Psychovertical Read online

  Matt appeared looking grey with the cold. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said as I grabbed the gear off him, ‘this next pitch is easy, and the last one is piss.’ I was glad I was with Matt, because I just knew he was too stubborn to give in and die.

  I set off up, first on easy aid, then switching to free climbing, moving slowly and deliberately on tiny flakes. Snow covered all the edges, forcing me to brush it off with my bare fingers as I climbed, water continuously running down my sleeves as I did so. I thought about my dad’s taking us climbing in the rain, and how all those miserable climbs had been perfect practice for this, because although it was desperate, I was making progress. It was a terrible position to be in, yet for some reason I felt exhilarated. Perhaps it was because I could see the end in sight, perhaps it was because I was amazed that I could still climb in such bad conditions, without gloves or socks, or perhaps it was the pure focus of survival that liberated me from the worries of the wall below. We had to get to the top.

  I stood in snow up to my ankles and danced and jumped and screamed, waiting for Matt to get to the first ledge on the route, the top just a short crack and an easy slab away, no more than twenty metres.

  Matt wasn’t coming.

  I shouted safe again and cursed him for being so slow when we were so near, just some easy climbing, then the descent to warm clothes, food and glorious flat ground.

  Matt still hadn’t appeared.

  I looked down the wall, now almost uniformly white as the temperature began to fall further. I could see that within an hour the upper section would have been ice, and we would have been trapped.

  I felt the rope. It was under tension. Matt was coming. Then I saw him, coming out of the storm slowly. Unbeknownst to me his jumars had become choked with ice and suddenly stopped gripping the rope, sending him on a terrifying ride back down the rope and only catching again once they cleared of ice.

  Matt pulled himself onto the ledge.

  ‘I need your clothes,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ I asked

  ‘I – I – I’m dying of hypothermia. I need your clothes,’ he went on, stepping into the thick snow, his lips blue and teeth chattering.

  ‘I’m dying as well,’ I replied, ‘we’ve just got to keep going.’

  I passed him the gear and told him to lead the last pitch, thinking this might warm him up.

  Matt was a fantastic climber, climbing grades harder than I could. But as he started up, I could tell he was hurting. He looked stiff and wooden. He climbed the crack and got to the slab above. It was smooth, and shaped like the back of a whale. Instead of climbing shoes, Matt had chosen to wear skate shoes, whose smooth rubber soles offered no grip at all on the snowy rock. They forced him backwards and forwards, trying to find a way up. In the dry a climber could step up it with no hands, now it had been transformed into something impossible, totally friction-less under the snow.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ shouted Matt.

  ‘Come down then, I’ll do it,’ I shouted back, irrationally cross with him.

  Swapping, with Matt holding my ropes, which were now thick with ice, I climbed up to the slab. It would soon be dark and I had to think quick. I grabbed a skyhook and began scraping it down the rock until it snagged on some unseen edge beneath the snow. I clipped in a sling and carefully stepped up, knowing that if it ripped I could tumble back down to the ledge and probably break my legs.

  From the hook I could feel a slight moon-shaped dish or depression under the snow and, wiping it away, I managed to step into it, pressing my body against the rock to gain the most friction possible. I tried not to move a muscle. I had gained about six feet. I looked up and could see a tiny sprouting tree, maybe twelve inches high, on a ledge above. If I could get there it would all be over.

  I gathered up the haul line and started tossing it upwards, trying to snag the tree. Again and again I tried, but the weight of the wet rope was too much and each time it slipped back down the slab. I gathered up the rope again, and this time clipped a bunch of nuts and cams to it, then swung the whole lot and cast the rope upwards. It sailed past the tree and disappeared onto the ledge.

  I began to pull, slowly, until the rope stopped coming. It was stuck. I stood there, both terrified and immensely exhilarated. I had only one choice and I began pulling up on the rope, my knees braced against the rock, trying to limit the load on the unseen anchor above, expecting it to pull at any moment.

  But it didn’t.

