Finding the noses in Yosemite - USA

The nose of El Capitan stands tall; dominating Yosemite Valley. One day we were hiking around and a couple who had got to within 100 metres of the nose asked us if there was anything more to see? Should we go any further they asked? We've already walked 6 miles!

Well, what did they expect?! A circus? The granite rock to dance? the nose to start sniffing them up? Why wasn't admiring El Cap enough? Why was an extra hundred metres so tough? This is El Cap, I though?! EL CAP in all its majesty! Why didn't they want to stand right underneath it, to tilt their heads back and breath in its enormity, to wonder at its history revealed in its colourful layers, to hear the trees repecting it with each brush of their leaves, to touch the cool refreshing granite and to smell the "nose" right back.... or even just get a closer look at the sexy climbers ;)

Soaking up a place and being generous with your time I think is the only way to appreciate it. To sit in Yosemite Valley and watch a bluejay cock his proud head. To wait for a squirrel to cheekily jump on your table. To stare at the changing colours of half dome until your eyes glaze over. To discover each of the hidden noses in El Cap... So we spent an amazing time in Yosemite, and after two weeks had already decided we would come back for more.

We were having a rest day, and preparing for the big east buttress of El Cap by doing a few climbs along the base of the nose. Our climbing was in top form. We had done the Middle Cathedral the previous day, which had perfect views across the whole of El Cap. We were truly tempted by the nose, but spending nights on the wall would have to wait for another time, we had come to free climb.

But how quickly your future can change; how suddenly plans need to be rethought and remade! One small mistake; one tiny distraction can cause a lot of pain, a lot of frustration. After climbing Little John Left, as I was lowering Nic down after he removed the last piece of gear, the rope flew through my hands and belay, and I watched the love of my life start to fall, and keep falling (7 metres in all), folding over and onto his side, and lying in agony on the ground.

How strange that people come into our lives at points when we need them. Max and Mayan. Not only brilliant climbers, but also brilliant people. At the scene they straight away started putting things back together; Nic's broken back, my broken ego. So this is only Part I of Something Vertical. Now Nic can walk with a back brace, he'll be swimming soon and will climbg again, and one day we will climb big walls together, all the way to the top of El Cap.

Smith Rock - USA

The name is so mundane ... millions of people are called it, probably thousands of places too; but there is only one Smith Rock. it can be found in Oregon USA, and it certainly stands out after driving through endless desert roads. there are a few stories about why the rock was called Smith. The trust itself of course is as boring as any old Smith, but the legend is interesting, and speaks of a man called Smith who was trying to escape from some Indians, so climbed to the top of one of the pinnacles then threw himself off....

Anyway, whatever the reason behind its naming, Smith Rock made its international name in the 70s when it became the first destination in the US for sports climbing. As bolting was a new and challenging, there are some rather interesting lines. Some frustratingly head up beside perfect cracks, and others have the first bolt so high on the route that even a stick clip wont reach. You need to do a highball boulder problem just to get there! ( I later learnt that these high first bolts were due to the erosion of the soil, and weren't just a ballsy test for future climbers).

Smith rock is renown for its knobby holds. Most of the rock is of a stuff called "tuff" which is as tough as sandstone on your fingers, but not as tuff as granite to hold, so often hard to trust. None of th eknobs came off for us, but the guidebook warned us... even holds that have been used for 10 years have suddenly come off under people's feet.

Each year Smith has a little festival where representatives from each of the climbing companies come and set up their stalls. Its fun and they set up some bouldering walls, slack lines, and leave around hoola hoops, and diablos for you to play with. They even let you try out climbing shoes for a day on the real rock if you want! And you can get free stickers and buy cute shirts that say things like "climb like a girl" ..... I've got one :)

The drive thru and the cup holder - North America

You can drive through to buy anything in North America... drive through to get a coffee in the morning, drive through to get a burger at lunch, drive through to get a pizza for dinner, drive through to get an icecream for dessert, drive through to watch a movie, drive through to get your cash, drive through to get your beer. You can even drive through to get your drugs (pharmaceuticals that is).... Legs are redundant, retired; whats the point when you have wheels! Highways are an American institution. Drive in, order, pick up, pay, drive away. Everyone is on their way somewhere fast, but noone is moving. Bums are superglued to GM motor and Chevy seats. The cafe and a good gossip is no part of this life ... a drawn out dinner over glasses of wine is history.

