with Sweden during my early days, while learning to read with a book about Karlsson and his travels on the roofs of Stockholm through the incredible imagination of Astrid Lindgren and my father's efforts.

First impression - a city very similar to Belgium, especially the Flemish part, as well as to Amsterdam.  Another strong impression - bikes. They are everywhere!  There are more bicycles in this city than I have ever seen before, probably more than cars, impressive.  It looks interesting, although maybe not exactly always beautiful to see loads of bikes left unattended in all possible places and positions.

Otherwise the city has more space than other European capitals - big streets, unexciting food, and a lot of Anglo-Saxon influence, for the good or for the bad.  Sure, they all speak perfect English here, 7-11 shops litter every street corner, and eating a steak or a burger is the most usual thing.  Maybe Copenhagen is not architecturally very appealing, but one comes to appreciate the harbour, the small houses, and especially the museums.  Danish culture is carefully presented in the National Museum, with expositions including mummies from 1300 BC, originally buried in oak trunks. Strange to see so much interest in home culture - I am more used to French, English, or Spanish museums proudly exposing things stolen from other parts of the world.  Here Danish have done a great work to expose details of their own, warrior Viking roots.  As interesting as Egyptian culture, a good learning moment, especially given that Vikings were also my own forefathers, engendering Ukrainians together with the Mongols that came all the way from the East.

So much available water also afforded us a pleasant boat tour, visiting the city symbol, Andersen's unhappy little mermaid. Despite the happy-end interpretation by Disney, the original fable is rather depressing. The statue has not been very lucky either.  It is actually famous in Denmark because it has lost its head several times since its installation in 1913 by the Carlsberg brewer, Jacobssen, in fame of his lover.  First, the mermaid was decapitated in 1964, and again in 1998, as a protest against consumerism, and as an act by feminists to show that women are valued mainly in the society without heads, body alone.  The statue is still there, with a copy to replace the head that was never found.

To stay with the mood, we also visited the freetown of Cristiania, ideallist town or dirty squat in the middle of Copenhagen.  The sad free town, declared independent in the 1970s, remains just that...sad but supposedly free...

We finished with a visit to National Gallery and happened to see a very nice exposition of "French" art 1900-1930, especially fauvists such as this Anita by Kees van Dongen:

And Derrain's Woman in Chemise

Travels to be continued...

Mercedes Sosa, la Negra

time to go to cavallers again

MacLeod on Longhope

(picture from Hot Arches Production) 

Incredible climbing and images from Dave completing one of the hardest trad lines free, in a day, 500 meters of Scottish sea cliffs at Orkney.  Amazing, looking forward to climbing with Dave in 2 weeks as part of the Gore-Tex Experience tour, can't believe I'm going to meet the guy...remember watching his E11 movie in 2006 and thinking crazy, just crazy...maybe this could be a definite treatment for my lead head issues? Live and see.

Be water, my friend...

Waiting for the season to come...impatiently waiting...always waiting...

While old good (?) friends refuse to speak to me, new friends are not taking much more care, dropping me on belay, going on with their lives, while me, I'm waiting, wondering at the world, wet and cold, waiting for Godo...

Pictures by Delphine...

Hole in the chest

Thanks Kostia for the pointer

Mysterious Montserrat

The mysterious Montserrat, the misty, rainy, and full-blown mountain.  It has given me a lot, it probably still has a lot to give.  One just has to be willing to come, to listen, to quietly wait.  Following the Guilleumes descent down, once again, totally wet, slipping with each step, creating friction with my sandals, with my hands, with my hips, feeling intensely the wet vegetation slapping on my face, wet and cold hair getting into my eyes, not thinking, just going down, calculating each step, taking my time and going down.

In the bottomless pit there is a wall.  The one and only dry wall of the day.  Although rain is pouring steadily around us, one white imposing wall is dry.  Obsessed, going up, trying another line, solving another puzzle.  This one is different, this one is the same.  This time it´s a boulder problem that resists me with all its will.  Only 4 moves: first a long reach with the right hand, that is hard, needs some dynamism and decision, but possible.  Then a VERY long reach straight up with the left hand, to a small two-finger pocket, incredibly far away.  The hardest move for me - from down below it just looks impossible, i never reach, i slip with my feet, i struggle with my equilibrium, i change shoes, the new Miuras do not help - the wall pushes me away, the partner somewhere far down below in the mist rushes me to go quickly, we only have a few hours of daylight left, he wants to have his try too.  That reach looks impossible.  I try again.  I figure out the footwork, but the reach is still too far.  Maybe next time.  Then cross with the right hand a couple of centimeters above to another, even smaller, two-finger pocket, if i try hard i fit three fingers there, close the crimp, and pull.  Equilibrium, footwork, believe it, position, and go left again.  Only four moves, but what moves.  The key to the route, the magic key to start dealing with the second part, the remaining hard slabby traverse, again far-away moves, but already more understandable, closer, things i can deal with, slapping on small but definite holds, already having the anchor in sight.

