★★ Stormwatch 31

Stormwatch By Roger Nattrass After ten months of having my "butt kicked" on the harder routes in the States, I returned to South Africa very aware of the widening chasm between our concept of extreme climbing and what was being cranked off on a regular basis throughout the rest of the world. The biggest lessons learnt were: i) their lines are very sequential, and ii) top climbers are prepared to invest large amounts of time in order to earn these ascents. With regard to the first, I still maintain that the singularly most difficult moves I have experienced exist on established South African routes. Unfortunately, after one or two desperate moves our routes degenerate quickly to easier climbing. Through choice or chisel the Americans cranked routes which were of lesser ferocity but five, six or even ten times more sustained. Often it seemed difficult to decide where the crux was, every move felt as hard as the rest. Frequently the "crux" occurred at one of the easier moves near the top owing to fatigue accumulated from previous sequences. With reference to the second eye opener, I was amazed to see how much perseverance was ploughed into various projects. I remember Tony Yaniro grimly tying in for the thirty-fifth day on CALYPSO (5.13d), or even Alan Watts finally cranking TO BOLT OR NOT TO BE after almost two years of repeated attempts. The obvious conclusion to be made is that talent and experience are important, but they have to be coupled equally with time, fitness and perseverance to crack the hardest routes of today. Having just completed FABERGE, on the lower Fernkloof wall, my attention was drawn to the futuristic face immediately to its right. The line offered fifteen metres of unrelenting climbing up the longest part of the sixty degree wall. It was a combination of confidence after FABERGE, the comments from others concerning the line, and a desire to find something similar to that which I had seen and felt in the States, that led me to rap down and inspect its potential. The first shock was the angle: some unseen, yet powerful, force pushed me away from the wall, frustrating any attempt to investigate it further. After a quick rap through the tree, growing six metres from the base, I was back at the top, this time armed with RP's, wires, an odd collection of diminutive camming devices and a handful of Rurps. I had soon opened the first reverse aid pitch, at about A3, on rap. A motley collection of RPs, Rurps and Rollers kept me close enough to inspect the holds. Nevertheless they periodically popped and I was sent howling through the tree and into the other side of the kloof. The line offered what appeared to be a boulder problem start to a good edge at about three metres. This could have been avoided by starting up FABERGE and traversing in, but this would have sacrificed the direct line and reduced the severity and lessened the grade of the task. The choice seemed obvious and the boulder problem start was included. From there a further three metres of "who knows what!", past two sloping pseudo pockets, led to the small overlap just below the halfway mark. Powerful moves round this bulge took one to the top half which appeared climbable on a combination of pinches and edges, unfortunately without the prospect of any form of rest or recovery. In order to prevent the "death swing" through the tree and into the other wall, I took a gamble and placed a bolt (ultimately the second) within clipping distance of the edge at three metres. Running the downside of the toprope through the bolt and clipping into this with a biner to my harness, I was able to experiment with a couple of the moves without fear of the hungry tree behind. I devoted the whole of the first day to trying to step off the ground and crank to the edge. Despite many attempts, using countless combinations, I had no success. While walking back to the car with aching shoulders and fried fingertips I wondered what I had gotten into. The start seemed impossible, and even if! got that, the next three metres looked simply stupid. Then there would be a slim chance of hanging in for the eight metres of +/- 27 to the top. What seemed to make it worse was that I had already placed a bolt. A lone and shining stainless steel lump that could forever remain as a monument to my failure. A combination of masochism and an ego that refused failure brought me back to the wall for four successive weekends. Soon I had clocked up six days of dogging time. The moves off the deck still eluded me, and the section up to the overlap remained a mystery. However, during a gut-splitting push I had managed to crank the top half in one go. I was excited at this progress, but also felt like crying as this top half weighed in at solid 27!! At this stage I had a fair idea of what I was up against and realised that it was time for a change of strategy. Talking way into the night with Grant, his CD player cranking and Rotpunkt mags splashed across the floor, we came up with a plan. It would have to be a team effort: Grant on FABERGE, and myself on STORMWATCH. The diets returned in force and all forms of training were halted: it was going to be our routes and nothing else. No minutes, skin or energy were to be wasted at the wall or the Wilds. We had to become dedicated members of a wierd rock cult; sacrificing time, money and body to these overhanging idols. The money saved from the spartan diet disappeared into the petrol tank. Twice or even three times a week we sped along the Magaliesberg roads to Fernkloof, free wheeling past