  I reached the ledge and saw the rope was snagged on a block of granite no bigger than a telephone directory, but I had no time to think about this and instead scrambled to a crack, stuffed in some cams and clipped in.

  My world suddenly went flat and white. Darkness was no more than a few minutes away and the long descent was still ahead of us. It had almost been beyond me. But I had made it.

  I sat down in the snow and began taking in the rope, which had turned as stiff as wire in the cold. An hour slower and we might never have got out of there.

  ‘Safe,’ I shouted into the storm.

  Two days later Airlie, Es and I climbed Zenyatta Mondatta.

  Masters of stone

  Pitches 10, 11 and 12 Reticent Wall

  THE MORNING BEGAN with pegs. Lots of pegs.

  I moved slowly up a steep corner, my back arched out as I hammered, tapping in short stubby pitons nicknamed Lost Arrows.

  The tone of each peg would rise as I struck it, starting low and then singing as it bit down tight into the placement. Nailing pitons is tough, but as with any hard labour it was rewarding to look down at all your work. A line of pegs led back to my haul bags, each peg extended with a red sling so that the rope ran smoothly.

  You’re getting somewhere.

  My shoulder and hand were giving me problems today, no doubt due to the pounding of so many pegs over so many days. In the mornings I’d been waking to find my hands and fore-arms were completely paralysed, as if I’d slept on them all night. Only after shaking them for several minutes did the feeling, and the pain, return. My shoulder felt as if a hot ember were burning away inside it. I could only strike with the hammer a few times until I’d have to stop and grit my teeth, waiting for the pain to subside. I told myself that the pain was good, that it acted like a speed limit, stopping me from pushing myself too far, but each time I closed my eyes I wished I’d brought some painkillers.

  My only first-aid kit was a tiny bottle of tea-tree oil.

  My feet were also troubling me, the pain in my arches and toes getting worse by the day, forcing me to dance around in my aiders looking for the sweet spot where they didn’t hurt – a pointless exercise; they always hurt. The slightest pressure on the sides of my feet sent spasms shooting through me. I was causing real damage to my tendons, but I knew that in a few days it would be over.

  In a strange way my body felt expendable, like all the items of gear I accidentally dropped each day.

  All you have to do is keep it together until you reach the top.

  The corner was cool, hiding me from the sun for a little while, its texture cold, hard and chalky. Sometimes I would see insects in the cracks, or see long-legged spiders clinging to the wall.

  The belay was just above me, a small ledge that I had to reach up to at full stretch so that I could clamber on. I set myself up below, clipping off all my heavy and redundant gear in order to make it as easy as possible. On any climb mantling up is often scary and fraught with challenges, but on this bit I was wearing my trainers instead of rock boots.

  Ready, I stepped up as high as I could in my aiders, my fingers inching up until they gripped the edge of the ledge. The surface was shiny and polished, almost like glass, and I could tell it was about a foot deep and maybe three feet long. I swapped hands and dabbed chalk on them to gain more grip, then took my feet out of the aiders, committed, and pulled up.

  My arms felt strong after so much work, and I did a pull-up and threw one elbow and one knee over the ledge.

  They began slipping off. S
omething was wrong. It took a moment to work it out. The glassy surface was covered in muesli, which meant I couldn’t get a grip.

  It could only be the Russians. They must have left me a bag of muesli as a present and the birds had pecked it open.

  The situation would have been humorous, if it hadn’t been on the Reticent Wall. Holding on with one hand, I tried to wipe the cereal away, only to grab on again with my other hand as my leg slipped off completely leaving me hanging by my arms, feet pedalling, toes fruitlessly trying to find their way back into the aiders.

  I pulled up once more, and tried to blow away as much muesli as possible, before committing to a full body lunge onto the ledge, hoping that maximum contact would keep me there.

  It worked, and very carefully I reached out and clipped the bolts. What a start to the day!

  The next pitch carried on up the corner, then up a solitary hairline crack. I pounded in knifeblades every few feet. The wall was barrel shaped, the exposure exhilarating, and I realised this was the pitch I’d seen Steve Gerberding climbing years before in a Masters of Stone video at work.