The American is a breed without legs and with a cupped hand. Babies are born with their right hand in a cupping shape, thumb on one side and fingers clasped together, glued to each other on the other. There are cup holders on prams, so babies learn early what their cupped hand is for. Then, when the babies get big enough to sit in the shopping trolleys, there are cup holders in the shopping trolleys. There are cup holders in all cars, and cup holders in trains. Cup holders on chairs and cupholders in buses. And there are cup holders so big they fit a 2 litre bottle.

It is a cheap joke to laugh at the fat American, but here heavyweights abound. Even today, it seems that it is a constant concern that American’s do not starve; either that or someone has a very sick sense of humour in the roads and traffic authority. Every 2 miles, another sign alerts us to a food stop where there is not just McDonalds, but Subway, Dennys, Sheris, KFC, Tacobell, Sizzler, Wendys; Starbucks, Happy Teriyaki, Dominos and plenty of other mutations that are just as tacky and popular. Whilst fastfood is more available than drinking water, a supermarket with fresh fruit and vegetables is a rare highway phenomenon. So it was for miles and miles and miles that we drove through Washington and Oregon before there was a convenient highway side Safeway - a grocery store to stock up. Even Safeway had a takeaway section incase you arrived there, and decided that, after all, grocery shopping and cooking was not really your thing.

As if the food signs weren't enough though, there are also signs for pharmaceuticals, that to an Ozzie scream of a drug culture. You're now in Pill country they shout, and London Drugs! for all those in need. So where do we start to taste the American cultcha, do we try it out at every fastfood outlet to experience the American life and doing so end up hauling up bags of lard on our thighs up the next mountain we climb... I think not. Do we spend bigtime at the malls epecially as the Ozzie dollar continues to climb and we seem richer by the day.... I think not. Do we experience the pills and drugs that Americans are addicted to... climbing is addiction enough... We are I think experiencing the American way of life by driving for miles and miles, by spending up big on gallons of gas, and buying "small" coffees which being supersize are enough for the two of us. But, most of all, and the reason why we are here is to experiencing the best thing I think that Americans have came up with... the national park, and we are not just going to drive through.

The Chief, Squamish - Canada

The Chief is an Indian leader towering over his tribe, testing out each members dedication and skill; not in the traditional hunt of buffalo and the sculpting of animal faces, but rather in the climbing of his face. He is the 2nd biggest granite monolith in the world and forms part of the major British Columbia - BC climbing mecca, Squamish. Squamish has plenty of shorter single pitch routes to get a taste for an experience on the grand wall of Chief, and being apprentice crack climbers, that's where we began. We particularly liked the Smokey Bluffs where we practiced bettering the jamming technique where your hands and feet and any other eligible body parts get shoved into the cracks to help you up the wall, and the lieback style which involves laying back with both hands pulling on a flake while your feet push against the wall and your bum sticks out.

But rain kept setting us back. Rain that poured for hours and days and would soak the rock to its core, and force us inside our van. Luckily my uncle's house in Vancouver became a haven where we spent our time enjoying Jeff and Elle's endlessly entertaining company over wild salmon dinners... why do they call organic food organic? Well because it contains organs of course.... slap knee lol.

But despite the jokes, Squamish called us back, and after the sun came out we committed ourselves to a longer route called “Diedre” on the “Apron” wall of the Chief. But it was seeping with unwanted juices and so we pushed our hands into slimy crevices, and slipped on our feet. We tried in vain to keep the rope dry, but ended up with it marinated in mud. It seemed to be a recipe for disaster; undercooked climbers, and too much moisture, but the Apron is an appetiser for the Grand Wall on the Chief. It tempted us for more.