Is this the one? Could i do this one too? Maybe, maybe not.  It depends if the mountain is still with me, if it lets me taste further its deep secrets, if it gives me the right of way for another line, for another moment of hormones, of achievement, or if it leaves me be, lets me fail and stare blankly at an impossible wall.  The mountain does not care, it is concentrated on its trees, its rocks, its mosquitoes and birds, its eternal soul.  Now it is busy overflowing with water, with life.  The humans dangling powerlessly on its walls leave it indifferent, they are insects in the mirror of time.  Let them struggle in their search, in their dire attempts at making sense of their lives, at finding the treasure, at sharing the mystery with another.

when the clouds turn immobile
when the air stands still
when the storm does not appear
and no expectations remain
with spoiled taste in the mouth
time to forget time to remember
time to give up time to smile
time
is
nothing
without you
in the corridors of my mind
wrapped in cushions of red
hanging heels over head
on one rope
swinging in crazy rhythm
another circle
colored in gray
disappearing forever
in the misty night

Cathy on Climbing

Another look on the climbing life from Cathy, in a way similar to what Eva Lopez kept talking about this w/end in Panxa del Bou - at some point you have to answer that why question for yourself.

Poetry minute

By the master, Mr. Prévert

Le chat et l'oiseau

un village écoute désolé
le chant d'un oiseau blessé
c'est le seul oiseau du village
et c'est le seul chat du village
qui l'a à moitié dévoré
et l'oiseau cesse de chanter
le chat cesse de ronronner
et de se lécher le museau
et le village fait à l'oiseau
de merveilleuses funérailles
et le chat qui est invité
marche derrière le petit cercueil de paille
où l'oiseau mort est allongé
porté par une petite fille
qui n'arrête pas de pleurer
si j'avais su que cela te fasse tant de peine
lui dit le chat
je l'aurais mangé tout entier
et puis je t'aurais raconté
que je l'avais vu s'envoler
s'envoler jusqu'au bout du monde
là-bas où c'est tellement loin
que jamais on n'en revient
tu aurais eu moins de chagrin
simplement de la tristesse et des regrets
il ne faut jamais faire les choses à moitié

The fall

Picture by Jaume Clua

So many reflections lately.  But as Weick says clearly in his Sense-making book: "People discover what they think by looking at what they say, how they feel, and where they walked.  The talk makes sense of walking, which means those best able to walk the talk are the ones who actually talk the walking they find themselves doing most often, with most intensity, and with most satisfaction.  How can I know what I value until I see where I walk?"  I do the talk through writing, the walk through climbing, hoping that both substitute quite well.  And if not, oh well, I will remain my only faithful reader, with the added benefit of first-hand understanding.


The fall is a big part of climbing, maybe also of life.  A strong symbol, not only physical, it is also part of such English expressions as "fall from grace", "fall in love", "fall flat on your face", or "fall on deaf ears".  It is also a mythological word, deeply part of Christian, Jewish, but also Muslim and Hindu stories, told and retold to generations of bewildered, open-mouthed children or much more bored and indifferent adults.  In climbing at least, one prepares for it, one faces it, one screams, one bites one's lip, one falls.  The fall can be short, abrupt, and surprising, - like falling in love.  It can be long, painful, even infinite, - like falling from grace.

Falling is a pretty intriguing concept, action-based but oh so mental as well.  When i started climbing, i was unconscious enough for the fall not to matter much.  It was not a possibility deeply considered or analyzed, it was just a consequence, a price to pay for a mistake, something i knew was objectively there, but not close enough to evaluate, to experiment with, to make up my mind about.  Climbing long routes, high up in the mountains, the fall became a far-away reality, a myth, a symbol of something climbers do, but not something i assumed or struggled with personally.  It took some time, but falling came to me, and stayed with a vengeance, waging a total war against my established climbing personality, my self-esteem, my most dearest, - the desire to climb and surpass myself.

I remember clearly my first serious fall - leading the hardest pitch on Whitney-Gilman route on Cannon mountain in New Hampshire, after having done it already at least twice (once in February during a memorable winter ascent with my Russian friends), I clipped the piton, and started traversing.  I got pumped.  I tried to go back to the piton, tried to go directly up.  My arms started to give up.  My partner was too far to hear me.  At some point i just could not hold on anymore and let go.  I have no memory of the fall itself, only of the soft landing on top of my backpack, the surprise at being whole and not aching much anywhere, of the piton still sticking up there its ugly head and holding all my weight, proudly showing off its strength despite the years of corrosion and withstanding all possible weather affronts.  I did not get overly scared - but I haven't done many falls on gear since either.

