Tag: climber

Two Wet Climbers

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Great days usually have three things in common: a remote location, a risk of death and a pub finish. Exhibit A – last Saturday…55576787_766649270376210_9170423551180668928_n

We got to West Lulworth earlyish and lugged our gear to Stair Hole, a small cove just round the corner from the more well-known Lulworth Cove. It’s a stunning place, with a secluded beach surrounded by zebra cliffs and could-be-caribbean turquoise water.

We dumped bags on the stony beach and waded across the knee-high water to the big lump of very climbable-looking rock. We scrambled up to the top like kids in a playground, searching unsuccessfully for a route before setting up an anchor and making one up.

Bored of messing around, we scrambled back to sea level. I went an awkward way and had to backtrack, but not before watching a handful of melon-sized rocks tumble past where I’d been standing just a few moments before. A sobering reality check.

We kitted up and committed to The Maypole, a circular trad traverse which should have been a doable HVS 5b. I enjoyed leading the second, third and fourth pitches; the gradient was mostly okay, there were some decent holds and it was super grippy, although it was weird rock – sharp and “horny”, with very few cracks for jamming or placing gear.

The route can be done as a deep water solo, which I would love on a warmer, sunnier day as it would mean less faffing and more climbing. I enjoyed traversing but I was aware of the need to place loads of gear so we wouldn’t swing too much if we fell. I’m glad we didn’t fall as I didn’t place much.

At belay point five (after a quick backtrack to retrieve a stuck nut) we looked at the next section and commented on how straightforward it looked. As if I’d never learnt that lesson before. I lowered down towards the water from the bolted belay, suddenly realising how much the rock leaned over me and how few foot placements there were.

There were two potential ways to get through the cave: up the only crack in the rock or practically touching the water along the coming-out-at-you slab. I tried both and learnt a formula: awkward belay angle + lack of placement + pumped forearms – elevation above water = wet climber. I could feel my partner laughing at me as I flapped about, searching for purchase on the rock and whinging about wet socks.

Then it was his turn, which was pretty much a carbon copy of mine. Being the safer climber and all-round better person, he decided it was his job to get us out. He employed the unconventional method of lassoing a horn of rock past the nasty coming-out-at-you slab, which – when I suggested tying a nut to the sling for a bit of weight (not just a pretty face) – actually worked.

By this time he was out of sight round the corner, so I just responded to his muffled grunts of “slack” and “take”. Eventually he decided that the only way back involved swimming, so I fed him the rope and hoped his drowning noises were for dramatic effect. Fortunately he made it to the beach, and I later found out that he was nearly pulled down by the weight of his jacket and harness.56177033_395067664380598_8633818574965702656_n

Knowing you’re going to get wet and cold when you really don’t want to is horrible. I climbed down as much as I could, struggling to remove the nuts, and resigned myself to the water after fumbling around trying to put my phone in my helmet so it could float safely back to shore. Which didn’t work, as I got tired holding onto the rock and dropped (luckily) my helmet.

Going in was terrible. I was desperate to not ruin my phone and lose all my pictures, so I’d stuffed it as high up in the front of my top as I could manage. I tried staying on my back and failed – I probably looked like I was drowning. The weight of my down jacket and a harness full of metal really dragged me down, and the “swim” back was unpleasant – although I managed to collect my floating helmet.

Back on the shore my partner was shaking and I was distraught at the fact we’d left a load of gear in the wall. Being poor and stingy, I insisted on swimming back to get it; again, mega unpleasant, but well worth it for the sake of a handful of nuts, slings and draws. Meanwhile, onlookers enjoyed the show – not one person seemed concerned!

Wet, cold, hungry and in dire need of hydration (by tea and cider), we shivered back to the van. But it could have been worse – we could have lost a lot of stuff, or died. Just like all other great days, this one finished happily ever after… in the pub.

I can’t wait to climb again.

Ice Climbing for Idiots

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What I learned from a session at Ice Factor, the world’s largest indoor ice climbing centre. Kinlochleven, Highlands, Scotland. To set the scene, just picture being inside a 40ft freezer.

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Ice climbing is climbing up a wall covered in or made of ice. At its most basic, the kit consists of a helmet, two handheld ice axes, a harness, ropes, a belay device and aggressive-looking crampons attached to winter boots. As we stumbled across the floor of “the freezer” all kitted up, our instructor advised us to walk as if there was a football between our feet, which was a great tip that stopped me nearly treading on my own cumbersomely-cramponned feet and faceplanting the ice.

Feet – Using Crampons

We started by practising front pointing, the basic foot technique used to climb ice walls. It involves deciding on a good foot placement – a divot or strong bit of ice – and firmly jamming the toe spike(s) into it, square on. Having got used to rock climbing, which involves the feet usually being turned outwards or inwards, this felt weird – I had to consciously stop myself searching for purchase with the inside edge of my foot.

Regarding body position, you’re supposed to keep your feet level (harder than it sounds) and wide-but-not-too-wide (helpful I know), knees close to the wall and slightly bent. Imagine your feet form two points of a triangle and your body the other point – 50442196_1979578599017896_1329863299524722688_nyou’re supposedly more stable this way. It’s quite an unnatural stance and it was hard to trust that the crampons would hold my weight, although I quite enjoyed ramming the front spike into the ice as you can kick it quite hard.

