SOMETHING VERTICAL

Hang Dog

2010-12-05T18:20:00.000-08:00

Hang Dog is the local gym where, in the Illawarra, if it is too hot for the beach, you can go for a climb. That is mostly the climbing we have done lately; climbing on plastic walls.

Lots of kids parties go there, and sports groups for the school kids, and sometimes corporate groups. There are 100 climbs, and bouldering too, and if you just want to sit and watch the guys will make you a coffee. The routesetters aren't at all bad, and there is enough to keep us entertained without having to venture to Sydney gyms too often.

Sculptures by the sea

2010-12-05T17:37:00.000-08:00

It was so special to see Bondi come alive with art. The piano we couldn't find, but only heard until we turned around and saw a sculpture, or was it a painting? Then a cheese grater, larger than life. Balancing acts on the foreshore; where pen meets pencil or pen meets pen and something like paper. A rusty camel with delicious insides of wine and food, and a purple man who had 2 of most things, two heads, hands, feet, eyes, noses, one too many.

Test tubes or icicles, who could tell; South Pacific inspired metal leaves and laughing men. Folly of papier mache.

It was a fine summers day and it always amazes me the time and love that is devoted to each work.

My favourite: footsteps on the beach and footstep in sandstone. Why? Who knows.

Horseshoe bend baby climbs

2010-08-22T19:37:00.000-07:00

August was time for Nic's 30th birthday, and we decided to celebrate with a weekend away. We rented a farm house called the Horseshoe Bend farm, way out west and beckoned the adventurous. With 3 causeways to drive through to arrive at the property, we sat tight and waited hopefully... were we to be the only ones to brave the 4 hour journey? But minutes behind were Sarah Pete and Jack, roaring up in the 4WD... they had come the "other way" and had driven through a roaring creek. We weren't aware of another way, and became quite concerned that our other visitors with their little cars and little babies would be waiting on the other side. Luckily everyone arrived despite my unfortunate map and no one was wet!

With 4 babies in the house, now we really understand the pain of early mornings, halfslept nights and lethargic days, but, to our delight we also discovered that babies give you the perfect climbing training workout. Pop them in a backpack and off you go, wait another month and their weight increases, just when you need to increase your training weight... perhaps this is what we need for our next trip?! And I can't help but admire their perfect yogic posture and hanumanasa - monkey pose - the splitz that would definately come in handy with some climbing moves. Needless to say, babies have an innate compulsion to climb in, over, and up things, and Lucy and Miro couldn't get enough of the kitchen cupboards as I went into a cake making frenzy. We did some mini hill climbing, up the "Big Hill" and some mini adventures into the creek to recover lost number plates. Nic's party evening came alive with the premier screening of the movie production "Riddm" (in essence, part I of our adventures) and some fun competitions in Singstar with Jade's memorable rapping style and the glorious tones... or monotones of us all.

Frog Buttress and a Bit of Bling

2010-07-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

Mount French for Froggy to get back into climbing; it seemed so apt. It was our first climbing trip after 8 months off... 3 months in a back brace, 3 months at yoga and the other 2 spent getting back into it at the climbing gym. Of course I had no reason for the time off; was it guilt? ... more likely a lack of climbing partners; partners who had gone and wrecked their shoulders, or had babies, or both. Froggy and I had given ourselves a two week holiday, two weeks to spend in warmer climbs, on warm rock up north. We did the big 13 hour drive up via the inland route to Mount French, but Frog Buttress is unforgiving. We were a little too ambitious perhaps; with our muscles raw and learning to reform. The spindle cells growing with each pull on our arms, our thighs expanding with each push on our legs. But growing takes time, and needs rest. After exhausting the easy climbs in three days, we paused. Where to go from here? Frog was desserted – uni students not yet on holiday and only the odd American tourist wandering around. We craved some committed climbers, but less committing climbing. Glasshouse Mountains looked nice; Brisbane had some urban climbs; but who cares? We were less than enthused... Perhaps we had been spoilt with all our travels? But where had our mojo gone? .. yes, we could see it now, left at home in our own backyard. How to best get back into climbing?... do familiar climbs, fun climbs, easy climbs, bolted climbs, an hour away from home at Nowra. What were we thinking!?

So we drove the 13 hours back south via the coast, stopping briefly at old hippy towns long gone commercial, with boutiques that look interesting from the outside, with the same names and the same clothes on the inside. Our original locals were talking in money dialect... “you see, the quicker I can paint these dots the more I paint, the cheaper the price is, the more I can sell” and we were bored. So we drove on, glancing occassionally at things big, big half avocado, big prawn with googly eyes, big banana, and wondered why they now looked so small. Perhaps we still had America on our minds, or I was smaller when I had seen them last.

Back home, we refresh, pick up our Nowra guidebook, and then head straight out to camp at the water “ski park” at Nowra. We have the most glorious days; the sun is shining, we canoe across the river to find crisp rock, there is no need for chalk. We are face climbing again, but we start from scratch, climbing grade 11 on bolts. It is fun, comfortable, confidence building and I am happy again. The best climber after all is the one having the most fun we cry. And we can't help but have fun when climbs are called names like “hide the salami” and “pale yellow underwear??!!” Then “those” moments start to arise. The moments, when nothing else matters, nothing but me and the rock. There is nothing but my breath which echoes the gentle wind, and the rock; a crimper here and a side pull there, traverse to another bolt, then into a cave; climb out of the cave... I am engrossed. And at the top, the view is beautiful.

From Nowra, Point Perpendicular is only an hour away. But we make it a leasurely day, with a long breakfast so when we arrive it is almost lunch. And then we discover that Point Perp, near Jervis Bay is actually federal land... owned by the ACT. Does this mean we can smoke stuff? Lucky they are not practising with bombs this afternoon, so we cruise down the dirt track peacefully enough... we are high, but only with adrenelin.

It is a windy day and on the edge of the sea cliffs I feel nervous. We have to be careful today I tell Nic. I have a strange feeling... that feeling something could happen, lets just be extra careful. He laughs and we go for a walk along the edge of the cliffs to look out over Honeymoon Bay. I'm not sure I want to climb today, maybe one or two now we are here I guess. Ooo.. there is where we had our first kiss...

On the sea cliffs Nic takes out the rope and starts the throw it over the edge, as I shelter from the wind. Are you sure you want to climb I ask? Isn't it just a bit too windy!? He keeps trying to throw the rope over the edge and it blows straight back onto the rock in a big knot, twice. I laugh at him. Sometimes he seems too keen to climb I think....

But once we abseil down – only to climb back up again – I appreciate every moment. This place is awesome with the ocean crashing on the rocks below, whales and dolphins surfing behind us, ah to be here, and nowhere else. But it is cold...I am a fair weather climber now... this will be my only climb for the day. Then, as I make that last move to the top of the climb there is Nic, carabiner in hand, “Would you like to spend more time with me” he asks. Huh? And I look closer at the caribiner? A ring? “would you like to spend more time with me” he asks again. Aha...

“No, no,” .... “Would you like to ....”

“no,... no”.... I mean “yes, yes!” Is that... an engagement ring? “yes!” ah “YES!”

Finding the noses in Yosemite - USA

2009-10-20T23:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-10T23:10:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-11T16:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-30T15:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-24T15:53:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-17T15:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-14T15:30:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-05T15:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-23T01:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-22T01:20:00.000-07:00

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....

The American in Sisteron - France

2009-07-21T01:36:00.000-07:00

The American had been living in France for 20 years and ran a climbing shop in Sisteron called “The Blue Light”. We were recommended the shop from our friend Dennis for cheap and quality gear. There is no way we would have come across it without his recommendation and without having found a particularly detailed map and also asked directions. It is in the back lanes of Sisteron, a medieval fortified village in Provence where there are houses on top of houses, and the lanes all look the same.

Our conversation with the American began in French. Nic with his Britton accent, the American with his American accent, and me with my Australian accent and very few words... until I mentioned that it woud be nice and easier perhaps if we could all speak in English. We had come there particularly because Nics Anasazi 5 10 climbing shoes had been falling apart. They had holes in the rubber on the bottom of the shoe and on the toe; velcro that was too worn and didn’t do up properly and stiching that was ripping apart. He kinda needed new ones. He explained this to the American who was only too ready to share with us his opinion on how shit 5 10s were and how shit in fact most climbing shoes were. Typical American I thought; opinionated... lacking in substance....and Nic though the same... *sepo.

5 10s (a US shoe) are Korean crap he said. They used to be made in the US, but now they are mostly made in Korea, only the finishing touches are done in the US, and even what they do is crap he said. How much do you pay for them in Australia ...what!? 100 euro! Its so stupid; they get sent all the way from Korea to the US and then back to Australia. Crazy! He said. When he went to the 5 10 factory in the US the quality manager didn’t even know where the production room was...so that is why, he said he no longer stocks 5 10s.