  Who’d have thought one day you’d be climbing this pitch?

  The crack turned onto a set of small corners that required copperheads, their tenuous nature increasing my sense of exposure.

  Don’t blow it now.

  I knew I was close to the final pitches.

  The crux is only a pitch away.

  I hauled my bags up to the top of pitch eleven, lighter now that half the water was gone. I’d climbed and cleaned the last two pitches faster than I’d expected. I still had an hour left before dark. I only had one more pitch to go until I was at the crux. Three more until I reached the top. I knew I was climbing faster than on any other day, but was unsure if it was the climbing that was easier, or if I was getting better. One pitch higher I knew there was a large ledge, and was eager to get there and find a little oasis from the steepness of the wall.

  Maybe you just want to see the crux after so long thinking about it?

  The pitch began with an easy crack that led to a hanging slab, the climbing changing from aid to free. The clumsy paraphernalia of the climbing below had been left behind, swapped for sticky rock shoes and fingers. The sense of freedom was fantastic. The rock was highly featured, with little nubbins to stand on, a flake to use as a handrail, and easy enough to be fun.

  After twelve days of excruciatingly slow progress this pitch seemed to go by at lightning speed. I moved leftwards, fingers curled over the flake, trusting my hands and feet, careful with each movement, tiptoeing, exhilarated by the knowledge that I hung above such a drop. So much space. I was actually enjoying myself.

  This could be your last night on this wall.

  A few more moves leftward and I stepped onto a wide ledge, the largest flattest ground I’d seen for nearly two weeks. Above me stood the crux.

  This could be your last night full stop!

  I clipped two bolts, kicked off my shoes and lay down. The rock was knobbly and the ledge poked into my back, but it didn’t sag, rattle, or bend. It was hard bliss.

  I stared up at the overhangs that bore the summit, only two pitches away. It seemed like so long ago that I’d started, that person and his fucked-up world almost forgotten.

  If you climb the crux, you’ll be on the top tomorrow.

  I scanned the crux: a crack, expanding; a seam, blind and flared; a flake, loose and hanging. Any mistake tomorrow and I would be lying here again on this ledge, only in very different circumstances. I thought about that for a while. How would it feel to smash into this ledge? How much pain would there be?

  Can you do it?

  Tomorrow I would climb the crux of the Reticent Wall: one of the hardest aid pitches in the world.

  Could I do it? I thought I could.

  Tomorrow would be my thirteenth day on the wall, the route’s thirteenth pitch, but I was beyond worrying about numbers. I thought instead about reaching the summit, lying in the soft soil. I imagined the peace.

  I thought about Mandy.

  I thought about Ella.

  I thought about my unborn son.

  I thought about pizza.

  I knew it would be OK.

  Cold war

  Patagonia. July 2000

  ‘USTED NO SABE sobre mama del la?’ asked the woman behind the ticket counter, her face creased with concern.

  ‘We don’t understand,’ I said, speaking for both me and my partner.

  ‘La mama, la mama,’ the woman repeated, pointing out of the window at the snow piled high outside. We shrugged. All we wanted were two bus tickets. I thought maybe she had to wait to get permission from her mother to sell us the tickets, but she looked a bit too old for that.

  ‘La mama,’ she said one last time, now miming snow falling from the sky with her fingers.

  Standing in Rio Gallegos airport, in Argentina, on our way to Patagonia, Rich Cross and I shook our heads. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good.

  Exasperated by our poor Spanish, the woman left us and grabbed another woman from across the hallway to translate.

  It turned out La Mama was a weather system, a nasty relation of El Niño, which had super-cooled the already wintry bottom half of South America. In some parts it had brought snow for the first time in forty years.