the farmhouse to try and avoid the entrance fee. This worked for a while until the gate keeper got wise, and could smell us coming a mile away. Fully aware of how long a business the projects could turn out to be, we soon arranged a discount swindle. It was not uncommon to leave Jhb at 2pm during the week and drive the 125 km out to Fernkloof. For an hour and a half we would have a thrashing session on top rope, then walk out in the dark and speed the 125 km home. The concept of weekends fell away as we slipped into a cycle of a day on the routes, two or three total rest days, and then back to the rock. We ate nothing and trained nothing! It seemed a little extreme at times but slowly appeared to payoff. After nine days on the line I had finally managed every move in some contorted form or another. I could pull off the start about one in every four attempts: a lunge from underclings and tinys to a large sloper was the key. Only meticulous brushing and tubs of mental glue made it possible to latch on and hold it. The section to the overlap was more of a problem. From the edge I could get within nine centimetres of the left pocket, but that was it. That nine centimetres finally fell to a sequence requiring seven separate moves - nothing simpler seemed possible. The "pockets" were also nasty: the left had two angles, it sloped upwardly and down to the right, forcing all one's weight onto only the left index finger. The right is very difficult to describe. Suffice it to say that I mash three fingers into a depression, with my little finger on the best part of the hold. From here I snatch to a pinch, then up and backwards to a second pinch! A blind slap to a three finger edge followed this double pinch pullup. I had finally solved the puzzle to the overlap. It was slow progress. At this stage Grant was well ahead. He had already red-pointed half way up FABERGE and was surviving on what seemed like a diet of tomatoes and carrots. I was a long way from leading STORMWATCH and had occasionally consoled myself with a double fat burger at Steers. Every session ended with bum on the top half of the route. The idea was to try and link it in one push at the end of a long day of dogging. I hoped that this would somehow simulate this section of the route during a redpoint attempt; snatching through tough but well rehearsed sequences in a state of "total body pump". Soon day fifteen arrived. So far we had driven almost 4 000 kilometres and I had only linked the first four metres: the start and the technical crux to the pockets, arching backwards as I barely touched the second pinch. Grant was still going far better. A few days earlier he had redpointed to the very last move! He rapped and put the draws on FABERGE’s bolts while I placed the last of STORMWATCH's six bolts. One at the start, number two at the edge, three at the pockets, four at the overlap, (note: halfway), five in the middle of the headwall and the sixth about two metres from the top. Once the dust had settled Grant went for what was to be his final redpoint attempt, ending a twelve day affair with FABERGE. The laughter and excitement after his success made the air thick with "post route euphoria". When I returned to the toprope I realised I was sick of this continuous toproping ritual that had occupied the last two months. I had managed the "bitch" in three big pieces. Despite being far from ready I decided to start redpoint attempts on my next visit. At this stage in the project both Grant and Andrea knew the moves as well as I. Grant was ready to snap out rope at all the clips and Andy knew just when to turn up the encouragement from a ledge on the opposite wall. Despite all the practice, the first three red-dot days were horrendous: only one out of every three attempts made it through the start. The second clip was straight forward but I repeatedly blew off around move four of the "seven moves for nine centimetres" sequence to the pockets. Six attempts a day seemed about my limit, then I would burn away on a toprope. After the usual attempt to link the top I would skulk home - with tired tips and a raw palm from slapping the sloper at the start. The nineteenth day was full of excitement. Grant had given up tomatoes and was only eating carrots. He had also started on LAWYERS, GUNS AND MONEY two days before, and it seemed as if he would "point" it very soon. I was beginning to think that he would climb every route on the wall before I got up STORMWATCH. After toproping TRUE SAILING IS DEAD a couple of times to warm up, I pulled on the tiny pair of Kendos for another go. Having tried every type of shoe available I had convinced Stephen Kelsey to sell me his pair. Cranking the laces tight I was again reminded that his feet are at least half a size smaller than mine. I climbed smoothly to the second bolt, clipped, then roared through the "7 for 9" sequence and was suddenly staring at the third. With my left index finger screaming I bumbled the clip, dropping backwards with metres of slack flapping in the air around me. Grant dived into a gap in the boulders as my feet gouged a hole in the gravel. The dynamic belay arrested my lycra clad arse about fifteen centimetres from the deck. I was pretty shaken yet very excited about getting to the third bolt. I think it was all this extra adrenalin that carried me all the way to the fourth bolt on my next push. This was a big breakthrough as I had surpassed my previous top rope highpoint. Unfortunately I was only halfway up, and wishing that the wall ended at the overlap. At last there was