OFF THE WALL

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Dot to Dot

A simple solution to crap route-finding – a return to sports climbing. Find the crag, count the lines of bolts, find the one you like the look of and then follow the dotted line. Even I can do that.

So, to Portland for the day. Climbing has been a stressful activity recently (a little too stressful) and I knew I’d get a relaxing day there. Portland seems to like me and each time I go it’s sublime and each time I leave I’m chilled. It’s wildly beautiful despite the fact it’s a pillaged landscape littered with blocks of Portland stone looking like piles of outsized abandoned Lego. It’s always kind to me – it can be raining over the rest of the UK and blazing with sunshine in this odd and forgotten finger of land. It rained for me this time but I had faith it would pass over and dry out quickly. By noon the sea and sky had turned from grey to blue.

We went to the Nook – a newly bolted area by Dungecroft Quarry. The seven of us squashed in at the bottom of the crag (it had looked a lot bigger in the photo) and its seven routes were fine for an afternoon’s play. I wanted to remind myself climbing can be fun too.

I should learn never to have expectations. I confidently volunteered to lead a ‘5’ - after all, the last climbs I’ve done have been HVS and E1. I gave up after the third of its four bolts. The 5+ next door proved equally overhanging, precarious, thin and balancy. Grading makes less and less sense to me – I thought by now it would be becoming clear and I’d know what to expect from a route. Wrong. Mutterings of ‘Portland under-grading’ were heard - the other higher graded routes on the crag were unanimously considered easier (except for the 6C). So another stressful day, and in addition, undermining for confidence: it’s not only route finding I’m crap at – it’s climbing too.

But there’s something about Portland that smoothes out the psychological rough edges – at the end of the day we sat in the warm evening sun with chips and tea and agreed we’d had a nice day with nice people in a nice place. The crap climbing quickly became part of the past. Tomorrow is another day.

Posted by fishinwater

The Tremadog Severe

Have you led an unfamiliar HVS without cams on your rack? I have. It’s brought a new meaning to the word ‘safe’ and a healthy respect for those who climbed before the invention of this shiny tool.

I thought it was getting better – this leading thing. I hadn’t had a stupid moment for a while. I even mused that I could no longer call myself a novice. Oh how the Welsh Mountain Gods were laughing when they heard that.

Tremadog again: to escape the drenching downpours and murky ridges of the mountains. Seconding ‘Merlin Direct’ (HVS 5a) was the morning’s play – tricky. Tricky enough a finish to have me hugging the friendly boulders at the top. After lunch we chose something more gentle and forgiving – ‘Christmas Curry’ (S) - to be a shared lead. It was amenable but the belay point for the second pitch wasn’t obvious and I chastised the third pitch for pretending to be a higher grade. ‘It’s a Tremadog Severe’, I was told. Unfortunate words. Or rather it was unfortunate that I fixated on them along with the word ‘Groove’, which described the finish of the fourth pitch. Armed with these words I was determined to complete the route without getting lost and without ‘unsuitable grading’ complaints.

‘Have you found the groove?’ ‘Yes’. I replied with confidence born of idiocy, completely ignoring the fact there was no polish and no white fingerprints. ‘Odd how the 15m corner looks so completely devoid of gear placements and holds of any kind... but that’s because it’s a Tremadog Severe’, I thought to myself.

Three moves in and I couldn’t retreat, and the idea of continuing was as appealing as a visit to Tesco on a bank holiday weekend. I did that head-loop thing – that circular conversation that goes: ‘You can’t stay where you are. You have to keep moving’; the response being: ‘I can’t. I can’t. I can’t’. I could - and found an uncaring crack that didn’t hug the nut I inserted (the fastest ever choice and insertion. The route cured my gear placement perfectionism), it just held it feebly.

I looked below me at the 5 metre run out and the cliff below, and above me I could see a potential cam placement. Relief turned to armpit-trickling despair when I found I had no cams on me. They were still on the harness of the belayer. I managed neither to cry, nor to panic, but it was a psychological battle of epic proportions. 5 metres later a crack emerged that held a nut oh so tightly and nausea lessened. Shortly after, I made a noise rather like a strangulated cat as I passed a perfect place to insert a plethora of life-restoring cams. I pulled up over the top and the word ‘safe’ was like the best whisky, tranquilliser, or huggable cushion –whatever your instant stress-reliever may be - in the world.

A period of elation, hysteria and shame followed. I knew I had gone rigorously and stupidly off route – on an HVS 4c as it turns out: The top pitch of ‘Vindaloo’. Route-finding skills were conspicuous by their absence but my climbing skills were good enough to prevent a crisis. Lessons learnt once again: big ones. I don’t want to face that amount of fear ever again and I’ll never, ever forget to check I have all the gear I might possibly need.

Posted by fishinwater