The cursed day
6th July has become, through pure, uncanny coincidence, a day on which something significant happens to me. I may write about this separately (think car crashes, ultramarathons and multi-mountain hikes) so I’ll skip straight to 2023, which was no exception: Ryan and I decided to climb our first big wall*, the 350m vertical north face of Anića Kuk in Paklenica National Park, Croatia.
*there’s no hard and fast definition of what constitutes a “big wall” but the infallible source of all verified knowledge (Wikipedia) describes big wall climbing as a form of rock climbing that takes place on long multi-pitch routes that normally require a full day, if not several days, to ascend. While we didn’t plan to spend the night on the wall, we chose a route called “D. Brahm” (5c), a 300+m, 13-pitch classic that would probably take at least most of the day, so as far as I’m concerned it qualifies. This route was named in honour of Dragutin Brahm, a climber who died while attempting the first ascent of Anića Kuk – on this route – in 1938.
This year, 6 July taught us the following climbing-related lessons:
- Find the route
- Don’t throw gear off cliffs
- Mind out for dead things
- Treat loose rock like glass
- Take enough water
We learnt these in the following way.
Thursday 6 July
After Ryan’s little wobble whilst climbing in the canyon on Tuesday, and having researched D. Brahm as thoroughly as possible, which was less than I’d have liked given the limited information available online, we felt the weight of anticipation prior to our first ever big wall climb. We half-heartedly shovelled down some cereal (leftover rice slop for Ryan) and left the apartment at 7:30am, carrying rucksacks containing questionably light climbing racks. We’d packed minimally to keep luggage costs down and we desperately hoped that we had enough gear to make it up the route, which was technically a sport (bolted) climb but with some run-out pitches that would require additional trad placements to protect against potentially huge (40m+) falls.
To save time and energy we drove a short way up the road to the entrance to Paklenica, showed our three-day passes at the gate and followed the winding track up the gorge towards the mountains, which loomed ahead looking vast, rocky and slightly menacing. We parked by a thick, leafy forest at the mouth of the canyon, whose vertical limestone walls rose high either side of a gravel path as if designed to make the visitor feel quite inconsequential, and headed up the great cleft towards Anića Kuk.
After 15 hot minutes its enormous, pale north face appeared ominously around a corner, rising high into the clear blue sky like the hunched back of a great, rocky monster. We identified the vague, wandering line of D. Brahm using an information board showing the main routes and reflected that its northerly aspect meant we’d spend most of the day shaded from the hot sun. Satisfied with our reconnaissance, we crossed the valley via a steep, narrow path through lush woodland, following signs to Anića Kuk and even our chosen route:
We emerged from the trees and stopped at the base of the wall, which suddenly gained a new dimension. Rather than a flat, sheer face, it now looked like an impossibly high, slightly-less-than-vertical series of slabs, cracks and shrubby ledges jumbled in a complex arrangement that made it likely we’d only be able to see small sections of the route at once. This would complicate route finding, which we suspected would be difficult anyway given the size of the wall and the fact we were relying on website screenshots and a photo I’d sneaked from a guidebook in a shop.
Nevertheless, we were excited to have arrived. We identified what we thought was the start of the route, harnessed up, tested the radios and talked through our plan. I was to lead the first pitch as that would mean that I’d also lead the crux (hardest move) at pitch seven, but – as I’ll explain later – this didn’t go to plan.
Pitch 1 (4b made harder): Route finding
I set off at 9am by a large memorial plaque for D. Brahm – which turned out to be ill-placed – and followed an easy crack up a slab. My confidence was misguided: after about ten metres the route became uncertain. Knowing that it went left at some point, I made some delicate, balancey moves across the exposed face of the wall to an insecure stance, where I placed a trad nut into a crack and rested on it while I worked out where to go.
After a vain, time-consuming attempt at continuing upwards over a holdless bulge onto more featureless slab, I conceded that I’d already lost the route and returned – a little sketchily – to the crack I’d come up. Ryan suggested going right, on which advice I soon rediscovered the route (my heart leapt when I spotted a bolt) and realised that I’d gone for a more difficult, direct start, rather than setting off up a chimney about 10m to the right of the plaque. This was confirmed when Ryan spotted, quite unhelpfully by this point, a triangular tag on the rock indicating the “true” start of the climb.
