Gripped Notes from the Top

Notes from the Top

The Competition From Hell

Story David Lama

Originally in Dec 2006 - Jan 2007 issue of Gripped

When we arrived in Ekaterinberg in Russia, everything looked like it would be fine. Athletes from each nation were assigned a nice, friendly girl to help find a hotel and places to eat. There were even buses to drive us from the hotel to the competition venue so the competition seemed to be quite well organized.
The next morning, we were whisked away in a bus and taken straight into isolation at the gym where the comp would be held. Patxi Usobiga from Spain walked right up to me and asked if I’d seen the warm-up wall, adding that he thought it was “bullshit.”
He was right. On the gym’s second floor, in a tiny room, they had built a fragile wall with a smattering of holds. It was completely inadequate for warming up. But because everyone on staff told us different things about when we would climb, no one knew when to warm up anyway.
These situations can’t compare to the pathetic lead climbing wall, which was still under construction and practically flat. By admission of the judges themselves it overhung less than the five metres required by the rules. The routes were shit, but the setters had probably done the best they could with the selection of bad, old, slippery holds in the small amount of time they had to set.
Actually, the routesetters complained that everything was bad and they wanted to go home, but it was easy to get them to stay: the police had their passports. At one point, they said if they didn’t get their passports they would go on strike. I don’t know what happened afterwards.
For me, one of the most depressing things was that there were only fifty spectators; less than half the number of competitors. It isn’t fun to climb if no one is watching you, shouting encouragement or taking an interest. It’s just boring and unmotivating. Your victory suddenly becomes unimportant.
Although I won the lead competition, we had to wait a long time, until everybody went home and there was no one to watch the prize ceremony. They didn’t have the prize though, and said they’d send the money after we got home.
The next scandal was that they cancelled the bouldering comp. The routes were five metres high, which is higher than the rules allow, and the mats were dangerously thin.
After an hour in isolation they came in and said we’d have to wait for another hour. For sure everybody was a little bit angry, but this can happen at any competition, so we waited. Then they came in again and said the team managers should follow them. 15 minutes later, they came back and said there would be no start for the men that day, but only for the women. The men would probably start the next day.
This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was time for the climbers to do something. A few climbers just went back to the hotel, but the rest of us discussed what to do next. Every climber who hadn’t gone home in exasperation was ready to strike. In the end we didn’t, because some still wanted to climb.
It was a mistake not to strike, because the issue at hand wasn’t just the competition in Ekaterinberg, but also the future of competition climbing. It could have been a good statement to make, because no one is interested in a climbing competition without any climbers! We could have changed things. I have to say that I hope competitions like these won’t be held any more. It’s not good for our sport, our hobby, our passion, our life. It’s a step back. Things can change, but it’s up to us climbers to change them.

David Lama is one of the most successful competition and sport climbers of his generation. He lives in Austria

Submersion in Solitude
Chomo Lonzo
Story Valeri Babanov

Originally in Oct 2006 - Nov 2007 issue of Gripped

Solitude. How much do we know about it? If you call being alone in a city apartment solitude, then I want to correct you – that’s not solitude. Solitude is when you are alone, and there is not a human soul for a hundred kilometres. Solitude is some enormous, intangible force, ready to tear us apart from within with its vacuum-like emptiness. Solitude is a state that for us city dwellers is often unbearable. This state is difficult to describe to someone who has never experienced it. It is tough to fight against solitude, and often it simply overwhelms us with emptiness and despair. As hard as it is to believe, it is harder yet to live through. It’s easy to talk about solitude down below, in a circle of friends, but not up in the big mountains, where life follows laws created by the infinite that is reflected in the frozen summits of the Himalayas.
Himalayas. The edge of the world, where the earth rises toward the sky. Here, a human being looks like a tiny grain of sand thrown into the boundless, thundering ocean of enormous, blindingly white summits and ridges.
When I headed there in the spring of 2006, more than two years had passed since my last visit. There had been many other climbs and expeditions, but in dreams and fantasies, I always returned to the world’s summit.
I know that if I have a strong dream growing inside of me, with time, it will translate into action. An irresistible force pulled me to the Himalayas; I wanted to immerse myself totally in this world of interesting experiences and heightened feelings. An idea was born: to solo the gigantic west wall of the main summit of Chomo Lonzo, a mountain only 10 m short of 8,000 metres.
The photos showed massive, smooth walls of yellow granite, spotted with steep, bluish ice. The wall scared and intimidated me, but the more I looked, the more it attracted me. Something once again called me forward; I wanted one more time to approach a certain limit.
But do limits exist? Only in the mind and our consciousness, something inside me answered. Man’s nature makes him strive to exceed some limit.
On April 12, I flew into Kathmandu. I had only two days to purchase supplies, sort through gear and obtain a Chinese visa. I had heard and read much about Tibet, but never before had I visited it.
During those days in Kathmandu, I often thought about the climb, because although this Himalayan expedition was far from my first, something about it was new. Namely, the fact that above the Base Camp, I would have to be isolated from home, from people, from the language that I speak, and from many other familiar things.
Setting up high camp took longer than expected due to daily afternoon snowfall.
The unstable weather and running behind the original schedule made me reconsider my initial objective. Nonetheless, on May 3, I started the ascent of the West Wall.
Everything ended in heavy snow, only three rope lengths above the bergschrund.
I returned to the wall on May 9 and bivouacked at 6,500 m. The next day I climbed only 100 vertical metres on steep, glass-hard ice and smooth granite; discouraged, I turned back. Solo, the route would take at least six or seven days. There were few places for even a sitting bivouac. Time was running out, and the weather was crap.
That’s when the idea came into my head to climb the North summit of Chomo Lonzo (7,200 m) by a steeply rising ice couloir topped by a cliff belt. The proposed line looked logical and safe. As the route was mostly ice, it could be done fairly quickly. I planned to use no more than two or three days for the entire climb, and therefore did not take along too much food. Mainly, it was energy bars. Also, it was possible to save weight on the bivy equipment.
I climbed unroped to around 6,400 m. The ice hardened and became steeper. My 15 kg pack made steep ice harder, and I took out the rope, but the protection was purely symbolic: two screws at the lower station, and two screws at the upper, 60 metres away.
By nine o’clock in the evening I approached the cliff belt at 6,800 m. In the remaining minutes of daylight, I gained another thirty metres or so up the rock-and-ice couloir but never managed to find a comfortable bivouac. Half sitting, half lying, I survived that night without sleep.
By eight o’clock in the morning I climbed out of the hammock, boiled water, and prepared for departure. Gaining the summit should have taken around seven or eight hours, so I decided to leave all the bivy gear behind.
But distances in the mountains are often deceptive. By eight o’clock in the evening, I was still on the summit ridge. In the latter half of the day, the sleepless night and increasing altitude made my body feel stuffed with cotton balls and my legs feel as if they were filled with lead. Fatigue imbued everything with a subtle sense of unreality.
The upper part of the route turned out to be much more technically difficult than it looked from below. At times, the steep ice was as hard as granite. My blunted crampon points skidded into emptiness.
I did not like the prospect of making a night descent alone and very tired. In this state, it was easy to commit a fatal error. I reached the ridge in thickening twilight and snow. A switch clicked in my head: “That’s it, enough – stop! You are already at the limit. Go down.” I did not resist.
At that moment, I didn’t regret my choice. My entire body was filled with all-envel-oping fatigue, and my thoughts kept getting lost between the reality and unreality of the surroundings. In this semiconscious mode, I was already descending to my backpack, which was secured below. I continued my endless descent into the night and reached the glacier by five o’clock in the morning, crazy with thirst.
The entire climb, from tent to tent, took 47 hours; the actual climbing took 26 hours. Perhaps this is not such a great stretch of time, but by the sheer intensity of experiences, it could equal several years of a lifetime.

Valeri Babanov is one of the world’s leading alpinists. He lives in Calgary.

Wide Cracks, Nerds and the Pursuit of the Ridiculous

Story Vera Schulte-Pelkum

Originally in Aug 2006 - Sept 2007 issue of Gripped

What does a contestant on a Japanese game show where volunteers are flattened by giant paper mache boulders and an offwidth climber have in common? Both seem to derive satisfaction and a sense of pleasure from abject and utter humiliation in public from an activity that can’t possibly be enjoyable by any sort of non-perverted standard. Possibly related to this observation is the fact that offwidth aficionados are, to a surprisingly large percentage, socially awkward nerds. Before any hackles are raised, I would like to posit that I firmly count myself among this group.
Climbing is a fringe activity. Mountain climbing sort of makes sense to the general public becuase trying to get to the top, perhaps via a particular chunk of mountain, is understandable on some level. Bouldering and sport climbing get a little more contrived, but can be viewed as a gymnastic challenge. While trad climbing scores distinctly higher on the nerd coefficient, with all the gizmos and doodads that are suddenly crucial to the activity, it retains some of the grace of movement. Now enlarge the gizmos to a ridiculous size, remove any remaining vestige of graceful motion, and there you have offwidth climbing, the essence of a pointless activity reduced to the absurd.
There is very little glory or cachet involved in wide crack climbing. Whether it is unpopular because it’s uncool, or vice versa, is a bit of a chicken-and-egg question, but there is no doubt that both descriptions apply. Witness Steph Davis’s comment in her free Freerider article: “I always thought I was a pretty good offwidth climber, even climbing offwidths on purpose,” somehow implying that the majority were climbed by accident or necessity. A corollary is that only a total dork would be found actively seeking out wide cracks as a hobby. Can you think of many specialists that aren’t engineers or scientists? Even gear companies know to advertise big cams with a model (in the broad sense of the term) wearing horn-rimmed glasses, having correctly pegged their customer base. Indeed, offwidths are a haven for the nerdy. And whether I like to admit it or not, they weave a continuous thread through my climbing history and other parts of my life. Let me illustrate the nerd connection with a few personal examples. When the love of my life and I first set eye on each other, I was wearing: (item) a purple long-sleeved polypro long underwear shirt with holes in it; (item) a dirty white T-shirt on top of the polypro shirt; (item) baggy pants covered in duct tape; (item) sunglasses patched with tape; (item) high top climbing shoes with socks; (item) a rack of bigbros and outsized cams. Sexy, no? He, in turn, commenced to hike a hard wide crack wearing nothing but shorts and slippers (he is not a full-time nerd). I was smitten, and the rest is history. Another climbing partnership that commenced with offwidths eventually progressed to clean aid big wall climbing, another hog heaven for nerds. We would spend rest days calculating the strength-to-weight-to-price ratio of gear, the calorie-to-weight ratio of energy bars, and any other ratio we could get our hands on.
Social obliviousness provides one path to the zen of offwith climbing. A second, much trickier path is a sense of self-deprecating humour so refined that you can somehow make an utter fool of yourself with style. Which path to choose, if you must climb offwidths, depends on your personal and national psyche. I should preface the following horrendous collection of stereotypes with a disclaimer that being half-Japanese, half-German, and having ended up on this continent by accident, I can identify myself with any of the groups I will proceed to bash on. With their finely honed sense of dedicated goofy self-degradation, the Japanese would be strong contenders to dominate any sort of World Cup of offwidth climbing. They are, however, hampered by a dearth of available wide cracks, and have settled for making bouldering look goofy instead. Most mainland Euros are either too cool or take themselves too seriously to make good offwidth climbers. In honour of this particular audience, I would now like to hypothesize that the Canadian (or Brit, or Aussie) appreciation of sarcasm and the absurd lends itself much better to successful wide climbing than the political-correctness-handicapped average US attitude.
This essay may not fit as well under the column name ‘Notes from the Top’ as something like ‘Groans from the Depths.’ I was climbing a crack once that split the entire formation to form an offwidth on the opposite side to the crag, which had another team on it. A strange whispering gallery effect allowed me to listen to the leader’s comments, deteriorating into heavy breathing, then dry heaving, then not-so-dry-anymore heaving, and the subsequent curses from the splattered belayer as if the action was going down inches from me, but without the olfactory unpleasantness. Sometimes, a dungeon deep inside the bowels of a rock, in the form of a squeeze chimney with a completely sandbagged rating, can offer a vantage point that is just as rewarding as the summit, and sometimes more enlightening.