But from intense rain, to intense sun, a few days later at the “Upper Malamute” the heat was unbearable. We were cooked, and dripping with sweat in places I didn’t know could sweat. I took the lead on a climb, and placed the perfect sized nuts and cams in the crack keeping them well spaced. The timing was perfect, I felt strong, confident; the ingredients were good, but I was basking - oven up too high at over 100 degrees. After the 4th piece of gear, my foot slid as I was about to clip the rope in and I tumbled, the rope flipping me backwards so I hit the wall upside down. I grabbed the rope, shaking and screaming; not knowing if I was dead meat or alive. “Its ok, its ok, calm down....let me lower you; your hurt ” I heard; not the Iron chef, or Gordon Ramsay, but Nic. No, your not chopped in half he said, you wont be tonights bbq, there's nothing broken, only bruised.

Oh, and look at that! You have a butt tattoo from Black Diamond! But tattoos take time to heal, along with lost confidence after taking a big whipper. The Chief's not going anywhere. One day we will be back to climb the grand wall face.

Glacier NP - Canada

Outback Canada can be scarey. On the drive from Golden to Revelstoke, and then Revelstoke through Glacier National Park on the way to Penticton it is probably best to lock yourself in the car, forget about toilet stops, and keep the wheels rolling. Driving itself is a nightmare as the highway is full of semi-trailers carrying logs piled so high that the logs on top roll around precariously, tape unravelling as they struggle up the hills and scream down them. And if the semis aren't pulling along forests on their backs, they are rattling around with oil tankers. Even a big van, like Jimmy (our van) is dwarfed next to these machines.

Then, finding a safe place to park for the night is like looking for for lost keys... they turn up, but only after searching for hours in ever despairing hope... maybe here... ah no... then maybe here.... oh no... (repeat at will). All the stops we found outside the national park were next to the highway; far to noisy and dangerous. I didin’t want to be sleeping on the wrong side of the road when a log toppled down off a semi, or a tanker spilled its fill. So, it was that we decided to drive into Glacier National Park to find a spot to stay. But whereas Banff NP and Lake Louise had been crawling with tourists, in Glacier NP there was a deadly silence. We drove into the first campground which was deserted, desolated and far too close to the highway for comfort. Defeated, we drove on.

The second stop looked more promising, and we began to cook dinner, but became more and more unnerved about spending the whole night. I went to the toilet block where I found posted a Missing sign on the door – Missing, in Glacier NP, male, 17 years old, brown hair, brown eyes, last seen, here ....and an awkward smiling picture of a teenager in school uniform. Soon later a semi pulled over and a burly redneck rolled out. No coincidence it seemed. With a long grey beard, gruff face, bloodshot eyes, skin black with tattoos, wrinkled with scars and fading ripped black shirt he was unapproachable at best; kidnapper at worst. No doubt he had seen the inside of more than a few Canadian jails.

We then watched as an old lady pulled over in her bomb, behind the redneck's semi and got out to talk with him; to finalise their kidnapping plans. He soon got back in the semi and drove on. She let her Saint Bernard out of the car – her lollipop lure – sat down at the picnic table and waited. She waited and waited, fishing for unsuspecting, naive tourists. And it worked! Some Japanese girls came out of no where and within no time where gawking, patting, and loving the Saint Bernard. Who would blame them!? He was beautiful, and his nature so loving and serene. His father used to rescue mountaineers in the mountains, but now, Baby Bernard was being used as a temptress.

I was relieved to see the Japanese girls make their due escape, but that meant we were their next targets. Wary of getting into any trouble we quickly finished our dinner, jumped in the van and were off... but the old lady stayed determined. If the Saint Bernard lure wouldnt work, she would just follow us in her bomb. Baby B was shoved in the back and her tires squealed as she pulled out onto the highway after us... Quick Nic! I said, but she kept following. We were tired and needed to sleep somewhere... so eventually we turned off at the third possible stop for the night, hoping for our lives that she would keep going. My stomach turned in knots. Stop being silly! said Nic, but l knew we weren’t meant to be there.