Hands – Using Ice Axes

Then we practised using ice axes. The trick is to either find a solid indentation made by previous climbers  and “hook” the tip in there, or to find a good spot to swing the axe at and make your own “hold”. You want to aim for a spot as far up as is within comfortable reach, so you can make progress without overstretching.

The hardest part is hitting the exact spot you aim for squarely, so any regular wood-chopping axe-wielders will be at an advantage; it’s really satisfying when you hit the spot, and you can swing the axe quite hard. Top tip: improve accuracy and relieve stress by imagining the face of someone you really, really dislike on the spot you want to hit (Trump did it for me – never a sentence I thought I’d say).

Putting it Together

Full of unwarranted confidence, we tied in and put what we’d learned together. I probably resembled a climbing version of Bambi on ice, all limbs and little co-ordination. It took concentration to move the right arm/leg at the right time, as the process of moving up seemed more methodical and less “artistic” than rock climbing; I kept wanting to stick a leg out to the side, or move one arm when I should be moving the other. It seems painstakingly slow to begin with, as you move your feet up just inches at a time.

Fortunately I got my limbs working with each other before long and settled into a [messy] rhythm of foot-foot-hand-hand, repeat. Like rock climbing, the majority of the effort comes from the legs, so foot placement in particular should be solid; the axes are really just to stop your body falling away from the wall. The lack of obvious holds (usually present in rock climbing) was odd, but in a way it was easier to find placements on ice as the sharp axe/crampons can be jammed pretty much anywhere.

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The sketchiest bit was topping out, ie. going over the lip at the top of the climb. When the wall is in front of your face it’s quite easy to see placements, but where it angles away from you it feels like you’re blindly swinging the axes or jamming your feet and hoping for the best. But if you’re okay with heights, don’t mind the possibility of falling (why climb otherwise?) and trust your belayer (why climb otherwise?) you’ll be fine.

My Conclusion

Ice climbing is great fun. It seems to lack the creativity of rock climbing as you can “mould” a path in the ice yourself; by way of comparison, there’s no such thing as making new holds in solid rock using brute force and pointy things, so you have to contort your body to whatever shape the rock dictates. However, I’m probably silly to keep comparing it to rock climbing as it’s so entirely different. Ice climbing is a formidable activity in its own right that could take you places otherwise inaccessible, which is surely more than good enough to warrant giving it a go.

On Climbing (and Falling)

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I did a lot of falling last weekend. They say if you aren’t falling you aren’t trying hard enough, which I choose to believe because otherwise I’m just a terrible climber.

 

Scrapes and bruises aside, there’s no feeling like reaching a hold you thought was beyond your capability or getting past that nasty bit of rock that had previously defied your persistence. It’s a wonderful cocktail of frustration, elation and adrenaline; I’m new to climbing but I feel like a dog that’s tasted blood – not just addicted, but desperate for more.

 

The “climbing cocktail” is full of contradictions. One minute I was ecstatic at having made it past a tricky, technical section, the next I was slapping the flat, featureless wall with frustration. It’s super-cool and super-geeky at the same time – dangerous, exciting and hugely technical. I didn’t realise just how much there was to it until a friend told me about the hours he’s spent on Youtube looking at finger-jam techniques, or until I googled “climbing equipment” for birthday present ideas (30th May, just putting it out there) and was faced with a vast range of unfathomable objects.

 

Technically I know very little but I’m keen to learn. Stripped to the bare bones, there’s “sport” climbing and “trad” climbing. “Sport” involves clipping into metal bolts along pre-determined routes up the wall, and “trad” involves sticking your own lumps of metal into cracks in the wall in such a way that they’ll hold fast if you fall. It’s a total mind game.

 

It’s also an entirely different kettle of fish to indoor climbing. There’s something so wild, raw and real about the feel of the unforgivingly cold, hard rock under your fingers, and surrendering yourself to the mercy of the sun, wind and fog is oddly liberating. There’s been no human interference with the surface you’re clinging on to, beyond the route-setter who put the bolts in the wall. Nobody chose where to put the cracks, holds and features, and nobody will choose when or how the next bit of rock will crumble. It’s an exhilarating thought.

 

I’m fortunate enough to have climbing-savvy friends willing to lend me their patience and equipment, so all I own for now is a harness and a pair of shoes (plus a single quickdraw and wallnut that I was lucky enough to find at the bottom of a cliff). I’ve been down to the Dorset coast a couple of times and I love it.

 

I had planned to write about my (limited) climbing experiences rather than climbing in general, but I’ll do that another time. Time has run away and I’m off to the gym to make amends for the scones, cake and trifle I went to town on at my gran’s (pretty crazy, thanks for asking) 94th birthday tea yesterday.

 

So what was the biggest fall I took at the weekend? Not the repeated slips off the same, infuriating, polished bit of rock. Not the sideways, double-overhang, twelve-foot, back-first crash into the wall. I’m cringing as I write this disgustingly clichéd sentence, but I think it was probably falling in love with climbing itself, and all the falls that come with it. Climbing is the perfect metaphor for life in general – it’s not how many times you fall, but about how many times you pull yourself back up.