Vera Schulte-Pelkum climbed in the film Return2Sender: Parallelojams, has made hammerless ascents of El Capitan’s Shield, New Dawn and Mescalito, and climbed numerous 5.12 offwidths.

Feral Misbehavings

Story_Michael Reardon

Originally in Gripped Vol.8 Iss.3 June 2006 - July 2006

The overhanging dihedral barely eases up when I hit the belay. I shake off the temptation of the slings and force my concentration to the next pitch. The tips crack traverses to my right in a steady arc, disappearing from view. The first ten feet are sealed shut with minimal edges to crimp. If I can hang on, two pin scars in the distance look wide enough to catch a fingerlock and breathe before heading into the unknown. I look for footholds, none exist.

Fucking great, I mumble under my breath. Six hundred feet from the deck on a multi-pitch 5.12b I’ve never done before, I can’t afford the luxury of a second thought as the icy chill starts up the base of my spine. I’m without a rope and too far in to reverse the way I came.

A peregrine interrupts the moment with a human scream to my right. White down blanches against the dark upper feathers as she floats the thermals. She’s close enough that I can see the iris of her eyes widen slightly as we lock. I concentrate on the details as the extraneous thoughts flush through with zen precision. It’s a ritual I’ve done a thousand times before. Focus completely on the item in question, then forget about it and move on. Problem with work – focus, forget. No cell phone coverage – focus, forget. Then come the emotions. Then sex, death, the past and finally the future. All of it focused, then forgotten until all that’s left is the feral beast of the present. A second screech, but this time I swear she’s smiling. I laugh in response and climb.

As someone who enjoys the art of conversation with so many others, I consistently get the question of “why?” regarding my solo adventures. When a stranger asks it in a confrontational manner, I tend to shrug my shoulders and state “because I can.” However, when the truly curious ask, I find myself staring blankly like a vacant dog. How does one explain breathing? It’s simply something that I do, and for almost 20 years always have, which bears a difficult description.

I’ve never been entertained by the simple life, preferring instead to live each day to its fullest. My earliest memories have always been of pushing limits motivated by the knowledge that we only have one chance on this dust ball. I didn’t skip the meeting, didn’t misplace the memo, didn’t forget my vitamins – death is a certainty so why not live to the fullest?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking forward to my reservation in hell on the bottom bunk under the kid with a bladder problem, but there’s more to life than sucking on a bong while munching chocolate chip cookies during Star Trek reruns. At least look out the picture window once in a while and take in a sunset because at some point in the future, there will only be enough time for a few remembrances. Personally, experience has taught me that when death tries to take you by a foot slipping or a hold breaking, the initial comments are, “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” However, if given a moment to ponder, I won’t be thankful for buying a new car, or having discovered porn on the Internet. I’ll be thinking of my family, friends, and the experiences that make me who I am. These experiences come from what I believe are the true pursuits of the three real values of life – the physical, the mental, and the spiritual. Free soloing allows me to push the boundaries of all three with every move.

Michale Reardon is a prolific free soloist who lives in California. He has free soloed up to 5.13b, but his most notable solo is Romantic Warrior V 5.15b, at California’s Pinnacles.

My Big-Walling Career

story_Lisa Rands

Originally in Gripped Vol.8 Iss.2 Apr 2006 - May 2006

My high school boyfriend took me and a six pack of Schlitz beer to a local bouldering area. I sat in the sand by the boulders, drinking and sunning myself, listening to the rush of water from the nearby stream. I worried about where we would go to dinner later and what to dress up as for the Halloween party. I had heard of people climbing mountains like Everest but had no idea why my boyfriend was climbing those small rocks. Weeks later, after a few experiences as a spectator, I tried climbing for myself. I still remember the thrill of reaching the top of the boulder. Everyone who climbs understands that incredible sense of accomplishment. Right there the course of my life changed forever.
Sure, my initial excitement was tempered by fear after discovering I had just topped-out via the downclimb. But I had taken the first step, and from that day on anything seemed possible. My friends all talked about the big climbs we would do one day. Bouldering was a way to train for what we considered real climbing. Any progress on the small rocks was a thrill because it meant that we were that much closer to summiting El Cap. We were bouldering where the stonemasters like John Long had bouldered. Those guys had gone on to big things, so we knew we had to be doing something right.
I understood that big routes were all that mattered and I needed experience before trying anything with multiple pitches. I rounded up unsuspecting victims to follow me up trad climbs or to belay me on routes I could clean aid. Having never aided before, I was not exactly moving at lightning speed. By the time I finished a pitch my belayer would be so bored and cold he was ready to leave, so I would have to clean it myself and head home. Strangely, these partners never seemed available for more outings.
When I had enough practice under my belt I took a spring quarter off from school. After a trip to Lake Havasu on the Colorado River for a week of partying and swimming, my partner and I got serious and headed for Zion. We climbed a few classic routes then set off on Sheer Lunacy V 5.9 C2, which shared a starting pitch with Moonlight Buttress V 5.9 C1, an ultra-classic Zion route high on my wish list. While sitting at a belay waiting for my partner to jug up the fixed lines I was eating “wall food:” peanut M&M’s and cheap Mexican cookies. A falling rock whizzed by within a few feet of my head. A climber who was belaying on the nearby Moonlight Buttress saw the rock, and turned to explain to me how lucky I was not to have been clocked, and why it’s important always to wear a helmet, which I then did.
Still a teenager, I sat there with my scalp sweating in my child’s eggshell helmet. The man talking looked old to me. Big and sweaty, he was carrying a substantial spare tire, which his harness accentuated. I looked at him, puzzled, and I looked back at the M&Ms in my hand. This was a beautiful place and the line was amazing, but I knew something was wrong. After finishing the route I went home and started bouldering just to boulder. I was no longer training for aid routes.
Before long, thinking about climbing was keeping me up at night. I planned my college classes around it. During field trips I would do pull-ups on the door jams to stay fit. I graduated a geologist. Ready for anything, I moved from sunny Southern California to snowy Colorado to work with a geotechnical firm. The work was physical – digging holes and schlepping drill parts and heavy density-test gauges and the hours were long. On weekends, I was exhausted. At bouldering areas I curled up on my crash pad and took naps. Life was passing me by. I needed to climb! With no free time to spend my hard earned money, I had saved up a stash of cash. I quit my job, moved all my belongings into a storage unit in Bishop, California, and began a new life as a climber with an option in bouldering.
For me, climbing became pulling hard moves. Things that seemed impossible to me at first were the things I most wanted to do. And the more I succeeded, the more I was drawn to the tallest, proudest lines at all the areas where I climbed. Short sit-starts and ten-foot high problems were not what I dreamed of. I wanted to push myself into the unknown, just as I had wanted when I was convinced that aid climbing was my calling. The tallest boulders drew me in and I saw beauty in them that only climbers can see. Unable to work the moves, the boulders became mini big-walls to me, with a ground-up approach the only one available. My idea of bliss was an entire boulder field full of lines the quality of Thriller V10 in Yosemite’s Camp 4: 20 ft high, with flat landings, the hidden holds in the sheer rock revealing themselves as I climb.
It was almost by accident that I discovered gritstone climbing. Over-motivated to train for bouldering competitions, I experienced some debilitating injuries: a torn finger pulley, followed by a meniscus tear in my knee. Trips to England found me climbing on the beautiful sculpted features of the revered gritstone cliffs. The rounded holds were friendly on my pulley and using a rope was saving my knee. Before long, the artificial hype of the competition circuit faded from my mind, and I was grabbed by a desire to push my limits in a totally different way. Grit climbing was like highballing, with bite to it. Beyond just a physical trial, the routes required a huge level of mental control and commitment. E8 became my new big wall.
I fell in love with the intense concentration that is required to control the fear inside my head. In those moments on the sharp end, I learned to focus 100 per cent on the movement, not allowing the slightest doubt to enter my mind. Intriguingly, the pleasure came not so much in the moment, but in the thrill of completing the ascent. It was that same elusive rush I’d enjoyed the very first day on rock, when getting to the top was all that mattered. And even though I’ve still to try my hand at the lines I set out to train for all those years ago, when Schlitz beer tasted so good, I feel that I’ve found my own path and gained everything I could have hoped to gain along the way: good friends and amazing experiences.

Lisa Rands is one of the most successful female boulderers and headpointers in the world. She lives in California.

Free Solo
Separate Reality

story_Heinz Zak

Originally in Gripped Vol.8 Iss.1 Feb 2006 - Mar 2006

Nineteen years after German sport climbing legend Wolfgang Güllich first free soloed Separate Reality 5.11d in Yosemite Valley, his friend and photographer, Austrian Heinz Zak, repeated his solo.