We pulled over and she drove on, to my utter relief, although I started to worry that later that night we may still have a visit. Together we began reading the sign.... silence..... I turned to look at Nic and his eyes grew wider, wider and wider. "Look!" he said... "bulletholes!!", he said. And sure enough bulletholes were scattered all over the sign. Not little bulletholes, but big deadly bulletholes from a powerful shotgun. Lets get out of here! he said .... and we did.

Bears in the Bugaboos - Canada

Canada is famous for its wildlife, so we were constantly on the lookout for anything moving. Anything that is, from the abundant deer and squirrels to the elk, the elusive moose, and of course the bear. One of the first things you need to do before hiking is to equip yourself with some bear spray. Having never held a weapon before, (although US customs would probably disagree) it was a little overwhelming to carry around such power at your fingertips, even if it was just in the form of capsicum or pepper spray. We needed some practise. With Pam and Dale as our outdoor ed teachers, we headed out on a hike up “Observation Peak” with the intention of letting off some old bear spray; old so ineffective, but good to practise. The practise went well, but we also found that summer around Banff can involve four seasons in one day. On the way up it snowed; yes it snowed! – in summer, and at the summit the sun shone; then on the way down it blew a gale, and we were back in shorts down the bottom. The Canadian fauna is surely a hardy bunch.

Bears generaly dont eat humans, but, they are omnivores and the grizzly has on occasion dug their claws and teeth into the odd person, perhaps because of fear, perhaps because of hunger, or maybe just because they were having a bad day, - and their victim was having an even worse one. So, it helps to be alert and careful. Walking in groups of 4 or more is recommended (there have never been attacks on groups that size or bigger) along with making alot of noise so that the bears are not surprised to see you. After months in the French alps learning to be a light on my feet, quick and efficient in the mountains... I now find myself stomping around, kicking rocks, shouting and singing random songs and generally making random inarticulate comments. ... the bears need to know that we are coming.

So scared was I in fact, the first few times we went into the forest that I wouldnt let Nic go ahead more than a metre. Hikers coming from the opposite direction would look in distaste at the way the peace had been disturbed. Ironically it was songs by Canadians they would hear.... a repotoire of Celine Dion, Shania Twain, Bryan Adams ... they still didn’t like it. But the bears were nowhere to be seen. We did manage to spot lots of other wildlife ... plenty of deer, elk, marmots and squirrels, so after photographing those creatures in the first day or two, by the time we arrived at the Bugaboos I had well and truly put the camera to bed. The bear and the moose remained elusive. (Tragically the moose’s defence is to stand majestically still which of course means they are sometimes killed by cars... if they haven’t already been killed by men going “into the wild” to live.)

Ahhhh the bugaboos. There is a 50 kilometre four wheel drive track to get there, then you need to wrap your tyres up with chicken wire to ensure the porcupines don’t get stuck into the rubber at night. The walk in takes a few hours, or a few more if you have heavy gear, but when you get there. Woweeeee! There are towering spires, a climbing delight, Superb. Unfortunatley for Nic, I am just not that great at crack climbing yet, so climbing at the “Bugs” will have to be for another trip.

Much to our delight though, driving out of the Bugs, we saw a bear eating berries on the side of the road. A bear, a real bear which when he heard the car, stood up on his hind legs, and ran like the wind across the road and into the bushes. So quickly in fact that there was no time for ooos or ahhhs or photos or posing.... besides Nic did just as advised and kept driving. But what a magic encounter, a bear in the wild.

Later we learnt he was “only a black bear” – not a real grizzly, as he didn’t have a hunch on his back, and he wasn’t brown, but rather black, but, nonetheless we saw a bear in the wild, and he looked scarey. So even if I get fed up with my parents, decide to give all my money to Oxfam, abandon our car, reject consumerism and society itself, I am not going into the wild.