Happy to be back on track but slightly apprehensive at how difficult the rest of the route may be to stick to, and consequently how long it might take, I continued along a diagonal crack up an easy gradient to a grassy ledge and the first belay.
P2 (3b): Blocky
Ryan followed me up, unimpressed at having to make the awkward sideways moves to retrieve the wayward nut, and proceeded to lead the long, blocky second pitch – which had just one slightly awkward move up a corner – without difficulty.
P3 (4b): Shrubby
I seconded pitch 2, passed Ryan and led pitch 3, which went directly up another easy corner, where shrubs clung to the wall in little pockets and trees perched on small ledges. Ryan followed, met me at the belay and continued past, following a red painted arrow, which was very helpful here as the route veered suddenly off to the right.
P4-5ish (4a): Sideways
He traversed along a diagonal fault, then disappeared around another corner. I belayed patiently, wondering what was taking him so long, and struggled to pay out rope as it dragged sideways through the bolts – which were few and far between – and trad gear.
After a good while I heard him call “safe” and prepared to follow while he pulled in the slack, which – given the distance he’d climbed – was a relatively small portion of our 60m twin ropes. I completed the long, straightforward but exposed traverse across the wall (which would not have been a good place to fall as it was very “sideways”) and discovered the cause of the delay and the rope drag: Ryan had strung together pitch 4 and most of pitch 5 by bypassing the fixed anchor at the end of pitch 4. In fairness I didn’t see it either, so can’t blame him.
I found him at a hanging belay beneath an intimidatingly vertical, slabby face, attached to two bolts with nothing under his feet but an overwhelming amount of air, and congratulated him on his excellent management of both ropes, which – in the absence of a surface to place them on – were folded neatly across his cowstail (the short length of rope attaching him to the bolts). This turned out to be the belay for another route, “Black Magic Woman”.
Although the climbing was easy, we were now over 100m from the ground and the exposure was exhilarating. Luckily neither of us were fazed at all by the sheer drop below – we had expected to be fine, but having never climbed a big wall before, we accepted that we wouldn’t really know until we were there. Enormous beech trees filled the belly of the canyon like a mossy floor, interspersed by gargantuan, house-sized boulders that looked like pebbles, and a small forest clearing revealed a helicopter landing pad that looked fit for a bumblebee. It was sensational.
P5ish-6 (5a): Dubious rock
I joined Ryan at the uncomfortable hanging belay and we deliberated over which way the route went. We thought that he’d done pitches 4 and 5 in one but weren’t 100% sure. We couldn’t see anything to the right, so on spotting a line of bolts set close together up the vertical slab to our left (perhaps that should have been warning enough, as all the previous bolts had been many metres apart), I set off upwards to see if the moves were easier than they looked. I discovered, three bolts up, that they were not, at which point Ryan conveniently spotted a bolt set way over to the right, almost level with him. Relieved but still in a precarious position, I downclimbed delicately, unclipping quickdraws as I went, and later realised that I’d made several balancey moves up a 6b+ pitch of Black Magic Woman.
I squeezed awkwardly past Ryan and made a long, airy traverse to the right. I clipped into the bolt he’d spotted, to both our relief (he’d kindly pointed out the great fall I’d have taken before the bolt, of which I was extremely aware), then pulled up a loose-looking, blocky section and discovered the belay bolts at the end of pitch 5. Ignoring them, I moved up and left across a pale, disconcertingly fresh looking slab, placing a couple of nuts and hoping that any newly exposed rock would hold in the event of a slip. I reached the anchor after a tricky move up a steep diagonal crack, then radioed Ryan with instructions to watch out for the loose-looking flakes. The radios were proving a godsend on these long, wandering pitches, where climber and belayer were often out of sight. He followed and joined me on my narrow belay ledge.
P7 (5c+): Ordeal, loss of an ally
We looked upwards into a distinctive chimney, which was 2-3ft wide and topped by a large chockstone (a loose block held between two vertical walls). Although the shortest pitch of the route, we’d read that this was the awkward crux – the hardest section. We’d planned the route so I would lead it as Ryan’s confidence had taken a knock a couple of days before, climbing in the Klanci valley way below where we were perched, but as we’d strung two pitches together and were alternating leads, it now made sense – from a time and faff perspective – for Ryan to lead. I offered but he mulled it over and decided to try it, to my disappointment – a mild disappointment that was tinged with quiet relief.