And La Sportiva (an Italian shoe) he said, reluctantly were good, but way too expensive for what they are and not worth stocking. And Bolderinis (a French made shoe) were good, very good in fact and he even had some in stock, but they were also not worth stocking. That was because Andrea (Bolderini ) lied to him. Andrea had said that there was a special synthetic on the sole of his shoes which is very pricey but useful in a climbing shoe as it doesn’t stretch as much as leather, but in fact he was really using leather. The American had discovered it when he was working on some resoling; and had approached Andrea who admitted the lie. So, he said, he was was no longer going to stock Bolderinis.

So that left the American with not much stock.... ; the Tenaya and Boreal (Spanish shoes). But he did promise us that anything in his store (there was hardly anything there) would be cheaper than anything anywhere in the world! It was hard not to be a bit standoffish. Who was this American to be telling us that 5 10s were crap? Plenty of top climbers used them, and they worked well for us too. And how could he get better prices than any other distributer; bullshit!

But after talking shoes we began checking out his belay devices, as mine is twisting the rope and making it very annoying when trying to feed it through. I took one curious look at this strange device and he caught my eye. Its a Diablo he said; its something I invented. What!? How much crap do we put up with, I thought?! But then, the American was all too willing to go through the way he had developed the device, and all the different ways it could be used. How it improved on the gri gri in that it was auto locking but would lock whether you pulled up or down, how it could be used to belay 2 people quite easily, how you could use it to rap down, how it was particularly efficient in its feeding method and so on and so on. After developing the Diablo, he had sold the design to Edelweiss and it was now in mass production, but demand is still very high. Nic and I became intrigued. After that I couldn’t help but ask if he had put his mind to improving other climbing equipment, or developing other new devices ... and didn’t he like to talk!

After the Diablo came the stick clip drawer, which is going to be released by Beal. Very simple, but it elliminates the need to look around for some sticks to shove in your drawer to make the first clip, or any other clip for that matter. It is the size of a normal drawer, but auto clips itself. Inside the sling is a tube of aluminum which can be bent any which way to give you adequate reach to the next clip. Oh, it is a dream come true for someone like me who hates doing hard moves metres above the last bolt; particularly in Ceuse. I think Nic thinks its a bit like cheating, but I dont mind.

After the stick clip drawer came the “stick it,” a replacement for chalk which he invented for Beal. It is an oil which you rub onto your fingers and, amazingly, stops your fingers from sweating. No reactions have been documented, it smells great, and your fingers feel as though they could grip things all day. Indeed when you first put it on, it feels like you could stick to anything; spiderman fingers. Unbelievable!

Then there is the 50 gram aid climbing device. .... oh, he loved to talk.... and I’m sure I could go on now too....

Anyway, we bought every invention in sight, and even though we now agreed that the 5 10s were crap, after realising that no other shoes really fit Nic that his foot is moulded to 5 10s, and that the American was not just an opinionated sepo but rather a genious inventor and shoe revitaliser, we gave him Nic’s old shoes for a resole with Bolderini rubber which he still swears by (even though Andrea lied to him). The shoes now have a new life, and I have lots of new inventions. Yay!

*Sepo – septic tank – American.

40 cents for a pee!? - Ceuse, France

2009-07-17T01:41:00.000-07:00

The public toilets in France are foul. They don’t get cleaned - at least not often enough. French have a reputation for being smelly... but dirty!? Everyone always complains about Asian toilets, but why don’t they complain about French ones? Often they cost 20 euro cents just to go in for a pee, and all they are is a hole in the ground! Anyway, I have discovered that most public loos can be opened without putting in the 20 euro cents. The door will open, but the light wont go on, so if you want privacy, you also get darkness, even in the day. When you are blind, everything is done by touch... perhaps this is why they are dirty? But then again, at the moment, we are dirty too.

It is impossible not to be dirty when we are camping every day. Climbing of course makes it worse. Fingernails and toe nails are constantly black; and sometimes after thinking I have developed somewhat of a tan, the reality hits home as I shower and rub off the dirt. Even after a shower, it doesn’t take much for our bodies to be caked in dust. But the campsite showers are often as bad as the public toilets. You have to press a timer button to get them to work, and so the water can flow for about 15 seconds if you are lucky or 2 or 3 seconds if you're not, until you have to press the button again. It seems that the busier the campsite, the more often you have to press that button, and the colder the water is. It is more frustration than enjoyment, and sometimes seems not worth the effort. Besides, someone stole our organic Marseilles soap and shampoo - of all things! - at Ceuse! - a campsite full of climbers! – such honest people most of the time :( - ................ at least a climber somewhere is clean.

After a while of staying at Ceuse we were invited to dinner at the mother of Nic’s friend, Guilleume's house. I was eager to turn up clean, leave a good impression, or at least not a bad one. So, after two nights of bivouacing, Nic and I made our own little shower with our hand basin and did the best we could but when we arrived at Michele’s, the first thing she asked us was whether we wanted to clean off in the pool before dinner! Well, that was what her nephews normally do after climbing at Ceuse she said. Lucky she didn’t mind too much that we weren’t so keen for more cleaning, just feeding; and what a feast!

Michele’s place is a climbing boys dream. A pool to cool off in, endless good food, comfortable beds, and a shower filled with fresh razors and shaving cream. She is also a physio, so can get stuck into those sore shoulders, arms, backs and any other injuries, with massages and other treatment. She even has a stash of clean boys clothes to lend her nephews and their friends when they go out on dates! Lucky Guilleume to have such awesome parents, and lucky us to get to meet them.

Say whose at Ceuse? - France

2009-07-15T01:16:00.000-07:00

Ceuse is a worldclass crag. It is the united nations of climbing bums, and attracts the best of the best. There are people here we have met from Germany, Italy, Netherlands, Austria, New Zealand, England, Italy and the US. Everywhere you look there is another sponsered climber decorated with a climbing label. Mamut shoes, Mamut shirt, Mamut chalkbag, Mamut shorts, Mamut harness.... – there goes the Mamut girl. And Boreal shoes, shirt, chalkbag .... there goes the Boreal girl. There are lots of photographers around too, to keep the mags up to date with the latest onsites and flashes the climbers are making.

It is not every day that you rub shoulders with elite from around the world, but here there is a 6a (18) climb beside an 8a (30) climb at an area called Demi Lune. So, I warmed up on a 6a and right next door, the strongest girl in NZ, Mayan warmed up on an 8a! All around there are sculpted men and women with muscles rippling up the walls. Some rest after every move when they reach a bolt, and some pull on the drawers all the way up. Others climb more fluently and elegantly. We fell in love with a tiny little unassuming German girl who had no ego, and made no fuss after she cruised up an 8b (32) with pure style. The almost naked sculptures groaned and moaned at every move on the same climb, none of them making it to the top. Then, the little girl with her baggy daggy pants and shirt on, asked politely if she could have a go, after which they looked her up and down and with mock politeness replied “sure”. They were truly taken aback when she sailed through the moves smoothly, swiftly, silently; no sweat. They were breathless... we were breathless... impressive!

Its fun, but humbling climbing besides these people... Imagine playing tennis in the next court to Federa; or having a kick of soccer in the field next to ManU. These are some of the worlds best climbers, yet there is so little celebrity in the world of climbing. Chris Sharma (probably the best climber in the world) would have no worries walking down any busy street; but Federa would be lucky to get out his door.

We put to bed our star grading in Ceuse, mainly because every climb deserves 3 stars, and always the next climb is just as good if not better than the last. I kept overhearing everyone new to the area say, that anything they climbed was awesome (the Americans), or superb (the French) or so cool (the Aussies) and I havent heard a single complaint. Everything we did in Ceuse was worth doing, so we just stayed on and kept climbing. The walk in to the crag is quite taxing though; an hour or more up quite a steep hill, and an hour or a bit less down; committment; but we gave ourselves a break by bivouacing for a few nights at the crag itself. The climbs were also a little run out at times which tested the fear barrier. I am teaching myself to stop screaming when I take a lead fall, and to start “enjoying the fall”. It is easier said than done! After a bit of practice, instead of screaming and worrying all the other climbers and belayers at the crag that someone was hurt, they started to wonder what was so funny....

The invasion at Ailefroide - France

2009-07-04T01:11:00.000-07:00

Ailefroide is a spectacular area at the base of the French alps which comes alive in the summer months. There are plenty of 8-15 pitch climbs to be done in the shade which makes for awesome days out without getting toasted. (Alot of climbing sites in France are south facing so in the sun where it is impossible to climb until the afternoon.) It is much cooler in Ailefroide than further south, and so at around 20 degrees climbing is comfortable. The rock consists of granite slabs, with not many hand holds, so the climbing is all in the legs, but they are really enjoyable, sustained routes.