Everyone is cool in Canada - Calgary, Canada

Everyone is cool in Canada. The girl at the AMA – the Alberta Motor Association, the guy at the 7 - 11, the checkout chic in the supermarket, and even the dudes we met who worked at the “dump” are cool. And everything is big in Canada. The roads are big and wide, the cars are SUVs with trailers, the houses are mansions and of course the Rockies are really, really, really BIG. The country itself is so big that it takes 8 hours to fly from Calgary to the Northwest Territories; that is like flying Sydney to Bangkok, or Paris to New York!

Before exploring this big, cool, and “neat” country though, we needed to find some wheels that included a home; or a home that included wheels, or something or some way of getting around and sleeping. So, we spent our first week at Pam and Dale’s house in Calgary, looking for vans and then fitting one out. We chose is a giant white auto GMC Safari with 6 cylinders and 8 seats, 6 of which we promptly ripped out and left at the dump. We nick-named the van “Jimmy Carter”, picked up the appropriate number plate... 5.10 and with hammer and saw got cutting and nailing. Nic, using his engineering skills had dreamt up a design for Jimmy which he tried to explain to me and which I just couldn’t quite understand. After questions and more questions, eventually he just sighed and looked at me in despair... “just do what I say”... clearly I was never meant to be an engineer. Miraculously, or so it seemed to me, the van was converted into our new little home. The bed came together and fit perfectly in the back leaving just enough space underneath to store all our climbing gear, clothes and a spare jerry can (Jimmy C’s odometer doesn’t work...) and just enough room at the back for a little kitchenette with storage, an eski and a wash basin. Perfect. We were ready.

Although time is on our side, Canada is so incredibly big we decided to limit our stay to the lower west coast, Alberta and BC – home of the best climbing. The rest will have to wait. We spent a few days around Canmore checking out the local crags at Grassi Lakes, Heart Creek and Cougar Creek where the crag called the House of Cards had some awesome sustained routes on a solid limestone. Then we moved onto climb the quartzite at the back of Lake Louise where we went from living in virtual obscurity to being celebrities overnight. Lake Louise has a constant stream of tourists who take a walk around the lake passing plenty of warning signs about the bears, but no warning signs about the crazies they find half way up the cliffs... As I was facing the wall, belaying Nic I heard voices from behind...

in Japanese - “whaaaa, sugoooooi (amazing) ! Spiiiiider-man!”;

in Texanese - “ why do you think they aren’t wearing helmets?” “well, helmets are hardly going to help them if they fall aren’t they”....

in Englishese - “daddy, I want to have a go”... “no son, that’s far too dangerous”

then a Canadian man trying to get my attention.... "excuse me, excuse me, sorry, uh how did he get the rope up there?" me - "he took it up there".... him "no..." me - "yes" him "that's a "BIG WALL" me - "yes" .... him " that's so COOL" .... me "you bet!"

People watching in Paris III - France

We arrived in Paris at exactly 25 minutes and 57 seconds past one as the train stopped at Montparnasse when the man opposite us twitched his moustache, and the lady beside us gave a relieved sigh. How exciting! To be in the city of Love! Was everyone here for love? To find love; to celebrate it? Who were all these people? As our cafe chairs face the streets, each passerby is a performer and a spectacle for us to enjoy....

Meet the local St Germaine drunk. He likes ... dipping his bare feet into the River Seine; red wine that burns the back of his throat; watching the falling stars at night. He doesn’t like the way his shoes flap when he walks or the way his nose goes numb with cold in the winter.

Meet the local Montmartre dancer.
She likes ... walking in public without underwear; twirling her batton in a sunshower; lighting matches and flicking them. She doesn’t like it when her hat full of change falls over, or when she steps in dog poo with bare feet.

Meet the old singer near the Louvre.