I try to realize my dreams because I believe I wouldn’t have them if I wasn’t meant to strive to make them come true. Some of my biggest dreams before soloing Separate Reality were winter solo traverses of mountain ranges near my home. On one traverse, I climbed 36 peaks in 72 hours in one push, taking some big risks along the way. I grew a lot through these traverses and found that I wasn’t afraid. I felt like a rope walker in the dark, tiptoeing fearlessly through endless space. I climbed ropeless and without crampons up icy rocks in the dark, with hundreds of feet of vertical rock below me and I did not care. I learned that in tight situations, my mind was completely calm and focused and I felt safer than I did with a rope. It’s difficult to believe that by putting yourself in a dangerous situation on purpose like I did when freesoloing Separate Reality, you would feel secure. But I had dreamt about that solo and trained for it for years.

“The target was laying in the dark. The master ‘danced’ the ceremony. His first arrow shot from bright light into dark night. The second arrow also hit the target. When I switched on the light in the shooting place I discovered to my consternation that the first arrow was in the middle of the black spot on the target while the second arrow had split the shaft, before thrilling into the black right next to the other.”

Thus wrote Eugen Herriegels in Zen in the Art of Archery, which I carried with me for years. Imagining doing something without intention, but nonetheless perfectly, always fascinated me. It was my motivation and guidance for freesoloing Separate Reality. I had to be able to do every movement in the roof with precision and control. My friend Werner Strittl belayed me while I worked the route. After several attempts, I wired every sequence absolutely and afterwards I danced like a master through the roof.

When I finally went for the solo, I chose my moment spontaneously. My awareness went to another dimension; I was ready to leave the world behind me. Fear disappeared and a deep, endless silence filled me. An unbelievable joy overwhelmed me and I knew that I could do the route. I went out the roof feeling weightless. After some metres of climbing I stopped and looked down to the shining river 200 m below. I felt immortal. I climbed through the crux with absolute control and finished the route with a dyno to the edge of the roof.

In more than 30 years, climbing has made many changes in my life, but what has changed most is my perspective on its importance. Looking back, I can’t believe how seriously I took it and how narrow-minded I once was. I was fixated on a single route, which, looking back, is only a minor route among thousands of others. I saw famous climbers not willing to start climbing because they were afraid of performing badly in front of people they didn’t know. But I have given up caring what others think about my climbing. I follow my own dreams.

Heinz Zak is an Austrian climber and one of the most published photographers in climbing.

Deep Water Soloing

Story_Toni Lamprecht

Originally in Gripped Vol.7 Iss.6 Dec 2005 - Jan 2006

I walk across the beach past the first cave and the lagoon, to the traverse along the coast line and climb 20 m to the top of the cliff where the downclimb to the start of my project begins. I put down my backpack and feel the light wind. The sun is warming the rock and the waves won’t be splashing against the lower holds yet. Conditions are perfect, and when I woke up this morning I was motivated to try my project, but now that I'm here, my mind is filled with doubts.

Soon, the wind picks up and the waves beat against the cave. They sound like I’m holding a shell to my ear. I feel the magic of the seashore, the power of the water on the rocks and the wind blowing across the edge of the cliff. These are the three elements that are necessary for the "psicobloc:" water, earth and wind. But there's one element missing: my friends. I don't want to try the route alone!

Since I’m here, I’ll take a look at the line without committing myself. I take a deep breath, put on my shoes, fill up the chalkbag and start the downclimb. It's easy, but exposed and the waves thundering around me are intimidating. Five metres above the water, I take a look around the corner at my project. It's 20 m of steep climbing right above the water. The first part is a long pump on good holds leading to the middle of the cliff. The end of the climb is still a mystery. What sequence will I choose there?

I sit on a small ledge and wait for a few minutes. The waves are smaller now, but they keep on beating. Like footprints on a beach the chalk on the starting holds from a previous attempt is disappearing under the breaking water. I wait until my courage builds.

As I sit there alone in the middle of the cliff, looking at the blue horizon, my friends appear at the top. Five minutes later, they join me on the little ledge, encouraging me to try the project, despite the waves. Encouraged, I climb down to the water and traverse to the left. The waves soak my shoes and pants on the first few metres, but I manage to keep my chalk-bag dry. The first moves feel hard with the wet holds. The crew starts to shout and I begin to move faster. I reach the rest in the middle of the big roof and I can hear my Spanish friend Miguel down in the water as he shouts, "Tranquillo, tranquillo!"

OK, breathe, relax. The next moves seem easy, the rock is dry. Now I reach the crux. I can hear my friends screaming. My movements are smooth. Now comes the unknown part. Every move is like a riddle that needs to be solved. I'm pumped. I’m climbing out on a limb and it's getting pretty thin. After 15m of climbing my arms are numb. Am I going to fall?

Far away, I can hear my friends scream louder. I don't listen to the waves any more, my attention is on my climbing rhythm. If I don’t move, I’ll fall. I'm alone on the route but my friends are close. No rope, no harness, climbing in its purest form. The game is to try the unknown, no toprope, no yoyo. The higher I climb, the more I have to choose between the possibilities offered by the rock. The higher the crux is, the more intense and doubt-ridden the route. The crux is the most challenging point of "psicobloc," the perfect game without rules.

With the left hand on a pinch, the right hand on a slope, I start to dyno for the good hole. Shit, it's wet, and so are the next two holds. I'm too pumped. I’m so stretched out I can barely reach the next small hold with my left hand. I'm tired, but I try a blind dyno for something around the corner, and I stick a good hold. Two moves more and I reach a no-hands rest under the finishing roof. I take deep breaths. The heat is on. I'm sweating like a pig. I’m 15m above the water and I'm stuck. No way back and there’s still unknown terrain above. I could jump off, traverse out right or sit here forever. I start a chat with a friend 5 m in front of me. He's hanging from a rope taking pictures.

I feel free. I can do what I want, think what I want. Choose the line that I want to climb, play the game that I want to play without worrying about the result. This way I can learn a lot about myself, about who I really am. Five minutes later I'm still tired, but I'm kind of curious to check out the section in the last bulge. First a horizontal move to a hanging block. The feet cut loose. I hope the next hold is good. Two more long reaches. A sloper, a dynamic slap to the left and on the final five easy metres I find the meaning of the four elements: the water, earth and wind created the climb, but it was the fire of my friends that pushed me up it.

Toni Lamprecht is one of strongest climbers in Europe. He lives in Germany.

Climbing Kills

Story_Will Gadd

Originally in Gripped Vol.7 Iss.5 Oct - Nov 2005

It’s been a tough year for the tribe of mountain sports people I’m proud to be part of. In the last year I’ve lost friends who were climbing, paragliding, kayaking, or simply had their genes misfire a fatal sequence. For some cosmic reason these things seems to come in waves; nothing for a few years, then bang, cracks open in the universe and friends fall through. This is the dark side to our sport, the side that results in families ripped apart and friends who won’t be calling about great adventures anymore.
It’s easy to forget the reaper when the magazines are full of glossy photos of perfect moments; to truly convey the complete experience of life in the mountains there also ought to be shots of body bags, trauma and circles of devastated people trying to simultaneously mourn a friend and celebrate his or her life. Now that’s a hell of a way to start an article, but at the moment of I’m sick of writing about the latest “cool, dude!” escapade and feel some reflection is in order. I’ll stick primarily to climbing as this is a climbing magazine, but these thoughts apply equally to all risk sports.
First, climbing is dangerous, and we should stop bullshitting about that, especially to ourselves. Yes, sport climbing is less dangerous, but I’ve got a bud in the hospital with seemingly more broken bones than whole ones at the moment due to his Bowline knot coming undone. He will miss at least two months of fun and work while healing. It’s a measure of how dangerous climbing is that when I heard of his injuries I was relieved– his brain sustained no damage and his body will heal. I consider that a good outcome compared to the options. Ask any sport climber who has been at it for 20 years and virtually everyone will have spent time in a hospital for a “freak” accident at one time or another. Other forms of climbing are more hazardous.
I often hear, “Well, statistically, you’re no more likely to die in any given year climbing than driving, so climbing is as safe as driving.” Again, I have to call bullshit. Most of us probably drive every day, but how many of us climb every single day? Per hour of activity any form of climbing is dangerous compared to any form of driving with the exception of riding a motorcycle. Climbing in a gym is probably about as safe as driving, and that’s a very controlled environment, unlike the mountains.
If you climb regularly for long enough you’re either going to get seriously hurt or killed. I can’t think of more than a very, very few experienced (20 years or more) climbers who have never been rescued or injured seriously. If you’re arguing against that statement you’re delusional and have bought into “The Myth.” The Myth states, “Sure, other people get hurt all the time, but they were either doing something stupid or pushing the limits. I can escape that fate because I’m smarter and don’t push it at all. Well, maybe occasionally, but I know what I’m doing.” If you understand The Myth then you’re on the way to understanding the nature of climbing, and you’re someone I’d perhaps feel comfortable with in the mountains.
Perhaps The Myth started when we had to explain climbing to the public or lawyers. The all-too-common response after an accident is to call it a “freak” accident, an act of God, or blame the weather, the company that made the rope, the guide, the bear, whatever. No. We do a risky sport, let’s accept that and start asking the deeper question of, “Why?” but from the perspective of people who actually climb rather than trying to explain it to the public.
I climb because I love it so much I think it’s worth possibly dying for. I love it as much or perhaps more than anything else in my life. If I cared more about anything other than climbing I wouldn’t climb, as climbing has the potential to kill me. This is the basic truth, and the fulcrum on which so many arguments with lovers, family, friends and the public have balanced on for generations. I climb because I’d rather be outside climbing with my friends than doing about anything else. BASE jumpers often do an exercise where they write out why they choose to BASE, a “Letter to family.” This is their answer to the question of, “Why?” in case they die. This is perhaps macabre, but honest.
For me, the rewards of watching the sun split a morning sky as seen from high on a route or a long approach through the desert is a supreme reward. Latching the final hold on a desperate onsight has meant far more to me that fattest paycheck I’ve ever received. Watching a friend swill chicken soup in a tent is far better than a $500-head meal in the finest restaurant I’ve ever eaten in. These rewards are absolutely worth the risk. I accept risk when I drive to do something as trivial as get groceries. Climbing has more risk, but also offers far more reward. And that is the truth.
No matter how long you live you’re going to end up dead. I am not shooting for the longest time ever lived on this planet, I’m shooting for the most interesting novel I can write between birth and death. I don’t assume that a life of climbing is more worthwhile than any other novel, it’s just what works for me. At times I question not climbing, but being part of a tribe where death is so common. There have been times when I’ve had to stop climbing for a while to mend the tear a friend’s passing has left in my life. If I ever truly quit climbing it will not be because climbing is dangerous but because my mind simply can’t handle any more friends dying.
I often have younger climbers ask for advice on climbing. I often say something along the lines of, “Do your best to stay alive, for your life is fragile. Climbing is a supreme game, but if you die you lose. Go climbing lots, but run away often. Let the mountains bring out the best in you, as they often do. Do what you enjoy, but be honest about why. Listen to everyone but filter out those who say it can’t be done because it can. Good luck.”
(Thanks to Kim Csizmazia and the many others who helped form these ideas.)
Will Gadd has excelled in all disciplines in climbing, but is best known for his winter ascents. He lives in Canmore