The campsite at Ailefroide is at the end of a cul de sac ( try saying that to a French peron) after which you can walk onto the southernmost glacier of the Alps – the Massif des Ecrins. It is not just the end of a road, but the end of the road for lots of families, who come to stay in the summer months. When we arrived there were 50 or so parties, and by the end of our stay, there were some 853 parties staying there!! Over the 2 weeks our campsite which had included a frisbee throwing area, yoga practise area, a slackline between two trees, a 5x4 tarp, a toilet block, a tent and plenty of different car parks was slowly invaded. We then couldnt play frisbee without knocking out the Swedish babies, my yoga was confined to a mat, there were tents either side of the slackline and somebodies washing draped over it, half the tarp fell down in a storm, there were dogs sniffing around our food, we had to wait hours for showers, we could hear snoring from the neighbours tent at night, and the powerpoints at the toilet block were all taken up so I couldn’t recharge the computer.... people really do come out in summer!

After the invasion, we had to get up earlier and earlier to go for a days climbing. One day we arrived at the bottom of a multipitch just before a party of 6 arrived, much to our relief. One of the men asked me what climb we were on, and I told him we were on an easy arrete called Pallavar Les Flots. We had planned to do the climb which had been recommended to us as being very easy – around grade 4c (grade 10, 11) but worthwhile with its stunning views. We were in the mood for a cruisy but enjoyable day, so that suited us fine. The man who was leading the party followed us up. He was taking a group who had never climbed outdoors or on multipitch before, so they were quite nervous. The climb was meant to be 13 pitches, but after 10 both Nic and I looked and looked for more bolts to no avail. Every way up, the rock went into an abyss. Eventually the man who was leading the party behind us caught up to us at the anchors and looked at me with some distaste when we asked him if he knew where to go. This is not the right route he said, this is not Pallavar Les Flots. This is much harder, see, he said and he showed us his guidebook which was more up to date than ours and had newer routes on it. This is a ten pitch climb - this is it. Hmmm, it figures I thought, yes, it was strange that in our guidebook it looked like you went up the arrete, but in reality we hadn’t climbed up any arrete. So, as we rappelled down, we overheard the rest of his group moaning and groaning about how long and difficult the day was..... Part of me felt guilty and sorry for them............ and the other part of me started to laugh; you get what you deserve when you follow idiots like us blindly...

Rest days - France

2009-06-30T01:23:00.000-07:00

All climbers need rest days. Rest days to go shopping for food and supplies. Rest days to read guidebooks to plan the next climbing days. Rest days to explore the local area. Rest days to check out the climbing shops. And I guess, rest days just to rest.

Some people climb for 2 days, then have 1 day off. Some people climb for 3 days then have one day off. And some climb for 4 days then have one day off. It depends on how long, how hard and how much you are climbing. The longer the climbs, the more often you need to rest; the more routes you climb, the more often you need to rest; and the more difficult the climbing, the more you need to rest. Anyway, in one year, we should have at least 3 months worth of “rest days”. That’s quite alot of resting.

I love our rest days. Sometimes we grab the frisbee and throw it around, or try to get better at slacklining (walking on a tightrope) or play boule or do yoga. And sometimes we just sit in a cafe or at the campsite talking about anything and everything. Some of the cafes are really nice, they don’t mind you eating your croissants and brioche and they have free wifi, which is perfect. Sure beats paying 1 euro for 10 minutes!

Of course we have to do our food shopping on rest days too, to satisfy our endless appetites. E.Leclerc has been our favourite supermarket so far. E.Leclerc is pronounced “leclair” in French – like chocolate eclair. My first attempt at saying it though sounded like “Lee Clerk” which no French person understood of course, and which Nic laughed at and corrected. Then, when we met some Aussies here, and Nic was talking about it, they had no idea what he was talking about, until I said “Lee Clerk”, and they understood, and said they had nicknamed it Electric! E. Leclerc along with Lidl seems to have the cheapest best value food in France. But when we are feeling a bit flushed up with cash, we go to the local market to select some new cheese we haven’t tried before, some local wine, some saucisson, some patissiere, some fruits and veg....

Rest days also mean more time to prepare food and cook. After a big days climbing, cooking can get a little dull because you are tired, but we managed to make a few different breakfasts on rest days... omelletes and crepes hmmm and cook a few awesome dinners like our woodfired bbqs and homemade pizzas. One rest day, to our surprise, the frisbee proved not only to be fun to throw around, but to be the perfect utensil for fruit picking. By throwing it at the blackberry tree, we made all the fruits fall onto our tarp so that we could pick them up easily, pour them into a saucepan, and then make some yummy blackberry jam. Beats picking them one by one! Miam Miam!

Listen closely - France

2009-06-26T14:38:00.000-07:00

France is all melody and beats in summer. Music collides at the festivals as we wonder around listening to mellow reggae behind tarty pop covers, jazz solos intertwined with pumping techno, and modern French blending with African fusion.

Crag pets - France

2009-06-25T01:08:00.000-07:00

I think I forgot to mention the most important member of Nic’s family – that is the cat, Mimine. But you can’t just say Mimine in a normal tone... you have to say Mimine in the highest pitch possible, until someone else in the family says it higher than you, and then of course you have to say it higher again and again and again, and the competition goes on until you are squeaking out the sound in the most ridiculous way that your mouth hurts, and you just have to burst out laughing. Mimine is the goddess of all cats. She is a great grandmother to Petite Mimine, a grandmother to Mimis which has gone astray, and a mother to Misty Gris. So the three cats form part of the Le Baut family, but everyone loves great grandma Mimine the best and so did I. She has an especially soft coat of 3 distinct colours and a purr that hums away, as she sleeps blissfully. Mimine spends most of her day sitting in a potplant with daffodils waiting for guests to come to the farm, so she can escort them from their car to the farm shop door. And when Nic’s brother Joss used to go to school, Mimine knew just when the bus should be pulling over, so would go and wait for him at the bus stop and walk him back home.

Mimine is certainly a beautiful and intelligent cat, but when you have been brought up in a family of dog lovers, it is hard to share the love. Cats scratch, cats stray, they are no ones best friend AND while we’ve met plenty of dogs at sports climbing crags, I’ve never seen a crag cat. Mimine could however be the exception. She is so loyal and loving, I doubt she would stray very far (from Nic in particular) at the crag, and I think she would love it there. She could do her yoga stretches together with me and then chase the butterflies while we climb. She could finish off our tuna for lunch and then sleep in the sun.

But Mimine is very attached to the farm, so perhaps if she didn’t want to join us, instead we could steal away Dennis’s fat rabbit Pin Pin for our crag pet. Pin Pin lives on Dennis’ verandah and spends his whole days eating and enjoying a spectacular view of Gap and the surrounding mountains. The exercise he would get around the crag could certainly assist with his diet. Pin Pin appeared to be on the Special K 12 week challenge when we stayed with Dennis. It was Special K and carrots for breakfast, and Special K and endives for dinner; while we ate our croissants and tarts. But the verandah which Dennis built was impressive and a perfect rabbit home, and despite the diet, I imagine Pin Pin indulged in left over croissants and tarts and even some bunny chocolate every now and again. Perhaps Pin Pin would also be reluctant to join us.

So I guess Nic and I will just have to content ourselves with our other crag friends. The giant ants that live in pockets and crawl onto your hands when you use their home as your next climbing hold, the friendly spider who lets you move him out of the way even though you destroyed his web because you need that jug; the green green grasshoppers who amble along camouflaged among the moss until you are up close and personal, the black birds that swoop down swerving justabove your head and the butterflies that flutter around joyfully, brightening up the grey rock, and any grey climbing day.

Afterword: Today at Ceuse I did see a little crag cat who seemed to be quite content sitting watching its owners. It was tied up to a tree so it didn’t go astray, and kill the native birds. Maybe this is the way of the future.

Deaf sentence - Orpierre, France

2009-06-20T01:02:00.000-07:00

I am reading a book called Deaf Sentence at the moment. It is an autobiography by an English man I am gradually coming to despise. He whinges about having to look after his father who is developing dementia; he whinges about his diminishing sex life with his wife and having to socialise at her work parties; he whinges about being a retired professor and being on his own all day; and he whinges about an unhinged smitten postgraduate student who he stupidly gets involved with. Most of all though, he whinges about becoming deaf, the grief it causes him and the lack of dignity the disability has compared to other disabilities, like blindness. Blindness, he says is tragedy, deafness is comedy. With blindness people will go out of their way to help you, they will help you cross the road, or help you off the train or help you onto a seat and pat your guide dog. With deafness he says, people just laugh at you; ´”What did you get for christmas Lena” he asked his grandaughter “Oh, an icicle, that’s nice...” he says, rather confused.... everyone laughs.... “ She said a tricycle darling”.

But the English man would have had nothing to whinge about last night. No one would have been laughing at him, and if anything we would have been jealous of his deafness. Being hard of hearing could have its advantages...

Last night was not unusual. We finished off our meal with pieces of dark chocolate and a lovely glass of Cote du Vivarais before packing up the camp kitchen and getting ready for bed. Nic had already prepared all the climbing gear for a multipitch the next day; 8 pitches of stunning climbing at the Quiquillion in Orpierre. We planned to get up at 7 am to ensure we arrived at the crag before anyone else, it is far more enjoyable to climb a multipitch at your own pace, rather than at someone else’s. If there is a group climbing ahead of you then they will set the pace for the day and you have no choice but to follow. Its like spending all day on a one lane road with no overtaking lane behind a truck that cant go over 80... So, with slightly wine induced contentment and sleepiness we crawled into our tent and onto our mattresses, excited about our big climb the following day.