The chimney didn’t look too difficult from below, although almost immediately after setting off Ryan reported that it lacked holds and that its two opposing walls – against which he jammed his body, relying on the outward pressure of his back, feet and hands – were polished and slippery. In an attempt to gain friction he dipped his hands into the single chalk bag we’d brought in a desperate, and with hindsight misguided, attempt to reduce the weight of our luggage on the plane. Looking for other ways to make the pitch easier, he realised that his rucksack was a hindrance as it pressed against the chimney wall. He rested on a cam he’d placed in a crack and went to unclip the waist strap so I could take the bag.
Unfortunately Ryan unclipped the wrong strap. I watched helplessly as our single chalk bag, which had belonged to me and seen me up hundreds of climbs, tumbled in slow motion down into the airy void, landing neatly on a grassy ledge way below with a dramatic puff of chalk dust. There was a brief, stunned silence as we processed the loss, then all we could do was laugh. The polished crux – and the rest of the route – would have to be tackled without additional friction.
Thankfully this section had three close-together bolts for protection and the cam was good, so a fall would have been minor. However, I’ve never belayed an uglier pitch. Ryan scrabbled, clambered and humped his way up the smooth chimney, his movements resembling those of a large, unwieldy bear. He made it to the top bolt, which was just below the chockstone, had a quick rest, then threw (and I don’t use that word lightly) a leg across the gap to a miniscule hold on the right hand wall.
I watched dubiously from directly below him as he did his own mediocre version of the splits, concerned for the welfare of his inflexible tendons; was deeply alarmed when his left leg followed his right so his body was almost horizontal; then I marvelled as his desperate attempt to surmount the chockstone – with something like a semi-controlled, semi-frantic bear-hug-come-bellyflop – appeared to work. I was still processing my emotions (a heady clash of anxiety and amusement) when he suddenly disappeared over the top of the chockstone, still horizontal, in a strange, smooth movement, as if dragged into the belly of the mountain by a great, rock-dwelling monster. His feet vanished, and I knew that he’d completed the crux.
Once he’d set up the belay, a triumphant Ryan – who was highly satisfied with the theatre he’d just performed – cut short my rendition of James Blunt’s “Goodbye my Chalk Bag” and I started up the chimney. I made no lighter work of it that he had, but thankfully there was nobody below to bear witness. I jammed my body between the walls, cursing the two lumpy rucksacks on my back, agreed that it was very polished and devoid of good holds (the okay-looking blocks at the back of the chimney were useless), and made quite a scene of salmon-flopping my way onto the chockstone.
Lunch with a view
I scrambled up to Ryan, who was tucked into a corner of a rocky, grassy ledge looking harrowed but pleased with himself, and we contemplated rappelling down to retrieve the much-lamented chalk bag. This would have been time-consuming so we decided to have lunch instead, then press on. Fake sausage and fake cheese in tiny slices of strange bread never tasted so good.
As we ate, we took in the exposure and the view across the canyon, which seemed both miniature and gargantuan. Tiny people trailed along the barely visible path way below, beneath hulking limestone cliffs across the valley, and the moss-like forest filled the canyon belly like a wide, green river curving around the base of the mountains. Up the valley distant green and grey peaks sprawled across the horizon, and on either side of our ledge, vertical walls plunged into nothingness above and below.
P8 (3b): Grassy scramble feat. anty bat & loose blocks
Once lunch was over I set off up pitch 8. I climbed a short wall above Ryan’s head and on mantling over the square lip, I saw that I’d been lucky – I’d blindly placed my palm onto a flat ledge a couple of inches away from a small, dried bat, which was peppered with ants. I alerted Ryan to the presence of the bat, topped the wall and continued up a grassy gully. This section was little more than a long walk up a relatively gentle slope, which was strewn with boulders and shrubs, but – although easy – it required some caution, as it was littered with loose rock.
A complete lack of bolts led me to wonder if I’d lost the route, but I decided it more likely that the rock on this pitch was simply too unstable to be trusted. At one point I placed a hand on a block the size of a small football, set on a sloping, outward-facing ledge at chest-height, and froze as it moved under my touch. I realised that I was now supporting both its weight and the weight of another, cricket ball-sized block above it, so – very cautiously – took the smaller block, placed it carefully on a flattish bit of the ledge (which wasn’t quite as flat as I’d have liked), and used both hands to move the larger block to a more stable position. While holding these rocks I was acutely aware of the gravity of this situation – if I’d had a clear view below, and wasn’t 200-odd metres from the ground, I might have cleaned them from the route, but all I could see behind was the narrow, V-shaped channel I’d come up. Ryan was out of view at the base of the bat wall and I had no idea who might be below us, so I handled them as if they were made of glass.