My Bouldering Philosophy

Story_Chris Sharma

Originally in Gripped Vol.7 Iss.4 Aug - Sept 2005

Lately I’ve enjoyed climbing most when exploring unclimbed boulders. I guess this isn’t anything that new, but these days I feel much more aware of the creative process of exploration and imagination of new lines. Finding a new piece of rock, envisioning the line and eventually climbing it, satisfies a deep need for creativity. Choosing your own path up the rock is liberating and keeps climbing very personal.

Rather than following a map, the holds on the wall and the motivation to use them are what guide you. Awakening the dormant potential of hidden boulders, untouched by human hands and eyes, has consumed a large portion of my life. Bushwhacking deep in the forest, like a hunter in search of his prey – no distance is too far if boulders are on the horizon. The mystery of what could be around the corner keeps me going despite (most of the time) turning up empty-handed with nothing to show for it but scrapes and a rash of poison oak. It’s so rewarding, though, when after searching and searching, you finally find something that looks really cool to climb. Molded by hundreds of thousands of years of weathering, a few grimy grips invite the imagination to negotiate a path from the bottom to the top. Whether or not it’s been climbed before, the effort and imagination that has brought you and this boulder together is totally original and personal. Through our interaction, what was just a lump of stone in the forest is transformed into a sculptural masterpiece.

Sometimes the excitement of walking up to a new boulder is a little overwhelming. I kind of lose myself at times like these and I have to scream and jump like a lunatic. It’s a perfect moment when a big, beautiful boulder gives you just enough to believe it’s possible to climb it. It seems like usually there aren’t enough holds or there are too many. A nice-sized boulder spotted from far away tends to end up too short or too high. In between these two extremes the imagination runs absolutely wild.

Arriving at a 20 ft-tall overhanging boulder, an incut pocket at head height is yelling out, “grab me, grab me.” Searching past it I find a slopey pinch, a few crimps and then 10 ft of blankness to the top. There is real good side pull, however, way out left and a good foot to push off as well. Now maybe, just maybe, if I got my ass in gear, I could take that small edge and dyno out left and from there it’s jugs. Envisioning the line is first step of the transformation from rock into sculpture.

I feel most inspired by the lines that verge on impossibility. To climb something at our limit requires us to give everything we have. We can’t hold back and at the same time we must conform to the rock and its rules. We go where it tells us to go.

Intimacy with the nuances of our bodies, the rock and therelationship between them is the only way we can do what the rock needs us to do. One-pointedness is required for climbing something at our limit. If thoughts enter our head during critical moments like these, we fall. Being in this zone frees us to be in the moment and react to things spontaneously and appropriately.

Climbing at my limit is the way I keep a smile on my face. It makes me happy. What more can I say?
I think bouldering is becoming more mainstream and legitimized as a valid sport. It’s also becoming more defined, which has its good and bad sides. More people are leaving the confines of the city and indoor gyms to enjoy the outdoors and the rocks. All of us know how much this change has affected us. Before, bouldering was just practice for real climbing; now we can call ourselves boulderers, and there’s something to gain (names, grades, sponsors, reputation, etc). That’s cool I guess, but I also see that it can take away from the side of bouldering that’s totally nonsensical, abstract and very personal. My best moments in climbing have taken place bouldering alone or with a few close friends on random boulder problems that have never and will never be heard of. We cleaned some holds, climbed on them and after it rained and the chalk was washed off you would never have known we were there. The whole experience happened in that moment and then it was over. Our purpose was a good time.

Bouldering, to me, isn’t a sport. I think of it simply as a personal expression that happens to be really physical. When we’re out in the woods and we see a chunk of rock, climbing is the natural thing to do.

Chris Sharma has been at the top of the rock climbing scene for a decade. He lives in California.

The First Free Ascent of Yeah Man
300 m, 5.14a

Story_Josune Bereziartu

Originally in Gripped Vol.7 Iss.3 June - July 2005

Self motivation has never been an issue for me: my enthusiasm rubs off on anyone within range. Rikar Otegui, my climbing partner and husband, knows this and our project for the summer of 2004 depended on it. We were going to climb in an incredible place near Fribourg, Switzerland. The Gastlosen mountains are a paradise for rock climbers with routes up to ten pitches long on great limestone. The legendary project Yeah Man on the steep north-east face of the Grand Pfad was our goal.

Big walls are hard for me. The weekend before, I had been at the Petzl Rock Trip of Targassonne. I was successful on 3 m boulders, but standing at the bottom of a 300 m wall sent unknowns flying through my head. Would it be possible to climb some of the pitches that François Nicole, Fred’s prolific and powerful brother, had spoken of? My most recent experience with a big wall had been in the Naranjo de Bulnes in Northern Spain on an easier route, but with sketchier bolts that were further apart.

The first four pitches were bolted, the last five were not. On the first day we climbed the bolted pitches. The climbing had a satisfyingly alpine spirit, with the mountains as our only spectators. When we completed the 5.13c fifth pitch, it felt incredible to add something new to the route. Bad weather set in and for two unbearable weeks we were constantly checking the sky for any changes in the weather. A pack of young Swiss climbers who seemed to be itching to get on the route added to our unease.

When the weather broke we went up to equip the 5.13b/c sixth pitch. The feared route stealers were nowhere to be seen. The beautiful weather fuelled good vibes, and we got into a great rhythm. I remember well that last weekend of June when we finished those three final pitches. At the hostel they entertained us with songs and the indescribable tones of the alphorn. With that kind of motivation, it wasn’t difficult to climb the seventh pitch. It turned out to be 8a, a strenuous section followed by a crack and a crux on small holds.

That momentary sense of triumph inspired me to face the eighth pitch, which I already knew would be the crux.
In 1999, François and Guy Scherrer rappelled down to attempt this loose 55 m pitch. They told me that it could be 5.14b/c or maybe it was impossible. In 2002 they had invited me to try it.

Now in 2004 I was about to try it and if it was impossible, 250 m of work would be for nothing. I was concentrating completely on the 50 m of loose rock that stood between me and the summit.

I was apprehensive to start, but my enjoyment increased with each magnificent move I discovered. Soon I had finished working the pitch. The same day we were able to try it a second time to wire the moves. We rappelled to the bottom of the wall, in certain knowledge that it was possible to free Yeah Man.

The next day we climbed as fast as we could to the end of the seventh pitch, climbing some of the pitches properly, and some with some aid. The honour of getting the draws on the bolts went to me. The height didn’t frighten me since I had been hanging from the wall like some kind of marionette for too long. I reached the hardest section, close to the middle of the pitch. Risking a big fall, I went for the small crux hold. Luckily, I remembered that final sequence and I was soon standing on the summit of the Grand Pfad.

The mountains of Gastlosen were filled with my jubilant cry, but Rikar broke a hold and had to repeat and re-equip the pitch. I asked him to let me lead the last pitch for the first free ascent. It was such a fine fantasy, seeing myself at the top of the Grand Pfad after making the free ascent of our incredible route. When Rikar reached the top we shared a sense of contentment and triumph.

We sport climbers aren’t accustomed to concluding our climbs at the top of a mountain. The whole situation was relatively new. I revelled in the sight of the giants of the Alps. The Eiger, the Jungfrau, the Grand Conbin, seeing them there made this priceless moment of triumph more intense. And now, for me, the route will always be Yeah Woman!

Josune is one of the most successful sport climbers in the world. She comes from the Basque region of Spain.

My Slap Shot

Story_John Sherman

Originally in Gripped Vol.7 Iss.2 April -May 2005

Waking up next to a gorgeous woman feels marvelous. There’s a pleasant lazy momentum to the morning fueled by an unwillingness to get out of bed. I was having one of those mornings in Penticton when out of the blue my sweetheart asked one of those two questions guys least want to hear and women least want to hear the answer to. Of course those questions are “Does this harness make me look fat?” and “Honey, what are you thinking?” This morning it was the latter question. At that moment my life was grand and I could have easily said “I think I’m falling in love with you.” However, I’d read somewhere that women value honesty in a man, hence I made a colossal blunder and blurted out exactly what was on my mind.

“My slap shot sucks.”

Now this lass was Canadian so she took it in stride, though in retrospect maybe that was the beginning of the end of that relationship. My relationship with hockey, however, continued.

That summer I found myself in Squamish. The weather was perfect every day for a month. Absolutely ideal conditions for Grand Wall or Northern Lights. Naturally, I spent both fortnights groping slopers in the dark humid boulderfields beneath The Chief. As I age, my memories of climbing trips hinge more on things that happened off the rock. Like the night at Mt Arapiles when the six-toed bartender from the local pub came out to the camp with a brand new minivan and several cases of beer. The rest of the evening was spent putting Six’s new van through its paces by chasing kangaroos down the fairways and over the greens of the Natimuk golf course. Therefore, long after I forget the buttery liebacks of Worm World or the “aiiyeee” kick on Kung Fu Fighting I’ll still remember playing street hockey with the Squamish climbers.

A waist-high chain-link fence and a pair of net-free goals comprise the rink behind the Squamish School. In late afternoon climbers’ vans would migrate from the post-climbing hang at the rec centre over to the rink. Someone would go to camp and retrieve an armload of sticks from the stash in the stack of old railroad ties. A tennis ball would appear and it was game on. Teams weren’t really picked, just kind of loosely assigned and it was common for a combatant to sub in on one team one shift then on the other team a few minutes later. At times it wasn’t apparent which team my dog Thimble was playing on. Scorekeeping was lax to nonexistent. Instead, the winner was merely the team to net the final shot of the day.