The tent has been coping very well on our trip so far, and has created a happy home for us each night. Although blessed with good weather there has been the occasional thunderstorm where its 4 season capacity has been tested, but it has stood proudly throughout and has kept us warm and dry in the wind and rain. The mattresses however, are a different story. For 2 months they worked perfectly well. They were comfy and warm to sleep on even in the snow and at altitude because they are inflatable and filled with down. But now, after pumping them up in the evening they are flat by midnight. And it wasn’t until recently that we have found out why. All our efforts at locating the punctures ended in frustration and failure, until we really managed to submerge them in some perfectly still water and found that there wasn’t just one or two punctures to be fixed, but 15 or 20 scattered micro holes to deal with... so new mats are on order, and Exped has some explaining to do. But despite their deflatedness, we usually manage to get a good nights sleep.

7 am is an early start for us at the moment, so we were in bed around 10. But our bedtime is when the parties start. Most discoteques in France are out of town; away from the villages so residents cant be disturbed, and where they have no neighbours. Most campsites are also out of town, near the discoteques.....or near houses where people throw big parties with the assumption they have no neighbours. The party that night was really something. At first I imagined a group of totally messed up French teenagers; not sure whether they were into death metal or rave music or both. But then random old pop classics started playing, interspersed with some reggae and then rmb!? It was a party for every musical taste. We might as well been trying to sleep at the party next to the speakers; the music was ontop of us, all around us and all invading. There is a song on the French radio at the moment that is attractive in its simplicity, and goes something like “ Shut up , just shut up shut up; Shut up, just shut up shut up. “ I almost wished I was the English man from the book. So although we were all prepared with our climbing gear to get up at 7 and get to the crag before anyone else, it wasn’t until 3 in the morning that we really got to sleep and it wasn’t until 9 in the morning that we got out of bed.

So that’s my whinge.

Sweaty palms and slippery feet - Ardeche, France

2009-06-13T00:56:00.000-07:00

Ardeche consists mostly of limestone cliffs beside rivers that are perfect for cooling off in during summer. The limestone and the 30 plus degree days reminded me of my time in Tonsai, Thailand, but instead of grading the climbs easily as they do there, it was graded particularly hard. So hard in fact that our confidence went out the window for a few days, and we thought we might be better off taking up another hobby or stick to hiking perhaps. You could easily add a grade or two for the difficulty.

We set up camp at Castlejau which is a tiny town with the largest concentration of climbing in Ardeche and began to explore the region giving each of the climbs we did a star rating because the guide books didn’t. 0 stars meant crap, 1 star meant ok, 2 stars meant good and 3 stars meant something sustained, interesting and worth doing again. One day we went to a crag called Le Viel Audon which lies across a river from Balazuc, a beautfiul medieval town. Most of the climbs we did there we gave 2 stars. Then on another day we visited a crag called Salavas at Fontgarnide, a slabby cliff on a hill with good views of the area, and we rated most our climbs with 3 stars. Then we also visited Vallon Pont D’arc mostly for some swimming because of the heat!

Around Castlejau we had a play at Les Actinidias and Chaulet, but ended up at Mazet Plage most days where the sun wasn’t as intense and our hands didn’t drip with sweat after two minutes. One of the climbs at Mazet was called Pinky graded 6c (Ozzie grade 22) which Nic worked on one morning. The name says it all; there is not much to hold onto, and if you can hold onto something its, well it has to be with your.... . Another climb was called Les Strates a grade 6a (18) which we both liked. Les Strates had the craziest move in it where I had to balance on tip toes with both hands on 2 finger crimpers at chest height, then I had to put my right foot up high, rock onto it, then right hand a bit higher for balance on a slab before reaching for a jug. A very very balancy move, way above the bolt and quite scarey (especially for a 6a...) when I felt I was just getting back into climbing. The problem is that by the time you get there, your arms are totally pumped and it is difficult to relax and balance properly without having a good rest to let the pump subside, but there is no natural resting spot, so you just have to keep going. Despite being just a 6a, it is still my “project”.

The climbing routes in Ardeche tend to be cruxy, so a few times we jumped on a 6a (18) which you could climb up easily - say grade 15 style - then all of a sudden the climb would involve a 6c move (22) with no alternative! And some climbs were so polished and slippery our feet and hands slid everywhere. It was soo incredibly hot during the day, that we could really only climb in the morning before the sun hit or from 5 in the evening. Our climbing days could sometimes be frustrating...

The rivers in Ardeche could also be frustrating. They are ruled by the canoe mafia, and apparently on any given day in summer, there are 2000 canoes hired out to tourists. But Nic and I had our own ideas on how to enjoy the river, beat the mafia, and beat the 15 euro an hour canoe hire charge. We found some 3 euro lilos; money well spent. For hours we would drift down the river on our lilos, often passing over areas where the tourists in canoes would get stuck on rocks. In some parts the river was magical, as the limestone boulders which were 2 or 3 metres high created mazes and rapids which we sped down. In other parts the river would slow down and widen out and we would search for potential deep water solo opportunities on the bank. Nic would swim over and double and triple fold his lilo so that he could climb upon it and onto the rock to check it out.

After climbing and liloing in the heat, the coolness of the evenings spent having long bbqs and endless wine was the perfect respite. Ardeche has some of the best wine in France. My favourite, Cote du Vivarais; the perfect accompaniment to bbq and very drinkable. Mmmmmm.

Deja vu - the hospital, Ardeche, France

2009-06-10T00:45:00.000-07:00

I knew the climb was run out and knew it would be tough, but still desperately wanted to climb it. We were in Castlejau, France where the limestone is pretty and polished, and the river is a welcome respite for sweaty climbing bodies. As I approached the third bolt of Strappel my mind became preoccupied and dark, it was lonely up there where the next move was beyond me, and any fall would be huge. The fear made my legs move like Elvis and my arms like a chicken. I knew I couldn’t climb any further particularly in this dismal form, so I began to down climb.

Suddenly, my deadly scream echoed throughout the valley scaring everyone in its wake, as I fell barely a metre and smashed my feet against the wall. As usual, after being lowered to the ground, I laughed off everyone’s concern and swore at myself for not going for the move and for making a scene, until a twitch told me my right foot was not so right. As it gradually started aching I looked back at the climb in disbelief. Déjà vu. It was the same foot ... the same foot that caused me 6 months of rehab ...the same foot that I had put down when falling off a Vespa..... how could I have been so stupid to injure it again!

Good old Vinnie the Vespa was the best accessory I had ever had. He was a funky dark purple colour, 120ccs and gave me all the freedom and speed I needed. Even playing it safe (unlike the sexy Parisian girls who little tops and heels) by decking out in my big puffy silver and purple bikey jacket, matching silver helmet, gloves and boots I felt free and alive. Bzzzzzz as I roamed the streets zipping down to the beach to check out the surf.... bzzzzzzzz as I popped down to the cafe to meet a friend.

But even before I had chance to get my licence, someone else fell in love with Vinnie and stole him away from me – right outside our house! Vexed but not deterred, I hired a moped to go for my P test anyway, but the writing was on the wall.

The morning of the test wasn’t so bad. We spent a lot of time doing circuits around the local streets in a line of six greasy teenage boys, with the instructor out in front, and me and my moped bringing up the rear. In the tea breaks we had a chuckle about the ugliness of the fluoro yellow RTA shirts we had to wear. The boys told me excitedly about their own shitty bikes, their future Ducatis, and the big trips they planned after they got their licenses. Then, in all sincerity they asked me about my (hired) moped, which, at only 100cc was the last accessory they ever wanted.

We all got through the day unscathed, and the last test was an obstacle course consisting of four short elements. Firstly, a left turn where you had to stop in a bay. Secondly, a weave in and out of orange witches hats. Thirdly, a few laps around a track stopping at various designated points, and lastly the emergency stop. By that stage I was tired and just wanted to go home; so when the instructor asked who wanted to do the test first I was quick to respond. All went well until some clouds which had been threatening during the day burst, and rain swept over the track. The ground quickly became wet, my boots slippery and my helmet cover fogged over. But I just had one more thing to do to pass - the emergency stop. I pressed on the accelerator to reach the required 30kmph before slamming on the breaks at the designated spot. The breaks jammed on the painted line, the tyres slid, and I fell - letting out that same deadly scream – and getting an automatic FAIL.

“Don’t worry ‘blossom’” said the instructor “you’ve just hurt your pride”, and I glared back at him with the evil eye. I hobbled off across the tar with my right foot becoming more and more painful until arriving at the RTA shed where I burst into tears when asking to use the phone. It became apparent that I wasn’t going to be doing anymore walking let alone riding that day, and so Mum and Dad came to the rescue. We decided that any trip to the doctor would have to wait till the next day as it was approaching dusk and we would be lucky to find one open.