He likes ... enunciating words from French classics in unusual ways; the mortified look on strangers faces when he bursts into song; falling asleep during the day on the grass . He doesn’t like it when his music sheets get stuck together with chewing gum, or when his belly pops open the top button of his jeans.

And meet the Sedanese vendor at the Tour Eiffel.
He likes ... reading the backs of toilet doors where he hides from the police; swinging his mini Eiffel tower keyrings in circles to make a loud jangling sound; showering in the park fountains at night. He doesn’t like running for false alarms or working for criminals.

But the statues around Paris are uninterested in what the locals like or don’t like. They sit day in day out bored with the lives and dramas that play out underneath them. Uninterested in the social injustices, the illegal immigrants and the budding performers. Uninterested in the city of love....

Amelie was far more curious. In the film, Amelie wonders just how many people in Paris are having an orgasm at any given moment! "15!" she says to the camera, surely a gross underestimation in summer. There were boats going up and down the River Seine every minute with more than 200 people on each one, queues for the Louvre and Musee d'Orsay and the Tour Eiffel that seemed to go on for days, and parks with picnicers covering every inch of grass. 100! I'd say.

Dinner at the table - Chamonix, France

Chamonix is a strange mix of dirt poor mountaineers and guides, and filthy rich tourists, and it does a fine job catering for both. There are climbing and skiing shops with slashed prices and massive ranges. Then there are jewellry shops for window shopping – or window licking as the French translation goes, and impeccable restaurants and hotels where you pay as much as you like. The town itself has some stunning architecture particularly that built in the 1920s when the olympic games were held, and with Mont Blanc in the background, it is a little girls fairytale place.

Mountaineering, or “alpinism” is so accessible in the alps and around Chamonix that it is no wonder there are so many people who do it. Each morning from Chamonix you can see little centipedes of headtorches going up into the mountains, and a milipede going up the Mont Blanc. There are guides for hire, and plenty of helicopters buzzing around to pick you up if you get injured, lost, or just too tired to come down (or so it seems). But if the thought of walking up Mont Blanc is too exhausting, the cable cars make it soo accessible that you don’t even need mountaineering boots, let alone crampons or ice axes to go up. A truly easy mountaineering ascent. But really, indulging in the Savoie (pronounced savwa - but think savour) specialities of tartiflette, fondue and raclette is best enjoyed after a tough day of hiking and mountaineering. Hmmmm.

A little overwhelmed with the crowds on Mont Blanc, and not wanting to be one more leg in the milipede, Nic and I decided to do something a little more unique, and possibly more rewarding. We decided to go up to the "Table" and dine...that is go up the “Arete de table”. We would take our baguette and cheese to eat when we arrived; to eat at it, or on it; we couldn’t quite decide as we could only see the "Table" from a distance. The Table is a rock formation which resembles its name, and forms part of the Aiguille du Tour – near the Col du Chardonnay. To get there we had to do a 4 hour hike up to a bivouac spot on rocks near the glacier. The route itself took a day and involved some glacier walking and an arete climb, the crux of which was a mantle move onto the Table which is quite exposed so gets your heart pumping. But sitting there and enjoying the stunning views of Mont Blanc, Aiguille Verte and the other mountains was awesome. Perhaps next time we will pack a table cloth, napkins, the china, the silver, and a chef; go in formal wear, and really enjoy dining at the best "table" in Chamonix.

Queyras hiking and Italia - Italy

Queyras lies on the border of France and Italy in the southern alps. It feels a long way away from anywhere because there are lots of windy roads to get there, even though it is barely 10km away from Gap. There are less forests than around Vallouise and Allefroide, so the area looks bare, but feels more spacious. Even though it seems far away, there is no getting lost with no trees to hide behind, and people everywhere.