I’m a Yank who spent most of his life in California, Colorado and Texas. I didn’t own a hockey stick until my age was roughly half The Great One’s number. I have never owned skates, nor shot a real puck on real ice. But I watch a lot of hockey on TV. I was itching to pull the sweater over someone’s head and knock out their chiclets. A couple practice fights with Doug Orr convinced me that I wasn’t really goon material (note to self: next time remember Douggy is a lefty).

As the games at Squamish went on, I learned to play with cunning and heft. I took a turn at every position. On defense I proved a large obstacle to run around. As a forward I proved a large object to deflect a shot off of (though to my dying day I’ll swear to Gretzky that one of those goals in my first and only hat trick came off the blade of my stick). Nevertheless, it was in net where I feel I made my most valuable contribution.

Let me explain. One of the things I love most about Canada is how relaxed and fun-loving Canadians are. We Yanks can’t be that way because of inherited collective guilt. No matter how far removed I was in time or distance from certain events, as an American I’m honour-bound to take responsibility and make amends (or at least lame apologies) for what happened, be it ripping off the Indians, enslaving generations of Africans or stealing the Jets and Nordiques. So as part of this endless cycle of self-flagellation I took my turn in net. One by one and two by two the locals took turns exploiting my weak glove hand and gaping five hole. Stick side was no better. If my save percentage were a blood alcohol reading, I’d be legal to drive. Jesus on the cross could have made more saves. “Hey, you put that one in past a Yank - that only counts as half a goal.” With every tennis ball rattling the chain-link behind the goal I could feel my nation’s balloon of collective guilt deflate. That evening, the Stanley Cup might have been partying at a strip club in South Beach, but at least the Canadians were pounding shot after shot past the hapless Yank.

The games often didn’t end until it became too dark to play or the mosquitoes got too thick. By that time everyone was a sweaty aromatic mess. A cold Pilsner and a nighttime jump in the lake rounded out another perfect day.

Sometime soon I hope I’ll be back in Squamish. I’ll effortlessly feather tape-to-tape passes across the tarmac. I’ll rock over the lip of Ride The Lightning with ease and panache. Later, I’ll be staring up at the ceiling of my van in post-coital splendour. My woman will roll a little closer to me, run her fingers through my chest hair and say, “Honey, there’s something I have to ask you.”

“Er, what’s that?”

“Would you rather see Gary Bettmann drop the gloves with Tie Domi or Peter Worrell?”
“Oh Baby, I love you.”

John Sherman is a prolific write and boulderer based in Colorado

The Quest for the Best Ice Climbs in the World

Story by Guy Lacelle

Originally in Gripped Vol.6 Iss.6 Feb -Mar 2005

Trying to find the best ice climbs in the world is exciting, but elusive, pursuit. For over 25 years I have hunted for them in many beautiful countries. My search has been extensive in North America and Norway, but I’ve also had a chance to sample a few of the gems in France, Italy, Switzerland, Iceland and China.

For fun, I keep a list of my favorite climbs. A few people have suggested that I publish that list. My response was that I needed to climb most of the best ice climbs to make the list valid, but with time I realized that I would never come close to getting all the best ice climbs done and so I finally decided to share this limited list as a starting point.
On a few occasions, I have shared my list with some of my partners who have climbed a lot of the same routes. We sometimes disagree on the quality of a climb, and there are different reasons for that disagreement. I once compared my favorite climbs with Joe Josephson and he was pretty choked to see that his favorite ice climb, Hydrophobia, was not in my top 25 list. I had done the climb late in March and it was soft, wet and relatively easy. Joe had experienced Hydrophobia in very different conditions. It seems I would have to climb it again in full winter conditions to truly appreciate the quality that so inspired Joe.

A few years ago Jeff Lowe wrote about his favorite 16 climbs in his excellent book, Ice World, and I was surprised by some of his choices. I know that he had done some of my top picks and he had not included them in the top 16. Obviously, a hit list is very personal and my list is no different, on the other hand when an ice climb is truly exceptional most people will agree to some extent on its quality. I have never met someone who was disappointed by Polar Circus or La Pomme d’Or.

Here are a few of my criteria for my top picks: Beauty of the line of course; Uniqueness and character of the route, meaning if you see a picture of the climb you won’t get it confused with another climb; Difficulty, steepness and diversity of the climbing; Length, a one pitch climb doesn’t stand a chance of being rated above Nemesis. For example, The Fang in Colorado and Le Grand Delire in Québec are exceptional one-pitch wonders but only rate 38 and 39 respectively.

I rated only pure ice waterfalls. An awesome alpine route like Slipstream is not included, because I think of that as a different game, and because if you think about it, there really isn’t that much good ice on Slipstream, really only two or three pitches. The same thing is arguably true about mixed climbing: A mixed route would be included on my list only for the value of its pure ice. For example Suffer Machine rates 33 for the three upper pitches; not for the mixed climbing below.

Of course, I can only rate a climb if I’ve done a complete ascent. For example, years ago I failed on an attempt on Arctic Dream. Obviously it would be way up there in the top 10, so would Gimme Shelter. But you can’t truly appreciate a climb if you haven’t done it. I try not to be influenced in my rating by things like whether I made the first ascent or whether it is at one of my favourite areas. I don’t give a climb a better rating because the weather was great or I soloed it or climbed it with one of my favourite climbing partners. I try to give each climb equal opportunity.
Based on these factors, and accepting their limitations, I have made this tentative, list. I will sometimes repeat a climb and upgrade, or downgrade, it, as I get a fuller appreciation of the route. Keep in mind that there are dozens of great routes, especially in Europe, that would get in the top 20 if I’d had a chance to climb them. I think the order of the top 10 climbs could arguably be changed. For example Nemesis is Barry Blanchard’s favourite ice climb. I have it as number eight on my list and I know Barry has done some of the climbs that I rated higher, including number one.

So here is a closer look at the top 10. We’ll do a David Letterman countdown to one.

10. Tagbekken (Norway). This climb is a humongous 800 metres. Sustained, but not super steep. It is very beautiful and unique in its sheer size. If you have seen the film Ice Up you have a pretty good idea what I am talking about.

9. Mardalfossen (Norway). Another monster. Steeper than Tagbekken and 650 m long.

8. Nemesis (Canadian Rockies). Exceptional beauty and steepness. A classic, don’t miss a chance to do it.

7. Polar Circus (Canadian. Rockies). A magical climb. It pulls you in like Arwen in Lord of the Rings.

6. Hydneffossen (Norway). When you stand at the base of this climb it is quite overwhelming. You have the impression that you are looking at a huge, vertical frozen river flowing slowly towards you. It is one of the very rare climbs that are truly vertical with no rest for almost 100 meters.

5. You Have to Pooh Sometimes (Canadian Rockies). One of the best lines in the world with one of the worst names. This line formed left of the Upper Weeping Wall for the first time in recent memory last year. Four great pitches with an exceptional freestanding pillar on pitch three. Dave Marra did the first ascent. You have to help me in convincing him to reconsider the name of this brilliant route.

4. La Dame Du Lac (France). The best freestanding pillar I have ever done, with a roof at the top of the pillar followed by two short pitches. This one would be number one if it were longer.

3. Weeping Pillar (Canadian Rockies). The most vertical ice of any climb on this list. Six great pitches right off the road. Outstanding.

2. La Pomme d’Or (Québec). The first time I saw this climb, I was skiing up the Hautes Gorges valley with my dogs on a crisp winter day. I had seen lots of great climbs in the Canadian Rockies and I thought I was used to the sight of magnificent daunting ice flows. This one stopped me in my tracks. The sheer size and steepness was overwhelming. I had to remind myself that I was going to climb it one move at the time. To this day I have not seen its equal in pure beauty and that’s only part of the story.

1. Terminator (Canadian Rockies). If you did this climb in 1997 or this winter you may or may not agree on my choice, but if you had climbed it or seen it up close in 1985, I would be surprised if you would disagree. Look at Tim Auger’s 1985 picture of the route seen from a helicopter and you will see that the line was exceptional and truly impressive. It has got everything a dream climb should have: outstanding beauty, steepness, position and character. If you have the opportunity to be up there this winter don’t miss it.

I think my real number one climb is still out there somewhere. I imagine it may look like Terminator, Sea of Vapors and Replicant stacked one on top of the other, or it might look totally different than I imagine it to be. It may be in Italy, Chile or even Afghanistan. If you think you know where that dream route is and you need a partner, I’m keen. You can also email me (Guylacelle@yahoo.ca) to let me know that you totally disagree with my ratings. I would welcome your opinion. If you tell me that I am way off and that your number one pick is the Sorcerer or Ames Ice Hose or Called on the Account of Rains or Tsuri Gane, I will totally understand. Also, if you would like me to send you my top 100 picks to compare with yours, let me know. Please feel free to send your top list as well. Maybe we can manage a consensus and come up with a more representative list. Happy treasure hunting.