That whole night I lay in agony, my foot burning, so Mum rushed me to the hospital the following morning. After we relayed what had happened, the doctor promptly rushed me into the surgical room, put my right arm on the hospital table and began plastering my right wrist!!? (Apparently there is a bone in the wrist is commonly broken after falling, and can cause problems if displaced further and not plastered. ) I was perplexed, but he assured me that my foot should be fine but should be xrayed just in case.

Nic took me to the hospital the day after where I had x-rays taken of the right wrist and the right foot. After reading the x-rays, a doctor gave my foot the all clear, but said I needed to keep the wrist in plaster for at least a week as only a later x-ray would truly confirm all was in order. So, not able to walk due to my foot, and not able to use crutches because of my wrist, Nic carried me out of the hospital, (much to the nurses envy;) and I lay in a position on the couch, that was to be my home for the next week.

The quicker my foot healed, the sooner I could get back into climbing. So in true rehab style I began little walks to assist with the healing process. I knew if I could just walk a bit further each day eventually I would be able to walk to the beach (about a 15 minute return walk) and maybe climb in a few weeks, I thought. It was painful, but I would work through that pain.

Then, out of the blue, a week later (when my foot wasn’t feeling much better and I still hadn’t made it to the beach) came a random phone call from the hospital and a message to come back in as the xray looked rather.... suspicious. I went back and they took a CT scan. Ah yes! Its as we expected, they said, your right foot is broken. BROKEN!! Oh, and errr... your right wrist is fine. FINE !! so no need for that plaster on the wrist, and we better put something on that foot. I was MAD. So began 3 months of no walking, 4 months of no running, and worst of all 6 months of no climbing.

So, as my right foot began to ache more and more through the night in the tent at Castlejau, France as it had done at Mum’s almost exactly a year before, we had dark visions of “something vertical” being more like “something hoppable”, of changed flights and plans, of months of no climbing ... but the next morning, the hospital at Aubenas was a (boys) wet dream. Jolie French nurses, no queue to see them, no queue for the x-ray, and an angelic doctor who told me that NOTHING WAS BROKEN.

So whilst I might be off the rock for 1 week or so; I’m content at Castlejau, and anyway, we’re staying here for 2.

Castles, flowers and frogs - Loire Valley, France

2009-06-08T00:39:00.000-07:00

There once was a frog called Nic,
Who made lots of girls very sick.
He’d pick them all flowers,
From around castle towers,
Which were covered in bugs and ticks.

There once was a girl who loved flowers,
Who’d smell them around castles for hours.
A frog gave her his pick,
Which had hidden a tick,
But the girl was a witch with some powers.

There once was a witch called Spunky,
Who cast spells that were rather clunky.
She turned ticks into dicks,
Which gave her the kicks, and
The frog ended up as a monkey!

There once was a monkey called Nic,
Who climbed walls so incredibly quick.
He could do all the moves,
And mantle up rooves, and
Listened to her crap limerick.

Spending up - St Dier de Auvergne, France

2009-06-04T01:33:00.000-07:00

Without trying (too much) to emulate Alanis Morisette’s song.... isn’t it ironic when there’s rain on your wedding day. Last year Nic and I went to a wedding at a winery in Tasmania that couldn’t have been more beautiful. It was full of fun and good times, and perfect ... apart from the rain. And isn’t it ironic when there’s good advice that you just don’t take. Like the advice not to play soccer on a bad knee that my brother didn’t take, only to end up with months and months of rehab after knee surgery.

And isn’t it ironic that when you go out seeking something vertical to climb, you end up stuck in the flattest part of the country for a week. And isn’t it ironic that when you are unemployed and on a tight budget thats when you suddenly need the most money... Nic and I had envisaged a road trip in France where we would avoid paying much for accommodation; in particular, so that we could spend more on wine and food, and climbing gear. Ok, so maybe you might think that seems a little idealistic, but we had our reasons... We have a 4 season tent which survives through any weather, we are self sufficient in cooking and other camping equipment, and we are used to not using camp site toilets or showers; particularly after 2 months of living in remote areas of Nepal where we had no choice! Besides, Nic’s parents had generously lent us their new van for the trip – for 3 months! and we could always sleep in the back if we really needed to, although it would be quite a squish with all our gear.

So, at the start of our journey driving towards the south of France, as the sun started to set, we headed off the main road and found a little woodland behind a paddock on a farm that suited us just fine for a nights camping. It was flat for the tent and gave us enough privacy and shade. No one bothered us at all there in Agnes and we spent a night for Free! So, the second night we did the same.... as the sun started to set, around St Dier De Auvergne we headed off the main road and onto a country road and then onto a dirt track that seemed more built for a 4WD than for the van. The track gradually became wetter until it was full of mud and we started to get worried that the van would end up bogged. With bated breath we made it through unscathed and onto a very scenic camping spot with a view across the valley and over the town. Ahhh, we sighed; it was a long day of driving, and nice to finally arrive at a destination that was perfect for the night. Nic turned the car around to park, and suddenly crunch!!! What the &*(& was that? OMG, OMG, OMFG there goes the radiator, cried Nic. And sure enough, the van had hit a rock, not hard, but hard enough to crack a section off the radiator so that it was broken and leaking.

After much swearing and self reprehension, bordering on self mutilation, we took the van back onto the road, determined to find the next proper campsite, adamant that it was karma; in our search for saving a euro we had now wasted hundreds of euros. The radiator leaked along the way and the car overheated, but ironically the next campsite was free!.... The following day, after finding the local mechanic, we waited impatiently for the radiator verdict and an estimate of the damage – a replacement radiator, 2 hours work, up to 7 days wait and 637 euros. Eeek!!! We could have paid for 6 nights of luxury accomodation with that; or up to 63 days of camping at a proper campsite at 10 euro a night!!! Furthermore, on our climbing holiday it looked like the furthest we would get would be St Dier de Auvergne , flat as a tack, in the middle of France, and where the only climbing was on the local playground. Isn’t it ironic; when you try to do things on the cheap, you end up spending big time!

Bird watching - Brittany, France

2009-05-25T05:15:00.000-07:00

After losing over 8 kilos mountaineering, it didn’t take long – 2 weeks in fact - for Nic and I to become roly poly after we arrived in France. We spent a lovely relaxing 2 weeks at Nics parents, Michelle and Raymond in Bretagne eating The Best Bretagne food, if not The Best food. Bretagne – Brittany in the northwest of France is particularly famous for its fruits de la mer or fruits/food of the sea – seafood! We indulged in langistinne something like a cross between a crab and a prawn, ultra fresh rock oysters, rays and spiders. Then some wild oiseaux - pronounced “wazu” and meaning bird, and pork from the farm; pork patte, fresh jambon, and saussicon, (although not all on the same day…) Michelle makes The Best gateaux Bretagne (kinda like shortbread) and The Best strawberry gateau which we helped decorate for Llelwyn’s (Nic’s neice’s) birthday. (As well as being a bon cuisiner , Michelle also has other talents like painting and embroidery and best of all, sorcery; her homeopathic concoctions worked a treat!) Ohhhhhh, all this tres bon food and I haven’t even started mentioning the wine and the cheese! We also spent the two weeks in Bretagne checking out Jocelyn’s photos – all of them of “wazu”. He really has taken a liking to “wazu” watching and photographing, and wears a camouflage suit to hide amongst the trees. There he waits in his hideous green plastic outfit and army green balaclava with his foot long telescopic lens until some poor person wonders through the forest track and suddenly… “Bonjour!” cries the tree. But his photos were quite brilliant and the lens so powerful I also used it to take photos of Nic and Jos surfing more than 100 metres away. They went surfing a few times out near the western most points of La Plue. The waves are some of the best in France, but the water was so cold and frigid Nic’ sensitive toes (after being almost frostbitten on our expedition in the Himalayas) couldn’t bear it. Anyway, the last weekend we stayed in Bretagne was The Best. Whilst Jos went off to chase another type of bird at a uni party, we went to a traditional Bretagne “fesnos” with the folks. At the fesnos the musos played their pipes, which are like a one pipe bagpipe, and the singers did a question-response type song. Everyone joined hands in a circle and danced the particular dance that goes together with the song. I really really wanted to join in… but Michelle and Raymond, even after years of dancing lessons were not taking part. This had to be a sign. With deceptively simple looking footwork it was best left to the pros. So, even though those 8 kilos were truly back on by then, off we went to enjoy more of Bretagne and eat crepes and drink apple cider.