I remember my other fall, THE FALL, in Callanques, same partner, different route.  Bolted all the way, how much better could it be?  I was too confident, I was that young bold alpinist from the joke, I urgently needed a lesson.  After an epic on the Eiger, an epic in Cham, the third w/end was to be in Callanques, it was time for me to really learn my lesson - not even in my beloved high mountains, but on warm white limestone that first lulled me back to confidence, just to strike better at the right target.  Strong as i felt, i did not manage to clip the bolt from the ledge.  I went for the move anyway, without clipping.  I failed, i fell.  Only a couple of meters, but a nasty, side-ways, painful affair, slashing my foot open and disabling me for the season.  Again, i do not remember the fall, only the strange amazement from looking at my bleeding foot slowly growing in size to a small pumpkin, the adrenaline going down, and the pain kicking in.  The long way up the remaining pitches with one foot and Alex pulling me up the rope, already in the dark, the light of the headlamp so far away, the painful last meters of the supposedly gorgeous ultimate 6a pitch, sitting and waiting for the rescue on top of Devenson in the cigales-filled night.

I thought this one did not matter either - but when i went back on the rock afterward, my brain switched.  It switched automatically and for real.  The switch was on for self-preservation.  The brain does not forget, that switch was genetically programmed and sealed for the years to come.  There was no more risk-taking.  Any fall with any kind of unhappy potential made me give up.  I gave up on 6bs, on 6cs, on 6as, I followed.  I cried.  I raged.  I dreamed of leading and could only go second.  I went higher, on harder routes, but I went second.  I subconsciously blamed my climbing partners, blamed Alex, blamed the world, those were some unhappy years of my climbing.  The reconstruction took some time.  It took a rather long time indeed.  Two years following, a year leading easy multipitch, another year of projecting with slings as long as one could tie together short of toproping.

Now I can almost face the fall - I still use many slings, but i can face the fall, i can count to three, close my eyes, do a stupid Sharma-cry, and let go.  Whatever happens - take it, assume it, believe in your partner, in the rope, the gri-gri.  And fall.  That is an integral part of sport climbing.  Falling is possible, falling can be accepted, never completely controlled.  Time, and a lot of effort.  Maybe, one day, my dream would be to do one of my projects without the slings, opening myself to the fall, taking the risk, enjoying only the move, the freedom, the air below, accepting the possibility of a fall, and moving on with it.  Maybe that is a good next step.  Maybe not.

I do not have recipes, but with a lot of effort, practice, and pushing your body, one can find the gift, the freedom, the courage to look the fall into its scary eyes and let go.  Some people will be able to do it much easier, some will go solo, and not care about gravity or anything else at all.  Most humans will be scared - scared as we are in so many moments of life, scared of failing, scared of climbing pumped, climbing at the limit, scared of giving it all, all the best there is in us, all the best we can give.  The good thing about adrenaline though is that while on the project, when knowing all the moves, the fear is transformed, it changes its colors, it switches its crazy face to a tone of white, not grey anymore.  It is about putting one foot in front of the other, of fighting the pump, of doing the mechanics of the moves - it is not only about the fall anymore.  Coming full circle, the fall becomes secondary, just a consequence of messing up, but not an ultimate punishment, not the scarecrow it used to be, not the unknown grey shadow, but a normal possibility that is accepted, faced, and assumed. 

Klaas making Geyık bayıri rock

Latest awesome video by Klaas about the season in Turkey. You have it all, girls, a Western, a highline, snowboarding, hamam, a Sportiva commercial, drilling, and even a cause. Check it out...!


Raki on the rocks - Climbing in Turkey from klaas willems on Vimeo.

Go Klaas, you're the best, go Ruben (boys are growing up)!!! I wonder how Ruth is doing...

The climbing life

Climbing life is a choice - not an easy choice, but a clear choice it is. Some might call it an irresponsible life, a selfish life, a wasted life. All of that might be true. But it is also a life, and as life goes, it has its own ups and downs, its evolution and learning, maturing, illnesses, fears, depressions, sorrows, and joys. You talk about it, you do it, you plan it, you regret it, you assume it. Like any life, better or worse - I am none to judge. I think a life dedicated to something is already a more interesting life than just passing the hours, working, partying, sleeping, eating, and defecating.