Disaster averted, I continued up the gully and was quite relieved to find two anchor bolts, connected by a short rope sling, up a steep block next to a tree. One of the bolts was too small to clip so I clipped the other, the sling and the trunk to make a “tree piece anchor” (a name I remain proud of), then belayed Ryan up while fending off some kind of flying, buzzing insect.
P9 (3b) – P10 (4a): More scrambling
Ryan followed without difficulty, then passed me and led pitch 9. This was another easy scramble, so – conscious of time and perhaps not satisfied with what felt like a glorified hike – he continued on to lead pitch 10, which went up a steeper, slabby corner at the top of the gully. I was glad when he radioed to tell me he’d reached the belay, as it meant I could stop grappling with rope drag.
P11 (4a) – P12 (4b): Mile-high traverse
I joined Ryan at the belay and continued up pitch 11, which involved some straightforward moves up another corner to a platform with two sets of bolts. Feeling a bit short-changed, I decided to carry on up pitch 12.
I moved off the platform onto a steep slab with a single distinctive feature: a straight, diagonal crack stretching way out to the right, with a line of bolts showing the route. This afforded an excellent, very airy traverse, and I was exhilarated by the exposure as I padded sideways with nothing beneath me but a dizzying drop where the slab plunged towards rocks and trees that may as well have been a mile below.
I climbed very carefully, fully aware that a fall would mean a big swing from the horizontal, still fairly spaced-out bolts. Having strung the two pitches together I really struggled to pull the rope through, as the change of direction caused a huge amount of drag. Despite this difficulty I had no regrets – for me, this pitch was probably the most fun.
I reached the end of the crack and the gradient eased as I pulled above the slab. I suddenly felt the warm sun on my face and realised that having spent the day in the shade of the wall, we must be nearing the top. Scant bolts ran parallel to a blocky wall on my left, and I followed them upwards, heaving on the rope, past a tall, leafy tree until I came to the anchor set into the wall.
I set up the belay and absorbed the view. The lumpish mountains across the canyon didn’t seem quite so vast from this height, tapering down to a just-visible sea via the smooth, pale grey curve of a westerly ridge. The water shone bright in the late afternoon sun, which bathed the peaks up the valley in a warm light that cast angular shadows and accentuated their intricate contours.
Ryan receives my wrath
Just as I felt the end was in sight, I went to take a sip of water from my hydration bladder. I was thirsty as I’d rationed my three litres carefully throughout the day. I was rewarded by a few unsatisfying drops, then the disagreeable, rubbery resistance of an empty pouch as I vainly sucked air from the tube. I thought of Ryan’s thirsty gulps from the mouthpiece, which dangled – perhaps too accessibly – over my shoulder, after previous pitches, and vividly recalled telling him to make sure he had enough water before we left the apartment (ie. more than the 500ml that he did take). Inwardly seething, I prepared to give him a piece of my mind when he joined me at the belay.
That I did, my mood not improved by hauling at the dragging rope, after he skipped up the two pitches and had the cheek to conclude that it was pleasantly exposed and thoroughly enjoyable. My fury at such an amateur mistake was dampened slightly by his enthusiasm to finish the route, and further by the breathtaking scenery as I pointed out the dazzling sea. I decided not to drop him as he set off up the near-vertical start of the final pitch.
P13 (4b+): One tough move
He climbed up the slab, following a line of spaced-out bolts. Several metres up he made a difficult, no-hands move on small footholds to reach for a lofty crimp. I watched, impressed, and silently forgave him – temporarily – for his silly oversight. He pulled up, topped the slab and disappeared for a while as he searched for the route.
After what felt like a long, thirsty wait, he radioed to tell me he was safe and setting up the final belay. After a few minutes I followed him up, doubly impressed by the balancey move up the slab on discovering how small and far apart the holds were (although as it was only graded 4b+, I put its difficulty down to mental weariness after sustained concentration throughout 12 exposed pitches). I pulled over the top and arrived at a large mound of jumbled boulders that proffered no indication of how to surmount them.
