OFF THE WALL

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Winter Withdrawal

Winter crashes in and the dark days are here. Chinese whispers of an arctic winter ahead lighten the mood of limitation but old promises of a Mediterranean summer lie in crumpled heap in my wardrobe, so I hold no bold hopes.

Instead I purchase future salvation from a drab and damp UK. Nothing spiritual: an air ticket with a January date; a blue-sky corner of the Italian Alps; immobilised sky -scraper waterfalls; weaponry and new winter boots. Who says you can’t buy happiness?

A November trip to Snowdonia brings on the withdrawal symptoms. Adaptation to limitations has to be re-learnt every year. Reining in optimism is a hard thing in the face of an as yet uncharted (for me) multitude of classic climbing. Initially I’m like a child at the sea-side who can’t understand why it’s not a good idea to paddle in winter. It’s rained for 10 hours, there are pockets of graupel lingering in the cracks, clefts and crevices but I still can’t let that feeling of possibility go. Some succumb to it – like the addicts they are, while I grapple with rationality: In a sweat I struggle with the simple principle of risk assessment, and acknowledging the crucifying wind chill factor brings on the shakes. Denial or acceptance?...a 3 day immersion in withdrawal ends in the acceptance of my lot for the next few months. I walk, I don’t climb.

But denial still lurks. I walk to find those places that will turn from crashing water or black-streaked seepage, to blue ice in the promised winter wonderland. Hope springs eternal - and it makes me feel so much better.

A last fight against the walls closing around me brought me to the Brecon Beacons on a fogged, wind-lashed and soaking night for night navigation around yawning invisible shake holes, bogs and ponds. Denial, desperation or determination? The imagined snug of my bedroom became such a preferable alternative option that it was a matter of self-inflicted kill or cure.

So it’s back to the fetid scramble of the indoor wall, where the rainbow colours, turned a uniform grey under the hands and feet of so many climber, try to inspire, but increasingly they don’t. It’s a frippery of an alternative. As an activity it’s not just inferior, it’s almost indistinguishable. Perhaps I’m still in denial and will learn, once again over the months to find ambition. It’s better than nothing.

Posted by fishinwater