I have tried to live my life setting goals, striving for something, at least giving myself the illusion of moving in a direction. Although less clear in my professional life, it has always been like that with my climbing. Longer routes, harder grades, more engagement, more exposure. When I first started climbing, leading what seemed to me then the "free" climbing life, passing months in Yosemite, in Squamish, going on expeditions to big mountains, appeared like a good goal, like something very hard but achievable. When looking at photos of treks in Nepas, when listening to stories every good old mountaineer is so good at telling the youngsters, I not only listened - i believed, i ruminated. It took me some years, some effort, a lot of convincing and family compromises, but I took the step towards my dream, I spent my time in Squamish, in Yosemite, in Cordiliera Blanca. I looked death into the eyes. Those eyes were not scary, they were cold and indifferent. That place was uncomfortable, humid, and inhumanly sad.  There was nothing beyond, it just all ended, even without a scream.  I did not like the image i saw in that mirror. I did not want to be that person - I was not fit enough, i was not strong enough, i was not ready to give it all up. I wanted down, I wanted to live, I had so much more to see and to do, I had enough energy to step by step go up, set up the tent another time, rub the feet against each other, spend 2 hours warming up the hands, suck on the snow, cooperate, and go down. I could move forever, for hours, i was going to survive.

Since, my climbing life changed. It took me a long time to realize the impact, the weight of the experience, the pain of the encounter, the fear of this lonely encounter I did not want to make again soon. Pressured to stop climbing by family, I decided against it, i took it easy, i moved again on the rock, in the sun, in warm rock shoes over easy vertical terrain. I took up the lead rope, i decided i wanted to climb, point. I did not want to be a super-hero, i did not want to be that mountain woman that died young, i did not even care about long routes anymore, i could live without snow-covered bell-shaped peaks that helped one look god into the eye.  But not without a goal. I learned all i needed could be had in just 20 or 30 meters of a vertical playground. The same challenge, the same need for metal will, for grinding teeth, for faith, planning, and determination.

Setting goals is an interesting challenge and it uses up our consciousness to the fullest, the capacity of the brain to focus, to understand, and to coordinate the body for the purpose at hand. In climbing this is enhanced because you set goals about your own body, your mental power, you control (or not) your fear, and you build your strength, step by step. Only you can do it, only you might fail.

After a year and a half of hard training I am consuming the fruits, floating up the old projects, figuring out the moves on the new ones. Climbing is a tough maiden - she requires months of dedication, years of prayer and offerings, and decades of practice. She gives little in return: a vague smile here, a sparkle of an eye there. She spirits away the imprudent soul, the inattentive by-stander; the fleeting relationships, the weak do not withstand her continuous test. Always mysterious, always on the verge of escaping, of letting go your confidence, of betraying your faith.

But then there is the whole process of learning - and i think this is something that surprised me and made me so addicted to sport climbing. Starting a project with hardly being able to move bolt to bolt, looking at the life-line, the rope, and wondering how ever will i be able to lead this - to not only doing all the moves free, but to also getting to the top unaided, floating into the sky unstopped by gravity, by the heavy body, by the obtuse mind. And then, with time, with study, with careful examination, with a lot of self-persuasion, some daring and confidence, moving up, progressing, from doggying the route to starting to make progress, to climbing with a couple of falls, to redpointing.

The process is always the same, the routes are different. Moves change, names differ, weather becomes capricious, belayers come and go. But the rock stays - the pleasure of moving up, of not fearing the draws, of weightlessly moving up and away, the total concentration of being here and now, of living the present moment. Of having invested time, committed oneself to this, and the body responding, doing incredible things one thought impossible, one believed made for gods, not mortals. The magic continues, the magic persists. Maybe it is a stupid magic, a surreal magic that will evaporate one day with the mist of Montserrat, that will leave me be, leave me empty and exhausted, unfulfilled and remorseful, that - one day, staring death into the eyes again.  Or maybe I will continue enjoying every day, every moment of the movement, staying young in spirit if not body, motivated as ever, the head above water.


People come, people go, they hurt you, they are unreliable, they are selfish, they are boring, they are cowards and liars. The rock stays. People come, people go, they surprise you, they teach you, they inspire you. The rock does not change, does not speak, but it does not betray you either.  It shows you who you are immediately, it makes you tell the truth quickly and honestly, sticks your nose into the mud of your reality, but also makes your day happy and worthwhile.  Let the people go, let them choose other lives, let them give up climbing, cheat on the mistress or the wife, leave the goddess in tears, let them give up their dreams and ambitions. Let them believe in prophets, duties, and other mirages. Me - I will go for a climb, I will go search for the mirror to look myself again into the eyes and see my worth, see my courage, see my fear, keeping balance on the edge of the void.

For Maluta

 We all wish you a lot of courage, Maluta...

Have no fear
For when I'm alone
I'll be better off than I was before

I've got this light
I'll be around to grow
Who I was before
I cannot recall

Long nights allow me to feel...
I'm falling...I am falling
The lights go out
Let me feel
I'm falling
I am falling safely to the ground
Ah...

I'll take this soul that's inside me now
Like a brand new friend
I'll forever know

I've got this light
And the will to show
I will always be better than before

Long nights allow me to feel...
I'm falling...I am falling
The lights go out
Let me feel
I'm falling
I am falling safely to the ground