Sidebar:

Guy Lacelle’s Best Ice Routes in the World
1. Terminator (Canadian Rockies)
2. La Pomme D’or (Québec)
3. Weeping Pillar (Canadian Rockies)
4. La Dame Du Lac (France)
5. You Have To Pooh Sometimes (Canadian Rockies)
6. Hydnefossen (Norway)
7. Polar Circus (Canadian Rockies)
8. Nemesis (Canadian Rockies)
9. Mardalsfossen (Norway)
10. Tagbekken (Norway)
11. Riptide To The Top (Canadian Rockies)
12. La Vraie Nature De Bernadette (Canadian Rockies)
13. Predateur (France)
14. French Maid (Canadian Rockies)
15. Thorfossen (Norway)
16. La Celle Qui Reste (France)
17. Dontefossen (Norway)
18. Sky Pilot (Canadian Rockies)
19. French Reality (Canadian Rockies)
20. Sea Of Vapors (Canadian Rockies)
21. Gorigrov (Norway)
22. Tre Solstre (Norway)
23. Called On The Account Of Rains (Vermont)
24. Curtain Call (Canadian Rockies)
25. Sorcerer (Canadian Rockies)
26. Les Miserables (Canadian Rockies)
27. Shooting Star (Canadian Rockies)
28. Ames Ice Hose (Colorado)
29. Bourgeau Left (Canadian Rockies)
30. Whoa Whoa Capitaine (Canadian Rockies)
31. Kitty Hawk (Canadian Rockies)
32. Lipton (Norway)
33. Suffer Machine (Canadian Rockies)
34. Langaani (Norway)
35. Repentance Super (Italy)
36. Rainbow Serpent (Canadian Rockies)
37. Tsuri Gane (Alaska)
38. Fang (Colorado)
39. Le Grand Delire (Québec)
40. Bird Brain Boulevard (Colorado)
41. Hydrophobia (Canadian Rockies)
42. Takakkaw Falls (Canadian Rockies)
43. Wild Thing (Colorado)
44. Troubled Dreams (Canadian Rockies)
45. Bridalvail Falls (Colorado)
46. Whiteman Falls (Canadian Rockies)
47. Cannelloni Du Curé (Québec)
48. Ice Soup (China)
49. Broken Hearts (Cody)
50. Ovisight (Cody)
51. Oh Le Tabernac (Canadian Rockies)
52. Last Gentlemen (Vermont)
53. Promenade (Vermont)
54. Thilid (Iceland)
55. Aerial Boundaries (Canadian Rockies)
56. Aussi Beau Que C’en A L’Aire (Canadian Rockies)
57. Positive Thinking (New York)
58. Dragon Breath (China)
59. Jason vs. Freddy Kruger (China)
60. Un Trou Dans Les Nuages (Québec)
61. High On Boulder (Cody)
62. I Lynx (France)
63. Le Grand Aigle De Jonaz (Norway)
64. Lacy Gibbet (Canadian Rockies)
65. Seven Pillars of Wisdom (Canadian Rockies)
66. Pilsner Pillar (Canadian Rockies)
67. Sacrebleu (Canadian Rockies)
68. Un Autre Monde (France)
69. Murchison Falls (Canadian Rockies)
70. Settunfoss (Norway)
71. Kjorlifossen (Norway)
72. L’epee De Jade (Québec)
73. Grotennufossen (Norway)
74. Three Pieces of Cake (China)
75. La Meduse (Québec)
76. Par Defaut (Norway)
77. Au Dela Des Ombres (France)
78. Hysterie Collective (Québec)
79. Nuit Blache (France)
80. Tequila Stuntman (France)
81. Thierry La Main Froide (Norway)
82. Aurora (Vermont)
83. Expert’s Choice (Canadian Rockies)
84. Juvsoyla (Norway)
85. Loin de Chez Moi (China)
86. Louise Falls (Canadian Rockies)
87. Synphonie D’Automne (France)
88. Iron Curtain (Canadian Rockies)
89. Mindbender (Vermont)
90. Le Pilier De Crystal (Québec)
91. Carlsberg Cullum (Canadian Rockies)
92. Frappe Moe Pas (Québec)
93. Crystal Vision (Alaska)
94. Super Bock (Canadian Rockies)
95. Wicked Wanda (Canadian Rockies)
96. La Verge Du Demon (France)
97. Glenwood Fall (Colorado)
98. The Professor Falls (Canadian Rockies)
99. Black Dike (New Hampshire)
100. Corneille (Québec)
101. Cascade Fall (Canadian Rockies)
102. La Jaune (Norway)
103. Jokulkula (Norway)
104. Cilley Barber (Maine)
105. Big Brother (Alaska)
106. Cracked Canyon (Colorado)
107. Twisted Sister (Alaska)
108. Love’s Way (Alaska)
109. Whore House Hose (Colorado)
110. Cold Choice (Canadian Rockies)
111. Haugfossen (Norway)
112. Les Piliers Du Temple (Québec)
113. Keystone Greenstep (Alaska)
114. Who Who In The Outer Space (Vermont)
115. Bridalveil (Alaska)
116. Recolte De Reve (Québec)
117. La Goute (Canadian Rockies)
118. Ice Nine (Canadian Rockies)
119. Secret Journey (Alaska)
120. Giant Step (Colorado)
121. Le Lotus Bleu (Canadian Rockies)
122. A Bridge Too Far (Canadian Rockies)
123. Benediction De Ludger (France)
124. Les Jumelles (Québec)
125. China Cup (Vermont)
126. Je Voudrais Voir Ma Mere (Québec)
127. Grand Galais (Québec)
128. Moonlight Fall (Canadian Rockies)
129. Gravity’s Rainbow (Colorado)
130. Joy After Pain (Cody)
131. Arian P’tit Grimlin (Canadian Rockies)
132. Topaze (Québec)
133. Orion Falls (Canadian Rockies)
134. Triolet (Québec)

Guy is one of the most experienced ice climbers in the world. He lives in Prince George BC.

Dai Koyamada’s Wheel of Life

Story_Dai Koyamada

Originally in Gripped Vol.6 Iss.6 Dec 2004/Jan 2005

I manage to grab a hold with my pumped right arm. A few swings of my other hand and I’m on to my next move. Two more moves to go and a long rest. With my left hand, which hasn’t fully recovered, I hold a three-finger flake and reach for a little incut flake. Now I set my body in motion and dyno. The next moment I hit it with my right hand. Now I enter into the long, long rest.

Both of my feet are hooked high up, my thighs and calves are cramping and so are my abdominal muscles. I’ve already come 60 moves and my forearms are burning. I should rest longer to get rid of the cramps but even the rest drains my strength. I have to move on. The crux is yet to come. My mind and body must be fresh if I am to finish the climb. I remember, I was more tired at my previous attempts.

I nearly missed the harsh gaston move at the crux. With intensity and determination, I desperately reached out my left hand and battled through the crux.
Then the moment came. I completed the problem that had taken my whole climbing experience to complete. On May 12, 2004, I gave meaning to the incredible line, “The Wheel of Life.”

On August 23, 1976, I was born in Kagoshima, in the west end of Japan. In the quiet countryside surrounded by mountains and rivers I enjoyed playing around outdoors. Then, a picture in a book caught my attention. It was of an aid climber in the Alps. I was fascinated by the way he exposed himself to the altitude and the space of such grand scenery. I wanted to try climbing, but I had no access to information and there were no crags close by, but I wanted to climb. One day I found a mountaineering magazine at a bookstore. There was a report about an artificial-wall climbing competition in Europe. I found the name of a Japanese climber, Yuji Hirayama. Already known to the world by then, he became my inspiration. I wanted to be like him. I racked my brains for a way to start climbing. I decided to build a private wall in my garage. A decade ago, there were few climbing walls even in the Tokyo area. I didn’t know what holds were made from or how small or big they were supposed to be. The first climbing holds that I made were from concrete and they were tiny. It took a while to complete my wall, but once completed I did, I climbed like crazy day after day. I also wanted to become stronger, but, quite simply, I was addicted to the act of climbing itself.

I found an accessible small crag with a slab. I met some people who were willing to take me to crags far from home. But for the most part, I spent a lot of time in my garage. I was obsessed with climbing. Upon graduation from high school, I was pressed for a decision. There were three options. Should I continue to climb while working part-time without having a steady job? Get a regular job and climb for fun? Or, do Itry to become a professional climber? The only thing I wanted to do was climb. With Yuji being the only professional climber in Japan at that time, I had little confidence, but I made up my mind to be a professional. After graduation, I flew to Europe with the money I had saved by working part-time and climbed there for a half year. When I came back to Japan, I heard about the Japan Championship in Ariake, Tokyo. Before the comp, I didn’t have a clue of what was going to happen to me. This event turned out to be the turning point in my life.

In the summer of 1996, I told my parents that I would be back in a couple of days and headed for Ariake, Tokyo. I won the competition. But it turned out to be no ordinary comp. I also earned the title of becoming the first Japanese climber to beat Yuji Hirayama. Yuji had had his finger injured and was not in the best condition to compete. Yet, the fact that I won the comp was sensational. A youngster from the middle of nowhere walked away with the victory… It was also a memorable event for me because I met the person who had inspired me most since I started climbing. A month passed and I was in southern France. The prize money brought me there to climb. During the three months, I nailed Bronx 5.14c on my 7th try in two days, which was the shortest record for the route at the time. I also sent Connection 5.14c, for its second ascent and one 5.14b and a 5.14a. I returned to Tokyo, found myself sponsors, and started to make a living by climbing. I became a professional climber. My dream came true.
Two years have passed since I left my hometown to compete in Tokyo.

For the next four years, my climbing centred around competitions. Together with Yuji I competed at various places overseas, becoming a regular finalist. But I felt that I did not belong there. What I wanted from climbing was not in the competitions. Even when working the hardest climbing, I love the moment I gaze at beautiful scenery out there, unintentionally forgetting that I am there to climb. I love the time when I wait for the rain to stop under an overhanging rock. Above all, I admire the beauty of a climber on natural rock.

In 2000 I left competitions. I started to focus on repeating hard routes and establishing new ones. Since then I have climbed over 60 routes graded over 5.14. I can recall each of them. They are all wonderful.

The Wheel of Life was completed. Under the clear blue sky, the cool dry air eases my burning muscles; the feeling of joy beyond description, that which I appreciated time and again in the past. I am content with this moment, but this cannot be the end, because one achievement is only a starting point for another. My climbing will go on.
Dai Koyamada of Japan has repeated some of the hardest routes in the world, and put up some of his own.

The Tao of Tori

Story_Tori Allen

Originally in Gripped Vol.6 Iss.5 August/September 2004

My Mom always told me that there were two things you should never discuss among strangers-religion and politics. Both of these were sure to end in disagreement and unpleasantness. Well, I don’t always do what my Mom tells me. So, I am going public, I am going to talk about religion-more personally, my faith and what it means to my climbing.

My dad is an Ordained Southern Baptist preacher. My Grandpa has been a Southern Baptist preacher for over 50 years. I lived in Africa for five years because my parents were working as missionaries in a village there. I was baptized at age nine at a retreat in Tennessee. Basically what I am trying to show you is that my 16 years on this planet have been immersed in a family culture heavily weighted to the Christian perspective. In spite of all this I have chosen Christianity as my own faith and the driving force in my life.

I have read a lot about myself in recent years. Most of it is exaggerated or blatantly false. One thing that has been consistently left out of all interviews and articles, though, is my faith. It’s funny to me that the thing I try to emphasize is the thing most ignored. If you look at photos of me from the earliest days of my climbing until now you will always see that I am wearing a cross-a necklace, earrings or a charm on an armband I used to have. My faith defines me. The Tori you see is the real me living out my faith in my sport to the best of my ability.

