Riding the Pig
Climbing seems to me to be all about the moment, a split second that can bring
the whole experience of a route or adventure into sharp focus. On Poi, a 600m
exfoliating loaf of granite in the northern desert of Kenya, two days of harrowing
seat-of-your pants climbing boiled down to such a moment one second of realization
that rendered the other 48 hours of run-outs and RP faithlessness more or
less redundant. Within that second I lived the whole damn mad epic and more...
It
seems to have turned inky black almost instantly, the night having descended
as fast as the novelty of fresh love from the moment of conception. The day
has flown by, leaving us halfway up the cliff and isolated under the canopy
of night at the planned bivvy site. Well all most, Max, Si and Dave had made
ft to the biv vy but I somehow hadn't quite got there yet. Sat on two sky-hooks
and three Friends the lead rope trails off in the direction I'm suppose to
go, disappearing into the night after only a few feet.
I feel insecure and alone, the hooks perched precariously behind rotten flakes and the Friends slotted in a small crack that curls open like the leaves of a stale Valentine card. I wish. . Why is there never a shooting star when you need one? It's a rising horizontal path of tussocks on a shallow slab to safety. Maybe half a rope length away, not too far, but I'd been thinking that for at least the last hour. There had been a race to get someone from our group of four onto the next, crux pitch before dusk, a pitch which would be too dangerous to try in the morning mist.
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Everything seemed to fall apart in the rush, gear mixed, ropes tangled, leaving Dave and I fighting dusk on this last pitch to the bivvy site. By the time Dave had set off on the pitch it had been a toss Up between finding gear placements and losing visibility or just getting on with the business. He'd got on with the business which meant the 70' traverse I was now faced with was completely runnerless. I sense vultures circling on the thermals below.
Somehow I've also managed lo end up with two rucksacks, bivvy gear for four people. One is on my back trying to edge me from the tussock that is my right buttock's home (my left buttock making do with air support) while the other sack hangs from the end of a rope that lies across my thigh. The sack is billowing in the wind 60' below, my leg long gone dead. A muffled shout comes out of the night a belay's been assembled. Dave's safe. Which is nice.
There has been this on going joke all day about the weight of Max and Simon's sack, how much cheese they've brought. The joke wears thinner as I haul their sack inch by inch. It's as heavy as a broken heart. Suddenly, violently, I'm yanked forward, then almost as quickly come to a jarring halt. Too shocked to be scared I turn on my headtorch to find a flake has ripped off, insects scattering in the half light of my torch. I strain to hear it hit the desert floor some eight rope lengths below. I can't. I put the skyhook over the next nearest nubbin, turn off the light and start hauling again my heart beat an octave higher, my hand work ever more ginger. Just like when l was with...
I have two rucksacks, three ropes, slings over my head, cams tangled up with wires, five belay points and the plethora of confusion that goes with them. It is far too complicated a Chinese puzzle for my limited energy and patience to handle. With only six inches of prime tussock real estate lo contort myself around I realize the only solution to my problem is a ten week intensive introduction in the karma sutra. Another of life's little ironies.
I shout to Dave to brace himself ready for the shock and let go of my rucksack which is now attached to the rope. It silently disappears into the night like a lover from a one night stand. Five minutes later the rope comes tight on my harness, it's my turn. The final journey of a 12 hour day Is about to begin. Tickets please.
I methodically disassemble the belay. In the shifting glow of the torch I see how age has crept up on my hands. Pads blooded nails chipped, cuticles split and flaky, rucked skin around my swollen knuckles looking like the parental frowns that met my insolent youth. It's hard to believe these hands were only 31 years old when I left the ground this morning. I commit myself and take out the last cam. The sharp metallic krab sounding a hollow note as I clip it onto my harness. I look up and try to see the path I must take but the light from my torch is swallowed in a daftness that stretches out to an imaginary horizon.
I wobble to my feet helped by the breeze that rises from the depths below. I pray it's not an ill wind. I've never climbed with a head torch before and I sweep its spotlight across the rock. It doesn't seem too bad and I start to teeter tentatively along the tussock, one step at a time. Within six steps the tussock stops and there is a high step up onto another. I try to weight this next tussock with my left leg but the grassy knoll begins to disintegrate, weakened by the passage of my friends.
Soft
soil is pouring from where it's connected to the rock. A bit more weight and
the whole tussock has separated from the rock and fallen in to my lap. It
resembles a giant sporran, one big enough to contain a Scotman's entire savings.
I stare at it in disbelief, consumed by unremitting fear, pole-axed by a pubic
extension, as per normal. Unable to let go of the rock I somehow manage to
manhandle it around my body with my elbows until the tussock eventually succumbs
to gravity's curse and hurtles downward. A wig on the wind. Yeah. I'm gripped
now.
I stare at the space where my foothold once was. It's dusty and blank. I've a hundredweight of cheese on my back and now I'm going to have to smear on vertical soil for five feet to yet another tussock which itself might only be as stable as my mind. Fantastic. I claw around the rock and find two sharp crimps, the pain of weighting them reminding me that I am awake, this nightmare real. I stab my feet up the rock, composure long since gone and lunge for another crimp. My finger tips snag on a crisp edge and my feet seem to be running up the rock, applying the physics of friction without my thought. Before I know it I'm stepping onto the next tussock. It seems firm and excitedly I heave myself up onto it. I really should have known to contain my excitement.
In
my haste I'd not taken account of the extra load on my back and as I stepped
on to the tussock I overbalance, the pack pulling me backwards. My hands reach
out to gr ab the rock but I've been pulled too far out from it, there is nothing
to cling to except hope. Fiercely I tighten my stomach muscles, trying to
generate enough strength to pull the sack back, get it under control before
it is too late. But it all seems out of my hands, I am in the lap of the gods.
I reach a moment of pure suspense feeling all space below beckoning, all the
height gained trying to claw me back. I am weightless on a point of balance
on the edge of nothing, the silent hyphen in flip-flop. I am arched over the
void of night staring at a 120' pendulum (and it ain't a pretty sight). I
am frozen on the lip of destiny, caught in its headlights, breathless in the
moment. It's a moment too intense even to think of her.
By Rich Heap