We visited the Chateau-Queyras around which you can do via ferata. When I first heard of via ferata it was years ago, and I thought it sounded fascinating (I didn’t really know that via ferata was). I remember listening intently as some guy told me about his adventures in the Dolomites doing via ferata – it all sounded so amazing... Anyway, I started walking along the via ferrata track not thinking it was really that necessary to get a harness and some slings for such an easy looking route...- I was a climber after all, but Nic had a bad feeling and warned me against going further and, reluctantly, I agreed. Coincidently that afternoon on the radio we heard that a man had died the day before on the Chateau- Queyras via ferrata! It reminded me of the time when I was a kid when mum warned me off going on a rollercoaster ride to my utter disgust, then a week later a whole carriage of the train fell to the ground and 4 people were killed.

Maybe Queyras is best kept for hiking. We went up the Pain de Sucre... (which means bread with sugar on top) to experience the panorama of the alps with Italy on one side and France on the other. The mountain from a distance looks a little like its name (if you have a good imagination) but there are no bakeries for a while, so its BYO for lunch on the summit. There are also some mountaineering routes at Queyras, but we decided against them, (or rather I couldn’t wake up early enough for us to leave to do them) and instead decided to try some sport climbing. The rock looked magnificent; a stark orange limestone, with good views, but, after a few minutes our fingers were tender, and the thought of falling against rock thats like a cheesegrater meant for a short day. Yes, best kept for hiking.

Being so close to Italy, and with time on our hands, we thought we would have a little Italian jaunt, for no other reason than to say we had been to Italy and to pass one afternoon. (There is more than enough to explore in 2 months in the French alps which is an awesome summer playground, but why not!) Crossing the border though was like stepping back in time. Whereas rural France seems to keep up with the times, rural Italy seems to be sleeping. The old Italian local mamas and papas were out chatting to each other as we wandered around checking out the menus of the local restaurants. And all the houses seemed to be in various states of disrepair where the balconies would be lucky to hold wood for the winter fires let alone people. The roads were shit... and neither of us can speak Italian apart from some random musical terms which don’t really mean much strung together... legato, adagio, largo, ritardando, ralentissimo, crescendo, decrescendo.... so straight back to France.

Modelling in Sisteron - France

When there are only 2 of you climbing, it is rather difficult to get a good photograph. Whilst one person is belaying, the other person is on the wall and vice versa, so even if you have a self locking belay system, the photographs resulting are taken from an angle which mostly just portrays the climbers bum – the bum shot. So when one day in Orpierre an English photographer began taking photos of us from above, we asked to get copies from him. We got into a bit of a chat and found out that he was in the process of creating a climbing guidebook for the Sisteron, Orpierre and Ceuse regions. Along with some other photographer/climbers they would create a series of guidebooks in English for the whole of the South of France.

The Englishman then told us he was yet to photograph Sisteron and asked if we happened to be heading that way. We had to go to the American’s climbing shop in Sisteron to pick up Nic’s shoes, so yes we were going. He said he'd love to take some photographs of us climbing, and we said we would love to have some photos!

We arrived at the crag which lies opposite the town, and began our preparations. For any photography, the lighting and composition are vital, as is the wardrobe and the makeup. Unfortunately we couldn’t assist with the lighting, as it was outdoor photography, and we couldn’t be bothered waiting around all day for the sun to set, we also couldn’t assist with the composition, as the Englishman had already found the best angles to photograph from. We did however assist with the makeup and the wardrobe. Makeup involved smearing our faces and bodies (not purposely) with black grease from the rope as we were climbing. It was all over our almost brand new rope, and got there from oxidisation on the carabiners which hadnt been used for a while. And wardrobe involved changing into our brightest clothes which had already been worn several days in a row for climbing, but of course, you cant see smell in photographs. That way, us models could be spotted in the shots, which were really just for the scenery...

The Englishman clicked away happily as we did some nice routes in the blaring sunshine. It was so hot in fact that we were soon dripping with sweat; adding a glistening, glamour effect. (Nice on men perhaps; not so on me.) We didn’t even have to pose; he just took a thousand photos, so he could chose the best, and when we saw them, we were impressed....