a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. To this point the grade seemed 29/30. Day Twenty. This is beginning to feel like some marooned sailor's diary: "We are almost out of water and morale is running low. Will there ever be an end to this suffering?" A life belt snaked out to Grant as he redpointed LAWYERS, GUNS AND MONEY on only his fourth day. To facilitate faster climbing I placed a fifty centimetre-long sling on the fourth bolt. Through clipping this sling two moves earlier I was now able to move quickly through the overlap - affectionately known as "ThePowerbulge". The flip side of this tactic was to push the leadout to the fifth bolt to almost 4m. For the last five days of lead attempts r had been clipping the first bolt from the ground. The second clip was just as straight forward owing to the friendly size of the good hold from which the clip was made. Still eager to cut away vital seconds I decided to adopt a tactic that is widely used at sport climbing venues in Europe and the United States. This particular approach was introduced by the French some three years ago and was one that I often encountered during my travels through the USA. On a number of occasions during previous days I had made the second clip, then down climbed the three metres to the ground. At any of the overseas sport climbing crags I would have been entitled to leave the rope through the second bolt for all subsequent redpoint attempts. The rationale behind this: reversing to the ground could quite easily be accomplished before every attempt. However, this would consume both time and power and therefore reduce the number of attempts one could manage during a given day, only prolonging the endeavour but not necessarily affecting its final outcome. It is obviously a very debateable issue and the decision I made to leave the rope through the second bolt for the remaining days was one that I came to regret, if only for the malicious remarks from some of my friends and peers in challenging the validity of the final ascent. After several frustrating falls at the start (the sloper wasn't getting any easier to stick) I did manage to push my highpoint to a few moves above the bulge. During this attempt I was again ready to drop off after the double pinch move but, mustering something, I pushed through the "Powerbulge". My forearms began to fill with that terrible tickly weak sensation but I just kept on snatching: once, twice, three then four times. Mashing two fingers behind a flake I twisted and cranked to the pinch from which the fifth bolt is clipped. Unfortunately, the combination of desperate climbing and a nasty lack of oxygen, sucked me from safety and into the acceleration of a seven metre fall. On stopping a few feet above Grant's head I slouched in the harness, a terrible burning pain searing through both lungs. With staccato speech, and gasping like a sprinter, I gesticulated wildly, cursing the grade. Grant quietly lowered me to the ground, Andrea handed me a mug full of tea and a billy full of encouragement. Despite the obvious improvement and the smiles from my two closest friends I felt a hollowness inside. I knew that I had approached my limit. The route simply exceeded the specifications of my body machine. I had snatched the last five moves before the fifth bolt, having flamed out before the bulge! "The Wall" had been hit and I was only two thirds up "Stormbitch" This "Wall" just got thicker and higher on the twenty-first day. After the first two attempts it sprouted barbed wire, punji stakes and rabid doberman. I still took the usual falls at the first bolt, but after making it to the “Powerbulge” I was just as wasted as before. The same old "five slap then plummet" scenario ensued. I kept thinking that if only I had a little more power or control, r would be able to stick the two finger pull. By the end of the day I had a multi-day total of six bums to this same move, all attempts ending with the same accelerating defeat. Every day thus far had witnessed some degree of improvement, but I was now locked into repetitive defeat. I was at a loss for a solution: diets, training and toprope sessions seemed unlikely to provide the missing pieces. Returning on day twenty two, I decided on an old and little trusted technique: "Why crank when you can fly”. The warm up and a few failed attempts lower down were soon behind me. I had almost become used to the sludging of poisoned blood in my forearms as I pulled the Powerbulge. Two slaps later I had the flakelet. At this point I hesitated for a second then ignored twenty one days of rehearsal …… and just jumped. With the flake cranked to my waist, one foot front-pointing an edge and the other arching at right angles to the wall, I latched the pinch. A wave of screaming roared up from below. The clip seemed painfully slow, fingers refusing the cerebral commands that insisted on fine motor control. Snatching two quick breaths I lapsed into "end of the day TR burnout" mode. The preoccupation with hitting and sticking the next hold overrode any thoughts of the 5m leadout to the last bolt. Fumbling with the clip I was reminded that a fall from this point would mean flying almost the length of the route! Snap! - the biner grabbed the rope, instantly obliterating the lurking fear. Al-though the body moved through the final moves, I could not perceive any motion until I slapped the summit sloper. Chalked and wasted fingers tasted only a hint of friction before slipping off the hold. For a moment I was motionless, both hands off the rock and the