Celebration of an expedition - Nepal

2009-05-13T00:28:00.000-07:00

The celebration at the end of our expedition lasted a while, as it should. It began with a big party in Lukla, where after being teetotallers for a month we skulled beer and tried Nepali whisky with the porters, the guides, and the liason officer. The liason officer has a strange role. In essence, the Nepali government requires us to have a special permit and be accompanied by a liason officer on the expedition, as we were going to climb a Himalayan peak above 7000 metres. The problem is, most liason officers have only ever seen the inside of an office, and have no idea about the mountains or mountaineering, let alone climbing a 7000 metre peak. So, it would be dangerous and even stupid to have them “accompany” the team. So it seems to be an unspoken rule that the liason officer sees us off, and then suddenly reappears to join us on the way back, often on the last day of the expedition to walk back to Lukla. Anyway, we had a lot of laughs making fun of the poor man who made a small contribution to our expedition, but partied in a big way at our big party to celebrate our big effort. Without that small contribution though, and so without a permit and his approval we could have been fined thousands of dollars. Once an American team was fined over US $100,000 for climbing without approval.

The night of the party Robin, our cook made the most amazing meal with different curried meats and veges, papadams, and a big cake for dessert. We drank and ate far too much, and then thanked the porters and the guides quite formally for all their hard work, which sometimes involved carrying up to 70 kg loads with barely sandals for footwear through ice and snow. It amazes me how famous some western mountaineers are – particularly those who have climbed Everest, and how little recognition their Nepali guides and porters get. They climb the same peaks, fixing ropes and often enduring twice as much weight as the members of the team, and I never heard any of them complaining. We made donations of our expedition gear, and money to them which they graciously thanked each of us individually for. The night continued with lots of back slapping, some truly bad dancing to Bollywood music, and more making fun of the liason officer and his really truly bad dancing, till we could laugh and stand no longer.

After enduring the flight back from Lukla, (the flight is specatular but the take off and the landing is terrifying, and there is at least one plane accident a month - on a sad note, Edmund Hilary watched his wife and children die on a flight arriving in Lukla), and arriving back in the Du, Nic, Boydo and I decided to get out of the city as soon as possible, and booked a short trip to Pokara to continue our celebration. We took a bus from the Du which was meant to take 6 hours but ended up taking 13..!!. The road was full of landslides which meant that the two lanes of quite a busy road became one , and we had to wait in the bus for hours dripping with sweat until the bus could move a few metres and a breeze would come through the window. After our horendous trip from Dunche (see the article Dunche to the Du) we had decided to take the “tourist bus” so we didn’t have to put up with so many animals and people on top of people as , but even on the tourist bus, 13 hours is a long long ride without air conditioning in over 30 degrees and stifling humidity.

Our celebration continued in Pokhara. We indulged at the “German bakeries” which did a pretty good chocolate croissant, and apple pie; especially after a rice diet for 2 months; and explored the Indian restaurants which the Nepalis do extraordinarily well. We spent our days drinking beers in canoes on the lake, drinking wine on the rooftop of our hotel with a view of the Annapurnas, and just drinking generally, so that we saw things that perhaps weren't there. I like celebrating.

Climbing attempt on Barunste - Nepal

2009-05-10T02:09:00.000-07:00

I could see the snow capped summit in the distance. Getting excited, I rushed up to the top of the moraine ridge, and there it was. From this 5500m view point, trying to catch my breath, the impressive west face of Baruntse stood proudly in front of me. The south west ridge was the route we had come to climb. The ridge looked well defined, and weather conditions looked promising. Our support crew had already set up the tents and prepared dinner when we arrived at base camp. Life can be way too easy sometimes! The next day one of our porters, who was also a lama conducted a puja ceremony – where our gear is blessed and we implore the gods for good weather and good health. The following 2 days were spent resting to ensure proper acclimatisation prior to heading up higher on the mountain. As I got bored easily, I spent my time going on walks and eating the endless supply of food from our chef Robin. Davina, in the meantime was happy chilling out and reading. Then everyone got busy at base camp packing for the next 5 days – for the climb. Sumit, our friend and also group leader had mapped out the expedition climbing plan. Day 1 – we would walk to Camp 1 , Day 2 – we would acclimatise by walking to Camp 2 and back again to Camp 1, Day 3 we would walk to Camp 2 and stay there for a sumit bid on Day 4. The climb to Camp 1 was the most exciting with a 300 metre section of ice and snow at about 45 to 50 degrees. I wasn’t at all keen on jumarring up fixed ropes, so started pitching it myself, with Pat seconding, and ended up soloing the top section. It felt like hard work, especially at 5100metres! Pat and I arrived at Camp 1 before any of the other team members, and there we took the only stove, to melt water and rehydrate. It felt good to chill out at camp, nicely protected from any avalanche. The next day we went for our acclimatisation walk to Camp 2 at 6500 metres and back, on a beautiful sunny day that gave us a good view of the south west ridge of Baruntse as well as a stunning postcard shot of Makalu. That night, back at Camp 1 , Pat and I got stuck into some freeze dried meals that looked appealing, but were not so appealing the following day. I was as sick as a dog the next morning, and we had to get to Camp 2 ready for our sumit bid the following day! I took it slowly, throwing up along the way a couple of times, although I didn’t know how I would feel the following day. Thanks to a few digestives, I felt suprisingly better on the summit morning when we had to get up at 2 am. The sky was clear, stars out, and the night calm. We left the campsite in a chilly -20 degrees walking in 1 foot of fresh powdered snow that made our progress slow and difficult. About 30 minutes after leaving the camp, I lost feeling of most of my fingers and toes which made me think about going down.... but I decided to wait for the sun to rise. When it rose, it didn’t really help warm them, but the view of Makalu was so beautiful at about 6700 metres that it helped me upwards. The progress was quite difficult due to the loose snow and I was happy to rest every 10 steps or so. I eventually joined lakpa who was leading the climb at 6,850 metres where he had stopped. He was in front of a crevass which almost totally crossed the ridge, and below us was a 2000 metre vertical drop. The only way through was a steep section of very loose snow which he was unsure whether to lead. “What do you think?” he asked, perplexed. I wasn’t at all keen to lead that section either, particularly because we only had static ropes to fix the lines which wouldn’t have been great in case of a lead fall. So, this was the highest point we reached on the mountain. I was happy enough to go back down, as my toes still didn’t show any signs of life, but back at Camp 2 I was relieved to discover I had no frostbite. It felt good to leave the mountain and get back to the comfort and saturated oxygen air at Base Camp at 5500 metres.

RFC (Robin’s Fried Chicken) - Nepal

2009-05-08T08:05:00.000-07:00

Coming back into civilisation after being in alpine territory (above 5000m in altitude) is the best lesson in life appreciation you can get. At base camp everything was dead and grey and the only life we saw consisted of hawks and the odd ferret. The cold ice infected everything. There were no fresh vegetables; no meat, and mostly rice and potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But after we crossed the pass on our way back from Baruntse, life returned. It came back in tiny green spurts of leafy shrubs, in tiny purple alpine flowers, and then little bursts of energy and song as finches began to flutter across our path. The world became a magical garden full of treasures that no evil could penetrate.

And just when we were revelling in life and its beauty, glorious food began to grace our plates. Fresh vegetables appeared for dinner; mushrooms, tomato and spinach… and fresh fruits for dessert; sweet sweet bananas... and then, wonderful Robin, our cook popped The Question:

“ Would you guys like to have some Chicken!?”

Chicken!!?? The only meat we had eaten, or tried to eat for the previous 2 weeks was canned spam! Chicken sounded heavenly. Chicken sounded divine. So he bought some local chickens - animals we had just walked passed on the trek, and curried and fried them for our lunch. While it might have been oily and dry, and somewhat reminiscent of KFC, it was still the best chicken I have ever tasted; Robin’s Fried Chicken, and it became known fondly as RFC.

That night, the sweet water of the shower helped cleanse away weeks of dirt. Then the warmth of the night felt like a long awaited snuggle. Ahhh, to sit inside a house warming hands by a toasty fire; to sleep without my feet feeling numb, frozen and belonging to someone else; to sleep naked, without thermal layers upon layers; to go out to a real toilet at night without putting on mountaineering boots and a down jacket. Life was gooooood.

Dark rhythms from a basecamp - Nepal

2009-05-04T07:19:00.000-07:00

My forehead burrows, the worry is clear
I know too well the things to fear

Like the water she left on the side of her pack
Which becomes icy, frozen, undrinkable at that
She reaches anyway and takes off her mitt
Which flutters and blows away with her wit
Her hand becomes numb; she cant hold the rope
No water, no hand, no wit, no hope

Like the air vent he forgets to open at night
And a snow storm starts blowing the tent becomes white
He passed out early after cooking inside
From the poisonous air he has no place to hide
His dreams become wild; he’s on crazy dope
No oxygen, no breath, no air, no hope

Like her focussed mind which ignores the thin air
To turn back now would be too hard to bear
So her climb up is automatic, but her head explodes
She collapses, coughing blood and vomiting loads
Her summit dream is so strong she thinks she can cope
No head, no lungs, no health, no hope

Like the agony of his bladder bursting
While in his warm bed he cant stop cursing
Where the fuck is my pee bottle to no one he said
And where is my head torch; not by the bed
He rises in the dark and falls down the slope
No ridge, no footing, no arrest, no hope

7000m up the air is thin
But weather is good warming hearts within
Dark rhythms at base camp haunt my soul
But I’ve confidence they will reach their goal
And come safely down the climbing rope
So I can cease this endless mope…

Mera Peak - Nepal

2009-04-25T07:34:00.000-07:00

The team:

The team was made up of Sumit ( our expedition leader), Robin (the cook), Lakpa and Lakpa, Pasang and Pasang, (4 Sherpa guides), up to 70 porters, and 10 “members”. The 10 members included Boydo (the hindu-like hash smoking holy man), Liam (can’t wait to get back to my Ducati), Candace (cough cough), Sharon (wonder woman), Allan (the big bear), Chris (whose brother has a squashed penis), Pat (the hibernating spam lover), Kerri ( the serious second timer), Nic and I.