  She spoke quickly, almost scoldingly at our ignorance, telling us that the Brazilian coffee crop had been damaged by frost, that power was out in many parts of the country, that most of the roads were impassable, blocked by metres of snow. Running her fingers across a map on the wall, she explained that many of the roads had been closed for weeks and that she doubted we could even reach the village of Chaltén, let alone the mountains. We should go back to Buenos Aires.

  We stood at the counter and looked at each other, our bulging rucksacks piled high beside us, and talked over our options. The conversation was short. We’d sunk all our money into this trip, which meant we had no way of changing our objectives. We were already broke and we hadn’t even begun. I thought about how I’d left my life in a mess back home, I’d run away from Mandy and Ella, bills and work, gambling that a hard winter ascent would make it all OK. I couldn’t even begin to imagine failing here. I’d staked everything. This was my big chance: the perfect objective, the perfect partner, the perfect season. If we pulled this off, I knew I’d finally be satisfied. For me there would be nothing harder. We had to try.

  So we bought our tickets.

  The bus rumbled through the night, hot and airless, a Hollywood war movie dubbed into Spanish playing at full volume on the TV set above my head. Outside the damp window I caught glimpses of what was to come: snow bulldozed high, and beyond it nothing. I felt something familiar stirring inside me, something that made me uncomfortable, a deep sense of loss and sadness. I’d been feeling it for as long as I could remember, but I still didn’t know why. I tried to block it out. I thought instead about Ella, her face, her hair, her eyes, of holding her hand, squeezing it and feeling her squeezing mine back. We arrived at Calafe, the last town before Chaltén, after midnight. If we couldn’t find a ride to Chaltén our expedition would end here. We lay down on the icy tarmac and waited for the morning.

  We woke to find a man lashing bags onto the roof rack of a truck. We jumped out of our sleeping bags to ask, in pidgin Spanish, if he was going to Chaltén. He nodded. Mistaking good timing for good luck, we hitched a lift.

  The road to Chaltén was a long and rough one, cold, bumpy, the landscape flat and featureless, a desert of rocky brush. It was hard to believe we were heading towards the mountains. The truck bounced and skidded through snow drifts and over icy pools, the deep ruts tossing us around in the back. The landscape was a vivid introduction for Rich to what was in store. As we peered through frosted windows out at the endless frozen pampas, we could see the road was littered with llamas, starved and frozen to death by the freak weather. We could never have imagined it would be so grim.

  Rich was as uncomplicated as usu
al, unfazed and positive, telling me we could ski to the mountains if the roads were blocked; a round trip of a mere 250 kilometres. My age, no wife, no kids, free to climb and work where he wanted: I envied him. For him climbing seemed to be fun and empty of any other meaning. Why couldn’t I be like that? Where had I lost my way? Why was I going back to this wilderness with a sinking heart? It made no sense. Patagonia terrified me. Before this trip I’d wake up and feel gripped with anticipated horrors, thoughts of the cold, the wind, the endless abseils.

  I suppose I was returning because I simply didn’t know what else to do. Climbing was the only thing that seemed right, the only thing that made sense.

  The road stretched on through the pampas for eight hours until, in the distance, we saw Fitzroy, a snow plume perhaps a kilometre long stretching from its summit. I thought back to that horrendous storm, being trapped up there the previous year, how on our return to the village an old man told us that when the stone houses creaked in the village, they knew we would be dead. It appeared slowly, so huge it was hard to believe such a mountain existed. Most people would call it beautiful; to me it looked like a stone thug.

  Sliding and skidding into Chaltén through six-foot walls of bulldozed snow, we looked at a town that appeared to have just survived an attack. Roofs strained under the weight of snow, people moved around trying to make repairs, eyes stared at these out-of-season strangers. We knocked on the door of a friend, Ruban Vasquez, who owned the only open hostel in town. When he saw us, he looked shocked that we had made it. We dragged our stuff in and began straightaway to pack for the next day.

  Unfastening my skis’ safety straps in case the ice broke under me, I shuffled out onto the frozen lake. Rich stood watching from the bank, rucksack off, ready to throw me a lifeline in case I went through. We didn’t know that the ice was a metre thick.