I followed Ryan’s instructions to go left and weaved my way up the unprotected final scramble. My water woes were completely forgotten when a spectacular rock arch appeared above me, then Ryan came into view, belaying from a large boulder underneath it. I clambered up the last few metres and walked over to him, a little dazed. We’d topped the face of Anića Kuk at nearly 6pm, nine hours after setting off up the first pitch. The first thing I said was “we didn’t die!”.
Victory
We were both taken aback by the sudden flood of emotion. Having never climbed anything so committing, technical and exposed before, our previous multipitch experience being limited to the classic VDiff ridges and scrambles of Scotland, North Wales and the Lake District, we were overwhelmed by relief, slight disbelief and a completely shameless feeling of triumph. The realisation that we were capable of a big wall was empowering: it was as if we’d broken down a barrier to a whole new world of climbing. We hugged, congratulated each other on our competence and continuing state of aliveness, and drank in the panorama of sun-drenched mountains and sea.
After investigating the magnificent natural rock arch, through which was a wonderful view of the long, opulent Adriatic inlet between Starigrad and the flatter part of Zadar county, we collected ourselves and crammed our chaotic array of climbing gear into our rucksacks. We scrambled up a rough, rocky bank next to the arch onto a boulderfield plateau and hopped around on large rocks looking for the red painted circles that denoted the “climber’s way” down the south side of the mountain, which was not shown on my map of Paklenica. The view was now panoramic: layered, hazy ridges of triangular peaks swept down to the glistening sea on one side, and on the other the high, grey-green mountains of the southern Velebit range sprawled majestically across the horizon, looking just as staunch as they had done earlier but – now that we’d conquered one of them – less menacing.
A harrowing descent
Regrettably my enchantment was jaded slightly by thirst, and we were both keen to leave Anića Kuk behind us for a drink of water. We found the painted waymarkers and clambered down the large, awkward rocks until we came to a thick, via ferrata style wire cable dropping several metres down a nearly sheer wall of boulders. I knew I was dehydrated because I felt quite weak as I leaned back on the cable, feet on the wall, and slid down slowly to avoid skinning my unprotected palms.
The going was tedious down the steep, irregular terrain, and unfortunately there were several more via ferrata cables requiring utmost care and concentration. My irritability at Ryan’s silliness had returned in full force and we descended in stoic silence, both focusing hard on every foot and hand placement. Thankfully the red markers were numerous and easy to follow once off the plateau, although the Klanci valley below didn’t seem to get closer for a very long time, and the terrain did not ease, remaining loose, blocky and steep the entire way. I couldn’t remember the last time (if there was one) I felt so parched – I was certain my body would shrivel up like a raisin before we got back to the car.
We plodded down the mountain in this way for what felt like an age. Eventually, after descending an enormous, very steep, loose bank, we reached the cobbled path in the valley. We contemplated walking up it – about 15 minutes – to the drinkable spring water pipe we’d found on the way to Manita Peć cave a couple of days before, but decided to save ourselves time (in case I shrivelled up) and drink from the hose by the National Park entrance hut, where we’d previously seen a motorhome fill up 5L bottles.
Salvation
We headed down the valley and were back at the car in 10 minutes. Salvation was in sight, nearly two hours after beginning the descent. We drove away from the canyon down the narrow, winding road and stopped at the little entrance car park. Agonisingly someone else was using the hose, which was fed by the Paklenica River and evidently filtered through pipes in a small concrete structure a little further upstream. I dashed for it the second it was free. I downed two 500ml bottles in seconds and it was heavenly. Never before have I tasted such pure, cold, clean-tasting water. Ryan was now truly forgiven, although the incident won’t be forgotten – I’ll certainly be reminding him to take plenty of his own water in future.
We returned to the apartment down the road and collapsed onto the bed, giddy with a wonderful feeling of accomplishment. I had one more mountain to overcome that day – washing my hair – so I jumped into the shower while Ryan cooked dinner. Despite barely eating all day, we weren’t really hungry until we tucked into a delicious bowl of rice slop with cheap sausage, tomato and whatever else he found in the fridge. We went to bed without washing up, exhausted, delighted to have ticked off our first big wall climb and slightly relieved to be back in one piece.
curiousgnome 