Shitting Your Pants While High
Living in Sydney can be bloody horrible at this time of year. The city really shuts down in Winter. Streets, buses, cars and trains are filled with the sullen, grimaced faces of our citizens as they trudge through the crisp coldness dreaming of the warmest place they can think of, usually bed. It's easy to tell yourself before Winter comes that this one, you're not going to let the cold get the better of you and you plan on continuing waking up early, jumping out of bed and doing some exercise. But let's face it, we never do, do we? Getting out of bed or the shower is just instinctively difficult for a human being when it's really cold. It's like warmth and comfort cause some sort of a mind-control effect in our brains that keeps us from doing important things - like going to school or work, exercising, or simply starting the day.
As a climber, living in Sydney is usually quite suitable. If you're into sport routes, then The Blue Mountains aren't far away. There's plenty of fun climbing in Sydney too, especially with the amount of sea-cliffs to explore. As far as bouldering goes, Sydney is top notch. There is a lot of good rock to clamber up in all parts of Sydney. A lot of it's near river beds or in valleys near small creeks, some are on or near beaches or rivers, and some are just sitting in parks representing the closest things you can get to outdoor, sandstone training-areas. All the crags are pretty easily accessible too, some more than others. But on any given day a keen climber can have shit-loads of fun at any of these areas. That is, of course, if it hasn't rained in about three or four days.
I recently took advantage of a short stint of dry weather to indulge in one of Sydney's older, better, higher and more fun bouldering crags. I hadn't climbed on real rock in
months due it pissing down every day, so I was slightly wary about my ability in the conditions at Lindfield. I warmed up doing a bit of the Lindfield Traverse. Just around the first corner and into that part where you need to get high to continue. I don't recommend actually getting in this corner - that'd make it a whole lot harder and scarier – I just mean you've got to climb higher for this part of the traverse.
I jumped down from there, feeling pretty confident and strong, so I immediately turned around and climbed the crack behind me without even bothering having a mat below me. I climbed it pretty easily, although at the top I was reminded about the difference between indoor and outdoor bouldering; the reality of falling and hurting yourself and the fear you feel when topping out, especially at somewhere as high as Lindfield. My body may have seemed strong, but my mind was weak. I'd spent so much time in my room, out of the weather, getting high, that I was very un-used to being on the rock walls, getting high. I climbed down the downclimb slab, which felt a lot harder than usual, then immediately tackled the semi-crimpy buttress just to the left of that arete. Again, I felt like I climbed it quite easily, but I was shaking a little bit, sweating profusely and panting like I'd just gotten freaky. It was no more than ten minutes into my climbing sesh and I already felt fucked. For some reason, I felt like another quick unprotected repeated would help my mentality, so I walked over to the Kenny Boulder and got my feet ready for some layback slabbing. Two moves in, my feet felt like they were sitting on a wet ducks back. My knees shook like a tweaker awaiting a fix, and as I reached for a nice juggy hold near the top of the boulder, my feet, in new, yet-to-be-trusted shoes, slipped. I immediately pushed off the boulder to turn my body, looking down and aiming for a clear patch between some thick roots and other little boulders on the ground. I was high enough to break an ankle, but I wasn't really thinking about that. The only thing going through my head was that 'Broken Legs' song by Blue Juice. It had been in my head all morning, and I don't know why.
I landed and rolled onto my side to take the brunt of the fall before yelling, “Fuck” pretty loudly to myself. As I sat on the ground I let out a little chuckle. “I'm gonna kill myself,” I thought, which I guess seemed funny to me at the time. I walked over to get my crash-pad, whistling 'Broken Legs', and put it below the Kenny Boulder. I sluggishly scrambled up this time, but with some demons in the back of my mind.
After this I headed down the far end, where all the easy but really high problems are. This is my usual warm up area, but today I felt like doing something different – a good thing to blame when your climbing is off. I climbed the easy cracks on this huge cliff, trying to get my head in the height game. I moved slowly up the she-oak crack, concentrating on my foot and hand placement – just taking my time. I paused towards the top of the left most problem that starts with a cool layback crack-line. I hung there and traversed a bit, looking down at the ground to try to scare myself. It really fucking worked too. Back at the bottom I sat on a rock and ate a sandwich, staring at the Isolated Rock, which I have climbed. It is just such an imposing feature, jutting its jagged head out pointing over the crag. It's an easy climb, but it's so fucking high you have to be in a pretty good frame of mind to want to have a crack. If you bitch out just about over the overhang, like a mate of mine has, the downclimb is a bit of a pants filler.
The more I looked at it, the more I wanted to repeat it, but the more I knew I wouldn't as well. I'd decided to do all the high, easy ones at Lindfield, but I just didn't feel up for the overhang just yet. I walked away, calling myself a pussy, in search of something just as high yet slightly less intimidating. The layback crack was a bit of a damp mess, so I went for the orange arete sticking out in front of me, so I climbed it. From there I made my way right, back towards the car-park climbing all the highest, easyish problems I saw. None of the climbing I was doing was very strenuous, but because I was hardly taking any breaks and continually climbing up high boulders I started to get pretty pumped. I didn't take too much notice of my aching arms until it was about two thirds of the way up a nice big corner crack with a little roof at the top. Now, to get to the point where I was hadn't been very hard. I spread my legs and worked my way up on small edges on the side wall. When I got to the point where my head was just underneath the roof I looked down at my feet to look for good holds. None. Looks like it'd be smear city from here then. Not only did I notice the lack of footholds below me, but that was
when I remembered my crash-pad, which was still back below the Kenny Boulder. “Shit,” I said to the boulder in my face. “Fuck you!”
My landing defined shithouse. A nice, pointy little boulder sitting right in the corner below the crack. It kind of mirrored the roof above me, which was sandy as hell and had fuck all holds on it. Even with a mat below me, I'd still be screwed if I fell, but having nothing there really scared the shit outta me. Literally. My arms suddenly felt really weak. My palms sweated and my fingers started to feel like strings of spaghetti. My knees and ankles ached and my feet felt like they'd give way at any second. At these moments, the term fight or flight doesn't really seem appropriate. It's more like fight or fall. If I could fly, I wouldn't be in this fucking mess in the first place, would I?
Downclimbing was no option, and jumping even. I had to hug this little rocky-roof to throw an arm over the top, searching again in the sandy-dirt for something to grab. Nothing. My breathing grew deeper and quicker and I felt my heart beating the shit out of my chest. I managed to raise one foot a few centimetres. The new hold felt worse, and as I began to re-consider jumping I finally grabbed hold of some smooth rock. A sand-covered, knobbly, sloped jug, right to the back of the boulder above me. To get it I had to raise my other foot, the one with all my weight on it. This may have been the scariest move I've ever done in my climbing career. I let out an involuntary, “ERGH, FUCK!” as I topped out, feeling like a fucking legend but still as scared as a nun in hell. My session was well and truly over. I was happy not to look at another rock for a good week. I climbed back down and gathered my crap from various parts of the crag.
Luckily, the vast majority of that crap was still on the inside of my pants as I baby-stepped my way back to the car-park with its very convenient public toilet facilities.
20TH JUNE 2013