The camping:

Each campsite had a toilet tent, a mess tent, and our own individual tents which the Sherpa guides would set up for us each night (even if you tried to help them they wouldn‘t let you.) Many sites were isolated in wilderness, but sometimes we stayed near teahouses.

The food:

The meals tended to be a 3 course affair catered for in the mess tent, to keep energy levels high for the trekking and the climb. Breakfast was any combination of muesli, porridge, rice pudding, cornflakes, pancakes, eggs and tea. Lunch and dinner always began with soup, then any combo of dahl baht, potato curry, noodles, spaghetti, Tibetan bread, dumplings, chips and pizza, with canned fruit for dessert. (After the Langtang trek where we ate noodles every day, even this limited variety was a relief!)

The hospital:

There wasn’t a day that went by when someone wasn’t sick from gastro, altitude or the dusty air. Candace hacked away from a lung infection, Boydo hacked away from something hindu, and Pat was at one point coughing up blood! Liam, Chris and I had bouts of gastro, ugh, and most of us got at least some signs of AMS - altitude mountain sickness. Above 3000m, the oxygen thins out, it gets harder to breath, and so harder to walk and climb. The resting heart rate rises. The effects of AMS vary, but it came at me with a vengeance. The higher I went the more I would walk like a drunk and talk like a drunk, then my head would start exploding and I'd have to sit down. I'd become nauseaus and lose my appetite. And the side effects of the remedy (a drug called diamox) are pretty unbearable too; pins and needles everywhere, even in the face!

The climb:

Mera Peak is stunning. From it you have an amazing panorama of Everest, Lhotse, Manaslu, Chooyu and others - but these are 4 of the above 8000 metre peaks. Its not a hard climb to do; indeed its really just a walk -with crampons, and for us (as there was a crevasse near the top), a 20 metre ice climb. After setting out alpine style at 4 am, we arrived at around 8 making excellent time in perfect weather. A magical summit day.

Dunche to the Du - Nepal

2009-04-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

We hopped on the bus from Dunche to the Du at about 6.30 in the morning, and thinking we had fairly good seats with plenty of room and with some Bollywood music pumping on the stereo , I couldn’t help but get into some bum wiggle dancing. It looked to be an exciting journey! But much to my dismay, pretty soon after Dunche, the bus driver, not content with the money he was making from the passengers already on the bus, kept stopping to fit as many extras on as he could. So at every small town the bus bashing boy became the bus advertisement boy, and would ask if anyone was going to the Du, and if so would push them on.

We soon had more than a bus full and a roof full; not just of people, but of chickens and dogs and rice bags and kerosene….and when we thought it was impossible that he would stop again for there was no way more people could get on, another person would look sheepishly at us from the street, and then do just that, get on. The stench and the heat just kept getting worse,.

Just to make things even more uncomfortable, the man behind me started leaning forward and out my window to clear his throat and spit out! I was more than grossed out. Then the stereo became stuck on the same Bollywood tune I had thought was so good... And as we drove along, the ridges became steeper and steeper with a thousand metre drop on one side, and a road just wide enough for the bus. Our maniac bus driver didn't seem to notice as he would try to overtake anyone that would not keep up wtih him and his hast. I squeezed Nic's hand as we went along and thought, I love you, this is it, thanks for the good times...if you last send my love to my family but amazingly enough we arrived at the Du unscathed.

shadows of people on the roof of the bus

Lang Tang trekking - Nepal

2009-04-15T23:42:00.000-07:00

Langtang proved to be quite a beautiful trekking route. Not as popular as the famous Solokhumbu and Annapurna regions, it is less crowded so perhaps more enjoyable. We packed lightly and set off; intending to be away for 2 weeks or so. We travelled from the Du to Sundarijal where we began the Helambu trail, heading north towards Gossainkund and Laurenbina pass, and then through to the Langtang Valley trek.

We stayed in simple tea houses where Nic became a champion of negotiating a free night's accommodation if we ate in the restaurant (as the menus were identical at each place it made no difference to us anyway)! Some Nepalese were lovely; some well not so... At one tea house in the Helambu, we were looked at with glances of suspicion? or was it disgust? I couldn‘t tell, but when our dinner came out looking as though the plate had been half attacked, we knew we weren‘t welcome guests! But then, later on the trek, we were invited for tea, given 2nds and 3rds, invited to try on the traditional dress and all sorts other nice gestures. We even adopted some Nepali children who came up Kyangin Ri with us - climbing a 400m high mountain at 6 years old is quite an achievement! - they are future sherpa guides for sure :)

The teahouse menu included Tibetan bread, chowmein, dahl baht, sherpa soup, and that was about the extent of it. So our evenings became virtually the same. In true Nic and Davina style we took just enough rupees to cover the cost of our trek… relying on our trusty lonely planet guide which happened to be 8 years old… with 8 year old prices quoted in it. So our limited budget meant an even more dreary diet of the cheapest possible meal, and plenty of lost weight!

Each day we’d walk from 4 to 8 hours. The trek was always easy enough to follow with no need for a guide until we reached the pass. Although everyone we met had a guide and a few porters! We did use the services of a Nepali “guide” who was introduced to us after we had a days rest when the weather was bad, and the fresh snow had hidden all the tracks. Whilst not exactly a qualified guide (we later found out that the fine for guiding unlicensed is hefty, and there is jail term if a tourist is injured, sick or dies!) he did just what we needed and got us over the pass… but he had no idea of altitude sickness, and got a little impatient with me when I started walking like a drunk. As we got higher and higher in altitude my brain started exploding inside my head, I had nausea and no appetite… which became so bad and intense later that Nic had to help me down in the middle of the night to a lower altitude.

When we were cruising back down the valley, Nic started patting a friendly looking horse which gave us a nasty shock when he turned around and nipped him on the finger. Although not much of a bite, we were days from civilisation and rabbies vaccines! So our leisurely walk turned into a mission to get back to the Du as fast as possible. We managed to get to Dunche that evening (a good 8 hour walk that day) in order to catch a bus back to the Du, but bus ride is another story!

Kathmandu - Nepal

2009-03-27T04:37:00.000-07:00

Kathmandu is a crazy city. If you can see past the streetside rubbish, diesel fuel, and the begging it is vibrant and fun - but that is a big ask! The streets are crawling in motorbikes, 3 wheel tuk tuks, rickshaws, 4WD buses, and little Suzuki taxis which all use the one lane, and their horn more often than not. Whether its to say hello; " beep beep", or as a warning; "beeeeeep", or in impatience; "hoooornk" it is annoying, and the old diesel keeps you hacking away along with everyone else.

The garbos come early in the morning but don’t seem to pick up anything, so the dogs, yaks and cows wonder through searching for bits of this and bits of that in the piles and piles of shit.

Begging is rampant; and so are the selling scams. You ask for 4 bananas, but as soon as you open your wallet, then the vendors want to sell you 7 plus 2 mandarins, one flute, one necklace, one pashmina and one trek. And after Nic gave one beggar his old shoes he sat next to them all night, didn’t put them on, and begged us for money the next day.

The electricity turns on when it wants, just like the hot water, so a shower is a luxury along with light. I’ve had a love/hate relationship with this place. When we were trekking, and far from civilisation I could have killed for a shower - any shower, a fresh banana from a streetside seller, and a rickshaw to save my legs. But after a day here the endless horns and sitar whining, rubbish and dirt is sickening. Cough cough… enough of the Du.

Mount Aspiring - New Zealand

2009-03-12T04:26:00.000-07:00

Summiting Mt Aspiring could have been a dream for years, but instead the seed of the dream was planted only a week before the climb. When Nic mentioned; that I should have skills enough to climb Mt Aspiring if I wanted, I held on to the idea, and began to dream. He had been up before so I felt confident that together we might make it. “Aspiring” has beautiful note; something inspiring, something perspiring, something I could aspire to... to climb just because it was it is there.