I smile a lot and am known for being very positive in all situations. I do this because I don’t see the people around me as my competitors, but as people. I expect to find something good in everyone I meet. Even when people say or write mean or untrue things about me, I assume they didn’t intend to hurt me. My faith allows me to see past the moment and focus on the long term relationships with people. I am comfortable with my actions, and when I act in a way that I am not proud of, I apologize. In my faith everyone is equal, life is not a competition, but a series of moments and relationships intended to be enjoyed.

In competitions I climb with confidence. In fact, I have more fun at competitions than I do at any other climbing activity or event. It is not my desire to win or my sheer over confidence that makes me so happy during competitions, it is my faith. I honestly don’t care if I win or lose. When I was little I dreamt of being a missionary and working with orphans, now I want to be a teacher. No matter what, I know the focus of my life will be on giving to others-winning a competition is so insignificant when compared to what I ultimately want to do with my life. When I am competing, I am merely enjoying the challenge of cracking the code of the route setters and the chance to meet new people. You could say that my faith keeps things in perspective for me.

Recently, a lot of people have asked me if I have retired or quit climbing. To set the record straight, I don’t think I will ever quit climbing. Again, this knowledge comes from my faith. I believe that climbing is a gift I have. The first time I ever climbed I was really good. I trained after that, but I have never felt that I have trained more than any competitor I have come up against. I just was given a gift to climb well. Climbing is a form of meditation for me. On bad days or when I need to think about a big issue, I go into the gym after it closes and just climb for a couple hours. The rhythm of my movement, the feeling of every muscle working together, following my instincts, and the knowledge that all of this was inborn in me soothes me. Yes, my God-given talent has allowed me to be a role model to other youth and to have opportunities to speak out publicly against poor decision making. I am humbled by those opportunities. There are a lot of great teens in the world, I am just fortunate enough to have a talent that allows me to speak up and be heard. Ultimately, though, I will fade and become anonymous and I will still climb. Climbing reminds me that some things in life are just gifts and thus it gives me hope. Surely, there are more good gifts to come-better gifts even like new friendships, a husband and a family.

If you really want to know what makes me tick-read the Bible. I do. If you want to know more about my faith there are churches around the world as well as Christian climbers everywhere who can answer your questions. My faith is very much a part of who I am as a climber. In fact, without knowing my faith, it is easy to misinterpret my actions. So, what do you have faith in? Does it make your life worth living? Does it enhance all the relationships in your life? I challenge you to make your life really count in the big picture of things. I don’t preach my faith, I just live it. What is your life saying to others about you?

Climber as Artist?
Story_ Jason Kehl

Originally in Gripped Vol.6 Iss.4 June/July 2004

The stage is dimly lit and the citizens are primed. Thirty seconds and I’m on the front line. Right now anything is possible. But at the same time, tomorrow everything will be the same, unless I die suddenly. So I guess the decision is mine: be like everyone else or be whatever I want to be. I am standing in isolation, ready to come out at another Professional Climbers’ Association Comp. I decided to stand my hair as tall as it can go, apply war paint to my face, and as for my sponsor’s t-shirt: I couldn’t possible wear it. Cutting it up and pinning it to my back seems much more suited to the occasion. After all, there are a couple hundred people standing around the corner waiting to see the next climber perform.

Climbing is a physical art in which the athlete is the artist. Our medium is rock or plastic. When the artist and medium combine, the outcome we strive for is passion and flawless precision. Like the artist whose every stroke is precise and instinctual, the climber’s presentation should become a part of him. The artist’s movements are perfected over time and understood completely only by the artist himself, but open to interpretation by the viewers. In climbing, each individual brings his own skills to the table. This is part of the draw towards climbing for many. It’s not a repetitive motion we are trying to perfect, but we are adapting our skills to situations. It’s your decision, albeit sometimes a subconscious one that determines how far your mind is willing to let you dig to find these answers.

You walk up to the wall, which is your canvas, you have your tools and now it has begun. At this moment there is no one solution to the task at hand, but every conceivable option is available. You search deep in your mind to one past experience or a combination of many, evolving a new method. I find it enjoyable to watch climbers with varying styles undertaking this process and seeing how deep they are willing to go to succeed. It’s very inspiring to watch someone do something that you may never have thought of or even considered possible. The experienced climber doesn’t rely on brawn, but on their creative mind to adapt to and master a situation.

As with most art, climbing is very visual, but unlike most, it is constantly changing. The unstable nature of climbing adds an element of intrigue for the artist. The extra information forces us to work harder to decipher the rock. The constant changing of our surroundings gives us the perfect ground to hone our skills.

The visual aspect of climbing also informs the aesthetics of what we climb. Choosing an inspiring challenge can help fuel our desire to succeed. This has nothing to do with ratings, which are in fact just another’s opinion, but with everything else that is real. Here are some questions that come to mind when I’m looking for something that is worthy. Is it visually stimulating? Does its setting make you want to stay there? Is it mentally and physically challenging? Does it create a sort of illusion as if it were improbable? Will the finished product be worth the suffering? All of these are taken to account and I think that helps to make the goal seem even more worthy. If it does not, the effort is just mindless masturbation or finger painting.

I opened with the competition scenario because I feel competition is an exaggerated version of any performance. Your goal is to succeed, or die trying, except now there is more pressure. The same thing applies to any given situation in climbing. This could be your last tomorrow. Now is your time to show who you are, succeed or fail, this is your decision, your option and every choice you make is your own. At that moment, it could be the last move of a new highball or the crux of a toprope project in the gym: you are the artist. You may not be performing to an audience, or your spotter. But inside, you feel and understand the significance of your feat, and that can be far more rewarding than just getting to the top.

Is It OK to Cry?
Story_ Roxanna Brock

Originally in Gripped Vol.6 Iss.3 June/July 2004

I’ll never forget my first big wall. I’d followed a total of five traditional pitches in the two years I’d been climbing. My boyfriend, who became my husband and much later, my ex-husband, was my partner. Many times he’d relayed the story of his first attempt on Half Dome’s Regular Route in Yosemite. After a punishing 15 km uphill hike and seven pitches, his partner bailed because he was unable to lead and unwilling to be dragged up the route. My boyfriend had been furious and still held a resentment.

Determined not to let him down, I resolved to get up the route no matter what. Carrying a pack four times what I’d ever lugged, in 33 C temps., I began to snivel and sob only a few km into the trek. My partner failed to understand that I needed to let off steam, frustration and pain with a good cry and that afterwards I would go on.

We arrived at the base of the wall after a day and-a-half hike. I reached my first pendulum mid-way up. I’d gone over the process 50 times in my head and 10 times with my partner. There was a carabiner on the pendulum point, but it was stuck in a mass of webbing and I could not feed my rope through it. With tears streaming, I struggled with the carabiner and then got it. After lowering myself out, I reinitiated the jugging.
Freeing the last pitch, my leader left large spaces between gear placements on a rope that stretched diagonally up a slab. I had been warned about the danger of ascenders popping off while jumaring horizontally. Though I kept retying my paranoia knot, I was frightened of the swing, of my ascenders popping and of being unable to remove the gear before or after the swing. Tears ran down my cheeks, but I sucked it up. The paranoia knot held me into the gear and I controlled my swing using my feet. At the top I celebrated my first big wall.

After a few days I’d forgotten the agony and was ready to tackle The Nose. The Nose presented the same problems with a little more commitment. I learned to be quiet and focus when it got difficult. I still cried, though less often (like when the wind picked up on a pitch with multiple pendulums and I could not hear my partner, making me feel alone and stranded below him).

On El Cap I learned that the biggest struggle in doing a big wall was the descent. Because of this my mate and I would suffer a disagreement at the top of every big wall for the next several years. Despite the fact that we were elated to have summited, the descent was always looming.

Looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame, decked out in a haul bag weighing half as much as me, and nearly the same size as I am, I staggered down the dicey East Ledges slabs. Approaching the rappels and an apparent drop-off, I kept imagining my legs collapsing underneath me and the tumble that would ensue. At one point, engulfed in fear, I dropped to the ground blubbering, refusing to move. My partner found the rappels, I regained my composure and we were soon safely on the ground. Later I learned that some Japanese climbers had fallen to their deaths there a year ago.

I learned to climb on gear and in the following years started leading greater portions of the routes we did, taking on Yosemite classics with equal partners, sending the crux pitches, doing speed ascents and solos. But it still took four years before I did not get choked up on the El Cap descent.

Later, I took my skills to Pakistan and Kyrgyzstan, putting up first ascents with my mate and other friends. Though less frequent, a good cry was still a part of my experience.

I found I kept searching out the mountains and big walls because they reduced me to my core being. The mountain was so big and I was suddenly so small and inconsequential. I had no control of the mountain and had to respect its enormity. Crying meant I had pushed myself beyond my ego and defenses, that I was mortal. Afterwards it felt like I’d grown new skin, was given renewed strength. As if by grieving my death with the fear of my death, I could really live.

In the fall of 2000 I decided to let go of my ties to my partner, mate and husband after seven years. I’d never hauled a bag that heavy and there were no walls scarier than that one. Without the tears, I might have been stranded on that wall. I went through the divorce and the reward is the relief of setting feet on the solid ground of my independence and self-reliance.

Gazing through photos of one my best friends’ wedding, I was struck by how stunning she looked in the shots where tear drops travelled her cheeks. In reflecting on all the tears I’m reminded of a passage by Kahlil Gibran, “you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”

Roxanna Brock is a climber and guide with worldwide experience. She lives in Las Vegas

Climbing beyond our Western Cultural Bias
Story by Katie Brown

Originally in Gripped Vol.6 Iss.2 Apr/May 2004

I’m sitting in the back of a van, somewhere in the middle of Mexico, jouncing along in rhythm with the bumps in the thinly paved road on which we’re traveling. My pen occasionally skids, making my writing look like that of a child. The desert surrounds us and my traveling companion sits slouched in the driver seat, shirt off and cowboy hat on. We pass cows lying amongst cactus, flocks of birds that take flight as we approach and mongrel dogs feasting over road kill rotting on the side of the road.