top staring me in the face. So close, if only I could have pulled or stemmed on the waves of encouragement from Andrea and Grant. Unfortunately, I simply toppled backwards. Cramping forearms and what I would imagine was my first asthma attack, brought the day to a close. Andrea had to drive back to Jhb as I sat and nursed complaining forearms. We were all very excited. The "Wall" had been smashed and the summit tasted. The machine had suddenly been upgraded, the improved version able to physically cope with the task of such a redpoint. Grant had to stand guard on the twenty third day, Richard Lord wanted to put in some time on FABERGE and Andrea was in Jhb for a couple of days. The three of us drove out to Fernkloof, finally exceeding six thousand kilometres of travelling for the route. We laughed at the logistics of the project. The petrol bill clocked in at around six hundred rand. Six bolts, their stainless steel hangers and a drill bit came to about eighty rand. A pair of La Sportiva Kendo's was another three hundred zoids. Additionally, some ar sehole had stolen two screwgates from the third and fourth bolts. Not content with just the epic rap to get the biners, he had also taken a three metre sling and about seven metres of rope stashed behind a boulder near the top. All in all this gear was valued at about a hundred rand. If I included a minor speeding ticket incurred whilst dashing out for a late afternoon burn, the overall cost was in the region of one thousand two hundred bucks! Tunes smoked from the tapedeck as we turned towards the Magaliesberg. Still playing with statistics we calculated that I climbed the length of the fifteen metre route about six times a day: keeping this up for twenty-three days meant a total vertical gain of over two kilometres! This is about four times the height of Blouberg. (Chew on that you big wall marathon giants.) On arrival the air temperature seemed perfect. I rapped and put the draws on the bolts, stopping every metre to meticulously brush all the hand holds. The longer draw on the fourth had to be taped to the wall; otherwise I wasted valuable seconds chasing the dangling bentgate biner. Speed was of the essence here as I made this clip from a powerful position. This wasn't the only quick draw quirk. The last draw was carefully twisted so that the bentgate lay at right angles to the rock. I clipped from a contorted position which gave me ninety degrees of lateral twist and, consequently, the draw required the same amount of twist in order to ensure a fast and smooth clipping action. The fifth had a draw two centimetres longer than the rest as this made the clip just that little bit more comfortable. Lastly, the second bolt had a single screwgate, designed to make all the difference should any near deck falls repeat themselves. The first push failed at the third bolt. I brushed this aside as the warm-up bum. The second attempt was heartbreaking; I puffed through the bulge and resorted to the lunge near the fifth. Pushing hard I once again found myself passing the sixth bolt and slapping for the summit. Blown fingers, arms and brain were uncooperative and no amount of effort could stop me from dropping backwards. Hanging free on the end of the rope I hung my head and gasped. The machine had a huge oxygen debt to repay. To the uninitiated the push looked very controlled. Richard seemed to sum it up by simply blurting out "Why did you fall off ???" To reply, "I was pumped", seemed an oversimplification. Something wasn't right. I pulled back to the bolt and after a few minutes had reprogrammed a different final sequence. It had to change as I never had the power to make the long cranks at this stage of the route. The new version had shorter moves on smaller holds. I suppose it made it harder, but short snatches between small positive edges seemed a better prospect then long lunges for a sloper. After a long rest it was time to squeeze back into the Kendo's. I wondered if it would be the last attempt of the day. A couple of muscles were already mumbling obscenities. Ignoring them I pulled the knot tight and grabbed the first hold. It was the fastest attempt yet: I shot through the lower cruxes, the sequences running at an awesome speed. Soon I was at the Powerbulge: these moves fell quickly but still as strenuously as ever. With arms and lungs beginning to bum at the fifth bolt I made the clip, and set off to the sixth. I began to slow down as the lead-out grew and the power failed. The last clip must have taken about twenty seconds - unacceptably slow for a redpoint attempt. Facing the final sequence a sense of failure almost overwhelmed me. I could picture myself falling on the last move again. I hung for a moment and chalked my left hand. This was the first time during the eight days of redpoint attempts that I had wasted the time or energy to chalk up. Watching from a ledge a few feet away was Andrea. She quickly picked up my hesitation and yelled "Come on, only four more moves, just FOUR MORE MOVES." The last 'four moves felt like trying to run during a nightmare. My arms felt like lead and all sensation and fine motor control ended at the wrists. I hit the last hold with noise screaming both inside and outside my head. My fingers held. Digging deep into dwindling reserves I pulled hard and rolled onto the top. It had been four long months since I had started and during this time I had climbed little else. When I think back to how impossible if had seemed until those final days, I realise that there are no limits to what one can achieve.