After arriving in Lake Wanaka, the mountain remained hidden for a few days, only to be read about in guide books and to be talked about. But when it peeped its head out from behind the clouds, I couldn’t keep my eyes off it, and I fell in love. Like many loves though, Aspiring remained untouchable, and every day became a weather watching affair. Our ritual was a leisurely breakfast of coffee and muesli on the lake followed by a drive to DoCs to get the latest report by Metview, our weather gospel. There began the endless talks of low pressure, high pressure, winds from the north, south, east and west and endless leaning over and interpreting of maps with colourful graphs. But every day there became a reason not to start the trip… heavy winds... low pressure... rain.. And after morning preparations had been made, they would be aborted. At first I was content to dream; to soak up the idea and prepare mentally, particularly for that early 4 am start I had been warned about. More than fitness, more than anything; that early start seemed to be the most difficult obstical. 4 am was a dreaming hour and not one to be disturbed with a rude awakening and forced breakfast.
But even early mornings can be overcome (unlike the weather) and as each day passed my dissappointment grew, our flight back to Sydney became closer, and the possibility of making my dream a reality and attempting Mount Aspiring was disappearing. Finally though, giving us just enough time to make an attempt, a high which had been heading towards the south island, was predicted to clear the mountain and give us some good summit weather. Suddenly afraid, but very excited, I jumped back in the car, and we took the bumpy road to Rasberry flats - the beginning of the trail.
We set off with big packs at 2 in the afternoon. 15kgs had never felt heavier, and I was totally unprepared for being a humpback. Furthermore, at the start, we had to walk through farms, dodge cow patties and endure big cow's eyes glaring at us with the knowledge we are meat eaters. eeek!! But the walk soon became magical whn we walked into the forests with giant mossy trees and lush dense scrub, and I began singing the Lord of the Rings soundtrack. Our first campsite was at Pearl Flat; which felt like a small Elvish paradise, but was soon swarming with sandflies. They knew no bounds, eating at skin and through clothes with ease, and totally ignoring our tropical strength spray.
The next day began a far longer walk, but also more varied. Over the roots of trees, swing bridges and moraine, we moved before beginning our dance along the ledges to reach Bevan Cole. On the glacier there were so many crevasses that a couple walking ahead of us would take 3 steps, for every fall. So Nic and I tied in together on the rope and hoped for the best - even though our falls seemed to be just as frequent. Reaching Colin Tudd hut was a relief. We made company with a couple from Prague who, although experienced, didn’t have their crampons in NZ yet, so had waltzed across the glacier earlier that morning without any- crazy stuff unless you really know what you are doing.
Anyway, we all sat with eager ears that evening listening to the forecast for the following day which was “fine but with 100 knot winds". But with typical skepticism which brewed after any given forecast, we decided to wake the next morning at 4am, only to be whipped and rattled around outside. I even lost my balance from the wind and fell on the way to the toilet, and then had to go with the door wide open (it refused to shut) slamming repeatedly as I tried to relieve myself. It wasn’t a day to be walking on exposed ridges at 3000 metres. So, we went back to sleep and lazed around, digging somewhat into the leftover food and soups that other parties had left behind.
Later that day we had more visiters… Simon - a guide and his client- Geoff; and we soon learnt about Geoff's dream. Geoff had tried to summit Aspiring in the 70s but bad weather had stopped him. Then, he tried in the 80s but fitness had stopped him. Then he tried again with his son in the 90s and the weather again was a killer. But his dream was still alive as he told us he had been training even harder this time, and this time the guiding company had even hung out for a break in the weather for him. I felt almost guilty telling him of our hastily hashed together plan - my dream which had merely been sown together a week prior, and the fact that Nic, as cool as ever was waltzing up a second time.

The following morning Nic and I set off soon after Simon and Geoff… the forecast the night before had been perfect and only predicted some 20 knot winds arriving late in the day. The climbing I didn't find so hard, but it was consistent, long and exposed. Nic was in essence guiding me, and lead the whole way. When I saw the summit ridge, I burst into tears. It was so out there, so beautiful, so extreme. To ensure I was safe though, he encouraged me to “bite” my crampons in… so I went into a “bite” mantra; all the while knowing that any one step that didn’t bite could be the one step that caused me to slide, and it wasn’t a small drop below but rather a 3000 metre one.

Being on the summit was fun, but short and sweet. I knew I wouldn’t be a gun for summit fever, as the journey itself was more exhilerating than the few moments on top. But still, my dream had become reality; I had summitted my first mountain, and shortly after, after 4 previous attempts, and a life long dream Geoff summitted Aspiring too.

Mountaineering 101 - New Zealand

2009-03-10T04:13:00.000-07:00

Everyone looks in amazement as Nic and I launch ourselves over the danger barrier; “Beware of rock fall! Beware of Avalanches! Falls recorded every day in the previous 5 days! Do not proceed!” and keep on walking. He laughs and says that because of the likes of me (being a lawyer in a previous life) DoCs – Department of Conservation - have to warn people of any old falling leaf now. I smile, but am not convinced. Etched in my mind is the image of the two Australian men who died at the terminal of the glacier last month, but to our tourist audience we look the part with our goretex outfits, chunky mountaineering boots, ice axes and crampons duly attached to our packs. Little do they know (all my gear was bought just yesterday in Christchurch) this is my first mountaineering experience, mountaineering 101.

Ice is a different world. Rock is familiar and warm, I can touch it with my bare hands and my feet stick, it feels safe and I feel at home. Ice is cold, frozen, slippery and wet. And as if the ice itself wasn’t tough enough, our luggage was deemed so lethal , in our fear driven, terrorist alarmed world that we had to have it all wrapped up and slapped with dozens of “restricted” warnings, before the pilot was warned and alerted to the fact it was on board! And then, as if carrying the gear wasn’t difficult enough, having to wear it was even worse. My crampons had sharp steel talons which stuck out on all sides and scared me just to look at. I really didn’t want one of those talons in my foot, in my leg, or anywhere near my body. And the ice axes looked straight out of a horror movie. I was clumsy at the best of times, but with these lethal things... there came serious responsibility.

After a much longer approach than expected – whilst the terminal was right there, that was not the safest way to get on the glacier – we strapped on the crampons, gripped our ice axes and were off. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. The ice was straight from out of a freezer, but then, stripped away it was glass.... whooohoooo. Ok, very slippery, must be careful not to fall. So the instruction began. Mountaineering 101 – lecture one in crampon walking – ok so far, apart from watching my swish new pants almost ripped to shreds in the first minute ... lesson two in self arrest and crevasse rescue. Ok, so now I know Nic has high aspirations for me, as he throws himself onto the ice axe demonstrating self arrest. This looks more like learning self mutilation than self arrest. How can it be possible to put all your weight on an axe safely?! I begin to wonder if really I am just a lounge chair mountaineer... but slowly, surely I get the hang of it, and, by the end of the day am hammering away, climbing up walls, and having a ball.

Wet bouldering days at castle hill - New Zealand

2009-03-02T09:36:00.000-08:00

We arrive late on a wet evening at Castle Hill, and testing out our new head lamps which thankfully work a treat, set up the tent in the dark. Sleeping gear in, we lay exhausted with tired eyes but sleep doesn’t come easily. The water in the stream, tranquil at first gets louder and more threatening as the rain intensifies. How high can it rise in one night I wonder? I drift in and out of sleep. We are lilo-ing downstream on our stomachs, in our sleeping bags, on our mats. We drift through the forest under big canopies, dropping our hands in to say hello to the fish. We make friends with the pretty keas who are content to sit on our backs for the free ride. Up ahead the stream goes through a cave, and there, guarding the entrance is Gollum.... the riddles begin.

What is the grade 16 highball route beginning with D? How many bouldering routes are at Castle Hill, and what is a kea’s favourite food after the rubber on your climbing shoes?

I wake the next morning with great relief that the tent hasn’t moved, and that we're dry. But the rain lingers on during the day, leaving the Castle Hill boulders greasy and wet. So began the rainy day climbers' ritual. Out came the hacky sack ( or happy sack as I insist on saying to keep our spirits high) and out came the frisbie... out came the coffee pot, and out came the nibblies. And when we were bored then began the hut traverse, the mantle fireplace boulder problem, the sloper beam hang, the one arm jug roof hang, chin ups on the eves... but best of all the banter.
“Did you know that a sheep can recognise up to 25 other sheep? They have done tests, and found that sheep will recognise the rest of their flock and follow them above any other sheep”, said one reliable source. But what happens if they have had a hair cut I wonder? I certainly wouldn’t recognise my friends naked and hairless... and probably wouldn’t want to... and definitely not 25 of them. I begin to wonder if a sheep’s intellect has surpassed that of the human race. Perhaps the sheep is sacred, and holy, and supreme. Perhaps New Zealand is the land of the holy sheep, like India’s holy cow. Perhaps my kiwi friends have sheep rituals they are hidding from me.

I stop pondering over sheep and wonder back to the tent, my haven from the rain, but there, right at the entrance is a hole. A nibbled, dirty, ripped hole. A hole that lets the rain in. Someone was chewing away at it during the night and I doubt it was Nic! I seeth with rage, and wonder. That was some viscious animal. Then I remember, it is not the sheep that is holy in New Zealand, but the kea.