It’s a strange thing, this nomadic way of life to which climbers are drawn. Our sport continually puts us outside of our comfort zone and our lifestyle does as well. Living out of the back of a van, without the benefits of modern conveniences that ordinary life provides, we push ourselves to become comfortable and content with little more than the bare essentials of existence. Sometimes we even go to remote areas of the world.

Nearly a year ago, I took a trip to India and it was my first time in a third world country. Immediately upon landing, I was overwhelmed. The wealth and the poverty, the smells of burning garbage, human waste, incense and lotus flowers, the brown dryness of the land, the fluorescent saris of the women, the noise of the city and the quiet of a night spent at the rocks intermingle and assault the senses. I had been told before leaving that a person either loved or hated India, there was nothing in between. My first couple of days in India were spent traveling from Bangalore to Hampi, a town in the desert. During that time I tried to overcome the fear that I had of the people, the food, the water and the poverty. I was afraid of everything about India and I wanted to go home. I didn’t want to be afraid, but I did not know how to turn off the emotions that I was feeling.

Five weeks in India passed and my fears took a back seat to living and experiencing the moment. Day after day we woke before the sun in order to climb before temperatures became unbearable. Life was reduced to its simplest form as we became used to the rhythm of moving our bodies over stone. Indians on pilgrimage to worship Hanuman, the monkey god, whose temple sat on a bluff overlooking Hampi, watched us in fascination as we imitated the movements of the monkeys that they came to worship. In India, beauty and horror coincide and my own emotions melded with life there. Wonder, tempered by fear, and fear tempered by wonder, worked themselves into a beautiful cycle of days spent in Hampi.

As we drive through the heart of Mexico we are leaving behind everything with which we are comfortable and are moving farther into the unknown. Yet, what seems foreign now will soon become home and we will grow to love it, just as I grew to love India. The hot sun that has given my friend’s back a distinct red hue will turn into a deep tan, the rooster crowing at dawn will become our alarm for early morning climbing, the curious stares of locals will become friendly waves, the climbs with bolts that always seem to be just out of reach will become the signature of the place.

The time that I spent in India passed quickly and before I knew it I was packing my bags and looking forward to a hot shower. As our group drove out of Hampi, passing ox-driven carts on the way, I realized that I was beyond thankful to have experienced the place. The jeep blew clouds of dust in the air, coating the inside and making the already hot air hard to breathe. We passed an orange-robed holy man clutching a long walking stick as gnarled as the hand gripping it. Further on we passed three women walking side-by-side, purple, green and pink saris wrapped elegantly around their bodies. They carried metal tins and baskets of fruit on their heads. Small shanties lined the road and mongrel dogs wove in and out of their open doorways, looking for scraps of food. Eventually we left Hampi, and crossing a bridge, we went over a bump and found ourselves on a paved road. A car zipped past my window in the other direction and I jumped in my seat. I suddenly felt a heaviness deep inside me over the thought of leaving as I realized that I’d fallen in love with the place.

Traveling to new places and new cultures is still frightening, as is climbing high above your last piece of protection, pushing your abilities into a new, unknown level of difficulty, being fifteen pitches off the ground or spending your first night on a wall. For me, this means that a small Indian girl digging her hand in my pocket in search of treasures makes me want to hug her rather than shy away. It means that wading across a dirty river can become a commonplace occurrence, as can haggling with a shopkeeper over a price, having my picture taken with Indian men, or weaving my way through throngs of people. It means that I have had the opportunity to see joy on the faces of people faced with a life of barely surviving, to experience the welcoming nature and peaceful spirit of people from other cultures, to learn to live without all the trappings of Western society. Most importantly, however, it means that I am learning how to step out of my comfort zone and to become comfortable in another zone of living.

Katie Brown is a writer who was one of the top sport and competition climbers of the nineties

Is 9a Real?
Story by Steve McClure

Originally in Gripped Vol.6 Iss.1 Feb/Mar 2004

Right now, 9a is the magic grade in the crazy world of hard redpointing. It sounds so much harder than 8-something. But does anyone really care about what’s happening up there? The only magic thing about it is that large doses of magic would be required to get 99.999% of the climbing public up a route that hard. Climbing is like running: thousands do it, some for pleasure, some to get fit, some to go fast and some to be the best, but very few will be in the Olympics breaking records. Still, some of us are interested in who’s going the fastest and just how fast. If the 100 m World record was broken I bet you would ask what the new time was. It’s the same with 9a. If redpointing was in the Olympics, this would be the grade. Or would it? Actually 9b+ is the new standard and there are a few 9a+ routes around and even a 9b from ages ago. 9b+ is a whole 3 grades harder than 9a. Its like comparing 8b+ to 9a, relative to 9a, 8b+ is a piece of piss! What’s going on? Can 9b+ really exist?

It is exactly 12 years since 9a was born, though then it was UIAA X1 or 8c+/9a. Legendary Wolfgang Gullich pulled his finger out of the hideous shallow monos to climb Action Direct in the Frankenjura. Having had only had a handful of sends (five reported in total) and having been tried by the world’s best, the route is generally accepted to be benchmark 9a. If 9a is 12 years old then surely we must be way above this by now. Apparently there are about 60 routes between 8c+/9a and 9b+ with over 60 climbers cranking this level. Of these only nine or so have climbed three or more 9a routes with the usual suspects like The Bindhammers, Rouhling, Ramon and Dave Graham regularly doing the business. Still the number of 9a dudes keeps on going up, but are these routes really that hard?

The problem with climbing is that ratings are subjective. Sponsorship and ego compete with the desire to avoid looking like a grade inflating self-worshiper. This can influence the final number either way. At the cutting edge you don’t really know how hard it is either, except that it is a bit harder than your last route. Or maybe it’s miles harder, but is that a full grade, or two grades or just half a grade? You could compare by going on another cutting edge route, but knowing how long these things take, the last thing you want is spend half your life on someone else’s route half-way round the world that probably won’t suit you anyway. Not to worry, you won’t go to jail for getting it wrong, just a bit of a slap for over-grading, especially if it’s in Britain. One person’s 9a will be another’s 8c+ or 9a+. This makes for great arguments, which is of course, why grades were invented in the first place.

One thing for sure is the time and dedication taken to break these routes. Hubble, the world’s first 8c+, took Ben Moon a long time and involved specific training from a man cruising French 8c at the time. Hero Jerry Moffat dismissed the Big Bang, Britains first 9a, as impossible. Neil Carson had to move house to succeed. There is no wonder that standards are pushing up. Strength and tenacity have evolved beyond what was ever thought possible and the epics involved these days are legendary. Two years ago we had the first ascent of Realisation. Sharma, undisputed climbing god with the ability to dyno his way up just about anything, spent four years travelling half way round the world to try the Biographie extension. At hard 8c+ Sharma could cruise Biographie before breakfast. Completely natural and a line to die for, this was regarded as the hardest route in the world. And then we have Ramon Julian on Rambla Extension. This guy is just a climbing machine, a block of muscle with Technique thrown in unfairly. Watching him at a World Cup competition he cruised to the top, lowered off and turned to his mates and shrugged as if the walk from isolation had tired him out more. Ramón has cruised other 9a climbs in just a few tries but this took 40 attempts. Despite 300 attempts this same route was to defeat Spanish hero Daniel Andrada, yes I did say 300, and Dani has climbed other routes at 9a. These routes just have to be 9a+!

And now we have 9b+ by little known Bernabe Fernandez. Just like way back in 1995 when Fred Rouhling claimed 9b with Akira, the World has sat up and cried bullshit. OK, so you can see why: Fernandez should be able to onsight 8c easily and crank 9a after lunch. And is he so much better than Sharma and Ramon? Well who knows –yet. Personally I’d like to think it is 9b+. The amount of time and effort he has put in is incredible; the route is on his home ground and in his favourite style. Maybe the route suited him perfectly. Maybe to him it’s only 9b, but to everyone else it will be 9b+? From what I hear it’s like running a marathon in 400 m sprints with no rest in between. This route is 80 metres long with 400 moves – try building that in your cellar! Whether its 9b+ or not you can be sure it’s not your average jog around the block.

Route		Location	First ascensionist	Year	Repeated
Flatmountain	9a/+	Fugato. Japan	Yuji Hiriama	2003
Chilam Balam	9b+	Málaga, Spain	Bernabé Fernández	2003
Rainshadow	9a	Malham, England	Ste McClure	2003
Desafiando/ Tsunami	9a	Alquézarin, Spain	Dani Andrada	2003	Y
Il Domani	9a	Baltzola, Spain	Patxi Usobiaga	2003
La Rambla extension	9a+	Siurana, Spain	Ramón Juliá	2003
Sanjski par extension	9a	Misja pec, Osp	Uros Perko	2003	Y
Flex Luthor	9a	Rifle, Colorado	Tommy Caldwell	2003
Ground Zero	9a	Italy	Alberto Gnerro	2003	Y
Especie olvidada en el tiempo	9a	Teverga, Spain	Pablo Barbero	2002	Y
Im Ameriketan	9a	Baltzola, Spain	Rikar Otegui	2002
Martin Krpan	9a	Misja pec, Osp	Jure Golob	2001	Y
Papirovy Mesic	9a	Czech Rep	Rosta Stefanek	2001
Kinematix	9a	Gorges du loup	A. Bindhammer	2001	Y
Realization	9a+	Ceuse, France	Chris Sharma	2001
Logical Progression	9a	Japan	Dai Koyamanda	200?
Tysiac Kotletow	9a	Roznow, Poland	Tomasz Oleksy	2000
The Fly	9a	Rumney, USA	Dave Graham	2000	Y
Robi In The Sky	9a	Goudes, France	Francois Legrand	2000
Im Reich Des Shugun	9a	Tufleten, Swiss	Eric Talmadge	2000
Northern Lights	9a	Kilnsey, England	Ste McClure	2000
Underground	9a	Massone, Italy	Manfred Stuffer	1998
Vakuumgeist	9a	Hinkelstein	Klem Loskot	1998
Mutation	9a	Tor, England	Ste McClure	1998
Orujo	9a+	Malaga, Spain	Bernabé Fernández	1998
Intermezzo	9a	Plom. Austria	Klem Loskot	1997
L’autre Cote de la Ciel	9a	Eaux-Claires	Fred Rouhling	1997
The Big Bang	9a	LPT, Wales	Neil Carson	1996
Open Air	9a	Schleier, Swiss	Alex Huber	1996
Akira	9b	Charente, France	Fred Rouhling	1995
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